zeedist

[zeedist]

you coming back and posting again is like a valentine's gift for me after my bf didn't get me a thing. flowers for you, pretty 💐

Oh dear, so sorry to hear that. (｡•́︿•̀｡)

Dragged my lazy ass off doom scrolling Pinterest to finish writing a new draft and post it. It's my humble gift, happy very late Valentine's day, sweetie. ♡♡

[zeedist]

BANG, BANG.ᐟ — ALHAITHAM

summary: carnival date. sfw !! fem!reader x alhaitham, academic setting, carnival setting, short + sweet. word count: 1k proofread: nope.

Yearly, on the outskirts of Sumeru, bright circus carps and twinkling lights are mounted for the Carnival. The scent of something nutty and sweet hung in the air as you strolled through the cheerful bustle of the fair, an arm hooked on your boyfriend's. Alhaitham wasn't a fan of the chaos, the loud noises and people bumping making his nose scrunch. You expected that, what you did not expect however was how he scanned every game and booth as if they were lab specimens.

"All of these are scams," he muttered, needing to lower his head for his voice to reach your ears, "See those rings? They are too small for the bottles, but they give the ilusion that it might fit to trick people into playing."

You found his serious approach humorous, shaking your head. "I'm sure at least one person can win once a night, if not, how has someone not kicked them out yet?"

He raised an eyebrow and you already knew what was about to come — his natural talent was to counter every of your statements, "It's carnival business, as long as they profit, they don't care making a kid or a dozen cry. They make money off the excitement."

"Alright, alright, there is nothing you don't know," you teased with a light nudge, smiling at him in that pretty way that made his heart flutter. "We already are suffering enough with Calculus, do we really need to do a breakdown of the economics of this carnival?"

Alhaitham only chuckled at your comment, his silent way of caving into your words followed by a gentle kiss in your forehead.

Before you said something back, your gaze caught a small trinklet at one of the booths. You aren't sure why it did, but the cute rounded dinosaour shaped charm snatched your attention. Alhaitham noticed that sparkle in your eyes — the one you had when getting your favorite snack, or a perfect score.

Giving you a soft peck on the back of your hand, Alhaitham let go and stepped forward, his wallet already in hand. Crisp bills slipped from his fingers and landed in the owner's outstretched palm, all before he even bothered to ask what the game was about. Shooting, apparently.

The older man behind the counter barely looked up, his expression bored as he waved a hand toward the targets a few meters away. "150 points for the charm," he muttered. The rules were simple: the targets further away were worth 30 points each, while the closer ones only gave 5 points. Fifteen arrows, a ridiculously high price, and a suspiciously old-looking crossbow to top it all off.

"Wait, wait," you blinked, staring at him in surprise. "Didn't you just say all of these games are scams? You’re wasting money—"

Alhaitham shot you a quick smirk as he examined the worn crossbow. "I have enough mora," he replied, his tone soft with you as he drew back the string with a frown. Something about the weapon felt... off. He lifted the notch and took aim, squinting one eye.

Click.

The arrow missed entirely.

Alhaitham didn’t even flinch. He simply loaded another arrow, his tone unbothered. "See? A scam. The crossbow is shifted to aim lower than it should."

"So it’s impossible?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"My dear," Alhaitham glanced at you, "I will steal the charm if needed. But we are not leaving here without it."

Click.

The second arrow grazed the smaller target at the back, but didn’t pop it. Alhaitham loaded a third arrow, his expression focused as he adjusted the crossbow. He held it in a position that looked completely wrong — even you could assume that much.

"Perhaps we could try another game—"

Click.

This time, the arrow hit its mark, sinking into the target with a satisfying pop.

Alhaitham turned to you, giving you that smirk — the one that made you want to roll your eyes and laugh all at once. It was the look he wore when he'd cracked a tough problem or uncovered a loophole. The one that practically screamed, did you just see how brilliant I am?

Click.

Click.

Click.

Shot after shot, each arrow found its mark, all hitting the smaller targets at the back. One by one, they popped with crisp sounds. Ten targets, ten perfect shots, 300 points.

Alhaitham handed back the manipulated crossbow to the owner without a second thought. "The charm, please. Two of them."

With an unhappy sigh, the owner didn't dispute the outcome but still reluctantly handing over the charming trinkets. They were small and undeniably cute — tiny dinosaurs with delicate, colorful decorations. One was a gentle green, the other a calming blue.

Alhaitham took the two, his fingers brushing the smooth surface. Usually, when facing decisions, he asked you which you preferred — even when you would tell him to pick. But this time, he skipped that consideration and handed you the green one, his eyes drifting away from yours. His hand covered yours as he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Please take this one... You said green reminds you of me, doesn’t it?”

A soft blush flushed his cheeks. For a moment, he hesitated, finally gathering the courage to meet your gaze, his eyes soft as he confessed, "I hope it will make you think of me more."

He gulped, his voice quieter now, as though the words were difficult to get out. "As much as I think of you, all day and all night."

The charm in your hand, small and smooth, seeping coldness into your skin.

A piece of him, in a way, now for you to carry.

[zeedist]

CATCH ME IF YOU CAN.ᐟ — WRIOTHESLEY

summary: for more times than you can count, you have been running from the same officer after your little petty crimes. will he ever catch up to you? sfw !! non-binary reader, criminal!reader x officer!wriothesley. word count: 2.2k proofread: yup.

You are running — harder, faster — the pulse of the city beneath you as you vault from one rooftop to the next. The wind bites, cutting through your clothes, but freedom kisses your face. Your heart races, but not from fear, not really, has it ever? It’s exhilaration. The kind you’ve lived for; the kind that makes you feel alive. 

Streets tangled like veins spread under you, but you're above it all now— untouchable.

You don’t dare look back — at least, not yet — but you can hear it: the pounding footsteps behind you, the unmistakable presence of someone closing in. Wriothesley. The officer. You don’t need to see to know it’s him. The way he moves — too precise, too sharp — gives him away. His body’s built for this, broad shoulders cutting through the air like a blade, muscles straining beneath his uniform. His skin seems almost to glow in the dim light, the obsidian and silver mix of his hair swaying. 

You’ve crossed paths before. More times than you care to admit. And each time, his movements were like a well-choreographed dance. He’s quick, too quick for most, but you’ve learned how to dance around him. In past chases, you’ve slipped through alleys he couldn’t fit into, and disappeared into the maze of the city faster than he could follow. He’s tall, but heavy on his feet when he's frustrated — he’s always got that too-perfect control, the kind that cracks when the chase gets too close.

His breath comes deep and steady, controlled, never giving away the edge he’s barely holding onto. It echoes in the narrow spaces between buildings, and you almost know when he’s behind you without looking. There’s the subtle rattle of his handcuffs, the scrape of his boots against the concrete — details you’ve memorized. 

But it’s all not enough to catch you. 

