── ･ ｡ﾟ★: getting a little high with you
ʚɞ honkai: star rail
ʚɞ pairing: anaxagoras x female!reader
ʚɞ alternative universe / au: modern + university
ʚɞ warnings: this work contains references to drug use, including smoking weed and the sensation of being high. it also includes mentions of sex, mutual denial of feelings, and scenes of intense make-out sessions driven by hostility. while it is not a fully explicit smut fanfiction, some moments may be suggestive. characters may act slightly out of character + academic rivalry / rivals-with-benefits dynamic. ʚɞ notes from the author: this fanfiction was heavily inspired by a character.ai bot, and i decided to turn that inspiration into a story out of pure boredom. i do NOT use drugs or smoke weed, so if there are any inaccuracies in how these elements are portrayed, please feel free to let me know so i can improve it. i do not personally know what being high feels like, but i did minimal research for the sake of writing this piece. again, if anything seems unrealistic, i welcome constructive feedback. this is not a full smut story, so minors may still read it, though it does include references to drug use, so reader discretion is advised (and please, do not do drugs). this is a one-shot story only. lastly, i will be keeping anaxa with one eye and his eyepatch simply because i prefer it that way. with that said, i hope you enjoy the story.
❝you got me so turnt up this dude gotta be so high weed always on my mind now he always on my mind❞
♬⋆.˚ so high, doja cat!
⋆.𐙚 ̊
anaxagoras.
the man with one eye and a so-called “cool” eyepatch. the man who gets on your nerves without even doing any actual shit in class. the man who walks around like he’s better than everyone else—and yes, that very much includes you, no exceptions.
anaxagoras...
it’s a strange name, really. it always has been strange and yet it’s the one name you can’t stand hearing, especially when it leaves your own mouth. you spit it out during debates, sharp and venomous, every time the two of you clash over some random lesson. but your tone doesn’t make him hate you any less—if anything, it fuels him. the hatred between you two is mutual, intense, almost ridiculous in its consistency.
and neither of you even knows where it started. maybe it’s because you two are always neck and neck at the top of the class or maybe it’s because you two simply can’t fucking tolerate each other.
you could sit down with a notebook and draft a detailed list of reasons why you despise him: he’s annoying, insufferable, smart as fuck, always armed with a comeback whenever your banter spirals into some philosophical bullshit and the list wouldn’t end. it would just keep going.
you hate him.
“hate” feels too small for it, honestly. the feeling runs through you from head to toe, fills your chest in the most infuriating way possible. you hate the way he walks into class like he owns the entire university. you hate the sound of his voice whether he’s addressing you or anyone else. you hate how his single eye finds you first thing every morning, locking onto you with the same sharp disdain you mirror back at him.
you fucking hate it.
and yes again, the feeling is mutual. he hates you just as fiercely. and somehow that makes it worse—because it’s irritating, because it’s constant, because it doesn’t make any sense. you can’t even pinpoint when it began. maybe it was one of those days he outperformed you, and you retaliated by overtaking him the next. maybe it became a silent competition, revenge disguised as academic excellence.
before him, you never truly cared about being at the top. most people in your university never bothered anyway—too lazy, too distracted, too busy getting drunk and partying to give a damn about rankings or they're just dumb as fuck, so you never really studied obsessively. an hour here and there was enough. you're smart and you know that. you didn’t even need to bury yourself in textbooks to prove it.
and then he showed up in your life.
suddenly you found yourself studying for hours, not out of passion, but out of spite. just to see his name fall beneath yours on the rankings. just to catch the flicker in his eye when you smirked at him across the room. and like clockwork, he’d snap back with some cutting insult, sharp as a slap to the face.
and yet—despite all that hatred, all that tension thick enough to choke on—there are moments when it fractures, moments fueled by frustration and something dangerously close to need, moments that end with you in his dorm.
his dorm.
you never imagined yourself kissing anaxa, straddling his lap, pushing him back onto his mattress while anger burns hot between you. you never really imagined your rivalry unraveling into something physical, reckless, charged with all the things neither of you is willing to admit out loud—sex.
you never imagined yourself storming up to his room, shoving the door open without bothering to knock, and demanding sex from him simply because he pissed you off all day and you needed somewhere to throw that frustration.
of all people, it had to be him.
anaxafuckinggoras.
the one man who claims he hates you just as much as you hate him—and yet never once pushes you away. he could throw you out whenever he wants, he could shut the door in your face and be done with it. but whenever it comes to you, he gives in.
