[kurokale]

𝙇𝘼𝙏𝙀 𝙉𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏𝙎 𝙄𝙉 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙈𝙄𝘿𝘿𝙇𝙀 𝙊𝙁 𝙅𝙐𝙉𝙀.

【 my tbr account where i rb fics i want to read and properly reblog with my thoughts for safekeeping, no need to follow !! also where i tend to draft layouts for future fics :3 】

"if we give our best in something we love, we'll enjoy the victories from the bottom of our hearts."

my main / writing acc: @xiaovrs, @xiaoale

[shokoiism]

09:52 🪽

— foreword: first drabble, mini oneshot, idk what to call it. came to me while i was watching spain v. belgium. inspired by last night's match between france and morocco, as one of the french players who scored has a moroccon wife. i wrote this in a hurry while matching the match, so not proofread! footballer!lohen x f!reader, wc. 1.7k — read on ao3

“baby, i said i’m sorry!”

“sorry means nothing to me, lohen. you’re sleeping on the fucking sofa tonight! and don’t even think about sneaking into the bedroom during the night.”

lohen threw himself at your feet, hands bunching into your skirt, gazing up at you with the most intense eyes. his reddened lips were curled into a small pout, pairing perfectly with the puppy eyes. his hair was wet, with drops sliding down his neck, and his clothes were still the sweatsuit he’d thrown on in the dressing room. “bunny, you can’t be serious.”

quirking an eyebrow at his bold statement, lohen knew he’d only made things worse for himself when you glared down at him with that expression full of sheer annoyance. usually he’d be oh-so-pleased to be on the receiving end of such a fierce look, always relishing in working your nerves a little, but for tonight he knew that this very look would not end in a fun night for him. but really, he would argue, this wasn’t his fault.

“oh, i am so very seriously, lohen. why would you even do it? and twice?” you questioned incredulously, trying your damn hardest to kick the grown man off you, but alas. his grip was too strong, and unless you wanted to give him the sheer pleasure of somehow undressing you, which you very much would rather not, you knew you’d have to stop moving.

the night was coming on strong, and the dark sky was all one could see from the windows in your sky-high apartment. the whole building seemed sleepy, most windows equally dark and seemingly having called it a night already, but not you two. oh, no. you had some issues to settle, especially regarding lohen’s most recent behaviour. of course, you were absolutely a supportive girlfriend, and you wanted the absolute best for your boyfriend, but his behaviour tonight had just been so appallingly overkill.

leaning down and sliding your hands below lohen’s forearms, you managed to prompt him to stand up. the smile on his face convinced you that he thought you’d somehow changed your mind about your annoyance. and really, that was typical lohen behaviour. you could quite literally tell him to fuck off, but once he’d convinced himself that everything was fine between you, then he would wholeheartedly behave as if you were fine once again. as he pushed himself to his full height, a bit taller than you, he had that indistinguishable smirk playing on his face. he was obviously convinced that you’d changed your mind.

what an idiot.

letting your hands curl into the front of his t-shirt, you balled his shirt up tightly and pulled him close. “answer me.”

“answer you about what, bunny? how many rounds we’re doing tonight?” he leered ever so happily, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as his crimson eyes trailed over your body shamelessly. “i’m thinking until my legs give out.”

at this point, it was second nature to you. so your hand instinctively reached up to connect with the back of his head, pretending he didn’t groan in pleasure at the delicious pain from your smack to his head. his crimson eyes were already glazing over with something dangerous, something hungry. and you weren’t even surprised anymore. lohen’s insatiability only grew after a match, which had been surprising to you when you first started dating. one would think that after a long and arduous football match, he would want to come home and sink into the soft mattress. that he would want to let his limbs relax entirely and let the adrenaline flow out so his exhaustion could settle in and lure him into a peaceful and serene sleep.

“why would you purposefully foul xiao twice?” your eyes had widened in sheer rage.

lohen’s brain seemed to take a moment to process what you were saying, but once it had settled, he didn’t hesitate to groan loudly and let his head fall backward. “ugh, bunny, don’t even say that emo’s name in front of me.”

“answer me.”

“well, what was i supposed to do?” lohen exclaimed dramatically, managing to step back your grip as he threw his limbs around in an attempt to explain. “he kept getting in my way when i had a perfect opportunity to score, and then he kept tryin’ to score himself! and i’m so sorry, like so sorry, baby, you know i love you so dearly. but i’m not letting that emo outscore me.”

your eyebrows shot up in exasperation. “you could’ve just, i don’t know, pushed him a little. you did not, and i repeat, did not need to fucking tackle him and get a yellow card, lohen. and you really didn’t need to swipe his legs out from under him when he didn’t have the ball.”

“he was annoying me.”

“you’re fucking annoying me!”

“awh, bunny, bun-bun, don’t be like that. i won!” lohen tried his hardest to appease you, approaching you carefully like a predator would his prey, hands outstretched and already reaching for you. “i just wanted to win for you. the teyvat cup is only every four years; i want to get you that trophy.”

you couldn’t help but scoff at his words, ignoring his faux expression of hurt at your reaction and simultaneously ignoring his dramatic behavior. “do you think i’m dumb?” you asked him, then cut him off before he could begin his usual sugarcoating when attempting to lie his way out of a situation. “of course you want the trophy; i want you to win it, too! but you didn’t need to slide tackle xiao and tartaglia, when they don’t have the ball. you just don’t like that we’re friends.”

“…”

“what? cat got your tongue?”

dating a football player was definitely one of the most unique experiences one could have, you would argue. especially when your boyfriend just so happened to play for a different nation than the one you hailed from, because you’d somehow managed to find yourself a mondstadt man despite being from liyue yourself. it started off rather simple, really. he came into a small retail store you worked in when he was still in the academy and you were attending the local college. a customer relationship became a friendship and then later became a relationship. lohen would go on to be scouted for a smaller team in liyue, where he would play on the same team as your childhood friends, who had also pursued football as they’d also been scouted from a young age. however, lohen’s dream club would go on to make an offer for him, and of course he’d agree.

but it so happened that your childhood friends were also scouted by the same club, creating one of the absolute most dangerous offensive lineups known in football. teyvat had never seen offensive players like lohen, xiao, tartaglia, and kinich as the fantastic four. kinich was a genius on the pitch, constantly finding new and creative ways to get that ball to lohen, who would score nearly every ball he was fed. xiao and tartaglia worked actively on the sides, feeding the ball to kinich, who’d control the flow or pass it to lohen for a powerful finish. but with incredible statistics for goals scored all that year, let alone assists, they were far too powerful.

but whenever the teyvat cup came around or the nations’ league came around, those four players would be split. tartaglia and xiao would return to play for your homeland of liyue, lohen would be the most central figure on the mondstadt team, and kinich would return to natlan to lead that team. known as individualists, they were every bit as magnificent whenever they returned to play for their respective nations.

that also meant that whereas lohen was essentially forced to cooperate with xiao and tartaglia on a daily basis due to them being club mates and the most elite offensive in any club, he got to play against them during these tournaments. an event that would usually breed a ton of competitiveness amongst the four, entirely too many unnecessary tackles, and an abundance of yellow cards. today being a prime example when lohen decided to perform numerous unnecessary fouls, especially on xiao, and then eliminating the team by scoring two goals against their one.

“exactly. now sleep on the goddamn sofa.”

“so you’re not mad that i fucking eliminated your homeland from the tournament, but you’re mad that i tackled the emo and the maniac?” lohen burst out in absolute disbelief, throwing his arms to the side as he motioned towards your jersey, which had lohen’s name and number.

you rolled your eyes at his behaviour. “of course i’m not happy that liyue’s out, but you’re my boyfriend. i’m happy you scored twice and got man of the match, all that. i just wish you wouldn’t go slide tackling your own club mates and best friends?”

lohen gasped drastically loud, making sure to cover his mouth. “don’t ever call them that, bun. they’re not anything to me.”

“…you literally have breakfast plans tomorrow, babe. stop acting like y’all don’t have matching tattoos.” you smacked the back of his head as you strutted past him, headed into your bedroom.

behind you, lohen’s rush in turning off all the lights was as loud as ever, his figure rushing into the bedroom with you before you could even try to close the door. “liar, liar, liar! they got it after me; they’re copying me, baby. hey, why are you closing the door? i wanna shower with you; let me in.” his hands banged against the closed bathroom door, relishing in the sight of your jersey sliding off your body so effortlessly just before you’d slammed the door and locked it. “your boyfriend just secured his team a place in the final, and you won’t even let him shower with his gorgeous, divine, stunning, sexy, beautiful, and angelic girlfriend? wow, wooooow.”

“shut up and get in.”

the lock clicked once more, and lohen wasted no time in throwing open the door and rushing in, dropping his clothes at record speed as a predatory smirk crawled into his face.

needless to say, he did indeed not sleep on the sofa. in fact, neither of you got any sleep until the early morning hours.

r speaks: heavily inspired by the french offensive in the current world cup, but teyvat edition. lohen is mbappé, kinich is olisé, xiao is dembélé, and tartaglia is barcola/doué.

[kitorin]

duty and love.

in which, you're stuck between your daughter and husband's argument, and the only bridge between your daughter's emotions and lohen's paranoia is you.

contents. lohen x gn!reader, dad!lohen, bad parenting (possibly physical abuse? like forced training), angst, happy ending, lohen story quest spoilers, descriptions/mentions of child trafficking/kidnapping + abuse, trauma, reader hinted to have neglectful/abusive parents, lohen kind of immature, daughter is unnamed (you can name her however you want !!), no beta i lowkey pulled whatever out my arse

Your daughter and husband refuse to talk to each other.

Only you received greetings whenever Lohen left or arrived home; your daughter went as far as avoiding the front door like the plague. Dinner times were draped in thick silence with Lohen's gaze fixated on his daughter, while hers avoided his at all costs. Cutlery spoke more than they did.

Today, she finally felt like talking again, just not to him. "How was your day?" She said to you, with stew on her face.

You wiped it off with a serviette, relieved she was comfortable enough to speak again. "It was nice. What about you, darling?"

She mumbled her gratitude before excitement gushed out her words. "I went to Millhaven! They have so many pretty flowers. I made a flower crown, can I show you after dinner?"

"Of course!" You beamed back, enamoured by her wonder. "I'd love to see it."

She resumed lapping up her stew, bringing the bowl to her mouth.

"Millhaven?" Lohen asked, the first time he uttered a word at dinner for a while. "You were in Millhaven?"

Something was off about his tone.

Your daughter was undeterred by this, or simply did not care. "Yeah? So what."

Lohen scoffed, tossing his spoon on the table. "Who were you with?"

"By myself."

"And you didn't think to tell either of us?"

Now, your daughter was alarmed, her eyes were wide with fear, and she clenched onto her spoon. "'m a big girl now."

"You're six. And why are you being so calm?" He snapped at you, standing up and toppling his chair over, the hands trembling from the sheer force. "God, this is so—"

Your daughter did the same, pushing off her chair to run to you. "Stop being mean."

Lohen retaliated before you could intervene. "First you slack off on training and now you run off wherever. What a daughter you are."

With a final scoff, he walked away, ignoring the chair on the floor and his unfinished dinner.

The venomous words left her crying, and she bolted away to her room.

Your heart sank, as you cleaned up the mess and worried endlessly about her, and their relationship.

It all started a few days ago, a few weeks after your daughter's sixth birthday.

Lohen had immediately organised a training plan for her, an immaculate system for learning combat skills. It was toned down for her age, yet accounted for pretty much every possible survival scenario.

But of course, no kid wants to train martial arts, maybe learn a little bit, try out a move or two, but it's not fun when the Vice Captain of the Fifth Company himself aims to make you invincible. It only took a few days for her to argue back, and never attend his training again, with you as her approval.

As you gave her time to calm down, you picked out some apples from the fruit basket, the ripest ones, before cutting them up.

Her door creaked open, with the apple slices in your hand as an offering. "Are you alright...?"

She was curled up in bed, cuddling a bunny plushie, one that Lohen himself won at a Windblume event. Her whimpering bled through despite burying her face, until she peeled it away to look at you.

Her eyes were throbbing with pink, the tip of her nose matching. She pounced on the apple slices after you offered them, munching away contently.

You sat there waiting, giving her reign of the conversation.

After downing an apple, she mumbled while chewing. "Why is daddy being so mean to me? Training isn't even fun. Everything hurts and playing dolls with him is better."

You sighed, wiping away a trickle of juice from the corner of her mouth. "Dunno. 'll figure it out for you soon, okay?"

She clung onto your shirt, snuggling closer. "You need to fix him. I miss when he was nice to me."

"I will. I promise." You fingers ran through her hair and drifted downwards to stroke her back. "I'll sort this out f'you, alright? You can take all the time you need before you talk to him again."

You left the apples on her bedside table, before checking up on her one last time, and heading for your shared bedroom with Lohen.

(There was an inkling as to why Lohen was behaving this way. You let it wait at the back of your mind before jumping to conclusions.)

The door pushed open, and you didn't bother knocking. Much like your daughter, Lohen was in bed too, only sprawled out like a starfish.

No words were exchanged, as you walked to the bed and sat on your side. He shuffled over, before rolling on his side, away from you.

"What's going on with you? First training and now this."

Lohen didn't respond.

"You can't force her to do things she doesn't want to do. You out of all people know that."

His childhood was composed of demands and expectations, without a sliver of freedom. Commands to pray every morning and a life long order to inherit a family business he did not care for. Lohen hated being controlled, and any attempts to do so.

He still didn't respond, grunting half heartedly.

You didn't want to resort to this. Though it was true, it was far too personal of a truth to weaponise.

Nausea bubbled in your stomach, and you knew the aftermath of your words wouldn't be pretty. "You're acting just like your parents."

It hit him hard. Lohen shot up straight and turned to you, hollow eyes livid, hurt, and scared, all at once.

"That's different—you know that's different."

"Lohen. It's not. You can't contr—"

"Fucking hell, what else do you want me to do? You want your own kid to be defenceless?"

You flinched. He's never raised his voice this much. Regret, fear, inadequacy harrassed you all at once, leaving you unable to find anything right to say.

Off the bed you went, until his hand clasped over your wrist, pulling you back in.

"Fuck–'m sorry. I didn't, I didn't mean to. Something's wrong with me, I–I can't." The angry man from before was nowhere to be seen. Lohen whimpered, apologies deteriorating into incoherency. "L–listen, you have to listen to me—"

Worried and willing, you climbed back into bed, holding him close as he explained his side of the story.

"She needs this, okay? She'll appreciate it in the future. Y–you will too—help me convince her, 'll make the training a bit easier for her, then I can make it harder over time."

Emotion, and every irrational part of you wanted to agree, hug him even tighter and comfort him until he was back to normal again. But you knew you couldn't do that. Not for the sake of your daughter. "Lohen. I can't do that. You need to accept that she doesn't want to learn how to fight."

Silence seized your bedroom, and under your palms you could feel Lohen tremble, ever so slightly. Your heart beat wildly, stressed at his current state.

"Peroneal nerve."

"Pardon...?"

He didn't cry, but his eyes tethered on tears, frantically blinking. "It paralyses the limb. The Fatui, they liked pressing onto it and watching us freak out. A–and threatened to cut out our vocal cords so we'd stop crying."

Your mouth went dry. You knew about his past and the experiments, but he's never explained it in this depth.

Lohen choked on memory and sorrow. "I don't want our baby to go through that. I survived it once, I can't do it again. And what if something like that does happen? 'm nowhere near as competent as Adorno."

You gulped, rubbing his back as he caught his breath. "It's okay now, everything's okay. She's safe. No one's coming after her." You waited, the muffled clock in the living room ticking away.

His heartbeat began to calm down, thumping gently against his chest. You murmured. "I want her to be safe too, but I want her to be happy too."

"Is she mad at me...?" He whispered.

"Not exactly. She just misses how you were before. And wants you to be nice again."

He ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm the worst..."

"You will be. If you don't apologise."

Lohen grasped the roots of his hair. "I know—I know I'm acting like my parents but this is for her sake."

"I'm pretty sure they thought the same." You stared at the roof instead of him. "Different type of safety. They probably wanted you to inherit the family business for your stability. And because it's been instilled into them to pass it on."

Lohen groaned, unable to argue.

"I still think your parents love you a lot. They just weren't good at being parents."

It's a common phenomenon. A parent loving their child comes as naturally as breathing. But parenthood took more than love, it demanded immense amounts of empathy, maturity and intelligence. It wasn't something emotion only could compensate for.

Love alone could exist, it couldn't be felt without understanding and care.

It was a grand question that floated around in your head before you started a family together. You heard of parents that adored their children, who couldn't reciprocate, both from friends and personal experience. There was a looming fear of hurting your child, whilst making them grow up in a house that didn't believe in tears or refusal.

Lohen finally spoke again. "Who knows. Don't care. I want to make sure she feels loved though. I'll apologise. And I won't make her train."

Relief hugged you, warm and tight. "That's good. Wanna go now?"

He nodded, though he still seemed lost. "How do parents even apologise? Mine never did." He mumbled, as you walked through the kitchen to your daughter's room.

You shrugged. "Treat it like a normal apology."

With a deep breath, you knocked on the door.

"Can we come in? Daddy wants to speak to you."

You waited patiently, until it creaked open. With an arm wrapped around her bunny, your daughter peaked through it.

"Do you want to talk now? Or later?"

She shook her head. "Now please." You stepped out the way of Lohen.

He gulped. "I'm really sorry. I won't make you train anymore. Never. Let's go back to normal. I want to."

She beamed. "Really?" She turned to you, as if she needed someone else to confirm the truth.

You nodded. "Daddy just got scared you wouldn't be able to fight off any bad guys if you met them. That's why he wanted you to be strong as soon as possible."

Your daughter blinked. "But why would I need that?"

You glanced at Lohen, who took a deep breath to compose himself. Before he could explain why, your daughter piped up.

"Daddy's strong, he can do it for me! He'll always protect me, right? Even boars don't scare him."

Lohen didn't move. His eyes widened, and you swear he stopped breathing.

"Right?" She clinged on his legs and looked up at him. "You'll protect me forever!"

"O–Of course." She held up her arms to get carried, squealing as Lohen picked her up. "Always."

It's been a while since you've seen her this happy.

She pressed a loud kiss on his cheek and squeezed her bunny. "I love you!"

Lohen held her tighter. "I love you too. Do you wanna go to the cake store? It'll be my treat."

"Even though it's night time?"

Right. Going out late was rare in your household. Even when you were all together, Lohen was constantly stressed and on watch. He refused to admit it, but you knew better.

But he nodded. "Even though it's night time. Go put your shoes on."

He placed her down and she raced to the front door. You swear you saw a tear.

"You're allowed to cry."

"Shut up. 'm not."

You sighed, affectionately, watching him curl up into a ball. Your daughter passed out cold, after downing a chocolate pastry and having a sugar crash. The entire time, she clung onto Lohen, rambling about how much she missed him.

"You see why she has no sense of danger? Nothing scares her because her daddy's always there."

"That's stupid." Lohen mumbled, with no hostility. "What's she going to do when I'm too old for fighting?"

You inched closer to wrap an arm around him, it snaked around his waist and pulled him closer. "She'll be an adult by then. And she can learn how to fight however she wants. Whatever martial art she picks, I'm sure you'll help her."

He scoffed. "'Course I will. 'm her father."

"Good." You murmured into his neck, pressing a kiss there and watching him squirm.

"'m sorry for being so difficult."

"You're not."

"I am. Being a dad is way harder than I thought."

You shrugged. "I think you're doing alright."

He scoffed. "I made my daughter cry. And I yelled at her. I feel like shit." He grabbed a spare pillow and buried his face.

"Awww, c'mon, you're still doing great." You pried the pillow away and he wrestled for it. "I'm happy you had that argument."

Lohen whipped around. "You drunk?"

You shook your head. "I'm happy she felt safe enough to speak out. Neither of us would've had our parents listen to us like you did." His gaze softened, and his scepticism faded away. "I know you feel bad, but isn't it a relief she was comfortable enough to say no?"

He sighed. "I guess that's true."

"So stop beating yourself up already. You apologised, she forgave you, and you've learnt. You've done everything most people don't." You pressed another kiss, this time on his head. "You're a great father, Lohen. Far better than your own.'

The praise inflated his ego and he pulled his blanket up. "Low standard, but whatever."

"Just take the compliment." You smacked him gently. "I'm gonna sleep now, alright?"

Lohen nodded, kissing you on the shoulder. "Me too. Good night."

"Sleep well."

Though you heard a sniffle or two, you kept to yourself for his sake, remaining still and quiet.

The one of the reknowned bowmakers of Dornman Port stared at Lohen.

He stared back, the script he had drafted in his head nowhere to be seen, replaced by only unease and clammy palms. Unsure of what else to do, he walked up the hill to where they stood, and greeted them as normally as he could.

"Hello, Father."

He froze, dropping the watering can.

Lohen took a deep breath.

"I have a daughter now."

The man gasped.

"And I'm starting to understand why you guys behave the way you do. I don't think it was right, and I quite frankly don't forgive you." It was petty, but Lohen didn't care. He hated the monotony he was forced into, the daily ritualistic praying, and the predetermined destiny laid out for him. All became worse after his kidnapping.

You understood him fine, and so did Adorno. He doesn't think it's out of the picture to expect his parents to do the same.

"But. I'd want you two to be apart of her life—my daughter's."

He's not sure why he wanted to do this. His daughter only asked once about his parents, and never asked again after he spewed out an improvised lie about them.

Maybe deep down, he hoped his parents would've learnt from him. Or he craved for his parents to finally change. Perhaps he wished for his father to regret his pacifist ways? Whatever it was, it was strong enough to drag him all the way to their place

The man or woman said anything. Lohen wondered if that was his queue to go home.

But it wasn't, the man picked up the watering can and put it aside, beckoning Lohen to come closer.

"...you'll have some tea with your parents, won't you?" He said, his voice far more wizened than Lohen remembered. "We owe you an apology."

Lohen hesistated, but nodded soon after, as he followed his father.

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

[vultursvolans]

— ☆ 𝐀 𝐃𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: alhaitham wants to cheer you up by giving you a cake but, much to his dismay, he discovers he’s not very good at baking

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: alhaitham x gn!reader, modern au, established relationship, fluff, slice of life, comfort, baking, you call him baby, he might be a lil ooc 1.2k wc. | masterlist

a/n: important!! this piece is for the @pixelcafe-network’s secret santa exchange and it is my gift to @ariiadnes <3 surprise little elf, i am your santa >:) hehe that was me on anon. i welcome anybody to enjoy it but i’m just prefacing that i wrote this with my little elf in mind so this is personalised and will include some details specific to our kay ^_^ thank you to the pixel cafe for organising something so sweet <3 happy holidays!

p.s there is an extra surprise at the end 🤭

The sudden clang of the rolling pin meeting the floor made Alhaitham pause mid-motion. He regarded the rogue tool with a glare as though it had a personal vendetta against him. If baking was a dance of trial and error, it appeared Alhaitham was hopelessly out of step.

This shouldn’t be so difficult, he thought, bending down to retrieve it with a sigh.

What had started as a bold plan to cheer you up was devolving into a textbook case of kitchen disaster. His countertops bore signs of his struggle: a battlefield of flour, sticky smears of frosting, and a timer that had long since been silenced, marking the hours he had spent here. A slightly concerning scent wafted from the oven, where a deflated Snoopy cake mocked his attempts, its ears drooping in defeat.

All his brilliance yet his intellect failed him in the kitchen. The art of baking required nuances he hadn’t yet mastered—the understanding of texture, temperature, and timing. These were variables that no theorem or formula could solve. He glanced at the instructional video on his phone, the cheerful baker’s voice grating against his fraying patience.

‘Step one: don’t overfill the pan,’ he recited in his head, lips thinning as he stared at the mess in the oven. “A bit late for that.”

His phone buzzed, pulling him from his brooding. It was a message from you:

“Done for the day! Heading home soon. Love you <3.”

Alhaitham paused, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could easily picture the exhaustion in your face as you typed the message. You’d been weathering the storm of clinical rotations, coursework, and sleepless nights to reach the summit of your master’s program. He’d witness you lose sleep over exams, spend weekends buried in textbooks, and wake before dawn to attend hospital shifts.

He’d also notice the fatigue in your voice, how you napped more often to catch up on rest, and the stress you tried to hide when things got overwhelming.

Even in your exhaustion, you still managed to grace him with a smile. There was something admirable about how your heart endured, how you found space for joy despite the weight you carried. He knew he couldn’t ease your responsibilities, but he could remind you that you weren't facing it all alone.

His gaze shifted to the Snoopy figurine he’d bought for inspiration, perched on the counter like a silent overseer of this culinary misadventure. No turning back now.

Alhaitham began to roll up his sleeves and pick up the piping bag.

For you, he was willing to stumble through every misstep.

Drawing Snoopy’s outline with frosting proved no easier than taming the batter. Alhaitham leaned in close, expression sharpening, and the tip of his tongue peeked out in concentration (a face no one but you might ever see from him). As he worked, his mind whispered doubts, yet his hands persisted.

Steadfast, if imperfect.

———

By the time you stepped through the front door, the scent of burnt sugar lingered in the air. The apartment, to your surprise, looked untouched—eerily pristine, even. Nothing seemed to have moved ever since you left the house this morning. 

No hint of chaos. Yet.

“Haitham~?” you called out, kicking off your shoes. “What’s that smell? Did you… light a candle or something?”

“In the kitchen,” came his reply, his voice betraying none of his current predicament.

You rounded the corner, and the first thing you noticed upon entering was the stillness. Alhaitham stood near the counter, as composed as always, except for the flour dusting his hair and a smear of frosting on his cheek.

The second thing you noticed was the cake. Or what you assumed was meant to be a cake. Snoopy, your beloved Snoopy, lay immortalised in wobbly frosting on an uneven base. His ears drooped, and his face was just crooked enough to be endearing.

“Haitham?” you asked, placing your bag down carefully. “What… What happened here? Did Snoopy get caught in a blizzard?”

Alhaitham’s neutral expression didn’t falter, though his ears turned a light shade of pink. “It’s a cake,” he deadpanned. “Not a sculpture. Artistic liberties were necessary.”

That was all it took. You doubled over, laughter spilling from your lips like a bubbling brook. “You made this? For me?”

“Yes,” he said simply, the word softened by his sincerity. “You’ve been overworking yourself. I thought you might enjoy this.”

Your laughter melted into something warmer, and you stepped closer with a glow in your chest, inspecting the cake with a fond smile. “I didn’t know you could bake.”

“I can’t,” he admitted flatly. “And I don’t plan to pursue it further. The kitchen may never recover.”

"But you look so handsome covered in frosting." You reached up, gently touching the mess on his cheek. “You’ve got a little something here.”

Not wasting another second, you pressed a kiss to the smudge, tasting a bit of sugar on your tongue. His breath caught, just barely, and you pulled back with a grin.

“There,” you said playfully. “All cleaned up.”

His lips parted slightly as if to retort, but you didn’t give him the chance. You cupped his face, your thumbs tracing circles of flour on his skin. “Did my baby work hard on this cake?”

Alhaitham blinked, caught entirely off-guard by your tone. “I wouldn’t use the term hard,” he huffed slightly, a crack in his usual demeanor under your doting affection. 

“Oh, but you did,” you teased, brushing your nose against his. “Worked so hard, just for me. My thoughtful, talented boyfriend.”

He sighed, a long exhale that felt more like surrender than irritation. “If you keep that up, you might convince me it was worth the mess.”

You beamed, leaning up to kiss him properly this time, imprinting your gratitude on his lips. “I already know it was. You’re the sweetest, you know that?”

His ears darkened further, and he turned his attention to the counter as if it had become the most fascinating object in the room. “The cake might taste otherwise.”

“Stop being modest,” you said, grabbing the knife. “Come on. Let’s taste your masterpiece.”

His hand covered yours before you could cut into it. “Be gentle with it. It’s barely holding together.”

You chuckled, nudging him. “Sounds a bit like me during finals actually.” Alhaitham was clearly amused by your comparison, lips quirking as you looked at him.

When you cut into the cake, the sound of the knife meeting its layers fills the space. You served a piece, taking a bite before offering your verdict. “Hmm.” You hummed thoughtfully, watching his expression tighten.

“Well?” he asked, the question almost reluctant.

You grinned and reached for his hand, squeezing it. “It’s perfect. Just like you.”

He raised his brow at the sentiment but you caught the way his grip mirrored your squeezing. “I think your standards are too forgiving,” he replied.

“Not at all,” you said earnestly, setting your fork down and stepping closer. “It means everything to me, Alhaitham. Thank you.”

For once, words faltered and fell away, replaced by the gentle press of his forehead against yours. At that moment, the world seemed to pause, and the chaos of frosting, cake, and his flour-coated hands faded into nothingness. In their place was something simpler, something truer—his love for you that spoke volumes without a single syllable.

bonus gift: some silly visuals 🫶

a/n: i was a little nervous about this because kay, you already write so beautifully. i truly hope this was to your liking 🥺💖 congrats again on completing your masters program. i hope your certification exam goes/went well 💖

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform.

divider: @/adornedwithlight

[vultursvolans]

— ★ 𝐔𝐍𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after waiting for so long, alhaitham finally loses his virginity to you on his birthday

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: VIRGIN!alhaitham x FEM!reader, established relationship, there is some fluff sprinkled onto all this smut i promise, p0rn with plot, virginity loss (m), slightly more experienced reader, pet names ‘baby’ ‘love’, reader wears a skirt & dress, alcohol mention, handjob, masturbation (f), deepthroat, rough fucking, no protection, creampie, cowgirl, might be a little ooc. 5.7k wc (idk what happened) MDNI. 18+ only. | masterlist

𝐚/𝐧: a birthday piece! happy birthday alhaitham! 🎁

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Your boyfriend was a virgin.

And for most people, virginity was often a touchy subject. Still, when you started dating Alhaitham, you weren’t surprised by his indifference towards the topic. He never danced around it or became flustered when the subject of sex came up.  During your first conversation about it, he didn’t fidget or sugarcoat; he simply took a sip of his coffee and stated, “I’ve never had sex before.” Then, after finishing his cup, he added, “Not for lack of opportunity. I just never prioritised it.”

