. . . 𝝑𝝔 " BOTH? BOTH! AT THE SAME DAMN TIME! " kinktober week 2 day 4/5
✦ synopsis. when the top two harbingers you work for crave for you, and can't resist holding back due to professional boundaries anymore. how will you react?
✦ pairings. capitano x pierro x fem!reader
✦ director's notice. this wasn't gonna be in kinktober at first but ngl it kind of fits?? ALSO i remember his hands had claws, so i made them into gloves so reader doesn't get hurt :sob:, and no i am not into the reader getting hurt at all!!
✦ warnings/tags. NSFW, kind of headcannon formatted, threesome, power play, secretary!reader, kind of office sex, kind of exhibitionism, blood & corpses mention but nothing inherently sexual about them, oral (f!receiving), backshots. rly aggresive backshots. praise & degradation, obsessed capitano, possessive pierro, fem anatomy used, fem terms used.
pierro and capitano became your bosses the moment the tsaritsa took you under her wing, and placed you to assist her two best of the best, loyal, and strongest harbingers. you took it upon yourself to accept this, and hopefully they'd accept you too.
but holy crap you didn't expect them to be this attractive. even with the mask this guy was huge and respected others. while the other had only half his face shown and still ended up being the leader of it all.
pierro and capitano didn't really mind you at first. as in they did not really care too much, they just gave you basic things to do at first. giving you a stack of paper work to carry and follow one of them into their offices to place them. don't know what they need paperwork for but they have that.
you also dealt with cleaning up after them. spilling coffee, food spills, blood, anything and everything in between. that includes corpses. and that's where you started catching their attention. you never questioned, that's what got them. you never asked 'why' or ever looked at them differently when the house of the harbingers lost another servant. no, you simply followed along. and that was hot.
you were close to the tsaritsa, if you were honest? it honestly seemed like you were her daughter, so how would she feel if she knew her two most trusted soldiers fucked her?
capitano was who had you first, your legs were sprawled out on his lap. you could feel how hard his cock was against your back whilst one of his fingers slipped inside your wet folds. and god, his fingers were long.
capitano did not even have to say anything, the small hums of approval that vibrated across his chest as you leaned on him was enough for you to understand what he wanted. you knew him long enough to know what he liked, but that didn't stop the surprise that caught you off-guard; a second finger.
capitano loved seeing you squirm, it wasn't even the first time he had taken off his clawed gloves in order to get at an angle that would curve them right into your g-spot.
your pretty little back arched in unison, your head leaned into the space beside his neck.
capitano loved seeing you so fragile, others always saw you somewhat stone-faced, either that or a kind, pretty face in the cold winter that of the harbingers. but here? you were his.
oh but the utter shame you felt whenever pierro felt like joining in. especially with how different they treated you individually.
capitano—his touch was soft, but roughened you up with the right volume. but pierro? his words were laced with the soft snow you'd find outside,
the difference? one didn't have to speak, and the other spoke for both.
so it would've made sense that pierro loved whispering praise into your ears whilst keeping it 'professional'. praise that could easily turn into dirty words that would turn you on either way.
"doimg a great job for us, ms. (reader)." voice with a tone similar to softness itself, his hands were massaging the spots capitano couldn't cover, you couldn't tell how someone could feel so warm yet so cold all at the same time.
not to mention, they always mentioned this between each other like it was apart of your duty. but the thing is? you get to control whether you want it sweet, and sensual, or hard and rough. although that choice is yours, it's been a requirement for awhile that you 'help' them at least once a week.
especially when it had been one particularly annoying servant making it obvious they more-than-dislike their pretty little secretary? they were already calling you over.
capitano loved dipping his monster-sized tongue into the tight enteance of your pussy while your soft thighs would crash against the rough, ragged sides of his head. pierro always preferred to watch, rather than to give oral.
pierro preferred to whisper sweet little nothings into your ear, a hand on his pale cock while watching his close coworker go down on you.
but you know what? you don't know what turned you on more, when they were sensual, and sensitive with how they touch you, or if they did not care at all. (at least if they act like they don't)
did you like capitano better when he had your head forced into the desk below you, penetrating your cute little hole with that abnormally large cock?
"fuck, t-take it baby—take your boss's cock like you're mine." you couldn't do anything but moan and arch your back.
your ass was poised up for him like you were just a mere doll for him, but honestly? capitano never made you feel like you were just a plaything. he made sure you felt at the very least appreciated when having sex.
as much as he had liked pounding your fat ass into the mattress, he loved eating your pussy out waaaaay more.
the way your walls clenched on his tongue, and how he had to hold your hips down onto his face. just let him handle your weight, pleeeeeease, he wanted needed to get all up inside your velvety walls before anyone else could have a taste.
or...
was it pierro when he let you ride him, letting you take control of the pace until you can't, so you beg him to do it for you—
"what do you say then?" "p.. please s—sir? wan' it s'bad." "good fuckin' slut."
that's all you heard before his large hands landed on you, one on your waist, and the other gripping at your ass. god he loved your ass so much.
pierro always needed to have his hands on you. he couldn't help using the excuse of looking out for his secretary. or making sure his secretary was going to be saved from some random on the street trying to hit you up.
so when you were in private? he needed to have his palms, and especially when gripping at your ass. he loves how bouncy it was, he loves when you threw it back on his cock when you sank down onto him.
capitano who always uses the excuse of needing you to help clean up when in reality he just needed a breather from that damn helmet, and kiss the cunt he's grown to be obsessed with.
and pierro who falls in love with how much pleasure you could give him. just by being all cute and vulnerable with him was enough. he always used his authorative role to make sure he got what he wanted.
capitano and pierro both love their secretary, but they show it separately. ♡
Lohen started, chin resting against his palm casually as he watched you put down his cup of apple cider back onto his desk.
You raised an eyebrow at him, confused but a little concerned as he continued to grin at you. His dagger spinning languidly around in his other hand.
"How come?", you asked straightforward instead of trying to play guess.
"Perhaps because I already took the last piece of gum with the antidote in it...ones I was going to make more for tomorrow's troop training?"
A chilling shiver ran down your spine at his words and what that had implied. You refused to believe the delicious apple cider you had drank (and apparently he had let you) just now had poison in it. But then again this was Lohen you were talking about, and you know he's not beyond testing out poison for his so called training. And you guess it was your fault for not asking before taking a sip but still...
"Alright alright, no need to panic. Just stay still..."
He could easily tell what you were thinking by the look on your face alone. And as much as he would like to enjoy messing with you more, he's not that cruel when it comes to you specifically. Even if the face you're making right now is adorable.
Lohen smoothly makes his way around the desk towards you, tilting your head and immediately pressing his lips to yours.
His tongue gently ran across your lower lip as if to soothe you and the ever growing anxiety, and perhaps to coax your mouth open too. You can taste him and the gum with the antidote in it. Though honestly you can't tell the difference from his usual gum. It could be intentional though.
After awhile the gum was left in your mouth as he pulled back slowly. You're quick to notice an amused glint in his eyes however. He throws you his usual grin albeit a little wider now, before speaking in a sing song tone,
"Just kidding~"
.
.
.
It took you a moment...but only then you understood, there was no poison to begin with.
Description: Aether just wants a moment alone with his girlfriend but nooo, he's got things to do.
Includes- Plot, Exhibitionism, Panty Fucking, Pussy Job, Established Relationship
Notes: No Beta Reader. Kinda like this one. Tagging smut feels so embarrassing, please head the warnings and then do not perceive me.
Word count: 1 249
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This journey is filled with a hundred impasses and twice as many ultimatums. What is the right choice? What needs to be sacrificed? What can he bring himself to sacrifice?
Aether had long since given up on sleep, both because he was so busy and because as hard as he tried there were things that weighed on him more than he’d like, and he could wait to reunite with his sister. He could deal with cold meals and a cold bed when he did sleep at odd hours of the day, sometimes he could even deal with the stray hairs that tickled his neck as his braid frayed. This or that, he was slowly becoming numb to that question.
He would not accept this or that now though. The mildly important tactical meeting and report, or spending time with his beloved girlfriend…
“Please, please, please,” he whines into her neck, leaving kisses along the marked skin between each word. He’d completely forgotten about the meeting and, for a moment, lived in the blissful world where it was just them. “If I leave you now, I might actually kill someone.”
The prince drags himself away from Y/n’s neck and looks up at her with pleading eyes. She smooths her thumb along his cheek, trying to wipe away the dark circles, and frowns down at him. Meanwhile his hands knead absentmindedly at her thighs that straddle his hips.
“Aether, I’m going to be there anyways.”
“Yes but we’ll be all professional and you’ll be at the other end of the table. I want you to sit on my lap.”
Y/n’s frown deepens and she squishes his cheeks between one hand.
“This is a formal meeting, not a dinner with friends. And even then I still don’t see how me sitting on your lap so you can get off is appropriate.”
“I’m not asking you to cockwarm me. My pants will stay on, I swear.”
He, technically, kept his word. His pants didn’t come off, but his dick didn’t stay in his pants. He also didn’t ask her to cockwarm him.
Y/n rests her chin in her palm, fingers curled to cover her mouth, and leans against the meeting table. Aether sits behind her, arms looping around her waist, watching the heralds set the map up while gently stroking her sides. His hips roll slowly against hers, and he grins– burying his mouth against her shoulder– as she tenses when his tip catches his clit.
Beneath her carefully splayed skirt, Aether had pulled his pants down just enough to free his dick– they were still on, they only counted as off once they were below his knees– and tucked himself under her underwear.
“Your highness, are you ready to begin?”
“Yes,” Aether rests his chin on Y/n’s shoulder, feeling the fabric of her high collar against his cheek, “what’s the report?”
His grip on her waist tightens, pulling her back against him as he rolls his hips forward. From where he is, he can hear her breath hitch and can feel the muscles under his arms tighten. She’s still leaning against the table, because it’s the only way she can think to cover her mouth, and trying to focus on the meeting. Even though they’d both read the report and this was really a formality that could have been a letter. Seriously, why was he here?
If this had been a letter he could be in bed right now, balls deep in Y/n instead of carefully fucking himself between her cunt and underwear. He could be adding more marks to the pretty collage on her neck. She could be biting him back and clawing at him, leaving marks that she’ll insist he needs to cover and he will because he loves her.
His hips stutter at the thought, and Y/n bites down on the heel of her palm to keep from moaning. She shifts back and he hisses.
“Your highness, are you alright?”
“Just stubbed my toe. Continue.”
Y/n shifts her hand so that Aether can see her mouth and the smug smirk on her lips, then settles back before he can make her regret her decision. He’s still going to get her back though.
One hand slips under her skirt and into her underwear. He bites back a moan when he brushes his dick, and slides his fingers through her folds until he finds her clit. It’s throbbing, he can feel it twitch, this is so unfair.
He begins to rub slow, firm circles against the bundle of nerves and her thighs immediately squeeze shut. Aether rolls his hips again, this time into the firm pressure of her thighs. Another roll and he moves Y/n with him. Y/n leans back into his chest and clears her throat.
Aether stops all movement.
“I’m a little concerned about supplies.”
His grip on her waist tightens, nails digging into the flesh through her shirt, as she stays in her new position. One hand slips into her lap and under her skirt to lazily stroke him through her underwear.
The heralds go on to address her concerns. Concerns that Aether knows she’s already addressed because they read the report together and she left notes about the responses she got. Aether goes back to tracing circles on her clit and rocking his hips against hers. Y/n nods along while moving her hips in time with his.
He can feel the way she clenches around nothing and the way the knot in his own abdomen tightens. Her breathing is shaky and he’s still hiding in her shoulder, but neither of them stop. In fact, Y/n’s hips buck as her fingers graze her folds when she wraps her fingers around his dick to squeeze him. She turns her chin up and he moves his ear to her lips.
“It’d be a shame if you wasted… supplies,” she whispered, pulling her hand away and setting it back on the table.
Aether’s dick twitches. Look at her, being all professional and saying they shouldn’t do this during a meeting just to turn around and edge him like that. Okay, maybe this entire situation was entirely his fault.
The fingers on her clit sped up, and she bit her palm to try and stifle her heavy breathing. The heralds had gotten into some kind of debate and weren’t paying any attention to the two at the head of the table. Aether places a kiss to Y/n’s neck.
“So considerate.”
He began to prod at her opening with his ring finger, feeling it flutter from the stimulation to her clit. A soft whine caught in Y/n’s throat as she closes her eyes and bucks her hips against his hands as she shudders. Aether bites his lip to stifle a groan, slowing his pace to help Y/n ride out her high.
“Your highness?”
Y/n slowly opens her eyes and Aether looks back at the heralds. Had they addressed him?
“Is that all?”
“Yes, your highness. I think we’ve covered everything.”
“Then you’re dismissed.”
Aether withdraws his hand while the heralds collect their things and leave and then-
Y/n’s feet hit the floor, her legs shaking, and Aether presses a hand to her lower back– bending her over the table. He pulls his hips back and takes a second to align himself before sinking in with a groan.
Pairings: Various HSR Men x isekai'd!Reader, Sunday x isekai'd!Reader
Summary: After the Penacony fiasco, Sunday is welcomed onto the Astral Express as a new addition to the crew! During the first few days of his stay on the Astral Express, Sunday is forced to witness many men grovel for you. What's so special about you for this many men to worship the ground you walk on? Despite feeling disgusted by the sight, Sunday can't help but want you all for himself.
Note: I was supposed to post this on Wednesday or Thursday, but because of what is happening with AO3 right now, I am posting this ahead of time before the site goes down again for who knows how long. I threw in smut because, well, why not? And I haven't written smut for HSR since Nanook, and I felt bad. Why not throw in some smut for Sunday? However, for those who do not want to read smut, I will have the smut in bold and colorful font for you to avoid the smut portion towards the end. Anyway! I don't post anywhere else but on Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and on AO3 (Aaliah_exo).
Warnings: Sunday is a hater but is actually in denial of his feelings, 490 words of (horribly written) smut close to the end of the fic, slight (?) religious theme
Word Count: 4.5k
The day Welt announced to the entire Astral Express Crew that Sunday was going to be a new member, you were baffled. It’s not like you’re against having new members aboard, but it’s mainly because, well, Sunday scares you. Sunday was part of the Oak Family—he had so much power and influence over what happens in Penacony that you can’t help but feel like a frightened kitten whenever he’s in the same vicinity as you. Not only that, but you and Sunday didn’t have a good first impression of each other, but that was so long ago, so maybe he has changed! Right?
“So, we have a new member in the Astral Express Crew! Remember when [Y/N] was first welcomed to the crew?” Caelus asks, throwing an arm around your shoulders.
You rub the back of your neck awkwardly. “To be honest, I don’t remember that day. My memory’s fuzzy. Do you want to refresh my memory?” You poke Caelus’s ribs, causing him to jolt.
Dan Heng sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. The day you arrived at the Astral Express was definitely an event. You woke up on the Xianzhou Luofu, clueless about what happened and how you ended up in this universe. You slept a lot, which isn’t abnormal for you, but that day specifically, it was very weird. You were not “asleep,” your consciousness was stripped from you just so the Aeon of Destruction could communicate with you.
You nudge Dan Heng and Caelus. “Psst! Why’s Sunday looking at us like that?” You whisper, glancing at the Halovian from the corner of your eye, trying not to make it obvious.
“Maybe he’s curious and wants to befriend us all. After all, he’ll be with us everywhere we go from now on.” Dan Heng murmurs, stroking his chin.
Welt and Sunday converse for a bit before walking over to where you, March 7th, Dan Heng, and Caelus are standing. You try your best to act normal. Whatever happened back in Penacony was so long ago, and Sunday is a changed man! Welt stops in front of your small group with Sunday beside him.
Welt clears his throat. “March, Dan Heng, Caleus, [Y/N]. Please give a warm welcome to Sunday.” A small smile appears on Welt’s face.
“I am happy to be here with you all. I look forward to exploring many planets with you all and creating new memories,” Sunday says, smiling at everyone.
“Why is he so formal?” March 7th mutters, earning a nudge from Dan Heng.
You and Sunday lock eyes, and for a moment, you see something flash in his eyes. His expression is unreadable, but he continues to smile at you and tilts his head forward as if he’s showing some kind of acknowledgement.
