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meowdei · 2 months ago

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like a lotus in spring, you are mine to bloom — ft. alhaitham

synopsis: at twenty one, you’re just a girl he meets as he trains for the role of scribe. at twenty four, you’ve become everything he loves in this world. after three years of knowing you and nearly two and a half decades of life, alhaitham finally realizes why his father left letters for his mother instead of just saying the words outloud

word count. ❤︎ 7.7k words — we find ourselves here in the same old situation again, i see LOL pls give it a chance though!! plssss

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; 18+ content — not suitable for minors ; not proof read ; strangers to friends to lovers ; mutual pining but not at the same time for a bit (he falls first <3) ; jealous alhaitham ; hinted drunk sex ; getting together + love confessions ; alhaitham character story spoilers + references to his grandmother and parents ; semi-clothed unprotected sex ; no prep ; some nipple play ; creampie ; the cringiest love letter at the end LOL

commentary. ❤︎ guys every time i write alhaitham it’s so corny and cheesy but . he is my fav genshin guy of all time i deserve to be allowed this okay

TWENTY ONE.

You’re still a student when you first meet Alhaitham. (Not a student for much longer, but a student all the same. With a little luck on your side and good graces from your darshan’s sage on your thesis, you’re expected to graduate in just a few short months.)

You don’t have the best first meet. In fact, your impression of Alhaitham starts off entirely on the wrong foot.

He’s newly graduated, just freshly rewarded a degree for his (impressive) efforts, and is now well on his way to training for the role of scribe—you heard he was offered far more prestigious roles, but for some reason, a genius like him settled for a role like that. You try not to judge. People have their passions, after all, and if that’s what he wants to do, well…who are you to make comments? (But amongst a school that only houses the brilliant, Alhaitham is, very undoubtedly, a standout. It’s hard to stand out in a school filled with only the best minds, but he manages to do so with ease. Sometimes, you’re almost jealous. You can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t aim a little higher than he does.)

He trains in the house of Daena. His first order of training is to fact-check ordinance drafts using books so he can better get the hang of drafting them himself in the future. You’re also in the House of Daena to find the last book for your thesis—after weeks of begging, you’re finally granted access to the restricted section to find it.

And you do. Except your palm meets warm skin instead of the cold leather cover of a book. You pause, glancing up as sharp, teal eyes meet your gaze, staring at you expectantly as if you should be the one letting go. But you need this book. It’s the final research element to finish your thesis, and you’d like to be done with it. End of story. No matter how devastatingly handsome the man (because he is handsome, you’ll admit at least that much), you will not be handing over the last, final key to your academic freedom.

“Um, excuse me,” you say politely, “I was kind of reaching for that.”

“As was I,” he says, staring at you with a bored, almost uncaring expression. Your eyes narrow. “Now, if you’d please kindly take your hand off of mine.”

“I believe it should be you taking your hand off of mine,” you correct, huffing as you add stubbornly, “I reached for it first.”

He blinks at you, bland and a little irritated, as he points out, “Your hand is on top of mine, which means I reached the book first.”

Well.

Maybe if you were feeling particularly patient, you’d be inclined to admit that, yes, he does have a point. But stubbornness, combined with pure exhaustion, has you at your wit's end, and if you have to play the role of a difficult student, then so be it. You’re pretty sure you need it more, and you’re probably a much speedier reader anyway. You’ll have it done and returned in no time.

This guy, on the other hand…he doesn’t look too bright. You’re not willing to take your chances and let him walk off with a book that you might never see again.

“I started reaching for it first,” you scowl, “you just sped up your hand once you saw me. I should get it.”

“Unlikely,” he scoffs, “I didn’t even see you. Although,” he gives you a once over with his eyes, making you feel uncomfortably seen under his judging gaze, “I suppose you were a bit easy to miss.”

You gape at him. “Just what does that mean?”

“It means,” he smirks, taking the opportunity to grab the book as you stand in shock, “that I got here first.”

“Hey!” You glare at him, seeing red for a moment. What a perfectly good waste of a perfectly handsome face—and such an awful attitude coupled with his ridiculously smug grin couldn’t make for a worse combination. But, before you can even say anything, the book is being pressed back into your hands.

“You seem like you want it more than I do, though,” he hums, “I suppose I can let you have it. It’s a bit outdated for this ordinance, anyway.” With that, he saunters off. You push down the soft flutter in your heart for a moment and force yourself to hope you’ll never see him again. (Faintly, you hope your wishes don’t come true—but you refuse to admit it to yourself.)

Unfortunately (and fortunately at the same time) for you, you do see him again. Many, many times, in fact. When he works in the House of Daena as often as he does, and you like to spend all your free time there to study if you can, you’re both bound to run into each other often. Very often.

And sometimes, it’s quite literally running into him.

“Oof,” you hiss, staggering backward and hitting your head against the bookshelf behind you as you bump into a sturdy figure. You drop the books in your hand, blinking before reaching to rub your read as you start to apologize. “Sorry, I didn’t see you—oh. It’s you.”

“It’s me,” he says, looking mildly entertained. Alhaitham is everywhere. Everywhere. You can’t escape him if you try, and now, you can’t even avoid him in your own personal space. “Although, I think I should be the one apologizing this time. I was too busy reading to pay attention. This section is usually empty at this time.”

“How often are you in here to know what section is empty at what time?” You raise a brow.

“Too often to be considered good for my well-being,” he says dryly, sighing in misery. You crack a smile at that. Oddly enough, so does he—you don’t think you’ve ever heard someone say they’ve seen Alhaitham smile. It must be a rare sight that only you, and perhaps a very few others, can say they’ve witnessed. “I was just about to take a break to buy a coffee—I’ll bring one back for you, too, to make up for the cranial damage I’ve supplied.”

“A most wonderful idea,” you perk up instantly, “I love when I get to drain the wallet of a man.”

He gives you an amused look at that. And somehow, bringing you a coffee along with his own during his breaks is a habit that seems to stick for a long, long while after that.

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TWENTY TWO.

Alhaitham’s feelings are hurt. Not a lot of words tend to do that—he’s been blessed with thick skin and an unbothered attitude to a fault, sometimes. But something about today, for some odd reason, hurts his feelings.

Your words to the waiter who took your order keep ringing in his head.

Oh goodness, no, we are definitely not dating!

Most people mistake you and Alhaitham for a pair of lovers rather than a pair of friends. It’s just the way things go when a man and a woman are seen together for extended periods of time over and over. It doesn’t help that Alhaitham doesn’t really have any friends. He had one before you, but…well, things are complicated now. Far too complicated to think about it more than necessary. He has you, and that’s enough. But the matter still stands that most people tend to assume that something blossoms between the two of you that isn’t just friendly.

He was starting to think it was true himself, too. He knows it’s true from his end, at least. But you say those words with such a sure, definitive tone that it almost sounds like you’re offended by the notion of being seen as his girlfriend. And sure, he would be disappointed—he’s no liar—if you didn’t feel romantically for him, but he’d understand. It’s not something you can help. But you brush off the idea like it’s an anomaly of sorts in the universe for someone like you and someone like Alhaitham to be a couple. It hurts his feelings. More than it should.

(He knows deep down, in the depths of his heart, that you don’t mean it that way. You never would. But irrationality is but one of many feelings that bloom when it comes to romance.)

Alhaitham knows from a young age he’s different than most kids his age. This fact doesn’t change as he gets older. He’s brighter than most of his peers—which is certainly saying something because Sumeru is a nation filled with enough sharp minds, it’s as though brilliance were the average trait. People don’t typically like Alhaitham (which is fine by him, he doesn’t like most of them, either. They mostly don’t meet his standards). The kids don’t play with him in the parks that Grandmother would leave him at while she shopped around at the market, and they don’t sit with him on his one and only day at the Akademiya when he is but an elementary scholar. It never bothered him. He preferred reading under the trees and self-learning at home, anyway. When he’s older and enrolled in the Akademiya full-time, they don’t prefer to partner with him for projects for any other reason than simply being guaranteed a good grade, and they don’t spare him a glance when they all converse in groups outside of class. He never cared for freeloaders, anyway—he only trusts himself for projects, and he is at the Akademiya to learn, not make friends.

It’s not until he meets Kaveh does he consider the idea that friendships are meaningful enough to spare some effort into. But the end result of that only solidifies that he is best when in solitude.

But then he meets you. Some part of Alhaitham knows very early on that you would never be just a friend to him. If it was friendship that he craved, he would have looked for it elsewhere before running into you. Something about you from the very beginning makes him yearn for things much deeper than that. Things that remind him of his parents.

Friendship is fleeting. People at the Akademiya go their separate ways and meet new people. They fall out and have arguments. They grow up and grow apart and become different. But love blooms like the Kalpalata lotuses on a vine, timeless as time itself. It starts and never ends, one root stemming into more and more vines until they never stop growing.

Alhaitham has fallen in love with you. Logic tells him it’s only a recent development, but his heart has known this outcome would be brought about for a long, long time. And, in all truthfulness, your words have hurt his feelings.

And yet, he still loves you through it. He thinks that even if you crushed his feelings with a cold, indifferent smile, he would still love you through it.

A hand waves in front of his face, pulling him from his thoughts as you take a sip from your coffee. Puspa Cafe is not as busy at this hour, most people are in the middle of a work day, but Alhaitham is allowed to pick his lunch hour, and yours happens to be earlier than most.

“Sorry, I just have to ask—are…are you upset?” you ask gently, making him pause.

Yes.

“No,” he says simply, “why would I be?”

“You seem upset.”

“I’m not.”

