There's a monster with claws that lives in his chest.
Long, sharp nails caress the inside of the hollow cavity that holds his heart. It threatens to rip through his flesh and crawl out to show the world the ugliness that lives beneath honeyed words and pretty eyes. Sometimes, Kaeya can hear its voice, a dark, low snarl in his head.
Look at them, it hisses, look at the family you ruined.
He never listened to it when he was younger. Ruined: a word that could never describe the lively bustle of Dawn Winery. The head of the house and his son—two flames that burned bright and endlessly. Kaeya thought they would never be snuffed out.
But then the fire died, and it left him standing in the ashes of his sins and lies. And he regrets it all, regrets following the red-haired man into the warmth of a home instead of rotting alone in the woods. How selfish he had been, to yearn for a love that was not meant to be his.
"Don't want to work," you grumble from under the covers, squinting at the morning sun filtering through the partially closed curtains.
A strong hand sits you up, thumbs rubbing at your sleep-crusted eyes. "Get up," Alhaitham orders, "or you can stay in bed and get fired. And then you'll be sad and unemployed."
You shoot him a glare but move to stand up anyway, bones cracking in protest. "Can you put toothpaste on my toothbrush for me?" you pout, giving him your best puppy dog eyes.
"Should I also oil your joints like the Tin Man? I could have sworn I heard all of them pop a second ago," he retorts, disappearing into the bathroom.
"Love you!" you call after him.
The only response you get is a toothbrush shoved roughly into your mouth.
⋆˚࿔ fem reader, major character death, mentions of grieving, cat dad!sylus
The silence after your death hits Sylus like a truck.
He misses your bright laughter and the soft sound of your humming in the shower. He tries to play your favorite songs to fill the void, watches your TV shows to distract his mind, but the silence still threatens to swallow him up. Everything in the house is frozen in time—the fuzzy socks thrown on the living room floor, your half-empty coffee cup still resting on the dining table, waiting for an owner that would never return.
Sylus couldn't bring himself to clean it up.
A couple of months after your death, it rains—a heavy downpour that soils his already sour mood. But then there's a yowling that breaks up the void, and Sylus peers out the front door, only to come face to face with a pathetic little skinny cat, soaked to the bone and loudly complaining.
"Hello, kitten," he murmurs, watching it wobble inside as if it always belonged there. And something inside him breaks when it finds your fuzzy socks on the floor and curls up in the soft fabric.
The cat stays. Sylus takes it to the vet first before buying an obscene number of toys and blankets, only to laugh in disbelief when it chooses his pillow over the expensive cat beds he ordered online. He tries to lift it off by the scruff of the neck, but the little creature digs its claws into the silk and refuses to let go.
"Stubborn thing," he shakes his head and defeatedly gets in bed. Moments later, he can feel the slight, cautious pressure of little paws climbing onto his chest. That night, Sylus falls asleep to the quiet sound of purrs, rumbling against his skin like an engine.
The cat remains nameless, although he finds himself calling it different things every day. Kitten, for when he wakes up to the rhythmic kneading of paws on his stomach in the morning. Stubborn thing, for when it insists on sitting on the dining table while he eats, bumping its head against his arm for chin scratches. And Princess, for when he's greeted at the front door by its screaming, the cat weaving in and out of his legs as he cracks open a can of overpriced food.
The creature occupies his every waking hour, and Sylus finds that the void in the house gets quieter, smaller. He still misses you terribly—still startles awake at night only to clutch at empty bedsheets—but the feeling is less intense than before. You are no longer a ghost that haunts the hallways; you are a fond memory, a reminder of love.
"There's your mother," he coos to the cat one morning, lifting it until it's eye level with your picture framed on the wall. Your favorite song is playing on the record player, the living room is spotless, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts in the air.
The cat glares at your photo for a second before hissing. Silence, and then laughter fills the house.
⋆˚࿔ fem reader, fluff, established relationship, zayne & the reader have a daughter
When you startle awake, the air smells like sugar.