You clear your throat, smiling at the Halovian. “Welcome to the Astral Express, Sunday! I hope you enjoy your stay here. I would show you around, but I have things to do.”
As if on cue, Sampo and Gepard enter the Astral Express. Sampo has his eyes locked on you the minute the doors open. Sampo charges at you, tackles you in a hug, and spins you around. You wrap your arms around Sampo’s neck, yelping about how Sampo needs to stop doing that to you or else you two will end up on the ground one day.
Sampo lets out a loud laugh. “Oh, Gumdrop. You’re so cute for assuming I would let that happen! Can you blame a man for being happy to see someone as cute as you?” Sampo coos, caressing your face in his hands before peppering your face with kisses.
Gepard shakes his head with disapproval. “Sampo, for once, can you please behave?” Gepard mutters before shooting an apologetic smile in your direction.
Sampo makes a face at Gepard before reluctantly putting you back on the ground. You pat Sampo’s head before walking over to where Gepard stands, allowing the Captain of the Silvermane Guard pull you into his arms. Sunday raises an eyebrow at your interaction with the many men around you, finding it interesting and, dare he say, scandalous.
“It’s nice to see you again after so long, Geppie,” you coo, reaching up to pinch his cheeks.
Gepard chuckles, resting his cheek on your head. “It truly has been. I’ve been so occupied that I didn’t have the chance to stop by to visit you.” Gepard leans down, muttering, “Every day, I miss seeing you and hearing your voice.”
You run your fingers through his soft blond hair. Someone clears their throat, grabbing your and Gepard’s attention. Sunday crosses his arms over his chest, his eyebrows raised as he watches you not only show affection for Sampo, but to Gepard as well. How could anyone be okay with this? Sharing one person with who knows how many other people? Himself included. Well, not yet anyway.
You and Gepard slowly separate from each other. Man, it feels like Sunday is your dad, scolding you for showing affection to the men you care about. Okay, maybe not a dad, but someone who does not like seeing affection. A nun at a Catholic school, or an overly religious person who looks down upon PDA, because any form of affection outside of marriage is considered premarital sex. Yes, seems pretty fitting for someone like Sunday.
Sunday points an accusing finger at you, Sampo, and Gepard. “Is this what you meant when you said that you can’t show me around the Astral Express because you have things to do?” Sunday asks, raising an eyebrow at you.
Caelus snickers. “When you put it that way, it sounds very… uh, not appropriate.” Caelus comments.
“Caelus!” March 7th hisses.
Your face feels incredibly warm. Dear Aeons, you cannot handle this right now. There’s no way you’re being scolded for showing affection towards the men you’re in a relationship with. Before you can open your mouth to retort, the doors to the Astral Express open, and more people—ahem, men walk through the entrance. Much to Sunday’s displeasure.
“Wow! More guests! [Y/N], did you happen to send out invites to everyone?” March 7th teases, turning to you with a cheeky grin.
You look at March 7th with your mouth agape, unsure of how to respond. You certainly didn’t send out any invitations! If you did, you would’ve remembered. As you scan the crowd of men, you notice one person in particular is missing. A certain Aeon, who is responsible for your presence in this universe, is nowhere in sight. Nanook.
“Is there something on your mind, [Y/N]?” Jing Yuan asks, approaching you.
You blink and slowly shake your head. “My head is empty, actually.” You reply, earning a laugh from March 7th and a concerned look from the others. “I think I need a nap.”
Just as you’re about to walk away, Luocha gently grabs you by your wrist, shaking his head. “I know you’re joking, but I can’t help but be worried about you,” Luocha says, pulling you to the side.
You pat Luocha’s head. “I’m fine, really. A lot of things have been happening that it’s hard for me to keep up. Now that things are kind of settling down, everything that’s been occupying my head is gone.” You shrug your shoulders and plop onto the nearest chair.
Despite your reassurance, Luocha continues to give you a brief checkup to make sure you’re okay and nothing is affecting your health. Thankfully, it was nothing, and the others were just worrywarts. Off to the side, Sunday watches how the others treat you. They treat you as if you’re the most precious thing to have graced the universe. It’s almost like they baby you, in a way. While it’s amusing, Sunday can’t help but feel this strange sensation building up in his chest. It’s hot, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s almost suffocating.
Jiaoqiu kneels before you, grabbing your hand. “If you’d like, I can make you something to eat.”
You tilt your head to the side, looking at him, confused. “Your food is meant to heal, no? To treat the sick, I mean. Unless I’m mistaken.”
Jiaoqiu smiles. “Indeed, they are. However, I’m making sure you’re eating a meal and not relying on snacks to keep your tummy full,” Jiaoqiu replies, lightly poking your stomach.
Now standing beside Jiaoqiu, Moze sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Just accept his offer, [Y/N]. Jiaoqiu has been going on and on about making your favorite dishes while we were on our way to the Astral Express,” Moze mutters.
Jiaoqiu continues to smile at you as he ignores what Moze just said. However, if you look closely, you can see a faint blush on the apples of his cheeks that slowly creeps its way to the tips of his ears.
You laugh. “Alright, I can’t deny a generous offer like yours, Jiaoqiu.” You’re tempted to reach out and pet his ears, but you refrain from doing so.
Jiaoqiu perks up at your response and bows before walking away, his tail wagging with happiness. The more Sunday watches you interact with these men, the more Sunday realizes that not only do these men treat you like you’re a rare gem, but it’s also almost like they… worship you, and it makes Sunday nauseous. Are you, perhaps, a divine being that Sunday is unaware of?
Argenti rolls up to you, a stage light shines upon the Knight of Beauty with rose petals scattering around him. Sunday blinks, confused about where these things are coming from. He looks around, trying to see if he was on some theatrical stage at the moment. Argenti kneels before you, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckle.
“My dearest muse, your beauty continues to shine as the day goes by. Every time I see you, I am in awe of your beauty and grace. I have a gift for you,” Argenti announces, never releasing your hand from his grip.
Luka and Boothill approach you and Argenti while holding a large object hidden beneath a blanket. Argenti stands up, briefly releasing your hand before approaching Luka and Boothill, thanking them. He grabs the blanket and yanks it off, revealing a magnificent painting of you. Naked. Surrounded by red roses and beautiful scenery, it reminds you of a Renaissance painting.
Your eyes widen, face feeling warm. “Oh, wow! This is beautiful!” You exclaim, approaching the painting. Your gaze falls upon one thing, causing your face to turn even warmer. “Wow, you really made it bigger than it really is.”
Argenti shoots you a cheeky yet charming grin. “Oh, really? Perhaps you should let me see the real thing, and I can correct it if you’d like?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you.
“Yer quite the pervert, aren’t cha?” Boothill asks, smirking at Argenti. “But now that you mentioned it… I am curious to see if the painting is spot on or a little different from the real thing.” Boothill strokes his chin, glancing at you, then at the painting.
Luka clears his throat, looking at the painting from the corner of his eye, then at you. However, he doesn’t say a thing. But instead, he scratches his cheek with his index finger, trying to act like he’s also as curious as Boothill.
“The painting is beautiful. But I wonder where it’ll be hung up since it’s such a huge painting and it’s also heavy,” Luka mutters.
You shrug. It’s not like you’re going to be hanging it in your room. You have a lot of pictures on your wall, and the pictures are mostly of you and the Astral Express Crew on adventures. You have many more pictures you want to hang up, but haven’t had the time to put them together. Maybe this is the perfect opportunity to rearrange your bedroom!
Gallagher approaches the painting, arms over his chest. “Impressive. How much did it cost you?” Gallagher looks at Argenti.
Argenti shakes his head. “A work of art is priceless, especially when the art subject is the beauty before us,” Argenti gestures to you with a wink.
Gallagher nods in approval while Aventurine inspects every part of the painting with scrutiny. “Interesting choice of color,” Aventurine murmurs. He gently touches the frame, nodding with approval. “Very high quality for a high-quality person,” Aventurine looks in your direction.
While almost everyone is gathering around to admire the painting, you stand to the side and quietly talk to March 7th. Sunday can make out the words “beautiful,” “redecoration,” and “it doesn’t make me look like a narcissist if I have this hung up in my room, does it?”
The painting is beautiful, but Sunday can’t help but feel scandalized when it comes to the painting. Again, why are these men depicting you as a divine being when you’re merely human? As one of Robin’s haters once said, “I don’t get the hype.” After seeing that comment about his sister, Sunday created an anonymous account online to send hate to that person. What? Sunday is simply being a supportive brother! How dare that anonymous hater have a negative perception of his dear sister, Robin?
But when it comes to you? Surely, Sunday can’t be the only Halovian who doesn’t harbor such strong feelings towards you, right? Sunday is actually in denial about these emotions bubbling up within him every time he sees another man swoon over you.
You’re minding your business, chatting with March 7th, and here comes a man tall enough to touch the ceiling of the Astral Express. The same man who will grovel towards you, kiss and worship the ground you walk on. Looking pathetic in the eyes of Sunday.
Blade clears his throat. “If [Y/N] doesn’t want the painting, then I will gladly take it off their hands.”
Dr. Ratio laughs, shaking his head. “I believe the painting will look magnificent in my office. A scholar like myself should have a tasteful painting in their office.” Dr. Ratio says, propping his hands on his hips.
You rub the back of your neck, looking at March 7th, who shrugs in response. You don’t mind if other people (that you know) see the painting. However, you do not want random people of high status to see you in your naked glory. At least not when you’re still alive and roaming the universe.
“A painting is impressive, but not as impressive as a marble statue.” Mydei comments.
You slowly turn to see Mydei standing at the entrance with Anaxa and Phainon at his sides. It’s almost like they’re striking a pose. You bite the inside of your cheek, hoping what Mydei said isn’t actually true and just meaningless words. But alas, the universe loves to prove you wrong once again. Phainon clears his throat and gestures for someone to wheel in a large statue of your likeness into the Astral Express.
“You guys are going to make me look like a narcissist!” You exclaim, clutching your head in shock. “Gentlemen, it warms my heart to see that you all love me to the point of having to create an art piece and marble statue in my likeness. However, I don’t think I can accept these offerings.” You say, approaching the tall marble statue of yourself.
Phainon pouts, approaching you. “But it took months to create this marble statue! You wouldn’t let it go to waste, now, would you?” Phainon asks, giving you the puppy dog eyes.
Sunday stares at the statue with astonishment and almost horror. The lengths people would go through to show their love and dedication to someone like you is quite impressive, but also horrific. Is this what Robin had to go through as a renowned singer in the cosmos?
Robin having such admirers makes sense because of her level of fame, but you? No offense to you, but you’re part of the Astral Express Crew who go on adventures and get into sticky situations! You’re not famous of any sort, but you are quite famous when it comes to these men who lay their eyes upon you. Perhaps you’re a witch who can bewitch many men just by existing.
Yes, maybe that is the most logical reasoning why do many men are in love with you. Men who are in high power and status, groveling to you, kissing the ground you walk on. It’s pathetic. But seeing these men give you heart eyes makes Sunday feel uneasy. If he’s on the Astral Express for the time being, then that means he will be witnessing it for as long as he’s alive and with the Astral Express Crew.
“Sculpting a marble statue of someone from head to toe takes up to three months to two years. It would be a waste if you didn’t accept the gift that we made for you.” Anaxa comments, crossing his arms over his chest.
You shrug. “I will accept it, but where will I put it? I can’t put a giant statue of myself in my room. It will look like I have a shrine of myself. Would it not be narcissistic of me to do so?”
Sunday nearly cracks a smile at your comment, but refuses to show an ounce of reaction. You not liking the idea of having a statue and painting of yourself in your bedroom is the bare minimum. No. He mustn’t fall for your character and be a part of this scandalous harem of yours!
A few days go by, and Sunday finds himself actively seeking you out whenever he enters a new room. He subconsciously looks around the room, searching for the familiar head of hair of yours, or listens closely to hear your voice before entering a room. Compared to the past few days, today feels off, and Sunday does not like the shift in the air.
Sunday walks into the Parlor Car, and he freezes in his spot when he sees you with a new person. Someone he has yet to meet out of the twenty people who practically worship you. This person (?) is taller than any of the men Sunday despises, perhaps as tall as General Jing Yuan of the Xianzhou Luofu. White hair, tan skin, very muscular, sitting on the nearest couch with you snuggling up to his side. Is this the infamous person—Aeon—who somehow managed to yank you into this universe?
“Nanook, Aeon of Destruction,” Sunday finds himself blurting out loud before processing it.
You and Nanook look up to see Sunday standing at the entrance, looking stiff and almost like he’s close to meeting his creator. You and Nanook stand up. Nanook nods at Sunday, approaching the Halovian with you by his side. Sunday’s gaze falls upon you, that unfamiliar feeling forming in his chest. Seeing you walk so close to Nanook, by his side, makes Sunday feel sick. It doesn’t matter if you have these men wrapped around your fingers, seeing someone achieve something Sunday wanted makes him feel nauseous.
Sunday gives Nanook a thin smile. “It’s nice to finally meet the Aeon of Destruction. I’ve been hearing many interesting things about you through the grapevine.”
Nanook raises his eyebrows at Sunday. “Is that so? Interesting things, but still good, I hope?” The corner of Nanook’s lips curves up into a smirk.
Sunday presses his lips into a thin line. Good things? About the Aeon of Destruction? That’s debatable. That’s something Sunday wants to say to Nanook, but since you’re in the same room as both him and Nanook, Sunday will refrain from doing so. No one has anything good to say about the Aeon of Destruction. It’s in his name. Destruction. Nanook brings nothing but harm and danger to every living thing in this universe, but now Nanook hopes that he has a pristine reputation?
You wave your hand in front of Sunday’s face. “Sunday, you’re staring,” You comment, snapping the Halovian out of his thoughts. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting strange since you first arrived on the Astral Express.”
Sunday chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, [Y/N], ever the caring person. I am alright. I am doing my best to adjust to being on the Astral Express. It is my first time being so far away from Penacony.”
“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you. Perhaps you’ll join like the rest of us. Just letting you know that I was here first before anyone else joined,” Nanook jokes, earning a nudge from a very flustered you.
Sunday’s eyebrows furrow with confusion at Nanook’s comment. What does he mean by that exactly? “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Care to elaborate on what you mean? Have I not already joined the Astral Express?” Sunday asks.
Nanook chuckles, shaking his head. Before he can say anything to Sunday, you quickly cover Nanook’s mouth, glaring at the Aeon of Destruction. You can’t help but feel conflicted over the interaction between Nanook and Sunday. Nanook is very possessive, but is also very welcoming when it comes to Sunday? Strange. Does Nanook know something that you’re not aware of?
“You will find out eventually,” Nanook states.
Sunday watches Nanook wrap his arm around your waist and pull you back towards the couch, pulling you down with him. Instead of you sitting beside him, Nanook pulls you onto his lap and kisses the side of your head without breaking eye contact with Sunday.
“I doubt I’ll ‘join’ whatever it is Nanook was implying,” Sunday thinks sarcastically.
There’s no way in hell Sunday is going to prove Nanook right. What kind of sick joke was that? Despite the stubbornness that is Sunday, he finds himself in your bedroom on the Astral Express in the middle of the night while everyone else is sleeping. Sunday’s relieved to find out that no one in your harem of sins lives on the train or sleeps in your bedroom. At least, that’s what he’s assuming.
Sunday’s lips trail down your neck, kissing, nibbling, biting your neck. You whimper, tightening your arms around his torso when Sunday adjusts your legs around his waist, sinking further into your warm heat.
You bury your face into the crook of his neck. “I thought you didn’t like me,” You panted. “Yet here you are, in my bedroom in the middle of the night, balls deep inside me.”
Your vulgar comment causes Sunday to become flustered, making him buck his hips against yours harder than he intends to. You clench your jaw, digging your nails into his back, and squeeze your eyes shut.
“You lack filter—just spewing the raunchiest thing you can think of,” Sunday mutters.
Sunday caresses the back of your head before pressing his lips against yours, swallowing your moans and whimpers. Sunday proceeds to increase his speed, drilling into your heat. The sound of squelching fills your once-silent bedroom.