“You were fine up until…I don’t know, a few minutes ago. Is something on your mind?”

You know him so well, he thinks. How could you not see how perfect the two of you are together?

“I’m simply concerned about your sugar intake is all,” he eyes the cold, iced drink in your hands with more syrups than he deems necessary. You always have a penchant for choosing the sweetest drink off the menu, and Alhaitham will never understand how your teeth don’t rot.

“Well, that’s very funny,” you roll your eyes, “because I was just thinking about how low on vitamin D you must be—do you ever leave your study to see the sun?”

He spares you a soft chuckle at that, shaking his head before taking a sip of his own coffee—hot and black and with two spoons of sugar. Simple, like how he prefers. You make a face at his drink as he sets it down.

“Have you ever thought about what you look for in a partner?” he asks suddenly, making you blink in shock for a moment. He flinches at his own forwardness just a tad.

“Umm, I suppose a little here and there…why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he shrugs, “just curious what your type was, that’s all. You’re painfully single, so I figured your taste was rather distinct.”

“Rude,” you scoff, rolling your eyes enough that he thinks it’s safe to assume you’re not suspicious. “Are you here just to poke fun at my choices today?”

Alhaitham should not be asking you this. Not when the answer so clearly is going to hurt his already very bruised feelings. Of course, your type won’t be him. And, of course, he is going to mourn your answer the second you give it, which is his own fault considering he’s the one who asked. (He has to wonder, for a moment, if this constitutes as an undiscovered hidden kink of his and whether or not he really just gets off on some unnecessary pain. Why else would he willingly subject himself to this?)

But, he’s caught off guard when you shrug and simply say, “I suppose someone who’s intelligent. I’d appreciate some good discussions. And…and maybe someone who’s kind, y’know? I would be rather sad if they were mean,” you pretend to sniffle dramatically.

“That’s…that’s it?” He tilts his head in equal parts shock and equal parts confusion.

“What did you expect me to look for in a partner?” You snort, “A three-story mansion? A rock-solid, chiseled chest to lay on?”

“Well, no,” he rolls his eyes, “Maybe something a bit less generic to narrow down your pool, I suppose, but if that’s your bar, so be it. There are far too many men who are intelligent and kind, you know.”

“Yes, but none of them show me any signs of interest,” you pout, “I must be undesirable or something.”

I desire you, he wants to say. He can’t quite find the courage to get the words out, though—and as if the universe has it completely out for him, the same waiter from earlier who is responsible for asking you the question that kills Alhaitham’s mood for the day comes back with the bill. And something else, too.

Something that kills his mood for the week.

His jaw clenches a tad when you flush at the note scribbled on a napkin for you, eyeing your flustered reaction while you read over the words: I get off at eight if you’d like to find me. You stare for a moment before you murmur, “Well, look at that. A sign of interest—it must be the Dendro Archon’s divine power.”

“The Divine have no say over who you fall for,” he insists.

“You don’t know that,” you hum thoughtfully, “The God of Wisdom knows her people better than anyone else, you know. I’d like to think she knows when love is bound for two people.”

You fold the napkin carefully and keep it in your pocket, and Alhaitham fishes out his mora pouch with stiff fingers. He leaves a very shoddy tip on the table before he exits after you.

────────────────────────

TWENTY THREE.

You wake up in his bed.

It’s a foggy memory, but you know you fucked Alhaitham after more sips of wine than you can count and one flirty comment too many. It happened in a blur last night, and you can’t say you’re surprised that it finally happened at all. Alhaitham is a man just like any other, and mingling pleasure with friendship is a normal thing to do. Falling under him on his mattress is not something you never had daydreams of—but the truth of the matter is that your daydreams don’t just stop with the bed.

They end with a toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. A mug next to his in the kitchen. Your shoes kicked off along with his at the entrance of a home. Your laughter and his bouncing off of the walls. A ring, maybe. One on your hand and one on his.

In your imagination, it starts with pleasure, but it ends with love.

Falling in love with Alhaitham is a peaceful ordeal. He’s dependable and inherently kind. Strong and impressively capable. Intelligent and objectively handsome. You’d bring him home to your mother and father, and they’d thank Lord Kusanali for smiling down upon their humble little family and their darling little daughter by sending such a divine man your way.

You don’t think you can pinpoint when exactly it is you started to love this boy, but you know loving him became as simple as breathing. You never thought about it. Never learned to do it. Never questioned it, even. You inhale the scent of his spicy, woody cologne and exhale the warm breath of your affections stored in your lungs. He lives somewhere nestled so deep in your ribcage that you think you’d have to crack each of them one after the other before you could pry him out.

You love Alhaitham. You think you know everything there is to know about loving him. You think you’d do it right—better than anyone else.

He only drinks his coffee when it’s piping hot, and his wine can never be one degree less than iced. He has dry hands, but he hates the feeling of lotion. He doesn’t like raw onions but he doesn’t mind them cooked. When the sun is in his eyes, he’s in a foul mood, but he enjoys napping under the warm rays, much like a cat. He laughs surprisingly boyishly from his belly if you manage to deliver a dry yet clever enough joke, and he clears his throat and gets a bit shy once he’s realized he’s let it out. He twirls his pen in his hand when he’s bored, and he only uses the kind with gel ink because they write smoother.

You love Alhaitham. For you, it’s always been him.

When you wake up to his bare, warm body next to yours, breathing peacefully with an arm thrown over your waist, you can’t help but selfishly wish he’d stay asleep all day. Just for a day. Just for the amount of time you get in between the sun’s departure and the moon’s arrival. Just so you can watch him exist in this moment where it’s you, him, and the liminal space between friends and lovers. Just so you can admire how beautiful he is without worrying about his eyes opening and the inevitable conversation of what you’re both doing is brought up.

People (like Kaveh, or Dehya, or Tighnari, or…anyone) tend to insist that Alhaitham loves you. It’s obvious, they say, just as obvious as your love for him. You never believe it. It’s not because he’s bad at love or because you’re bad for him. You think he’d make a good lover—contrary to popular belief, you don’t think Alhaitham is uninterested in intimacy or affection. And you think you’d make a good girlfriend—unlike other people, you understand him and like what you see.

But he doesn’t love you. That much is a fact you’ve long accepted. It’s not because you’re bad for him or because he’s incapable of feeling—but rather, it’s just that bitter, soul-crushing reality that you can’t help who you love and who you don’t. Alhaitham doesn’t love you—it’s not something either of you can really change. Because if he did, he’d waste no time. He’d get to the heart of the matter and quit dancing around the issue.

It’s just the kind of guy that he is.

So, because this is your first and likely last time seeing him this way, you slowly reach over and brush a few strands of messy, unruly bedhead from his forehead before cupping his cheek in your hand. His skin is soft and warm under your palm, much more delicate to the touch than you anticipated from how chiseled his features are. Your thumb gently brushes along the slant of his cheekbone, eyes softening at how he lets out a puff of air as he sleeps.

“Morning,” he says hoarsely, eyes still closed and making you jolt in surprise. He lets out a quiet, sleepy chuckle that would make you melt if not for the way your heart still pounds from the shock.

“You’re awake?”

“Mhm,” he hums, nodding before finally cracking an eye open. “For a while now.”

“Why pretend to sleep then, you creep?” You scoff, glaring at him as he sits up slightly and glances at you with a teasing glint in his eyes. No part of him seems to be shocked about you being nude in his bed. Or the fact that you’re even in his bed at all, nude or not.

“You’re the creep if we’re being technical here. It’s undoubtedly a little on the creepy side to study someone with such careful touches while they sleep.”

“That’s your main concern…?” You stare at him—and for lack of better words, you’re dumbfounded. You and Alhaitham have been friends for two years and counting. You’ve never once crossed the line or even toed at it to step beyond the border of anything more. And, yet, here you are. In his bed. Completely nude. He was lying there and felt your delicate touch along his skin, felt you act like a lover and not a friend on a quiet, intimate morning when in fact, you both should be shamefully avoiding each other’s eyes in a moment that’s anything but intimate as you leave.

He makes no move to ask you to leave or even question why you’re still here. You make no move to really leave—it’s not like you want to.

“What should my main concern be, then?” he looks at you expectantly, like he really doesn’t know.

“Oh, I don’t know, Alhaitham—shouldn’t you be a little more panicked by the idea that I’ve trespassed into your bed and seen you…bare?”

“Well, to be fair, you didn’t trespass. I let you in—and also, to be fair, I saw the same for you, too, so we’re even.”

“You’re oddly calm about this,” you hiss. “This doesn’t bother you even a little? That things might change?”

He looks at you funny—like you’ve just told him a joke that hardly makes sense but makes him want to laugh anyway. “You’re too brilliant to be this dense,” he murmurs. “Maybe I’m quite open to the idea of change.”

You take offense to the first part enough to completely miss the second part of his statement.

“I am not dense,” you huff, “I’m incredibly bright. I’ll have to send you my thesis sometime.”

“No need,” he responds through a low hum. He pulls you closer, flush against his chest. Bare skin on skin. Intimate skin, at that. You shiver for a moment as his warm, large hand wanders lower and lower before stopping just at the small of your back, rubbing slow circles at the dimple where your spine ends. “I’ve read it plenty of times. It was very insightful.”

“Well, in that case, you should know not to insult my intelligence—”

“If you don’t notice my affection for you, I’m afraid you might not be as observant as I initially thought.”

You pause. Your heart flutters. Then it feels like it decays. Your eyes widen a fraction. Then they feel like they need to be squeezed shut for fear of tears. You feel your fingers twitch to reach for him. And yet they stiffen in distrust.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” you whisper. Because you don’t.