You squint at the clock on the nightstand (5:36 AM, it reads in bright red) and feel around for your bathrobe. It's a dark blue robe with your initials embroidered in gold on your left pocket, a gift given to you by Zayne on the night of your first anniversary. You toss your legs over the side of the bed to slide your feet into the matching slippers and wiggle your toes into the fur lining. Through the door left ajar, you can hear quiet giggles and the crinkling of cellophane. The smell of sugar intensifies as you make your way to the kitchen, doing your best to avoid the creaky floorboards that you have memorized like the back of your hand.
This isn't your first time catching a thief at dawn.
Or thieves, you should say, because on the floor in front of the pantry door sits Zayne and your daughter, powdered sugar dusting their noses and cheeks as they break into the box of donuts—donuts that you brought home last night to be eaten for breakfast, not at five in the morning.
"Dr. Zayne." Your voice rings through the silent kitchen like a judge's ruling in a courtroom.
Your husband flinches. You fight back a smile as he sheepishly sets his donut down, hands coming up to brush the crumbs from his mouth. Your daughter mirrors his actions, choosing to hide behind her father's broad shoulders.
"Hello, wife," he greets you, pretty eyes suddenly finding the kitchen floor very interesting.
You cross your arms. "Did you touch the glazed donuts?"
"No ma'am, I left them for you."
"Good boy."
You watch his ears turn red. The room falls silent again as you slump down next to them, fatigue settling into your bones. Your daughter clambers into your lap with a little "Mama!", and you smooth a hand down her messy hair before reaching for your glazed donut.
"I told you to stop this habit. The last time I took her to the dentist, they nearly killed me when they saw her teeth," you mutter to Zayne around a mouthful of pastry.
"We're doing our best."
"I know."
You finish chewing and pop another bite into your mouth. The child in your lap squirms, trying to crawl out of your embrace.
"Mama, I want one more!" she insists, staring up at you with big hazel eyes.
౨ৎ GN reader, fluff, established relationship, non-sexual nudity, alhaitham is a lovesick fool
Despite his stoic nature, Alhaitham is an avid lover of kisses.
It's a habit that his grandmother instilled in him from a young age. Her hands, frail and wrinkled, would grab him by his collar with surprising strength before he could leave the house.
"How could I let my grandson leave without a kiss?" her voice would boom before she smothered his cheeks with her lips. And while he would grumble and whine about it as a child, he finds himself missing her embrace from time to time.
It's a tradition that he now passes on to you. Every morning, you're greeted by the faint press of his lips against your forehead and then the quiet sound of his laughter as you scrunch your nose at the ticklish feeling.
"Good morning, sweetheart," he whispers, leaning down to give you another kiss, this time on your lips. You mumble something incoherent in response, tugging the covers over your face in an attempt to fall back asleep.
"I'll see you later," he calls from the doorway of the bedroom. The only reply he gets is a thumbs up, your hand sticking out from the mess of blankets.
Some days, you manage to wake up before him, and his dreams are interrupted by the sound of the shower running.
You're scrubbing shampoo into your scalp when the shower door is suddenly yanked open.
"Fuck, you scared me," you shriek, glaring at him when his eyes wander down your body. "I thought my heart was gonna fall out of my body and onto the floor."
"I have a meeting," he announces as if it's the most important news in the world. "Goodbye kiss?"
You roll your eyes but oblige, pulling him into a deep, soapy kiss. "Goodbye, menace," you pull away with a scowl, flicking water in his face. He slaps your ass in retaliation.
Despite the interrupted showers and sleep, you like how affectionate he is. It makes you feel special because the seemingly apathetic Alhaitham somehow opened his heart up to you and only you. But it's also a sign of his warm upbringing—a sign that someone was there to love him when his parents couldn't—so you always indulge him with his kisses.
(Even though it can be an inconvenience sometimes.)
You scream as the bathroom door slams open. Alhaitham leans against the doorframe with a smirk on his face, and you know what's coming next.
౨ৎ ( MDNI ) ; fingering, fluff, established relationship, silly tipsy sex
Alhaitham likes his clothes to be skintight. He thinks it's practical: no loose ends that can get in the way during a fight, and no need to spend time ironing out the wrinkles in the morning. But a night with you has him rethinking his choices.