There was no shame or awkwardness, just a fact laid bare between you. And, really, why would there be? 

Sex wasn’t something he’d avoided out of fear or insecurity. To him, it was nothing but a passing thought. 

At the time, you grazed over his humble boast because, of course, Alhaitham had opportunities. He was, by all objective measures, incredibly handsome, and you told him this very often as his girlfriend. 

The scribe might’ve been notorious for being difficult to converse with, but people were still drawn to his appearance, whether he wanted them to be or not. 

That conversation weighed more to you now. Not because of what he said but because of what it implied. Despite the passing interest others had in him and the potential experiences he could have had, he had waited. Not intentionally nor with some frivolous romantic ideal in mind, but simply because no one before you had ever made him want to.

As your relationship progressed, you discovered that contrary to popular belief, Alhaitham was still human (really, it’s a shock to some), and like any other human, he had needs that were managed with usual discretion (his hands). So while he had no qualms about admitting he was a virgin, he also never pretended to be entirely unaffected by the curse of morning wood or the challenge of dating someone who was totally his type and much more vivacious than he. 

But when you turned him on (which wasn’t difficult), no matter how heated things got, they never went past a certain point. It wasn’t hesitation on his part, nor was it uncertainty on yours. 

It might’ve been because he’d never done it before or maybe because it felt too significant to rush into. Either way, whenever things teetered on the edge of no return, one of you would always pull back. Every time it happened, it left you a little more restless than before.

It had started slow, as most things did.

Your first kiss with Alhaitham had been more curious than anything else. He always paid attention to detail, so he was careful in how he studied you. The more he kissed you, the more he adjusted to the newness of it. You could even taste the hesitance on him, but that had been months ago. Now, he’d memorise the way the shape of your lips fit against his, and kissing you felt as natural as breathing.

In the beginning, your make-out sessions had been tame. Nothing more than lazy, unhurried exchanges between reading breaks or in the fleeting moments before you parted from him. Uncaring for any responsibility he had prior, he would hold you close in his burly arms and take you in. 

However, in time, those kisses evolved into something you had to be broken apart from.

His hands had also grown bolder. They would slide up your sides, paw at the curve of your spine, and settle on your hips to pull you closer. He noted the way you reacted to him—the way you tossed your head back when his fingers mapped your sensitive skin, the way your grip made home in his hair when his tongue delved deeper.

And you learned things about him, too.

You learned that even though the Alhaitham you first met had an air of mystery to him, there was something far more desperate lying dormant beneath that imaginary veil… lest his control slip. If you sucked on his lower lip, a groan would softly erupt from his mouth. If you allowed him to bury his face into the crook of your neck, the love bites he’d give you would feel much more erotic.

Then, his touches became scandalous over time. Alhaitham seemed to explore you more. 

He started to kiss—no, lick along your jaw, then down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse just to hear your breath stuttering. His hands, no longer satisfied with resting at your waist, began to push under your shirt time and time again, ghosting over your ribs, tracing the dip of your back, just to gauge a reaction to his touch.

Your body continued to hum with need long after you had settled on opposite sides of the sofa, swollen lips and skin warm. 

Each encounter left you both embarrassingly sticky by the end of it, so you never bothered to admit you’d touched yourself to the thought of him long after he’d gone home. And neither did he.

An invisible string was about to snap, and the most recent time was the hardest to walk away from.

On that particular day, while you were nestled on his lap, Alhaitham had been kissing you with extra urgency—as if the taste of you wasn’t enough and every movement of your lips was drawing him into a slow-burning fire. 

Each kiss was another spark, every touch a flicker of heat that spread and throbbed in the most wicked parts of you.

His hands traveled all over you, fingers that normally stayed at your ribs and waist started drifting lower so you sluggishly rolled your hips to match his rhythm, losing it at how hard he was growing beneath you. 

Maybe it was because you’d worn a skirt that day, but you felt closer to him than ever. Having your legs sprawled across his lap and feeling what you assumed was the head of his cock prod your sweet spot made your body scream even more for him. So it didn’t help your case at all when he suddenly stilled his fingers under your skirt and gingerly kneaded the back of your clothed pussy. The touch was petal soft but enough to make you whine without permission.

“Holy shit,” your words came out in plumes. 

You half-expected it to escalate then, but instead, he pulled away. A familiar pang settled in your chest. He didn’t do it out of regret—you knew that much, but all that racing intention now became idly slow. 

“I’m sorry,” he said a little too quickly. It almost sounded awkward, but you were too busy trying to figure out what he was apologising for. It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong. 

“For what, exactly?” You asked.

Alhaitham took a moment to think. 

“For not having more restraint.” his glossy eyes searched you, uncertain of what he wanted. “That felt impulsive.” 

It was unintentional, but you’d never seen him look so innocent. Or vulnerable. 

Tilting your head, you said with a chuckle, “If I’m ever caught complaining about my boyfriend not being able to keep his hands off me, alert the authorities because that’s not me.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” 

None of this was your fault either, of course. Stopping was as much of a crime to him as it was to you, but he quietly returned your laughter and timidly squeezed your hips as if to ground himself. “I just don’t want this to be something that happened because we couldn’t control ourselves.” 

In other words, he wanted something planned. Maybe he had envisioned it unfolding differently. 

Which was reasonable, you thought. It was his first time, not yours. And it wasn’t discouraging at all—that solid bulge pressing between your legs revealed enough about the effect you had on him. No part of him didn’t want to flip you over and fuck you senseless on that sofa but perhaps an impulsive make-out shouldn’t steer the wheel for something he held off for so long.

So, despite how badly you wanted him, you stopped. You waited. You told yourself the anticipation was half the fun. “You’re right. You’re right. Must you always be right?”

“Just a gift bestowed from the Archon.” Sarcasm, even when all the blood that should’ve been in his head had rushed to his cock. He watched you sigh. “It seems you don’t agree?”

“Well, if say I don’t, you could always ravish me until I do.” You smiled from ear to ear, satisfied when a pale shade of pink immediately dusted his cheeks.  

“Stop that.” 

Alhiatham was thankful when you rolled off his lap and collapsed beside him with a buoyant giggle.

Even then, he already missed the weight of you on his groin, and the phantom tingle from when he allowed himself to touch you over your underwear was still fresh on his fingers. He didn’t dare look at you right away, afraid that one glance at your pretty face, kiss-swollen lips, and the tremble in your thighs would set his skin alight all over again.

— — —

Remnants of Alhaitham’s birthday were scattered around your home. Half-finished slices of cake on abandoned plates. Few too many empty glasses litter the coffee table. The lingering scent of candles recently blown out. 

Looking at the mess, you felt a wave of gratitude that the last batch of your friends had already come and gone. 

Honestly, it was a good thing he chose to celebrate at your place. If he’d done it at his, there would’ve been an inevitable crowd, and he and Kaveh would’ve probably found themselves locked in a debate over something trivial like the spelling of a single word. The only thing to break it up would be the arrival of dawn. 

Here, it was just the two of you. While you’d both enjoyed the company earlier, ending the night like this felt right.

As the street lamps outside flickered on to welcome the evening, Alhaitham lounged beside you. This was the most relaxed he’d looked all day, with one arm draped lazily over the back of the sofa and the other resting on his thigh with a new tome balanced loosely between his fingers. The dim light softened the sharp lines of his face, making him appear boyish as his sea-green eyes read the pages.

But he wasn’t really reading.

It was obvious by how his eyes were fixed on the same spot. His pupils were slightly dilated, and maybe he had the wine to blame. Or something else altogether. 

You finally broke the silence, leaning on the armrest to reach for your own glass. “It’s still your birthday, you know?”

Alhaitham returned his attention to you, closing the tome you bought for him without marking his place. “Is there a statute of limitations on celebrating?” 

Huffing a laugh, “Not exactly,” you said, swirling the wine in your glass before taking a sip. “But I’ve been thinking about your birthday gift.”

“Hm?” He replied, slightly confused. He’d thought you’d already given him everything earlier in the day.

“Just wondering if there’s anything else you might want.” You set your glass down and watched the dark liquid ripple. This was the perfect opportunity to bring up what had been on both of your minds.

“Oh?” He blinked at you. “Well, this book you sought was quite a rare find. I’m aware there are only two other copies. For that alone, I needn’t ask for more.” 

“And if I told you that was only the appetiser?” 

Alhaitham adamantly shook his head. “I’m not following.” 

But you both knew that was false. The entire conversation was laced with implications, and this was a Haravatat genius you were speaking to. Nothing needed to be spelled out for him because you saw his throat bob with a subtle swallow. That alone told you he was already waging war with his thoughts. 

Tonight felt different. 

Aside from it being his literal birthday, ever since the morning you’d caught him eyeing your body on numerous counts. 

One instance was when you conveniently sat across from him while your friends mingled, positioned so perfectly that he could see the triangle of underwear between your legs. It left little to the imagination, and when images flashed of him running his sticky tongue over your panties—he bit the inside of his cheeks in shame. 

Another time was not too long ago when you adjusted the strap of your dress—he was sitting where he is now, and you had noticed his fixation on the exposed skin of your shoulder. When the flimsy strap irritatingly fell again, you pretended not to see him shifting his shorts by the crotch. 

Something other than enticement was festering behind his gaze. It wasn’t outright staring, but you had an inkling you were being carefully watched. 

Maybe assessed was the better word. 

There was only so much pretend-reading he could do before it became obvious that your boyfriend was undressing you in his mind and using his tome as a silly cover. All of that told you he was ready. 

He just needed a little nudge. A precious courtesy. 

“Haitham, you’ve been thinking about it. Haven’t you?” 

Alhaitham’s lips parted like he was about to deny it. But he didn’t. He wasn’t even sure he could. Between a sigh and a too-long pause, you were surprised when he admitted, “Of course I have. I’m not immune to… well, you.” 

An intentional smile formed at the drop of that last word, and your cheeks immediately grew hot. “You look beautiful,” he continued, but then his tone dipped into something far more audacious. “I might be convinced you were trying to steal my thunder today.” 

The sincerity behind his delivery made your heart pound like a drumline beneath your ribs. 

When you dared slip your hand to his knee, his muscles reflexively twitched. He didn’t try to stop you as you slowly traced the outline of his leg.  

“That honesty is going to get you in a lot of trouble, birthday boy.”  

“Trouble?” He said with a knowing smirk. “I think I’m already in enough trouble for tonight, don’t you?” You let him take your wrist to his mouth, and he suckled above your pulse, soft and slow. 

Goosebumps danced across your arm before you stood up.

Alhaitham tracked every step you made, and his burning hands instinctively moved to your waist when you stopped between his legs. As you leaned down, he almost shut his eyes, expecting a kiss. “What do you mean? I’m terribly innocent.”

The heat of his touch seared through your dress, and you didn’t falter when he started bunching up the fabric. 

Alhaitham, he was different. 

Unlike the temporary touches of almost-lovers, every place his hands explored left a trail of fire in their wake. He always held you like the space between you was something he could not tolerate. Everything had to be met. Tongue. Hands. Body. Mind. 

Alhaitham loved you. Deeply. Utterly. In ways that contradicted his nature. It was neither measured nor composed, only barbaric and all-encompassing. 

And credit must be due to you for being the most patient person in the world.

“So,” you said quietly, brushing away those unruly greys that tickled his forehead. “Do you feel like this time is rushed?”

His long fingers tightened around you, answering your question before he spoke. Whatever hesitation he felt had apparently already passed. “No, this is perfect.” 

As he looked up at you through those curtain of long lashes, an indulgent question had accidentally slipped out of your mouth: “How often do you picture yourself having your way with me?”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. Clearly defeated by your feathery voice, he exhaled through his nose, almost jaded, “Constantly."

For some reason, you were still caught by surprise. Even if it lasted for a sliver of a second, when his admiration for you felt too good to be true, sometimes you thought it all a farce. But you were wrong. 

"In fact, I’m thinking about it right now," he continued.

Without needing any more reassurance than that, you closed the distance. “Do you mind?” You asked over his lips. 

“Not at all,” he said like he was granting you a wish. 

One tender kiss bled into another, then another, until his tongue started rolling over yours, swallowing your gasps in between. Then it turned into something wet and visceral. Your body wilted each time they collided, but when his teeth sunk into your bottom lip, a riot of sensations gathered between your thighs. 

Fuck, you swore internally. 

Alhaitham may be a virgin, but he sure didn’t kiss like one.

Still standing, you snaked your arms around his neck and combed at the ends of his hair. No matter how often you’d done this, the sound of his grunts always drowned out the rest of the world. 

Your lips broke apart for only a moment when you were forced to find air. There were too many annoying layers between the two of you, so the cycle of kissing and never crossing that line was forever broken when you pulled on his shirt, “Take this off.” 

Letting you go, even for a second, was unbearable, so when he lifted his arms to rid himself of the barrier, he greedily chased another kiss. The fabric dragged over his torso, revealing inch by inch of warm, silky skin stretched taut over muscle, and as soon as the shirt was gone, you traced the broad plane of his chest. 

From this view, you wonder if he was thinking about how many times he had imagined this moment. How many nights he had stared at the ceiling, picturing your hands on him just like this? 

“Nervous?” You asked, following your palm over the firm ridges of his abdomen as you connected lips again, pecking them softly this time like a butterfly kissing the edge of a blooming flower.

“Impossible.” Alhaitham relaxed his shoulders and pulled blindly at your waist. You looked so pretty—if anything, he was excited to fuck you. “I’m in good hands.”

Your lips trailed downward, over his jaw, his throat, ghosting his uncharted collarbones before moving even lower. Cushions collapsed to the floor as he began to fray beneath you, his body keening toward your open-mouth kisses no matter how much he tried to hold himself together.

“Baby—” he rasped. Your knees wobbled at his sweet call. The quietest groan escaped his mouth, and you felt it reverberate against your lips where they hovered just above his navel. His scent was richer here—clean but muskier, and engulfing your senses to the point of dizziness. 

Sinking to your knees, your tongue followed the dark path of hair that disappeared beneath his shorts while your hands nimbly pushed at his growing tent, “—Fuck,” he sighed, screwing his eyes shut.  It pulsed involuntarily against the restraint, and already, a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Your heart was racing; the size of it felt even bigger in your hand. 

You toyed at the waistband. “Haitham, tell me if you want to stop, okay?”

He nodded, slumping back into the sofa. Sure, but he doesn’t think he will. His lack of words made you wonder if he’d actually heard you. 

You palmed his bulge one last time before pulling everything down and immediately, his cock sprung against his stomach, giving it a good slapping sound while you ogled at the sheer size. And weight. 

It was so much prettier than you’d imagine—not too veiny, plump and pink at the tip, slightly curved, and already glistening with precum under the hues of evening light. A handful of beauty marks dotted the underside of his shaft, which would only help you out in the future when you had to decide which parts of him you wanted to kiss first. It might’ve been the prettiest thing you’d ever seen. 

Rubbing your thumb over the tip, you peered up at him, and as expected, “Oh…” he rolled his eyes back, lulling himself in the immediate pleasure. At that moment, he knew fucking his fist in the dead of night would never feel the same again. Not when they can be hugged by your soft, velvety hands.

Alhaitham’s body jittered under you with each small stroke along his length. Another fat ball of precum dribbled over your knuckles and made it extra slippery—he was so hard, he could barely look at you through his drowsy eyes. 

“Do you like how this feels, baby?”

His feelings wavered between bucking for more friction or letting you dictate his ruin. “I- ah- love it. Keep going… Please…” Either way, by the time this was over, Alhaitham was going to walk away a new man. 

His cock was so heavy, so wide in your hand that you briefly imagined it training your hole open. You desperately clenched around nothing—suddenly it was your turn to feel needy, and as a result, your strokes became even faster as you thought about him stuffing you with it instead. 

Each languid pump chipped away at his resolve, but it was you who was beginning to lose control. Your free hand couldn’t hold still for any longer, so they snaked to the throbbing heat that had been building between your legs for too long. The first roll of circles over your clit sent a sharp jolt up your spine. “Mmmm,” you were already so wet, your slick drenched your fingers within seconds.

Alhaitham's thighs twitched at the sound of you. That was a moan. A real fucking moan. A multitude of things could turn him on but watching his girlfriend play with herself and moaning above his cock made him spasm in his spot. He was begging for more, even if he couldn’t form the words.

“Ahh, Haitham…” you mewled his name softly as you slid two fingers inside your sopping entrance. Without waiting any longer, you spat on the leaking tip as a courtesy warning before taking the entire length in your mouth all at once.

“God…” Alhaitham groaned, drawn out like the sensation alone could tear him apart. He could’ve jumped out of his seat if not for the vice grip he had on the sofa, his knuckles white from holding onto it like a lifeline. The inside of your mouth was so warm, your tongue so blissfully foreign and you felt him stiffen up even more when you sloppily sucked and popped off with a messy slurp. 

“This definitely... isn't your first time,” His voice was rough with lust. 

Every tantalising lick was written off as proof of your experience.   

The praise, while indirect, made your cunt clamp around your moving fingers. You hummed, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock before pulling back with another lewd pop, “No,” you casually admitted, licking a stray tear of precum from your lips. “But it’s my first time taking something so big.” 

“No need to flatter me,” he murmured softly, lifting your dripping chin with a single finger. “You’re already doing enough.”  

But damn, he thought. If that were true, he’d be the one to stretch you further than anyone else.

After returning your lips around him, he unexpectedly brought his hand to the back of your head. 

This time, he didn’t want to sit back. “Slowly…” he sucked in a breath. “I… want to try something.” 

Alhaitham apparently grew some confidence of his own, which made your fingers work even faster inside yourself. Your lips sank lower and lower. Throat tightening as his thick cock tunneled its way through—

“Mmph—!!” Your sudden yelp was muffled when his mushroom tip nudged the back of your throat. The vibration of it made him buckle his knees beside you. 

Oh, he was weak for you. And he knew it. 

“Ugh— Look at you…” he groaned through gritted teeth. Still, despite the newfound confidence, he was losing the battle fast. He had buckled so hard, he was worried he’d already cum but he was relieved when you gagged and withdrew, leaving only strings of saliva connecting to his fat length. 

That was enough to tell him he couldn’t hold it off anymore. 

Alhaitham could barely think straight. His cock was twitching, aching, still glossy from your mouth, and somehow standing taller than when all of this started. 

“Come here,” he pleaded, and now his heart pounded because it was finally happening. 

His eyes were hazy when he hoisted you up, catching you in his lap to taste himself on your tongue. The kiss was feral and teeth-clashing, and the curl of your name kept being whispered again and again between breaths. 

His hands wasted no time, sliding down your body, comfortably hiking up your dress while he met his cock with your entrance. Even with your underwear in the way, you felt just how girthy he was and squeezed around the head as much as your flimsy panties allowed. 

“Haitham~” you whimpered, continuing to grind on him. 

Between his own rolling of his hips, he eagerly helped you tug your dress over your head. Then you hurriedly removed your underwear and returned to his lap.

For a brief moment, he just stared. 

His jaw went slack. His chest rose and fell slowly. 

It was a showcase of your bare body, your soft tummy, your sweat-stricken tits, and your exposed pussy. 

Suddenly, you felt shy, but he reached out with surprising gentleness, smoothing his palm over your waist, then up to your chest. 

“I know I keep repeating myself, but seriously,” he hushed, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you shiver. “You’re beautiful.” 

He looked at you like you were something divine and overcome, your lips crashed against his.

A guttural sound escaped his throat as he kissed you back with just as much hunger.

 “I love you,” you whispered to him. Another twist of your tongue. I love you. Another hand tangled in his hair. I love you. Another peek at your loving boyfriend, eyes shut and kissing you so tenderly like it was the only thing he knew. I love you. 

His hand slipped between your legs, fingers parting the opening where you were dripping for him. If you hadn’t known him at all, you would’ve never guessed this was his first time. Perhaps preparing for this really paid off in the end. 

Your legs trembled around his hand, but it wasn’t enough. You wanted more. The need clawed at you.

His hand gripped your putty thighs, forcing them open as he stared at the pretty mess. 

Alhaitham flicked his gaze back to yours. “I love you, too,” his voice was hoarse. “And I need to be inside you.” It was then you understood why puppy eyes worked on people. No argument could ever shield him away when he pleaded for you like that. It would be like kicking a puppy in the most literal sense. 

You gave him a nod of approval. It’s okay. 

He exhaled as he positioned himself. The downright weight of it jerking against your clit made you whimper. You couldn’t help but rock into it, circling his shaft with your juices while he was on the cusp of shattering. 

Finally, he lined the swollen head at your entrance, and a sharp gasp left you as he slowly pushed in, stretching you apart like all those times you fantasised in the privacy of your bedroom, but this was much, much better. 

Inch by inch, your walls latched onto him and—

“Shit—” Alhaitham cursed under his breath. 

Nothing has ever felt so warm or soft. Or all-consuming. His entire vision was a blur. There was no doubt he was already painting a clear, sticky mess on your walls. 

Your nails sank into his meaty arms, his name tumbled from your lips as he gradually slotted himself completely inside you. His groan was so deep and wrecked that it made you tremble around him even more. 

Your legs tightened at his side, urging him deeper. “T-Thoughts?” You asked, barely. It remained a mystery how you stayed teasing even as pleasure threatened to steal your words away. 

“You’re so… tight,” he managed to breathe, thrusting up experimentally. His head dropped to your shoulder as he relished in the wet heat of you wrapped around him. “Better than my hands."  

"Better than I ever imagined, actually." A strained chuckle left him. “And I imagined a lot.” 

Another slow thrust. His fingers embedded themselves around your waist, possessive, obsessive, and he buried his face in your neck, breathing you in.

You smiled even though you knew he couldn’t see. “You don’t have to hold back.” 

Your cute encouragement made him snap.

He lifted you slightly before slamming you down on his hips, plunging as far as he could. Right as he did, you arched your back and struggled to find your bearings. The sound of your jutted cries echoed freely in the living room, only for it to be swallowed by his muttering against your skin—

“You’re perfect.” 

A deep thrust, much harder this time. 

“I can’t believe you’re mine.” 

His teeth scraped against your neck. 

And then he really started fucking you. 

Every bounce punctured all the right spots, and you could only whine while rivers of sweat glued your bodies together. You tried to keep up with him, but he was so fervent with his hips that your mind went cloudy. 

More often than not, you tend to forget how strong your boyfriend is, but you’ll never need a reminder after this. Not with how easily his large hands guided you up and down his throbbing cock. You were helpless against the feverish way he moved you. 

Plap. Plap. Plap. Each wet slap of your fleshy ass against his thighs sent a violent shudder through him, decorating his skin with flushed, red marks where you landed. 

Who knew Alhaitham could be so obscene and filthy?

“I can see why—people—enjoy this,” was all he could muster you as deliciously gripped him. Every word punched out of him from the force of your tight cunt. 

However, as good as it felt, most of his enjoyment came from looking at you. 

“Mhm…!” you babbled, brain foggy and hands abandoning his shoulders to roll your sensitive nipples between your fingers, twisting and tugging and arching your back so your tits were right in his face. “But are you—?” You tried to ask between ragged moans, but he cut you off with a snap of his hips.

He’d never seen you in such a messy state, “Are you fucking kidding me?” He was nearly offended at the implication that he wasn’t. How could he not be? He was buried to the hilt and drinking in every filthy little sound that spilled from your lips.

He wanted to engrave the image of this memory into his mind forever.

The creak of the sofa legs as they scraped back and forth on your floor; the squelch of your soaking pussy; your arousal smearing the base of his shaft, running down his legs with every feverish roll. 

Even like this, even while he was losing every last shred of innocence, his mind was already latching onto something else—

“I’m already looking forward to doing this again…” 

Alhaitham, who fucking loved you, was also going to love fucking you. 

Oh, and the toe-curling sensation of his balls smacking the back of your pussy intensified. 

For each erratic push, your battered clit rubbed even more against his pubic bone. Your eyes were starting to drop, and your voice only came in erotic moans. “Baby, please…” You’ve adjusted to the stretch by now, but you’ll never get used to how you can feel every curve or ridge mind-meltingly dragging inside you. “Don’t stop—”

He wishes he could just record the way you coo at him like that, because your honeyed tone damn near made him bust on the spot. 

“F-Fuckk-Ngh… Love, I’m close,” he groaned, forehead falling against yours as his hips stuttered. His hungry, feral eyes—wild, desperate, blown back with lust searched yours, now certain of what he wanted.

“Inside,” you panted, cradling the back of his head with your arms. “I bought a contraceptive tonic… You can cum inside.” 

Alhaitham froze, for just a second. 

But with your permission, he lost whatever fragile thread of control he had left. Using the last of his strength, he clumsily wrapped himself around your waist and attacked your G-spot over and over. 

“Quickly,” you urged him, “Because I’m gonna—!” A feeling in your stomach coiled before you could finish your sentence. With his hips rolling at an angle, everything you were holding together finally broke apart. Your ears abruptly rang, and your vision went entirely white, as if months’ worth of pent-up energy was gushing out of you. 

You pushed through the untangling in your gut, feeling everything all at once as your orgasm obliterated your senses. The downpour left you mewling, writhing, and spasming around him like a tightening knot. You've cummed to the thought of him but you always felt like something was missing.

Nothing but desperate moaning and the crying of his name met his ears while you blissfully rode him out. 

A harsh thrust later did it for him, too. 

His merciless rhythm shattered as he rutted inside one last time, a guttural groan ripping from his throat like all the air was being punched from his lungs. “Hah—I’m cumming!” His cock pulsed violently as he came, hot ropes of ivory spilling deep inside you, with him losing focus after each shudder of his hips. 

So much of it was already oozing out of you despite how tight you still were, and you saw the ruin it brought on him. He was beautiful with his brows pinched tight and strands of damp silver sticking to his forehead. Every flex of his toned arms and chest showcased the primal strength beneath his elegance.

Alhaitham whimpered—it was barely audible as he slumped against your chest. He clung to you, panting, hot breath fanning your shoulder as he pumped out the last tremors of his release. His balls tightened for the final time as they emptied inside you.

Neither of you moved. Just sticky heat, layers upon layers of sweat, and the aftershocks pulsing through your trembling bodies.

Then, slowly, his hands fell to his sides.

“…That was…” he started, feeling like his mind was still trying to piece itself together. His body practically surrendered against the sofa.

You swiped a thumb over his jaw, smiling. “Yeah.”

A beat passed.

When Alhaitham lifted his head, blinking at you, completely softened by the afterglow, it hit you.

Your boyfriend wasn’t a virgin anymore.

© 2025 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform.

divider: @/adornedwithlight

[kitorin]

with you.

in which, after years of inhabiting lohen's lonely dreams, you finally return to mondstadt. he finds himself overflowing with joy and relief—until he realises you brought a friend, one you were very close with; one he now deemed his greatest rival.

part two to paper dandelion! but this works as standalone too (i think?)

contents. lohen x gn!reader, childhood friends + reunion, happy ending, fluff, crack (kinda), angst, lohen story quest spoilers, (possibly) suggestive, thoma's your close friend, lots and lotssss of jealousy and he's kinda pathetic but it's ok, jokes about killing people/kys, mentions of gore (? offering seppuku as an apology but not actually doing it), swearing, alcohol and getting drunk, mentions of poisoning, lohen jumping to conclusions, doesn't follow genshin timeline/events, no beta we die like adorno

thank you for everyone's patience! much love to you all :) tags: @swivi, @pjselee, @danielapuppy41, @sksjdkksjsjsh

Despite a considerable amount of time passing since the treacherous Nod Krai expedition, Lohen found himself unable to adapt to the amiable streets of Mondstadt again.

Mondstadt City was dreadfully uncomfortable. It lacked the Favonius Keep's prerequisite of strength and constant vigilance, and the thrill which accompanied. Mondstadt was pathetic in comparison to the perils of the Nod Krai and its beasts. The expectation to be alert was no longer, now earning Lohen absentminded comments to 'relax' and resurfacing rumours of his insanity.

His colleagues earnt shrivelled up expressions of disgust, a violent shudder would pounce on his spine whenever he saw how relaxed they were, drinking their hearts out 'til midnight and puking out on the streets.

(If getting wasted was so necessary, at least remain somewhat competent—Lohen counted twelve opportunities for Gunther to get killed as he stumbled away from the Angel's Share the other night; he should've been grateful it was Lohen judging him, and not a member of the Fatui.)

Human life was fragile, it expired early and death pounced on the nearest person without mercy, and never took breaks, thus, neither should humans. 

Today, was no exception to Lohen's discomfort.

He arrived to work late—as always, greeting Mika on his way to the Grandmaster's Office with a lazy wave before slouching into his seat, where an obscene stack of paperwork awaited him. The quill between his fingers was abnormally heavy, and Varka's gaze wouldn't leave him.

"Y'know. You don't have to stare me down that hard."

He scoffed, crossing his arms. "Brat. Who's the one who shortened your confinement?"

For once, Lohen kept his mouth shut, deciding the Grandmaster deserved his best behaviour. It was the least he could do

Solitary confinement, you managed to make tolerable. He wrote of everything to you, from details of his Nod Krai expedition to Adorno's passing and his punishment, scrawling away to process what happened, and to pass the time. Though his solitude remained true, writing to you was essentially the same as company. Day melted into night when he thought of you. He had to regularly call for more paper, only when his words to you reached a length rivaling the novellas of the Favonius Library, Varka convinced Jean to mitigate his punishment. On the basis of his good behaviour, he argued that he deserved the privacy to mourn Adorno, and mail his letter to you. Lohen was free to return home and live normally, at the expense of strict supervision and paperwork during his hours.

(You remained to be a blessing. First, giving Lohen the best childhood and teenage years, and now you were bailing him out of punishment, without even being in the nation.)

Lohen missed you, a lot. Absurdly so. Mountains and oceans apart, you were in Inazuma, where he hoped you felt the same.