Your foot slams into the next rooftop, and you push off, barely pausing to catch your balance. You can feel the tension in your legs, that familiar burn, but you don’t slow. Because there’s that feeling — the thrill of outrunning the man who knows every trick you’ve pulled. You’ve slipped through the officer’s grasp before, more than a dozen. Like that chase through the rain last summer, when you almost ended up crushed by a train he never saw coming, or the time you lost him in the crowd near the docks. Every time, he’s been just a little too late. And with every time, you can see his barely-contained frustration seeping through the steely exterior he keeps. 

You’ve been the one to leave him with nothing but his breath. 

And you would be that one again today. 

You’re running faster than you’ve ever run before, the floor becoming a second plane as your eyes focused forward, ahead. Wriothesley’s too close now — too close to shake, too close to outrun. You can hear his boots pounding behind you, feel the heat of him merely a breath away, his body surging with that relentless, controlled power. It’s like he’s right there, practically on top of you. The only thing that separates you is the space between the two of you — and it’s closing fast. 

You feel the rush, the blood thumping in your ears, your lungs burning, but you push harder, desperate to stay ahead. Your foot slams into the edge of the building — your momentum carrying you forward, no time to think, no time to second-guess. 

Then, without warning, you’re airborne.

His fingers brush against the tail of your jacket, so close it’s maddening. 

The world tilts beneath you, your stomach dropping as you soar over the gap. Time slows, and for a split second, your heart stops. It’s too far. You can feel it, the sheer distance between you and the next rooftop, the drop below — too wide, too high, too lethal. But you don’t hesitate. You can’t hesitate. 

Every instinct screams at you to take it, to make it. There’s no other choice. 

The fear grips you for the briefest moment. It coils tight in your gut, icy cold and sharp, but you force it down. Your body aches with the weight of it. 

You stretch. Your fingers reach for the edge, the ledge barely within your grasp. It feels like an eternity. The wind rushes past your face, louder now, drowning out everything but the thundering of your pulse. 

And then—

You make it.

Your fingers graze the edge of the building — just barely — but you make it. Barely. You scrape your palms against the ledge, the rough stone biting into your skin as you pull yourself up, the breath caught in your chest. And then you hear it — the sound of him right there, the scrape of his boots as he charges the edge, and the tension in his shoulders as he holds on by the thinnest of margins, failing to reach for you. 

You don’t even stop to think. You glance back long enough to see him skidding, soles barely stopping him from tumbling off the edge. The officer’s frozen for that split second, eyes wide, mouth open like a fish — he didn’t think you’d make it through such a huge gap. The frustration’s clear on his face, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features as his breath catches, his mind catching up with what just happened. 

It’s too perfect. The rush, the thrill. The fact that he almost slipped.

Without missing a beat, you wink. 

For a heartbeat, time stretches. His eyes lock with yours, and there’s a moment of stunned silence. His chest rises and falls, just like yours, but where your heart is pounding with exhilaration, the officer’s thrums with disbelief, anger, and — just for an instant, the time it takes to skip a heartbeat — something else.

Admiration? You can’t quite tell. 

You laugh, breathless and reckless, a sound that bounces off the walls of the cluttered rooftop that’s behind you, your escape within the shadows waiting for you. The rush of adrenaline sings in your veins, and you can feel your heart pulsing harder than ever, beating out of sync with the chaos of the chase. You stick your tongue out at him, a playful taunt, but it's more than that. It’s a declaration. You’ve made it, once again.

And then, almost as if he’s momentarily lost for words, Wriothesley’s expression shifts. The lines of his jaw tighten, and his brow furrows, the unmistakable sign of frustration flooding through him replacing his usual grin. He throws his hand up, finger wagging a circle around his temple in a silent question: Are you insane? 

Your breath hitches in your chest, but it’s not fear. It’s the sharp, sweet thrill of the game, the victory of having danced around him once more. You can hear his boots scraping across the rooftop again as he regains his footing, but instead of retreating or falling back into his pursuit with a witty twist, something unexpected happens.

Without a word, Wriothesley reaches down to his waistband. You watch as his hand dips into the dark fabric of his uniform. The motion is practiced and with a flick of his wrist, something small and compact item is sent sailing through the distance towards you. 

Your eyes widen, instinctively reaching out as the medical kit flies toward you. You catch it just before it slips past, barely registering the impact of it against your hot hands. You hold it there, the small package a stark contrast to the chaos of the chase, its weight unfamiliar in your grip. The kit is simple — nothing extravagant, just a compact, well-worn pack, but the gesture itself is almost jarring in its own way. You look down at the contents, pulling the flap open, and inside, you find the bandages he clearly thought you might need. White and sterile, the rolls of gauze seem out of place in your hands, almost too mundane for the moment.

You stare at them for a beat, as if the action itself doesn’t fully register. The chase, the rush, the feeling of outpacing him — they all begin to fade a little, replaced by the sharp realization of the sting in your palms. You glance back at him, then down at your hands, only now noticing the raw scrapes, the blood staining the edges of your palms from where you had clung to the rooftop ledge, desperate to make it across.

You hadn’t felt the pain then — too wrapped up in the high of the chase. But now, as the adrenaline ebbs away, it starts to register, the burn. It’s not a deep wound, but it’s enough to sting, enough to make your fingers throb. 

Wriothesley stands a building away, his gaze steady on you, and without a word, he gestures toward your hands. His fingers lift slightly, a silent indication of the blood, the cuts you hadn’t even noticed in your frenzy. It’s strange, that concern, coming from the officer. There’s no accusation in his look, no judgment. 

For a moment, you stand there, processing, your mind still dancing with the remnants of the chase. But you don’t waste time. Slowly, you pull one of the bandages from the kit, unwinding it, your fingers still shaking with the aftershock of the chase. Your pulse is slowing now, but the fire hasn’t completely died. You can still feel the rush of the game, the almost exhilarating danger in the way your heart pounds in your chest.

You begin to wrap the bandage around your palm, carefully, the motion almost too calm for everything that’s happened in the past few minutes. You meet his cerulean gaze, far enough that his presence shouldn’t loom over you the way it does. So far, yet so close. 

For now, in this quiet moment between the chaos, you take the time to breathe, to tend to the marks he didn’t need to see, even though you both knew they were there.

“Thanks for the gift,” you murmur under your breath, the words carrying a hint of playful taunt, but there's something else there too — an unspoken acknowledgment of the truce he’s offering. The tension between you lingers in the air, thick and tight, a momentary pause in a game that never stops. The rush, the chase, is still humming in your veins, but the exhaustion is creeping in too, the cool night air harsh at your skin like a reminder of how time ticked by. 

You can’t stop grinning. You can feel it, just beneath the surface — the thrill of the escape, the pulse of victory. You bury it down, deep inside, knowing what comes next. Without a word, you give a quick salute — a simple motion, two fingers to your temple, a swift swipe outward. It’s a silent goodbye, an acknowledgment of a game well played.

You slip away after that in a couple of swift steps. The darkness wraps around you, leaving him behind, the city once again your domain. 

He’s still there. Watching. Waiting. The space between you feels like it stretches just a little longer than it should, like a breath held too long before it’s finally exhaled.