He's a mess between your legs—gray hair sticking up in odd places and pants hanging low on his hips. The sweet scent of the wine from dinner is strong on his breath, and you can faintly make out the traces of his flushed cheeks in the darkness of the room.
"Take it off," he grumbles, fingers fumbling with the buttons of your shirt. You can't help but giggle when he gives up and resorts to yanking your socks off and tossing them over his shoulder.
"You better find those later." You send him a pointed look before sliding your shirt off.
Alhaitham scoffs. "We'll have to clean the whole room anyway once I'm done with you."
You open your mouth to complain, but then his teeth are sinking into the delicate flesh of your thigh, and a gasp cuts you off. Fingers tangle in his hair as he litters kisses across your skin, stopping when he reaches your pussy. The pad of his thumb ghosts over your clit through your panties, and he groans at the wetness seeping into the fabric.
"Alhaitham, stop teasing," you whine, lightly tugging on his hair as a threat.
"Fuck, sweetheart, you're killing me here," he whispers. Sitting up to watch your eyes glaze over, he pushes your underwear aside and works a large finger into you, breath growing heavier when he feels how tight you are around him.
He tries to lean back down, but you shove a foot against his chest and push him back. "Wait—take your shirt off too," you complain, briefly mourning the loss of his fingers inside you, "I don't want to be the only one naked."
Alhaitham rolls his eyes—he earns a light slap on his thigh for his attitude—before hastily reaching for the hem of his shirt. As he undresses, the faint light from the window illuminates the toned muscles of his abdomen and the outline of his cock. You're admiring the view when suddenly he freezes, face hidden by the shirt partly tugged over his head.
"What is it?" You sit up, concern and confusion written on your face.
He pulls on his shirt again. It doesn't budge. "I think I'm stuck," he confesses, his voice muffled by the fabric.
"You're kidding me," you reach over to help him, trying your best to sound exasperated, but the mirth that trickles into your voice betrays you. There's a brief moment of tangled limbs and stretching fabric before he's freed, his cheeks pink from his escape efforts.
You stare at him for a second, and he stares back, and then you're both laughing, the promise of sex momentarily forgotten.
"I can't believe that happened," you tease between peals of laughter, collapsing back against the pillows. "That's what you get for wearing those stupidly tight shirts."
Alhaitham grins, slotting himself between your legs again before pulling you into a kiss. "Don't act like you don't like them," he mutters against your lips. "Turn over, we're not stopping until your legs are shaking."
౨ৎ MDNI (18+; blowjob mentions), fluff, established relationship, alhaitham paints your nails
You paint your nails every Friday night. It's a tradition you've kept up for years—a staple part of your routine that helps you wind down for the weekend. Except you figured out that Alhaitham has oddly steady hands, and now he paints them for you.
It took him a ton of convincing at first, but now he finds it therapeutic: music playing from the record player in your living room, your sweet voice telling him about your weekend plans, and he gets to pick the shade of the polish (he typically goes for lighter pinks and greens—he likes seeing the soft flash of color against his skin when you trail your hands down his stomach and wrap your fingers around his cock).
"You should have been a doctor with those hands," you tell him, watching as he layers a light shade of pink on your index fingernail.
You find it strangely attractive when he's focused like this. He's so hot, you think to yourself, and maybe the wine of glass you had earlier is getting to your head, because the way his eyebrows are furrowed makes you want to crawl in his lap and sink your teeth into his neck. But you'd smudge your fresh manicure, so you wait patiently with a pout on your face.
He huffs out a laugh. "You sound like my grandmother," he replies. "Should I start calling you fossil instead of sweetheart?" And just like that, any thoughts you had about riding his dick shrivel up like a river in the desert.
You lightly smack the side of his head. "Focus, baby, you're flooding my cuticles!"
"Apologies, my fossil."
You smack him again.
Miraculously, your cuticles make it out alive, and in the end, your nails are perfectly painted. Alhaitham's face is smug when you kiss his cheek afterwards.
"Thank you, babe!" you beam, holding your hands up to the light to admire them. "These are perfect."