You break the kiss, cupping his face in your hands and lightly pinching his cheek. “But you still didn’t deny it—ah!” You yelp when the tip of his cock hits your cervix.
“I do not hate or dislike you. I hate the idea of other men liking and claiming you,” Sunday mutters, thrusting with every word that comes from his mouth. “I do not want to share you. I want you for myself. Is it a sin to want you for myself?”
Your head lolls back, almost going limp beneath him. Sunday grabs your hand and laces his fingers with yours, gently squeezing your hand—a big difference compared to how he’s pistoning his cock in and out of your squelching gummy walls.
Sunday suddenly stops thrusting into you, and he leans down close to your ears. “Do you know what is also a sin?”
You look at Sunday, eyes bleary with lust and confusion. “What?” You reluctantly whisper.
“Greed and lust. You lust for the many men you encounter, the same ones that is part of your lustful harem. A harem is a sin because you are greedy for more than one man,” Sunday murmurs.
You and Sunday stare at each other in the dark; the small night light in the corner of your room barely illuminates both your faces. “If that’s what you think of me, then why do you want to be with a sinner like me? It’s almost like you love the idea of being with someone with me because you can, I don’t know, try to change me.” You whisper.
Sunday chuckles, leans down, and kisses your temple. “How can I not love a sinner like you? I am not perfect myself. Once I get a taste of you, I want more of it, and I do not want to share you with anyone else.”
Sunday tilts your head up before smashing his lips against yours, proceeding where he left off. The night gradually blurs into tangled limbs, bodily fluids, breathless moans, and whimpers.
After what feels like an eternity—Aeons, Sunday would love it if it lasted an eternity—you and Sunday collapse in each other's arms. You’re snuggling up against Sunday, arms wrapping around his waist and head resting on his left bicep. You’re out like the light, snoring away. Then there’s Sunday, staring at you as you sleep. Sunday brushes a strand of hair away from your face, a small smile gracing his face when you snuggle closer to him in response.
Sunday leans over and kisses your forehead before staring up at the ceiling as the clock on your desk ticks away. Sunday was supposed to show up at your room to talk to you about what happened the past few days since his arrival at the Astral Express and becoming part of the Astral Express Crew. Before he knows it, one thing leads to another, and he finds himself on your bed with you caged by his arms, making out with you like a starving man, while clothes fly off your bodies and to the ground.
For a moment, he’s able to extinguish the burning need for you. Being able to kiss you, touch you, and be inside of you felt intoxicating, and he can’t get enough of you. Sunday subconsciously leans in and presses his nose on top of your head, inhaling the scent that is you. Your hair smells like honey. He slowly trails down, breathing in your lotion mixed with the smell of your sweat from your and his activity from moments ago. How can someone have this much power over him? Just being around you, with you, inside of you, isn’t enough for Sunday. He wants more of you, all of you, for himself.
Sunday wants to hear your cries, whines, breathless gasps, whimpers, and laughter. He wants to be the only reason why you’re making these noises; he wants to be the only one to hear them all. In a perfect world, it’s just you and Sunday with no one else to interfere. No one. Just you and Sunday. Perhaps there is a distant planet in the universe where he can take you to, just you and him, no one else to get in the way.
Aeons, what have you done to him? This unholy thought, unholy actions, unholy words… It’s too late for him to repent. Too late for Sunday to ask for forgiveness when he doesn’t want to be forgiven for loving and craving you.
Note: I love how this whole AO3 outage thing pushed me to finish this fic and post it before it goes down again (according to the AO3 status update on Twitter). Now that I have the HSR fic out of the way, I will be taking a break for a week before starting on the ZZZ fic. So, I'm technically posting twice a month rather than four or more a month like how I used to. Anyway, to all my new and returning readers, keep in mind that I ONLY post on my Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and my AO3 (Aaliah_exo)! Nowhere else except Tumblr and AO3!
Read more of my works on my Grand Masterlist, which contains every masterlist I have created! | Maybe support me by tipping me on Ko-Fi or by reblogging my fanfics! ^^ I will also be posting exclusive fanfics on Ko-Fi as well very soon! I might post all of my stories there, too, but who knows? You can also tip me on Tumblr if you'd like as a way to show support! ^^
Synopsis : You've managed to successfully carry out your first kidnapping operation but— oops! It turns out you have the wrong celebrity. You scramble to amend your mistake. But the problem is, your hostage doesn't want to leave.
Tags and Warnings : Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Yandere Themes, Stalking, Abduction, Drugging, Phainon Is Freaky, Attempt At Humor, The Reader Is A Red Flag But Phainon's Into That ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Words : 3797
♡ Note : Watch me lock in for the most random ideas.. okay, that was a lie, this isn't actually random. I wrote down this idea back when the Luckin x HSR collab was first announced and a few days ago, decided to visit the draft again and ended up writing 1k words in one sitting :I But I had lots of fun writing this! And I'll be honest, this fic is mostly crack, so do approach it light-heartedly. Please excuse any unintentional mistakes and happy reading <3
「 Artwork Credits 」 「 Read On AO3 」
“Kafka, please tell me you're teasing me.”
Your fingers grip onto the phone, preventing it from sliding off from your increasingly sweaty palm. For half a minute, you hold your breath. The quip or that familiar light-hearted drawl that you’d been praying for never comes, solidifying your situation.
“I told you to read the target’s description carefully, sweetie.”
That ticks a nerve, “But I did! You told me : white hair, blue eyes, tall, male, obnoxious smile—”
“And does that one in front of you really seem like someone who’d be on our hit-list?” the woman leisurely interrupts, you can quite well picture the way her eyes are probably sweeping over her nails in your mind.
At that, you turn towards the cause of this mess. Silver-blue hair shifts and glimmers under the dim light of the room, a vein starts to bulge in your forehead from the drag of the chair’s legs against the floor. The fool uses whatever remains of his strength to push his chair closer towards the black blob of fur lounging on the table.
“Pspspsps…” he even has the audacity to say, probably planning on petting the cat with his head at this point.
And then, as if remembering his circumstances, he lifts his head towards where you stand by the door and swivels his head away, nearly toppling down with the chair, whistling innocently.
There's a muffled sound coming from the other end of the call, Silver Wolf’s poor attempt at hiding a laugh, you realize.
“I thought so.” Kafka says at last, acknowledging the meaning of your silence.
“Look, I know how it must look now, but there are hundreds of men who look like this on this planet alone—” you attempt one last time to salvage some dignity.
“[Name],” immediately your mouth shuts upon recognizing the tone, “What do we do when we make mistakes?”
You avert your eyes, lips pursing, words practically a grumble, “Not make excuses…”
“And?”
“Fix them.” you grit out after much struggle.
“Yes. So, what are you waiting for? You know what to do, don't you?” a clink echoes from Kafka’s wine glass settling on the table, signaling the finale of this exchange.
You mutter a half-hearted agreement, still petulant. Not really paying much attention to whatever she says afterwards as the call ends.
Six months. Twenty six weeks. One hundred and eighty three days of sleepless observing, learning and planning to pin down one man just to be told that you had the wrong person since the beginning. A sigh forces its way past your lips as you shove the phone in your pocket, repressing the urge to throw it at the nearest wall instead.
“Luckin Luckin, drink it up..”
All your muscles stiffen as that familiar jingle drifts to your ears, you sharply turn to see your hostage swaying from side to side on the chair as he sings that damnable song without a care in the world.
“Carrying carrying, Snowy’s here!”
Instantly, a maelstrom of memories flood your mind.
“A leap that leads to an encounter with you!~”
Days of dealing with stupid customers, a narcissistic boss and loud fangirls just to get close to the celebrity. Abandoning your self respect as an aspiring Hunter to suffer in minimum wage hell all for it to mean nothing.
“Today’s a lucky day— uwah!!”
A loud thunk echoes in the air, startling the napping cat and silencing that maddening tune for good, your heavy breaths prompt him to hold his.
You look up to his bewildered form so quickly he wonders how you didn't snap your neck, cyan eyes almost bulging out of their sockets.
You dare him to maintain eye-contact, which he loses within two seconds, flickering downwards to where the heel of your shoe rests in between the gap of his legs.
(If anyone asked later, you’d deny the reason you’d retreated was not for the loud gulp he’d forced down his throat, or the flush of pink coating his cheeks.)
“Phainon.”
The addressed man stiffens further at the terse way you use his name, “Uhm, yes?! Uh- Well-”
His sputtering spree stops as you flash him a dazzling smile, the remaining adrenaline manifesting in a flinch instead.
“How do you feel?” you ask sweetly.
If Phainon was bewildered before, his cognitive abilities are out of function now. His mouth opens and closes, neurons firing and synapses aligning to form one response.
“I'm fine? How about you?” and then his whole face flushes as he realizes how dumb that sounded.
A corner of your lips twitch, which you immediately smother as Phainon fake-coughs, “I mean! I’m okay… but! I definitely would be finer if you… loosened these ropes?”
You fix his sweetened smile with a blank look and Phainon bends after three seconds, “Only if you want to, of course! No pressure!”
You shift to lean your weight on one leg, a hand gripping your hip as Phainon looks at anything but you, bouncing one of his legs. You catch a glimpse of his hands twisting behind his back against the restraints.
A hum from you stops Phainon’s squirming just a little, “Don’t worry. You’ll feel ‘finer’ soon.”
The man whips his head just as your shadow falls upon him, the response that’d been on the tip of his tongue dies there as you reach behind him.
He inhales sharply at your sudden proximity and his mouth runs before he could stop himself, “M-my, are you going to pin my arms above my head? Oh noooo, please don't! I won't be able to move my hands ahaha—”
His teasing bravado falls flat as light glints over the needle of the syringe you fix.
“Ha…”
You look at his gaping expression from your peripheral, “I told you not to worry, didn't I? It’ll sting just a little bit. Then, you’ll wake up forgetting everything that happened.”
Phainon straightens at that, face twisted in alarm, “Wait wait! No no no! I swear on Aedes Elysiae that I won't tell anyone about this, just wait—”
He tugs at the ropes with a sudden burst of energy and to his luck, the ropes loosen just enough for him to wiggle one hand out.
But that's where his stretch of fortune ends, a gasp is all that is heard as you strike the needle of the syringe right on the tattooed sun at the side of his neck.
Your left hand raises as his head limps forward, all the energy sapped out of his body in an instant. You toss the syringe aside, the previously napping cat catches it midair and drops it in an open plastic bag nearby.
You place your now free hand on his shoulder, steadying him so that he doesn't topple you over. A web of the next steps already taking shape in your mind.
Your thumb traces an absentminded circle over his cheek one last time before you let him go, trying your hardest to not think about the softness of his skin, or how you wished to feel more of it.
—
A week later, you sit at a secluded corner in the dining space of a fast-food chain, three tables away from your real target.
Your thumb swipes over the screen of your phone, pretending to scroll alongside the occasional munch of the fries you’d ordered.
Your attention, albeit, is zeroed on the man talking animatedly to the person in front of him.
You surmised it to be an argument, and the realization begets a pleased spark in you. The more tumultuous the emotions, the easier it was to bait someone.
“So, who are we stalking this time?”
You tilted your head, stealing a glance at the man in front of you over the rim of your glasses.
“The one with the shades, voice so booming it might as well be a verbal attack—”
Wait a minute.
You don't recall bringing a partner.
Slowly, you turn your head to your left, eyes long having forgotten how to blink.
“Missed me?” his voice drips of honey, sitting in utter leisure with a measly one inch gap between you, one elbow propped on the table, cheek pillowed by his palm.
Your soul almost leaves your body.
Phainon— damnable Phainon— blinks for a good few seconds in what appears to be concern at the force of your flinch, before an amused chuckle echoes from behind his masked face.
“You— what— how—?” your arms flail, trying to make sense of it. Why are you here? Why are you talking like you know me? Did the drug not work? How did you find me?
Phainon leans back slightly with a hum, his silver-blue tresses dance along the gesture, “It seems like you did miss me, a lot.”
Your brain ceases buffering at that, rebooting to adapt to the sudden change of circumstance, “Who… says I missed you? I don't even know who you are!” you cross your arms, angling your head straight.
Phainon makes a pained sound, a gloved raises to clutch at his chest, ever the actor he is, “Now you're just breaking my heart, Mx. Kidnapper! After we shared such an intimate, heartfelt experience—”
He lowers the volume of his exclamation at the death glare you direct at him, but doesn't stop, “Ahh, how I ache! But it's alright. I know you may pretend to be annoyed with me, but there's a soft spot for me in your heart. You even tucked me into bed even though I was such a naughty boy—”
Your jaw slackens, eyes appalled as he continues his soliloquy about intimacy and punishment, without a care in the world about how easy it’d be for him to get exposed here out of his stereotypical celebrity disguise.
You force yourself to swallow, no no, there is definitely something more to this. At the same time, your actual target springs from his seat, following after the other guy in a rush and that prompts you to attempt an escape.
You yelp, as the momentum of you standing up is used to yank you back down, your hand shoots out to cushion the abrupt pull, landing right on Phainon's thigh in time with his breath brushing over your face.
“Ah ah ah,” he tuts, fingers fisting into the fabric covering your arm, “Running away so soon, Mx. Kidnapper?”
His free hand hovers over your hips for a brief moment, you can feel the weight of his hand even from the inch of distance and you instinctively draw in a breath as the tips of his fingers brush against the dip of your waist.
The golden flecks in his eyes twinkle behind his shades, you blink out of the daze as he raises his wandering hand to re-adjust your crooked glasses instead.
“I could kill you.” your whisper is far too loud in the thick silence.
There are a million other things you could've said, million ways you could've shoved him away. But your mind decides to not be partial to either.
Phainon tilts his head, eyes softening in what you could only assume was curiosity, “You wouldn't,” his response is just as tender, just as heavy as your threat.
You scoff at his audacity, pulling back with a jerk, and he lets go of your hand when you sit down beside him instead of running away.
“And why wouldn't I?”
The playful edge returns to Phainon’s countenance, “Because you own a cat.” he declares with the utmost confidence.
You stare at him blankly, “What? Cat?” and then you realize what it was that he was referring to, “You idiot, that wasn't my cat, that was my boss.”
Phainon blinks once before a carefree chuckle leaves him, he waves a hand, “Oh, I know! You cat-people treat your cats like they're your employers, no? Not saying that I don't get it, by the way! Completely valid, completely valid.”
Your eye twitches in irritation and resignation, realizing that he couldn't be shaken out of whatever narrative he’d convinced himself of. You lose any motivation to argue with him further, suddenly conscious of how ‘my boss is a cat’ sounds like to an ordinary person.
“Anywho!” you flinch as he stops his frantic waving to point a finger directly at you, you realize then that this man would give you a heart-attack if you don't leave soon. “To return to the point I was making, you won't kill me. Because I know that beneath all those scoffs and eye-rolls, you actually have a really soft heart.”
You reward his oh-so-confident exclamation with a deadpan.
“I am a wanted criminal.”
Phainon flinches and gears up in defense, “C-criminal?! Don’t sell yourself short! You're a… professional! Are you not?” he fixes his sunglasses and places a hand over his heart, “But even that is a matter of perspective. I know that villains are made, not born. If we're condemning anyone, it should be society! What I'm trying to say is— wait! Don't go! Wait!”
You equip yourself with imaginary noise-cancellation and get up to leave with a determined gait, no longer trusting yourself to stay sane before this man’s yapping.
Phainon scrambles after you, his legs eating up the distance with a few strides, “Mx. Kidna—”
The tips of his fingers brush by your scarf, before being shoved aside by a waiter in-rush. The noise of Phainon's shades hitting the tiled floor resounds as its pushed from his face from the impact.
The waiter gasps.
“Phainon?!”
Immediately, all the heads nearby turn, footsteps and swooning eating up the previous silence. Within seconds, Phainon is swallowed by a crowd.
“I’m extremely sorry, I'm in a hurry—” his plea is pushed aside by the excited yells of admiration and requests of autographs, the crowd does not budge an inch.
Phainon can only watch helplessly as your silhouette disappears amidst the helter-skelter.
—
A few weeks have gone by since that incident, the majority of which you’d passed in your apartment after a reasonable amount of earful from the others.