Your heart hammers harder, and for just a heartbeat, you almost pause, as if to test the air, to see if he’s going to chase again. But that’s not the plan. Not yet. So you tuck yourself into the shadows, slipping between the buildings where he can’t follow. You disappear into the dark, the quiet victory still ringing in your chest. But even as the night closes in around you, you know he’s there, still somewhere, watching, waiting.

And that feeling — of not quite being free, of the chase still hanging in the air — is enough to keep your pulse racing a little longer.

On the other side, Wriothesley watched you slip into the shadows, running away with your little victory, his eyes never leaving the spot where you vanished. He stayed there a moment longer, breathing in the cold air, and only then did a small smirk tug at the corner of his lips. A chuckle rumbled in his chest, the tension of the chase finally easing, but there was something in that laugh — something far from defeat.

With an everyday motion, he pulled his radio from his belt, his thumb brushing over the buttons as he brought it to his dry lips. The static crackled, the voice of an officer coming through, robotic but clear. 

“Did you catch them, sir?” The voice asked, uncertainty barely hidden beneath the question. Even his assistant knew from previous experiences that only silence would follow, another failed catch. There was a brief pause on the other end, then they added, “There is a patrol near you, sir. Should we send it after them?”

Wriothesley’s gaze remained fixed on the rooftops ahead, his smirk fading into something more neutral, but still undeniably amused. He spoke into the radio with cold and controlled certainty, “Do not, I will personally deal with them.” 

[zeedist]

HOLD YOUR BAG.ᐟ — ALHAITHAM

summary: he insists on holding your bag. sfw !! fem!reader x alhaitham, academic setting, short + sweet. word count: 0.5k proofread: yup.

"I am strong."

"Yes, you are."

Alhaitham nods without hesitation, the unspoken truth clear in his gaze. He never doubted that statement for a second, never considered you even remotely weak.

"I can perfectly take of myself, thank you."

He stifles a soft laugh at your determination. Are you aware that you are extremely adorable when being stubborn like this? The very thought of you insisting on carrying anything while he's right here makes him smile, just a little bit. These biceps of his aren't for decor or for you to lay your head on, okay?

"And I will still offer because I love you," he says smoothly, stretching his hand toward you. His tone is casual, but the meaning is clear. "Want me to take your bag for you?"

And there it is, the invitation you can't refuse. Your shoulders ache with each shift, and before your stubborn pride can poke its big head in the picture, you sigh in defeat.

"Please."

Alhaitham chuckles softly, like he knew this would happen. With a swift, effortless motion, he slings your bag over his shoulder alongside his own — his movements so effortless unhurried that it's almost unfair. A soft-colored keychain, a memento of your carnival date, dangles from the strap, chiming lightly with each step he takes.

You watch the bag swing lightly on his shoulder. It’s like carrying two bags full of books is the least challenging thing he's done today. Meanwhile, you're still struggling with the thought of taking one step more without collapsing — being too many hours on your feet dissecting samples might kill you before the lack of sleep does.

Alhaitham stretches his fingers while you're silent with your thoughts, just enough to brush against yours — spark you back to reality. It's an innocent touch. Fingers entangling with you as he slowed down his pace to adjust to the slower pace of your aching feet, gently guiding you away from water puddles.

That concerns him enough to tease you, though his voice carried more concern than humor, "Too much? Want me to carry you across campus and to bed, hm?"

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest doesn't fade. “Please don’t. We were everywhere when you gave me a piggyback ride last time, people here are so nosy."

Alhaitham doesn’t respond.

You catch the way he smirks.

He’s not the type to boast, but oh, how it made him swell with pride when whispers of your relationship filled the air for a week. Each time he heard your name on someone’s lips, he couldn’t help but silently thank every star in the sky for the sheer luck of calling you his girlfriend. Oh, what a lucky bastard he was.

Carry a bag for you?

Hell, he would carry a hundred of them every day just to see you.

note: will publish the carnival date tonight or tomorrow. don't question why not do it before this part, my drafts and brain are a mess. (っ,-)

[zeedist]

OOPS, LAB ACCIDENT.ᐟ — ALHAITHAM

oopsie﹕a lab accident and a worried boyfriend. sfw !! fem!reader x alhaitham, academic setting, short + sweet. word count: 0.6k proofread: nope.

Ever since that fateful day you bumped into Alhaitham as he exited his Botany class, knocking all of his carefully sorted leaf samples to the ground and spending a solid six hours together sorting them out per species, because you felt so awfully bad at the kicked puppy look sinking in his face that you simply couldn’t just apologize and walk away without helping him—

Anyways. Since that day and with all the time spent together, you have come to be able to recognize the different little actions every of his emotions displayed in his body language. How his nose scrunches when he gets stuck in a Physics problem, or how his fingers dance silently on the table with a tapping motion when he grows impatient with the Biology teacher’s classically slow lessons that drained both of your souls. Even how his handwriting grows messier the more passionate he is about an essay, and how his eyes twinkle when finding a new topic interesting.

You know your boyfriend so well, you could take pride in it even.

It’s truly a shame that you can’t put this little acquired skill of yours to practice today because it doesn’t take a genius to guess his mood. 

Alhaitham storms in the laboratory without knocking on the door and instead, very out of his character, shoving it open so hard it nearly smashed against the wall. Brows deep in a frown and coat hanging hazardously on his shoulders. Chest heaving and dusty-gray strands of hair sticking to his forehead. It only took him fifteen minutes to get there from the other side of the main building and ten of them had been because he was in the middle of a presentation. He tended to his phone after finishing and promptly ran the entire way there even when you insisted it only was a minor accident and not life-threatening in the slightest. 

You weren’t even in grave risk to begin with. Out of pure bad luck, as you tried to pry open a clam for examination, the blade slipped and had cut through the glove. Fellow classmates, mostly Tighnari, had been right beside you and helped you clean up the wound and patch it up. The wound wasn’t deep even, though the experience might have been unnerving. In the end, in a day or two’s time, it wouldn’t even bother you anymore. 

Yet your boyfriend rushes to your side, hands immediately cupping your face carefully. You feel his fingers shaking, eyes darting all over your face and then through your body until noticing the gauze wrapped around your left hand. His voice drips with concern as he asks, soft-spoken with you even when stressed out of his mind, “Are you okay, my dear? What happened? I thought you said you were only examining today, how did you get cut?”

You explain what happened, watching how a semblance of calm relaxes his face but his shoulders remain tense. Logically, he understands you are safe and although not even a life-threatening wound, the sight of your bandaged hand makes his heart constrict. Alhaitham shifts, getting down on one knee to have a closer view. Hands seeking yours and soon, carefully examining the improvised first aid and when deeming it good enough, a deep sigh lets out his stress. His dropped eyes find yours, rounded and pleading, “Please be more careful my dear, you scared me.”

He brings your healthy hand to his cheek, you feel the warmth of them. He leans his face into your hold with a vulnerability creeping into his gaze, “You me, remember? I worry about you, it hurts me to see you hurt like this. Try not to ever scare me like that again, my dear. Please.”