...every single time.
it’s like there’s some invisible thread binding him to you, tugging him closer despite the venom in his words that he hates you so fucking much.
neither of you can even remember how many times you’ve hooked up with each other in the dorm and you don’t label it anything. both of you refuse to and it’s easier that way. you tell both of yourselves it’s just a way to vent, to burn off the tension that builds in lecture halls and debate rooms. that you two aren’t lovers, that you two aren’t even friends. calling yourselves friends would be a joke when you can barely stand each other inside the university walls.
you just use him to blow off steam in his dorm, fuck him senselessly to let those frustration out and he'd use you the same way you do to him.
nothing more than two people fucking out their frustrations in secret, making damn sure no one ever finds out.
fuckbuddies, if that's what people call it.
but sex isn’t the only reason you end up in his room, sometimes it’s the weed he keeps stashed away like a carefully guarded secret. you go there, sit too close to him, and get high together.
it was strange at first, you can't lie. you never really pegged anaxa as the type to smoke because in your head, he was rigid, disciplined, annoyingly academic—the kind of uptight nerd you couldn’t tolerate for more than five minutes.
so when you saw him that random tuesday night behind the school building, leaning against the wall and smoking like he didn’t have a care in the world, you thought you were hallucinating. the top student? the smartass? high as hell and uncharacteristically quiet. he didn’t say anything sharp or clever when he saw you, though—probably because he was high at that time—and just held the joint out toward you, offering without pressuring you about it, like he was inviting you into something unspoken.
you’d never smoked before, never even considered it. and yet you didn’t want him to look at you like you were prudish or rigid either—not because you needed to impress him, but because you refused to let him think he had you figured out.
the first drag you took was the beginning of everything. and after that, it became routine. you barge into his room, demand weed like you had any right to it.
you hate him for that, too. but deep down, you know it isn’t entirely his fault because you’re the one who keeps coming back to his room.
you’re not an addict, though. you tell yourself that often enough. maybe once or twice a week, that’s it. you could easily get high on your own and somehow, of all people, it always has to be with him. you're not why anaxa, but there’s something dangerously addictive about doing it with him.
like right now.
you’re sprawled across his bed, back pressed into the mattress, limbs loose and heavy. your gaze drifts across the ceiling, unfocused, mind still buzzing faintly from the rough sex you had with him earlier. his room is dim—lit only by the tired yellow glow of his nightstand and the weak orange flicker of a scented candle the two of you lit in a pathetic attempt to mask the smell.
it isn’t working, though.
you both know the risk and you also know you’d probably have been caught by now if the professors at this shitty university actually cared, but they don’t. everyone here is a grown adult, for fuck’s sake. no one’s hovering over you, reminding you what’s right or wrong. if you’re screwing up, you’re doing it knowingly.
and honestly, you don’t care.
smoking weed somehow calms you down.
anaxa’s room is quiet except for the steady rhythm of your breathing and the soft sound of him exhaling smoke into the air.
greedy little shit, you thought.
you realize he’s taken at least five drags without passing the joint to you, and your irritation slowly pushes through the haze. you turn your head toward him, vision slightly blurred, thoughts slower than usual.
“you’ve been smoking,” you mutter, breaking the silence as his lone eye shifts toward you.
he doesn’t answer immediately. he just looks at you with that familiar glare—the one that always feels like a challenge. then he takes another drag.
“no shit, sherlock,” he snaps, smoke curling from his nostrils.
god, you hate him.