"Of course they're perfect, I did them," he retorts, gripping your wrist and tugging it towards him so he can press a kiss to the palm of your hand. You wrinkle your nose at the ticklish brush of his lips against your skin.
"Can we paint your nails now? I'll make them green to match your outfits," you beg.
"No."
Ugh.
You fall backwards against the couch with a dramatic groan, carefully keeping your nails away from the leather. From your odd position (you're slouched like a shrimp with your hands in the air), you watch him screw the caps back onto the bottles and wipe the table down.
Meticulous, thoughtful, stupid, and hot. You cannot believe you are in love with this man.
"If I suck your dick, will you let me paint your nails?"
Alhaitham pauses. The bottles of polish rattle against the wooden table when he sets them down.
"I'll do it right after my nails dry," you promise, dangling the offer in front of his face like bait. "And I'll let you come down my throat."
You know you've won when he starts digging through your polish collection, looking for the least obnoxious shade of green.
യ premise. when his love language is (surprise) gift giving.
യ cw. fem reader, established relationship, money talk, inspired by this instagram post
"Doctor Zayne."
You're standing in the doorway to his home office with the neckline of your pajama shirt (his shirt, actually) slipping off your shoulder and a disapproving frown on your face. It had been a hard day for you—an urgent project at work causing you to work overtime—and you had come home late, beelining to the bathroom to unwind for the night. He missed you, and it takes Zayne every ounce of self-restraint not to stare at your exposed skin, but he knows that the stack of reports on his desk won't be finished if he allows himself to get distracted.
"Zayne." You fling the name at his face like it's a well-sharpened arrow, and he knows he's in trouble.
Without looking up from his papers, he sighs once and raises a brow. "That's me. And to whom do I owe the honor?"
Your footsteps lightly echo as you pad over to him, pushing his chair back and perching on the edge of his desk. He finally looks up.
Zayne thinks you look beautiful—hair still damp from your shower and cheeks glowing from your three-step skincare routine that you meticulously pat in before bed every night.
Toner first, then lotion, and then moisturizing cream at the end, you once told him, not expecting him to listen or remember. But he had remembered, just so that he could do it for you on days when you fall asleep on the couch without washing up for bed.
And the thing with Zayne is that he remembers everything about you. Your monthly cycle, the exact way you like to fold your shirts ("I hate it when they're wrinkled," you had complained months ago), the names of the friends you sometimes go out with on Friday evenings—little details observed and stored in his mind. He thought you liked that about him, liked how he always knew what you needed without a word being spoken.
It seems he was wrong, however, based on the scowl on your face.
"Why was this on my pillow?" you demand, waving some fluffy white object in his face.
Oh. That. That's what you were mad about.
Zayne pushes your arm away, pulling you into his lap, and you gasp as the chair squeaks in protest and threatens to tip backwards. One hand snakes up to rest on the curve of your waist, thumb rubbing in light circles while the other slides your shirt up to cover your shoulder.
"Is that not the Brie Cheese Jellycat that you were telling me you wanted the other day?" The words are muffled as he presses kisses across your neck and jawline. Your breath hitches.
"Well, yes, but isn't it expensive?" you sputter, gripping his shoulders to ground yourself when he lightly nips at the dip of your collarbones before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue.
"Just twenty-five dollars."
"Plus tax and shipping?" You're squirming now, your previous anger now forgotten as he maps his love into your skin with his lips. And when you let out a whimper, Zayne says a mental goodbye to the reports on his desk and promises himself to read them tomorrow.
He huffs out a laugh. "Have you forgotten what I do for a living? Tax and shipping are negligible expenses."
"But why would you spend that much money on me?" you ask, and the meekness of your voice makes him pull away to look at your face. And if Zayne thought you were beautiful earlier, he doesn't even have the words to describe how you look right now: sitting in his lap, your silhouette softly framed by the dim glow of his desk lamp and eyes hazy with arousal and drowsiness.
He lets out a long sigh. "Because I love you," he says, and he feels his heart drop when your lip starts to quiver. "I love you, and if that means buying forty-dollar plushies to keep you happy, then I'd gladly spend all my money."