You really fucking don’t. You thought you knew. His feelings and how to read them. His thoughts and how his mind works. Every little quirk of his and how he approaches every damn thing in this world. You thought you knew.

Now you feel like you don’t know much of anything, especially not what he means right in this moment.

“You don’t?” He whispers, hand moving to grab your wrist and bring it to his cheek so his lips can brush along the delicate lines of your palm prints. (If he was brave, he’d tell you that his destiny and yours are written in those very lines. Maybe someday he’ll build the courage.)

“No,” you say through a shaky whisper. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I love you. Just like you love me.” He says it so plainly, that you almost feel like it's a dry, cruel joke. (You know him a little better than that, though, to know he’d never.)

“How do you know I love you?” you challenge just because it’s all you have left to cling to—easy, instant denial.

He laughs. Soft. Quiet. Melodic. So fucking sweet. “I’m too smart to act dense,” Alhaitham teases. And then, for a moment, his eyes soften enough that they almost look vulnerable. “And only someone who loves me could deal with my… peculiarities. Though, I will admit, it took me quite a while to reach this conclusion. You made me work for it.”

“If you’ve known all along—”

“Not all along,” he corrects, “like I said, it took me a while to come to this conclusion. But once I did, it was rather obvious.”

You scowl with a finger prodding into his chest, eyes misty with relief and the faintest traces of agitation, “Well, regardless, why haven’t you said something all this time? Obviously, I wasn’t as aware as you seem to be, so the least you could have done is spared me the pining and heartbreak of wondering if you’d ever look at me—”

“I wanted to make sure I could offer you a peaceful life first,” he says gently. You blink. He smiles, eyeing something in the distance—you don’t quite catch it, but you think it might be the old, worn-out stack of envelopes sitting on his desk.

“What?”

“When you’re with me,” he whispers, leaning in so that his lips brush over yours, “I can lead a peaceful life. I wanted to make sure I could give you the same.”

“And what does that consist of?” you raise a brow.

“Well,” he murmurs, pecking the corner of your mouth, “A stable job with a generous income, which I now have. A fixed schedule, which I have also negotiated. A proper home to house the both of us, which you are comfortably laying in. And…” he grabs your hand, bringing it to his chest where his heart is beating erratically, “A rock-solid, chiseled chest to lay on, which I have dedicatedly worked to add to my physique for you.”

“Haitham!” you squeal, shoving him away with a horrified shriek as he laughs with a wide grin. You don’t even know why he still remembers that comment to poke fun at it, but you suppose that is the tragedy of falling for a prodigious scholar. His mind is sharp. And so is his memory. “Enough!”

“Okay, okay,” he grins smugly. “I want us to lead a peaceful life.”

“There’s not a lot of peace I am counting on with you.”

“I will elect to ignore that statement,” he says dryly, “But that’s why I waited this long,” he buries his face into your neck, nose pressing into the skin as he inhales, “I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer, though. Won’t you accept my frugal attempt at a serene life with you?”

“Perhaps I can make do,” you fight back a stupid grin.

He smiles into your neck. You can feel it. You can practically see it. You hope you’ll grow old with it, too.

“Then I suppose I’m forever indebted to your graciousness, my love.”

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TWENTY FOUR.

When Alhaitham was eight, Grandmother told him the story of how his parents had fallen in love. It was a typical love story, he thought at the time—nothing overly special or unique. A simple, sweet bond between two people who became friends and something more along the way.

What stood out were the letters. Not very much at first, but with time, he’d realized how special they were.

Grandmother handed him the letters with a soft, melancholy look in her eyes that made him realize he hadn’t just lost his father and mother. She had lost her son and daughter-in-law. Alhaitham felt the absence of his parents often. It was hard not to at that age—he didn’t have a father to throw a ball to or tag along with to the market. He didn’t have a mother to hum him a melody or make his favorite dish for dinner. But Grandmother filled the gaps in those places well enough that even if his heart bled, not too much blood spilled between the cracks.

But he was no son. Not a proper one for her at her age, anyway. She raised him like he was her own, but she grew older every day, and he didn’t grow fast enough to keep up. He couldn’t take care of her in her old age the way his father would have. He couldn’t do much besides bring the vegetables for her to cut or set the table while she cooked. He couldn’t offer her the mora when she went to the market or carry too many of the heavy bags while they walked home. He couldn’t let her rest in her old age too much because, regardless of how mature and bright he was for his age, Alhaitham was just a child. Her child, nonetheless—Grandmother didn’t let him forget that fact. But a child.

When she died, he arranged the funeral alone. He didn’t cry throughout the whole ordeal. Her old colleagues from way back in her Akademiya days came, as did some of his parents’ old acquaintances. No one he knew too familiarly, though—no one who really mattered when they clasped his shoulder and told him to hang in there.

She was a good woman. He knew that already.

She was very intelligent. A very obvious fact.

She was exceptionally kind. A rather unsurprising observation.

She loved very deeply. Well. That one stung—as true as it might have been.

He remembers it so vividly still. How he had walked home alone after it all. How he had taken off his tie (a very poorly tied tie, at that—Grandmother had always helped him before) and silently entered his room.

It wasn’t until he had eyed his desk that finally, it all sank in. The notes—the ones his father had so carefully written his mother while they were still just starting to fall in love, sat there as if waiting for him. He read them one by one, just like he had so many times before. He didn’t realize he’d started crying until a rivulet of his sorrow landed from his cheek to the page, staining the paper a darker shade of heartache.

Alone.

That’s all Alhaitham had ever been since the tender age of four. At least, that’s what people had always thought—but he’d never felt the sorrow people tended to feel for him. Not having a father and mother was okay. Hard at times, but okay. Grandmother had been everything he needed. More than what he needed, in fact.

Grandmother was everything. And she had left him just the same way his parents had. He’d cried that night—alone in a house that was nothing more than just a house. Not a home, not a place where he could return to and look forward to it. Not a place where love was waiting for him to shelter him as soon as he came back from the cruel, outside world.

Grandmother was gone. Mother and father had left so long ago. But they all had each other—in whatever world they’d crossed to, they’d had each other.

He remembers it all so vividly still. How he’d read his father’s words, and for the first time in all his life, he’d craved it. What his parents had.

To my love, my soul, my heart. I am yours, always.

He wondered that night, through teary and blurry eyes, if love like that would ever find him. If he’d one day be able to call someone his love, soul, and heart.

He thinks now, as you laugh with your head tilted forward and a tweezer in hand while sitting on his lap, that he can.

“Hold still, you,” comes your teasing remark, “you said this would be nothing. Now look at you.”

“You’re being too harsh,” he grumbles, pouting slightly. With a smile, you bend your neck down and press a soft kiss to his jutted lips, humming before pressing an extra one to the corner of his mouth for good measure. (And yes, the grand sage—acting, you can almost hear him correct in your own head—can pout. He is rather frequent at curling those lips of his in your presence when he wants something, in fact. Or when he is teased too much. Something about you brings about a side of him that is much less stoic and far more dramatized.)

“You can just admit it hurts, you know,” you say through an amused snort.

“It won’t hurt if you just do it right.”

“I’m an expert at tweezing eyebrows,” you huff, “I do mine all the time. And I would know that it hurts.”

“It can’t be that painful,” he clicks his teeth, “just be gentle.”

“I cannot gently pull out a hair from your follicle, Haitham—I don’t know what you want me to—hey!”

He grabs the tweezers from your hand and pulls you close, hugging you tight enough that his nose digs into your skin a bit as he buries it into your neck. It’s Saturday. His first out of two days off for the week—standard scribe work weeks are nine to five on weekdays, and he very much appreciates his weekends away from the bustling, lively Akademiya nonsense.

Saturday happens to be your day off, too.

“Where is Kaveh?” you ask quietly, playing with the hem of his shirt. He raises a brow, eyeing the suspicious movement of your fingers.

“Working with a client in Aaru Village. He won’t be back until tomorrow evening. Why am I not enough company for you?”

“Oh, be quiet,” you roll your eyes, and this time, your hands wander under his shirt, palms slowly dragging along his chiseled, planed abdomen while he shivers slightly under your touch. “I was just asking if…”

“If…?” he urges you to continue.

You know he knows. But, for the sake of indulging his smug, teasing little game, you huff and push his shirt up to expose his chest before murmuring, “If we would be interrupted or not. I don’t fancy such awkward run-ins with your roommate.”

“Our roommate,” he corrects, “this is your home, too.”

“Yes,” you smile, brushing your palms over his pectorals, watching as he stiffens when you graze along his nipples, “I suppose it is.”

“Well, he’s not here. And he won’t be, so kiss me,” he demands through a breathy whisper. You do. You kiss him instantly—because kissing Alhaitham is what you do best. When he’s happy, sad, angry, distressed, or just plain tired, kissing him is how you know him the most. When your breaths exchange and your life force and his mingle to become one, singular unit.

You sigh into his mouth, letting his hands cradle your jaw and tilt your head to better meet his mouth, all while your hands still explore his upper half. He moans under your touch, cock springing to life slowly below you through his pants. You angle your hips forward, inching higher up his lap to drag your crotch along his and help the erection grow against the friction.

“Fuck,” he hisses, hard and heavy between his legs in no time.

“Haitham,” you breathe, feeling that familiar ache build between your own thighs.

You kiss him like that for a bit. Messy, deep, sloppy, and so, so slow. With all the time in the world. Languid strokes of your tongue against his as he rolls his hips up from underneath you, dragging his clothed, bulging cock against your dripping cunt. The fabric separates you, rudely so, and it’s not long until you both grow tired of it.