[zeedist]

ALHAITHAM CORNER .ᐟ last updated: 20/11/24

ACADEMIA DAYS .ᐟ in which you two are fellow students in an academy.

status : working on・tag: 🌱﹕academia days・

study buddy [nsfw]. how your boyfriend rewards you for a good grade.

tea overdose. regretting study decisions while overdosing on tea.

leaf sprout. you crochet a little gift for your boyfriend.

↳ eh, the intention counts? your boyfriend crochets a gift for you.

mad at him. you're mad at him. he wants to die. that's it.

doodling. a little interaction in a boring class.

oopsie. a lab accident and a worried boyfriend.

hold your bag. you're strong, but he worries.

IN RED INK .ᐟ in which he becomes your tutor.

status : upcoming・

xx・in revision !

PAPER FLOWERS .ᐟ in which you're teachers to vastly different age groups.

status : upcoming・

xx・in drafts !

A/N: The content is listed in post order, except for those that are 'continuations'.

[zeedist]

EH, THE INTENTION COUNTS ？ — ALHAITHAM

attempted gift﹕your boyfriend tries to crochet a little gift for you. sfw !! fem!reader x alhaitham, academic setting, short + sweet. word count: 0.6k proofread: sorta.

Inspired by the endearing gift you made for him a while ago, one that still remains snugly tied in his headphones, Alhaitham attempts to make a little something for you as well. Except that in his lovesick inspiration, he entirely forgets that his coordination for crafts is on pair with a slime riding a tricycle. It’s adorable in theory, but in practice, it ends up in a tangled mess in his hands with a somewhat rounded shape with two bumps. 

He isn’t blind. He knows it looks stupid.  

“You can laugh out loud,” he sighs before smiling in defeat. It wasn’t even a difficult pattern to crochet, he just wasn’t good at coordinating for it. The yarn on his hands that looks more tangled than webbed reflects on that.

He isn’t stupid. He knows it’s ugly. 

“I know it doesn’t look great,” he assures you, “you can laugh—”

“Aw, come on,” you snatch the creation from his hands before he gets to throw it to the nearest trash. It’s soft to touch, the wool a faded green. Despite wrecking your brain, the best you can come up with is a weak, “It’s cute! It looks like a dendro slime.”

If dendro smiles had bulging eyes. 

Your boyfriend scoffs, a sound between disbelief and amusement, “It’s supposed to be a Dryophytes cinereus.”

Oh.

Oh. Your brain’s gears turn and your smile falls for a second.

“... Yeah,” you don’t even believe what leaves your mouth next in an attempt to comfort him, “it kind of looks like a frog—”

He isn’t ingenuous. Yet his body language relaxes with a low chuckle, his eyes crinkling into pretty crescent moons as the laughter makes his body shiver besides you. Oh heavens, only you would bother comforting him after messing up a gift so terribly for you. Alhaitham’s eyes find yours as they open, he reassures you, “My dear, you don’t need to lie to me.”

“I am not lying,” you lie.

“Unless the chemical that splashed your eye on your last experiment severely messed up your vision to near absolute blindness, it’s impossible you actually can make a green tree frog out of... That.”

“Well... If you squint your eyes.” 

“It appears more like a eucalyptus leaf that way,” he muses as his eyes narrow into a line. You mirror his action.

“Huh, looks like mahogany to me,” you retort. 

“Not quite, the shape wouldn’t be correct fully and why would I choose such a subject when there are better leaves—” Alhaitham clears his throat, stopping his rambling. His hand reaches for the ‘frog’, if you could call it that even. “Return it to me, I will practice and make you a better one.”

“But I want this one,” you close your hand around it, pulling it away. 

“But it’s ugly,” he sighs, gently trying to pry your fingers open.

“But I want it,” you furrow your brows and that’s all he needs. 

A fond smile curls on his lips before they press a kiss in your forehead, in your temple, in the corner of your eye and the tip of your nose. His hand cups on your cheek, thumb brushing the skin. You can see the pure softness dripping from those turquoise eyes bordered by a sun-colored halo. The smile on his face is so enamored; if any stranger looked at him currently, they would wonder if he had won the lottery. 

“As you wish, my dear.”

He won the lottery the day you loved him. 

[zeedist]

DOODLING .ᐟ — ALHAITHAM

little doodles﹕a little interaction in a boring class. sfw .ᐟ fem!reader x alhaitham, students / academic setting, short & sweet. word count: 1k proofread: yup.

“Can I ask what exactly are you doing?”

Low and whispered, dragging below the speech of your professor, Alhaitham questions you. Peaking up, you can catch a glimpse of his relaxed eyebrows, slanted pale teal eyes looking at yours —he keeps doing that often now, as if he always sought for your eyes anytime, anywhere, anyhow. There’s warmth in them, you caught on that a time ago,  in the way his loosened jaw and softened look even when coated with confusion. 

Before replying, you scoot closer, murmuring, “Drawing.” It sounds like a confessed secret in a way, a little intimate exchange in a classroom full of students and a disseminating professor. You focus more on his ragged breathing than on the lesson for today’s class. 

“I can witness that firsthand with my perfectly functional pair of ocular apparatus through their retinal mechanisms,” he deadpans, but in the low tone he uses, it sounds like he pouts through it. You can only stifle a little laugh, not wanting to be kicked out together like last time. 

“But in my hand?” He points out, lifting said member slightly as if the weight of the question rests within his palm, his fingers curling in subtle confusion. You place your fingers above his, pulling them back down to the table, fixing the hold on your pen before adding another line.

Not giving him a verbal answer, you hum instead, dragging the ballpoint over his knuckles, adding little leaves and flowers occasionally. It’s routeless, a simple doodle of a vine growing all over the extension of his hand and slowly inching closer to his palm. He doesn’t enquire again, instead taking some notes for the both of you with his free hand. All while you entertain yourself trying to draw every flower you know from memory to add it to the growing vine doodle in your boyfriend’s hand. So entertained with it at times that you don’t notice the fluttering fond smiles on the corner of his lips as he takes glances of you so focused, so utterly adorable. 

Finalizing the last touches right as the bell rings to announce the end of this period, you look proudly at your work as he extends his fingers, taking in with detail every curse and crevice of your carefully crafted creation. He can’t even muster words for some seconds, too distracted, too enamoured. His silence makes you speak up, asking instead: 

“Isn’t it cute?”

“It’s more than cute, it’s precious... Just like you are.”

You smile, so beautifully and endearingly, that his heart's skipping a dangerous beat or two. Oxygen catches in his throat, momentarily trapping his breath in this overwhelming rush of emotions. His chest tightens. For a fleeting moment, he’s convinced that the world stopped spinning, sounds around him fading to nonexistence. And all that existed was you —the warmth of your smile, the curve of your lips, the pure joy in your face. Every fiber of his being is captive of you this instant. 

Oh, how stunning you are.

Alahitham accompanies you to your dormitory, with an ongoing conversation carrying short debates about the topics you each learned today and gentler talks about both of your future plans regarding your individual educations. It’s one of those things that transcurs so naturally between you two, a well-spoken and clear exchange of ideas, the ability to stand on different ends and still be able to respect one another, and the wish to remain together. The chemistry simmering slowly into a deeper bond of affection with the help of time. 