You bury your face into your neck, and a small smile settles on his face when he feels the collar of his shirt dampen from your tears. "Don't cry, sweet girl," he whispers.
"I'm not crying," you grumble, but the waver of your voice gives you away.
"You are crying over a cheese plushie."
You halfheartedly slam your fist into his chest. "Shut up, I love it so much."
"And I would buy you a million more," he promises, smoothing a hand down your head to tame the strands. Long fingers tilt your chin up so that green eyes meet your watery ones. You sniffle, wiping a hand across your face before sending him a teasing smile.
"Did you know they sell some of them for over a thousand dollars?"
Zayne freezes. "Perhaps I take back my promise," he mutters.
Sometimes Diluc wakes you up in the middle of the night.
He's a mess—chest heaving and sweat dripping from his skin, seeping into the tangled crimson strands that stick to his face. Large hands tremble as they clutch your face, calloused fingers tracing your features. There's a flicker of fear in his eyes that makes him seem years younger, a reminder of the scared boy that he works so hard to hide.
I'm sorry, he sobs over and over again, nails desperately sinking into your skin as gasps rip through his body.
And there's not much you can say, not much you can do except hold him close. Because it's not your face he's seeing, but rather the face of his brother, bloodied and marred from Diluc's own sword.
Fingers trace your right eye again and again while you gently comb your fingers through his hair. It's a slow, rhythmic motion that you repeat until his cries die down, exhaustion sinking into his shaking shoulders.
I'm sorry, he whispers to you, a raspy sound that cuts through the silence of the room.
It's alright, you press a kiss to his temple, fingers smoothing out a tangle in his hair. You'll be alright.
﹢ premise. slow summer days spent with his angel are his favorite.
﹢ cw. GN reader, modern AU, established relationship
Sundays are simple for Alhaitham.
His alarm goes off at 6:30 AM, but he knows he won't get out of bed for another thirty minutes. How could he, with you clinging to his torso like a baby koala? And so a strong fist slams the snooze button after the first ring, and Alhaitham basks in the warm rays of sunshine filtering through the window, your quiet puffs of air lulling him back to sleep.
Eventually, he frees himself from your grasp to get ready for his workout, and despite the numerous kisses he peppers on your face in apology, you still grumble about it.
"Don't leave me, the bed will get cold," you whine with your eyes still closed, a hand blindly reaching out to grab his wrist.
"I need to go, love," he whispers. A kiss is pressed against your forehead, and you scrunch your nose at the sensation. "Or else who will be strong enough to carry you to bed when you fall asleep on the sofa?"
And so you let him go (reluctantly).
But before leaving for the gym, he takes one last look at you, your hair splayed out across the pillow like silk, the soft scent of your body calling him back to bed. You're an angel, he thinks, because no human could ever fill him with as much love as you do.
After two hours and one "good morning!" text from you, he's at the grocery store, eyes skimming the list you wrote together. A mix of fruits and veggies makes it into the cart, along with his protein shakes and your sour gummies. Alhaitham remembers to throw in a few extra goodies too: the new imported pastries you've been raving about all week, a tin of tea for the stomach ache you had last night, and an assortment of flowers (he likes the way your eyes light up when he presents you with a fresh bouquet).
With the groceries secured in the backseat, he makes his way to the laundromat, parking next to your car. His angel is already inside, struggling to load the laundry into the topmost washing machine. Amused, he watches you hop around for a moment—you've started to fling your clothes into the machine like a basketball—before heading inside.
"Need help, sweetheart?" The bell above the door rings as he walks in. He greets you with a quick peck on the lips before reaching for the laundry basket balanced precariously on your hip.
"It's about time," you huff. "How are all the machines on the bottom row full?"
"Should I bring you a ladder next time?"
"… Not funny, Alhaitham."
Another kiss is pressed to the pout of your lips.
He insists on taking over the laundry, chuckling when you flush at the sight of your underwear in his hands. He tells you that you shouldn't be so embarrassed about it, though. After all, he was the one sliding them down your thighs last night.
You let out a scandalized gasp in response, your cheeks burning at the memory.