Six years was too long. In the first year, he went strong, told himself that you'd be back in no time and that letters were sufficient. By the second, he was going even more insane than he already was, actively searching out ruin guards to bully at Stormbearer Mountains in the dead of night as stress relief.

He wanted to touch you, feel your skin against his and to listen to you rant and laugh—a melody that no choir could ever recreate. He wanted to pinch your cheeks again and watch them redden. He missed how you'd cling onto him whenever you got scared, and he wished he was there for every adversity you were facing over there. He wished he could watch how much happier you were becoming with his open two eyes, instead of reading it with months delayed.

Lohen wanted you. Not your letters. Those wouldn't come sleep over when the nightmares became too much, nor bandage his injuries when they were placed so awkwardly. They capture only your handwriting and nothing else. He would’ve forgotten your voice long ago, had he not thought about you constantly, reciting memories like prayer.

Confinement to letters wouldn't be so bad if he didn't have to wait months for mail to arrive. Letters only satiated so much. And they were volatile—who knows if the mailman would drop either one of your letters, or if storm strikes down the ship it sails on. Only Barbatos himself would know of what happens to them.

(With every victory, you came to mind first. Varka and Jean read of it first through paperwork, then word of mouth would inform the rest of the knights. Sometimes it reached the citizens of Mondstadt.

The best Lohen could do was write it for you first, and pretend it was the same as finding you in your favourite spot at the library, or knocking on your window to demand your attention. In his head, you were the first to know because he wanted you to be. It was far better than agreeing with reality.)

After hearing of his complaints, you opted to mailing him a diary, a collection of thoughts and stories you wanted to share with him, organised by date. Inside, you sandwiched a response to the letter he'd send, alongside folded papercraft (known as 'origami', you said). Lohen built a small bookshelf for these, adorning his empty bedroom with your days.

His gaze wandered to the window, surely he could keep his mind preoccupied. There should've been something remotely interesting to watch—the statue of Barbatos stood proud, as always, welcoming all to the open arms of Mondstadt. Towards the bottom was Barbara, serenading a group of people. That stupid, green bard was nearby, and Lohen rolled his eyes and decided it was time to stop looking outside.

His quill hauled itself across the page, leaving the mere date in its trail.

You can do it, I'll wait for you!

Lohen sculpted every drifting thought into an illusion of you, imagining you were there with him, seated on the couch across the room, waiting for him to finish so the two of you could go skip rocks at Cider Lake.

(Back in the day, Adorno would give you guys 'homework', insisting that puzzles were good for your brain. Your logic flowed as seamlessly as your hands, finishing his tasks with ease; Lohen couldn't say the same for himself. Adorno had to give you guys separate worksheets, since you'd simply give the answers to Lohen.)

The room was drained of its sunlight, fading into a soft pink. Every scratch of his quill against the parchment whittled time away. Varka didn't need to snap at him, and

He finds himself connecting his letters. You wrote in cursive ever since you were little, and still did—

Fuck, his concentration was breaking. What he haphazardly glued together were falling apart, shattering into even smaller bits and pieces.

He tried to fall back on his initial tactic, but all he could think of was how different you must've looked by now. You mentioned getting much more exercise. Did you bulk up, or were you the kind to slim down? Maybe you managed to grow a few centimetres, or perhaps you had a tan now? He had no idea what the weather was like over there.

He was unable to conjure an image of you, only wonder and curiosity, and a desperation to see you once more. Questions blurred his vision and hypotheticals presented possibilities without rest. His energy and attention slipped away, leaving him to soak in his pathetic longing.

"Fuuuuuck offff." Lohen slouched onto the table, cheek resting against the cold, polished wood. He entertained the thought of smashing his head into the table until he was out cold, that way, he wouldn't have to do paperwork, nor be forced to cope with the fact that he couldn't see you.

The stupid pile of paperwork was just as prominent, and infuriating, as his inability to focus. Why couldn't you leave him alone?

(Stupid fucking Barbatos. If the god of freedom out of all beings out there couldn't bring you back, he could've at least freed him of this constant craving of you. This was exactly why Lohen hated gods and refused to partake in anything religious)

Then there was the Sakoku Decree too. You insisted the Vision Hunt Decree only targeted Vision wielders, that you were safe and he had nothing to worry about, but Lohen did the exact opposite. A dictator was never honest, a leader that would approve of such policy would not be one fit to protect its people. Those stuck in Inazuma, including you, requested the help of the Knights to return home, though they were fruitless.

Any resemblance of concentration was long gone. It abandoned him the moment he thought of you again, leaving him to spiral.

Varka's heavy footsteps approached him, his large hands sifting through the paperwork Lohen had (somehow) managed to complete successfully. "...not bad. I've never seen you do so much. And your handwriting's neat." Lohen peeled himself off the desk with disheveled hair, and hollow eyes begging Varka for freedom. "You've done enough, I don't like paperwork too. Good improvement."

For a brute that drank like a fish, he was surprisingly thoughtful.

"I'm gonna kill myself."

The Grandmaster chuckled, ruffling the Vice Captain's hair and patting him on the shoulder. "Paperwork does that, kid."

Dusk stained Mondstadt pink. Remains of day bled everywhere, as Lohen walked across stone pavement alongside Varka, watching over children that chased each other by the fountain. The Good Hunter kept many company, its patrons howling with laughter and cheersing obscenely large tankards. His fingers twitched at his sides, missing their skinship with his dagger and lance, while the wind caressed his face.

Doing paperwork was so awful, that Lohen considered getting drunk, calculating whether the vulnerability would be worth the mindless bliss of being wasted—there had to be a reason why everyone in Mondstadt loved beer, and why even the Grandmaster himself had no problem with drinking to his very limits.

"So." He drawled, itching to leave the city and head to Wolvendom to fight something. "Why am I here again?"

"Because you're under supervision. And I need a beer." The man groaned, stretching an arm and scratching his back. "You look like you need a drink."

"A fight, you mean."

Varka slapped him on the back, enough force to almost make him fall over. "Be grateful I didn't make you do my paperwork too, hm? Maybe it's a good thing you didn't become captain. You wouldn't last a day." Before Lohen could retort, something else grabbed Varka's attention. "Be right back—someone looks lost." A finger pointed forwards, Lohen's halflidded eyes didn't bother tracking them as he let out a wordless grunt.

Maybe now was a good chance to run off. And if Varka tried to get him into trouble again, he'd snitch on Varka to Jean for drinking.

He took an analytical glance at Varka, only for his heart to freeze on the spot.

The sun had already set, yet you managed to glow in its absence.

Lohen's feet didn't move, they couldn't—all that went through his head was relief, leaving him in a stupor.

The world went silent, all that was nonessential melted into nothingness. What remained was you, with wide eyes marveled by your home city again.

You. Here. In Mondstadt. Where Lohen was.

You didn't look so different, contrary to all the different theories he had conjured in his curious boredom. You must've lost a bit of weight from travelling so much, but you looked stronger overall. Your smile was bright, as always, only this time it made Lohen choke on his own spit, and question if he had really lost it.

The Vice Captain of the Fifth Company does not cry. However, he'd make an exception for you.

His body finally awoke, and he took a step towards you. And another. Until he could hear you.

You were looking up at Varka, a bit unsettled by the height difference, but friendly nonetheless. "Oh—I'm from here, it's just been a long time. I haven't spoken the language in a while too. I might be lost..."

Lohen didn't even get to say hi, before you pounced on him.

"Oh my god—" Your voice hitched, on the brink of crumbling into tears. "I missed you so much."

Your arms wrapped tightly around his waist and he squirmed—the closest to hugging he ever did was wrestling new recruits, who could never lay a hand on him.

(But his arms reciprocated, carefully feeling your back as he held onto you. It felt harder than before, your working out must've paid off. The muscle was warm, even through your clothes and his gloves.)

He still couldn't speak. No words would come out, immobilised by his shock. All he did was nuzzle his chin into your shoulder and rediscover your warmth.

"Ahem." Varka cleared his throat, immediately pulling you out of your hug. You scrambled to stand straight, glowing a furious red while muttering out apologies. Varka mirrored your words, saying that he hates to ruin your moment.

(Stupid old man. Lohen wasn't nearly as big as enough to throw him into the fountain, unfortunately. He was going to up his dosage of poison next time. He'll spit in his next beer while he's at it, too.)

As if he wasn't going through every emotion he yearned for, Lohen deadpanned, droning at his boss. "Yeah?"

"You guys...friends?"

You answered first. "Yup! I haven't seen him since before I left."

Lohen thought that was sufficient for his question. "You're back...how—? The decree—you never said anything about returning."

Joy scrunched your face. "It ended a while back. I wanted to surprise you, so I didn't write about it."

(Lohen was young, and very much in great shape, but he thought shock was going to force his heartbeat to a halt. He now owes Barbatos for every time he cussed him out bitterly in his head.)

"You're back..." He repeated.

"I am!"

Besides you, Varka cocked a brow. "Decree? You mean Inazuma?"

You nodded. And Varka went pale. He took a step closer to you.

"You must've been scared. Being trapped in the country. I heard about everything that happened over there." Varka was solemn, regret clouded his face and his voice went dry.

You shook your head. "Things have gotten better over there. It feels normal again." There wasn't a sign of dishonesty, but Varka sank down to a knee regardless, hand over his chest.

"I'm sorry we couldn't do anything. Even though it's our role as knights to protect the people of Mondstadt, we couldn't save you guys. As Grandmaster, I failed you all."

He must've been referring to all the letters that were sent, from merchants to separated family members, asking for help and some sort of intervention.

(Lohen used to press his ear against Varka’s door, picking up bits and pieces of his discussions with Jean on what to do, though now wasn't the time to admit that.)

You were flustered at the chivalrous act, frantically glancing around at the stares you were receiving. "It's not your fault—the shogun and her people aren't fond of foreigners. Please don't kneel—"

Lohen rolled his eyes and tapped Varka's calf, bordering on a kick. "You heard 'em. You're embarrassing us."

Now flustered, Varka stood, rubbing the back of his head. "I still feel bad. Adorno was upset when he found out what happened. He even considered sailing all the way there to negotiate on our behalf."

(Lohen remembers that. When he came running to Adorno to lament about the news, the man was equally as heartbroken. While Lohen panicked, Adorno was already planning to use his retirement funds for an expedition there.)

Your eyes lit up. "Speaking of Adorno—how has he been?"

Lohen's throat closed up, before glancing at Varka.

Adorno's grave was still clean from last time he stopped by. That was good.

The cecilia was beginning to wilt, a light brown began permeating its white petals. He's surprised the wind hadn't blown it away—maybe Barbatos was good for something after all.

The two of you were behind the Cathedral, Adorno's final resting place where many lay peacefully. Daylight was no more, and the cold bit at his face.

His gaze trailed over to you, where you were frozen in the evening, staring at the stone cross. "I wrote about it to you. You just got here before it could arrive."

You said nothing in response, blinking slower than usual.

He sucked in a sharp breath of air. "Do not stand by my grave and cry. My life, I gave to wipe tears dry." Lohen recited Adorno's final words, the last wish he made before his passing. He took a step closer, too apprehensive to dare touch you yet. "There's no need to be sad. It was painless, and peaceful. He was gettin' old, too."

Adorno, in bed, life and colour long gone from his face. Despite tethering on the borders of life and death, his wrinkled hands were abnormally warm, far more than the campsites of their expedition. Lohen's eyes burnt and his nose felt funny, but he subsided it for the sake of his last wish.

"But. If you need to cry, go ahead. I won't tell him." Lohen's hand rested on the small of your back. "We can go around the corner for a bit. And come back. O–Or I can give you some time alone if you need—?"

"—no. I'll stay." You scrunched your nose and blinked hard, but you didn't cry. "It's been too long."

So you sat down, and Lohen joined you.

"It was his health, wasn't it? You said he was getting worse a while back. 'm surprised he lived for that long." You murmured, squinting at the date of birth and death. "He only passed recently."

Lohen prepared himself to tell the whole story. His gloves felt uncomfortably stuffy before he told you everything.

By the end of it, your eyes were wide as saucers, bewildered at it all.

"Yeah." He wasn't proud of it, but it felt worse admitting it to you, out of all people. Had you been there at the time, you would've told someone immediately, out of pure concern for everyone's wellbeing. "I wrote it all down for you during my solitary confinement. Haven't even seen Theodore since then. He probably got longer than me."

(He should pay a visit, he thought to himself. Though Theodore was the main instigator, without Lohen, he wouldn't have made it that far. He wonders how he's been doing.)

You, were still processing everything. "So you and Theodore...injected Adorno with Ursa's flesh...the same stuff that we were supposed to be experimented on for?”

Lohen nodded.

"And you were the test subject?"

"Yeah."

"Are you stupid? Why would you willingly do that to yourself?"

You hit him in the shoulder, with a new kind of strength you didn't have last time he met you. "I know—I don't feel good about it either. I was desperate, and y'know, I thought it'd make me stronger, since Ursa's a dragon and all, and whatever. But yeah. It was stupid. I don't really regret it, though. Got to talk to Adorno for a bit longer, and the whole thing helped me accept I was weak.”

He stared at his outstretched palm, where he had pierced with his dagger. Ursa's screams echoed in his skull, and he squeezed his eyelids tight to ignore it. She was dormant, but his fears weren't. At the end of the day, he was nothing more than a mortal.

You nudged him. "I don't think you're weak. Acknowledging it makes you stronger than most people. And I don't think you were wrong for wanting Adorno to live longer."

Lohen shrugged. "I'm only strong among the weak. I'm nothing compared to the people I've met." Racher of Solnari. The Honorary Knight. Even Varka, the Grandmaster—those who belonged in fairytales and legends to be passed down from generation to generation. They all existed in a realm separate to Lohen's, a random boy who almost fell victim to a harbinger. "I'll get there. Someday. Just not today. I won't do anything like that again, old man."

(Of course, the grave did not respond. But he imagines Adorno ruffling his hair and telling him he was proud of Lohen.)

As long as he didn't lose sight of his goals, nor himself. Lohen had no need for power he couldn't control, for it wouldn't be known as power anymore—only poison.

You agreed with a hum. "You better not. You can't get stronger if you're dead."

Lohen let out a dry chuckle, then silence spoke next.

The wind got colder, though gentle, the grass danced alongside it. Fireflies paid a visit, some fascinated by the gravestones that stood tall, others preferred the flowers gifted to them. Day was no longer, aside from the dainty lights of streetlamps standing guard and the lantern sitting nearby, there was no light.

"Your turn." Lohen nudged you.

"What?"

"Tell him all about Inazuma. He wants to know how you've been doing. This time from you, and not the letters you sent over."

(Lohen never shut up about you, Adorno was the closest thing to a father for him, so naturally, he endured the most of his rambling. You'd write him something as simple as "I love sashimi" and Lohen managed to turn it into an essay's worth of conversation, pondering to Adorno on how he could prepare some as a gift to your return, or marveling at how the people of Inazuma ate fish raw, commending their bravery and immune systems.

Adorno often joked that you wouldn't be able to tell him anything about your time away, since he'd have already heard it from Lohen too.)

"You don't have to say it out loud. I just say it in my head if I don't want someone else to hear." He clarified. "Or you can pay another visit next time, if y'know, you need time to process?"

You shook your head. "I'm alright—I just don't know where to start."

"Wherever you want."

You took a deep breath, Lohen noticed the ever so slight tremble. "Hi Adorno. Long time no see." He leaned back on his palms, watching you tell your story. "I've gotten a lot better. Like really better, the psychologist I was seeing was actually a youkai. It's a kind of spirit from Inazuma and..."

...you told Adorno of Yumemizuki Mizuki, the dream eating tapir, and your psychologist, whom you held a world of gratitude for. You shared your progress, from learning to open up about your past to no longer having nightmares.

The story trailed to your job. It started as Mizuki providing you work at her bathhouse, a role where you prepared their snacks and meals for her clients. It was life-changing, as you described it. You let Adorno know that he didn't have to worry for your future, the job had given you the confidence to pursue culinary school, and you'd been financially stable by yourself ever since. Your career had given you a sense of direction, and you finally felt you belonged in the world.

"Having money's a lot of fun, to be honest. I'm glad I could finally do something for my parents with it."

Your words were soft, yet it strangled Lohen violently.

It was a long time ago, but there was a time where you cried more often than you smiled. Regrettably, you had argued over it. Multiple times.

I hate being so useless. I wish I wasn't a burden to everyone.

The fuck are you talking about? Lohen usually snapped, a tone he wished remained foreign to you. If you need money I'll give it to you. Stop beating yourself up over a stupid job. It wasn't worth your time if everyone there picked on you, was it? Your boss was a piece of shit anyways.

Nausea hit him in a violent wave. He always apologised without fail and you talked things out properly, but he knows he shouldn't lose control. Not towards the people he loves.

"...now that the Sakoku Decree's lifted, I'm back here." You concluded, look back at Adorno with a smile. "I'm probably going to...Lohen? Are you crying?"

Only then, did Lohen notice the wetness on his cheeks.

"No—" He lifted his half cape to conceal his face, recompose himself, and blame it on his dandelion allergy that he'd killed off years ago, but you were faster, prying his wrists away.

Your eyelids fluttered, as if you were the one crying instead. "Is it Adorno...?" You let his wrists go and crawled closer, soft thumbs wiping his tears away.

He shook his head, vision blurring with more tears. "It's yo—you, you're so happy now. And I dunno—I just feel relieved." His sinuses began to clog. "I thought of every time you cried and talked badly about yourself. And then I thought about whenever I lost my temper at you. And now I feel like shit. " His voice crumbled to nothing but weak sobbing. Lohen aggressively rubbed his eyes, as if he could rid of his tears that way.

Your last night in Mondstadt, six years ago, flashed in his head. Your posture was slumped, a contrast to how you stood tall today. He didn’t have to work for a full smile from you, it replaced the half-assed one you donned to cover up your feelings.

(Lohen wasn't sure what was fluttering in his stomach. Pride? Relief? A hybrid of both? He knew you were far more capable than you deemed yourself to be, so he wasn't sure why he was getting so emotional.)

His tears died down, and you wiped each and every one of them, until they were no more. Your hands remained on his cheeks, holding them, before giving them a gentle pinch.

"Nmmph?"

"Your skin's so soft!" You pinched again, this time tugging on his cheeks. "You really haven't changed. You're just a bigger version of your little self."

(Lohen would've smited anyone else who tried to touch him like this, or made such a patronising comment about him. And although you were the sole exception, he'd also never admit he likes being coddled like this.)

"You're sooo cute." You let go of his cheeks, leaving him feeling bare. Your skin was no longer on his, but his face remained warm. "It's okay though. I told you, I'd be back as a happier person."

He nodded, sick of how he sounded when he spoke. The quiver in his voice was nothing short of embarrassing and pathetic. He watched you shiver, hugging your knees tighter for any sort of comfort.

Lohen sniffled. "You're cold. Sorry, not tryna change the topic or anything. But you're shaking."

The moment you became aware of it, it seemed to intensify. "A bit. It rained a lot on the way here."

He sighed, huddling closer to wrap his cloak around you. "You should've rested first then, before doing anything."

"Probably." You coughed a couple times, pressing closer to him. "I got too excited though. I'll just eat a bunch of ginger."

Lohen huffed, guiding you to stand up. "I'm not going anywhere, neither is Adorno. Let's get you home."

You didn't resist, dusting off your knees. "Alright, alright—see you Adorno." You gave the grave one last stare. "And thank you for everything. Without you, today wouldn't have existed for me. For us."

A solemn nod from Lohen, and he silently agreed.

As you walked into the night, you gasped, peering down at the city before walking down the cobblestone stairs. “It’s so pretty. Look at all the lights from everyone’s house—oooh, and the stars!”

Lohen watched you smile. “Yeah. It’s beautiful. Very.”

“I missed Mondstadt.” You declared, jumping down each step one at a time.

(And Lohen missed you. Dearly so.)

“Mondstadt missed you too.” He murmured, a gloved hand reaching out for you, just in case you tripped or hurt yourself.

Together, you walked down the empty streets of Mondstadt City. The working week hadn't ended yet, leaving the city quiet and desolate, Lohen preferred this over seeing drunk men cheer and trip over their own feet.

"Where are you staying?"

(Though he appreciates your surprise return, he wishes you would've told him. Not only he thought he was having a heart attack, but he wanted to let you stay at his place—show off the fruits of his efforts and be the best host he could.

His shock died down, and now all he could think of was his confession to you. The moment he sends you back to your place, he was going to launch into frenzied brainstorming.)

"I'm renting a place at the moment."

His paranoia flared, questioning whose property it was. Shady landlords always targeted foreigners. Obviously, you weren’t one, but anyone could easily treat you as one after how long you were gone for.

But he didn't want to intrude. You’re smart enough to be cautious of scammers. "You could've stayed in my place. I moved into a bigger house since you left." He says, as if he hadn't told you this over parchment and ink already.

You chuckled, a tune he was addicted to. "I know, but I told you, I wanted this to be a surprise. The rent isn't too bad."

Maybe it was better that you weren't staying at his place. It gave Lohen better opportunity to figure out how he wanted to declare his love. It'd be awful if you walked into his preparations.

"Whatever you say."

Past the Good Hunter you turned, and there it was. You pointed to a building, it wasn't anything grand, but felt excessive for only one person to live in.

"We're here. Thanks again for walking me home." You grinned before sneezing, immediately covering your nose with your palm. The other hand fumbled through a pocket for a tissue.

"Geez—I thought you said your cold wasn't that bad?"

Before Lohen could speak, another voice reached for you.

The door to your house was open, and out came a man. He was tall, short, blond hair propped up by a black hairband. He donned a red jacket, over a tight, black shirt decorated by a silver dog tag.

Down the stairs he hurried, to check up on you and nag about your health.

Who the fuck is this?

After blowing your nose properly, you recomposed yourself, standing straight. "Sorry—I didn't think I'd be out this late." You looked back at Lohen. "Right. Lohen, this is Thoma." You gestured to the man besides you, who waved politely at Lohen, resembling a carefree dog. "Thoma, this is Lohen."

What the fuck is Thoma?

Despite being a man of quick decisions and logic, Lohen had little coherency in his thoughts.

"Nice to meet you, Lohen!" Thoma reached a hand out, and Lohen took far too long to reciprocate with his own. "Thanks for walking y/n home."

Were you seeing someone? This guy?

"Uh—yeah, no worries. Anytime."

No, he's jumping to conclusions. Friends travel and live together—

An aggressive shade of red dusted over your cheeks, reaching even your ears. "I'll see you soon. Thanks again." You quickly turned away from Lohen, ushering Thoma inside, muttering something about being cold.

With a final wave, you were inside. Through the window, he could see your blurry figures talk, and muffled laughter slipped out.

Lohen's expertise was vast, but was not applicable to romance in the slightest. However, everyone knows that a blush that deep had to indicate something, a crush, possibly even love, considering how far you had traveled together.

Paralysed and cold, he stood there, a storm of frantic thought brewing in his head. There's no way you guys were dating, right? You would've told him if someone had asked you out, or if you had a crush in the works. But what if this was another surprise?

For a brief moment, he pictured you guys on a date, and was met with immediate nausea.

(He was going to kill "Thoma", or whatever his name was, if it was the last thing he'd do.)

Since then, he was oddly provoked by Thoma, despite his polite demeanour and warmth.

When he returned home, he laid in bed and tried to rationalise the situation.

You. "Thoma". Dating?

Oh my god—what if you were married? Lohen didn't notice any rings on you, but you guys were reaching that age. You could've been intending on it, or maybe you packed your engagement ring away, all that’s valuable doesn’t belong in the open.

He buried his face into a nearby pillow, 

It's not like you've ever loved him back that way, nor did you vow to remain single forever (not that it'd even matter—you're allowed to change your mind whenever), but he felt a sliver of betrayal. If he was going to get rejected, he at least wanted to stand a good chance, rather than being nations away.

Lohen dismissed the thought, reminding himself to simply ask next time he saw you before preparing to go to sleep.

The next morning at work, he earned nothing short of concern and judgement.

"What even happened to you?" Eula commented, poking Lohen's head. His cheek was pressed up against the wooden table, neglected paperwork somewhere off to the side and his quill laid just as dead.

He heard Amber come over, too. "Dunno. He looked awful when he got here, then he kinda just gave up after the Grandmaster went out for lunch. Lohennn, are you alright?"

"Is traveling from nation to nation and living with each other a couple's thing to do?"

The two women paused. Amber spoke first. "I guess so...?"

Lohen's fist pounded the table. "I'm gonna kill that bastard."

With a worried, 'let's give him some time', Eula guided Amber away.

He finally sat up, eyelids fighting for their life to remain open. All he did was spiral instead of sleep, conjuring up all sorts of wacky possibilities. It tortured him until morning, and skipping work wasn't a luxury either, considering how he was already in trouble.

He slouched again, this time his chin resting on his forearms. He closed his eyes, hoping for a quick power nap before Varka could yell at him.

Eula came into the room again, heavy boots stomping and interrupting his attempted nap. He didn't react, until she knocked aggressively on the table.

"Fuck…I was trying to slee—"

From behind Eula you peered at him, an awkward smile plastered on your face.

'You have a visitor.' She said, then she turned to you. "Sorry about him. He hates paperwork."

He was tempted to interject, insisting that he wasn't that bad with paperwork, it was stupid Thoma's fault. All he did was tiredly squint, and burn with shame.

"Should I...come back another time? Work seems hectic."

He shook his head, excessively, leaving his bangs in his face. "No—what's up?" Frantic, he adjusted them,  

"I just...wanted to see you. And I have something I need to show you."

(It wasn't an engagement ring, was it?)

Lohen's gaze flitted around before returning to you. If he concentrated hard enough and made the most of his desperation, he'd get all this paperwork done. Hopefully soon. "Okay. Yeah that's fine. Just give me a bit more time, I'll be done soon."

The throbbing in his temples disagreed with him.

"Your library's so nice, I had a fun time talking to Lisa."

Lohen himself was impressed with his own performance. He powered through paperwork, a perfect balance of speed, and care, as to avoid being scolded and ordered to redo it all from scratch.

The fresh air helped out a bit, it woke him up and forced his eyes to stay alert. Being so openly weak was stressing him out, even with the confines of Mondstadt City and its walls, he couldn't help but worry about whether he'd be able to defend the two of you if anything happened.

"Lisa? Yeah she's alright..." He rubbed his eye, fervently.

Your hand clasped around his wrist. "You'll hurt your eye if you do that...did you not sleep enough?"

Not at all, actually. "Somethin' like that." His eye begged to be scratched again, but he held back for your sake. "Had...things on my mind."

You released him and nodded slowly. "Is being a knight that hard?"

(Being a knight was fine. Possibly having an unrequited love was far worse and nothing in comparison.)

He made an incoherent noise, before changing the topic. "Where are we going?"

"Back to mine." You smiled, and the exhaustion clinging onto his eyelid was beginning to fade. "I have stuff for you."

Lohen's face soured. Not at the thought of you, nor whatever you wanted to show him, but at Thoma. Lohen thinks he's going to throw up if he has to think about you two again.

"Wouldn't...Thoma be upset? Isn't he staying there as well? Don’t wanna intrude on you guys."

You shook your head. "He's visiting his mother today. Plus, he's a really sweet person, I'm sure you'd like him too.”

Lohen thinks not. "Are you guys like...friends?"

A pause filled the air. "I guess you could call it that. We met at culinary school."

(So are you dating or not? What kind of answer was that?)

Lohen nodded. He decided to take what he could get, and appreciate that he wouldn't have to see you and Thoma together, whatever your relationship was. He can worry about Thoma when he’s not sleep deprived and barely holding himself up. As you walked the familiar route from yesterday together, he found himself wincing whenever sunlight came too close for his liking, another predicament, alongside his brooding.

‘Oh yeah. I forgot to ask, but how are your parents doing?”

Lohen shrugged.

“Still not talking to them?”

“Yup.” He had no need for them or their ways. The most he did was pay a visit on their birthdays, dropping off a gift and a letter. He popped by on holidays, too, limiting conversation to basic greetings. You questioned it no further, just the way Lohen liked it—it was refreshing for someone to accept the way he lived, rather than yapping on about the importance of family and blood. “Yours?”

“They’re good. Turns out they prefer Inazuma far more than here.”

Lohen liked your parents, it was a shame they didn’t come with you. You inherited your kindness from your mother, who’d always encourage Lohen to come over for a meal whenever, and you had the same understanding as your father. Lohen never confided to him with his familial issues, yet he provided more insight on his situations than anyone else. He wished he could say hi again.

“What about you?” You haven’t told him exactly what you were doing here. “Are you just visiting?”

“Kind of? I’m planning to stay here for a bit. I don’t have a concrete plan.” You hummed, as the wind fluffed up your hair. “Might travel around, now that I’m not in the middle of nowhere.”

Good. That granted him a decent amount of time to confess to you.

 “Well, let me know when you figure it out. I want to hear all about it.”

The house you were staying in came into view, but the sound of crying snapped your neck towards it. “What happened?”

Lohen scanned the vicinity, nearby was a child, a young boy, wailing and clutching at his bloodied knee. You wasted no time, rushing to his side. 

“Are you okay?”

The kid cried some more.

Lohen joined you two. “Can you walk, kid?”

His tears didn’t stop, but he planted his small hands against your shoulders and pushed himself with a heave, biting his lip and gluing his eyes shut.

The kid turned to Lohen and nodded.

You inspected the graze. It appeared fine, with no visible dirt, and it was relatively shallow. “Well done. That must’ve hurt a lot, hm?”

He nodded. “It still does…”

With a subtle frown, you dug through your pockets, bringing out a small bag. “Want some candy? It’ll make you feel better.”

(Lohen wanted to ask for one too, but he refrained.)

As you tugged the pouch open, the kid deadpanned. “Mummy said I shouldn’t accept candy from strangers.”

Lohen couldn’t help but snicker, turning his face away to hide his amusement. “Smart kid—” He placed a hand on his back. “Mummy and Daddy are raising you right, hm?”

The kid stared back with judgement. Now it was your turn to laugh.