“Elio says that you should lay low for a while. The mission will be handed over to Bladie instead.” Kafka had instructed.
“Don’t leave your place unless absolutely necessary, we’ll be investigating the case.”
And, you did as you were told, left with no other option besides reflecting over everything that had happened throughout the past six months.
You couldn't even bring yourself to feel frustrated this time, numbed from the failure of being unable to complete the one assignment that would've solidified your position as a Stellaron Hunter.
You were half expecting police to kick down your door any hour of the day, but nothing happened, not even a peep was heard about the fact that Amphoreus’ golden boy had gotten kidnapped even after a month since the incident. But you chalked it up to be one of your colleagues’ work.
And every time your thoughts circled back to that day’s incident, your mind arrived at the same conclusion again and again.
That man was dangerous.
Not necessarily in terms of strength (though you weren't very confident about this point either), but for how he’d tipped you off of your axis so effortlessly that day.
You have a soft spot for me in your heart, his words would invade your mind in the middle of washing dishes. Villains are made not born, the statement would gyrate in your head as you twisted and turned while trying to chase after sleep, the image of that annoyingly cute, repulsively adorable smile would flash before your eyes—
Then, there were the texts.
“Good morning (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧”
“Have you had lunch yet? D:”
“Don’t stay up too late playing otome games!”
You’d initially thought them to be Silver Wolf messing around with Blade’s number or something, or even bots. But the more you ignored them, the less and less avoidable they became.
“The new pajamas are so cute! I love the cat print (≧▽≦)”
“Coffee mug placed precariously close to the edge of the table. Alert alert!”
“You left the hair-tie on the sink.”
“A roach almost crawled on your bedsheets last night, but don't worry! I took care of it (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧”
“You look so cute when you're fidgeting, Mx. Kidnapper.”
It was only after a reluctant consultation with Silver Wolf that you found out, “Someone had hacked into your webcam.” you felt your heart drop, not because of the news, but because of the twinge of worry in her usually deadpan voice. “You should check your whole apartment, too. For secret cameras and tampered locks.”
You could only hear the drumming of your own heartbeat in your ear, the apartment canopied by a deafening silence as you plucked the cameras one by one— two from the potted plants of your bedroom, one in your shower, one in your kitchen and one from the socket of your living room.
You gripped your phone tightly in one hand, the device already cracked from when you’d thrown it towards the wall in your earlier panic.
The bite of the splintered screen against your palm grounded you, giving you courage to check the locks.
Communication from their end had gone conveniently quiet, leaving you to fend for yourself until further notice. It was no secret anymore who the sender of those creepy texts was, but it didn't make it any less disbelieving.
You're jolted out of your daze as the doorbell rings at the same time as you twisting the screw in on the additional lock.
You hold your breath, again, it rings, confirming that you didn't mishear.
For a moment, you consider backing off and crawling under the bed, not at all interested in finding out who was behind the door, even though there was a good chance for the person behind it to be one of your colleagues.
But that treacherous, curious part of you whispered, nudging you closer and closer to the door until you were looking straight through the peephole, towards a far too familiar pair of cyan eyes.
“I know you're in there, Mx. Kidnapper.”
You jerked away, nearly toppling over a stray wrench on the floor.
Phainon. Phainon was was right behind your front door, confirming all the facts you’d wrestled with denial against up until now, attempting to break into your apartment with an ease that made you shudder.
Had anyone told you that this man, this ordinary pretty boy whose smile earned him his livelihood, who you’d been targeting to kill would be the one to corner you in your own home even a day ago, you would've laughed and rolled around on the floor.
The frantic clicks of him attempting to twist the locks brought you back and sigh tumbled out of your lips.
At least, the extra locks you’d put and the drawers you’d pushed against the door would be able to keep him at bay, enough time for you to think about your next move.
Which, namely, were two — you could either climb down from the nineteenth floor right now, or you could push another closet to the front door and wait until one of your colleagues came to rescue you.
Wait a minute. Your thoughts screeched to a halt ; run? Hide? All against one ordinary actor who you definitely would win against in a brawl should it come? You're seriously on the verge of having a panic attack from that? Where's your pride as an aspiring Stellaron Hunter?
Your fingers stopped their tapping against your arm, you turned to cast one last look at the door, and then swiveled on your heels towards the kitchen to make yourself something warm, enjoying the frustrated noises of Phainon trying to unlock the door as you turned on the stove.
—
That night, you had a marvelous sleep, belly full with a hearty dinner and moisturized skin. Both sides of your pillow were cold, the sillage of sunlight still lingered on your bedsheets.
A dream unfolds and cradles you. Sunny skies, the scent of petrichor, cars whoosh by, billboards flashing blinding smiles, a ray of light — reach for it, grasp it, the whirr of coffee machines, the buzz of crowds, shadows fall, the lonely strum of a guitar, tousled silver-blue, oh how you yearn, a palimpsest of memories sealed in tar, a hand brushing away wayward strands of hair, fingers in between yours—
… Fingers in between yours?
You gasp, nails digging into skin and sinew.
One blink, the blue of your bedsheets become clear to you in the dimmed light of the night.
Another, and startled cyan gleaming in the dark, amusement slowly crawling from the corners of those eyes.
“I used to be into lock-picking.” he twirls a hinge between pale fingers, useless now for anything besides mocking your hubris.
You spring forward, one hand still holding onto his wrist, the other wrapping firmly around his throat and push him down to the floor.
The hinge clatters to the ground.
An ‘oof’ heaves out of Phainon's lips as his head hits the cold tiles, getting cut-off towards the end as you squeeze against his windpipe, your legs wrap around his midriff.
“You.” Phainon snaps his eyes open to meet your shadowed visage, his Adam's Apple bobs against your hand as he swallows hard.
And then, his face flushes bright red, from the tips of his ears to the nape of his neck.
“Finally, finally you're looking at me again, Mx. Kidnapper.” he exhales, you blink as his free hand raises to not push you away, but to tuck a strand of hair away from your face, baring your bewildered expression to him.
“…What?” your grip slackens in surprise.
The corners of Phainon's eyes crinkle as he smiles so wide it nearly splits his face, “I missed the feeling of having your eyes on m-me.” he chokes slightly as you squeeze his throat again, his body goes utterly pliant beneath you.
“I—I quite… enjoyed you watching me, y-you know?” there's something of a pout in his voice, even as he’s getting the life choked out of him and his eyes— oh, there's apparitions of hearts setting those cyan eyes ablaze.
You let go in horror, but don't succeed in retreating far as he clamps one hand firmly on your waist, dragging you back to straddle his hips.
“Never do that again, okay?” his request is sickeningly sweet but there's steel in his gaze. You have a feeling he isn't just referring to you holding him down. His other hand guides yours back to his neck, placing it right against where a blazing sun bleeds into skin.
Tracing a maddening circle over your hand, “I’d say it's a fair bargain. Stalking for stalking, attention for attention, affection for affection, ownership for ownership.”
🏐 "𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑰𝑵𝑶𝑵 / 𝑲𝑯𝑨𝑺𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑨," ◦ ₊ㅤ ﹙ nsfw breeding you like a rabbit ꗃ .. smut mdni ꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ mina says reupload from toruzip ⁀ ˳ ⟡
Oh, how filthy he got in bed.
From the golden boy of Okhema city, the savior of Amphoreus, smiling and waving to citizens all around, to one of the meanest men in bed.
His hips never stop moving when he’s finally popped his dick inside your tight, wet cunt. He’s not shy about it either, whining and moaning loudly against the wet sounds of his hips slapping against your plump ass. His hands tightly holding onto your hips, making sure you can’t run away.
“F-fuckkkk.. g-gonna breed y-you.. g’nna make you all plump and round with my babies,” he’d hiccup and whisper against your sweat slicked skin. While you would whine and try to pry him off, telling him it had already been an hour since you two had begun. His balls would still be heavy with cum, slapping against your skin with a lewd ‘plap! plap! plap!’. His breathless chuckles would fill the air as his hips wouldn’t stop— in fact, he would start thrusting deeper and more purposefully.
The bed would shake, as you swore you could hear the faint cracks of the wooden bed frame giving way. There was no true night in Amphoreus, so you could still hear the faint sounds of city life going on just past the walls of your little home. “..p-phainon! Y-you’re gonna break the bed again..!” You’d cry and moan, nails digging into his back and leaving red hot marks.
Phainon’s hips wouldn’t stop, oh no.
He’d only get filthier, more lewd and needy. Whimpering into the crook of your neck, “p-please… just l-let me.. ngh— shit.. g’nna c-cum again…” he’d groan, and before you could even complain to him— his hips would be erratically thrusting into your sloppy pussy. Previous white sticky seed already oozing out around his thrusting cock, as he would shudder and cum inside you. Hot thick ropes of his seed spilling deep inside you, no doubt in wanting to fertilise your womb.
“Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou” he’d quickly mutter, his hips coming to a slow roll. Stirring up the sticky mess inside you. His pelvis grinding against your overstimulated clit.
“…do you wanna go again, baby—”
“Phainon, the black tide will be more merciful than me if you ask another stupid question.” You huffed to him quickly, limbs sore and aching all over.
Can people stop being cowards and write men crawling, begging and being desperate for the readers forgiveness idgaf why are WE FORGIVING A MAN who cheated on us like i read fanfics so that i can see men beg and grovel, if I wanted to see men being forgiven for cheating i might as well not read fanfics at all
BF TEXTS ! except you keep threatening to expose him
⤷ light yagami x fem!reader
second part !
a/n: i hate being late to fandoms i’m 20 years late no one probably cares but i was giggling making this and i had fun ok that’s all that freaking matters 😡 also i posted this from the mobile app the format looks weird idk if it just looks like that from my end but deal with it if it doesn’t
who said only bunnies could hop? ft. bunny iglesias
♡ bunny's favorite position is definitely cowgirl. he loves to watch you hop on his cock like a bunny in heat. the way your cunt squeezes around him so tightly as you bounce up and down repeatedly.
"fuck, bebé, just like that," bunny murmurs, his hot breathe on your neck, "keep going, make me yours."
you whine and moan at the feeling of his dick deep inside you. the sounds of your thighs meeting his fill the room. bunny rests his head on your shoulder blade and looks up at you, watching your face contort in pleasure. his eyes full of lust and desire, if you looked down you probably would've saw hearts in his eyes.
"fuck, oh, fuck, b-bunny... feels so good!"
"yeah?" he reaches up and grabs one of your breast, squeezing it, "prove it to me, hop faster."
you do as told and started bouncing faster and faster. the meat of yours and bunny's thighs getting redder and redder the more you bounced, but god does it feel good. you don't stop no matter how tired you are, not caring that your legs are screaming for a break. you feel your orgasm approaching.
"baby, i'm so close, please... p-please let me cum, o-oh my god!—" the sudden feeling of his finger rubbing on your clit sends electric statics to your brain.
"go ahead, princesa, cum." he rubs your clit faster and the pleasure was all too much, you came with within seconds.
you collapse on top of him, breathing heavily. you close your eyes out of tiredness, but then gasp when bunny manhandles you onto your stomach.
"don't think that we're stopping, querida, i have yet to cum," he smacks you ass lightly, "so be a good girl and take what i give you for a little while longer."
One thing you never expected about Hugo, your calm, composed boyfriend, was him being such a freak.
You never thought that behind that calm, collected and pretty face would be a lingering beast, that throws himself all over you when you show the slightest bit of skin.
That's why summer was especially dangerous for you, cause you would NOT be walking around in long shirts and pants, while this 30 degrees outside.
You wore a mini skirt and a tube tub, that revealed your tanning lines and of course your man was immediately behind you, resting his large hands on your hips.
"You look good, chérie", he murmured, a fine pink tint on you his cheek being visible, as you turned to look at him.
"Really?", you teased, poking against his hot cheek. "Why would I lie to my pretty wife"
You felt your heart drop. "Ugh you're so good with words", you groaned, giving him a kiss on the lips, but quickly pulling away, leaving him with that pathetic, desperate look you loved on him.
"You like the sound of me calling you my wife?" He leaned forward, the smell of his sweat entering your noise and making your knees go weak. "You would also like it if I called you my husband" "Indeed you could do it more often, wife"
You felt another drop in your stomach when his hands wandered up to your back and pressed you flush against him, his bulge poking against your clothed clit. "You are hard" "You are wet"
And all of sudden your knees touched the soft carpet of your shared living room, while you were bend over the couch, panties pushed aside and skirt cramped around your hips.
Hugo was merciless fucking into you, a grunt leaving his lips everytime you tightened around him. "So, so ~angh~ rough?", you stuttered, lip trembling from his assault, as he reached forward to pull your top down, letting your tits spill free.
He started to grope them, playing with your nipples, twisting and pinching them. "You're just too tempting, amour", he moaned, rocking harder into your swollen cunt. His other hand found your clit, rubbing soft circles on it.
"Ma chère, I am close" he leaned down, softly mumbling words of affection and kissing you on the back of your shoulder.
"May I come inside?", he asked, pace picking up, while you felt his dick twitching inside you like crazy.
Your mind was clouded by the way he was pounding you and without think you stuttered a yes to Hugo's surprise, since you always tell him to use condom or pull out.
He grabbed your hips in a strong grip, slamming roughly into you multiple times, making you jerk up. Vivi let his head fall back, as loud groans spilled out of his mouth, while letting his cum spurt into you, breeding your cunt. He was balls deep in you, letting you feel every of his veins.
He came so much, that it dripped down your trembling thighs. But instead of stopping, he just started to move his hips again, milking all of his semen out of his dick into you.
"Need to get you pregnant", he growled, starting to thrust again, making your eyes roll back, and your back arch more. "Yes- please" You were so lost in the pleasure and feeling of his dick and cum inside you, that you started mumbling incoherent bullshit, alongside the begging for more of his seed.
Hugo just kept you there for 2 hours, forcing you to cum over his dick over and over again, while breeding you, getting you cockdrunk and making you say embarrassing things.
synopsis: you are the daughter of the man alhaitham brought down, bound to him by the soul mark that feels more like a curse than fate. somehow, one letter at a time, he finds his way into your heart—until you can no longer pretend you don’t ache for the man who ruined your life and saved you all at the same time
word count. ❤︎ 14.4k words—give it a chance. PLEASE I BEG give it a chance and i will venmo u a penny
before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; soulmates au ; somewhat enemies to lovers (it’s a bit one sided) ; reader is azar’s daughter ; reader is a rtawahist scholar and wields an electro vision ; reader is going through it guys. cut her some major slack okay ; YEARNER alhaitham ; soulmarks as the soulmates trope ; sumeru plot is heavily referenced and i hope it’s all accurate it’s been 3 years ; male masturbation ; vaginal fingering ; protected sex (use condoms!) ; praise kink ; getting together ; implied moving in together in the end ; this is not proof read. i am tired and hungry
commentary. ❤︎ read the extended author’s note here
The Akademiya admissions form includes the following overview for Rtawahist:
Rtawahist is one of the Six Darshans of the Akademiya that students may select to study, specializing in illuminationism and the pursuit of truth through the study of the stars. Its scope includes, first, astronomy—the mathematical observation and mapping of celestial bodies—and second, astrology—the interpretation of their patterns as signs of destiny. Students who pursue this Darshan will train in celestial observation, star-mapping, and the interpretation of cosmic patterns, combining scientific precision with philosophical inquiry.
When you fill out your application years ago, you check the box for Rtawahist without even reading the overview. You have no need to do that. You do not bother with listing a second choice, either. You also have no need to do that. Your father will see the application through—that much you already know. Privileged, perhaps, but not unearned. You have every intention of earning your keep.
When the acceptance papers arrive, Rtawahist is stamped as your chosen Darshan. You are not surprised. You are not ungrateful, either. The stars, you think, may have been your first love—you do not take your devotion to them any more lightly now than you did when you studied them.
You have never anticipated that the same stars you devote yourself to could be so cruel, forcing you to watch the man who replaced your father as Grand Sage also be the one who orchestrated his downfall.
You cannot bear the injustice of it.