Even as you made it home, the exchange continues on your doorframe about tomorrow’s plans, and it only ends because you insist for him to get home before it gets too dark. You hug him, the heat of your farewell gesture burning into his skin, pumping straight to his heart as his mucles relax and he holds you, tight and lingering, until you are the one to part reluctantly. 

“See you tomorrow, my dear,” his breath brushes your forehead, leaving a kiss there. 

Other more tender words lingers in the tip of his tongue, however, Alhaitham swallows them to join the bundle of butterflies squirming in his stomach. Wings fluttering violently as you press a goodbye kiss on his lips —blessed, he’s utterly blessed. He returns it, lingering a little longer, holding your waist for a second too long. And when he parts, heart drumming on his chest, he spends a while too long reminding you to eat dinner, to brush your teeth, to not stay up too late, and more little things he thinks about all the time regarding you —he worries for you, now, always. 

When the separation finally does occur, his walk towards his own living quarters fills with silence. Your perfume still lingers on his nose, lips still tingling and he’s unable to pull his eyes away from the drawn vines in his hand. He’s able to figure out some flowers, among them, your favorite ones —he reminds himself to get you a bouquet after class tomorrow. 

Later that night, he somehow manages to shower without soap and water dissipating the ink from his hand. Don’t question how he pulled that off, just know he struggled doing so with only a hand. 

He skips his usual reading before bed, taking time to admire every curve and leaf you doodled in his hand again. Your soft touch buzzing in his fingers, your warm breath brushing against them when you leaned closer to add extra details to a sunflower, and the sweet smile you gave him. And he dozes off while looking at his hand, your precious grin engraved in his memory. 

He wishes, as he drifts in a dream —hopefully about you—, that parts of you like this would forever remain with him. So that he could always carry you with him in a way. 

[zeedist]

MAD AT HIM .ᐟ — ALHAITHAM

when you're angry at him : summary: you're mad at him. he wants to die. that's it. sfw !! fem!reader x alhaitham, academic setting, several mentions of "i want to die" but playfully [i am not sure if that should be warned, but now you know] word count: 1.2k proofread: yup.

“Hey, Alhaitham,” the blond calls for him. Kaveh squints his carmine eyes, looking at his usually collected friend spilled on the table, head buried in his arms. He forms a question —though it lingers more in him being weirded out rather than worried, “Are you sick?”

He hums. He feels sick. 

“Yeah,” the gray-haired agrees. With a tilt of his head, Cyno calmly remarks, “You look like shit.” 

He grumbles. He feels like shit.

Elongated black ears perk up and twitch the slightest, interest peaking at his clearly disheveled state as Tighnari agrees, “Yeah, you look like you are about to die.” 

He doesn’t make a sound. He feels like he is about to die.

Eyeing him sideways while placing down a card, the dark-haired ventures to ask, “Did you mess with that weird rat you showed me last time?”

He lets out an offended pff. Like hell he was stupid enough to touch that fucked up rat —one that you, in the kindness of your heart, took in to heal and take care of; and one he couldn’t wait to chug back into the wild. Seriously, that thing was weird. 

“Of course not,” Tighnari reads through his muffled sound, guessing again, “You caught a cold?”

“That would be a first,” Cyno remarks as he makes his move, chuckling with satisfaction when the blond complains before taking four more cards from the deck. 

“Gah, I was so close to winning,” Kaveh grumbles as he organizes his cards, settling them down. Without resistance, he takes the deck from the miserable man’s hand and plays his turn for him. After double blocking the other two, he smiles smugly and returns to his own deck. Only then does he add to their conversation, joking lightly, “It isn’t like the world is ending, or like your girl is breaking up with you, so what makes you like this?” 

Alhaitham makes a sound between laughter and crying. The first thing is happening currently. And if the second ever became a reality, he would have been on raw knees begging for a second chance or he would be digging a hole to bury himself alive in. Maybe both, in that order. 

The other three continue their game —taking turns to play his part—, trying to nudge a response out of him with questions and little jokes. After several attempts and only receiving incoherent and downcast grumbles as a reply, they gave up on trying to make him speak it out. Minutes smoothly pass, the round ending with Kaveh holding half of the deck. Their conversation starts drifting from their days to their current projects, still trying to rope in Alhaitham with questions he only shook his head to. In the end, it’s Tighnari that carries the dialogue, sharing about a research that he is carrying out about a newly discovered sub-species of a fungi. 

And it isn’t that he’s arrogant or an attention-seeker, Alhaitham simply can’t place the turmoil inside of him with words. How is he even supposed to explain the pit in his stomach right now? 

His entire existence [you] crumbles into dust, disintegrating like fragile debris slipping through weakened fingers [ignoring him] as if the universe itself is conspiring to forsake him. All because of one unforgivable misstep —a moment of tragic weakness when exhaustion claimed him [he dozed off in the library when he was supposed to meet up with you] and made him fail you. Now, the very foundation of his world is unraveling, rotting from the core, decaying into nothingness beneath the weight of his regret. 

He decays. He rots. He hopes he dies. 

Only when Tighnari comments to him that he should bring you along to hear to his presentation, Alhaitham lifts his head, hands dragging across his face as he mumbles out with a hoarse voice, “She is upset at me. I think I should go die now.” 

“Oh, what did you do?” Kaveh asks, sincerely worried now. Though his hands keep mixing the deck of cards, preparing to deal them for another round. 

“I didn’t sleep at all last night and passed out when I was supposed to see her,” he replies, sounding so miserable even he cringes at his own roughened voice. But he continues, knot on his throat as he grimaces, “And now she won’t even reply to my messages.” 

“Oh shit,” Cyno comments, very helpfully. 

“Have you tried looking for her?” Tighnari offers, very helpfully. His brows are furrowed, but he doesn’t exactly look panicked, “I am sure she will understand if you apologize sincerely.”

“I left her waiting for so long,” Alhaitham sighs, heavy and annoyed with himself, flopping his head back down to the table and lamenting, “And I never showed up. I want to die.”

“If you do, can I perhaps keep your body for study purposes—”

“Cyno!”

“What? I can't stop him, look at him, Nari.” 

The ever composed student with a straight posture and grades, slumped and sulking as if he prayed the ground would split and swallow him straight to hell. Time doesn’t allow him too much of his self-hating session, though, as the break reaches its end and the shattering sound of bells ringing throughout the cafeteria announces it. 

Kaveh sighs as he gathers the cards he just dealt back into their deck —an elegant way to refer to the barely-holding together package it originally came with. It now held on masking tape and their suffering. He stuffs the item inside his briefcase, locking it with a click before he stands up. With a low sigh, he offers his miserable friend a pat in the shoulder, “It’ll be okay, you guys will talk it out. Gotta go now, my professor will skin me alive if I arrive late again. See ya!”

Alhaitham manages to murmur a goodbye right as the blond waves and runs away. Always rushing, always late. Tighnari found this amusing again, chuckling at that as he collects their trash from the table to throw away on his way out. With a pat on the shoulder and a gentle smile, he tries to reassure him with, “It’s not unfixable. Think it out and apologize.” 