When the washer starts to fill with water, the two of you settle onto the hard plastic chairs in the back of the room. You lean your head against his shoulder, peering at the book in his lap. You read a little slower than him, so he traces the same paragraph over and over again, waiting for you to finish the page.
It's quiet, save for the hum of the machines in the room and the occasional rustling of pages turning. Alhaitham wishes he could stop time right at this moment. It's his favorite part of the day—a chance to pause and take a break from the mundane chores, a chance to watch your pretty eyes taking in each word on the page. An angel from heaven, he's swearing to himself when you suddenly look up and catch him staring.
"Thought you were reading," you giggle. "Is the book that boring?"
Alhaitham leans in, lips almost brushing against yours as he speaks, "I'd rather be doing something else right now."
You're loading the last plate into the dishwasher when your phone pings.
seishiro :x [9:03 am] : sick
you [9:03 am] : what hurts?
seishiro :x [9:05 am] : come here
And when you open your bedroom door, you're met with a lump on the bed—a giant lump with feet hanging off the mattress, because your bed was not meant to house your six foot three boyfriend. It makes sleeping a little difficult, but Nagi Seishiro manages to squeeze in by latching onto you like a koala.
"Seishiro?" you call, and the lump wiggles a little. "What's wrong?"
You sit down on the edge of the mattress, unwrapping layers of blankets until Nagi's flushed face pops out, eyes still closed and nose crinkling at the sudden brightness.
"Think 'm sick," he mumbles, nuzzling a burning cheek into the coolness of your hand.
You press the back of your hand against his forehead. "You're running a fever, babe," you coo, brushing back strands of hair, damp with sweat. "What else is hurting?"
"Just my head… and my throat."
"I'm going to grab some medicine, do you need anything else?" You tuck the blankets around his frame and move to stand, but a large hand grabs your wrist.
"Don't go…" Nagi pouts, yanking you down to lay next to him. Large limbs wrap around you like vines, holding you hostage as you try to escape.
"Sei," you warn, wriggling in his hold, but you're no match against him—even when he's sick. "You need to eat and take your medicine."
"Don't want it." The exhale of his words tickles as he presses his lips against the skin of your neck, making you shiver. "Jus' need you, jus' wanna stay like this."
You lay there for a moment, trapped under the weight of your boyfriend's sweltering body heat. Every attempt to move is met with his whining and groaning as he manhandles you back into place against him. And you know your efforts are in vain, because once Nagi Seishiro makes up his mind, no one can convince him otherwise.
Well, maybe except you.
"Seishiro?" you whisper. He mumbles something incoherent in response. "If I give you a kiss, will you let me go?"
You're met with silence. But then a moment passes, and there's the sound of rustling as Nagi pulls back to look at you.
"A kiss?"
"Yeah, a kiss," you offer him a soft smile. "And I'll give you another one if you eat breakfast, and another one if you take your medicine."
"Deal." His response is immediate, and you're finally freed from his embrace as he sits up and tilts his face up toward you, waiting to receive what you promised him. And then you briefly press your lips against his cheek, darting to the door as you're met with complaints.
"Hey, that's cheating—that's not a real kiss," Nagi calls after you through the open doorway.
"It's not cheating if I never specified," you counter, giggling as he flops back onto the bed with a groan. You close the door.
ᡣ𐭩 premise. despite the warning of the old wives' tales, there's a siren in your bathtub.
ᡣ𐭩 cw. GN reader, siren!neuvillette, modern AU, mentions of blood, minor character death
Your grandfather always warned you about the creatures of the sea.
Tales of nine-headed serpents and mysterious voices that lure sailors to their watery deaths would fill his small cabin every night, accompanied by the soft clink of silverware against dinner plates. Worried about the nightmares that his stories might cause, your mother would always interrupt with a furrowed brow, chastising him for finding joy in your fear. But your grandfather knew better than to stop, because instead of cowering in terror, you had listened with wide eyes, captivated by what might lie beneath the silver waves outside your home.
You never thought the old man was telling the truth.
But years later, many years after your grandfather was buried next to the very sea he loved, you stumbled upon a figure slumped lying face down against the sand.