Your father—who now sits in a cell while the city mocks his name—has been replaced by the very man who put him there. The same man they call a hero. The same man who stripped him of his title, his dignity, and every scrap of respect earned through decades of work and brilliance.
You catch this despicable man just as he leaves his—no, your father’s—office.
“Excuse me,” you hiss, “are you the one they call Alhaitham?”
He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you. His expression is unreadable, almost bored—like you’re an interruption that he endures. The veins in your head threaten to burst from the sheer insult of it.
“I’m on my break now,” he says flatly, “if you wish to submit an appeal to any funding proposals, please submit an application according to the prescribed format—”
“That’s not why I’m here,” you interrupt, hissing once more.
His eyes glance over your figure up and down briefly—your blood boils even more for it—and then there is an almost imperceptible shift in his gaze. Curiosity, maybe, or perhaps recognition. Good, you think, he should recognize you—and he should regret it soon enough.
“Then I can’t imagine what business you have with me.”
Your eyes narrow. “It’s about my father.”
“Ah.” His arms cross loosely over his chest, as if the puzzle has solved itself. “Then you’ve come for closure. If that’s what you want, I’m not sure I am the one to turn to.”
You grit your teeth. “Do not talk as though he’s dead. I don’t need closure for a man who still lives.”
“I never implied he wasn’t alive. He’s imprisoned,” Alhaitham replies evenly. “By his own actions. I didn’t decide his actions for him—I only carried out what had to be done when his ambitions threatened the nation.”
“What do you know of his actions?” you snap. “You think yourself to know every detail simply because you were the scribe? Handling a few mere documents doesn’t give you the knowledge and upper hand you think it does—you’re still nothing but a scribe with a salary that is hardly applaudable. What, you think you understand him because you saw a single moment from the outside?”
“I understand him because I saw everything I had to,” he replies blandly. “I don’t have to be more than a scribe with a generous income to know I watched him imprison a god. I also didn’t need a report to see him falsify divinity and use that for his own gains.”
“That’s not true,” your voice shakes, “you have no idea what you’re saying. You’re believing the convenient cover-up story that—”
“It’s the truth,” he interrupts. “You just don’t want it to be.”
Your hands ball into fists as your breath trembles. His composure infuriates you—it makes your grief feel small, your faith in your father feel foolish. It makes you feel inferior to a man who has held a title of authority for less than two days. Your father was a foolish piece in the Fatui’s schemes—this you are certain. There is no other truth you will believe. You cannot stand for the injustice of their plans falling on his shoulders and stripping him of his freedom. Stripping you of his presence.
“He devoted his life to this Akademiya. To Sumeru. To the Archon, weak as he may have felt she was. And you—you sit in his chair and call yourself righteous for tearing him down and stealing his position.”
Alhaitham exhales quietly through his nose, a trace of weariness threading through his voice. “I stole nothing. I sit in that chair simply because someone has to—and the Archon herself has asked it of me. This is a temporary position. I have no interest in leading the Akademiya long-term. If you wish to read the reports detailing your father’s crimes, I suggest finding the General Mahamatra. I’ll have it arranged so you’re granted permission to see the documents, if it’ll ease your mind.” He shifts slightly, a finality to the motion. “Now, if you would please allow me to continue with my rather limited break—”
You don’t bother hearing the rest. His earlier words already have landed like cold water against your face. How dare he? How dare he speak to you as though you’re a fool—a child, a little girl who is naive enough to believe whatever reports were written by the same insidious people who used your father as a scapegoat for their own gains?
You watch as he turns from you and begins to walk away. To dismiss you once more. To ignore your existence and the weight you are left to carry because of his selfishness.
“Don’t you dare,” you whisper. The words shake from nothing else but fury. And before logic can tell you otherwise, before it can stop you, your hand shoots out. “Don’t you dare turn from me before I am finished, you scoundrel!”
You catch his wrist. And then you regret it. (Perhaps ignorance, as they say, is the ultimate form of bliss. Perhaps if you had never touched him, had allowed yourself to be ignorant of this discovery, you’d have been able to live some semblance of a happy life.)
It happens in a sudden—there is a searing heat surging beneath your palm, sharp and alive, as though something ancient and dormant has been waiting just beneath your skin for this exact moment. A soft, glowing light emits where your fingers meet his skin, and what looks like a thin, golden thread burns into both your wrists before settling into a mark.
You both freeze.
Alhaitham’s eyes flicker down to the mark forming on his wrist, then to yours. The same shape—a sharp V, and from its bottom, points three thin lines branching outward. You recognize the shape almost instantly—a constellation. Aquila. (How cruel fate is, mocking you with a soulmark that mirrors your favorite constellation and ties you to a man you loathe.)
You stumble back a step, your breath catching in your throat. The glow lingers on your skin for a moment longer, pulsing faintly before it fades—leaving behind the familiar, unmistakable shape burned into your wrist.
No. No, no, no—it can’t be. It can’t. You refuse to believe it. You won’t.
Your stomach twists, your skin burns, your eyes sting, and the air collapses in your lungs. You drag your hand away from him quickly—as if scalded by his touch—staring at the mark like it’s something foreign, something monstrous, something hideous.
Alhaitham’s expression doesn’t change—still composed, still maddeningly calm. You hate him for it. For being so unfeeling about something that has all but changed the direction that your world spins and the axis that it is tilted on. He opens his mouth to speak, but you’re already shaking your head.
“No.” The word cracks on your dry tongue. “No, this isn’t possible…it can’t be—”
“It would appear,” he says quietly, “that it can.”
The way he says it makes bile rise in your throat. He sounds like he might be identifying a constellation, not dismantling your entire world. Like he’s merely stating an objective fact that he has read in a textbook rather than admitting to changing your whole life. Again.
You clutch your wrist to your chest, covering any evidence of the mark as if hiding it might undo it entirely. “You…this—” You can’t even form the accusation properly. The words tumble along your tongue, frantic and hurried as you try to string together something coherent. “Undo this! Undo what you did!” you shriek, the words panicked.
Alhaitham freezes, just a fraction, his hand brushing his own wrist where the mark glows faintly. His eyes flicker between your face and the mark, calm on the surface but calculating beneath.
“That would be impossible. I didn’t do this,” he blinks, “nor could I. This…is not in my control. Or yours. And please, lower your voice—people will get the wrong idea if you scream in the halls—”
You shake your head, tears pricking your eyes. “This can’t be real! It can’t—”
“It is,” he says firmly. Louder this time. You blink through your tears and look at him—really look at him, and only now do you notice his pallor. Only now do you notice he subtle tension in his jaw, the faint dig of his nails into his own skin. “This is very real, and it isn’t exactly something either of us can simply ignore. Therefore, it would be wise of you to accept—”
“No!” you shake your head, your voice giving away your horror as it worsens by the second, “No! You can’t be serious. You can’t expect me to accept that the stars would decide this fate for me. They…they would never trap me with…with you! A man so awful, so wicked, so utterly merciless. How could they curse me like this? How could they choose someone as vile as you to be my fate? How could I deserve something as cruel as this?”
“I—”
You turn before you can hear any more words from him. You turn and you run—you run past the halls of the Akademiya, past the streets of Sumeru City, past every vendor and market you know, and you run into the quiet, empty home your father raised you in. The one that is devoid of him now—and maybe always will be. You run from him, from that man and from the mark he taunts you with, from every fragment of happiness he tore away from you and has crushed in his fist.
────────────────────────
They say not even the Archons can come in the way of a soulmate’s bond. It is written and sealed by Celestia themselves—or so the whispers tend to go. You often wonder if that’s just the Akademiya’s way of giving reason to what they don’t understand: linking this inexplicable bond to a power such as Celestia that they find equally impossible to grasp, yet impossible to deny.
If you were not so devastated, you might think it’s funny that you and Alhaitham happen to be a pair. Your visions certainly make for a good dynamic—Dendro and Electro. A formidable combination, as everyone likes to say. The two heighten each other, a sharper and more concentrated source of energy when together than apart. The Akademiya’s been taking advantage of that for years, pairing Dendro and Electro users in Matra units whenever possible.
There was even research once—old Akademiya studies claiming that soulmates who were both vision wielders always shared elements with strong synergy. Hydro and Pyro, perhaps. Cryo and Pyro, maybe. Dendro and Electro—everyone’s favorite in the Dendro Archon’s nation. The reactionary benefits were a popular topic across Sumeru, and being the nation of Dendro, plenty of Dendro scholars happily threw themselves into studying the synergy with Electro.
It spread far enough that even Liyue got involved. A researcher there proposed something new: that some soulmate pairs didn’t have opposing elements at all, but the same one. Their powers, they said, heightened differently—something that is less of a reaction, something that is more of a saturation. A phenomenon they called Elemental Resonance. That theory didn’t last long. The skeptics tore it apart, insisting two vision wielders didn’t need to be soulmates to fight well together. The sages pulled their funding soon after, and the whole thing was left to fade into obscurity.
You have never particularly believed any of it. You doubt the Archons and the gift of their power to you has much to do with your supposed bond to Alhaitham, either. Still, a small part of you almost wonders if those who are divine have a strange sense of humor—what chances that Celestia has decided Alhaitham is your fate, and the Archons have decided that your vision is his match.
Perhaps if your soulmate were anyone else, you might have believed in the divine. You might have even trusted their judgment. You almost wonder if they have made a mistake until you stare at the lines that mark your wrist—and then you know that, however much you want to deny that the divine have power, you cannot.
Aquila. Your mark is the shape of Aquila’s constellation. It is proof enough that Alhaitham is your soulmate just as much as your vision is Electro. There is no denying this truth. You would recognize the constellation in your sleep—a scholar of your caliber from Rtawahist’s darshan would never mistake such a commonly known collection of stars. You have studied the stars for so long. Day after week after month after year, you’ve stared into the sky and wondered if each constellation will guide you to the truth. Your father has always said it would.
You remember it vividly—the first time he’d taught you about the stars and their meanings. Azar was always a doting father. You can still feel the warmth of his arms as he’d sat you on his lap as a child, pointing to the sky and guiding your eager eyes.
That one is Aquila, he’d whispered. But in the Rtawahist, we call it Vultur Volans. It reflects an older astronomical lexicon predating the modernized Aquila, you see.
Well. That one is my favorite, you’d whispered back excitedly. And he’d chuckled—you still shiver when you remember the way it felt. Warm. Safe. Good.
Your father was always good.
And yet, he is sitting in a jail cell with zero contact from the outside world. Even contact from his own daughter requires utmost effort on your part. Official regulatory protocols dictate that you must submit a formal request to the Grand Sage to visit any current prisoners before their trials. Your only options are to follow them—but you don’t expect it to be a yes.
As Acting Grand Sage, Alhaitham alone has the authority to approve or deny any visitation for Azar. No one apart from you will visit Azar—you are the only one who loves him. You know that. You think you may be the only one who even likes him. The thought makes you a little sick.
When you submit your request, you are certain that he will deny you the right to see your father. You think, deep down, you may have just made the submission more to spite him than to visit Azar. But then the reply comes—short, stamped, and neatly folded in an envelope—and his handwriting legibly scrawls: APPROVED.
You can’t decide if you’re relieved by the opportunity or enraged that you were granted his mercy.
But you waste little time. When you arrive, the matra who escort you say nothing. They don’t have to. Sharp eyes and distrustfully downturned lips are something you are growing used to, something you are accepting as yet another piece of your truth. People are not exactly unkind—regardless of where you and Alhaitham stand, he is a hero to the nation, and knowledge of your connection is not uncommon by now. People know better than to mistreat the previous Grand Sage’s daughter for his sins. They know to repay the current Grand Sage’s generosity by extending to you their mercy.
You hate it. All Alhaitham ever seems to offer you is some twisted sense of mercy. Like he is above you. Like his is the one to pass judgment on you while you are helpless to hope it is benevolence. He feels less like your soulmate and more like your superior.
You finally arrive—the door groans open. Metal drags across stone.
And there he is.
Your father is in a jail cell. He is a prisoner. A criminal. A sinner above all. Divinity will not spare him just because he is your father. They see him as nothing more than a blasphemer. Still, you can never see him as anything but your father. Not as the Grand Sage, not as the figure the city whispers about in disbelief and fury, and certainly not as the man whose name has already been stitched into Sumeru’s history as a traitor. Here, in the dim light, he is simply your father.
Azar sits on the narrow bench, hands resting loosely in front of him, posture still and tall. He hasn’t wasted away, you’re relieved to see—of course, it has only been a week, but you cannot help but worry that food and water are not something they spare kindly to a traitor of the Gods. Still, despite being well sustained, something in him looks smaller. His pride, maybe. His dignity. He has always held it tightly, even when you were a child.
You enter, and then his gaze lifts. The hardness drops away at once. His eyes soften—warm and steady and so in love with all of the little fibers of your existence standing in his line of sight. It’s the way his eyes always look when they fall on you. Suddenly, you are a child again. Suddenly, you ache to hold his cuffed hands and look up at the sky once more and hear him speak about the constellations.
But the sky is hidden by stone in his awful prison, and you fear he may never see it ever again. The thought makes your throat constrict, and suddenly every word on your tongue becomes heavy. Like lead. You wonder if you swallow them down, if lead poisoning will consume your bloodstream and kill you. You wonder if you speak them, the bluntness of their force will kill you on impact, too.
Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t. That’s how it feels—so you stay silent.
“Do you eat properly?” He speaks first. “You have always made a habit of skipping meals when you are upset. Who will make sure you drink water now that I am no longer there to notice you are not drinking enough?”
Of course, he breaks the silence first. And of course, it’s to express concern for you, not give you answers. The tears slip down your cheeks like a river washes over stone—unstopping and unthinking. Like a command from the sky, the current does not stop. It does not halt for the world, nor does it slow down for it to catch up. Your tears do not wait for you. They do not slow down in time for you to even decide if they will make an appearance.
Azar is a stain on the cloth that is this nation’s history. You know that.
But Azar is your father. You are his little girl. The blood in his veins is the same retched blood that pumps your heart. You live to a beat of life that was once cradled in his palms. When your legs were not strong enough, his arms carried you through this world, and even when you could stand on your own two feet, those same arms carried away the obstacles from your path and discarded them. No matter the weight, your father bore whatever burden the sky commanded.
How can you abandon a man like that? How can you look away from the face that is a reflection of yours? How can you condemn the eyes that learned the stars for you, so you would never know the struggle of learning every constellation alone?
Your fingers ache to scrub at the stain, to scour it from the fabric, to wash the ugly color out of existence. But your mind knows the truth: no soap, no water, no hand is strong enough to ever clean blood once it’s set.
“You’re asking me if I eat?” You hiss, the words catching on your breath. “They’re saying things, out there. They’re saying you imprisoned our Archon! That you forced the people into dreams and…harvested their energy. That you…that you almost ruined this nation and doomed us all!”
Azar does not move. When you were young, your father was always patient with you. He’d sat through every tantrum, still and calm until the energy it took to misbehave slowly seeped out of you. Only when you grew tired—and only then—would he pick you up and sit you on his lap. His voice would never rise. His hands were never harsh. His eyes were never cold.
Such energy that young body of yours always has. I almost envy it. Will you listen now, my dear?
Yes, father.
He does not move. He sits through every bitter word you throw at him, still and calm now, just as he was all those years ago.
“They’re wrong,” you continue, desperate now, your voice cracking in between pleading syllables. “They have to be wrong. You would never—you couldn’t do that.”
“I could,” he says simply, his voice quiet but firm. “And I did.”
The words feel like a slap to your face.
Your father would never hit you, but it feels like he has struck you with his own hand. Your heart stills, your stomach churns, and for one dizzying moment, you almost laugh. It’s nothing more than a twisted and cruel joke. Your father’s sense of humor has always been a little odd—but he is your father. The man who carried you on his shoulders to see Sumeru’s festival lights, who bought you your first paper book and the colorful sticky notes to annotate within it, who brought home pounds of zaytun peaches because you had briely commented you liked them once, who pointed out constellations and told you their stories so you’d forget the nightmares that frightened the sleep away from your eyes some nights.