He thanks him for his sincere words, though his chest stirs with an unhappy feeling. It isn’t fear, he isn’t afraid. Your relationship had been going strong since the first moment, steadily growing closer with everyday you spent together. He trusts you, trusts the bond you share. He can say he loves you now. Which is precisely why it breaks his heard so much to fail you like this. 

Cyno watches him returning to his sulking form, sighing heavily while brushing his hand through faded locks. He’s torn, not knowing exactly how to comfort or advise him, so he does what he can. With a nudge to his arm, he asks, “Want me to walk you to your next lesson?”

Alhaitham remains silent for a second, before grumbling, “The love of my life is mad at me. I’ll die now, thank you.” 

[zeedist]

NONE LIKE YOU .ᐟ — AYATO

what's so special about you? summary: a little look into why your clan leader favors you so much. sfw .ᐟ fem!reader x ayato, not-established relationship, boss x secretary, ayato pins for you [quite badly, if you ask me]. word count: 1.4k proofread: nope. a/n: this was supposed to be shorter... and there was more to this but i am half-asleep, but wanted to get this out tonight. expect a couple of grammar mistakes.

Being the secretary of the head of the Kamisato Clan ensures you a stable position in society. Despite the constant meetings, demanding rigid nobles, and the ever-growing, never-ending stack of responsibilities that lingers no matter how many sleepless nights you spend, it is a decent job. The salary sustains your lifestyle, and you even started saving towards a house with it. And most importantly, your boss, Ayato Kamisato. Albeit a man of particular habits and strict in his business, you managed to prove your worth and earn his trust. Eventually, his fondness as well. To the point, he trusts your opinion to the extent he allows you to act on his name more often than not. 

Who wouldn’t want the position you are in? 

Very few dare act towards it, though. Not foolishly ignoring how the clan head keeps you by his side always. Not insolently denying how he never trusted his assistants until you arrived. Everyone recognizes that this special treatment you got from him wasn’t because you were his secretary, but because it was you.

Replacing you? Pft, Ayato might as well cut off a limb. 

Except that losing you would be worse than losing his right arm.

Half-asleep and with a cup of tea in hand, you sit in your designated spot —a comfortable cushioned chair beside the clan leader’s. Sleepiness still weighs on your eyelids as you sip your warm beverage, starting your morning with the same routine. This also involves your boss standing behind you, combing your hair carefully to not pull on the knots, and tying it on a knot for you. For the sake of work, he argued the first time he offered to in a morning you woke up too late to comb through your morning hair. And ever since, it has become one more habit in the long hours you spend working together on a daily basis. 

“Not too tight?” Ayato checks after brushing it into a low-hanging bun, and you only nod as you try not to burn your tongue drinking your cup too fast. 

However, today, you feel something being inserted in the bun. Before you ask, Ayato already is extending a hand mirror for you to look at your new hairpin. Dangling with a precious glimmer of silver, adorned with a delicate flower made with azure gems. A carefully crafted piece, either imported from foreign lands or an antique gift by a noble. The color reminds you of him. 

“Sapphires suit you the best,” he comments, eyes looking at yours through the mirror. He always does that, always seem to be seeking for you even when in the same room. 

Reaching for it, you drag your finger carefully on the smooth surface of the jewels. You wonder then how much it must have cost to acquire it, or if it could even be acquired in the first place —you shouldn’t be accepting such a priceless item. But Ayato knows you too well, reading through your mind and interrupting your thoughts with a gentle squeeze of your shoulders and a softened smile. 

“You have lightened my burden considerably. It is thanks to you that I can be at rest. This is merely a small show of my appreciation. Please, keep it.” 

The summer heat clings to his skin as he walks inside his office, slipping off his outer robe immediately to try to cool off after dealing with an outside meeting with a fellow lord. It had not gone well. Now, he wasn’t the type to explore into fits of anger or to blow up his upset with alcohol, way more refined than that. Instead, he seeks you, and when not finding you in your usual spot beside his desk, his nose scrunches. Empty. Your seat and his chest. That’s what had felt so odd in his office, there wasn’t your pretty voice greeting him as he arrived. 

With a sigh, he settles in his seat and catches movement in the corner of his eye. Ah, maybe you had fallen asleep in his reading area. You rarely did, finding it disrespectful to use your lord’s things but he insisted you did when too exhausted after long nights. Almost happy, he looks up to the lounge chair in the small library in the room, hoping to find your adorable figure sleeping peacefully. Instead, his mood drops to the ground when he sees another woman instead. A maid, he assumes by her attire, organizing several documents. Your documents. 

“What are you doing here?”

The words leave his mouth so harshly, that even he is surprised at his anger. What bothered him so much? That someone intruded in the privacy of his office, bypassing the guards somehow in a clear breach of security? That the maid hadn’t greeted him according to etiquette and thus clearly lacked the standards to work for his estate? No, none of that.

Because those were your things. The ones you split your head open with headaches and countless hours sorting out for an entire week. He still remembers how content you looked when done, saying it lessened your burden significantly to have everything coded in your way. 

So why would this random person dare touch your things?

“And with whose permissions are you being so bold, touching my property?” Heat seethes through every word even when he smiles, eyes narrowing into crescent moons. 

“I’m sorry my lord! I only wanted to help you—”

“No one is allowed inside my office without permission, it is one of the first things you are supposed to be taught. If you aren’t smart enough to follow that, you are not qualified—”

She interrupts him and cuts through his words with an offended remark.

“But she comes in and goes however she pleases! She and I are no diffe—”

Red flashes in his vision, blood boiling. Her little speech muddles into a blur in his head, eyes opening darkly. The same? You, the same as this thing? There isn’t anything to compare in the first place, not even a reason to do so. To compare you? Had she lost her mind? He racks through all possible ways from here on; remove her from the Kamisato estate without a recommendation letter, ensure no other noble families hire her, and ruin— 

“Ah, you are here.”

Your face peeks through the door before walking in, an angel incarnated. With a hand sliding the door open and the other holding a full tray, you unknowingly save a stranger from living miserable for the rest of her life without a job. You even give her a small greeting, polite as you are, a little weirded out by how the maid stammers with flushed cheeks and runs away. 

“Huh, what’s with her? Anyways, guess what I got!”

Your excitement spreads to him, face shifting entirely with a softer warmth nestling in his lower stomach. He doesn’t even try to guess, letting you place the tray before him and listening to you explaining in detail each of the pastries you selected from the kitchen. Your sweet voice stirs fondness, his eyes following your lips more than what follows your words. You’re so precious, trying to incite him to eat something after he skipped lunch earlier. You speak so nicely of the custard tart, inviting him to take a bite. He does, of course, he does. 

You might as well give him a bottle of poison and ask him to drink it with that endearing smile of yours, and he'd happily chug it down to the last drop.

“So, how is it?”

“Not bad.”

Too bland for his taste, but seeing your smile widen is worth every bite. Unexpectedly, you pull something out of nowhere, his eyes widening slightly when processing what it is. 