(Who knew kids were so unfiltered? Lohen knew kids were difficult, but looking back, he must’ve been a nightmare for every adult in the vicinity.)  

“Sage—I told you not to run.”

The woman’s voice almost echoed across the city, frantic and booming. The boy reacted immediately, hobbling into her arms and resuming his crying. You both stood up as well.

“C’mon, what do you say to the nice couple?” She urged him to say thank you, and the boy reluctantly turned around, hands still clinging onto her clothes. “Thank you for looking out for him…oh, you must be a knight?”

She looked Lohen up and down, he saluted in response. “Yes. Your son should be fine, as long as you clean and bandage it. It doesn’t appear to be serious.” It felt wrong, performing his formalities in front of you. He reserved this tone for diplomatic meetings, where pissing off an official could ruin an entire agreement, not the gentle streets of Mondstadt City, where you could speak to anyone as if they were close friends.

The woman sighed, and thanked you as well. “You guys would make wonderful parents.”

Your eyes grew wide. “P–parents?”

“Yeah.” She repeated, as if it were common sense. “Aren’t you a couple?” 

(See? Even the citizens of Mondstadt knew you two would be a great pair. Fuck you, Thoma.)

You corrected her with a stutter and flustered cheeks. “N–no ma’am.”

She was unbothered by it, and seemingly unconvinced as well. “Oh. What a shame, you seem to be close to each other.” With a final goodbye, she walked away with her son, excusing herself with needing to prepare dinner early tonight.

Together, you watched them return home. “Aw. I wanted him to taste test my candy.” The pouch laid in your hands and you frowned. “I didn’t know kids were so…sassy, nowadays.”

Giddy from the woman’s assumption, Lohen leaned closer. “I’m always here. I’ll eat anything and everything.” A random kid wouldn’t appreciate it as much as him, anyways. Those would eat anything as long as there’s enough colour and sugar.

You smiled. “Of course you will. You can try some after I show you what I planned out for you.”

A grin crept onto his lips. With anticipation akin to a child’s, Lohen followed you into your house like a puppy, overflowing with joy. 

When he reached your living room, you stopped him, slipping behind the knight before encasing his eyes with your hands. They were soft, and warm, nothing in comparison to the calluses that inhabited his palms. “You’ll keep it a surprise, right?”

He despised the unpredictable and unknown, but he nodded and his eyelids shut willingly. “Of course.” 

By his hand, you led him through the place, until coming to a stop. 

 “Open.” You requested. Then he obeyed.

Lohen blinked. It was just a living room. A bit bare, but it was a normal living room. There were crates stacked in a corner, presumably the belongings you and Thoma brought to Mondstadt.

He began sweating, wondering if he was just being incredibly dense. “Am I…?

You pointed to the corner, scurrying towards it and grabbing the closest one. “Souvenirs. For you. I probably should’ve considered how you were going to bring it home…”

Souvenirs? Those crates could probably carry every possession to his name.

“Come here—” You ushered him closer, placing the crate on the floor and prying off the lid. 

He crouched beside you. “A crate is a lot for souvenirs, isn’t it?”

“Is it too much? These are all for you.”

(Lohen has infiltrated illegal auctions. Embarked on trecherous journey to the lawless nation of Nod Krai. Even went face to face with a sinner of Khaenri’ah. But he’s never felt more lost than right now, at this moment.)

“W—How’s there so much? I thought these were all your things.”

You blinked. “Nope. They’re for you.” You shrugged, beckoning him to look through his gifts by himself. “If something made me think of you, I bought it.”

Inside were an assortment of weapons, alongside bottles of what he assumed to be poison.

“Ah—this stuff’s for work and your training.” You beamed. “A friend of mine, his family specialised in bladesmithing. You said the more weapons you have, the safer you feel.”

“Y–yeah I did but—” He gestured to the stack of crates nearby. “But this is insane—this would’ve cost a fortune.” He remembered your family being middle class, neither struggling nor subjugating financially, but this was an absurd amount for anything.

“It’s over six years! I promise I’ve been working hard, I stayed with family majority of the time anyways.” Your eyes sparkled with promise. “Plus, I wanted to do something nice for you. You never buy yourself anything. I bet you still hardly treat yourself.”

(You were right. Unless it was a necessity or gift for another person, Lohen seldom spent money. It was a waste, considering the Knights funded all equipment, which included most of Lohen’s collection, and he preferred to have a great sum saved up, just in case something ever happened to him.)

“I guess not?” He scratched at his nape. Protecting himself and guaranteeing safety was a good enough “treat” for him. “Dunno what I’m supposed to get for myself, anyways.” He craved the things money couldn’t purchase. Getting Varka off his back, never running out of stamina, you—

“Then let me do it for you. You’ve always worked hard, Mr Captain.”

The title made him stutter and blush. “Vice. I told you, I didn’t get the promotion after what happened.”

But you didn’t care. “Well, Adorno and I think you’re worthy of it. And it’s basically yours since it’s vacant, no?”

(God, he’s getting way too far ahead of himself, but Lohen really wants to propose to you on the spot.)

“I—” For a moment, Lohen thinks to hug you, thank you in his own special way, with affection and his entire being—

“y/n! Do you have someone over?”

Great.

“Yeah—it’s Lohen.”

Thoma’s head popped into the doorway, and he grinned from ear to ear. “Hey. Hi again.” He greeted Lohen, who responded curtly. “What are you guys up to? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

(Yes, yes you are Thoma. Read the fucking room.)

You patted the crate. “Souvenirs.”

Despite his irritation, Lohen wore a smile as he got up. “Hello again. How’s your mother doing?”

Thoma was caught off guard, glancing towards you. “She’s good, it’s been forever since I got to see her. Thanks for asking.”

“I didn’t expect you to remember that.” You mumbled, pushing off the crate to stand up. “He’s really attentive, isn’t he?”

His smile grew into something genuine in the praise. Thoma nodded along, hardly meeting Lohen’s gaze. “Yeah. Do you have any dinner plans?”

(Fuck. Lohen should’ve asked you to dinner before Thoma could.)

You shook your head, turning to Lohen. “Do you?”

He shook his head back, and internally, he was brimming with pride, celebrating the fact that you immediately turned to him.

Thoma readjusted his jacket. “Then since we’re all together, wanna go for a drink? It’ll be on me. I’ve hardly spoken to your friend yet.”

You immediately shook your head. “Lohen doesn’t dri—”

He lied, insisting otherwise. “It's alright. I couldn't possibly decline the kind offer."

And so, Lohen was seated in the Tavern besides you. Conversation of its patrons blended into one big mess, the noise infuriated Lohen, not nearly as much as his drink did.

Alcohol was fucking disgusting, Lohen thought, as he gulped down another ungodly mouthful. He glued his eyelids shut and swallowed, careful not to choke and spill any.

On the way to the Tavern, he watched you two carefully. So far, his theory of you two dating appeared false. There was hardly any physical contact between you two, nor did Thoma seem protective of you (and if Lohen’s assumption was correct, then Thoma was an awful boyfriend—who knows what could happen at night, near a bar where many drunk people were).

Logically, Lohen still stood a chance. However, getting you to like someone like him back, was an entirely new challenge he had to tackle.

Unlike Lohen, you and Thoma were fine, casually sipping without even a flinch. Conversation bounced between you with ease.

“I forgot how different Mondstadt’s beer was.”

“I wasn’t even old enough to drink, last time I was here.” Thoma finished the last of his drink, peering into the glass with an eye. “To be honest, I still prefer sake.”

With your glass to your lips, you chuckled. “Me too. This isn’t too bad, though.”

Lohen picked up his pace, you were finishing up too, he couldn’t fall behind. To find drinking alcohol enjoyable was weird, Varka, or anyone of the knights, had no right to call him insane when they could drink beer as if it were water, and derived pleasure from it.

(His stomach complained and groaned for help, but he kept going. He’ll make himself puke it out his system if needed. Lohen refused to appear weak in front of Thoma, out of all people.)

Another round of beers paid a visit, and Lohen already felt sick at the sight of a full glass.

“So Lohen, I had no idea you were Vice Captain! That’s really impressive.”

(What was that supposed to mean? That he didn’t appear worthy of his position?)

He played it off with a chuckle, thankful that speaking meant he didn’t have to drink. “It was nothing. Just took a few years of work.”

You butted in, protesting. “Liar—what do you mean Vice Captain isn’t a big deal?”

Lohen shrugged. “It’s not like I had to fight for my life for it.”

You huffed, taking another swig. “You still deserve credit.”

“You’re doing much better than me. If anything, hard work should be rewarded.” You were a cook because you dedicated your blood, sweat, and tears to it. Lohen was vice captain because he liked killing shit.

A smirk creased his lips, high off your praise, as he leaned forward to speak to Thoma. ‘What about you, Thoma? What do you do for a living?”

His face was hot and the insides of his mouth didn’t feel like his anymore, but he had to check what sort of guy you were possibly with. He took another large gulp, concealing his disgust with a sigh. 

Despite it all, Thoma was unbothered by him. “I’m the housekeeper and Chief Retainer of the Yashiro Commission.” He clarified, proud and bright. “Nothin’ special.”

Damn right. But that was too impolite to say. Lohen kept to himself and nodded. “I see. Any good in a fight?”

You answered before Thoma could. “He actually is—he faced the shogun.”

Lohen choked on his own spit. “What?”

Thoma aggressively shook his head, pink blooming on his cheekbones. “All I did was throw a spear.”

“Oh shut up—you threw it at her and somehow survived.”

“Stop bringing it up already.” But he laughed alongside you, the two of you happily bickered and drank beer. 

Lohen doesn’t get what you see in this guy. He took another swig, already adapting to the ugly taste.

Sure, Thoma did have a vision. And he was decently built, his muscles peeked out a bit from his tight top. And he was tall, really tall, but not in the same obnoxious, oversized way as Varka. He had blond, well kept hair and bright, green eyes that resembled green apples and ripe limes sold in the markets of Dornman Po—

Fuck. Now he was just listing all the good things about him. And there were plenty. Lohen himself couldn’t account for all the memories and feelings only you two shared and knew of. Thoma got to be there for you. Lohen was in a completely different continent.

Being blond wasn’t that important, was it? Varka’s blond and he wasn’t even close to marriage, neither was Jean. And it’s not like being short was a bad thing—a super tall partner would be unsettling anyways, wouldn’t it? Lohen had a vision too, and he’d say his physique wasn’t too shabby as well—

“...en? Lohen? Are you okay?”

(Just like how Lohen had to come to terms with his own mortality, he had to come to terms that maybe you weren’t meant to be. He should appreciate he gets to see you, and be within your presence, much like how he needs to acknowledge his human limits.

There was no point in brooding and complaining about Thoma, he’ll probably remain a bit bitter for the rest of time, but he should at least accept that you wanted someone else.)

It hurt, so Lohen drank some more.

His head spun and his face was warm and fuzzy. He rubbed his cheek with his own hand, despite the glove in the way. Even though it acted as a barrier, it felt abnormally warm. 

“Lohen?”

He blinked. “I’m fine. I can handle my liquor juuuust fine.” He slurred a bit, but he knew what he was doing, and where he was. He took another gulp. He’ll just get tipsy enough to forget about you and Thoma for a bit. This is why people drank, right? “Something happen? Need me to fight anything?”

Through half lidded eyes, he watched you shake your head. “You seem a bit…drunk?”

He gulped down some more to compensate. “I’m not. You have nothing to worry about.”

You acknowledged it with a hum, and went back to staring at your drink. Lohen wondered why you stopped talking to Thoma—maybe he went to the washroom, or something.

“You never told me you started drinking. I could’ve brought you back some sake.”

Thoma’s absence tempted him. He slouched over, resting his cheek on your shoulder. It was wrong, to snuggle so close with someone else’s lover, but he wanted to do it one last time. 

“It’s fine. It tastes like shit, anyways.” He reached for his drink, but you pushed it out of his grasp, and he gave you an indignant look, pale cheeks pouting, round and soft. 

“I’m pretty sure you’re very drunk. Drink water first. You need to flush it out your system.” You turned around, finding someone to call for water, but Lohen refused. With an immature whine, his arms wrapped around you, chin nestled into your shoulder. 

He could easily kiss you. All he had to do was move forward.

You smelled nice. A scent he couldn’t name, but it was far more pleasant than the colognes and perfumes he’s ever encountered. Something that didn’t fit into existing definition. His eyelids relaxed, and he embraced your proximity. 

“Y–you’re drunk—”

“And you’re pretty.”

Lohen pressed even closer, his nose brushing against his neck. He wanted to press a kiss on the flesh, bite a bit, even. He thought to himself, about how badly he wanted to kiss you all over, spoil you with all the affection he could possibly conjure. Maybe leave even a mark or two, bruising you with his love for the rest of the world to see.

(But he held back. It was audacious enough to cling onto someone taken. He needs to pull himself together and apologise before Thoma returns.)

Despite his effrontery, your hand made its way to his head, caressing his hair before patting his back. “Are you alright?”

(He wanted to throw up. Not because of the alcohol.)

“It’s not fair.” Lohen slurred, now burying his face into your shoulder. “You were gone for so long, how was I meant to stand a chance?”

He should’ve scraped up the money and joined you on that boat, and travelled across treacherous seas while by your side. That way, he wouldn’t have to swim in all his desire. Now, he found himself drowning, with no way of reaching the surface again. Lohen’s love filled him up to the brink, from his heart to his lungs, dragging him down to the depths of nothingness.

(Lohen charged at any sort of peril of ease, even back then with six years less of experience. A simple love confession may appear pathetic in comparison to the dangers he faced, but wounds heal and flesh grows back, while a rejection would leave a scar uglier than the ones his skin donned.)

His hand squeezed you even tighter. “I love you—I should’ve told you before you left. Maybe then I would’ve stood a chance against…Thoma.” His words were punctuated by a violent hiccup, it tasted of beer and misery at the back of his throat. “And got to be there for you. All I could do was write letters.” Lohen’s voice broke, almost crumbling into tears. “Do you know how scared I was? What if I somehow forgot your voice, or how you looked…”

Lohen’s face peeled off your shoulder, and his lips daringly inched closer to your ear, though he didn’t go any further. "I know I can't make you love me—” He whined, a pathetic noise, one that not even children could make. “—but I should've found a dandelion instead of tearing apart my letter. Maybe fate wouldn’t have taken you away from me.”

(Pull away, do it now, Lohen told himself. It grew into insistent commands, echoing in his skull. You’re not his. What he was doing was wrong and was only going to make things harder for everyone, especially you. He could barely excuse himself spewing his emotions like this, now was the time to let go. And throw up.) 

You weren’t replying. Of course you weren’t. He’ll have to apologise tomorrow, when his head wasn’t spinning and bile wasn’t growing at the back of his throat. 

The world faded to black.

For the first time in his entire life, Lohen was mortified at himself.

He carried not an ounce of shame when poisoning Varka’s oversized beers, nor when hunting down and blackmailing Kaeya for a forged signature. Rumours did nothing to him, he did not care for the opinions of others, only freedom reigned his actions and philosophy.

His eyes hadn’t even opened yet, and behind the darkness of his eyelids, all he saw was disgrace. He’d be impressed by how self conscious he was, if it weren’t for the fact that it was you he embarrassed himself in front of—he probably tarnished your reputation too, the one you barely got to rebuild after your return.

But he was remorseful as he was humiliated. You deserved an apology, and so did Thoma, even if he was envious of him. He’d let you beat him to a pulp if needed, if that was what it took to earn a chance of redemption.

“Fuck…” He groaned, pushing himself up. “Everything hurts.”

The sunlight oozing into the windows was blinding, despite being gentle and soft, all it did was make his head throb uncontrollably. His muscles screeched for help, soreness seized his body hostage. Lohen’s head felt too heavy, as if he could collapse at any moment.

He thought about last night, and everything beyond his body began to hurt.

It really wasn't a nightmare. You being in love with someone else.

Lohen cackled to himself, all alone in his bed. He's a fucking idiot, and loser, and should never be in the proximity of alcohol again. 

Why was he even surprised? You were perfection and sunlight personified, it was no wonder whenever someone asked you out. If anything, it was Lohen’s fault not considering that during his last goodbye.

But instead, he tore his confession into pieces, for a wish that came true far too late.

“I'm an idiot, aren't I…?” Lohen whispered, to no one in particular.

“I don't think so.”

“What the fuck—?”

You had just walked in with a glass of water. “Sorry. I heard you laughing and realised you were awake.” You approached his bed with a glass of water. “Feeling okay?”

Lohen accepted wordlessly. He wasn't sure what to be embarrassed for, from his unrequited feelings to whatever the hell he was doing earlier, it felt as though he’d done everything possible to make a fool of himself.

‘Good job.” You praised, taking the glass from his hands.

(You were attractive, even when talking to him like a child. Being praised for drinking water seemed absurd, but he wasn't allowed to say that when he was relishing every word.)

Now wasn't the time—he watched you place the glass on his bedside table, as you settled onto his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.”

Come to think of it, he hardly had any recollection of last night, aside from his shameless antics. It felt worse, not knowing the full extent of his predicament.

He glanced around his house. “How did I get back home?”

“I carried you.”

Lohen didn't remember that.

“Th–thanks. You didn't have to.”

“I didn't have a choice. You were clinging onto me and saying I had to come over.”

He didn't remember that either.

“It was pretty cute, actually. You were really excited to show me your new place. For good reason, too—”

‘I’m so sorry. I–I–I can slit my stomach open for you—that's how they do it in Inazuma, isn’t it?”

(He enjoyed being called cute far too much. Now was not the time for it.)

“No—I mean yes, they do—that's not the point.” Your hand held his, reassuring him with the rhythmic stroke of your thumb. “No one’s mad at you, Lohen. I’m definitely not.”

God, even now, you managed to be kind. Lohen would go insane if someone behaved as ridiculously as he did.

“Yeah but I bet Thoma is—”

“Why would Thoma be mad at you?”

He waved his hands around frantically. “I was hitting on you—I’d be pissed if a guy was all over my lover like that.”

You blinked once. Then twice.

“Thoma and I aren't dating.”

He was so shocked, that relief didn't even pay him a visit. In fact, nothing went through his head.

“Did you think we were together?”

“Y–yeah?”

You were stunned too, mouth hanging open as you processed his words. “Is that why you were one-upping him?”

“I was doing what?” A sharp pang throbs in his head for speaking too loud.

“While you were drunk—you were rambling about how Thoma. You said stuff about tall men being difficult to date and blond people being insanely overrated—”

Lohen snapped, unintentionally. “Stop. I'm gonna die if I hear the rest of that.” 

First, his one and only love didn't want him back, then he got wasted over a conclusion he jumped too, and now he was hungover in front of you.

He swallowed. “I still owe you two.” If anything, he’d prefer you to slit his stomach open, or beat him ‘til you were satisfied. Anything over how calm and understanding you were being. “You must’ve been embarrassed.”

You shrugged. “I told you, it was cute. I've never seen you so clingy.”

Another hot, uncomfortable wave of embarrassment washed over him.

He should bring up his feelings now, shouldn't he? Apologise for confessing in such an inappropriate, dramatic way in a public setting. Then he should walk you home and apologise to Thoma while he was at it.

Where should Lohen start? He drafted an apology in his head; about last night, sorry for—

“—I love you too, by the way.”

“The fuck?” 

A hand clasped over his mouth and he felt another urge to profusely apologise.

“Last night. You said you loved me.” 

He watched you inch closer, his heart racing even more when he felt your warmth in his proximity. “I did say that.”

“Why are you so surprised then?” Your hand holds onto his, abnormally warm compared to his body temperature. “I'm giving you an answer.”

“Wh—are you sure?” Since when were you this ballsy? You used to be so timid and shy, now you were essentially climbing onto him. “I must be going insane.”

“I had six years to think about you while I was gone. Yes, I’m very sure.” You pinched his cheek, gently tugging at the flesh. “See? You're not dreaming.”

Lohen’s mouth hung open, yet no sound came out. He stared at you, and at your thighs that were on top of his, and the pink permeating the apples of your cheek.

(Words were never his thing. Paperwork was pointless when all the information was in his head and made perfect sense to him. He even had a hard time adapting to writing letters, it didn’t sound nearly as nice when it was in ink instead of speech.)

So Lohen pulled you closer. You landed on his chest, his arms clamped around you like a vice.

You yelped, peering back up at him. “Lohen?”

His fingertips played with the back of your shirt. “May I?”

“Sure but what are you—” A shaky gasp interrupted your question, and the noise drove Lohen insane. “Cold—your hands are so cold—what are you doing?”

"Need to feel you more—" His hands massaged the soft flesh, he was right, you’d gained quite a bit of muscle since you left. His hands paused and his hollow eyes held something akin to sorrow. “Fuck. Do you know how upset I was? I–I–I was worried you were engaged.

You snorted, pinching his cheek again. “Engaged? Why would I be engaged with Thoma, when all I wanted was here in Mondstadt?”

Lohen’s gaze drifted away. “You were blushing.”

“Hm?”

“You were blushing around him. When I dropped you off. So I thought you had a thing going on.”  

This time, you burst into laughter. Normally, he’d enjoy how it sounds, but right now, all it did was fuel his embarrassment. He withdrew his hands from your back and rubbed his eyes as you composed yourself. “Sorry—that was mean. Did it not occur to you that I was flustered because of you?” 

Lohen frowned and scoffed. “You didn’t even look at me when I dropped you off.”

You rolled over, settling next to him. “Really? I probably got embarrassed. I told Thoma all about you, y’know? Since like...the beginning of our friendship? He kept telling me to confess to you during the trip here. He even made a whole gameplan for me. Y’know he only invited us to dinner to try to get us alone. He slipped away after you got tipsy.”

(Huh. Maybe Thoma was a good guy, after all. Not only does he owe him an apology, but a massive thank you, as well.)

“So. There’s no doubt that you’re the one I want, okay? It was like that long before I left Mondstadt.”

Weakly, he nodded, finally able to feel relief. “Okay.”

You liked him back, no, loved him back. For over six years, too. 

Lohen's heartbeat raced, to the point he began to worry about it bursting out of his chest. Unable to cope with all the emotions eating away at it and his pounding headache, he flopped back into bed. He’ll deal with it when he’s not hungover. For now, knowing of your feelings was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment.

He turned away from you, burying his face into his hands, wincing at the aftermath of his drinking. "Ugh. My head fucking hurts...'m gonna die for a bit. Wake me if it's an emergency."

You sat up instead, already heading to the kitchen. "Oh. I just started preparing a hangover soup but—"

Lohen shot up, posture pin straight.  "I'll eat."

“You just said your head was hurting. You should rest first.”

But he stood up, throwing his blanket somewhere on the floor. “Soup. I want soup.”

Your mouth opened to protest, but you gave up. “Sure. Whatever you want. Let’s go to the kitchen, then.”

“I love you.” Lohen said, a plea for you to say that you loved him again. Even with evidence, everything still felt like a dream. He wondered if this was another pleasant dream, and he’d wake up, forehead to the desk in Varka’s office with groggy eyes, accompanied by paperwork instead of you. 

He begged for it not to.

You took his hand, pulling him along. “I love you too, Lohen.”

“So. Now we’re together.”

Lohen’s quill was nowhere to be seen, and his feet were propped up onto the table, as Varka groaned, arms crossed at his own desk.

“I get that young love is beautiful and whatnot. But might I remind you, that you’re still under strict supervision and you didn’t come in at all yesterday.”

Lohen rolled his eyes, his cheery mood undeterred by Varka’s disappointment. He had spent the entire morning rambling about you, celebrating your new status as lovers and verbally brainstorming his plans for the future. He told Varka of all the souvenirs you brought him (if it could even be called that—there were crates upon crates) and boasted about how lucky he was to be in love. He even went as far as mocking Varka, boasting about how you made him a special hangover soup, all from scratch, while Varka had to tough out his hangovers.

(He even ventured towards the topic of marriage, debating where to get an engagement ring commissioned someday and reminding himself to figure out your favourite gemstone. Varka scoffed when Lohen asked where he got his, rubbing in the fact that the Grandmaster was very much single. The closest thing Varka was married to was duty and responsibility—maybe even alcohol, too.)

A gloved hand rested over his chest. “To be fair, you did pull me out of solitary confinement for them.” He stared at the roof, unbothered by the chandelier’s glare as he swooned. He’ll pick up a nice bouquet of lovers on his way home for you. “Six years have never been more worth it. Barbatos, I'm sorry for cussing you out. You're not so bad.” He said to no one in particular.

The Grandmaster stood up, approaching the young man. He grabbed his quill and tossed it in front of him. “Was your lover worth getting wasted in front of everyone?”

Lohen’s heart sank to his stomach. His neck snapped straight and he looked Varka dead in the eye.

“Oh hey. You’re turning red now. You’re starting to remind me of Diluc’s hair.”

“How’d you even know about that?” Suddenly, his feet were off the table, heels planted to the floor and his body tensed up, as if preparing to escape or attack Varka at any moment.

“I was there? Had a drink with Kaeya and caught up with Thoma. His mother and I go way back” A slight smirk creased his lips. “You don’t seem very fond of him.”

You failed to mention that, all you told him was that he was being clingy and confessed, before begging you to come over. How much did you leave out? You were the type to omit details for the sake of another’s dignity, and the only things Lohen could recall by himself was his slurred speech and whining. 

Varka didn’t relent in his teasing. “Huh. You don’t seem so bad when you’re shy. I can see why you’ve finally found yourself a lover. Well done, by the way. Good thing Thoma wasn’t interested in them.” 

“I’ll do the paperwork, okay?” He snatched the quill, grip tightening to the point his knuckles faded to white. At this rate, he was going to do things worse than poisoning his beer. He’ll rush through this paperwork before running off to go see you again.

But apparently, his current state wasn’t amusing enough. “I can see why you don’t drink. You’re worse than me. You even threw mora at Thoma to prove you were richer. Kind of cute seeing you jump to conclusions and get all whiny—”

“Shut up.” He really will up his dose of poison. And throw out the antidote while he’s at it.

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

[orang3rinds]

a softer type of life — lohen

⤹ sfw, oneshot, lohen's idea of domesticity is a little skewed at the end, may be ooc im still getting a handle on his character, kind of an analysis?, not beta read

(1.8k words)

cross-posted on ao3

For a man like Lohen, routine is a nightmare.

Perhaps the life of the expedition had changed him irreversibly— waking up in the wilderness every morning, never knowing for sure if he'd eat that night, sleeping with a hand around his dagger just in case a stray monster managed to wander past the night watch… perhaps it had been his childhood kidnapping that made him into this— a nocked arrow quivering against the bowstring. Always itching to be fired straight into the heart of the enemy, unable to stay in one place without a trained hand holding him back.

Or perhaps he had simply always been this way.

In any case, the original statement remains true. Lohen cannot stand a daily routine.

As his fellow knights grew accustomed to life in Mondstadt again, welcoming back their old habits, Lohen was forced to watch them grow far too comfortable. The same knights that he would go on morning patrols with through the wilderness now spent their mornings off casually watering plants and laughing with friends in the street. The same knights that would previously spend their nights polishing up their weapons in preparation for the next battle were now heading to the bar after their shifts, casually and jovially downing drink after drink without any concern over who would watch over them in their drunken stupor.

Lohen couldn't understand the desire for such simple things. These new routines of theirs only encouraged complacency— not to mention, they were also unbelievably restricting. Why spend time on things like sweeping leaves off your neighbor's porch, or catching a child's lost cat, when you could be spending that time getting stronger? Did his comrades not feel that itch under their skin when they sat too still? Could they not feel themselves splitting apart at the seams without something new? Were they really so content to remain exactly as they are? To remain so slow and weak and powerless and mortal?

Trying to understand it made Lohen's head spin. Those at the top of the food chain controlled everything beneath— If Lohen himself were nothing more than a rabbit, he would fight every day to claw his way up to the top with the wolves. He couldn't think to comprehend how someone could remain happy knowing that one day, they'd be eaten by a larger predator, and there would be nothing at all they could do about it.

Yet perhaps the most confusing of all was you.

You, who has never picked up a weapon in your life. He asked you about why, once— while watching you flit around your home to and fro as if cleaning the dust from your windows would be of any real benefit to you.

"I just never felt the need to, I suppose." You had looked at him a little curiously, but given him a smile when you answered nonetheless. Lohen found himself at a loss on what to say in return to that. It was absurd. Even as a young child, Lohen had been around weapons. His first toy was a handmade wooden bow from his parents— and even now, he never left his home without at least one dagger tucked up his sleeve.

But you were perfectly happy never to touch a weapon in your life. You were the very epitome of everything Lohen despised about himself. Slow. Weak. Powerless. Mortal.

And yet, for some reason he was unable to place, Lohen couldn't bring himself to hate you for it.

Instead, he found himself drawn into your presence like a moth to a flame. After his late night trips into monster camps he would end up at your door after every injury without fail, leaving puddles of blood on your porch step. You welcomed him in every time, your hands as gentle as the breeze as you ushered him into the warmth of your home.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," He'd joke, lightheaded from the blood loss— and you'd laugh in that way that reminded Lohen of the bells that chime around the city during Windblume. It was easy, in the dark of night, to ignore how his heart fluttered at the sound. It was less easy to ignore in the morning, while he helped you to scrub his bloodstains off of your porch.

But he had to wonder— When you touched him so carefully, to wipe the blood from his face with a damp cloth, to disinfect his numerous wounds— did it count as holding a weapon?

Lohen liked to think that it did. Perhaps it made him feel safer with the concept of your weakness; by having him around, you basically had a weapon on hand. A dangerous, volatile weapon, who was likely to cut the hands of whoever were to wield him, but a weapon nonetheless.

It certainly makes him feel safer now, standing at your doorstep out of uniform with a basket of fresh fruit in one hand and a dagger tucked into his other sleeve. Returning to your home feels a bit like returning a sword to its sheath— tucked away neatly so it can't cut anyone, while still remaining on the body of its owner in case of an emergency. While indulging in your weakness, Lohen is also keeping you safe at the same time. His presence alone is akin to that of a weapon, after all of the training he has gone through to twist himself into one.