“You’re lying to me,” you whisper. Your fingers clutch at your robes, desperate for something to hold onto—you cannot hold his hand. Not when they are cuffed. “You’re just…you’re tired, or you’re confused—yes, that must be it. I see now—they’ve poisoned you against yourself. They are accusing you of someone else’s plot through lies, Father, and you are believing them from your own guilt because you could not have stopped it on your own. You had no choice but to follow along—for your own survival. They may not see that, but I do. Listen to me. You can’t simply give in to what they say.”
Azar chuckles softly, the faintest smile curving his lips. Not cruel, not mocking—only tender. “I see your imagination still runs vividly, my dear. But I fear I am precisely what they say I am,” he tells you, in the same patient tone he once used to explain to your young mind how the stars move across the sky. “The father who loves you more than his own breath and the man who did what was necessary to see his ambitions through. They are two sides of the same coin. They never have been separate.”
Your vision blurs, and you shake your head furiously, but the tears don’t stop. “Stop saying that! Why do you lie? Please. Just…stop. Listen to me,” you beg, “you must tell them—the second of the Fatui harbingers is a terrible man. I have seen his records in the Akademiya, father. He once went by the name of Zandik. If he threatened you into doing his bidding, you have to just be honest—there is no shame in being powerless to a harbinger of Snezhnaya—”
His hand, bound by cuffs, cups your cheek. The rattle of metal sounds so horribly wrong—so sickeningly, nauseatingly wrong. “You are my child—my own flesh and blood. I will never stop loving you,” he says gently. “But I will not lie to you. Not even to soothe you.”
The words may have well ripped away the stars you always believed were hung in the sky by Azar himself. You don’t know what’s worse: the fact that his love has never sounded truer, or that his guilt has never been more absent. You don’t understand it. Cannot process it. It isn’t something he can explain to you patiently this time—how he can allow his love and his sins to coexist with ease when it feels like it tears your flesh straight off of your bones.
“You have consumed forbidden knowledge, haven’t you?” You cry, bordering on hysterics, “It’s caused you to go mad! We can get help. We can move to the desert and live peacefully if you wish—I’ll take care of you. The sky above the desert is the same sky above the Akademiya, I won’t miss this place—I promise! Let’s go, and perhaps your mind will be cleared of all of this nonsense, and we can just forget that any of this has ever even—”
“You are a bright girl,” he interrupts you, “a student I raised, in fact. You know how to find the truth, don’t you?”
You do. You’ve studied the art of truth since before you could even comprehend that there are worlds beyond the sky.
Your father is a criminal. And if, someday, you have children of your own, they will learn of his crimes from the history books. It isn’t a reality you can reverse by spinning the planet backward. There is no undoing this—only moving forward. There is only the future, and what the sky has decided will exist within it.
You will live without your father. And he will rot in a cell. The stars have already decreed it, leaving you no chance to protest. Perhaps even a week ago, you would not have dared to argue with them. It’s funny how one moment can change everything.
“The only truth I know,” you say, blinking through tears as you stand, “is that everything I have ever loved is forever ruined.”
You turn and walk out of the cell, your steps echoing down the corridor. You keep your eyes fixed on the floor, fighting back the sobs clawing their way up your throat. Your vision blurs so completely that you don’t even see the figure ahead until you collide with it. Skin meets skin—and it’s warm, grounding. Suddenly, the ache inside you disappears. For one fleeting second, breathing feels easy again.
Then you look up and see him. And you wish you could stop breathing altogether.
“You’re crying,” he murmurs. Alhaitham is ever the sharp mind—sharper than most in all of Sumeru’s Akademiya—and yet, he is somehow capable of saying something so painfully useless.
“Shocked, are we?” you smile thinly, pulling away from his hands, which have caught your waist to steady you. “Perhaps if you had a little love in your heart, you’d understand why.”
“I understand perfectly well why you cry for him,” he says plainly. “It’s just that he doesn’t deserve tears from someone he’s betrayed.”
“Why did you do it?” Your lips quiver. You search his eyes for answers as though they will tell you before himself—you wonder why you do when he is so cold. Blunt. He would tell you his answer even if you did not want to hear it for yourself. “Why did you take him from me?”
“Do you think you’d be spared from the version of Sumeru he was trying to build?” He raises a brow. Alhaitham is so, so cold, you think—so harsh and cruel with the way he holds a mirror up to your face and forces you to see the truth. How can you bear to look into a mirror ever again? How can you bear to see your eyes and remember they are the same eyes of your father?“Do you really think you’d find happiness in the world he wanted to create? You’d rather he take your life with him?”
“Don’t speak to me about what I would and wouldn’t want as if you know me,” you hiss.
“I know enough,” he says, gaze steady as it bores into you. “You’re my counterpart. I know that whoever I’m bound to by fate could never be someone so different from me. If you weren’t blinded by the fact that he’s your father, would our views really be so far apart?”
“I am not blinded by anything!” you poke a finger into his chest, “if I was, the only thing I would be blinded by is the horror of Celestia mocking me with you and…and that face of yours that haunts me everywhere!”
“And what? You think you haunt me any less?” he fires back—you realize now that you have only ever seen an Alhaitham that is patient. An Alhaitham who has lost his patience minces his words even less. “You think it’s easy to see your face every time I close my eyes? Your face that so closely resembles his? The man that nearly cost me everything I’ve worked for—my position, my achievements, my peace? You really think I believe someone like you—someone who is as capable and intelligent—can be this naive? You’re not suffering because of me. You’re suffering because you ignored the truth long before I ever spoke it out loud.”
You freeze. Your fingers tremble as you grab his shirt and yank him closer until your faces are level, your jaw set. “What do you mean?” you ask, low and dangerous. “What exactly are you accusing me of, you absolute lunatic? Has that knowledge capsule you touched rewired your brain completely?”
“Why do you think the Matra haven’t questioned you?” he fires back, voice firm but level. “As his daughter, you’d be a prime suspect for conspiracy. You studied under the same Darshan. You really think the General Mahamatra overlooks that kind of detail? Who do you think cleared you? Who made sure your name never appeared in the reports when documents detailing Azar’s plans were found in your own home? You expect me to believe that, for months, you never once suspected something was wrong? That you didn’t see it, or worse—you did, and you dismissed it? You think so little of your own father’s intelligence—that he wouldn’t tell me himself that you were innocent? You really think that he was never aware of your doubts that you shoved down blindly from loyalty, and that he wouldn’t beg me to spare you? He did. And I believed him enough to keep you out of all of his crimes. I have done everything I can to help you keep a shred of your dignity and your life as you know it, so that his mistakes don’t cost you. You think I would purposely ruin things for you? You think so little of me?”
“So what?” you whisper, voice shaking as you glare at him. “What…what is it you want? For me to thank you? To thank you for letting me exist at your mercy and witness how generous you are? Is that it? Is that what you want from telling me this?”
“No.” His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. “I want you to finally see things for what they are, and stop letting your emotions cloud your judgment—”
“So now I’m too emotional?” You laugh, a sharp, broken little sound. “Forgive me, Grand Sage—perhaps being orphaned so young has left you with little knowledge of what it means to be loved, but I have the privilege of understanding exactly what that means. You’d never understand the agony of watching someone you love be subjected to this fate.”
He stills. His shoulders go rigid, the tension in his jaw almost visible.
Too far—your mind screams in sync with your heart. Too far. For a fleeting moment, you almost think you can feel the pain in his chest as if it were your own.
“You have no idea,” he says lowly, his voice laced with a venom you’ve never heard from someone so composed, “what you’re saying. My parents’ status hardly means I know nothing about love—you’d do well to remember that.”
“Or what? You’ll throw me in jail along with my father, is that it? Use that high authority of yours over my head?”
“Funny of you to lecture me about love,” he snaps, “when all you seem to think with is that blinding hatred of yours. I’ve waited so long to find you—did you know that? Since the day I was orphaned and stripped of that love you seem to think I know nothing of, I always dreamt of finding you—just what luck it would be that the one meant to love me would make it seem like such a rotten task.”
He grabs your wrists, prying your hands off his shirt and stepping back. Even now, the motion is painfully gentle—too careful for how sharp his words sound. Then he turns abruptly, boots bluntly pressing against the stone floor as he walks away one step at a time.
You stand frozen for a moment before rushing after him, the echo of your steps chasing his. “I’m not done speaking to you,” you call, practically jogging to keep up with his long strides.
“I am,” he says flatly, not slowing. “I have a meeting to prepare for.”
“I’m sure you can afford a few moments—”
“I can’t.”
“Well, too bad,” you snap, breathless. “You’ll have to find some way, because—”
He stops suddenly and turns. Before you can react, his hand wraps around your wrist again—not harsh, but firm enough that you stumble closer. “You are maddening.”
“Well,” you say stubbornly, “I suppose it’s no wonder we’re bound to each other because you’re the exact same way.”
“Fine then,” he rolls his eyes. He turns, dragging you along with him, “Then you can say what you need to say somewhere private,” he mutters, low enough that only you can hear. His eyes flick briefly toward the guards stationed down the hall.
He doesn’t wait for you to reply. You follow him (without a choice, considering the way his hand pulls you along) through the corridors in silence, your pulse still hammering from the searing heat of his touch. When he pushes open the heavy door to his office and steps aside for you to enter first, you realize that despite it all, Alhaitham is a gentleman. Painstakingly so.
He looks at you expectantly, still so stiff in his posture as he crosses his arms and leans his back against the door. Probably so no one tries to come in, you think to yourself.
“Whatever it is you have to say, best make it quick,” he grunts. “I’m a busy man these days—against my will, if I might add.”
You roll your eyes, scowling. “I’m sorry about that comment,” you mutter. “It was cruel.”
“You’re apologizing?” His brows lift in genuine bewilderment.
You scowl deeper. “Say what you will about Azar, but he raised me with proper manners. I’m hardly above apologizing when I should.”
He studies you for a moment, then nods slowly. “Well…I appreciate it.”
“What exactly is it that’s suspected of me?” you ask bluntly, meeting his eyes. “I want to know.”
Alhaitham sighs, shoulders relaxing. “It’s not that your innocence was ever in question—Cyno and I both agreed that if you were involved, you’d have been more of an obstacle during our plan. But ignoring you in any investigation entirely would’ve been foolish. Your father agreed to cooperate during questioning if you were cleared, so I looked into you myself.”
“And what did you find?” you press.
“Like I said,” he waves a hand, “you’re innocence was never a matter of debate. Whether or not you suspected your father before the rest of us and stayed silent…that’s another matter. One I’d rather not get into the ethics of.”
“I knew he was collaborating with the Fatui,” you whisper. “I saw…letters.”
He raises a brow.
You exhale shakily. “That’s all I knew. And I suppose not digging deeper was my mistake. Maybe I could have talked sense into him. I thought it was about money—or maybe knowledge. The man he dealt with was the second of the Harbingers from Snezhnaya. A man once called Zandik, and a former scholar here at the Akademiya. I read the reports—not that I was supposed to, but I did. I assumed Father’s hunger for discovery had just led him into questionable company. I never thought it would…” your voice falters.
“You would never have changed his mind,” Alhaitham says quietly.
You glance up at him, too tired to be offended. “Ah, is that what you think?” you ask bitterly.
“It’s what I know,” he replies. “If love for his daughter had been enough, he wouldn’t have risked everything in the first place.”
“So the problem was that he didn’t love me enough,” you say, laughing without humor.
“The problem,” he corrects evenly, “is that he loved his ambition most. Enough to let it consume him. No amount of love for you could have undone that. If it’s any solace, I think he would’ve regretted it—eventually. For your sake, more than his.”
“Wow,” you sniffle, voice flat. “I’m comforted.”
“Then I’m relieved,” he hums. “I’m not great at comforting. Means I’m doing something right.”
“Listen, Alhaitham,” you say tiredly, meeting his eyes for the first time without malice. His gaze softens the moment he sees your expression. But even then, you don’t soften the blow of what comes next. “The divine may have bound us together, but it’s clear to me that we’ll never make this work. Not when something so much bigger than us stands in the way.”
His eyes flicker—confusion, betrayal, anger, sadness. And something else you can’t quite name.
“How can you be so sure—”
“I’m not,” you cut in softly. “I just know that I’m tired. I need to make sense of what’s left of my life, and to do that, I have to stop living inside this…mess. You’re a constant reminder of everything I’m trying to move past. I think it’s better if we keep our distance.”
“I disagree,” he says quietly. You close your eyes. “But if that’s what you want, I’m not really in a position to argue.”
“Thank you,” you whisper.
With that, you leave his office. The skin of your mark burns as soon as you put distance between you, but you force your feet in front of each other with every step.
────────────────────────
Grandmother had told Alhaitham once, when he was young, that his parents were lucky with their fate. He’d thought her to be crazy at the time. What was so lucky about dying so young? Of leaving their only son behind before even watching him grow?
The answer became clear when he was a little older. Dying alongside your soulmate, he’d realized, is mercy. He had seen the way Grandmother would clutch her wrist; he had seen the way she would rub at the skin when she thought he wasn’t looking. His mother and father were fortunate—sure, they never witnessed their son grow, and yes, they never accomplished all the things they had dreamt as scholars. But they had each other for the entirety of their life spans since the day their paths crossed.
Grandmother was right. There is no fate that is more fortunate than that.
Alhaitham wonders if he is the most unfortunate individual to exist—how can it be that the same mother and father who were so lucky in their time had produced a son with such terrible luck himself? How can it be that with a soulmate so alive and healthy and near as his, he is still fated to the reality that he will never have you by his side?
Even a mind as brilliant as his cannot come up with any explanation for it. And it seems the more he would like to forget you—forget everything, the more you pop into his mind. Even in his dreams, you show up, haunting him and haunting every part of his mind and soul and body.
You’re soft. Alhaitham is overwhelmed by how soft you are.
Your lips are delicate, your skin is pillowy under his touch, and something about the way you touch him back is just as gentle, too. Your walls are soft as well—despite being as tight as they are, they’re warm and velvety, and they squeeze around his swollen cock so well.
“H-haitham,” you breathe, “please, Haitham—I need more. Please, baby.”
He shivers twice. Once because you call him Haitham, and a second time because you call him baby. He feels a third shiver creep over his spine when he realizes how much he likes your voice when it calls him sweet things like that.
Like a bee, you trickle honey onto his tongue—it’s warm and saccharine and addicting. He tastes it and wants to get closer. Nearer. He wants to feel you so deeply in his system, he would happily mistake the stinger and its venom for your love and your affection.
“Call me that again,” he pleads.
“What?” you smile, cupping his cheek tenderly, “baby? You are, you know—my baby.”
“You’re…you’re so soft,” he pants, groaning as his hips rut into you with a punishing pace—he can’t stop. More. More. More. That’s all he can think. He wants more. More of you and more of your existence bleeding into his. “Fuck, you feel so good.”
“So full, Haitham,” you sob, whining as the thick, blunt head of his cock presses against the sensitive part in the back of your walls. You squeeze around him, and he lets out a helpless moan.
It’s good—it’s so painfully good, and he’s so close, and the pressure in his lower belly feels so close to snapping. There’s an ache that’s building between his legs, right where he connects with you in between yours. A vulnerable place that only you can get close to, where he lets you make him ache.
He’s close. So are you. One more roll of his hips and—
—Alhaitham wakes with a start, his breath caught somewhere between a hitch and a curse. The sheets cling damp to his skin—heat is still crawling through his chest, his pulse hammering like he’s run miles through desert ruins to escape them as their walls close in on him. He almost wishes they had. He almost wishes he were in them right now, and that they’d collapsed on him and taken him down for good under the rubble.
Your voice still rings in his ears—soft, broken, begging. Since when has Alhaitham cared for the sound of your voice begging? He can still feel your hands on him, warm and desperate, the vision so vivid that he can still feel the phantom weight of your touch on his skin. And worse, he realizes, is that he had enjoyed it. Every second of his dream, he’d had his lips on you—on your own lips, on the slant of your jaw, against your throat. Every second of his dream, his hands were digging into your hips as if you were the only thing keeping him alive.
He drags a hand over his face, forcing the images back into the dark where they belong. But the ache low in his body betrays him, straining against the slightly damp fabric of his boxers.
Fuck.