“I know it isn’t sweet enough for you,” you —an absolute blessing— place down the cup in front of him with a proud smile that looks oh-so-adorable on you. “I got you your drink, of course. Shook the milk with ice but no ice in the drink so it wouldn’t water down. Double pump of thick syrup. Ha, am I not the best?”

Only you would take your time to learn about his little particular tastes and make them out for him out of the pureness of your heart and not because it was your job to please him. He gives you one of those rare smiles where you can see his teeth. 

“Yes, you are the best.” 

[zeedist]

LEAF SPROUT .ᐟ — ALHAITHAM

handmade gift﹕you crochet a little gift for your boyfriend. sfw !! fem!reader x alhaitham, academic setting, short + sweet. word count: 0.7k proofread: yup.

“What’s that?”

You feel Alhaitham’s ashy hair brushing the sensitive skin of your neck as he rests his head on your shoulder, eyes looking at the bundle of matcha yarn in your hands. He bends down so far it almost seems ridiculously uncomfortable, but the need to feel you skin to skin outweighs everything —he's missed you too much during the day, none of your lessons aligning in the morning. 

“Oh, it’s a little leaf!” 

Squinting his eyes, he tries to make out the shape of the so-called 'little leaf' but all he sees is a ball of tangled string. Had you been ripped off again? With his chin resting on you, his voice sounds funny as he mumbles, “It looks cheap. Where did you buy it?'"

“I... I made it,” you say slowly. “For you.”

You can feel him tensing up, as if someone dumped cold water on him. His hands placing on the side of your arms, head lifting and peeking closer. Alhaitham tries, racks through his brain to come up with anything to make this better, but he is an awful liar. 

“It is... Quite... Fun-shaped.”

The more he looks into it, the less sense the clustered mess of light green yarn makes. And it makes him feel so terribly bad, for not being able to find the shape you mentioned in the gift you handmade for him. He swallows, mustering up an apology on the tip of his tongue. 

“I’m sorry my dear, I-I am terribly blind—”

It takes all of your control to hold back a giggle, placing a hand over one of his nervous one as you look up to his frowned face and reassure your poor panicked partner: 

“Haitham, I am trying to untie yarn to crochet it. I haven’t even started.” 

He inhales, breathing once again, feeling how his heart starts beating again. With a soft plop, he sits besides you in the bench and rests his cheek on your shoulder, like a grumpy cat at your little trickeries, grumbling into your skin, “I was scared for a moment there.” 

You let out the loveliest of laughs, a sound from heavens, he thinks. In the warmth of the crook of your neck, he finds comfort. As your fingers work through the yarn, he closes his eyes and listens to your pulse —his favorite melody of all, one he couldn’t listen to with his signature headphones. Indulging in your presence was his favorite activity of the day. Your existence alone comforts him enough to almost doze off, lazy pale teal eyes only opening when you exclaim: 

“Haitham, look, look.”

Ah, how he adores your excitement.

“It might be cheap-looking but I tried my best.”

Ah, how he hates you rubbing it in your face. 

Arms crossed over his chest, he leans forward to see the small sprout-shaped item, woven carefully by your pretty fingers. He smiles, affection in his voice, “It looks cute.”

Alhaitham debates whether he should keep it in his wallet for good luck, or if to add it to the box of gifts he has received from you —one saved carefully in his closet. Either of them, tempting. 

As if you read his mind, you decide for him, taking his headphones from their spot in his bag and carefully tie the little crocheted sprout in the middle of it. It makes it look as if a small plant grew from his headphones, like that leaf emoji besides his name in your contact list.

It is the most precious thing he’s ever since, second only to you. 

“It looks a little childish…” You murmur at his silence. “We can take it off if you want—”

“No, I love it,” he stops that idea as soon as it rises, stealing his item back. He admires it as if it were a masterpiece, smile not fading for the rest of that week. 

You made this, with your very hands, for him.

Next thing you know, your face is peppered by a series of soft kisses as appreciation, the next being more tender than the firsts. Over your cheek, your forehead, your jaw, your nose, and your lips —every inch of skin he could reach while besides you, as if his whispered ‘thank you, my dear’ weren’t enough to express how much this meant to him. His fingers trail over the patterned new accessory you made for him. 

From that day on, the little green sprout has been in your boyfriend’s headphones. 

[zeedist]

TEA OVERDOSE .ᐟ — ALHAITHAM

little tea session ! summary: regretting study decisions with your boyfriend while overdosing on tea. sfw .ᐟ fem!reader x alhaitham, students / academic setting, short and sweet. word count: 0.4k proofread: yup.

Final exams are rolling around and both of your sanities are rolling out as well.

It ends up as it always does since you two first met, with both of you sitting in an isolated corner of the library, sharing one of the smaller tables with papers scattered around like stars in the sky outside. Studying past sunlight and potentially past midnight. 

In times like these, if it wasn’t for your presence, Alhaitham would have simply laid his head down and dozed off right there. You were his beacon in the dark, helping him push through the lessons he disliked and supporting him to tolerate an asshole teacher he couldn’t change classes from until next year. 

“How are you doing with your report?” He asks as you flip your paper, eyes furrowing with concern as you shake your hand in an attempt to ease the cramping sensation. 

“Do you think I would automatically pass if the professor suddenly died?” You ask instead, raising your tired eyes to look at your boyfriend, who squints. 

He doesn’t know if to take it seriously or not, and yet, he replies, “Most likely, no.”

“Meh, worth a try.” 

Alhaitham chuckles at your response, a low sound from a throat tired of speaking. Presentations had stacked up that day and now he worked on another biology exposition for tomorrow. His pale teal eyes focus on you instead, in how you brush away a messy strand from your face, in how you rub your tired eyes, and how your lips wrap around your cup. 

Oh, how beautiful you look even now. 

The rest of your tea goes down your throat. He fills your cup up again. 

Another emptied thermos joins the group of three inside of the bag. 

He places the last full one on the table. 

“Let’s finish this one and go sleep, yeah?” You propose, though it sounds more like a demand than a question. You visibly see his shoulders relax, lips curling in a softer curve. 

“Can I please stay with you tonight?” He pleads, feeling his sanity slipping away with every line he reads and gathering his mind back only when he gets to see your pretty face. 

Heaven knows Alhaitham has missed you terribly these days. And so did you, by the way he clings to you in every free second.

So how could you deny him? Not when he smiles in relief when you agree. 

That night, you doze off in your boyfriend’s warm embrace.

[zeedist]

STUDY BUDDY .ᐟ — ALHAITHAM

helping hand﹕how your boyfriend rewards you for getting a good grade. nsfw﹐mdni !! fem!reader x alhaitham, academic setting, v. fingering, pet names [good girl, pretty], non-caught public sex, slight overstimulation [fem]. word count: 1.6k proofread: yup.

Your best study motivation is Alhaitham.

If him burying long slender fingers deep in your leaking heat and kneading your sweet spot until you’re a drooling mess in his strong arms could be called ‘study motivation’ in the first place. Not that you could care about the terminology when it was a damn good way to pour all your effort into grinding and memorizing for an upcoming exam in that one class you hated. Your sweet boyfriend promised you a not-so-little reward, words and lips brushing your ear as his hand squeezed a little higher up your skirt. With that hell of a study motivation, your grades had been higher than ever and you would be damned if you let them drop. 