Lohen tosses the thought of you owning him like a weapon around in his mind a bit, and finds rather quickly that the idea isn't entirely unpleasant to him.

"Lohen!" The door creaks a little when you push it open, and theres flour dusted across your cheeks. Your eyes don't even scan him for weapons before you're welcoming him inside, a grin tugging at your lips like it belongs there. "Come in, come in! I'm just baking right now, I'll put this down and we can chat!"

The knight can only shake his head, raising up the little basket of fruits he brought along with him. You brighten at the sight, and Lohen is a bit dazed by the fact that you hadn't even noticed that he was holding something. If someone had come to your door with a knife, would you have still opened it? Worse, still— would you have even been able to fight back?

Lohen can't ponder that thought for too long before you're approaching, keeping your powder-covered hands away as to not stain his clothes.

"Ehh, don't worry about that," Lohen finally said, his response feeling just a bit too late to be natural. "I'll help out. We can use some of the stuff I brought."

"Alright, alright. But you can't complain when I put you to work!" You laugh, and Lohen is once again reminded of the Windblume bells. "Why'd you bring this over, anyway? Some special occasion I'm forgetting?"

"Hm? Oh— Just consider it a… 'friendship fee'. They were a gift from my team, and they'd just rot at my place."

The lie slips out easily. In truth, Lohen had seen them for sale on the way to your home, and thought immediately of how you'd smile at the sight of such a gift. You seem somewhat content with his explanation, however, scoffing under your breath about how you don't need any kind of payment for your friendship.

Somehow, the word 'friendship' feels incredibly flimsy when Lohen thinks about you, but he makes no effort to correct himself in the moment.

"What're you making, anyway?" Lohen finally asks, clearing his throat a little as he sets the basket down on your counter.

"Apple pie!" You brush against his side as you eye up the fruits in the basket, carefully plucking out the ones that you deemed acceptable. Your touch feels hot against his side, even through his shirt. Lohen has to take a shaky breath in, the burn of your touch more delicious than any other pain he's ever felt. "Lucky you brought extra, I was worried I wouldn't have enough."

You set the handful of apples down in front of him one at a time, making a neat little row across the counter. Right next to them, you place down one of your kitchen knives. You carelessly leave the blade pointed at yourself, and Lohen can't stop himself from reaching over and pointing it towards himself instead when you aren't paying attention.

"Here, cut these up for me? With the both of us working, it should be a lot faster!" You turn away after that, busying yourself with finishing up the batter for what it likely the pie crust.

Seeing you so domestic was… almost frightening. Whether you realized it or not, this life you lived was unbearably fragile. One wrong move and this world you've built would come crumbling down into a heap. You'd be left defenseless, your simple routine of dusting windows so the sun shines through and baking on weekends for no reason in particular completely useless at leaving you prepared for such an outcome.

Lohen swallows hard, his throat suddenly feeling tight as he picks up the blade you left for him. It was hard to imagine himself ever living in such a fragile, gentle world with you. You turned your back away from him like you hadn't just given him a knife, trusting him wholly not to run the blade through your chest. He never would, of course, but there was no way you could ever truly know that.

His grip tightens around the knife in his hand, the sensation both familiar and foreign.

Out of the two of you, it was clear that you were the weaker party. You couldn't fight, you didn't own weapons, and you were overwhelmingly trusting of him. Perhaps to a fault.

So why was it that Lohen still felt that it was him? Why was it that his hands felt so useless when he saw your smile? Why was it your face he saw in his mind every time he lost a battle?

In an act of uncharacteristic obedience, Lohen turns away from your form and begins cutting up the apple you placed in front of him. He isn't sure when he became so invested in this domestic routine of yours, but imagining a life without it makes his stomach roll uncomfortably.

Lohen has trained himself into a weapon— but for you, he finds that the idea of living in a domestic routine suddenly doesn't sound too terrible. If you asked, he would gladly cut up apples for you while you baked. He would scrub his blood off your porch. He would fight off any monster that dared to look your way.

And this soft life you lived… Lohen would just have to become twice as strong to protect it in your stead.

No matter what.

[yoichew]

───── when wounds mean more than its blood

cw. lohen x reader. gn reader. intentional lowercase. fluff? (wow...) lohen is injured and he is noot happy about that, just like you, his lover. might be ooc even tho i did his story quest the second it came out LOL. cheesy af but god forbid we dream. yeah its probably self indulgent you caught me. not proofread, i havent done this in a while, its been two years... ~600 wordcount.

for the vice captain of the 5th company whos obsessed with power — the way lohen's fingers nervously tap against the bedside table's surface isn't exactly screaming powerful.

he was currently sitting on the edge of your bed— slouching and his head held low, basically everything but being full of power — with you crouched in front of him, finally finishing with patching him up.

and even as he no longer feels your hands on him, he still doesnt budge — still spacing out...

honestly, he's been silent the entire time — to the point you didn't even pester him about getting hurt.

"lohen."

"hm?"

"hello?"

"mhm."

"i can't believe you're pretending to be listening! to me, of all people! don't tell me im starting to sound like varka when he nags you—" you gasp, theatrically — you're only joking around to see if he'll respond, like always.

lohen lets out a chuckle at that. "no— no, im listening. i swear." but then he goes silent again. and this time the rhythmic tapping of his fingers also stops. now he's just staring as you stand up and sit beside him.

"alright, what's wrong?" you ask, poking his cheek.

"its nothing."

"oh you know it's not nothing. usually when you come over, you're boasting about how you've taught your fellow knights some nice lessons! or about how many monsters you've killed in under a minute during patrol," your hand moves — as it's now ontop of his, squeezing gently. "lohen, you're really trying to hide? from me?"

"am i really that obnoxious?" (he sighed once you nodded) "it's dumb. i just... you know, i hate ending up like this— having to be patched up and everything. i mean, the pain is fine but the fact i got hurt from a bunch of lowsy monsters says alot, you know..."

you didn't respond for a moment, but only because you understood. sure, you hate when he was hurt — but he hates it too. not in the same way as you, oh, no, he probably loves the pain. but while the ache is nothing, its the fact he even got to the point of feeling it is the problem. getting hurt just means you could get hurt worse. he fully believes strength is everything. after all, being strong gives you the privilege of not having to ever fear of being used or controlled...

"oh lohen..." you smiled softly, "im just glad you're okay, im glad you aren't badly hurt, im glad i got to patch you up—"

"oh, i know. you're always glad to see me." lohen smirks slightly.

and you just slap his shoulder weakly (or is your 'strong' just nothing to him?) "now you're just ruining the moment," you huffed playfully.

but he just tackles you onto the bed — not too rough, of course. "lohen!" you scold slightly, "your wounds are still healing!"

"yeah, yeah..." he mutters, now lying beside you— his head titling slightly to press against your shoulder, not long before he looks up at you, as if waiting for something...

"yes, yes... you are, and forever will be, the best and the strongest," you mused.

"mhm, mhm" he agrees smuggly, though it almost sounds like a purr to you

"forever my lohen?"

"yours," he mumbles — in that soft voice that doesnt sound like him — he's a little bashful even as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer "though ill have to get stronger twice as much if im gonna protect you too," he jokes (but hes serious) — only for him to suddenly, "oh shit— that stings," when you get to close to his wound.

"i told you to stop moving so much!"

[nvlvrd]

˚✧₊⁺✧༚ Aomine Daiki x reader

5 , 392 : Pure fluff ✧

✧ high school lovers, cuddling ✧

You love when he holds you in his arms.

Sometimes, a simple gesture carried more meaning than words. The silence around you felt soft, almost sleepy.

Your head rests against his chest and your slow breathing brushes against his neck. You can feel Aomine shiver sometimes at the contact, but he doesn’t care. He just keeps you close to him.

And you love that feeling.

The feeling of his arms around you, how they make you feel like he’s completely wrapped around you. Like nothing could reach you here.

The feeling of his warmth against your body, the fabric of his hoodie beneath your fingers, the comforting weight of his embrace keeping you close without ever holding you too tightly.

The sound of your boyfriend’s heart beneath your ear, his chest pressed against yours, his warmth surrounding you.

His hand slips slowly along your back, warm and absentminded, while you stay tucked against him on his bed, the dim quiet of his bedroom surrounding you.

You can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath your cheek, calm enough to make your own match his without even thinking about it.

The room is warm, sleepy.

His hoodie smells faintly like laundry and cologne, and the soft light spilling through the curtains makes everything feel slower somehow.

And when his fingers press lightly against your waist to pull you a little closer, you melt into him instantly.

Aomine lets out a quiet sigh above your head, the kind that sounds tired but comfortable, and you feel his chin rest for a second against your hair.

Neither of you says anything.

You just stay there tangled together in the silence of his room, wrapped in warmth and softness, listening to each other breathe while the world outside feels impossibly far away.

★⋆ -- 232 Fun fact : This is the dream I had about my crush ( I'm devastated ).

[weirdergirlbrina]

Hajime Iwaizumi is a weak willed man.

Nobody would ever expect it, hell he doesn’t even expect it.

All it took was one little, “I think you’d look hot with an eyebrow piercing,” paired with a slow bat of your lashes.

Now he’s sitting on a piercing bed, gripping your hand like they’re going to shoot him in the head.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he grumbles, eyebrows pinched together as the piercer finishes setting up across the room.

“You don’t have to do it you know” you laugh, your other hand rubbing slow circles on his thigh to calm his nerves.

He shoots you a flat look immediately, “Shut up”

That only makes you laugh harder, “What the hell did I do?”

His jaw tightens, ears faintly pink now, “You sat there batting those pretty little lashes at me saying I’d look hot,” he mutters, like this is somehow a perfectly reasonable explanation, “Now I have to do it.”

You crinkle your nose at him, your soft little smile soothing the nervous knot in his stomach, “Haji, you’re literally a grown man. You can do whatever you want.”

“And I want to make you happy, sue me” he shoots back instantly.

The words hit harder than they should. The way he says it so casually, so matter-of-fact.

Like your happiness is the easiest thing in the world to prioritize.

You can’t help the fond grin that pulls at your lips, or the warmth that blooms across your face.

Iwa notices immediately, of course he does.

He playfully rolls his eyes, his own little smile tugging at his lips now, “Quit lookin at me like that, you’re making me more nervous now”

You grin, thumb brushing over his knuckles, “You’re so ridiculous.”

He pulls your hand to his lips, peppering tiny little kisses all over it just as the piercer walks back over and starts setting things down beside him.

“God,” he mumbles against your skin, “you’re so lucky I love you this much.”

Your smile only grows as you huff out a little laugh, “You’re gonna look so hot”

He goes completely silent.

Then, after a beat,

“…Yeah?”

————————————————————————

A/N: this was so stupid he’d look so delicious with an eyebrow piercing tho

this was for the anons that wanted iwa content, enjoy

[velverii]

" Just Out of Reach

SYNOPSIS: For years, you lived in the shadow of one name: Alhaitham. No matter how hard you studied or how close you came, he always remained just out of reach. But as the Akademiya's examinations draw near and the pressure begins to mount, something starts to change. Will you finally surpass the rival you have chased for so long? Or will you discover that there is more waiting for you beyond first place?

TAGS: ALHAITHAM X READER...ish?, ONESHOT, comfort, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, burn out reader, written in reader's POV, second POV, use of Y/N twice, one-sided rivalry, inaccurate system of the Akademiya?

WC: 14.5k

A/N: there's no outright romance between reader and alhaitham in this fic, but their interactions are admittedly very cute, and there are several moments where your heart is hammering and your face is suspiciously warm.... feel free to interpret their relationship however you'd like—platonic, romantic or somewhere in between! i personally wrote it with romantic lens :) thank you @ikeepforgettingmyacc for beta reading, this has been in my drafts for over a year and only found the time to finish it now huhu, so please enjoy ♡

There had been a time when failure was a concept reserved for others—a distant storm seen on the horizon, but never one that drenched your own skin. Intelligence and success was as natural as the comforting swish of the rivers that cradled your village, tucked far from Sumeru City. Your home was a place of endless green fields and golden afternoons, a sanctuary where life moved at the pace of a slow drifting cloud.

In a village where news traveled faster than the merchants' caravans, your mind became the local legend.

By the age of eight, the local instructors had run out of wisdom to offer you. You had swallowed their lessons whole, leaving them with nothing but your questions.

By ten, the passing travelers with dust on their boots and ink on their fingers would pause in their journeys just to witness the child who spoke in the cadence of a sage.

By twelve, you were the child the villagers pointed to with a mixture of pride and reverence.

"This is the one" they would whisper, their voices thick with a communal hope. "The future of the Akademiya. The brightest spark our soil has ever produced."

At first, the attention felt like a heavy cloak, too warm for a child to wear. You would duck your head, your gaze falling to the grass, wishing to be just another child in the fields. But as the years bled into one another, the cloak became your skin. The expectation of greatness ceased to be a burden and became your baseline.

You still remembered the evening the old researcher visited.

The air had been thick with the scent of jasmine and the low hum of summer insects. Over a modest dinner, the man had leaned forward, his eyes bright with the fervor of a man who had seen the world's wonders.

"You must send them to the Akademiya," he had urged, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.

Your mother’s laugh had been soft, tinged with the bittersweet reality of the village. "As if we could afford to pluck such a rare flower from its roots."

The researcher had shook his head, undeterred. "If they continue to study with such ferocity, the Akademiya will find its own way to pluck them."

You had sat there, feigning interest in your meal, but your heart had been racing. The moment the guest departed, the dam broke. A hundred questions spilled from you, frantic and hungry: What are the libraries like? Is the air truly thick with the scent of old parchment? How many minds gather under the Great Tree? Is it true that the very foundations of Teyvat’s wisdom are laid there?

Your father had eventually laughed, a warm, grounding sound, and sent you outside to let the fever of your curiosity cool.

That night, you sat beneath a canopy of stars that felt close enough to touch. You watched the constellations and saw patterns—equations, and possibilities. You imagined yourself walking through halls of marble and vine, your footsteps echoing against the weight of centuries of thought.

For years, that dream was your North Star.

Every book devoured, every sleepless night spent under the dim glow of a candle, every ounce of your fragile energy poured into study. It was all a pilgrimage toward a single destination.

The Akademiya.

When you finally arrived, the sheer scale of Sumeru City felt like a physical blow to the chest. The architecture was a breathtaking. A marriage of nature and intellect—massive, ancient trees intertwined with soaring stone structures, creating a labyrinth of shade and light. Scholars hurried through the streets, their debates flowing as naturally as the wind through the leaves.

It was a symphony of thought, and you were ready to join the orchestra.

You entered the examination halls, not with the trembling hands of a student, but with the quiet certainty of a scholar. You weren't arrogant—arrogance required a sense of superiority. You were simply certain.

Hours later, you emerged into the sunlight, your mind buzzing with the satisfaction of a task completed perfectly. You had performed well. No... you had performed flawlessly.

Three days later, the rankings were posted.

A sea of students surged toward the board, a cacophony of nervous whispers and frantic shuffling. You moved through the crowd with a calm grace, your eyes searching the parchment for your name.

You found it.

Second.

The world seemed to tilt. The warmth of the sun felt suddenly cold against your skin. You blinked, certain the ink had betrayed you, and looked again.

Second.

The name etched above yours was a stranger's name. Alhaitham.

The margin between your brilliance and his was a mere ghost of a margin less than a single percentage point.

It was absurd.

For a long moment, you simply stared at the ink, the silence in your mind deafening. Then, a small, breathless laugh escaped your lips. It wasn't a laugh of joy, but one of sheer, bewildered irony.

Second place? you thought, a spark of quiet defiance lighting in your chest. Fine. Let him have this one. I will take the first during the next assessment. It is a simple matter of effort.

You walked away from the board, already calculating your next move, already planning your ascent. It was a simple plan.

Except, the next assessment came and the world refused to bend to your will.

And Alhaitham remained first.

Then another.

Then another.

The cycle became a rhythmic, cruel heartbeat that pulsed through the halls of the Akademiya. Weeks bled into months; months stretched into years, and the seasons of Sumeru the heavy rains and the stifling humidity seemed to pass in a blur of ink and parchment.

Every single ranking ended with the same devastating cadence.

Alhaitham.

Then you.

The gap between your scores was never a chasm rather it was a thin, razor sharp line that sliced through your confidence.

It never widened, and it never vanished.

It served as a silent, mocking reminder that no matter how much of your soul you poured into your studies, someone else was always standing exactly one step ahead.

But the sting of the rank wasn't what truly wounded you. It was his indifference.

Most scholars at the Akademiya wore their intellect like a mantle of gold. They craved the prestige; they hungered for the validation of their peers and the nods of their professors. They lived for the competition. But Alhaitham? Alhaitham treated brilliance as if it were a mere chore, a mundane necessity of life.

He attended lectures with a detached, surgical precision. He completed assignments with a terrifying efficiency. He read, he learned, and then as if he were simply finished with the world for the day he would vanish. He would slip away before the accolades could be handed out, leaving the air empty where his presence had been.

You would see him in the periphery of your vision: a quiet figure tucked beneath the shade of a tree between classes, or a silhouette buried deep within the shelves of the House of Daena. When a professor offered him praise, he didn't beam or bow; he merely looked vaguely inconvenienced, as if the compliment were a gust of wind that had slightly disturbed his reading.

You hated that.

You hated the effortless grace of his intellect. You hated the way he seemed to inhabit a world where the struggle for excellence didn't even exist. Most of all, you hated the way you had become a satellite orbiting his sun, your entire sense of self defined by the distance between your name and his.

The rivalry was a ghost—a phantom battle fought entirely within the quiet chambers of your own mind. To the rest of the world, you were a brilliant scholar; to yourself, you were a perpetual runner up.

By the time the next major examination approached, the obsession had grown teeth. It had become something jagged and ugly.

Your dormitory had become a sanctuary of madness.

Every inch of desk and wall was smothered in notes, diagrams, and scribbled theories. You studied through the haze of your meals; you studied the rhythmic sway of the trees as you walked; you studied in the liminal spaces between waking and sleep.

Friends’ invitations grew infrequent, their voices fading into the background as you declined one gathering after another. Professors began to look at you with growing concern, their voices softening as they asked if you were sleeping enough, if your health was holding.

You would offer them a calm, practiced smile. "Yes, of course. I am resting well"

The truth was far more exhausting.

The truth was that you were tired of the silver medal. You were tired of being the shadow. And this time, you were prepared to burn yourself to ash if it meant finally eclipsing him.

That desperate determination was what led you to the House of Daena long after the sun had dipped below the horizon and the bustling crowds had retreated to their homes. The Great Library was a cathedral of silence, lit only by the soft, amber glow of lamps that cast long, dancing shadows against the endless rows of books.

The air was thick with the scent of old paper and dried ink. You sat hunched over a heavy tome, your eyes stinging, your fingers trembling slightly from fatigue. The world outside Sumeru City had drifted into a peaceful slumber, but your mind was a storm of equations and logic.

Hours bled into one another, marked only by the turning of pages and the scratch of your quill. You were so deeply submerged in the sea of knowledge that you almost didn't hear the shift in the air the subtle change in the library's quiet rhythm.

Then, a soft, deliberate tap landed against your shoulder.

Your heart gave a sudden, violent leap. You turned, your breath catching in your throat, expecting a librarian or a weary fellow student.

Instead, you found yourself staring into the calm, unreadable eyes of Alhaitham.

He was standing there, looking as though he had simply stepped out of a dream, his presence as cool and steady as the moonlight filtering through the high windows.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you wasn't the heavy, awkward kind one might expect from two rivals, nor was it the comfortable quiet of friends. It was something sharper.

His gaze didn't land on your face first; it traveled.

It swept over the dark, bruised crescents beneath your eyes, the untouched tray of food sitting cold beside your notes, and the frantic, cluttered mountain of texts that seemed to be slowly swallowing you whole. His eyes lingered on your hand the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly as they gripped your quill, stained with ink and fatigue. Slowly, his eyes narrowed. It was the look of a scholar identifying a variable that had gone rogue.

"You haven't gone back to your dormitory," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with that infuriatingly calm cadence of his.

You were the first to break the contact, looking away toward the endless shelves of the House of Daena. "I'm fine."

"You said that the last time."

"There wasn't a last time."

"There were three."

Your shoulders stiffened, a small, defensive jerk of your spine. Alhaitham sighed a soft, exhaled sound that was nearly lost beneath the distant, rhythmic rustle of the rainforest leaves outside the high windows. Without asking permission, he pulled out the chair opposite yours and sat down.

The movement was startling.

In the hierarchy of the Akademiya, Alhaitham was an island. He didn't seek company—he didn't even seem to tolerate it. Yet here he was, settling into the seat as though he had every intention of staying until the candles burned to nothing.

Under the warm, flickering light of the desk lamp, the sharp edges of his rivalry seemed to soften. Without the frantic energy of the student body around him, he looked... human. Just another scholar, weary and caught in the gravity of the night. The realization irritated you. It was much easier to hate him when he felt like an unreachable monument of intellect.

"Why are you here?" you asked, your voice sounding thinner than you intended.

"I came to return a book." His gaze flickered toward the chaotic sea of parchment surrounding you. "Then I discovered a more immediate problem."

You rolled your eyes, a weary gesture of defiance. "I'm not a problem."

"At the moment, you are."

"How flattering."

"You mistake observation for insult."

"Because your observations usually sound like insults."

"They only sound that way because you dislike the conclusions."

You opened your mouth to retort, to tell him that his conclusions were nothing but arrogance wrapped in logic, but the words died in your throat.

He was right.

That was the most maddening part of Alhaitham: he was almost always right.

He leaned back, the chair creaking softly under his weight. "You've been avoiding meals."

You blinked, the fog in your brain momentarily clearing. "What?"

"Your lunch yesterday remained untouched."

Your stomach gave a traitorous, hollow ache. "You noticed that?"

"You sit three rows away from me."

"That doesn't answer the question," you muttered, feeling a flush of heat rise to your pale cheeks.

"It answers it sufficiently."

You stared at him, searching for a hint of mockery, a sign that he was teasing you. But there was none. Alhaitham simply accepted facts as they existed, as if observing your deteriorating health was no different than noting the humidity in the air.

"You also left a lecture early this morning," he continued, relentless.

Your frown deepened. "I had studying to do."

"You nearly walked into a pillar."

"..."

"And your handwriting has noticeably deteriorated."

"..."

"Your notes from two weeks ago were significantly more legible."

You felt a sudden, frantic prickle of vulnerability. "Have you been... analyzing my notes?"

"I've debated with you enough times to recognize your handwriting."

A groan escaped you, and you let your forehead drop onto the cool surface of the desk, the wood smelling of cedar and old ink. "Please," you whispered into the paper, "just stop noticing things."

"No."

The answer was instantaneous. No hesitation, no softening of the blow. You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "Why?"

For the first time, Alhaitham looked genuinely puzzled. He tilted his head slightly, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world. "Because they're there."

It was such a quintessentially Alhaitham response that you almost laughed a dry, tired sound. The exhaustion was winning; the room felt heavy, the air thick and warm, and your eyes burned with every blink. You hated that he could see the cracks in your porcelain composure. You hated that he was right.

His gaze softened, a change so subtle it was almost a trick of the light. "Rest," he said. His voice had dropped an octave, losing its analytical edge and becoming something firm, grounded, and strangely certain. "It's the only logical thing to do."

"I don't have time," you countered, though your eyelids felt like lead.

"You do."

"I really don't."

"You do."

"The examinations are next week!" you hissed, a final, desperate attempt to reclaim your dignity.

"Precisely."

You blinked at him, bewildered. "That doesn't even make sense."

"It does." Alhaitham folded his arms, his expression turning clinical once more. "Your current condition is reducing both retention and comprehension. Continuing to study while exhausted produces diminishing returns."

You closed your eyes, realizing you had walked straight into his trap. "You're treating yourself like a machine," he continued.

"A machine?" you repeated, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

"An inefficient one."

"Oh, thank you."

"Not a compliment."

You buried your face in your hands, the weight of the world feeling as heavy as the books on your desk. Somewhere above the sound of your own frustrated breathing, Alhaitham let out a long, weary sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was unexpectedly gentle, carrying a hint of something that sounded almost like... exasperation.

"Archons."

You glanced up, startled. The word sounded so foreign, so uncharacteristic of the man who usually spoke in perfect, measured sentences. It was the first time he had sounded like a person instead of a scholar.

"What?" you whispered.

"You are a most difficult variable to solve," he murmured, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

"Mental health should always be prioritized," he said, his voice a low, steady anchor in the vast silence of the library. "Regardless of circumstance."

The sheer sincerity of the statement struck you like a physical force. The towering shelves of books faded into the periphery, the shadows in the corners of the room deepened into velvet, and the vast, hollow space of the library vanished, leaving only the narrow, electric distance between the two of you.

"You've pushed yourself well beyond your limits." His eyes drifted, a fleeting moment of observation as they swept over the scattered parchments and the ink stained edges of your sleeves, before snapping back to your face. "Take a break."

A sudden, sharp tightness bloomed in your chest, making it difficult to draw a full breath. You searched his face for the tell tale signs of a victor, the subtle curl of a lip, the glint of superiority, the quiet satisfaction of seeing a rival falter. But there was nothing.

A part of you wanted to snap at him, to wrap yourself in your pride and push him away. But another part the part that was tired of fighting the world alone ached to ask the question that had been festering in your mind for years.

"Why does it matter to you?"

The question hung in the air, fragile and trembling. For the first time that evening, the man of endless logic fell silent.

The only sound was the distant, rhythmic sigh of the wind brushing against the high glass windows and the soft, ghostly flicker of the lamp. Alhaitham’s gaze shifted, his eyes clouding with a rare, contemplative depth, as if he were weighing the exact value of the truth before deciding whether to bestow it upon you.

Moonlight spilled across the mahogany table in long, silver ribbons, illuminating the dust motes dancing between you. After a silence so long it felt eternal, he finally spoke.

"Because despite what you seem to believe, I've never considered you an obstacle."

Your breath hitched, snagging in your throat. Before you could find the strength to protest, he continued, his voice cutting through the stillness. "You're one of the few people in this Darshan capable of challenging my conclusions."

His expression remained as composed as a statue’s, yet there was an undeniable, raw honesty beneath the surface, a vulnerability in his steadiness that made it nearly impossible to look away.

"Our debates are interesting," he added.

You blinked, stunned. Interesting? Was that all? After years of rivalry, after the sleepless nights and the crushing weight of second place, he chose the word interesting? It felt almost insulting in its understatement, yet as you looked at him, you saw he was entirely, devastatingly serious.

"Most discussions become predictable after a few minutes," he said, a pause stretching between his words like a taut wire. "Yours don't."

"You assume I've enjoyed outperforming you." His gaze lowered, drifting to the mountains of books and the evidence of your relentless, desperate struggle to catch him. "That assumption is incorrect."

The lamp flickered, a dying pulse of amber light, and for a heartbeat, the world felt suspended in time. Then, almost as if the words cost him something to say, Alhaitham added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "If anything, I've been waiting for the day you finally surpass me."

The words landed with more impact than any grand proclamation, more weight than any official ranking ever could. In the quiet sanctity of the library, the truth finally dawned on you. You had spent years treating Alhaitham as the finish line, a distant, cold destination to be conquered. You never realized that he hadn't been standing in your way; he had been standing there, quietly watching, waiting for you to finally catch up.

"You're a fool," you whispered, though the sting was gone from your voice. It was a soft, breathless thing, almost a laugh. "To wait for someone to surpass you... it goes against every instinct of a scholar."

"Logic is rarely driven by instinct," Alhaitham replied, his gaze returning to yours. The intensity hadn't faded, but the tension in his shoulders had eased. "It is driven by the pursuit of excellence. And a pursuit is only meaningful when the opposition is worthy."

You looked down at your hands. They were still trembling. The frantic, desperate energy that had driven you for months, the need to prove, the need to win seemed to dissolve, leaving behind a quiet, hollowed out peace. He reached out, his hand hovering over the table for a fraction of a second before he pulled a small, wrapped parcel from the pocket of his robe. He set it beside your inkwell. "Eat. Then go back to your dormitory. If you collapse during the examination, the lack of a proper challenger will be a significant inconvenience to the Akademiya."

You looked down at the parcel warmth still seemed to radiate from it and then back at him. The fierce, burning rivalry that had defined your existence was still there, but the edges had softened.

As he walked away, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor, you didn't immediately reach for your quill. Instead, you unwrapped the parcel, the scent of warm bread and honey filling your senses, and for the first time in months, you allowed yourself to simply be. 

Yet, the week leading up to the examinations was a quiet and difficult revolution

The first battle was against ghosts.

It was not a war fought against the looming expectations, nor against the theories of the Akademiya, nor the impossible, logic defying questions that awaited you.

It was a war fought against yourself.

The old habit was a frantic living thing—a phantom limb. It lurked in the hollows of your thoughts, a restless specter waiting for the slightest lull in your focus to strike. Years of relentless conditioning did not dissolve overnight simply because one infuriatingly perceptive scholar had commanded you to.

Your body was a vessel of exhaustion—heavy and aching—but your mind was a caged bird, beating its wings against the bar.

You sat along at your desk long after the sun had dipped below the rainforest canopy, leaving you room bathed in the bruised purples and deep indigos of twilight. The familiar collection of books was stacked in a  neat, imposing tower within arm’s reach. The mere sight of them made your chest tighten, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thin to breathe.

They were both your sanctuary and your cage.

You stared at the spines of the books. They seemed to stare back, judging your stillness.

A minute passed, heavy and thick as honey. 

Then another. 

Your fingers began to twitch, a rhythmic, nervous dance against the wood of the desk. Just one chapter, the thought whispered, sliding into your mind with the seamless ease of a predator. One chapter wouldn't hurt. You have the energy. You have the time.

It was a lie you had told yourself a thousand times before. One chapter would inevitably bleed into three; three would stretch into six; six would dissolve into a sleepless, feverish night of frantic memorization. You knew the descent into madness intimately. The temptation settled into your marrow, a cold, creeping itch. Without a conscious thought, your hand began to drift toward the nearest textbook. The movement was instinctive, as automatic and unthinking as a heartbeat.