“save some, will you?” your voice comes out edged with irritation, though laziness softens it.
his eye flicks down to the joint between his fingers and sighs. he taps the ash into the tray with slow precision, then extends his hand toward you without adding an insult for once.
you let out a quiet huff as you lazily lift your arm, fingers brushing against his when you take it from him. the contact is brief, but it lingers longer than it should.
you bring the joint to your lips and inhale slowly, deeply, letting the smoke fill your lungs. you savor it, holding it there for a second before pulling away and releasing the smoke toward the ceiling. it rises in a lazy spiral, dissolving into the dim light.
without looking at him, you pass it back to anaxa.
him, meanwhile, didn't say anything while you smoke. he just watches you, quiet and unreadable, before taking the joint back from your fingers without a word.
a brief silence stretches between you, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. eventually, you’re the one who breaks it, high and unfiltered.
“you’re oddly quiet today.”
“…i’m high,” he replies simply.
you scoff. “you’re always high.”
“so are you.”
“fuck you, anaxa.”
“you just did,” he says, deadpan.
you narrow your eyes at him. “i hate you.”
“the feeling is mutual,” he answers flatly before taking another drag, exhaling this time through his mouth.
and you just stare at him.
god, you really do hate this man. deeply. sincerely. and yet you can’t explain why he’s always the first person you think of whenever you want something—whether it’s to argue, to smoke, or to forget yourself for a while. it’s like your mind automatically conjures his face, as if reminding you that it has to be him and no one else.
you hate that most of all.
you’re supposed to despise him, you’re supposed to avoid him and yet here you are in his room again, wearing his stupid hoodie like it belongs to you. it hangs loosely on your frame, absurdly comfortable, smelling faintly like him and smoke.
you would rather die than admit his hoodie is comfortable to wear, though. even if you're high off your ass, some lines refuse to be crossed.
you look away from him, returning your gaze to the ceiling. “i truly hate you, anaxa,” you murmur, quieter this time, but loud enough for him to hear.
“i know, [name],” he says lazily, and you hear him exhale another stream of smoke into the dim room.
he’s different when he’s high: quieter, no sharp insults, no cutting remarks thrown at your face. just this subdued, almost detached version of himself.
you, on the other hand, are the complete opposite. the filter disappears and you get talkative, almost restless, repeating your hatred like a confession you can’t stop making—because when you’re alone with him, the truth always rises to the surface.
not that it’s anything new.
you tell him you hate him when you’re sober, too.
you frown at the heavy silence and slowly push yourself upright on his bed, turning fully toward him. and there he is in a sitting position in his bed, back press against the headboard, back resting lazily, two fingers holding the joint with careless precision. his visible eye is half-lidded, unfocused in that familiar way. the other remains hidden beneath his eyepatch—a subject you’ve never questioned even if you're high. you’ve always assumed it was some old accident, something that happened years ago that you obviously don't know but you never asked.
he notices you staring and sends you a lazy glare. “what.”
“you’re high.”
“i just told you that,” he replies bluntly, flicking the ash into the tray once again. “don’t act like you aren’t either.”
“and you’re annoying when you’re high,” you shoot back, matching his glare.
“says the one who can’t shut the fuck up.”
“fuck you.”
...another silence falls again.
he blinks slowly, then brings the joint to his lips for another drag. you raise an eyebrow when he leans closer than necessary and before you can react, he exhales the smoke directly into your face.
you cough lightly, waving it away. “you did that on purpose.”
he smirks. “why else would i lean in?”
“you just wanted to kiss me but you’re too stubborn to do it.”
he blinks, then lets out a quiet snort, like you’ve just told the funniest joke he’s heard all week. “you’re fucking delusional.”
“we just fucked.”
he stares at you, unimpressed. “so? it’s nothing.”
right. like he wasn’t beneath you earlier, gripping your waist, moaning your name like it mattered. like he wasn’t the one urging and demanding you to move your pretty hand faster.