It’s that mark. It has to be. He doesn’t lust over you this way, and the overwhelming truth is that he doesn’t even know you like that. There is no way Alhaitham can be this turned on by a stupid, fleeting image of you under him in his head—he hasn’t even seen you in days. But he supposes that only hurts his case—the longer the days go by without seeing you, the more restless the mark on his wrist has been. The divine must have it out for him. They force you into his senses, into his veins, into his dreams, into his fucking mind, deep in the smallest crevices until even his own body turns into a traitor.
There’s a twitch in his boxers. He covers his eyes with his hand and scrunches them shut with a frustrated groan—this is not a problem that will go away. Alhaitham knows this. He knows that if he gets up and forces himself into a cold shower and somehow manages to evade this problem now, it will only haunt him in his mind again. Even worse, he might just get a vivid image flash in his head in the middle of his work day and make his pants uncomfortably tight—tighter than they already are, that is.
So, with utmost reluctance, he caves.
Slowly, a hand wanders down his chest. It caresses the warm, sweaty skin. He tries to imagine the touch as yours—it’s a sickening thought that if he were a bit more coherent at the moment, he’d be horrified by. Your fingers would be less calloused, of course, but he doesn’t take too much time to linger on that thought.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, you’re a headache,” he curses to himself. He’s right. You are. You make his worst migraine possible.
His finger circles a nipple gently, and he lets out a low hum of approval at the feeling. He wonders if you’d appreciate his physique—the planes of hard-earned muscle, the sharp contours carved from years of disciplined training, the toned definition written into every line of his body.
You’re pretty, Haitham, he can imagine you saying. He wants to hear you say it. He feels a little nauseous.
“Don’t tease,” he grits, “we don’t have time for that.”
You don’t care for your job enough to stress over being late—you’re busy against your will, remember? Don’t pretend you care now, he pictures you giggling in response. And you would be right. He doesn’t particularly care for his position. But he has a responsibility for the Akademiya.
His hand reaches for the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down swiftly and kicking them off under his sheets somewhere. He’ll worry about them later—for now, he worries about the thick, strained cock that falls heavy against his lower abdomen.
“You’re insane,” he mumbles, wrapping his hand around his cock and squeezing lightly as he feels a sharp, fleeting pressure of ecstasy run along his length. “You drive me insane.”
Then don’t go insane, he thinks you’d say. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, you know—you’re the one who keeps letting this happen, Haitham.
“You do this to me,” he whispers, arguing back, “it’s your fault.”
That’s rather mean, Haitham. You blame me for everything.
“I don’t,” he breathes—and then his hand strokes his girth. “If anything, you blame me.”
He gasps, eyes fluttering shut as his head falls further back against his pillow. The sheets cover his shame, yet he still feels unbearably bare and open and vulnerable. Touching himself isn’t something new—Alhaitham is like every other human, no matter how much he clings to logic and reason to guide his choices. Granting himself a moment of pleasure is nothing foreign, even if it is rare, given how busy he is.
But touching himself to the thought of you feels like he’s sinning, even when all he really is doing is giving into the fate divinity has designated for him. Perhaps they had always designed him to be in hell.
“Fuck, baby,” he moans, repeating your sweet, affectionate name for him back to you—like you can hear him if he speaks to the air and trusts it to carry the words over to you. “L-like that.”
You like it when I touch you this way, don’t you, Haitham? You’d ask.
“Yes, fuck,” he hisses. Filthy. You make him so filthy with the words he spills on his tongue. “It…it feels good.”
I know, you’d coo, I like it when my Haitham feels good. Because of me.
“Yours,” he agrees, letting out a raspy groan as he tightens his grip and strokes himself faster, feeling the familiar build up in his lower belly as the ache between his legs intensifies, “your Haitham,” he breathes.
My Haitham, he can hear you soothe, all mine. You were made for me, weren’t you? Made to be my love. I love you, Alhaitham.
He cums as soon as he hears you whisper those delicate words in the fragile existence of his subconscious. That place that exists but doesn’t all at once. That place that he can escape to, but never really go as he wishes. He gasps, letting out a quiet whimper as thick ropes of cum spill into his hand and coat his abdomen with heavy twitches of his cock—he tries to imitate how he thinks you’d touch him through his high.
Maybe you’d slow down, teasing him as he bucks into your hand with a frustrated huff. Or maybe you’d quicken your pace, stroking him faster so he’d have no choice but to be at your mercy. (It doesn’t matter, really—he’ll never find out, he’s sure. So he might as well run through every possibility himself and settle on what he likes best as the closest he’ll get to having you.)
Finally, when he slumps against his mattress as he finishes, limbs feeling heavy and tired, he stares up at his ceiling and lets out a shaky sigh as he feels his own erection soften in his grip.
“Same dream again,” he scoffs to himself, rubbing his clean hand over his face tiredly, “you’re depraved, you fool. And you only have yourself to blame—Sumeru dreams again because of your own flawless plan.”
He lies there, wallowing in his own misery and self-pity for a moment before a thought strikes him:
Alhaitham is a linguist. He studies the art of language—its history, its structure, the delicate logic that binds meaning to form. And if anyone knows how to put words together in the language he’s most fluent in, it’s him. He sits up immediately to get to work—and then he is reminded of the shameless mess he’s made and groans. (After this is cleaned, he thinks, after this display of lewdness is cleaned, will be the start of his careful plan.)
So it begins—one letter at a time, he gives you distance. Because physically, as much distance as you ask for within the walls of Sumeru City, Alhaitham will grant it. But linguistically, there is no distance you can create that he will not find a way to close.
—————
Week One:
To you,
I don’t expect a reply. In truth, I don’t even know what I hope to accomplish by writing this. Perhaps it’s a habit I can’t unlearn—the impulse to record, to make sense of what cannot be reasoned aloud by writing them on parchment. Or perhaps it’s because words have always been my preferred method of thinking, and you have become something I cannot stop thinking about.
You told me that space would be most beneficial. I’ve been trying to respect that. I keep my distance. I let you pass without a word, and I make sure my presence doesn’t reach you unless absolutely necessary. Yet language does not abide by the same rules as distance. Even now, as far as I am from you, I find myself turning my thoughts of you into sentences, as if the act of forming them could bring me clarity. It hasn’t.
I used to believe that words were easy tools meant to define—simple to wield as long as one abided by their rules, like grammar. Then you happened, and suddenly, every word I knew became insufficient. It no longer feels easy to use words. I don’t know what to call this feeling. Perhaps there isn’t a word for it yet.
What I do know is that I’ll write. One letter at a time. Not to persuade you of anything, but to preserve these thoughts before they’re lost to distance. Perhaps, along the way, I’ll find the right word for this state of mind you’ve put me in.
— Alhaitham
—————
Week Two:
To you,
Another uneventful day, though I suppose “uneventful” is a luxury in the current state of the Akademiya. Meetings have multiplied ever since I transitioned into leadership. Half of them could be replaced by a single well-written report, but apparently, no one else sees it that way.
The Dendro Archon insists I attend, so I do. I listen, I make my notes, and I watch as words—our supposed instruments of precision—are thrown about carelessly, stripped of meaning by overuse. It makes me wonder how many things in life lose their truth simply because they’re spoken too often. Perhaps feelings are the same. Perhaps it’s better that I don’t speak mine aloud.
Today, someone used the word corrupt during a discussion about administrative reforms. They said it as though it were an objective diagnosis, a simple matter of right and wrong. No context. No nuance. They did not give me a proper explanation for why they came to use that word when I pressed. It bothered me more than I expected. Words like that should be used with care, or they’ll become too easily bent by whoever speaks them.
It made me think about how language fails us when we use it without precision—and how I fail at it, too, when I try to speak about you. I’m still searching for the right word for what you make me feel. Something that isn’t dulled or watered down by overuse. There must be one. It just hasn’t presented itself yet.
So give me time. I’ll find it. Studying words is what I do best, after all.
— Yours, Alhaitham
—————
Week Three:
To you,
I find my days are increasingly occupied by bothersome interactions, though I suppose that is hardly surprising given my current position. Meetings, receptions, consultations—each demands a performance of attentiveness I must forcefully will myself to demonstrate. I am expected to navigate pleasantries, offer guidance, and answer questions I hardly consider worth any depth. It’s exhausting.
Social interactions in a professional capacity, in theory, should not require this much effort. Yet the expectations that are considered proper, such as tone, phrase, and posture, are disproportionately taxing. I suspect that those who set up these standards for the workplace hardly used their intellect when creating the framework for how we conduct ourselves.
Luckily, when I find myself drained, I can seek clarity by writing to you. Perhaps it is because no pretense is required. No careful phrasing to appease or persuade.
And yes, I am still searching for a word for how you make me feel. Even amidst these endless meetings, my thoughts drift inevitably to you. In one of the manuscripts I reviewed today, I stumbled across an archaic word: eunoia. It means beautiful thinking; a well-minded state. For a moment, I thought perhaps this is the word for what you make me feel—a state where every thought in my head is serene and filled with clarity. It then occurred to me that this would hardly be a fitting word—for all the clarity you might bring me, you are also the only person who manages to turn my mind into a hazy, unclear place. I hardly recognize myself when I think of you for too long.
So I continue my search, hoping that someday I will find the word capable of holding the entirety of this state you put me in.
— Yours, whether you will have me or not, Alhaitham
—————
Week Four:
To you,
I spent the last few days in the rainforest—an inspection trip to ensure the withering is no longer a threat. The humidity there was constant, draining enough to make even thinking a tiresome task. And yet, I found myself thinking more than usual.
In the thick of Apam Woods, I saw several kalpalata lotuses. I’ve heard they’re your favorite. The cliffs that they grow along make for a good contrast, blue and green against a pale grey. They’re said to be the origin of all plant life in Sumeru—the beginning from which everything else grew. I suppose that’s poetic, though I’ve never been one for mythic explanations. Still, I couldn’t help but think that if such explanations were real, every branch and every leaf in Sumeru traces back to the roots of a kalpalata lotus.
Every thought I have seems to trace back to you in much the same way.
I’ve had no luck with a word this week. I thought perhaps the change of scenery might help, but nothing suitable presented itself. Maybe the right term won’t come from research or inspiration at all. Maybe it will reveal itself gradually. Until then, I’ll keep searching.
— Yours, if you would honor me with the pleasure, Alhaitham
—————
Week Five:
To you,
I’ve spent the past week cataloging old star charts because I know the stars are what you love most—Aquila’s constellation among them. You’re already aware that the Rtawahist tend to call that constellation Vultur Volans, and you’ve certainly seen it in the night sky. I used to admire its symmetry as a child, as my grandmother had taught me to search for it when I could not sleep on restless nights. Now I can’t look at it in the sky without thinking of the shared version of it burned into our skin.
I’ve never been one to seek meaning from the divine. I believe in consequence, not providence. Yet even I can’t help but wonder what sort of irony governs a world where the person I was fated for is the daughter of the man whose corruption I exposed. There are moments when I think fate must be a cruel scholar, concluding at the expense of those bound within its margins. If it is you with whom I am bound to the margins, then I would not choose to escape them despite the flaws of this design. If you were to ask me whether I regret it, I would say I don’t. Justice doesn’t become less rightful simply because it brings pain. But I wish, more than anything, that it hadn’t been you who had to bear its cost.
I’ve finally found the word—or rather, two. You are familiar with them, I am sure. I know amongst the scholars of Rtawahist, you are one of the most brilliant—a star right here on the ground that I can witness without reaching the sky. The words are aphelion and perihelion: the points in an orbit when one is farthest from, and closest to, the sun. That’s what you’ve become to me: both distance and nearness. Cold and warmth. The center forcefield and the reason I keep moving. Whether you grant me the closest or farthest point of your light, I will always orbit around you. It is in my nature to do so, and it will never stop at any point in time.
If the divine truly intended for our paths to cross, perhaps it was not to bind us together, but to teach me that even a life governed by logic is still vulnerable to gravity. If it is you who will pull me down, then I will choose to fall, no matter the force that will shatter me as I meet the ground.
— Yours, happily so in every world, Alhaitham
────────────────────────
The letters come every week.
Every Monday morning, without fail, a new envelope waits at your door—your name written in Alhaitham’s impeccable handwriting. The calligraphy is always deliberate and elegant, not a single word crossed out, not a single stroke shaky. He is good with words—you’ll give him that much. Week by week, letter by letter, word by word, he carves his way into your heart. You knew he would. You always knew that not falling for Alhaitham was an impossible task. Not because fate demanded it, but because he had been right that day.
Without your father to blind you, you are not so different from him after all.
You read every letter. You drink in every word. You smile when he complains, and you roll your eyes when he’s predictable. You tear up when he thinks of you, and your lips tremble when he reminds you that as long as he can use words as his tools, you will never truly be free of him. You will never truly be alone.
By Sunday afternoon, the day before the sixth letter is due, you decide to pay him a visit.
You knock on his door. When he opens it, he blinks at you in disbelief, eyes flicking from your face to the world behind you as if to make sure this isn’t a hallucination. You blink back. For a moment, the world tilts on its axis the way it always does around him—gravity somehow always shifts and changes, tugging you closer to the ground when he’s near. Like you’re falling.
“You’re…here?” he breathes.
“Hello to you, too,” you snort quietly. “Proper etiquette is to invite guests in. Especially when they happen to be your soulmate.”
“Ah, well,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “In my defense, my soulmate happens to despise me. That complicates things, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t despise you,” you whisper. “We can talk about that. When you let me in—which you still haven’t done.”
He flushes, coughing as he hurriedly steps aside. “Right. Come in.”
You smile at that. He’s endearing—infuriatingly so. When he isn’t sending your father to prison or dismantling everything you once knew, he is so painfully endearing. And, of course, no one else would see it. You’re sure only you could ever find someone like Alhaitham endearing. Most people at the Akademiya certainly don’t.
When you’re both seated in his living room, opposite ends of the same couch, you whisper, “Thank you. For the letters, I mean. They…made me feel less lonely.”
“Of course,” he says quietly. “Though, I’ll admit, I had some selfish reasons for sending them. But I’m glad they helped. I know the last few weeks haven’t been easy for you.”
“Well,” you manage a tight smile, “Father writes to me too. I’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s responsible for his own actions—it only took a month, huh?”
“It’s not wrong to have faith in people you love,” he says after a pause. “Maybe not to the point where it blinds you, but…it’s not my place to tell you how to come to terms with betrayal.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “You always sound so detached when you say things like that.”
“Detached,” he repeats. “Maybe. Maybe I am—maybe I’m not as rational as I like to think I am.”
“No,” you whisper, “no, if anyone is irrational, it’s me. The facts were always there—I just chose not to see them. You saved Sumeru—and me, by extension, and I gave you a hard time for it.”
“I didn’t save Sumeru because I’m a generous person,” he says quietly. “I did it because there is an order to everything that should be maintained…and I don’t value imbalance to that order. It’s…it’s not about playing a hero.”
“Yes,” you crack a smile, “I forget that being generous is not a fit for that cold image of yours.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he grumbles. You giggle—he lets loose a small, barely-there grin. “I suppose Sumeru’s best interest is not something I stay ignorant of,” he finally admits. “But I’m sure that isn’t why you’re here, either.”
“It’s not,” you agree. “You’ve been writing to me. All this time.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He blinks, startled by the question, as if he can’t understand why you would ask. “Because you asked me to stay away. And I told myself I would respect that. But contact does not have to mean the absence of distance—I wanted to contact you.”
You laugh bitterly, shaking your head as you glance down at your lap. “You shouldn’t have had to do that. If I were worthy of that effort, you wouldn’t have had to fight distance in the first place.”
“I wanted to,” he says simply. “You were the one who needed distance. I didn’t fault you for that. You are worth fighting distance—to me, you are.”
Tears sting your eyes at his words. Alhaitham is good with words. You don’t think it’s because he studies them, though—you think it’s because deep down, he’s a gentle soul that was made to be patient with you. To learn you and what you need when you are unsure of it yourself. To be easy when you are difficult. You know why Alhaitham is your other half—it isn’t just because the divine have said so. It’s because the stars will always guide you to him. It’s because no matter where you are, there is always a way back to him.
He is always waiting for you. Always watching for you. Always searching for you.