“Off,” you whine, tugging at his pants, “off, off, off!”

“So demanding,” he chuckles, pecking your nose sweetly before he lifts his hips, letting you slide off his sweatpants. “Satisfied?”

“Yes,” you beam, “You always give me what I want. It’s my favorite thing about you.”

His gaze darkens at that—not for any other reason than it makes him so incredibly filled with lust when you speak to him like that. So spoiled and happy about it because it’s him. Him. You’re happy that it’s him. And he’s happy that it’s you.

You don’t even bother undressing yourselves fully—he pulls down your own pants just enough to expose your pretty, leaking folds, and his hands wander under your shirt, where he almost short-circuits for a moment. Braless. Because you just love to drive him mad, he thinks. This much easy access to your soft, delicate breasts and the pert nipples that decorate them is enough to make him curse under his breath as his thumbs tease over them.

“You’re a tease.”

“For simply existing?” you gasp, making him crack a small grin.

“Yes,” he hums, “Your existence on its own teases me at all times. I’m afraid it drives me mad.”

You hum, reaching forward to gently take his hard, leaking cock into your hand and give a light, teasing squeeze. “Maybe my goal is to turn you completely into a lost cause.”

“Then,” he groans, throwing his head back against the couch cushions while he breathes harshly, “then you’re definitely succeeding. Is that what you wished to hear?”

“Yes,” you whisper, kissing his jaw, “It is, actually.”

It doesn’t take long at all before Alhaitham has tossed you back against the couch, laughing as you shriek at the sudden change of position. You glare at him, fighting back your own chorus of giggles as he moves to hover over you, kissing and biting playfully along your cheeks.

“I love you,” he mumbles.

“Aw, so sweet,” you coo, “say that again.”

He rolls his eyes. His lips curl into the brightest grin at the same time. My love, my soul, my heart—the words are ingrained in his memory always. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” you whisper.

He leans in for a soft, slow kiss as the tip of his leaking cock slides against your folds, tapping against your clit before rubbing along your entrance. You gasp, shuddering against him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I could get used to this.”

“Sex on the couch? We can do that any time—”

“A weekend with just the two of us,” he groans, dropping his head to your neck as you laugh loudly. Bright. Airy. A sound the wind carries to him in his subconscious. He hears you even when you’re not there—even when you aren’t around, he searches for you.

“Oh,” you say playfully, “Yeah, I guess that’s nice too, isn’t it?”

“I’ll show you just how nice it’s about to be,” he hums. The tip of his thick, blunt head is pressed against your folds—you’re leaking just as much as he is. You slick, and his pre cum mix for a messy collision of arousal as he presses into you slowly, so carefully, you feel like you could break at any second with how he handles you.

He’s patient. When Alhaitham fucks you, he’s patient enough that you feel like his other half and not his means of pleasure. Like he fucks you for you and not for himself.

“More,” you insist, impatient as you add, “I can take it.”

“Patience is a virtue,” he clicks his teeth, “I want to take my time feeling you.”

And he does. He rolls his hips slowly. So slowly, you feel delirious. It’s a painful, gradual build-up of pleasure that has you trying to roll your hips into him to meet him halfway, a pathetic attempt when he’s on top of you to press his weight down on you to keep you in place.

“Please, Haitham,” you whine, sweat shining across your sweet, pleasure-hazed face as he stares down at you, “Please more. I need it—need you. Need all of you.”

“You have all of me,” he groans, feeling the tight walls of your cunt squeeze around him, the squelching noise of his thick girth bullying into your folds in and out, in and out, in and out, driving him to the brink of insanity. “You’ve always had every piece of me.”

“I want more,” you hiss.

He lets out a breathy laugh that turns into a soft moan. “If that’s what you want.”

The next thing you know, two strong, muscled arms are grabbing your thighs and bringing them around his torso to wrap around him, and his large hands grab your hips and pull, practically manhandling you deeper onto his cock. You shudder, letting out a shrill, high-pitched gasp as he intrudes further into your cunt, nudging the head of his cock against your sweetest of spots and making your body tremble.

“Haitham,” you gasp, “Haitham, fuck—fuck, you feel so good. So deep—love when you fuck me like this.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, kissing in between your pretty little scrunched-up eyebrows, “I love fucking you like this, too. When you take me so well, squeeze so tight, and let me feel you like the good girl you are.”

His words make your folds squeeze around him, and fuck—he’s close. So fucking close, the pad of his rough, callused thumb meets your clit as he rubs circles, trying to bring you to the edge before he goes plummeting himself.

“‘M close—almost…almost there,” you pant.

“Me too, baby,” he groans. He slams into you, skin slapping against skin and the glistening sheen of it mixing your sweat together. His mouth parts with pretty, low sounds of his pleasure, and your face twists with the devastating rush of yours.

Once. Twice. A third time, and you fall apart as he thrusts into you and presses the tip of his thick length against the spongey spot in the back of your walls.

“Haitham,” you gasp, legs tightening around him as your nails press crescent shapes into his back. “Fuck, I’m c-cumming…oh, Gods.”

“Good,” he gasps, and with one last roll of his desperate hips, he spills into you, too. A thick, sticky, familiar rush of heat fills your cunt, ropes of cum painting you white within with every twitch of his aching cock. “Fuck—you feel so good. So perfect—you were made for me. Me.”

“You,” you whisper, breathless.

You let him shudder over you, fingers running through his hair as he finishes releasing his load into you before he slumps his weight over your body. It’s a small couch—decorative more than functional. (All thanks to Kaveh, of course.) But you don’t particularly care when you’re under him. It feels right all the same.

“We have the house to ourselves this weekend,” he reminds you after some time of catching your breaths. “So…so we can do this all you want.”

You giggle, rolling your eyes as you poke his forehead. “You’re obscene.”

“I’m romantic,” he corrects, “I just want to be with you and nothing else. Can’t blame a man when he’s been gifted such a beautiful sight before him.”

“And cheesy, too,” you huff.

He smiles. My love, my soul, my heart.

——————————

You wake up Monday morning to Alhaitham already gone—it’s rare that he’s ever up before you. He leaves the house just in time to make it to work exactly on the dot and not a moment sooner or a moment later. But, as is with any Akademiya position, there are quarterly meetings that even the scribe can’t avoid. You giggle at the image in your head of a grumpy Alhaitham carefully tiptoeing around the room as he miserably gets ready for an early morning of extra work, all while making sure he doesn’t wake you.

You yawn, sitting up to start your morning for your own day of work ahead—but it catches your eye before you can fully rise from bed, making you pause.

A note? No, you realize almost instantly. Not just a note—a letter:

To my love, my soul, my heart: Kalpalata lotuses will bloom soon. I forget how beautiful the world is sometimes, and I suppose it’s because I am always distracted by your beauty alone. Will you laugh as you read this? I suppose you might because even I must admit, it is a rather cliche thing to say. I can just picture your smile now, and I am certain I will have it memorized until my last breath. It’s easy to remember it so well when it’s all I see in my dreams. Have I told you how often I see you in them? It’s difficult to think that there was once a time in Sumeru when we did not dream. It seems like sleeping beside your body is no longer enough—your presence is required even in my slumber for me to truly be at peace. Perhaps when the lotuses bloom, we can take a trip to the deeper parts of the rainforest to catch a glimpse of a few. They say the vines are blessed by The Lord herself. I was never one to seek out the divine, but perhaps with a gift as sacred as you, I should take the time to thank Lady Kusanali for granting such brilliance to take bloom in my presence. Only, the difference is that here with you, there are no cliffs to climb or seasons to await. You are mine to bloom, always—my precious, beautiful lotus. Forever yours, Haitham ♡

ITS DONE. HAPPY LATE BDAY TO MY FIRST AND LONGEST LOVE. YOU MEAN EVERYTHING AND MORE TO MEEEEE

#alhaitham x reader #meowdei.longfics #alhaitham x you #alhaitham smut #alhaitham x y/n #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin smut #genshin fluff #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact fluff #meowdei.writing

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maplesyrupsainz · 1 year ago

Text

˖⁺｡˚⋆˙MY girl | LN4˖⁺｡˚⋆˙

pairing: lando norris x celeb interviewer!reader y/n (she/her)

genre: social media au, established relationship

warnings: a couple of innuendos/sexual references but mainly fluff

summary: in which your job has your boyfriend acting up every other week

a/n: this is kind of short but didnt think it was necessary to make it any longer!?! hope u luv it (i love jealous lando omg my heart cant take itttt)

request!!!: Lando’s gf is a celebrity interviewer like Amelia from chicken shop date and Lando is supportive but also playfully jealous?

fc: amelia dimdoldenburg

my masterlist

instagram ->

yourusername 📍 london

liked by aitch, landonorris, and 1,718,293 others

yourusername spent a day in london with my fav british rapper @.aitch !! episode out now hope u enjoy 👀

tagged: aitch

view all 18,284 comments

user1 OMG he was flirting with her so bad

user2 no fr she got a man

user3 yea and her man is LANDO NORRIS likeeee

user4 why are they lowkey cute together.....

user5 i love everything y/n does

user6 does anyone else only watch the series just for y/n idec about the celebrity guests 💀

user7 no coz this is actually so valid

user8 omg i've been waiting for this one

user9 queue lando marking his territory soon

user10 can u blame him

f1wags

liked by user4, user5, user9, and 43,761 others

f1wags new episode of y/n y/l/n's celeb interview series with british rapper aitch out now 🫶 for anyone who doesn't know, y/n (wag of lando norris) is a celebrity interviewer for events & tv as well as having her own series online in which she “dates” someone for the day, usually in a random city of their choice, and interviews them at the same time in a comedic way !!! the series is super popular, who would you like to see her interview?