“whatever,” you mutter, turning your head away.
he studies you for a moment before handing the joint back. you glance at it, click your tongue, and take it from his fingers.
another thing you hate about anaxa is his stupid long hands and fingers. like, you hate how elegant his hands look—long, slim fingers that move with frustrating precision. it’s ridiculous that those are the same fingers have traced over your skin more than five times already, have memorized you in ways neither of you will ever admit, have touched you inside.
huh... no wonder it felt good—
you cut the thought off immediately.
you take a long drag, holding it in as if you can smoke the memory out of your system. your body tenses without meaning to.
anaxa notices, of course he does. he’s learned the language of your body over the past month—learned it well, a little too well actually.
his one visible eye sharpens slightly as you exhale. and before you even exhale the smoke out, he leans forward and crashes his mouth against yours.
nothing about it is surprising, though. both of you kissed each other countless times already—usually in the middle of fucking both your frustrations out. yet still, it makes your eyes widen just a little, because he never does anything without intent, and this feels impulsive.
you hesitate for half a second, briefly so, before giving in. you kiss him back the way you always do—like it’s a fight, like it’s fueled by resentment and something dangerously close to contempt and he doesn’t seem to mind. if anything, he responds immediately, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers pressing just enough to tilt your head and deepen the kiss.
you already know where this is heading.
and without breaking away from the kiss, you reach to place the joint in the ashtray and forget about it instantly. smoke lingers between you, slipping from your lips in faint exhales as your mouths move together with him.
after a few kisses, you pull back just enough to breathe. “i hate you, anaxa.”
“i know, [name].”
you click your tongue and crash into his lips again. he answers without hesitation as your hand drifts from his abdomen to his chest, then up to his neck. you shift closer, pressing him firmly against the headboard. he lets out a quiet breath against your mouth, teeth grazing your lower lip in a silent question.
and of course, you part your lips in response.
the kiss deepens, tongues sliding together in slow, heated strokes that feel less like affection and more like a challenge.
the kiss slowly turns messy—slower, lazier, maybe because you’re both high, maybe because neither of you feels the need to rush. and yet there’s still aggression in it, like you’re trying to overpower each other in the most intimate way possible.
he pulls back just enough to look at you. “you’re insufferable.”
“so are you.”
and then you kissing again, just as sloppy, just as heated. the insults linger between you like proof—proof that this is nothing more than rivalry, nothing more than pent-up hatred dressed up as desire.
at least, that’s what you both keep telling yourselves.
you feel his free hand slipping beneath the hem of the hoodie—his hoodie—fingers sliding under the fabric and settling against your bare skin. the warmth of his palm against your waist makes you shiver despite yourself. his touch is slow, deliberate, fingertips tracing your side as if he has all the time in the world.
you pull away from his mouth only to move lower, pressing your lips to his neck instead. you don’t miss the quiet hum that escapes from his mouth, or the way his visible eye falls shut as he tilts his head back, granting you easier access. your kisses grow slower, messier, trailing across his skin in a way you’d both swear means nothing.
he’s sensitive there and you know that, both of you know that.
you hate that you know it.
you hate it even more that you enjoy the way his breath becomes ragged.
his grip on your waist tightens when you lower yourself slightly, your mouth working along his neck with lazy intention. eventually, you tug at the collar of his shirt, pulling it down just enough to expose more skin as you start pressing open-mouthed kisses there, teeth grazing lightly before you suck at a spot that makes his breath hitch.
he shifts beneath you.
“don’t you fucking dare leave marks where people can see,” he warns, fingers pressing harder into your waist that it may leave red mark.
“i won’t,” you murmur against his skin—only to test his patience by lingering longer than necessary.
his breathing turns uneven, rougher than before.
then his other hand tangles in your hair and pulls your head back roughly. a small, unwilling sound slips from you as he forces you to meet his glare.
“fucking brat.”
you smirk at him. “you love it.”
he does, he just wouldn’t admit it if it killed him.
his eye narrows before he leans forward, turning the tables without hesitation. his mouth finds your neck, returning the favor with slow, deliberate kisses that are far from gentle. it feels like retaliation—like he refuses to let you have the upper hand for too long.
you both know how this works.
the night is far from over. and if it ends with another round of sex, neither of you will call it anything more than what you always do—nothing, but fuckbuddies.
⋆.𐙚 ̊