Halfway there, you froze.

The silence in your room suddenly expanded, becoming enormous and deafening. The tips of your fingers hovered a mere inch above the worn, pebbled leather of a volume on ancient tomes. A sharp, jagged frustration rose in your throat. You realized, with a jolt of unsettling clarity, that you weren't studying because you possessed a hunger for knowledge; you were studying because the vacuum of not studying felt like a physical wound.

Slowly, with a monumental effort of will, you pulled your hand back.

The guilt arrived instantly, crashing into you with the force of a sudden summer storm. It was a physical weight: a tightening in your throat, a sickening knot in your stomach, a dull, thrumming pressure behind your ribs. You should be doing something. Everyone else is out there, chasing the light. The examinations are a tide coming in, and you are standing still, letting the water rise around your ankles.

The thought of Alhaitham struck like a spark in dry tinder. Suddenly, your mind was a gallery of him: Alhaitham seated beneath the dappled shade of a tree, a book balanced effortlessly against his knee; Alhaitham in the hushed sanctity of the House of Daena, his presence a calm anchor in a sea of frantic scholars; Alhaitham, standing atop the rankings, his name a permanent fixture above yours. 

Your jaw clenched so hard it ached. You hated this helplessness. You hated the terrifying sensation that to rest was to surrender, and to slow down was to be swallowed by the shadows of those who refused to stop.

Your fingers curled into the edge of the desk, your nails digging into the wood. But then, amidst the cacophony of your own racing heart, a different memory surface. It was the memory of a pair of steady, turquoise eyes staring directly into your soul across a pool of flickering lamplight.

You could hear his voice with a clarity that was almost maddening. “Rest.”

It had been so simple. So direct. Devoid of the grandiosity most scholars used to mask their intentions. “It’s the only logical thing to do.”

You scowled at the phantom of him. Even in the sanctity of your own mind, Alhaitham was an insufferable presence. Yet, the memory felt more real than the desk beneath your hands. You leaned back, forcing your spine to uncurl, and exhaled a breath you felt you had been holding for years.

The room remained unchanged. The books were still there, silent and demanding. The examinations still loomed like a storm on the horizon. You folded your hands in your lap, forcing them to remain still, a feat that felt as difficult as resisting the pull of gravity.

For a long time, the restlessness crawled beneath your skin like tiny, invisible insects. \

But then, slowly, the world began to bleed back in.

The frantic noise of your thoughts began to recede, replaced by the delicate, rhythmic symphony of the Sumeru night. You heard the distant, melodic chirping of insects in the canopy; the gentle, rhythmic sigh of the wind moving through the leaves outside your window; the faint, earthy scent of rain that still lingered in the humid air.

A shaft of moonlight, pale and ethereal, stretched across your floorboards like a silver ribbon. In its glow, you saw them: tiny particles of dust drifting lazily through the air. They rose and fell in a slow, hypnotic dance, suspended in the light like miniature stars caught in a celestial current.

You watched them. You didn't analyze the composition of the dust. You didn't calculate the velocity of their drift. You didn't ask how this moment could be used to improve your standing in the Akademiya. You simply watched.

One particle spiraled upward, a tiny speck of silver against the dark. Another spun slowly, caught in a microscopic eddy of air, before vanishing into the velvet shadows. The movement was entirely meaningless. It was profoundly unproductive. It served no purpose in the grand architecture of your future.

How long had it been since you had allowed yourself to simply witness the world without trying to conquer it? How long had you been so busy measuring the usefulness of every moment that you had forgotten how to live within them?

The second day brought the first encounter with the "new" you.

Or perhaps not new.

Perhaps simply the version of yourself that had been buried beneath years of pressure.

The Akademiya grounds were unusually tranquil that afternoon. Most students had retreated to the sanctuaries of the libraries or the shaded halls to escape the rising Sumeru heat. This left the grounds to the birds, the wind, and the occasional scholar drifting across the stone pathways. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy of broad, emerald leaves, casting a shifting mosaic of gold and deep shadow across the grass.

You had chosen a spot beneath the sprawling roots of the Great Tree, a heavy treatise on linguistics resting in your lap. Normally, this would be a moment of intense, almost frantic focus. You would have been dissecting every sentence, cross referencing the symbols and sentence structure, your mind racing to absorb every scrap of data before the sun dipped below the horizon.

But today, the words blurred at the edges. You read a paragraph on ruin devices, then read it again, and a third time, only to realize you hadn't actually processed a single syllable.

A strange, foreign sensation began to settle in your limbs. It wasn't the bone deep, hollow exhaustion that came from pulling all nighters in the House of Daena. It was something much simpler.

You were sleepy.

The realization sent a small jolt of panic through you. For years, sleepiness had been an enemy to be vanquished. It was a weakness to be suppressed with bitter tea, cold water, and sheer, stubborn willpower. The old reflex surged up in your throat: Stand up. Walk to the library. Find a more upright chair. Keep going. Keep going until the world stops spinning.

Your fingers tightened on the parchment, the edges crinkling under your touch. You felt the familiar, gnawing guilt, the sensation that every second spent in repose was a second Alhaitham was gaining on you. You could almost see him in your mind's eye, sitting perfectly poised, his mind a sharp, unclouded blade, absorbing knowledge with effortless grace while you sat here, succumbing to the most basic of biological needs.

“You’re treating yourself like a machine.”

His voice, calm and infuriatingly logical, echoed in your mind. You closed your eyes tight, scowling at the memory. It was an incredibly annoying thought to have when you were trying to be productive. And yet, as you sat there, the debate raged within you. One side of your mind screamed that a midday nap was a luxury for the lazy; the other side, a quieter, more tired voice, pointed out that you had spent years running a marathon with no finish line in sight.

With a heavy, decisive sigh, you closed the book.

The action felt monumental, as if you were signing a treaty with your own body. A small, breathless laugh escaped your lips. Permission to be tired. It felt absurd, yet as you leaned your head back against the rough, cool bark of the tree, a profound sense of relief washed over you.

The world began to soften. The rustle of the leaves became a lullaby; the warmth of the sun on your skin felt like a gentle weight, pressing you down into the earth. You let go. 

You were drifting, hovering in that hazy, golden space between wakefulness and dreams, when a shadow fell across your vision, cooling the warmth on your face.

Your eyes fluttered open.

Standing a few paces away was Alhaitham. He was, as usual, a study in composed stillness, a book tucked effortlessly beneath one arm. He didn't call your name or startle you; he simply stood there, observing you with that unreadable, piercing gaze. His eyes drifted from your drowsy expression to the closed book in your lap, and then, quite inexplicably, to the sky.

"The light is changing," he remarked. His voice was steady, cutting through the afternoon haze without breaking the tranquility of the garden.

You blinked, your brain feeling as though it were moving through honey. "What?"

"The light," he repeated, nodding toward the canopy above. "It will become too harsh for reading in approximately twenty minutes. The glare will make the parchment difficult to navigate."

You stared at him, momentarily speechless. Only Alhaitham could turn a moment of quiet vulnerability into a lecture on solar positioning. You waited for the sting, the subtle implication that you were wasting time, or the observation that you looked unkempt in your stupor.

Instead, he simply added, "If you intend to sleep, do it now."

"That's it?" you asked, your voice a bit raspy from sleepiness. "No lecture on the importance of midday alertness? No comment on my lack of discipline?"

One of his eyebrows arched a subtle, elegant movement. "What were you expecting? A dissertation on proper napping techniques?"

A genuine snort escaped you, and you saw the tiniest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was a victory, however small.

Without another word, he turned and walked toward a stone bench a short distance away. He didn't sit near you instead, he chose a spot in the shade that was close enough to be a presence, yet far enough to grant you privacy. He opened his own book, settled in, and became a silent, steady anchor in the garden.

As you drifted back into sleep, you only felt a strange, burgeoning sense of safety. 

The third day was when the clarity began to settle. It wasn’t a miraculous transformation; there was no sudden burst of light, no magical curing of years of chronic exhaustion. The anxiety hadn't vanished; it was still there, a low hum in the background of your mind, whispering the old, frantic litany: Study more. Work harder. Don't stop. If you stop, you disappear.

But for the first time, the voice sounded more like a suggestion you were free to ignore.

On this morning, you sat at your desk with a fresh stack of parchment and a cup of tea that was actually warm—rather than the bitter, forgotten sludge you usually favored. You opened your textbook and began to read. You read a section, made a note, and then unexpectedly you paused.

An observation had occurred to you. 

You reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write. One theory bled into another; a conclusion linked unexpectedly to a lecture from months ago; an argument that had once felt like a tangled knot of thorns suddenly smoothed out into a straight, logical line.

You stared at the page, then the textbook, then back at the page. The realization was startling. The information wasn't new. You had read these exact passages a dozen times before. The difference was that now, your brain was actually present enough to process them.

For years, you had mistaken the mechanical act of memorization for the art of understanding. When exhaustion had consumed you, studying had been a desperate survival tactic: words entered your eyes, your hand moved across the paper, and you retained just enough to pass the examination before the knowledge evaporated. But now, your thoughts move with a fluid, quiet grace. 

The irony was almost enough to make you laugh. In your frantic pursuit of becoming a better scholar, you had nearly forgotten how scholarship actually worked.

By midday, several pages of notes lay spread across your desk. They were, quite frankly, a revelation. Your previous notes had always been a frantic map of a collapsing margins crowded with panicked scribbles, entire paragraphs crossed out in jagged, angry lines, a visual representation of a natural disaster.

Today’s pages were different.

They were…. clean and organized.

The ideas flowed with a logical progression, the connections highlighted rather than buried under the weight of stress.

A small, triumphant smile tugged at your lips. Perhaps Alhaitham knew exactly how irritating this realization would be, you thought. And perhaps that is all the motivation I need to surpass him.

That thought followed you as you made your way toward the House of Daena later that afternoon. The library was bathed in the golden, heavy light of the descending sun, dust motes dancing in the long shafts of brilliance like tiny, suspended stars. A week ago, your instinct would have been to find the darkest, most isolated corner, a place to hide your exhaustion.

Today, you did something entirely uncharacteristic. 

You chose a table near one of the large, towering windows. You sat where the light was warmest, where the hum of other scholars felt like a gentle backdrop rather than a distracting cacophony.

You had returned your attention to your notes when a familiar, low voice drifted through the air. It wasn't directed at you, but at a passing scholar. You glanced up instinctively.

Alhaitham. 

He was standing a few rows away, his expression as composed and unreadable as ever. He was engaged in a brief, clipped exchange with a senior researcher, his tone efficient and devoid of unnecessary fluff. As the conversation ended, he turned to leave, his gaze sweeping the room with its usual analytical precision.

Then, his eyes caught yours.

He paused.

His gaze lingering on you for a second longer than was strictly necessary. He took in the open book, the neatness of your desk, and the fact that you were sitting in the light rather than the shadows.

"You're sitting in the sun," he remarked as he began to walk toward your section.

"I am," you replied, feeling a strange, playful spark of energy. "Is there a particular reason that's a problem?"

He reached your table, not stopping, but slowing his pace just enough to acknowledge you. He glanced down at your notes, the clean, organized lines of your recent work. "On the contrary. Based on the clarity of your script, it seems to be aiding your cognitive function rather than hindering it."

You blinked, caught off guard by the subtle compliment hidden within his clinical assessment. "Is that your way of saying my notes look better?"

"It's my way of saying you've stopped performing the academic equivalent of a frantic scramble," he said, his eyes meeting yours. There was a flicker of something there, not quite a smile, but approval. "It's much more efficient this way."

"Efficiency," you repeated, a soft laugh escaping you. "Always back to the logic of it. Do you ever just... enjoy the sunlight, Alhaitham?"

He paused, his hand resting on the edge of the table. For a moment, the busy library seemed to fade into the background. "I find that enjoying the sunlight is much easier when one isn't squinting through a fog of mental fatigue."

He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He simply nodded once a silent, dignified farewell and continued on his way toward the deeper stacks. You watched him go, the warmth of the sun on your skin feeling a little more profound, the silence of the library feeling a little more like home. You turned back to your parchment, the ink flowing smoothly, the world feeling, for the first time in a very long time, perfectly in focus.

The fourth day tested your resolve. 

The morning had begun with a rare, tranquil grace. You had arrived at the House of Daena shortly after sunrise, when the air still held the silver chill of the night and the grand halls felt less like a labyrinth of expectations and more like a sanctuary. Sunlight poured through the high, arched windows in pale, dusty streams, illuminating the shelves. You had settled into your new seat near a window. Your notes were organized, your tea was warm, and for the first time in years, the act of studying felt more like a genuine conversation with the world.

You were midway through a particularly dense passage on elemental theory when the silence was punctured. A cluster of voices, hushed but vibrating with a frantic, jagged energy.

"...there's no way I'm sleeping this week," a voice whispered, thick with a fatigue that sounded almost permanent.

"I'm serious," another replied, the sound of shuffling parchment punctuating their words. "Have you seen the practice assessments? The complexity has doubled since last year."

"They say the gap between the top ranks is widening," a third student added, their voice dropping to a terrified low. "If you aren't in the top tier by the final exam, you're basically invisible to the Matra."

You watched them from the corner of your eye. They were Spantamad students, their robes slightly rumpled, their eyes rimmed with the tell-tale redness of sleeplessness. One carried a stack of books so precarious it looked like a structural hazard; another looked as though they might collapse into the floorboards at any moment.

"I heard Alhaitham already finished his entire curriculum review," the first one whispered, a note of pure dread in their tone.

A collective groan rippled through the group. "That's not reassuring," one muttered. "When is anything involving Alhaitham actually reassuring?"

"It's just... intimidating," the student with the books sighed. 

As they moved past, the air seemed to vibrate with their anxiety, a frantic frequency that usually would have triggered a sympathetic tremor in your own chest. A week ago, hearing the word rankings would have been like a physical blow. You would have felt the familiar, suffocating spiral begin: Am I falling behind? Is my progress too slow?

Instead, you felt a strange, detached sort of pity. You looked down at your own notes… you weren't running a race against them.

"You're staring at the same paragraph for three minutes. Is the text particularly captivating today, or are you merely performing a silent vigil for your lost focus?"

The voice was low, steady, and entirely devoid of the frantic energy that had just passed by. You looked up to find Alhaitham standing beside your table. He held a slim volume in one hand, his expression as unreadable as a closed book, but his eyes were fixed on you with a piercing, observant intensity.

"I was actually thinking about the Spantamad students," you admitted, your voice soft. "They seem... overwhelmed."

Alhaitham’s gaze drifted toward the aisle where the group had disappeared. "They are," he said simply. He pulled out the chair opposite yours an uncharacteristic move, as he usually preferred his own solitude and sat down. "They have mistaken anxiety for productivity. They believe that by increasing the volume of their suffering, they will increase the quality of their intellect. It is a common fallacy."

"It's hard not to feel that way when everyone is talking about it," you said, gesturing vaguely toward the library at large. "It feels like if you aren't panicking, you aren't trying hard enough."

Alhaitham leaned back slightly, his turquoise eyes meeting yours. "And what is your definition of 'trying'?"

The question caught you off guard. "To... to master the material. To be prepared."

"To be prepared is to understand the core principles so deeply that the variables of an exam cannot shake you," he countered, his tone clinical yet strangely grounding. "To panic is merely to admit that you are at the mercy of the unknown. You are currently sitting here, in the light, with organized thoughts and a steady hand. By any logical metric, you are 'trying' far more effectively than the group that just passed by."

You looked down at your hands. They were, indeed, steady. "It feels different this time," you whispered, almost to yourself. "It feels like... the knowledge belongs to me, rather than me chasing after the knowledge."

A small, almost imperceptible shift occurred in his expression. It wasn't a smile, but the tension in his brow eased. "That is because you have stopped treating scholarship as a weapon to prove your worth, and started treating it as a tool to expand your mind. The distinction is subtle, but the results are profound."

He reached out, his fingers tapping the edge of your notebook in a rhythmic, calming cadence. "Do not let their turbulence dictate your tempo. A river that flows too violently often loses its direction. A steady current is much harder to divert."

You felt a warmth bloom in your chest, a quiet sense of triumph that had nothing to do with grades. "Thank you, Alhaitham. For... for the perspective."

"Don't thank me. It is merely a logical observation," he replied, though he didn't immediately get up to leave. Instead, he opened his own book, settling into a comfortable silence beside you

The fifth day was a day of quiet preparation.

Not for the examinations.

Not entirely.

The air was thick with the frantic energy of students who had forgotten how to breathe without calculating their progress. They moved in clusters, their voices a low, jagged hum of anxiety, passing around practice assessments like they were sacred, terrifying relics. For years, you would have been part of that hum. You would have been in the library by dawn, eyes stinging from the dim light, your stomach cramping from a diet of half eaten bread and sheer willpower.

But this morning, you stepped beyond the Akademiya grounds. The Sumeru sun was generous, spilling gold across the stone pathways and warming the skin of your face. The city was a symphony of sensory details you had long ago dismissed as "distractions." There was the heady, sweet perfume of jasmine spilling from window boxes; the earthy, damp scent of the forest floor clinging to the shade of the Great Tree; the rhythmic clack clack of merchants setting up their stalls; and the sound of laughter not the brittle, forced laughter of a student relieved to have passed a quiz, but the deep, resonant sound of people simply being.

You wandered aimlessly, a ghost in a world of color. You eventually found yourself in a bustling café, a place that, a week ago, would have felt like an assault on your senses. It was loud, the clatter of porcelain and the murmur of a dozen conversations swirling around you. But instead of retreating, you ordered a proper meal warm and watched. You watched the server frantically navigate the rows of tables; an elderly scholar sip tea with a slow, meditative grace; you watched two merchants haggle with a theatrical intensity; you watched a group of students laughing so hard they nearly overturned their table.

None of them knew your name. None of them knew your rank. And for the first time, the realization didn't make you feel small

As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in bruised purples and molten ambers, you found yourself drawn toward the Grand Bazaar. The fountain was a centerpiece of cool, cascading light, its steady song a balm to the lingering hum of the day. And there, leaning against the polished stone of the fountain with a composure that seemed to defy the bustling crowds, was Alhaitham.

He looked as though he had been carved from the very twilight itself. His gaze fixed on the water as if he were reading the ripples. He didn't look up as you approached, but the slight shift in his posture told you he knew exactly who was walking toward him.

"You left the Akademiya," he said as you came to a halt beside him. His voice was a low baritone, cutting through the evening air with its usual, unshakeable steadiness. It sounded almost like an accusation, though there was no bite in it.

You let a soft, wistful smile touch your lips. "It turns out the world is quite large."

"It is a fact, not a discovery," he remarked, finally turning his head to meet your eyes. His turquoise gaze was piercing, scanning your face with that unnerving, analytical precision. He paused, his eyes lingering on the healthy glow of your cheeks. "Though your heart rate seems significantly more regulated than it was yesterday. Your presence is... less frantic."

"Is that a compliment?" you teased, feeling a playful spark of energy. "Or just an observation?"

"In my case, there is rarely a difference," he replied.

A silence settled between you, but it wasn't the heavy, expectant silence of the library. It was light. Easy. You looked at the fountain, then back at him. "You're staying late. Not much studying left to do?"

"The archives are quietest at this hour," he said, though he made no move to pick up his book. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his robe. When he withdrew his hand, he held something small and vibrant between his fingers. It was a Sumeru Rose, its petals a deep purple, perfectly preserved, as if it had been plucked from a dream. He held it out to you. You blinked, the breath catching in your throat. "What is this?"

"A flower," he said, as if he were presenting a particularly uninteresting piece of logic. You let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "Thank you, Alhaitham. I would never have guessed."

You saw it then the tiniest, most infinitesimal flicker of exasperation in the corner of his eye. You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you took the bloom. The petals felt like silk against your skin. "For your desk," he added, his voice dropping an octave. "To serve as a visual reminder."

"A reminder of what?" you asked softly.

"That even the most complex and rigorous structures require periods of stillness to grow," he said, his gaze drifting toward the darkening horizon. "Constant motion without pause is merely a way to exhaust oneself before the goal is reached."

The words hit you with the force of a physical weight. It was an acknowledgment of the change he had seen in you.

"Thank you," you whispered, and the gratitude felt deep, rooted in something far more profound than academic thanks.

As the evening breeze stirred your hair, a sudden, staggering realization began to dawn on you. You looked at him and really looked at him. You saw the man you had spent years trying to outrun, the rival who had loomed over your every ambition. But as you stared at his composed profile, the memories began to shift. They began to reassemble themselves into a pattern you had been too blinded by competition to see.

You remembered a month ago, sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, staring blankly at a plate of untouched food, your mind spinning with equations until the world felt blurred. You had been so lost in your own exhaustion that you hadn't noticed him approaching. He had simply set a small, wrapped parcel of dried fruit on the edge of your table.

"You are consuming more mental energy than glucose," he had said, his voice cool and matter of fact as he walked past. "It is mathematically unsound to study on an empty stomach."

You remembered the long walks between the Grand Bazaar and the Akademiya, where you used to try and sprint to keep up with his long, purposeful strides, your lungs burning and your heart racing in a desperate attempt to match his pace. You had once stumbled, breathless, and he had stopped not to wait, but to subtly slow his gait, his shoulder brushing yours as if by accident.

"The path is not a race, even if you insist on treating it as one," he had remarked, his eyes fixed ahead, though he had stayed at your side until your breathing leveled out.

You remembered the afternoon you had nearly collapsed in the library, your arms trembling under the weight of three massive, ancient tomes. You had turned your head for a mere second to find a reference, and when you turned back, the heaviest book was gone. You had seen Alhaitham walking away toward the returns shelf, the tome tucked effortlessly under his arm.

"You were carrying more than was necessary for your current research," he had called back without looking. "Efficiency is more important than bravado."

And the small things are the quiet moments in the library where you would find a fresh sheet of high quality parchment or a specific vial of indigo ink waiting on your desk, accompanied by no note, but always appearing exactly when your own supplies had run dry.

Your grip tightened around the Sumeru Rose. For years, you had believed you were the one paying attention. You had been the one tracking scores, measuring distances, and watching his every move with the eyes of a rival. But now, the truth was undeniable. While you had been staring at his back, trying desperately to catch him, he had been glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were still there. He hadn't just been observing your progress; He had been watching you. He hadn't been running the same race; he had been standing at the finish line, waiting for you to realize that you didn't need to run so hard to reach him.

Your heart gave a small, rhythmic thud against your ribs not the panicked thud of a student, but the steady, warm pulse of a person who was finally, truly, seeing the world for the first time.

The present rushed back into focus. Heat crept into your face as you looked at him. "You've been watching me." 

For perhaps the first time all evening, the unshakeable composure of Alhaitham faltered. It was a microscopic shift, a momentary stillness in his breathing, a slight tightening of his gaze but to you, it was as loud as a shout. He didn't look away, though.

"‘Watching’ is an imprecise term," he countered, though the clinical edge of his voice lacked its usual bite.

You laughed, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to dance on the evening breeze. "Of course you'd say that."

"Observation is the basis of all knowledge," he replied, leaning back slightly. "If you intend to truly understand a subject, you must first observe it in its natural state, without the interference of your own biases."

The words were characteristically Alhaitham: logical, measured, and draped in a layer of intellectual detachment. Yet, as they hung in the air between you, they felt devastatingly intimate. Beneath the academic jargon was a truth that made your pulse quicken: he had been studying you.

His gaze drifted downward, settling on the dried Sumeru Rose cradled in your palm. For a long moment, the world seemed to recede. The bustling chatter of the Sumeru plaza, the distant calls of merchants, even the rhythmic splashing of the fountain it all faded into a muted hum, leaving only the two of you in a pocket of sudden, heavy stillness.

"You spent years assuming I viewed you as competition," he said quietly.

The words caught in your throat, stealing the breath from your lungs. You felt an instinctive need to defend yourself, to reclaim the pride you had worn like armor for so long. "I never said that," you countered, though the defense felt thin even to your own ears.

"No," Alhaitham agreed, his voice as steady as the stone beneath your feet. "You simply decided it for both of us."

A sharp retort sat on the tip of your tongue— a witty jab about his arrogance but it died there. It was a realization that stung more than an insult because it was undeniably true. You had built a wall of rivalry to protect yourself, and he had simply walked right through it.

He turned his head, his eyes following the shimmering arc of the fountain’s water. "Most discussions within the Akademiya are predictable," he mused, his tone shifting into that familiar, analytical cadence.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden pivot. "Predictable?"

"Most scholars are interested in being correct," he said, his gaze remaining fixed on the water. "Very few are interested in understanding why they might be wrong." He paused, and the evening breeze stirred the dark strands of his hair, a rare moment of softness in his rigid silhouette. "You were."

The words landed with a quiet, devastating weight. It wasn't a critique of your intellect, but an observation of your soul.

"You challenged arguments that everyone else accepted as gospel," he continued, his voice low and rhythmic. "You questioned conclusions that professors considered settled. Whenever I thought I had reached the end of a subject, you were there, finding the one thread worth pulling." He paused, and for a fleeting second, he sounded almost reluctant, as if he were admitting a secret he hadn't intended to share. "It was... useful."

A startled, breathless laugh escaped you. "There it is."

He turned his gaze back to you, his expression perfectly, maddeningly serious.”There is what?"

"The Alhaitham version of a compliment," you teased, though your heart was racing. "The highest praise a man of logic can bestow."

"It wasn't intended as a compliment," he corrected, though his eyes narrowed slightly, a tell-tale sign that he was aware of the effect he was having on you.

You smiled, leaning into the warmth of the moment. For once, you didn't feel the need to win the argument. You didn't need to be right; you just needed to be heard.

Alhaitham was the first to look away, his gaze drifting back toward the city lights. "When you began treating every conversation as a contest," he continued, his voice dropping an octave, "I assumed it was a temporary phase. A symptom of ambition."

The warmth in your chest faltered, replaced by a sudden, sharp ache. "But it wasn't."

"You stopped arguing because you enjoyed the learning," he said, his words precise, surgical, cutting through your defenses with terrifying ease. "Instead, you started arguing because you were trying to prove something. You were trying to bridge a gap that didn't actually exist."

Silence settled between you, heavy and profound. He was right. Again. It was exhausting, and yet, there was a strange comfort in it: the comfort of being truly known.

"You kept trying to become someone else," he said, his voice barely a whisper now, stripped of its usual academic armor. "And frankly... It was disappointing."

The word hit you like a physical blow. "Disappointing?" you breathed, staring at him in disbelief.

For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. A flash of something raw, something almost vulnerable, crossed his features a shadow of regret, or perhaps a longing he couldn't quite name. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual composure, but the impact remained.

"The person you already were," he said, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the world stand still, "was far more interesting."

A profound silence fell over the plaza. You looked down at the flower in your hand. Its petals were fragile, yet it had been preserved with such care that it remained whole. A week ago, you might have seen only a withered plant. Now, you saw the intent behind it. 

A small, knowing smile tugged at your lips, born of a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather.

Alhaitham noticed immediately. He always did. "And what conclusion have you arrived at?" he asked, his eyes searching yours with an uncharacteristic hint of curiosity.

You closed your fingers carefully around the rose, shielding the delicate petals. The answer sat warmly in your chest, a realization so new and so personal that to speak it aloud felt like it might break the spell.

"It's a secret," you whispered.

A pause followed. Then, Alhaitham let out a long, slow sigh. It wasn't the sigh of an irritated man, but one of quiet resignation, as if he had predicted this exact moment of sentimental defiance.

"You realize," he said, his tone dry but fond, "that withholding information from a scholar is exceptionally cruel."

You laughed again, the sound light and free. "Consider it repayment."

"For what?"

"For making me figure it out all by myself," you teased, your rose colored eyes bright with a newfound clarity.

The corner of his mouth lifted. It was a tiny movement, a mere ghost of a smile that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, but this time, you didn't let it escape you. You caught it, held it in your memory, and realized that in the quiet language of glances and dried flowers, you had finally learned how to read him.

Alhaitham didn't answer immediately. He pushed himself away from the polished stone, straightening with unhurried ease. "The light will be optimal for reading in the west wing of the Akademiya in about an hour," he said calmly. "If you're still free by then, you may join me." 

The final day the eve of the examinations arrived with a strange slice.

It was a quiet that existed only within you, because the Akademiya itself was anything but still. Anxious energy clung to every hallway and lecture chamber like a thick, humid mist. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment and the frantic, ozone-like tang of desperation. Students rushed between classes, their footsteps a staccato rhythm of panic, clutching stacks of notes to their chests as if the paper itself could shield them from failure. Study groups occupied every available surface; frantic, hushed whispers followed you through the corridors like the buzzing of insects. You passed a student in the hall, eyes bloodshot and trembling, desperately trying to cram three months of botanical theory into a single afternoon. Another sat on a stone bench, staring blankly at the sky, looking moments away from praying directly to the Dendro Archon for a miracle.

The atmosphere was so saturated with tension that it felt tangible, a pressure against your skin. A week ago, you would have been a part of that frantic tide. You would have been the one carrying twice as many books as necessary, your shoulders aching under the weight of unnecessary preparation. You would have skipped lunch to shave ten minutes off a review session; you would have skipped dinner to chase a fleeting thought; you would have sacrificed sleep to the altar of "just one more hour." You would have convinced yourself that a single, extra moment of cramming could be the difference between existence and insignificance.

But now, as you navigated the crowded halls, the desperation felt oddly distant. It was as if you were watching a storm from behind a thick pane of glass. You could see the lightning, you could hear the thunder, but you were no longer being drenched by the rain.

It wasn't that you didn't care. 

The examinations still mattered; you had poured your soul into your studies, and you wanted the results to reflect that. But the fear had loosened its grip, transforming from a suffocating shroud into something smaller, something manageable. It was no longer a monster waiting to consume you whole; it was merely a quiet companion, a reminder of the stakes, but one that no longer dictated your every breath.