You press your lips together. “I didn’t want you far because I hated you,” you murmur. “It was because being near you made it harder to accept that things…were changing. I thought being away from you would make losing my father easier.”
He studies you quietly, his voice soft, “Did it?”
“No.”
A breath escapes him—half sigh, half laugh. “So you continued, why? To punish me for the hell of it, huh? You really are something else.”
You know it’s a joke—still, for old time’s sake, you glare weakly. “Be quiet.”
He smiles fondly. “I knew it would be worth it if I’d waited. That one day, you’d come to me on your own terms. Even if it took months. Even if it took years. I would happily wait.”
“Why aren’t you mad at me?”
“Because you’re here now,” he says—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I knew it wouldn’t help to stay apart, but I knew I could never say no to what you wanted. And…I knew we’d never manage to do it for long. You’d have found your way back to me just as I would you. It’s just how things go—the nature of this world. You and I finding each other is in our nature.”
“I wanted to come find you after the first letter.”
“Why didn’t you?” he raises a brow—he almost looks a little hurt.
“Because I was scared,” you laugh—there’s no humor in it. Only a choked sob. Only a tear that runs down your cheek as his eyes quickly change to soften for you. “If I came, what if you decided I was just…too much? And then you hated Celestia for deciding to bind me to you? And then you hated me? And then no one would love me ever again—”
“You really are something else,” he snorts, grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you against his firm chest. It’s warm. Alhaitham is warm. You never want to be cold ever again. For the first time since you arrived, his composure completely slips. His fingers curl into your shirt as his voice cracks and he pleads, “Don’t go again. I’ll never hate you if you never leave.”
“I’ll never leave if you never hate me,” you sniffle.
“I should have known you’d be stubborn,” he playfully pokes your ribs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Using my own promise against me.”
“I believe it’s because we’re cut from the same cloth or something like that—that’s what they say about soulmates, don’t they?”
“Who knows,” he snorts, “I don’t waste my time reading hopeful fantasies.”
“Yes,” you let out a watery laugh. He wraps his arms around you tighter at the sound. “You took your time reading up to expand your vocabulary, instead. Like a hopeful romantic.”
“You took your sweet time coming to me,” he murmurs, chuckling. “What else could I do with my time?”
You hum. “I suppose I did. And you waited.”
“I would have kept waiting.”
You swallow hard. Then, your hand reaches up, cupping his cheek and making his breath hitch. “You don’t have to wait anymore.”
“Is that so?” he glances at you, amused. Hopeful. Affectionate. There’s love in there, too, in those eyes of his—you see it just as much as you feel it. You don’t know everything there is to know about him yet. You don’t know his pain and his joy and the things he keeps hidden away to keep himself safe. You don’t know what he likes to eat and what he doesn’t. What his favorite genre is to read (though you can guess), and what he hated learning most when he was a student.
But you know you’ll love him. The stars told you so. And you’ll listen—you always do when they show you the truth.
“Are you happy it’s me?” you murmur, gripping his shirt and pulling him closer. His lips hover over yours, and your breath fans across his mouth. He inhales sharply. “Be honest—would you swap soulmates if you could?”
“Never,” he grins, “I could never hand over such a headache to anyone else. It would be unethical.”
“Huh?” you gasp, “where went all your sweet, fancy words? This is not the Alhaitham I came looking for—my letters promised me a very different version.”
“Can you really call yourself my soulmate if you don’t like all versions of me equally?” he hums. And then he leans in, breaking the distance and kissing you. And you wonder, genuinely wonder, how you could have gone so long without ever feeling his lips on yours. Without ever feeling him against you and completing you this way. “I would never exchange you for anything,” he breathes against your lips, “never. Gravity will always pull me to your maddening charm, you see.”
“You must love being insulted then,” you giggle, pecking his lips, “because that is all I’ve done for, hm…let’s see, ninety percent of our interactions.”
“Do you take it all back?” he pouts playfully, shifting you onto his lap, your legs straddling his waist as his hands roam along your hips. He kisses your jaw, and you close your eyes, humming as you pretend to think about it. “I’m sure you do. You’ve probably realized I’m a catch.”
“The lazy, antisocial scholar who has a reputation for being difficult to get along with,” you think out loud, “let me see—hm, no, I don’t see what catch you’re referring to.”
“How shallow,” he accuses, “basing your assessment on rumors.”
“Actually,” you murmur, cupping his cheeks and cradling his face as you admire it (he’s handsome. You’ve never given it proper thought, but Alhaitham is the most handsome man you have met. Another infuriating advantage he has.) “I have the object of these rumors right here—no one will know if they’re true or not better than me.”
“Yes,” he breathes, “no one will know me better than you. If you’ll have me.”
“I would always have you,” you press a soft kiss to his nose, “you know that, don’t you?”
“I do now.”
And then he kisses you again. Harder. Needier. He kisses you like he’s been deprived of all that he’s been searching for in this life. Like he’s been denied his rights to his peace. Like he’s lost every path that leads him home. You kiss him back. Like he is the answer to every prayer you’ve ever whispered. Like he is the last thing you have left to anchor you. Like he is the only thing that’s truly yours in this world.
It’s a blur from there—wandering hands, hiked up shirts, searing touches. His shirt comes off, and then so does yours. His belt is unbuckled, and your waistband is tugged down. Your fingers trace over the hard planes of his abs, and his fingers trace the plush skin of your inner thighs.
“I want you,” he pants, whispering the words between slow, open-mouthed kisses. “Is…is that okay? It doesn’t have to be—we don’t have to—”
“More than okay,” you breathe. In fact, you add soft, pleading, “want you too.”
He groans, reaching to shove your panties aside to press his fingers into your wet cunt. He takes in the view—dark green fabric dampened by your essence and painted even darker. He grins.
“Did you wear this to see me? Knew it was my favorite color?”
You swat at his shoulder, glaring as he chuckles. “No, you lunatic! I wore these for myself because they happened to be the f-first….oh…”
You trail off, gasping as his fingertips brush against a sensitive spot along your walls, curling into you perfectly despite never feeling your body before this. You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders as he studies your face.
“Seems like I found it,” he hums in satisfaction, “that’s where you want me, is it?”
You glare at him in horror. “How lewd! Your mouth looks a lot better when you silence it, you know!”
“Why not help me with that, then,” he hums, “if you’d like to see it that way so badly.”
You do. You silence him with a kiss as much as he drinks in your soft moans while his fingers work their way into you. In and out. In and out. They stretch you open as they curl and scissor their way into you and glide against your warm, wet walls. You like the friction. His fingers are thicker and longer than yours—they reach parts you never thought about reaching. He fits you and completes you in a way that feels intentional. Like there is a reason why he is bound to you as part of what makes you whole.
“H-Haitham,” you pant—he pauses. His fingers still and his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and you almost feel like you should apologize based on his reaction until his fingers slam against you with a faster pace, brushing harder against that spongy spot. With more force. More cause.
“Say that again—fuck, say that again, please,” he hisses.
“Haitham,” you whine, “so…so close.”
“Yeah? Are you?” he groans, “then cum. Cum for me, my beautiful girl.”
You do. You feel the way your walls constrict and tighten around his fingers—almost making them impossible to move, but he thrusts them into you anyway, working you through your orgasm. Your head falls to his shoulder, teeth biting the smooth skin as you mewl at the pleasure that ripples through your body—a leaf disrupting the calm still of of water and sending waves along the surface.
You slump against his chest as he slips his fingers out, panting for a few moments before you shimmy out of your soiled underwear and shift—the wet heat of your cunt grinds against his leaking tip.
“Fuck,” he curses, gritting his jaw.
It takes only a moment of thought before he wraps his arms around you and stands, carrying you to his bedroom and carefully laying you against his bed. You stare up at him, skin flushed with sweat and marks from his lips, and he feels his cock twitch at the sight alone.
“Haitham,” you breathe, wrapping your arms and pulling him down so that your lips barely touch, “fuck me—please.”
He closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath before he rummages through the bottom drawer of his nightstand. You watch with dilated pupils as he slides a condom over the thick girth of his cock, groaning at the friction before wrapping his hand around the base of his length. He guides himself to your entrance, panting roughly as he asks in a low, raspy voice, “Ready?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, “please.”
He pushes the first few inches of his tips past your folds—lets you pull him into a searing kiss as you gasp into his mouth and whine. He’s thick. Thicker than anything you’ve ever taken. You feel the burn of the stretch, and he’s not even fully in you yet.
“S-so big,” you whimper.
“You can tell me to stop,” he says softly, “promise. I’ll still be happy, okay? I’m happy with anything as long as it’s you. You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”
You nod. But your eyes are stubborn when they open, and he lets out an amused, defeated sigh. “I want it, you know.”
“I know you do,” he kisses your pout, “my stubborn girl.”
You angle your hips upwards before he can say anything else, taking the rest of him in with a quick movement as he sinks into your cunt. His breath hitches as you gasp, and then he bites his bottom lip and closes his eyes, letting out a shaky groan. You watch as he pants, breath labored, while he holds himself back and gives you time to adjust.
“You’re so pretty, Haitham,” you whisper, “your face is pretty. Know that?”
“Shouldn’t I be saying that about you?” he lets out a strained chuckle, “that’s what you should be hearing. Not the other way around.”
“Well, you took too long,” you say, flashing him a cheeky grin, “so I did it for you.”
Something flashes in his eyes at that—dark and hungry and insatiable as he lets out an amused chuckle. He grabs your ankle, making you yelp as he tosses it over his shoulder and angles himself to press deeper into you.
“My apologies,” he murmurs, nipping and kissing along your jaw as his hips pull him out almost fully and roll into you with a deep, heavy thrust. You let out a soft cry, eyes fluttering shut as he murmurs, “There we go—that’s a pretty view, isn’t it? I knew I’d be speechless, but this is just unfair, sweet girl…you’re breathtaking, aren’t you?”
“S-stop,” you gasp, turning your face away from him shyly. He laughs—it’s a husky, raspy little thing.
“Shy? What’s there to be shy about, beautiful? S’just me…a-and you, yeah?”
His hips roll with punctuated thrusts, angling the thick curve of his cock into you—hitting that same spot his fingers found so effortlessly. Whoever crafted Alhaitham took their time—they made him perfectly curved and muscled in all the right places. Of course, part of that is his own discipline. You know—very well, you know that abs and biceps like that don’t form overnight because genetics say so. But he was made by careful, slow hands that took their time on him. And those same careful hands took their time on you to make sure every curve and angle of you would fit against him. Would mold around him. Would curl into him so well, you would never know where you start and where he ends.
“You drive me mad, do you know that?” he whispers against your ears, “do you know how wicked a woman you have to be—to enter my life so fast and turn it upside down so quickly? Do you know how powerless you have to make me—to come and go as you please, like you did, and possess me that way?”
“I—”
“I’m not done,” he grunts, slamming his hips down and silencing you with a particularly sharp thrust, “you made me sick. Made me some…some shell of myself. Some version I hardly recognized. You turned me insane—more than any forbidden knowledge could have. Corrupted every part of my brain. You have to take responsibility for that.”
“F-fuck,” is all you say, whining as his thumb finds its way to your clit, rubbing harsh circles while the thick head of his cock bullies its way past your folds, sliding the ridges of his length along your folds. You shake from the friction—thighs quivering as you accommodate his punishing pace.
“You have to take responsibility for…for changing everything as I know it. You think you’re the only one who’s scared of change?”
“I’m not…I’m not scared anymore,” you breathe, “not if it’s you—you…you’re good change.”
“Yeah?” he asks—voice shaky.
“Yeah,” you nod.
He kisses you. You kiss back. Your second orgasm crashes over you harder than the first—only this time, it doesn’t break the serene calm of the water’s surface as it's still. This time, the waves are ones you saw coming—ones that bury you under them and pull you deep into the bottom of their depths.
“Haitham,” you whine—and your back arches off of his bed and meets him halfway as he grinds his hips into you with a sloppy, desperate pace.
“Yeah,” he pants, voice cracking, “y-yeah, I know. I know…I…I f-feel it too.”
You feel his cock twitch, and then there’s a flood of warmth against the thin plastic that separates you from him. He stills for a moment before he lets out a deep, throaty groan, burying his face into your neck and riding out the shockwaves of his own orgasm with sharp thrusts that don’t have proper rhythm. Not anymore. Not when he’s so far gone in his own pleasure as it burns through every nerve of his body.
He slumps next to you on the bed—not before he wraps a strong arm around you and pulls you flush against his sweaty chest. Alhaitham is warm. Even when you’re warm, too, you still want to feel his warmth. You don’t mind the burning heat. Not when it’s him.
“Did you mean it?” he whispers.
“Mean what?”
“That I’m good change?”
You look up. Light breaks over your face as you smile at him and trace your finger over his chest. “Yeah. You are.”
“You are too,” he says softly, lips curling into a delicate smile. “You’re everything good for me.”
“Does this mean the letters will stop?” you pout, “no letter tomorrow now that I’m here?”
He chuckles. Looks at you with a look you can’t remember the last time you’ve seen before—maybe it was when your father could still look at your mother. Maybe you’d last seen such a look on his face, all those years ago.
“Do you want them to stop?”
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head as you nuzzle closer, “I don’t.”
“Then they won’t stop,” he says, kissing your head. “Promise.”
────────────────────────
Just like he promised, Alhaitham never stops writing you letters. Even when your house is no longer registered under your name and you have no address anymore, he still writes you his letters.
“You sold your house,” he says quietly. “I saw the papers in the files.”
You pause your fingers from their adventures along his chest. It’s funny to think that some time ago—just a few months prior, even—you’d have stiffened at the words. You would tense at the fact that he knows anything about you and pull away from him. You would tell yourself that you have to pull yourself out of this bubble that surrounds you and throw yourself back into the real world.
But you know now that Alhaitham is the real world. He is under the same sky as you and watches the same stars. You point to a constellation and he looks. He learns it. He remembers it, too. He is part of your world.
“I did,” you murmur back. “I just…can’t keep going back there anymore. It’s not the same.”
“Where will you go? You haven’t bought another house yet,” he raises a brow. You roll your eyes—he thinks you didn’t think this through. You roll them out of slight amusement, though. Not bitter anymore like it once was.
“I’ll find one. I don’t have to move out for another two weeks.”
“That’s highly unprepared. Not a good calculated risk,” he clicks his teeth. This time, you give him a flat look.
If you are aphelion, Alhaitham is perihelion—opposite ends of the same path, always at different ends, yet always tied together by the same sun in the same sky. You are bound to him by the same, never-ending orbit. And he has sworn this to you, thoughtfully written in the letters you keep carefully hidden away in your drawer. For you.
“I’ll be fine,” you huff. “Mora isn’t exactly an issue. Say what you will about my father, but he left me a generous sum.”
He hums, staring ahead in thought. And then, “You know…you can always live here.”
You pause. “Here?” you ask cautiously, “you mean with you?”
He swallows for a moment and looks down. “Yes,” he says quietly. “With…with me. If you want, that is.”
“Your only other room is taken,” you snort, “by your roommate. And I’m not going to evict poor Kaveh—unlike me, he can’t afford a move.”
“This room is just fine,” he says boldly. Still, you can almost hear the way he’s a little hesitant. Scared, maybe. Still clinging to his pride as he delivers it with a shrug. “The windows are big. The mattress isn’t uncomfortable, either—you’d know. The bathroom has two sinks, too.”
“How convenient,” you nod slowly.
“Very.”
“Okay,” you whisper. You pause. He stills, but he doesn’t stiffen. You breathe in and then out slowly for a moment before you say it again, louder this time. “Okay.”
Alhaitham’s eyes brighten at that—but then again, they are always bright. His irises are the sky, and every little streak of color that paints them is vibrant enough that you might mistake them for the stars. You might even wish on them, beg them to tell you secrets and show you the way, and lead you down a path that always takes you to him.
And he’ll always be there. The sun might come out and the stars may disappear from your line of sight, but the stars will always be there. And they’ll always come back. There’s never been a night when they haven’t—not once, not in any chart the Akademiya has ever kept.
He smiles at your answer. It’s barely-there and it goes as quick as it comes, like a shooting star that passes by. But it came, and you have seen it in its fleeting glory.