view all 5,174 comments

user11 we love her

user12 her interviews r sooo funny and unserious

user13 i want her to interview f1 drivers 😭

user14 omg rightttt imagine lando on there

user15 i want oscar or charles 😂

user16 i didnt even know she was a wag

user17 she's more relevant that her bf HE's the wag

user18 justice for my guy lando

aitch

liked by yourusername, landonorris, and 853,903 others

aitch watch me on y/n y/l/n's series for real like that's my girl

tagged: yourusername

view all 12,284 comments

user19 damn

user20 his girl?!

user21 y/n looks so hot

user22 look like a couple fr

yourusername had the best time, thanks for coming on the show!!!

aitch anything 4 u

user23 🤭🤭🤭

user24 CUTIESSS

user25 one of my fav episodes so far

twitter ->

instagram ->

landonorris posted a story

liked by yourusername, yourbff, and 822,182 others

user30 omg i screamed

user31 SHE'S SOOO HOTTTT

carlossainz55 somebody's jealous

landonorris of what?

carlossainz55 😂

user32 lando norris you are one lucky man

yourusername omg hello mr protective

landonorris my girl

yourusername you are freaking sexy

landonorris where are you right now

yourusername 👀

landonorris

liked by yourusername, carlossainz55, and 1,021,843 others

landonorris hey

view all 33,826 comments

user33 "HEY"????

user34 omg

user35 HOTTTTTT

carlossainz55 still not jealous?

landonorris not sure what you're talking about!

user36 you caused this @.aitch

aitch nah

landonorris no

yourusername 🙂

user37 posting this with this caption is criminal

user38 hahaha our jealous boy

user39 little lando norris is jealoussss

yourusername hahah i love you and only you

yourusername posted a story

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, and 713,028 others

landonorris yup. that's MY girl

THE END 🧡

#f1 #f1 smau #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #smau #f1 fic #f1 imagine #lando norris #ln4 #ln4 smau #ln4 x y/n #ln4 fluff #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #ln4 x reader #ln4 x you #lando x reader #maddie's smau

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rafescherie · 4 months ago

Text

✮⋆˙ rafe hadn't paid much attention to sarah's best friend, not until she was alone in their home, wearing nothing but a skimpy bikini.

warnings — 18+. MDNI. reader is 18 & rafe is 19 (not explicitely mentioned). angst and sexual content (not entirely smut), and finger sucking.

cherie's note — this idea's been stuck in my brain for weeks, i had to write it! one of my favs to write. <3

you practically lived at the cameron residence — spending more time with your best friend's family than your own. not like they cared much, going days before they'd even send you a text message to check in. but it was different here, ward had always treated you like second family, and rose was so inviting despite the fact you were merely sarah's best friend. you'd been friends with her for almost two years, growing closer to the blonde haired girl each day. you enjoyed it — spending your days on the cameron yacht, tanning on the pool chairs in the backyard. that wasn't the only reason you had stuck around though, you'd grown a huge crush on rafe cameron — hard. any excuse to be around him was reason enough to stick around.

swinging your shiny bare legs over the lounge chair, you perch your sunglasses within your hair. "gonna get a drink, need anything?” you chirped at your best friend, skin exposed to the sun just as you'd been seconds ago. waving her half watered-down alcoholic beverage within her perfectly manicured hands, she shook her head.

the cool air-conditioning hit you right in the face as you slid open the door to the extravagant home. the large house was mostly quiet — the sound of ward cameron's voice echoing from somewhere within, presumably on an important business call. the pineapple juice you poured within your empty cup iced your fingertips at the touch.

opening the fridge to place the jug of yellowish-orange juice on the top shelf where you'd found it, the sound of shoes hitting the marble floor makes your gaze flicker to the entrance. rafe had walked into the kitchen, eyes practically glued to the curves on your body, hand carrying a black backpack. the churning within your stomach had turned into blissful butterflies in your belly, excited he'd finally made his appearance.

"hey," you speak, voice so soft it had hardly registered within his mind. one last look at the way your bikini accentuated the form of your body, rafe placed the bag on the chair of the kitchen table.

he hadn't spoken back immediately — not because he was ignoring you, but because he'd hardly spoken to you before. every time you'd come over, he was out of the house with topper and kelce, it was rare to see him here on a day like today, when the sun wasn't too warm, and the ocean breeze carried across the island. "you're here again?" he questioned, tone more snark that intended.

biting the inside of your cheek, you gulped down a mouth-full of pineapple juice in your mouth as you watched him over the rim. "that a bad thing?"

the tut of air that escapes his lips sends a shock to your groin, his nonchalant demeanor only serving to make you want him more. he dug within his bag, desperately trying to find something to distract from the way your chest was practically spilling out of your bikini top. you were sarah's best friend — he shoudn't have been looking that way to begin with, but it was far too late to cause a huff of mental turmoil over.

"shit's disgusting," he mutters, aggressively zipping the bag closed. he'd been referring to the pineapple juice, clearly not a fan of the taste. what was wrong with him?

it was your turn to huff air his direction, clearly taken aback by his suddenness. "don't be a baby, rafe. 's not that bad."

with a grimace, he turns towards you. he was only inches from you now, standing on the corner of the granite island as he watched you. god, he couldn't stop the way his eyes continue to flicker down your body whenever you looked away — selfishly memorizing the way you'd surely grown into your body since the last time he'd properly seen you.

sliding the cup towards him, he watched you. his piercing blue eyes studied the look of challenge laced within your pupils, his large hand wrapping around the bottom of the glass as he brought the juice to his lips.

and you were right — it wasn't that bad. the taste of alcohol burned his throat as he swallowed. helping to drown out the all too-sweet taste of the fruit mixture. he could hardly hold the cough bubbling within his throat at the taste, unexpecting the harsh sting of vodka that drowned his esophagus. "shit, that's strong."

with a shrug of your shoulders, you grabbed the cup back from him.

"ward's gonna realize someone's takin' his stash, y'know."

that was the least of your concerns — there was only so much punishment you could face from ward for digging into his and rose's alcohol collection, you weren't their daughter. if anything, sarah'd be the one to take the blame, her punishment not much harsher than yours'd be, considering she was the favorite child.

"you offering to get me my own?" you replied, coy smile plastered across your face.

rafe's tongue pokes at the side of his cheek, that stupid smirk plastered on his face at the comment. you knew what you were doing, he'd give you that. you weren't stupid — not like the other kook girls sarah'd bring home.

"you gonna do something for me if i do?" he asks, blue eyes staring into yours at the question. his hands were shoved within his pockets as he watched you under hooded eyes, liking the way the conversation had started between the two of you.

you shrug your shoulders again, elbows resting against the cold surface of the kitchen counter, "depends what you have in mind."

oh, he knew he was in trouble now. the way you'd so 'innocently' smooshed your plush chest against the counter top in front of him — tempting him. the way the soft lighting from the kitchen ceiling shined against the exposed globes of your ass was enough for him to feel that familiar strain against his zipper.

"could think of a few ways," he purred, taking a few confident steps towards you — that same smile still stained across his face. he'd twirl a strand of your hair around his finger, the soft locks tickling against his fingertips.

you'd be lying if you said you weren't feeling it, that feeling you knew all too well as the inside of your thighs became damp and warm. this exact situation had played within your head over and over for months, finding yourself toying with your own clit at the thought. it was definitely wrong — fantasies of fucking your best friend's older brother, but fuck, you couldn't help it. the way his cologne stuck to the inside of your nose had you fueled for weeks alone.

"does sarah know you're in here, acting like this, for her brother?" he murmurs, his voice condescending almost as he whispers against your hair. a small whimper escapes your plump lips at the comment, so ready to fall onto your knees if he would only ask. "acting like a slut? just so you'd be able to get some alcohol in your system?"

biting the inside of your lip, your eyes lock onto his. it was intoxicating, watching the way his focus was solely on you for the first time ever, something you'd craved since you first laid eyes on him. it was so risky, so easy for anybody in his family to walk into the kitchen, but it only fueled the ache of desperation between your thighs.

he chuckles softly at your silence, "too stupid to say anything back now, huh? what happened to that smart mouth, sweet girl?"

his rough hand held firmly onto your jaw, his fingertips so gentle against the skin of your face that you could feel yourself melting into the foreign feeling of your best friend's brother's touch on your skin.

the way his hands practically invited themselves onto the plush of your ass, roaming curiously across the curves of your body had your breath hitching within your throat. "i'll do anything, rafe. jus' want to get drunk."

you feverishly invite his thumb past your soft lips, suckling against the digit as your saliva coats his finger. the guttural groan that escapes his mouth only sends another shock towards your cunt, pussy eagerly throbbing around nothing at the sound alone. you'd dreamt of this exact moment for nearly a year.

"fuck, that desperate, huh?" his tone is mocking, condescending in a way, but it only figured to fuel your eagerness, brain so fucked and fuzzy that it was hardly a concern the way he spoke to you.

the way your lips wrapped snugly around his thumb echoed the feeling of a blowjob, edging him to the point of his cock eagerly pressing against his khaki shorts, desperate for release against the tight material. his lips found the side of your jaw, pressing rough kisses along the soft skin of your neck until you had become a whimpering mess under his touch.

pulling away with a cruel chuckle, you pouted at the loss of contact. he was so mean, bathing suit bottoms drenched in your own arousal at the mere interaction shared between you two. it was cute, he'd admit it, the way your bottom lip stuck out in frustration at the sexual snap.