He was beautiful. A head of ivory hair. The strands gleamed against the water, glinting in the moonlight like the crystalline layer of the conches embedded along the shore. The hard planes of his chest were bared to you as you turned him over, but crimson blood marred the smooth skin as it trickled down along your hands to return to the sea. You studied the man and the ethereal glow that surrounded him—a glow that whispered of both unspoken promises and lurking danger.
He was alabaster and sea foam, a reflection of the Greek statues that decorate the weathered pages of your grandfather's books. But then the blood drained from your face when you saw the tail.
A Siren.
Your memories of that day were left in the sand, washed away by the tides. You don't remember how you brought him to your home, or what compelled you to help a sea monster, patching him up in bandages and nursing him back to health. Insanity must run in your genes, and your grandfather must have passed it on to you.
But now there's a Siren in your bathtub.
He's singing—a wordless melody that lilts like the waves lapping against the shore. It's rather soothing, a welcome accompaniment to the sizzling of pancakes and the quiet chatter of morning birdsong outside. Tranquility settles into your kitchen as you slide a pancake onto the awaiting plate, the scent of seawater and breakfast filling the room.
Then you hear a splash. You sigh.
"Neuvillette," you scold as you turn around, brandishing your spatula at him like a weapon, "I told you to keep the water inside the tub." Mirth and mischief dance in his lilac eyes as the puddle of water on the floor inches toward your feet, dripping from the iridescent scales of his tail. More water splashes out as he shifts in the tub, his bandaged chest emerging from the water.
"My apologies, I must have forgotten" he grimaces, cerulean tail catching the soft rays of sunrise as he moves to tuck it back into the clawfoot tub that you had dragged into your kitchen. You shake your head, abandoning the spatula in favor of a towel and kneeling down to mop up the mess that he made.
You can feel his eyes on you as you wipe at the floor. It's a habit of his, you realized quickly during the past five weeks. Doing the dishes, making meals for the two of you, and even at night as you're drifting off to sleep—you can feel the weight of his staring. His gaze is curious—probably fascinated at the routine cycle of humans—but there's a hunger that lurks in his eyes and hints at something darker. It sends a spark of fear through your spine, a reminder of predator and prey; creature and human.
Your thoughts are interrupted when webbed hands brush along your collarbone, tracing the faint scratch on your skin. It's the mark from the day Neuvillette had woken up in your home, when he had lashed out in panic, claws catching on the delicate skin of your neck before you had somehow subdued him—the very claws that now trail along the healing wound in apology. Regret stains his irises.
Your hand comes up to catch his wrist, squeezing the firm muscle once before grinning at him. "Let's try some pancakes," you offer in hopes of raising his spirits, and he gently touches your scratch one last time before hesitatingly returning your smile.
And so you eat breakfast together, ignoring the tail in the water and the scars that cover both your bodies. In the soft warmth of sunrise, predator and prey cease to exist, and it's just the two of you, sharing a stack of warm, fluffy pancakes while breathing in the crisp salty air.
Maybe the dangers of the sea weren't so dangerous after all.
enemies to lovers with alhaitham, where you're paired up as research partners for a project at the akademiya.
working sessions with him are hell: frigid glares thrown your way, cups of coffee strategically spilled on your notes, and carefully aimed kicks at your shins. you swear he was sent by the devil.
you're not any better, though. you show up to the library thirty minutes late every time and "accidentally" break your pens over his textbooks. in your defense, it's revenge for your bruised shins. two can play at this game, and only one will come out crowned as the victor.
except you don't think you'll win. because one tuesday, you provoke him too much and he snaps, grabbing the collar of your uniform and hauling you out of your chair. you're pinned against the library desk while papers fly around you, watching his stupidly toned chest heave up and down. there's ice-cold anger in his teal eyes, his death grip on your shirt is starting to hurt, and you're convinced he might actually kill you today.
and maybe it's the lack of sleep or the stress of working with him that's finally made you insane, because you can't help but blush at the close proximity between the two of you, eyes briefly admiring his lips before glancing away. you hope he didn't notice.
but judging by the rising flush of his cheeks and the softening of his brow, he definitely saw.
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