Today is no different. 

Impatiently moving a limb, you watch the professor walk down the aisles giving out the exam papers. This might be another reason you dislike their class so much, not that you have too much time to dwell on that thought once they place a folded paper on your desk. The anxious air in your lungs finally found freedom as you unfold the paper, biting your tongue in anticipation.

An entire month of studying your heads off and an entire week waiting for the results yields you: 

A near-perfect score. 

A warmth nestles in your belly and not only because of the happiness. 

The out-of-tune bells ring, announcing lunchtime. The walk to the cafeteria happens faster than usual, your excitement carrying you faster. You find your boyfriend in your usual spot beside one of the windows, silently listening to your mutual friends. His light teal eyes light up when they catch you coming in, lips curling in a smile when you wave the paper to his face, slipping beside your sport on the lunch table. He’s so proud of you, grabbing the exam and pressing a soft kiss on the side of your head, fingers brushing back a loose strand of hair. 

“That’s my girl, so brilliant.” 

Your mutual friends congratulate you as well, all smiles and cheers —the professor and topic weren’t precisely easy, after all. The fox-hybrid even gives you a pat on the shoulder before he leaves along with Cyno, heading together to their next classes. You thank them, pulling off a smile that didn’t give away the way your boyfriend’s treacherous hands drag up and down your thighs, making your skin bloom with goosebumps and shiver. Eyeing him, you catch his eyes already on you, even when he vaguely hums to acknowledge some comment your blond friend made. 

You glare at him. He only squeezes your thigh and shoots you a little smirk. 

Before you can say anything, the bells ring again.  

Your reward arrives a little earlier than you expected. 

The next time you see each other is in those met-ups in between lessons, it’s supposed to be exactly that —a brief meeting in the little free time you both share before heading to the next class. Definitely not proper for the heated mess it evolves into the moment Alhaitham pats his lap, offering it as a seat for you when you arrive. 

Surely this was one of his little whims to tease you, right? 

Now you pray to every deity you know that no one will come to this isolated part of the library when his hand roams under your skirt, snaking his way to your panties to rub over the cloth, fingerpads giving your clit a little starting massage as his mouth catches yours in a kiss. 

The strong chest behind you heaves with his breath, his heart beating a pace faster and your hands reaching up to his broad shoulders for support. Your panties come off with a tug, hanging on your ankle as he easily holds the curve of your inner knees and—

A yelp falls from your lips as he pulls your legs apart, letting them fall over his thighs properly. The exposition is embarrassing, mortifying. If anyone happens to venture to this corner, semi-hidden by badly-arranged bookshelves and several turns, they would find you on Alhaitham’s lap, legs spread open for easy access because your boyfriend adores you in this position; so he can feel your body shivering from the pleasure he gave you and see what cute expression you made. 

Like the one right now as he bullies two fingers inside your clenching cunt, digging them slowly in and out in a twisting motion, letting you savor every unhurried drag. His breath brushes against your bare neck before he nibbles on it, nosing in your perfume. He feels the vibrations in your skin with every muffled moan of yours, it only makes him shift his pace faster so that you can’t help the little ‘ah’s and ‘um’s falling from your pretty lips. He catches them in another wet kiss. 

Alhaitham knows you too well, knows on which spot to grind and how rough to do so to make your thighs shake. Except this time he goes faster than usual, slicked digits pumping in and out of you mercilessly. Heat coils in your stomach, his teeth nibbling on your lower lips before letting go of it in favor to look at your cute fucked-up face. How your head fell back to his chest, jaw hanging low with drool on the corner of your mouth. You’re so adorable, he can’t help but roughen up his pace until every cell in your body tingles, until your hands desperately grasp into his arms, digging crescent marks. Your core muscles tighten and when your eyes roll back, he pushes you to your limits and past them, until you’re gushing in his lap. 

A strong arm wraps under your breasts, keeping you in place as his fingers bully you through your orgasm and beyond it, spiraling you into a slobbering mess. 

“A-Ah,” your voice comes out broken, “too much, Haitham—”

“Shush my dear,” he murmurs and kisses your cheek, letting go of the strong hold to help brush back some sweaty strands of hair sticking to your forehead as his fingers slowly slide out.

“You’re taking my reward so well, pretty,” he presses another kiss, in the corner of your lips. Coming down of your high slowly, you suspect something when his fingers don’t fully wriggle out. You feel his breath behind your ear, not able to notice how his eyes wander down to the slicked mess between your legs but almost hearing the smirk on his face as he comments, “Let me show you just how proud I am.” 

He pushes his rough fingers back in, shoving straight to your g-spot. Sensitive pleasure crashes on you like lightning, spreading through your body like feverish heat. You throw your head back to his chest, hands grasping desperately on any solid muscle in a lame attempt to hold yourself together even though you just moaned so hard anyone close by would have heard it. 

“Such a good girl, look at you.” He praises you while bullying your sweet spot, a stinging ecstasy cursing through your veins. You can feel his breath, erratic almost, on your neck —hot and thick, exactly how his fingers feel as he drags them almost out of you.

“Look at you, receiving my reward so so good.” He breathes shoving them right back home, drinking in how your full body shivered in his arms. 

It’s too fucking much. Stars dance in the corner of your eyes as you grit your teeth and just take it. Goosebumps bloom all over your body with heat building up impossibly warm too fast, so painfully good, making you gasp for air and shake. It makes you feel like dying from the overstimulation. And your loving boyfriend kills you when his other hand reaches to give your cute swollen clit some attention. You’re so close to the edge that it doesn’t take too much rubbing. A second orgasm burns through your body, toes curling and legs shaking as he forces you through it, relentlessly bullying your weeping pussy until your gummy walls squeeze him so tightly he can’t move anymore. 

When Alhaitham can, he slowly pulls his slicked fingers out to not overstimulate you more. You miss how his lips curl in a satisfied smile when he sees your spent figure. 

All you feel is him pressing a kiss in your temple, then in your cheek and in your lips. He rubs gentle circles on your warm tingling thigh, letting you breathe and relax for now. He’s smiling against your skin, giving you little soft kisses and murmured praises. 

Maybe you offer to help him with the raging boner straining against his pants and your asscheek when you finally notice it after calming down, but he will turn it down, helping you sit correctly. Then pulling your panties back up as you shakingly stood up, he makes a sly proud smile at this. The bells ring, cutting through the silence of your little secret love corner. Your worried expression only makes his heart melt, especially with how your lips still shine with drool. 

“Don’t worry about it now, my dear. Let’s get you some water before class, yeah?” 

Before you can protest at the unfairness of him going the rest of the day with a hard-on, he cuts off the distance of your body and gives your ass a soft squeeze. Another kiss on your forehead with a drawled, “I have another little reward for you after class. Be a good girl, and be patient.” 

After all, you have a pretty mouth too. He ought to reward it as well.