"yeah, i'll get y'some booze, sweetheart."

and then once again, it was only you in the kitchen — glass of pineapple half-empty waiting patiently for you to grasp onto it again. it felt unreal, almost, wondering if it had all truly happened, snapped out of your trance at the sound of the front door slamming shut behind him.

you slid the patio door open again, cold air-conditioning escaping from the house as you moved out onto the concrete to join your best friend once more.

"what took you so long?" sarah questions, sun shades sitting against her hairline.

you couldn't tell her the truth, of course not. as far as she was concerned, you'd thought of rafe the same way she had — annoying, and egotistical. but boy, was she wrong.

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galactic-rhea · 1 year ago

Text

WDYM Anakin is Luke and Leia's dad

I dunno if this post will reach the Star Wars fandom but I hope it does because I'm sure you all will get a good laugh at me.

As of recent I have developed a good hiperfixation for Star Wars, the thing is I knew nothing. NOTHING about Star Wars besides the fact it had aliens and...a war...in space? And funny swords. And main character is Luke or something, I spent over 20 years ignoring anything about Star Wars and somehow missing most references out there.

And recently, literally less than a month ago I saw a gif and said to my partner "oh this guy this guy looks cool, this gif looks nice" and he said "Oh well, he's a good character." And it all developed into me watching Clone Wars, the animated series you know and...and I was kinda blown away, on my opinion the show IS GREAT. And I love every character and their interactions, I love how much they focus on side characters, and they all seem very well written. I got hiperfixated really fast and saw Anakin and I was like "Omg, babygirl. He's a blorbo now."

And because of the show, this was super unexpected, but somehow I also got, really got, into the ship with Padmé because omg, cool woman. Literal happy squeaky noises of someone who was in a bad state and needed some good ol' distraction and comfort.

Now, like I said I knew nothing about Star Wars as a whole. And I still haven't watched the movies, besides the ocassional gif?

So imagine my shock, my surprise, my...bewilderment when I realized.

"Wait a minute, LUKE IS ANAKIN'S SON?! HOLY-"

Ladies, gentleman, and others, I think I came very late to this party and I don't even know how it took me so long.

Not only that, but because of this sudden love for the series, I went to my friends circle like "BESTIE, GUESS WHAT, I HAVE A NEW BLROBO AND A NEW FAV SHIP AND EEEP"

And my friends are like "omg that's amazing, what is it?"

I tell them, and of course they all know these characters and they all react like they know this very bad secret fact and I got told several times already "Please, don't watch the episodes 2 and 3 alone, it will hurt."

I feel like blissfully walking among rainbows and blue skies while everyone else know that my future is doomed. Somehow.

(Uncomfortable silence)

Not only that, but then I spent a whole deal of time thinking "Where the heck I have seen these guys" cus there was some fmailiarity I couldn't just point out and then one day I woke up, brushed my teeth and of all sudden I realized and it was such a shock.

Do you know how SURREAL is to get very into a character, and into a ship, and then realize they're the same from that super widespread meme that has been around for who knows how much time?

I swear I thought that meme was from some old medieval fantasy movies or something.

But alas, Star Wars now is EVERYWHERE. People do references to Star Wars ALL THE TIME and it's just now I'm catching them.

I got spoilers. From a meme. In a youtube review that had nothing to do with Star Wars hah. Everything is a spoiler, the world is an apparent spoiler. Now I'm here, trying to avoid spoilers from something everyone seems to know, even my family knows. It's so surreal and I wouldn't have it any other way 😂

Anyways, if you read until here, know that a wild ride still waits me, cuz I'm only starting Season 3 of Clone Wars and I don't plan to watch the movies until I finish the series.

And yes, I made this blog just to ramble freely about SW and draw stuff because it sparked my inspiration after a long art block.

Have this doodle I drew after watching the two first episodes, my offering for you reaching this far.

Note: Wouldn't Anakin and Padmé's ship name be Animé? Cuz that's hilarious.

#rambling #star wars #star wars fandom #anakin skywalker #darth vader #the clone wars #sw tcw #tcw #tcw fanart #clone wars

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garagepaperback · 11 months ago

Note

What are your favorite drarry fics?

oh. ooooooooooooh oh oh.

here are my staples:

draco, the magic dragon - libbydrew a fic i first read on livejournal (showing off the varnish of my casket here) that i thought about regularly for the almost two decades i fell out of fandom. canon to me tbh. libby invented my draco rubric: proud lil showboat even when everything around him has gone to rancid shit, sarcastic and aloof personality as a poor facade to distract from the big ol' gaping well of hurt.

Potter took a great breath, then let it out slowly – a low whistle between his teeth. "Malfoy, I had no idea. I thought—" "Why are you here?" Draco cut him off before the idiot embarrassed them both. Their shared past was water under the bridge – even if Draco had drowned in it.

nightingale - michi_the_killer

another back-in-my-day fav, even though i can only stand to read half of it. actually even thinking about it is making me stare off in a distance for upwards of three minutes. this one i would hand off wrapped in about a million miles of caution tape. + also a huge fan of michi's gory veela fic.

It was better than fighting, Harry thought, although sometimes he still wanted to rip into Malfoy, to hurt him. Other days, he thought, it was better than anything.

rookie moves - peu_a_peu

what can i say that hasn't already been said - peu is a MASTER. if you somehow know who i am but haven't read this, reassess your life choices through professional means but not until after you dive in.

“Feels kinda big,” Malfoy said, smirking. “For a guy your height.” “My height is average,” Harry said, although he was undeniably glaring upward at Malfoy’s face when they stood so close together. “And it is kinda big.”

stately homes of wiltshire - waspabi another one that crept into my heart and made a home. hard to choose between this and waspabi's other drarry fic, but there's something about the decrepit manor that just does it for me. a perfect harry and draco, perfect soft reaching towards each other.

Draco smiled and dragged Potter from the shop before he could charm any more elderly ladies with his unkept, take-care-of-me-I’m-confused-and-have-nice-shoulders aesthetic. Once outside in the drizzle, he realised he still had his hand around Potter’s forearm. He yanked his hand back immediately.

i wake up falling - warmfoothills

warmfoothills :,) just reading this moniker makes me vision go soft around the edges. their writing has made me out loud, quietly say "oh," multiple times. the prose is darling, this story is such a brief, aching glance. it was also really hard to pick just one (flashback, warm nights i also go in for).

“I love you,” he says, unable to stop himself. Draco blinks, a barely-there flinch, like Harry’s taken a swing at him. “I know,” he says, still oblivious to the reference, oblivious to the way his words scoop right into the meat of Harry’s stupid, hopeful heart. “It’s not enough, is it?” Draco shakes his head. Above, the stars watch unfeelingly on.

the pure and simple truth - lettered no one does dialogue with the mastery lettered does. my GOD. my god. i feel like this fic is drarry perfectly distilled.

“What’s he going to be?” Blaise raised a brow. “Pardon?” “You said he says Hermione should be Minister, and all those other things. What does Malfoy think he should be?” There was something much like pity in Blaise’s eyes. “He thinks he should never, ever be forgiven for the things he’s done.” Harry felt ill. “That’s not fair.” “When has Draco ever been fair?” “I meant―” Harry swallowed hard. “That’s not right.” Blaise looked more pitying still. “When has Draco ever been right?”

far from the tree - aideomai

the writer i avoid talking about the most bc once i start i cannot physically restrain myself from going on about their beauty forever. i sat for forty-five solid minutes frowning, trying to choose between this one and in the hand. and dwelling. okay anyway. i keep a doc of quotes from fics that resonate and it's 50% aideomai.

Draco wondered what Potter thought of this day, in the future the twins came from. If he had told Ginny about it. If he had forgotten it. He couldn’t forget it, could he? It felt burned into Draco’s body already, a final point that he had been moving toward for years without knowing.

i could go on but i think seven is a nice solid number tyvm for this ask!

#drarry #drarry fic #drarry fic rec #fic rec

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evieelyzabethh · 4 months ago

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If it’s okay to request, may I request something in modern au (viktor x reader, established relationship) where jayce is hosting a costume party and reader dresses in something that makes her look super pretty (maybe I even suggest, her dressed as cowboy barbie, cause my bi self is obsessed with that look) and viktor gets handy with her. If you’re comfortable, can you make it nsfw or at lesser suggestive?

Definitely projecting as someone whose personal fav holiday is Halloween, but I imagine reader to be super stoked about it. Like the set up gets a big makeover that she forces Vik to help her with, there's a bunch of spiders and skulls and spooky decor all over the place, the ambient music transitions to creepy organs or the instrumental soundtrack of one of those old Hollywood horror movies. You definitely spare no expense when it comes to costumes, sometimes even going as far as to make it yourself.

Jayce isn't the biggest Halloween guy; he just likes the decor and the movies. While you went as cowboy Barbie, he definitely went as a plain cowboy, walking around shirtless with a huge cowboy hat atop his head and a lasso attached to the leather belt he's wearing. The denim jeans he wears are flared, just barely showing the brown boots that he bought to match with the suspenders the rest on his bare chest. The party is rather intimate, nothing more than a bunch of mutual friends, a bunch of pizza, and at least a gallon of Jungle Juice.