When night finally settled over Sumeru, you found yourself sitting by the open window of your room. The rainforest stretched endlessly beyond the city walls, a vast, breathing ocean of dark green bathed in the ethereal silver of the moonlight. The sounds of the night drifted inward through the cool air, the rhythmic, distant chirping of insects, the soft rustle of leaves, the gentle murmur of the wind moving through the canopy. You rested your arms on the windowsill, watching the moon climb its slow, celestial arc.

Behind you, your notes remained untouched on your desk. The sight felt almost absurd, a quiet rebellion against years of habit. For so long, the night before an exam had followed a ritual of madness: panic, review, panic, more review. A desperate, cyclical attempt to memorize information you already knew, as though the sheer volume of data could act as a shield against the unknown.

Tonight, the books remained closed because there was nothing left to prove. The work was done. 

Your gaze drifted to the desk. The dried Sumeru Rose rested beside your neatly organized notes, its preserved petals glowing softly under the moonlight. You smiled, thinking of how different that desk had looked a week ago. It had been a battlefield of half finished notes, spilled ink, and cold, forgotten tea. Now, it simply looked like a desk.

And as you looked at the flower, your thoughts drifted, as they inevitably did, to him.

Alhaitham.

The name no longer stirred that sharp, jagged tension in your chest. The bitterness was gone, replaced by a warmth that felt like sunlight on skin. You found yourself remembering the small, quiet things: the way he had handed you a parcel of bread and honey when he noticed your hands shaking; the stillness of a bench beneath a tree; the silent, knowing nod in the library; the ghost of a smile by the fountain. These weren't just moments; they were proof. Proof that someone had seen you long before you had learned how to see yourself.

For years, you had treated your rivalry with him as the defining epic of your life—the impossible mountain you had to climb, the finish line you had to cross. You had lived in the shadow of his intellect, constantly measuring your worth by how close you could stand to his light.

And then, the thought arrived the one that had been hovering at the edge of your mind all evening.

What if tomorrow comes, and the rankings are released, and he is first... and I am second?

In the past, that thought would have been a catastrophe. It would have felt like a personal failure, a sign that you were still "lesser," still chasing a shadow you could never catch. You would have felt the sting of being the runner up, the child who was talented but never quite enough.

But as you sat in the moonlight, the thought felt different. If you were second, you would still be you.

You would still be the person who loved the intricacies of ancient philosophy. You would still be the person who found beauty in the way the light hit the rainforest leaves. Being second wouldn't erase the hours of study, the growth of your mind, or the strength of your spirit. The ranking was a number on a parchment; it wasn't the sum of your soul.

For the first time, you realized that the competition had never been about beating him. It had been about finding yourself. And in the process of chasing his excellence, you had discovered your own.

You liked the person you had become in the pursuit. You liked your curiosity, your stubbornness, and your resilience. You liked that you were no longer just a collection of scores and achievements. You were a person of depth, of passion, and of quiet, steady strength.

The examinations would come tomorrow. 

The results would be posted. 

But as you watched the moon, you knew that no matter what name was written on that list, you had already won. And for the first time, the view was beautiful.

The examinations came, as they always did, a whirlwind of ink, parchment, and grueling mental exertion. Hundreds of scholars sat hunched over their desks, their shadows stretching long and thin as the sunlight crawled sluggishly across the stone floors. The air was thick with the palpable tension of a thousand minds straining against the limits of their own understanding. Questions demanded more than just rote memorization. They demanded the soul of a scholar: theories, intricate formulas, subtle interpretations, and the courage to build an argument from nothing.

The exams were not easier if anything, the complexity of the final papers had been staggering but you met them as yourself. You studied, yes but you studied with a new kind of clarity. You slept when your body demanded it. You ate when the sun was high. You no longer chased him like a shadow.

The difference was nothing short of miraculous. Problems that once felt like impenetrable thickets of logic began to unravel. Connections that used to require hours of agonizing labor emerged with a natural clarity. You realized, with a profound sense of clarity, that a sharp mind required care just as surely as any fine blade required maintenance.

When the final parchment was collected and the last quill was set aside. You felt content.

The results arrived several days later, and as was the tradition of the Akademiya, the institution descended into a beautiful, chaotic madness. Before the sun had even cleared the canopy, students were swarming the central plaza, their voices rising in a cacophony of excitement and dread. Rumors spread through the hallways like wildfire, faster than any official decree.

You watched the commotion from the periphery, leaning against a cool stone pillar. As you moved toward the center, the sea of students parted, though not entirely. Fragments of frantic conversation drifted past you like autumn leaves.

"Did you see the scores? The linguistics section was brutal!"

"The top rankings are absolutely ridiculous this year... "

"How is that even possible? He didn't even look like he was trying!"

"I swear, Alhaitham isn't even human.."

A small, amused huff escaped you. Some things, it seemed, were as constant as the stars.

Finally, you reached the front. The official parchment hung neatly against the wooden board, a stark list of names and numbers that had once dictated your every waking thought. Your eyes traveled upward, almost by instinct, toward the summit of the list.

First: Alhaitham.

The margin was even smaller than before. A mere whisper of a difference. A smile touched your lips not a bitter one, not a wounded one, but something warm and almost fond. 

 Of course it was him. 

You could almost see the slight, satisfied tilt of his head as he read it. You imagined the insufferable, quiet dignity he would maintain, as if being the best in the Akademiya was as mundane as breathing.

Then, your gaze drifted down.

Second: Y/N L/N

The margin between you was almost laughably small. It was a difference measured in whispers, in the tiniest fractions of a point a gap so narrow it was practically a bridge. In the past, seeing this would have been a catastrophe. You would have dissected every missed nuance, every slightly flawed argument, and spent weeks mourning the "what ifs." But now, all you felt was a surge of genuine, unadulterated pride. You weren't just close to him; you were standing right there with him, not as a shadow, but as a peer.

A quiet, breathless laugh escaped you, surprising even yourself. It was the sound of someone who had finally realized the race was over, and that the prize was much better than a rank.

"It seems the margin is shrinking."

The voice was low, steady, and vibrated with a familiar resonance that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. You didn't need to turn around. Only one person in the entire Akademiya possessed the ability to move through a crowd like a ghost, arriving with such effortless, quiet authority.

Alhaitham stepped up beside you. He didn't look at the board. He didn't look at his own name, which sat at the very top like a crown. His attention was entirely, singularly fixed on you. His gaze was observant, sweeping over your face with that characteristic, analytical intensity, as if he were reading a text more complex than any ancient scroll.

The margin was even smaller than before. A mere whisper of a difference.

As you stepped away from the board, a familiar presence materialized beside you. Alhaitham didn't look at the rankings; he didn't need to. He looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your calm expression and the steady light in your eyes.

"You look well," he noted, his voice as cool and steady as the Sumeru breeze.

The words were simple, stripped of any grandiosity, yet they carried a weight that no "congratulations" ever could. He was seeing the light in your eyes, the lack of tension in your shoulders, the way you finally occupied your own skin without looking for permission. He was saying: You look like you have finally found your way back to yourself.

The smile lingering on your lips widened, bright and teasing. "And you look far too satisfied with yourself," you countered, tilting your head to meet his gaze. "Is the view from the top as lonely as they say, or are you just enjoying the ego boost?"

His eyebrow lifted, a subtle, elegant movement that signaled his amusement. "The view is quite standard," he replied, his voice dropping to that private, intimate register. "But the company... the company has become significantly more interesting."

You stared at him, your breath hitching in the small, charged space between you. Alhaitham met your gaze with an expression as unreadable as a closed tome, yet the corner of his mouth twitched a microscopic movement that wasn't quite a smile, but was far too intentional to be mere muscle fatigue.

Around you, the Akademiya was a cacophony of post examination chaos. Students surged around the notice board like frantic waves crashing against a stubborn rock, their voices rising in a fever pitch of jubilant celebrations, bitter complaints, and the frantic scratching of quills as they compared scores. Yet, despite the roar of the crowd, the space beside Alhaitham felt strangely insulated, as if he carried a silent, invisible perimeter that kept the world at bay. Perhaps he always had. Perhaps you were simply the only one who knew how to step inside it.

For years, you had stood before these rankings feeling a crushing sense of vertigo, as if the distance between first and second place was a vast, unbridgeable canyon. But looking at the parchment now, the gap seemed almost laughably small. A mere fraction of a point. A handful of marks a difference so insignificant that a casual observer would have missed it entirely. Your eyes drifted back to the top of the list, tracing the ink.

First: Alhaitham.

Second: Y/N L/N

The sight should have been a familiar ache, a reminder of the summit you couldn't quite reach. Instead, a warmth bloomed in your chest, steady and bright. "You know," you said, your voice thoughtful and surprisingly light, "I used to think seeing your name above mine was the worst thing imaginable."

Alhaitham folded his arms, his posture relaxed yet commanding. "And now?"

You paused, actually considering the weight of the years behind you, the sleepless nights, the frantic studying, the desperate need to be enough. The answer surprised even you. "Now? Now I think there are probably worse things."

"Such as?" he prompted, his tone dry, inviting the challenge.

"Being Kaveh," you countered without a second of hesitation.

The reaction was instantaneous. Alhaitham looked away, but for one glorious, fleeting second, you saw a genuine flash of amusement dance across his features. "You aren't wrong," he conceded. “You aren't wrong," he conceded, his voice carrying a rare note of agreement.

"You said that remarkably fast," you teased, a playful glint in your eyes. "Usually, you'd at least argue."

"Why argue against empirical evidence?" he replied, turning his gaze back to you. "It would be an inefficient use of energy."

A laugh escaped you, a bright, clear sound that seemed to settle the restless air around you. As the sound faded, you noticed Alhaitham relax almost imperceptibly. Most people would have missed the subtle softening of his shoulders, but you had spent years studying not just his intellect, but his silences. You realized then that the rivalry hadn't been a solo performance. You had assumed the fierce, quiet desperation belonged only to you, but looking at him now, you understood. It had mattered to him, too. Not because he craved the vanity of the ranking, but because you had become a constant in his world, the one voice capable of complicating his logic, the one presence that made the silence of his solitude feel less absolute.

"You know," you said, crossing your arms and tilting your chin up with a newfound, gentle defiance, "one day, I am going to beat you."

"I know."

The sheer, unshakeable certainty in his voice caught you off guard. You frowned, searching his teal eyes for even a hint of doubt, a flicker of competitive heat. "You're supposed to disagree! That's how a rivalry works. You're supposed to defend your position."

Alhaitham looked genuinely puzzled, as if you had just proposed a mathematically impossible theorem. "That seems counterproductive. If you are destined to surpass me, why waste breath pretending otherwise?"

You threw your hands up in exasperation, though the smile on your face betrayed you. "Archons, you are utterly hopeless. There is no winning an argument with you."

"And yet," he countered, his gaze steady and uncomfortably perceptive, "you have spent years competing with me. One has to wonder if you simply enjoy the pursuit."

He had you there again. You hated how he could turn your own history against you, stripping away your defenses with nothing but a few well placed words. But as you stood there in the sun drenched plaza, you realized he was right. You did enjoy it. 

The afternoon sun filtered through the grand, arched windows of the Akademiya, casting long, golden honey streaks across the floor. Somewhere in the distance, a group of scholars erupted into a chorus of either triumph or despair, but you didn't care to look. For the first time, you didn't feel trapped by the results.

You glanced one last time at the list. Second place. The position that had haunted your dreams and stolen your sleep, a constant reminder of a summit you could never quite touch. Now, It no longer looked like a mark of inadequacy; it looked like a stepping stone. You were growing, and the distance was shrinking. And certainly, the view was much better when first place was occupied by an insufferable scholar who had recently taken to ensuring you were and subtly reminding you to sleep.

"You're smiling," Alhaitham observed, his voice a low hum, cutting through the ambient nose of the hall.

You immediately scowled, trying to reclaim your dignity with a sharp tilt of your chin. "No, I am not."

"You are."

"I am most certainly not."

"You are."

"Alhaitham"

"Y/N"

The way he mimicked your indignant cadence was so deadpan, so utterly unexpected and devoid of mocking yet brimming with a teasing intent, that you nearly lost your composure again. You narrowed your eyes at him, but he remained entirely unapologetic, looking as though he had just delivered a flawless lecture. Then, his expression shifted, settling into something purposeful. 

"Come." he said.

You blinked, caught off guard. "Where?"

"Lunch."

"I am perfectly capable of buying my own lunch," you countered, though your stomach betrayed you with a small, hungry traitorous twitch.

"I am well aware of your capabilities." he replied, his tone implying that your independence was a fact he respected, but one that was currently irrelevant.

"Then why are you inviting me?"

Without waiting for a formal acceptance, Alhaitham began walking down the grand steps, his stride purposeful. You hesitated for a moment, considering the satisfaction of leaving him to his solitude. Before you could decide, he glanced over his shoulder. It was only a single, brief look, but it was enough to pull you in.

"Besides," he added, his voice carrying back to you over the din of the hall, "if you truly intend to surpass me one day, you will need to remain conscious long enough to actually do it."

For years, you had operated under a fundamental misunderstanding. You had believed your story with Alhaitham was a war of attrition— a relentless, exhausting climb toward a peak defined by numbers, rankings, and the cold prestige of the Akademiya. You thought it was about the singular, desperate need to prove your worth by eclipsing his.

But as you fell into step beside him, the rhythm of your footsteps syncing with his steady, unhurried stride, the truth settled in your heart with a quiet, profound clarity.

The rankings were transient. 

They would shift like the desert sands next semester, next year, perhaps not for a decade. Yet, for the first time in your life, the uncertainty didn’t feel like a threat as a warm, lingering thought bloomed in your mind: Second place isn't so bad. Not when first place is walking beside you for lunch.

As the two of you merged into the vibrant flow of students spilling through the walkways, your gaze drifted toward him. You watched the way the sunlight caught the sharp lines of his profile, and you felt a pang of retrospective embarrassment.

How wrong you had been.

For years, you had misread his silence as arrogance. You had mistaken his detachment for a lofty sense of superiority, assuming that the reason he remained unruffled by the chaos of academic competition was that he viewed the world and the people in it as beneath his notice. 

You thought he was indifferent to the very things that defined your existence: the struggle, the ambition, the desperate need to be seen.

But the illusion had shattered in quiet spaces between your heated debates, in the hushed hours of late night study sessions, and in the simple, unexpected kindness of a parcel of warm bread wrapped carefully in cloth left on your desk.

Alhaitham had never been indifferent. He simply valued a different currency.

While the rest of the Darshan chased the fleeting glitter of prestige, he chased the deep, resonant marrow of understanding. While others clamored for the roar of recognition, he sought the quietude of peace.

You remembered the lectures the way he would receive the rapturous praise of professors with nothing more than a singular, dismissive nod before returning to his book. You remembered how he would slip away from the celebratory banquets before the toasts even began, seemingly irritated by the way people treated his mind as a monument rather than a tool. You had assumed it was because he felt he was above it all. Now, you realized the truth was much more grounded: he already knew exactly who he was. He didn't need a scroll to validate his existence.

He wasn't ahead of everyone else because he was faster or smarter; he was ahead because while the rest of the world was running a frantic, exhausting race, Alhaitham had quietly, calmly, chosen his own destination.

A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, born of a sudden, profound affection for the man beside you.

"You've done that three times now."

The voice was low and deadpan, pulling you back to the present. You blinked, realizing Alhaitham was watching you, his gaze fixed on your face with that unnerving focus.

"Done what?" you asked, trying to reclaim your composure, though your heart was still racing from the weight of your own thoughts’

"Smiled at nothing."

"I wasn't smiling at nothing," you countered, though your cheeks felt a faint, roseate warmth creeping into your cheeks.

"Then what were you smiling at?" he prompted, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he were attempting to solve a particularly complex equation.

You paused, looking at him.

 You looked at the man who had been the center of your frustration, the architect your rivalry, and the catalyst of your growth. The scholar who had become the most vital and unshakeable constant in your life. You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping you.

"If I told you,” you said, your voice dropping to a playful whisper, “your ego would become truly unbearable."

"I find that unlikely," he replied, his expression remaining perfectly neutral, thoughthere was a tell-tale glimmer of something bright— something warm lingering in his eyes

As you reached the bustling heartof the Grand Bazaar, the smells of spices and street food wafted around you, pulling you back into the noise of the living world. Alhaitham led you away from the main thoroughfare, navigating the crowds with his usual effortless grace, until you reached a small, quiet cafe, tucked away. As you sat down across from him, you felt a final, lingering tension dissolve. The crushing pressure to be perfect—the need to be the singular, untouchable summit had finally lifted.

"I still plan on beating you," you said, leaning back in your chair and watching him with a newfound, calm determination. Your gaze steady and devoid of the old, frantic desperation

Alhaitham opened the menu, his eyes dancing with a rare, subtle spark of challenge. "I look forward to it,” he replied, his voice smooth and unhurried. “But for now," he gestured towards a passing waiter, "I suggest we start with something light. You look as though you might faint if you try to eat a full meal."

You reached across the table and playfully kicked his boot with your own. "I'm fine."

"Of course," he murmured, his gaze meeting yours, his expression softening just enough to betray his amusement. "And I'm convinced you're not. It seems we have reached a stalemate."

"Fine," you conceded, a genuine, melodic laugh bubbling up from your chest. "A stalemate. For now."

The two of you sat in the warmth of the afternoon sun, two rivals who had finally found something more valuable than a perfect score. As the shadows began to lengthen and the city hummed its evening song around you, a profound sense of peace settled over you. You knew that the rankings would continue to change and the seasons would turn; but the person sitting across from you— the man who watched your struggle and waited for you to catch up was the only constant that truly mattered.

all writing belong to @velverii do not repost— without my explicit permission— translate or plagiarize.

[kinichiwa]

a bloom fated to wither ft. LOHEN

synopsis: his love starts with a single petal — now, flowers bloom in his lungs, growing faster with every unanswered feeling; or: Lohen has always been good at hiding secrets, until they start choking him alive

before you read: Hanahaki disease, lohen x gn!reader, medic reader, mentions of blood (but not gorey), implied character death, spoilers for Lohen's SQ, tried my best to grasp his character but may be ooc in some parts

wc: 1.3k

Weak. Powerless. Mortal.

It is what echoes in his mind when he looks at you, kneeled so diligently before his bloodied figure as your fingers work to wrap gauze around his injuries. Something imperceptible blooms in his chest as you touch him, your warmth thawing the icy walls around his heart.

“Hang on, alright?” you murmur soothingly by his side, warm breath fanning across his skin. “Just a few more minutes, I know you can do it.”

Your words are sweet, yet you make him feel awful; weak and powerless and mortal with your ministrations. Lohen can't bring himself to refuse when you gently push him against the cushions, nodding toward the cup of warm apple cider you’ve made especially for him. “Drink up,” you say. “I promise it’ll make you feel better. I don’t like seeing you hurt.” 

Your words pierce into his heart but in a good way, one that makes him feel warm and fuzzy and pleasant. It’s not something he’s felt ever since he was a child, and even then, the mundane lifestyle of a bow maker had already numbed his heart. So perhaps this is the only time he’s ever felt such warmness spreading through his veins. It’s only ever with you — you’re so positive and radiant and full of joy. He doesn’t know why you stick to someone with the likes of him.

Even with the self-deprecating thoughts that echo through his mind, they can’t seem to block out the one thing his heart knows for sure: he’s in love with you.

Lohen hates himself for it.

Attachment was not something he ever wanted to feel again, not after Adorno had passed away. It had made him feel weak as death cruelly snatched Adorno from his arms, knowing there was nothing he could do to save the man who had once saved him — not even the most refined serum drawn from a devolved angel’s flesh. Yet an attachment to you had somehow wormed its way into his heart. It was as if Celestia was taunting him — here’s someone else you can’t save when the time comes! Except this time, you’ve developed romantic feelings, and those feelings are not reciprocated!

Lohen has to snap his head away from you as he begins to feel flowers crawling up his throat. Thankfully, he’s learned to quietly cough them up whenever you’re in the room — still, it doesn’t take away from the pain as the stems scratch against his flesh, bloodied petals falling out of his mouth and into his palms. 

He quickly dumps them behind the cushions, wiping the blood from his lips.

Lohen anxiously glances down at you. Luckily, you haven’t seemed to notice, too engrossed with the nasty cut on his thigh — he’s only met with your tired but reassuring smile. Even when you’re exhausted from the day’s duties, you always manage to find the time to patch up his wounds. He still remembers the various times he’s showed up unannounced at your doorstep, leaving bloody footprints across your carpet as you ushered him into your living room and rushed to grab medical supplies from the closet.

Another self-deprecating smile crawls onto his lips. For all the injuries that you heal, it seems you still cannot heal the wound in his heart.

It may seem weird, that he loves you. Contradicting, even. You are so different from him. While Lohen despises feeling so mortal, forever craving more power so he never has to feel the same helplessness he did when he was kidnapped, you are the complete opposite.

“Are you…really content with being mortal?” he had once asked, and you replied with a bright smile: “Well, flowers only bloom for a season. Even the brightest stars in the sky burn for an age. Neither lasts forever, yet we still call them beautiful, don’t we? I don’t see why we humans shouldn’t be the same.”

“But we're not flowers or stars.”

You had rolled your eyes at his smart answer, though your voice remained gentle nonetheless. “I find it strange that you call your mortality a weakness. To me, being mortal is what makes my courage possible. If nothing could be lost, would I ever be so brave? Would you ever be so brave, charging ahead of your comrades and ensuring the enemy never gets within half a meter of them?”

You — always so undeterred by others’ comments about your weakness or mortality. You never seem to care about others’ scathing words. You never seem to care about his selfishness or violence, either, always caring for him all the same.

At first, it didn’t make sense to Lohen why he would love you, out of all people. Someone who doesn’t get his thirst for power, someone who doesn’t see a future in fighting or getting physically stronger. 

But now, he thinks he gets it. Your stubborn yet wise words, caring so much for him despite your differences, being the light in his darkness, as cliché as it is. Sometimes, Lohen thinks you might be able to save him from self-destruction, from feeling so weak and exposed whenever he tries getting close to someone. Maybe he’ll let himself be a little vulnerable, just for you. One day, perhaps.

“Lohen!”

Your voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and he shakes his head, eyes a bit wide.

“What?”

You huff. “You’ve been spacing out for the past minute. I’m done treating your wounds, idiot. I need you to tell me if the bandages feel too loose or tight.”

“Uh, they don’t. No, not at all,” he stammers out, unable to look you in the eyes.

You hum, regarding him for a few seconds before pushing yourself onto your feet. “Alright,” you sigh. “If you say so. But please, do take care of yourself. I’ve made you some northern smoked chicken, it’s on the table. Don’t worry, it’s spicy — I know what you like. And do drink that apple cider, I didn’t make it for nothing.”

Lohen can only nod, a little dazed as he glances down at his bandaged wounds. You’ve done an amazing job, as always. It pains him that he cannot seem to get those words of gratitude out of his throat.

“I’ll be leaving, then,” you say, giving him a small smile. “Find me if you need anything, okay?”

Lohen tries to nod again, but suddenly, a wave of nausea hits him. He feels an overwhelming buildup of flowers in his lungs, and his chest tightens painfully.

“Y-yeah-” he rasps, breathing getting shorter and shorter. Lohen puts on a pained smile for you, praying that you’ll leave before you must witness the disgusting sight of him vomiting flowers. Luckily, you don’t seem to notice yet again, probably too exhausted from keeping him company. You smile back, opening the door to leave.

The moment your figure disappears, everything comes crashing down.

Lohen’s stomach twists. He lurches forward, one hand catching himself against the cold planks before he can collapse completely. The other presses uselessly against his abdomen, fingers curling into the fabric of his uniform as a violent cough tears through him.

Petals spill from between his lips, pale against the dark floor. Under different circumstances, he’s sure you would’ve loved them. Maybe if the crimson globes scattered across the cecilia folds were instead beads of dew, he could’ve wrapped them into a beautiful bouquet for you and confessed his love.

Weak. Powerless. Mortal. 

He’s too weak to love you. Too weak to put aside the selfish desire for power that claws at his chest, to escape the overwhelming feeling of insecurity and vulnerability when he attempts to bare his heart, to simply say the words I love you and end this undying pain of never knowing.

Pain had always been a proof of his existence. Whether it was the dull throb of healing wounds beneath his bandages, or the cold bite of winter air filling his lungs before battle, pain reminded him that he was very much alive — something his enemies, hollowed out by death or indifference, could no longer claim.

Lohen is nothing without pain.

But as he lays on the ground, bloodied cecilias spilling from his throat, he thinks that he is nothing without you, too.

a/n: i hope this makes sense I honestly just rambled and went with the flow while writing this with NO direction...comments are highly appreciated! hopefully he's not ooc 😣

[haniekai]

CAPTAIN SAVE A HOE!

SYNOPSIS | why would lohen need a choker, when you can just wrap your hand around his neck?

NOTE | wrote this in one sitting while at the laundry shop listening to this song lol, this is set before the expedition btw

1,334| WARNINGS: lohen.

“that looks a little too tight.”

lohen hums mindlessly, lifting his head up to look at you with an eyebrow raised in confusion. he was just about to let sleep invade his senses, but for you, he'd spend every waking moment drinking in your words.

you sit on your desk, seemingly still focused on writing your report. your hand flies across the pages in a speed that makes lohen almost wish it was him you were working on. a shame, really, that you chose to pour all your undivided attention into paperwork. being a captain must be hard, or an acting captain, in your position.

surely, adorno can still handle some paperwork without breaking a bone, right?

“what is?”

“that thing.” you spare him a look, and he musters the resistance to look pleased upon your divine gaze.

overdramatic and down bad, that he is.

“what thing?”

the sigh that escaped you brought a grin to his face, pushing his arm to sit up from the couch. “come on, don't leave a guy like me hanging. we both know your mind flows like the wind. i can't possibly guess what goes and what stays in your mind. hopefully, me.”

he considers it an achievement and pats himself on the back when you snort at his theatrics.

“that horrid thing around your neck.”

“the choker, you mean?” lohen plays with the aforementioned object, pinching the fabric between two fingers. evidently the fabric did not stretch at all when he pulled just a little, proving your earlier statement. “it's comfy!”

“in what way?” you quirk a brow in confusion. “i hardly believe being choked by a fabric no less can be described as comfortable.”

“i like to be a little breathless!” he chirps.

“masochistic thing you are.”

lohen laughs delightfully, now pushing himself to his height and approaching your desk with a pep to his step. a voice at the back of your mind screams at you; this was the consequences of speaking out loud! maybe you should've kept your mouth shut if you wanted to get your piled up work done by the end of the day, but it's too late for regrets–for the biggest regret of your life now sits his pretty little butt at the corner of your desk with an eager (evil) smile.

“you can feel around it if you want!”

what a freak, you thought.

although wrapping your dextrous fingers around his throat to shut him up does sound… appealing, for the lack of better words. there's probably a lot of better words for it, you just prefer to describe it that way, really.

and lohen has a lot of appealing traits, sadomasochism aside not included.

“just say you want me to choke the life out of you.”

“don't tease me with a good time, my captain!”

his pale complexion flushes at the thought and you shudder at what kind of imagery his mind is capable of creating. surely, his deadly creative brain can come up with a lot. his collection of poison will tell you so.

“you're a freak.”

“you like me freaky, admit it. my freaky brings color to your boring reality.” he lowers his upper body to your height, resting all his weight on an arm. “come on, you can give it a tug. i won't bite.”

he will, in every way possible, you're sure of it.

something comes to your mind, an idea that sounds so inappropriate for someone like the two of you, the acting captain and vice captain of the fifth company. before you can even stop yourself, your eyes glimpse at the offending fabric for a millisecond,. a mistake, for you suddenly feel the room become chilly. you immediately tear your gaze away, praying to the sevens that he wasn't paying attention and caught the way your eyes dilated for just a tiny bit.

you knew better though, he definitely saw through it.

“who is the world of fashion even thought of tailoring something that constricts normal human functions?” the hand you use to write resumes its work in an effort to ignore his intense stare. sharp eyes piercing the paper with stellar focus the same way your spear impaled the monster you fought a thousand times before.

but it was meaningless to try and divert your attention, when this menace literally thrives on whatever you give him.

a finger appears in your vision–the lack of urge to smack it away disappointed you, how weak have you become?–lifting your chin up so you are forced to look straight into mischievous teal-crimson eyes, twinkling with too much mirth.

lohen's not gonna let you get away with this at all, isn't he?

“i insist, my dear captain.”

the sound of a thread snapping broke your composure.

try as you might, you knew you wouldn't back down in a fight when it comes to lohen. perhaps he had forgotten that you were as conniving as he is? and possibly more than he is? there was no one who could match his energy other than you, despite the obvious difference in your attitudes. you wouldn't let your vice captain get the upper hand, when you are the one in charge of things. it has been a while since you've reminded him who has the authority between your ranks.

perhaps, you can treat this as a warrant for discipline.

“since you're giving me your utmost permission, vice captain lohen.”

lohen felt the frisson course through his nerves when your voice toned deeper. he's over the moon when your wonderful hand raises itself to his neck, thrilled to the bone he can feel his whole body shake with anticipation.

it's hot, too hot, just the sight of your hand near his skin got him excited. it rivals the adrenaline he gets when he's about to engage in a fight. it shows in the way his cheeks flushed uncontrollably and a small gasp involuntarily escaped from the back of his throat when your skin touched his–almost sounding like a whimper.

except, you didn't just tug at the fabric around his neck.

lohen jolted when he felt your fingers wrap around his neck, pushing the palm against the bulge of his adam's apple and applying pressure around the base of his neck. when you're certain you've got a good grip around him, you tug him lower with no restraint, never mind the strength you were currently applying around his neck. your lips are near touching, and he swears the only oxygen he needs is the one coming out from your mouth.

he can handle a little squeeze, won't he?

“fuck.”

the word slipped out like honey from his curved lips, eyes blown wide.

“i think you could handle something more, hm, tighter, yes?”

he's feeling light headed and it wasn't even just from the way you squeezed your lovely fingers around his neck. you were staring at him like a predator, sharp eyes filled with so much more than you've ever expressed before. you've never been this carefree (sexy) and, archons, he is loving every second of it. he can stay like this all day. after all, every breath he breathes is for you.