Now, you knew that Viktor wasn't going to be Ken. Even though his costume wouldn't be a matching hot pink, he thinks the fringe is silly and totally not his vibe. To be fair, he hasn't done a matching costume with you since you went as a Playboy Bunny, and even then, he only showed up in a suit and tie. He didn't even name the costume; he just went along with what everyone else assumed. That year, he was a man of many costumes: Men in Black, James Bond, Hugh Heffner, a bodyguard. Someone even thought it was a Legally Blonde reference, and he was Emmett. This being said, he has no issues with you going as cowboy barbie or any of the other skimpy costumes you've worn throughout the years, as long as he gets to tag along and see you in it.

He doesn't even have to worry about jealousy, it's incredibly clear who you came with. He doesn't force you to stay by him, but the way your gaze travels to him at parties, the pretty curls you spent hours on bobbing around as you move around to find him in the crowd makes it incredibly obvious who you're tethered to. The pink, starred ascot that had been around your neck had been undone by a bathroom make out session and could now be found around his wrist. When you talk to friends, you make yourself cozy next to him, the drink you've been nursing for the better part of an hour in your hand as you lay your head on his chest, squirming deeper into him as what he whispers in your ear makes you shiver.

And you think you're being slick, but the way his hand plays on your thigh and the look in your eyes getting farther away says everything. So, when you abruptly say your goodbyes, no one is surprised that your car stays parked out front for at least a half hour.

It's really not the most comfortable arrangement, knee deep in the passenger seat or whatever Chapel said. Your head keeps bumping into the steering wheel, even with the seat being pushed as far back as it'll go, but his hand at the back of your head absorbs most of the impact. You hear it in his voice when he hisses extra loud, his eyes closing as he weighs out whether or not it's worth it to pull you off and drive home. He knows if he asks you, you'll just tell him to drive as he sucks you off and he is desperate enough to do just that.

Especially with the way you look right now. He's always been the type to initiate eye contact, and with how good you look right now, your make-up miraculously intact thanks to whatever waterproof mascara you use, spit dripping from your chin to the top of your tits, your cheeks red, eyes a bit gone from the lack of oxygen, he could cum just by looking at you. His little reminders, "Don't forget to breathe, doll. Through your nose, you can do it.", are quite necessary with your refusal to pull off until he spills down your throat, and fuck is he thankful. If you were in a teasing headspace and decided to edge him now, tears already in his eyes, half his energy going to steadying his own breath so he didn't pass out and the other half trying to keep him from bruising the back of your esophagus, he would probably cry.

You'd been going at it for a while already, pay back for all the lingering touches throughout the night and looking too good in that suit. The languid licks trailing from his leaking tip to his balls couldn't even be hurried along by his hips shallowly bucking into your mouth. You were in your own little world, moaning around his cock, hands pressed firmly in between your thighs as you buck into nothing while his honeyed praise goes through one ear and rattles around in your brain and spills out between your legs.

"Just a bit more. Doin' so good. So close.", he groans, so good. And he really doesn't last much longer, spurts of his cum shooting down your throat as he shudders and whimpers through the aftershocks. That post-nut clarity hits like a semi-truck when he looks out the very foggy windows to see Jayce out the window holding the clutch you left behind, looking entirely too shocked to have just walked up to the window. It's the scariest thing he saw all Halloween.

#arcane #arcane x reader #arcane fanfic #arcane x you #eviesmadness🪻#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #arcane headcanon #viktor smut #arcane smut #streamerau🎮

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sweetheartsofpanem · 27 days ago

Text

Shoulder to Shoulder - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

i fear that writing this series is beginning to consume my whole life, i graduated from my probation classes so now i just sit at home and write for hours on end😭 but this is my fav part so far hehe

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.21k

series masterlist | main masterlist

Some days feel heavier than others. Today presses down on your chest like the weight of a hundred unsaid things.

It started before you even opened your eyes. That thick, dull ache in your stomach that has nothing to do with hunger. That quiet, gnawing voice in the back of your mind, the one that sounds like your mother when it’s tired of pretending to be your own.

You sit at the edge of your bed, elbows on your knees, fingers digging into your scalp like pressure might make the thoughts stop. It doesn’t.

They’re going to get tired of you.

Haymitch already looks at you like he’s waiting for you to mess up.

Peeta’s kind to everyone—it doesn’t mean anything.

Katniss puts up with you, but how long until she gets sick of your damage?

You close your eyes, trying to breathe through it.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

But it doesn’t work as well as it usually does. The thoughts come louder today, faster. And worse—some part of you believes them. That creeping fear that the more you let your guard down, the more visible you become… the more likely they are to leave.

You’ve been here for three months. Three months of finding comfort in their presence, in the slow rhythm of healing, in the strange softness of routine. And still, you feel like an echo in someone else’s house. Like a visitor overstaying her welcome.

Your chest tightens. You stand too fast, the room tilting for a second as you brace yourself on the doorframe. You think about going next door, maybe pretending like nothing’s wrong. But what if they can tell? What if today, they notice you’re too much?

You swallow down the rising panic and drift toward the kitchen, just to have something to do with your hands. The walls of the house feel too wide today. Too empty. Too quiet.

You don’t cry. But your throat burns with the effort of holding everything in.

The same thought repeats over and over: Maybe you don’t belong here at all.

You move through the house like a ghost, drifting from room to room with no real purpose. You wipe the kitchen counters even though they’re already clean. Rearrange the books on the shelf. Fold the same blanket on the back of the couch three times before you finally throw it to the floor and walk away.

You make tea and forget to drink it. It goes cold on the table while you stare out the window, watching nothing.

The sun climbs, then falls. You don’t step outside.

You hate days like this. Days where you can’t turn it off—can’t quiet that voice that tells you this is temporary, that the people around you are only being kind out of obligation. That they’ll get tired of the cracks in you, the way you flinch when someone raises their voice, the way you sometimes hesitate before you speak like you’re waiting for permission to exist.

You think about Haymitch’s gruffness, Peeta’s gentleness, Katniss’ steadiness. How easily you’ve started to slot into their world. How natural it’s started to feel. And yet—

You don’t trust it. Not really. Not enough.

You curl up in the chair by the window, knees to your chest, arms around your shins. The cushion beneath you is soft, too soft, like it doesn’t belong in a house you live in.

What’s wrong with me?

You’ve asked yourself that more times than you can count, but today the question lingers longer than usual. How can you be so surrounded by warmth and still feel this hollow ache? How can you laugh with them for hours and still feel like a burden when you leave?

You hate that part the most—that you can feel all the warmth around you and still question it. Still brace for the moment it’ll vanish. You feel like an awful person for that. For still carrying so much doubt in your chest when they’ve done nothing to deserve it.

They deserve better than someone who can’t stop looking over her shoulder.

Evening stretches across the sky. You watch it through the window, how the golden light slowly softens into blue. Eventually, the stars begin to appear—faint at first, then bolder, clearer.

You want to go outside. You want to sit on the porch, look up at the sky, maybe pretend for a while that everything’s okay. But a flicker of fear stops you.

What if Haymitch is out there?

You’re not in the proper state to see him tonight. Not when your mind feels like this. Not when the sight of him might knock something loose in you you’re not ready to confront.

So you stay seated, chin resting on your knees, watching the stars from behind the glass.

It’s not the same.

But it’s the closest you can get.

The knock that comes a few minutes later makes you flinch.

It’s not loud—more of a sloppy rhythm, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t quite steady on their feet. But still, it cuts through the silence like a warning.

You freeze in the chair by the window, pulse jumping. You already know who it is. No one else would come to your door at this hour. Not unless something was wrong.

You don’t move at first. Maybe if you just sit here, still and quiet, he’ll go away.

But then another knock. And a voice, gruff and unmistakably Haymitch.

“Did you die or something?”

You wince.

Another beat of silence. Then, softer, like he’s letting the worry leak through: “Haven’t seen you all day.”

You swallow hard, throat tight. The part of you that wants to stay hidden—curled up in this house, away from everyone and everything—pulls at you like a weight. But there’s another part, just as loud. The one that whispers he’ll hate you if you don’t answer. That this will be the moment he gets tired of you.

You drag yourself to your feet.

When you open the door, Haymitch is leaning against the frame, flask in one hand, expression somewhere between annoyed and relieved. His eyes sweep over you.

“Well,” he mutters, “you’ve still got a pulse. That’s a start.”

You force a thin smile. “Hi.”

He lifts the flask in a mock toast. “Nice of you to rejoin the living.”

You glance past him at the porch, then back. “Did you want something?”

Haymitch snorts. “No, I just enjoy knocking on doors at random while tipsy.”

You huff a breath. He’s still watching you too closely. You hate how naked you feel beneath that look.

“I can come back later,” he adds, voice less biting now. “Or never. If that’s the vibe.”

You hesitate again. Every part of you wants to tell him to go so you can retreat back into your shell, preserve the last bit of quiet you’ve clung to all day. But your fear answers for you before the rest of you can.

“No,” you say quickly. “You can come in.”

His brows lift, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. But he doesn’t push. Just steps past you into the dim house, his movements slower than usual, a little unsteady.

You close the door behind him, heartbeat still racing.

Haymitch drops onto the couch cushion like he usually does, elbow resting on his knee as he takes another sip from his flask. He eyes the room—untouched dishes in the sink, a half-eaten piece of bread on the counter, your blanket still crumpled on the floor where you threw it this morning.

“You’ve been in all day, haven’t you.”

It’s not really a question.

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Just tired.”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow. “Tired, huh?”

You nod, avoiding his gaze. “Didn’t feel like going out. That’s all.”

He takes another sip, lets the silence stretch just long enough to make your skin itch. “You sick?”

“No.”

“Bleeding?”

You huff a dry laugh. “No.”

He leans back, propping one foot on the edge of the coffee table. “Then what, kid? House full of ghosts today?”

You stiffen.

You hate how easily he sees it. Like you didn’t even do a good job pretending.

You cross your arms, gripping your elbows. “Just wanted to be alone. Everyone gets like that sometimes.”

He hums. “Sure. Most folks don’t look like they’ve been trying to disappear through the floorboards, though.”

You flinch, just slightly. “I’m fine.”

Haymitch watches you, the usual sharpness in his gaze dulled by whatever he’s had to drink—but not enough to miss anything.

“Peeta said you skipped out on breakfast. Katniss looked like she was about to go hunting for you with her damn bow. Figured someone should check on you before they broke down your door.”

“I didn’t mean to worry them.”

“Didn’t try not to.”

You press your lips together. He’s not being cruel, but it hits anyway. You sit next to him, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. You wish he’d stop looking at you like he knows.

“It wasn’t anything they did,” you say quietly.

Haymitch tips his head. “Didn’t think it was.”

“I just…” You trail off, then shake your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

He lets the silence sit for a second. Then, “Still doing that thing where you decide what matters for everyone else?”

You glance at him, annoyed and grateful at the same time. “You’re drunk.”

“Never said I wasn’t.” He takes another drink, then gestures vaguely in your direction. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

You look away.

There’s a beat before he speaks again, this time a little softer—still scratchy, still laced with sarcasm, but something gentler underneath.

“You get like this often?”

You shrug. “Depends what you mean by ‘like this.’”

He gestures with the flask. “Thinking you’re a burden or that the minute you let your guard down fully, we’re all gonna turn on you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t say it,” he cuts in, “but I ain’t blind.”

You don’t respond. Can’t.

Haymitch leans back, resting his head against the back of the couch. “It’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it? Surviving long enough to wonder if the people who stick around are just waiting to leave.”

You swallow hard. “Yeah.”

His voice is quieter now. “That’s the worst part. You never really stop waiting.”

You sit with that. Let it settle.

Then you say, barely audible, “I hate that I still feel like this when everyone’s been nothing but kind.”

“You think kindness rewires a person?” He scoffs. “Please. If that were the case, I’d be a damn saint by now.”

That actually earns the faintest smile from you.

He glances over. “Glad you didn’t disappear.”

You nod, staring at your hands. “You say that now.”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t interrupt.

You press your lips together, then add, quieter, “Give it time. You’ll get sick of me.”

He exhales through his nose. “I’d have to like people first to get sick of ’em.”

You huff something that’s almost a laugh. Almost.

A pause. Then, without really planning to, you say, “Some days I think I’m doing okay. That I belong here. That maybe I’m not just… taking up space.”

You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers.

“And then I wake up and it’s like—nope. That was a nice lie. Back to feeling like a mistake.”

Haymitch doesn’t move. Just takes a slow sip from his flask and looks at you like he’s hearing every word.

“Not sure how to stop feeling like that,” you admit. “Or if I even can.”

He shrugs. “Maybe you don’t.”

You glance up, startled.

He lifts his flask slightly. “Some things don’t go away. You just learn to live around them.”

You nod slowly, the tightness in your chest easing—not all the way, not even close, but just enough to breathe.

Then, trying to shift the weight just a little, you murmur, “You’re not as bad at this as I thought you’d be.”

Haymitch snorts. “I’m a delight.”

You snort too, barely. “A real ray of sunshine.”

“Don’t spread that around,” he mutters.

You rest your head on the back of the couch for a moment, voice softer now. “I won’t. Promise.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but you notice—he doesn’t leave.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

You pull your legs up, wrapping your arms around them. The weight in your chest still lingers, but it’s settled now, dull and familiar.

“I didn’t mean to disappear today,” you say eventually. “I just… couldn’t.”

Haymitch glances at you but doesn’t interrupt.

“I tried to do things. Kept busy. Told myself I was fine.” You let out a breath, bitter around the edges. “Didn’t work.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re tellin’ me you didn’t solve your lifelong trauma with a productive day of pacing and pretending?”

You crack a smile, barely. “Guess I’m underachieving.”

He taps his flask against his knee. “We can’t all be prodigies.”

You let your head rest against your knees. The quiet that follows feels easier than the silence before. You’re still unraveling, but at least you’re not doing it alone now.

Haymitch shifts slightly, gaze flicking toward you again. “You think too much.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

He grins faintly. “Fair.”

A pause.

Then you ask, not quite meaning to, “Do you ever… feel like it wouldn't matter if you were here or not?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets the question hang there, weighty and real.

“Every damn day,” he says finally. “Since I was sixteen.”

You don’t respond. You don’t need to. Because you get it.

You both sit there for a while—two people shaped by grief, by things that don’t go away. Two people who know what it means to be haunted by the versions of themselves they couldn’t save.

Eventually, you shift a little closer, just enough for your shoulder to brush his.

He doesn’t move away.

And you don’t apologize for needing the contact.

For a moment, you let yourself just exist in that sliver of comfort.

“You ever think it’ll stop?” you ask quietly, still not looking at him. “Feeling like that.”

Haymitch exhales through his nose. “No.”

That makes you laugh, sharp and dry. “Comforting.”

He shrugs. “I could lie if you want.”

“No,” you say. “Don’t.”

He leans closer, his shoulder pressing more firmly into yours now. The contact is light, careful. His flask rests between his hands, but he doesn’t lift it.

“It dulls sometimes,” he says. “That’s the best I’ve got for you.”

You nod slowly. It’s not what you wanted to hear. But it’s honest. And right now, honesty feels better than comfort ever could.

“I hate that I don’t trust it. Any of it,” you murmur. “Katniss, Peeta… you. You’re all kind to me and I just—keep waiting for it to go away. Or explode.”

“You think we’re all ticking bombs?”

“No,” you say. “I think I am.”

That hangs in the air like something you shouldn’t have said. But it’s out now, and you don’t want to take it back.

Haymitch doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t throw a sarcastic remark at you like he usually would. He just presses his shoulder fully against yours, grounding you with the weight of his presence.

“You ever think maybe the reason you’re still here is ‘cause we’re all messes too?” he says, voice low. “Not in spite of it. Because of it.”

You glance over at him. “You’re saying we’re trauma bonding.”

“I’m sayin’ you fit better than you think, kid.”

You swallow around the sudden tightness in your throat. “I don’t want to ruin anything. I’m good at that.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, dry. “Me too. Real talent of mine.”

You huff a quiet breath. Then, “I think… I want to believe it’s real. The friendship. The way you all treat me. I just—don’t know how to let myself believe it.”

“Then don’t rush it,” he says.

You furrow your brow.

He gestures vaguely. “Just let it be what it is right now. Doesn’t need to be all or nothing. Doesn’t need to be permanent or perfect. Just… real enough for now.”

You glance at him, and after a long pause, you tentatively rest your head on his shoulder. He tenses for a second, like he wasn’t expecting it. But then he relaxes, just slightly, enough for you to stay.

“I used to think I’d never have people again,” you whisper as exhaustion settles over you. “That I don’t deserve them.”

Haymitch nods. “Lot of us think that.”

You glance up at him. “Do you?”

He gives a small shrug, your head lifting with his shoulder. “Sometimes. Then one of you idiots shows up on my porch or forces a dessert on me, and I remember I’m stuck with you all.”

You yawn into your sleeve, your voice slurring a little as you mumble, “Do you think I’m annoying?”

Haymitch barks a short laugh. “That the sleep talking, or is this a new spiral?”

“Both,” you mutter. “Maybe.”

“You’re definitely more tolerable when your words are half-melted together.”

You lift a hand and wave it vaguely. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

He smirks. “This is the closest I’ll ever get to seeing you drunk, I guess.”

“Mm,” you hum. “I’m way more fun than this when I’m drunk. I used to dance.”

Haymitch raises a brow. “Now that I’d pay to see.”

You let out a quiet giggle, half-asleep now. “Sorry, this show’s retired.”

“Tragedy.”

The room settles into a soft quiet, the kind that feels earned. You don’t speak, but you don’t move either. His shoulder is warm beneath your cheek, solid and real.

For the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re drowning.

Just drifting.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if none of this happened?” you ask, your voice slow and drowsy against his shoulder.

Haymitch hums like he’s considering it. “I try not to.”

You smile faintly. “Why not?”

“‘Cause I don’t like torturing myself.”

“Fair,” you murmur. “I think about it all the time.”

“What’s your version?” he asks. “The alternate life?”

You shrug, your cheek rubbing against the fabric of his shirt. “I probably would’ve married Dewydd. We’d maybe have a kid by now. Something quiet. A little house. Not being scared all the time.”

“Sounds… horrifying,” he says flatly, but there’s no bite in it.

You laugh softly. “Yeah, yeah. Domesticity, the real nightmare.”

“I wouldn’t’ve lasted a week.”

“You would be a good dad,” you say, surprising yourself.

He glances at you, startled, but doesn’t say anything right away. Just swallows, then mutters, “You’re half-asleep. Can’t take anything you say seriously.”

“Mmm,” you hum, eyes fluttering shut. “Still true though.”

Haymitch doesn’t argue. Doesn’t make a joke.

He just sits there, shoulder warm beneath your head.

You shift the smallest bit, tucking your legs up, and feel the weight of the day—of everything—start to fade.

“You’re not so bad,” you mumble.

“Thanks, honey,” his voice is softer now.

You smile. It’s small. Barely there. But real.

Your breathing slows. Your grip on the moment eases. And you fall asleep, right there on the couch, with Haymitch beside you—solid, silent, and still awake.

Next Part

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