“we should include underwater training in our program next, yes? you're breathless, a little too soon for my liking.”

you sound too casual in such an untimely position, like you don't have your fingers wrapped around him like a tool. lohen struggles to nod against your grip when your fingers press against a particular spot at the side of his neck. a loud whimper echoed across the office. he couldn't care less for underwater training, when he can just have your hand just like this.

“yes, captain.”

the sound was throaty, rough, and all that is not his usual confident voice.

“good, we will discuss it further once i'm done with you.”

“huh?”

if he wasn't relying his weight on your desk, he would be on his knees right now at the sight of your sinister smile.

[cryoculus]

⟢ OCCUPATIONAL HAZARD

you're convinced there is more to the strange man your father named as your family's new guard. but much to valeriy's dismay, your curiosity is one incident away from costing him his job.

✦ content. 2k words ⋆ valeriy x gn!reader ⋆ written before snezhnaya release. noble!reader x bodyguard!valeriy. reader is a nepo baby to the person val protects in the trailer. good man working for an evil one type beat. one (1) hostage attempt. despite hating his job, val takes his work seriously.

✦ foreword. we can't talk here. gnsn just dropped a duke of the north. idk anything abt this man but don't we all?

READ ON AO3

“Did you know, during the War of the Funerary Flame, there was an Emperor named Valerian who got captured by the Heavenly Principles?”

Across the table, a long-suffering sigh cut through the delicate steam rising from your teacup. Valeriy sat with his massive arms crossed over his chest, his imposing stature casting a long shadow across the pristine tablecloth of this high-end Snezhnograd cafe. His dark hair framed a sharp face, and those eyes like a midnight sky bore into you with the weary patience of a man who dealt with your nonsense daily.

“Yes,” Valeriy replied curtly. “You asked me the same thing when I first escorted you to a ball at Zapolyarny Palace.”

A delighted laugh slipped past your lips, and you took a slow sip of your tea. “Well, it’s because your name is quite similar to his. Though I doubt Emperor Valerian would willingly bend the knee and work for someone like my father.”

Though your tone made it sound like a jest, it was a pointed arrow aimed directly at the armor he wore so proudly. You didn’t know much about Valeriy—he was famously tight-lipped about his past—but you had a few guesses here and there.

The way he carried himself, the rigid discipline he exercised, and that unshakable sense of duty; it was that of a knight’s. One who fell from grace perhaps, or one deeply misguided. Although it did make for a fascinating paradox: a clearly honorable man fiercly loyal to a noble whose hands were stained black with the underbelly of Snezhnaya.

Because you knew exactly what your father was.

You had lived your entire life wrapped in opulence, pampered within an inch of your life. But you were far from blind. You knew the extravagant banquets thrown for your name days were bought with tainted money. You were fully aware that your family’s fortune relied on a predatory, underground narcotics trade and clandestine alliances with the Fatui. Every fine thread on your back and every delicacy on your plate had been bartered for the tears and slow ruin of faceless addicts.

Yet, you had never done a single thing to stop it.

“Tell me, Valeriy,” you began, swirling the amber liquid in your porcelain cup. “Does a knight’s oath still count if the king you’re protecting is a villain?”

The silence that followed was terse, broken only by the distant chatter of other patrons and the clink of silverware. Anyone else in your social circle would have laughed it off, or worse, reprimanded you. Whenever you had subtly tried to voice your unease to your peers about where your families’ wealth came from, they treated you like a pariah. To the Snezhnograd elite, questioning the blood on the Mora was a distasteful social gaffe. The rich always protected their own wealth before all else; they expected you to smile, drink your fire-whiskey, and ignore the bodies the empire was built upon.

But Valeriy didn’t scold you. Nor did he offer a shallow defense of your father’s syndicate. He simply stared at you, though a small, sharp muscle twitched in his jaw.

You didn’t know why, but you felt entirely certain that underneath that quiet exterior beat a heart with some semblance of a moral compass. Which was a ridiculous assumption. The man had quite literally agreed to guard a family notorious for sitting at the very peak of the Snezhnayan drug cartel. He was paid by a monster, to protect the child of a monster.

But a week ago, your father had hosted a private gala at the manor, a gathering of wealthy distributors and certain Fatui Harbingers. You had stepped out onto the grand balcony to escape the suffocating smell of expensive perfume and greed, watching the heavy snow fall over the courtyard. Down below, a young kitchen maid had accidentally tripped on the icy cobblestones, dropping a crate of imported vintage wine meant for the Tsaritsa’s elite.

Your father’s chief overseer—a cruel, bloated man who handled the street-level enforcements—had immediately marched out fuming, his vision pulsing with aggressive geo energy. He was going to make an example of her for ruining property. The girl had shrunk into the snow, sobbing, knowing no one would help a servant.

You had moved to call out, to stop it, but a tall shadow cut through the balcony light before you could.

Valeriy had intercepted the overseer’s wrist mid-air. He hadn’t drawn a weapon. He hadn’t even raised his voice. He simply squeezed the man’s arm with enough force to make the elemental energy sputter out, his towering frame completely shielding the maid from view.

“The Tsaritsa's guests are waiting for their security detail inside, sir,” Valeriy reminded, his voice dripping with an unspoken promise of violence. “Do not waste your energy on spilled grapes.”

The overseer had gone pale, sneered, and retreated. Valeriy hadn’t comforted the girl—the guard merely turned and walked back to his post in the shadows—but he had saved her. He had drawn a line in the snow that your father’s learned culture of cruelty wasn’t allowed to cross.

“You're doing it again.”

Valeriy’s voice suddenly pulled you back to the present, shattering your memories of the gala.

You blinked, realizing you had been staring at him for a solid minute. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me as if I am some specimen you find utterly fascinating,” he said, uncrossing his arms and sitting up straight, the leather of his armor creaking faintly as he checked the perimeter of the cafe with a sharp glance. “I am a guard. Nothing more. If you continue to look for ghosts in my past, you will only end up disappointed.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” you replied, leaning back into your plush chair with a slow, knowing smile. “I think you’re the most interesting thing in Snezhnaya at the moment, Valeriy. And I have a very high tolerance for disappointment.”

Valeriy grunted, the faint tightening around his eyes the only indication that your stubbornness had registered. He reached for his own cup—a black blend he had ordered purely for the caffeine, ignoring the delicate pastries you had pushed toward him—but his hand froze an inch from the handle.

The low-humming chatter of the cafe abruptly died.

In the span of a single heartbeat, a cloaked shadow detached itself from the heavy winter coats hanging by the entrance, moving with a frantic speed that bypassed the cafe’s front counter entirely. Before Valeriy could even move, a man reeking of cheap alcohol lunged over the back of your plush chair.

Then, a cold, jagged blade was pressed against your throat.

“Don’t move! Nobody damn well move!” the man shrieked, his hands trembling so fiercely the cold steel bit shallowly into your neck. “I know who you are! I know whose blood runs in your veins, you little parasite!”

The other patrons gasped, knocking over porcelain cups as they scrambled backward to flee the establishment.

“Y-You—guard!” the attacker hissed, his wild, bloodshot eyes locking onto Valeriy. “You tell his lordship that this one is going to bleed out on this rug unless I get five hundred thousand Mora in cash. Right now! Pack it in a case, or I’ll slit their throat!”

Obviously, this was a high-stakes, life-or-death hostage situation. A single twitch of the man’s trembling hand could end your lavish, boring existence.

But you remained perfectly still, leaning back against the chair, completely unfazed by the sharp metal threatening your life. Instead of panic, a strange, thrilling rush of anticipation washed over you.

Because even when Valeriy masqueraded as a well-behaved dog loyal to his master, you knew what he really was. He was a apex predator. A bear waiting for the slightest, most logical excuse to be unchained. And right now, his charge was being threatened.

Which gave him permission to kill.

Valeriy didn’t rise slowly nor did he even try to parley. The air in the cafe plummeted past freezing as he moved, a burst of speed that defied his massive, armored frame. Your guard was on his feet as his hand shot forward, clamping down directly over the blade of the knife. He didn’t care about the steel cutting into his glove. With a brutal grip of his fist, Valeriy shattered the weapon into pieces.

The assailant screamed in shock as he staggered backwards, but your guard was already moving. He gripped the man’s collar, lifting his entire body off the ground, and threw him through the cafe’s large glass storefront. The window shattered into a million glittering diamonds, scattering across the snowy Snezhnograd pavement outside.

Valeriy stepped through the ruined frame, drawing a broadsword from his back as the fur trim of his cloak fluttered majestically against the swirling snow. His hair was dusted with white flakes, his eyes burning with ice-cold ire. He looked breathtakingly handsome, a dark knight silhouetted against the blinding frost.

The desperate man pulled another dagger from his boot, lunging blindly with a scream of pure terror.

Effortlessly, your guard brought the flat of his massive blade down against the culprit’s chest. The sheer force of the blow shattered probably shattered collarbone, and sent him crashing face-first into the cobblestones. Before the assailant could even get back on his feet, Valeriy’s heavy boot planted itself firmly on his stomach, pinning him into the dirt and snow.

The sword’s tip hovered mere millimeters from his eye.

“Yield,” Valeriy commanded. “Or I will ensure you never see the sun rise over the palace again.”

The man proceeded to go entirely limp, having passed out from shock.

From the sidelines, you took yet another sip of your tea, unbothered by the screaming wind or the commotion still buzzing about in the cafe. The amber liquid was losing its heat, but the warmth blooming in your chest more than made up for it.

Valeriy kept his boot on the culprit, his gaze shifting slowly until his midnight eyes locked onto you. He took in your unbothered posture, the teacup held gracefully in your hand, and the smirk playing on your lips.

“You’re helping yourself to a drink at a time like this?” he muttered.

“Well, what can I say?” you replied smoothly, stepping over the broken window to dust the snow off his hair. “My guard certainly likes to put on a show. Thanks for not killing him this time.”

Shortly after the threat was subdued, you spoke with the panicked cafe owner while the Druzhina were contacted to apprehend the unconscious assailant. The poor woman was begging for your forgiveness and weeping over the shattered glass, terrified that word of the incident would reach your father and spell the end of her livelihood.

Valeriy stepped up behind you, holding out your expensive winter coat. As you slid your arms into the sleeves, you offered the owner a small, reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Do not lose sleep over it. Blood is not always thicker than water.”

The carriage ride back to the estate was quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves against the cobblestones. Inside the cabin, Valeriy let out a heavy sigh, leaning his massive frame back against the plush velvet seating.

“Your penchant for these outings in the city is quite the occupational hazard,” he complained, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Your family has accumulated more enemies than Snezhnaya has snowflakes. Walking into public spaces just to test my reflexes is a dangerous habit.”

You let out a soft laugh, turning your gaze away from him to watch the heavy snow drift lazily outside the frosted carriage window.

“Just think of it as... enrichment. After all, history says Emperor Valerian fought to his very last breath,” you murmured, casting a sidelong, wicked glance back at him. “You’ll do the same for me, won't you?”

His grunt of resignation was an answer all on its own.

Whether he was a dog bound tightly to a master’s leash or a black bear locked in a cage of duty, the facts remained absolutely true. Valeriy was yours to provoke, and he made your otherwise boring life somewhat of a grand adventure.

✦ afterword. i love inconveniencing a big, handsome man who seems to not even mind being inconvenienced at all. okay maybe he does mind, but he lets reader off the hook every time anyway <3 i also like to think that in this fic, valeriy is actually someone undercover who's infiltrating reader's family to get some dirt on their father. what ever shall he do when he grows attached to the offspring of someone he's tasked to eliminate! but it's whatever!! i promise to write something more substantial for him once we get to know him better. the snezhnaya trailer looks promising for all characters!! also btw emperor valerian doesn't exist in genshin i made all that up just in case you're wondering bwahahaha

come check out my masterlist!

[hanxku]

ever heard of the tag..."improper use of vision" ? for all my lohen lovers fellas dying under the warm weather recently, take this.

it's warm lately in mondstadt. even at night. so warm you might as well consider refreshing up in natlan.

during this warmth, lohen decided to share a bit of his coldness with you...

lohen's body radiates cryo as his hips slam against yours.

every thrust is deep and rough, making your skins slap and the bed frame groan, the sounds resonating through the favonius quarters. if one were to walk past the room, they would see soft blueish cryo air escaping from under the door.

"look at that..." his hand reaches around and grabs your hip to anchor you even deeper into the bed, his pelvis thrusting down in the same mouvement. "cold enough ?"

"yes. fuck yeah" you'd groan back if you weren't overwhelmed by the pleasure.

lohen's breath comes in ragged and shaky hitches, panting out frozen air between his teeth like a machine. his wine-red eyes are glowing slightly under the effort, staring down at you, freezing that picture of you in his mind. you try to look at him through the soft moonlight but your eyes keep rolling back under his assault. "don't try...." he pants out in a sneer, the effort making his voice shake. "just melt into it...melt into me..."

nothing else mattered. just him, his cold body against yours and his burning eyes on you.

“g…god…” lohen’s hips speeds up, going in and out relentlessly, his eyes fluttering shut under the pleasure. you hold yourself on the bed sheets to take his assault, moaning out in ecstasy. "take it all....take all of me..." his breath is ice-cold against your ear, his shiny frozen earring rubbing your cheek softly. "please...please please take it all...." his tone is shaky and manic.

lohen doesn't have time to say another thing. you grab his snowy cold hair and take his cold lips to your warm ones in a starving kiss. the knight groans and drools coldly as he melts against the it, his cock throbbing between your warm walls, releasing cold liquid, similar to cryo slime.

his moans and pants quicken as he grabs your hips firmly and raises them with all his strength, ramming himself in like a bunny in heat. “oh…god…” finally, in a last agressive thrust, he releases into you, reaching into your deepest parts, sneering out loudly in the high. your nails scratch all the way down his back as you follow him in his high, making his hips shudder against you as he takes the delicious pain.

your eyelids try to blink away the stars. glimpses of him through the moonlight. ice-sweaty, panting, muscles twitching. his cheeks, usually pale, colored in a soft red. his eyes glowing warmly.

such a pure, intoxicating contrast.

his cold hand reaches up for your forehead, brushing away your hair softly. “feeling colder ?” his tone was meant like a mock. but his eyes couldn’t lie.

ice never felt so warm.

[lysarion]

╰ DO YOU DANCE? ／ VALERIY ⟢

SYNOPSIS: after valeriy's sudden departure leaving you to wonder where he's been, he finally returns after a decade long wait in silence.

𖥔 WORDCOUNT: 3k ┆ 𖥔 TAGS. @amorsial @al97649 @shoyosluver @al97649 @katethecrazy @rainbows-dreams @hirokasama @uzxotic @anqelkoz @leafyonz @suyeomiiee @ddurandals @007-archives @officialkatzlin @sangoqueenkoko @byzantiumhollow @koriahhh -> come join the taglist here!

𖥔 WARNINGS: they yearn a lot in this fic, miscommunication/misunderstanding and angst is you squint, inaccurate depictions of regency/high society, written pre-release, expect him to be ooc. not fully proofread; expect mistakes!

♪ FINAL NOTES .ᐟ genshin always know how to get me back fml. doesn't help that he looks like marius and i. i really like that little shit okay. its so bad i had to get my copy of priode and prejudice to get inspiration and you can tell LMFAOOO ANWYAYS ENJOY!!! art credits: @.srro_yo on x!

It's a universally known truth that a man of Major Valeriy's standing must be in want of a spouse.

For as long as you've known the man, he would beat you in your fantasies of what it means to have a happily ever after. You find it endearing how much thought, care, and insurmountable fondness Valeriy had put into what his future life would look like. What his future with you would look like.

"A manor near the heart of the city," you recount his younger self, standing proudly on your windowsill with a training sword raised high in the air as you giggle behind your book. Valeriy shoots you a proud grin before jumping off his platform and making a beeline towards you. "Because you can't go one day without dancing with the common folk. I'd like to spare his Lordship from an early death."

A roll of your eyes makes Valeriy grin wider. He gently takes your hand in his, throwing away his pretend sword to put your book down, and coaxes you to stand. He lays a hand on his shoulder, while he intertwines the other in his own. The way Valeriy invites you to dance is never conventional. Sure, he'd do the gentlemanly thing and bow, kiss your knuckles, and deliver a practiced smile. Most of the time, he'd sneak up on you—a hand already interlocked with your own, his chin resting on your shoulder, and him humming your favorite piece when he enters your room.

And every time, Valeriy would smile.

Oh, how you want to keep that smile to yourself. Not the ones he practiced in front of your vanity mirror before events, but the ones he has now as he sways you back and forth in the direction of your music box. This smile is reserved for you and you alone. The kind where it's all tooth and boyish charm instead of a noble knight.

"There will be a ballroom in the living room," he continues his fantasy, guiding your every step with poise and grace. "We will hold all your birthday celebrations there."

"And what about yours?" you ask, the world escaping you in a blur when Valeriy leads you in a twirl. "Where will we celebrate your birthday?"

He shakes his head, "There's no need. A grand celebration for my birth has never been my style."

"But if I want to celebrate your birthday?" Valeriy only smiles at your pouty lips. His hand drags lower, respectfully keeping it just above your waist as he tugs you impossibly closer.

"What use will I have for a hundred faces when I only want to look at yours?"

You can't stop the blush that creeps up your cheeks at his honesty. And even if you did, Valeriy had a hidden talent for always keeping your eyes on him. It is impossible not to—not when he bats those inssuferably long lashes at you or when he looks as if you are the sole flame keeping this cold nation warm.

Valeriy was very good at making you feel special.

You wonder where that man has gone.

It has been years since you last saw him. All you had was a letter tucked between your pillows, his smudged handwriting announcing his departure in the coming fortnight, and how he deeply regrets not being able to say goodbye properly. Even now, almost a decade later, you remain in the dark on why Valeriy left. Every servant, every knight, every close companion that knew of his name all gave you the same vague answer.

"It's a knightly duty."

How you wanted to use your authority as one of Sneznhaya's future sovereigns to strip him of that title.

Valeriy would hate you. But at least he'd be there, just within arm's reach instead of some freezing camp where no light could reach him. You can live with him hating you because you can never begin to imagine a life where you grow older and he stays a certain age for all eternity.

"Won't you come dance with us, my liege?" Your apprentice, Vesna, asks.

You blink in confusion until your eyes finally catch up to the music played by the band. So lost in your thought, so lost staring at the back of your almost-lover's head from across the room, you had completely tuned out the rest of the world.

Vesna asks you again, her voice a little quieter. She shifts from one foot to the other, gloved hands clasped at her chest, her lips set in a pout as you hesitantly chuckle. You quickly turn your head, watching your figure dissolve and slosh around the champagne flute to avoid Vesna's pleading.

By the Tsaritsa, why have I agreed to this? You ask yourself with a wince. You were no knight, nor did you have a personal relationship with the Druzhna. So why in the world did you receive an invitation?

Sure, you may have mentored Vesna, the current Captain of the aforementioned group, but you wouldn't really call it mentoring. You were more or less a glorified advisor. The masses are blinded by your previous relationship with Valeriy before his journey. The memory brings a frown to your face. Vesna didn't fail to notice.

"Is something wrong, my liege? You seem glum tonight. Wasn't it your wish to dance in her Majesty's palace?" She questioned with a frown.

"Truly, Vesna, my dear, I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

As you were about to retort, the ballroom quiets to a low murmur. The crowd parts like the sea being cleaved with a sword as someone—mayhaps another official delegate from the Druzhna—announces Valeriy's presence. You almost hiss out in pain at the mention of his name. Almost.

His footsteps are heavy, laden with layers of snow during his travels, while a greatsword is strapped securely on his back. The chilly winds from the evernight have crept their way into the palace, forcing Valeriy's fur coat to sway in a dance that painfully reminded you of when the curtains of your room would give him away when he'd sneak out of training to see you.

Everyone bowed their heads, eyes landing on the floor as Valeriy's gaze swept the crowd. When he met you, you didn't think twice to follow the rest of the world. Duck your head, curtsy, and remain out of his lidded gaze when he passes you. You bite your lip in frustration when the scent of wildberries and iron wafts in the air. You don't remember him smelling like he had been through a war.

"That's Majory Valeriy," Vesna whispers to you. Head also ducked down as her eyes followed Valeriy's figure. "He hasn't been seen in almost a decade since his expedition."

"I know." Painfully so.

The younger girl turns to you as you both straighten your backs, and music erupts like a sleeping volcano. Her teal eyes are narrowed into an apprehensive glare as you take another glass of champagne. "Did something happen between you and the Major?"

You sighed, the air heavy and condensing in a small fog in front of you. "Nothing happened." Because it is the truth, even if you wish it wasn't.

How do you even begin to undo the suffering of a decade-long silence spent in the dark?

"Maybe you should ask him to dance." Vesna proposes, and you almost laugh.

"Knowing him, he'd decline." Your eyes betray you and find Valeriy in a corner, speaking with his fellow soldiers. "Major Valeriy doesn't look like the kind who dances."

"Well, we can't exactly know what a gentleman really is by the end of a single fortnight!" Your apprentice loops an arm around yours, the other steals your glass of champagne, and you watch as it's carried off to who knows where. You nearly trip over your own feet as Vesna drags you in the direction of Valeriy, and you could've sworn your heart leaped up into your throat when he looks to both your figures. "If we do not venture ourselves, then someone else will."

"I think I'd prefer if someone else did." A lie.

Vesna only rolls her eyes. "Very few of us can feel freely, my liege, and even fewer who have enough heart to let themselves fall in love without the sorcery of others." When you are but a few strides away from the Major, Vesna unloops herself from your grasp and gives you a final hug as she pushes you forward. "I can tell that you deeply love Major Valeriy. It's truly such a shame you don't believe that he loves you the same."

"Vesna—!"

Before you can get another word out, steady arms catch you before you can hit the floor. You can feel your heart pounding within your ribs as you screw your eyes shut, unwilling to believe that this is happening. That after a decade-long wait, Valeriy's arm came to circle your form as if he hadn't left.

"Careful," by the Tsarita, even the concern laced in his tone hasn't changed, as if ten years were a mere blink of the eye.

"I'm fine," you hurriedly reply. "I apologize for—"

"There's no need for apologies," Valeriy cuts you off, still holding your hand as you settle back on your feet. "Have you—"

"Enjoy your evening, Major."

You can't do this, you wouldn't. Not after you've spent more time mourning him than actually being with him. So you do what you've always done—you run. You turn away and do not give him the grace of finishing his sentence as you look for an exit. To a balcony, to a room, to the outside world, anywhere that didn't have Valeriy in it.

How ironic that now that your wish of being with him is fulfilled, you take it for granted.

He calls out your name from across the room, ignoring who he's bumped into, not even bothering to mutter half-hearted apologies. All he cared about was you.

"Please, I just need a moment to explain," he pleads with you, taking measured strides up the stairs and memorizing every twist or turn you take in the dimly lit halls.

"No explanations needed, Major, I think I understand," you coldly replied.

"I don't think you do. Just—," you gasp when he seizes your wrist, there's no pressure, Valeriy doesn't even fully wrap his fingers around you. When you finally meet his gaze, there's a torrential storm in his eyes. "Did you at least receive them?" He asks breathlessly.

"Receive what?" you question with furrowed brows.

Valeriy's lips form a thin line before he lets out a quiet curse. His head hangs low, and your view of his face is obscured. You almost don't catch his next words. "My letters," he says as if it's a shameful admittance of defeat. "I've written a letter for you every day. I pleaded to everyone, to anyone, for you to receive them. Please tell me you at least received one."

"I received none," you mutter in disbelief.

"Damn it all."

You stand there with him, frozen and waiting for the resentment in your heart to finally thaw out. But you realize dumbly that there were none to begin with. "I thought you had forgotten about me. Fled with another in some unknown land where I wouldn't be able to follow," you see his shoulders tense, and you take a deep breath. "Worse, I thought you were dead until news of your arrival a week ago."

Valeriy hasn't moved an inch from where he stands hunched over, his hold still on your wrist, but you know you can break free—he has never held you against your will. Even now, he puts your needs into consideration. And he apparently has for the last decade you've been apart.

"Did you really write to me?" Your voice breaks, and when Valeriy finally raises his head, you can't stop the tears that escape you. "Has it really been me even after all these years?"

"Of course it's you. There's been no one else but you…!"

"Then why did you leave?! Why couldn't you have stayed, and we could've gotten married like we planned, Valeriy?"

His gloved hand brushes away the tears you vehemently try to hide. "I had to. It's part of my duty as a knight. I couldn't just have you because you let me. I had to earn the title of your husband."

"So you leave me for almost ten years?" you laugh incredulously, a humorless sound as your fingers curl against the fur of his coat. "You already have me. All you had to do was get on one knee and recite some plagiarized speech from my favorite book, and I would've said yes!"

"And that's precisely the problem!" Valeriy holds you by your forearms, his brows creased into a furrow as his volume rises. "I could be a beggar on the street or a dying animal in a forest, and you'd still look at me as if I were worthy to stand beside you!"

"Because you do!"

"Oh, archons," he pulls away to brush away his hair, and you follow. Craving the warmth you thought you had lost. Valeriy looks at you, his chest heaving and biting his bottom lip as his mind works to find something to say. After a minute of agonizing silence, the tension in his shoulders is finally released. "It was bad enough that I kept skipping training to sneak into your room, but his Lordship practically killed me when he announced you'd be betrothed to someone else."

Your eyes widen at the revelation. Valeriy continues, "Some nobleman from another nation. Prim and proper, he could protect you better than I could. Can't you see? Your father thinks of me as another friend you'll be bored with in the coming years, a knight you had picked out of pity instead of the reassurance that I could do my job."

He lets out a shaky exhale. His gloved hands glide down to hold yours, and you can't suppress the shiver that runs down your spine at the fire Valeriy leaves in his wake. When he gently tilts your head up with his thumb, forcing you to look at anyone but him, you almost melt.

"I got in contact with the former Major. He told me he'd train be to better—a better knight, a better man. Someone suitable for your standing. I agreed, of course I did. I'd do anything for you. I just didn't—" his breath catches and drops your chin as he ducks his head in shame. "I didn't think I'd have to leave immediately. Not for this long. I'm sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I truly am."

You swallow the lump in your throat. Your fingers are still tangled in his coat, and it takes everything in your power not to pull him closer. "Tell me then," you start, voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me what you wrote in your letters."

His eyes snap up to you, waiting. You hold his stare until he finally breaks. "I complained about the training regime. How insufferable it was not having you there to cheer me on." A fond smile slowly breaks out on his face, and a gloved hand is placed on top of yours on his coat as he continues. "You'd love the food and the people who made it. Every few months, they'd hold an event where they ask us trainees, to dance. You would have fit right in. I wrote about how much I missed you every day and how I can't wait to return."

Valeriy chuckles, his hand leaving yours to cradle the side of your jaw, giving you enough time to pull away. When you don't, he sighs at the feel of your skin despite the fabric covering his palms. "I… I got you a ring. I think I would have proposed to you with it."

Heavy silence followed the declaration. There's steadiness in his eyes despite the hints of hesitation in Valeriy's voice. "Do you still have it?" you practically plead.

A grin breaks out on his face, the kind you remember from your childhood as you danced in your bedroom when his trainer raised all hell trying to find him.

"Of course I do."

You finally laugh. For the first time tonight, a smile takes over your features as you ease into his hold. "Of course you would. What a silly thing to ask."

Valeriy laughs with you, the air in his lungs being knocked right out of him when you press your nose to his chest. He stands frozen, hands in the air as if he didn't know what to do with them. You continue to laugh when he finally wraps them around your waist, pulling you closer as his lips find the crown of your head. Valeriy all but melts into you.

"Do you still dance?"

His chuckle rumbles through your figure. A hand is already interlocking with yours as he whispers, "Only with you."

You smile at the declaration, nuzzling further into his chest as Valeriy begins to sway left and right. "I'm still upset, just to be clear."

"I know."

"You left me waiting for nearly ten years, so don't expect me to forgive you easily."

"I understand."

"And," you pull away to look him in the eye. Your hand brushes away the hair that gets in his eyes. "I want you to rewrite all the letters I didn't receive."

"All of them?" Valeriy asks with wide eyes.

You only nod, "Yes, all of them."

He doesn't reply, not immediately at least. You don't know for how long you sway back and forth in that dim hallway as you keep your eyes on his face, his eyes on yours, when he finally hums. Another smile on his lips as he twirls you, as he did back when you were young.

"As you wish." A laugh escapes him when he presses your foreheads together as the music from the ballroom comes to a close. "I'd rewrite them however many times you wish so long as you finally get to read them."

© 𝓵ysarion 2025 — do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[inloveinsickness]

SAKUSA KIYOOMI loses all of his edge when it comes to you.

it’s no secret that he has a reputation of being cold and aloof, sharp-tongued and straight to the point. what was once a coping mechanism long ago has since been ingrained into his personality and is second nature to him. aside from his coach, team staff, close friends and people he considers family, there’s no need for anyone else to held that closely to him.

no one needs to know that while he's grumbling over the phone about his upcoming PR schedule, he has your snoozing head resting in his lap and fingers carding through your hair.

no one needs to know that a mandatory goodbye kiss from you is required before leaving the house, if not his day is going to start off horribly and he'll be in a snappy mood, how dramatic.

no one needs to know that his tone softens whenever he talks to you, words sanded down, smoothened around the edges and laced with tenderness, not because you can't take it, but because why should he?

sakusa kiyoomi shows his love in private, he doesn't need to prove it to anyone, certainly not the press, but he makes sure you know it very well, especially in quiet moments with just you and him.

taglist. open (link to form) @wyrcan @urslytherin @saucejar @kurogira @returntothefae

@diorzs @daisy-room @stellar-headquarters @whatisnureotypical @haruhi269

@ayatakanosstuff @zuhaeri @cyxjz @sexylexy12

© inloveinsickness. please do not repost, plagiarise, or translate my work.