aki

"ummm... i'm new to this. what do i do? how do i play?"

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☆ jonathan

he's truly a gentleman at heart, so his kisses are always so gentle and reverent. he likes to place kisses all over you, especially your lips. those kisses are mostly shared behind closed doors, though. it's not that he's embarassed, he's simply not into that kind of PDA. in public he'll gladly kiss the back of your hand or your cheeks, but your lips are for him only as he likes to take his time with them. kisses in general are a very easy way for him to express his love, although physical touch is not one of his main love languages. he'll always sneak in a little kiss whenever he has to fight, no matter what. he says it's what gives him strength.

☆ joseph

his playful and flirty personality shines most between all the kisses you guys share. he honestly seems to not be able to leave you alone. as cute as that sounds, he might have a serious problem with smothering you with kisses. they're always so intense and full of passion, you'd think he hadn't seen you in years. he's not ashamed to do it in public either. young joseph would have no problem with having a full make out session with you in the middle of the street, however that trait seems to change throughout the years. that's not to say that older joseph would ever refrain from giving you a little smooch with other people around, he just gained some more self control and decorum with age. he’s also the type to literally take your breath away if you ever got seriously injured during battle, his lips quite literally mashing into one with yours.

☆ jotaro

you'd think jotaro would barely like kissing, but that isn't necessarely true. although he's not as clingy as his grandpa, jotaro thinks of kissing you as one of his very few solaces. because of that, PDA is kind of a big no for him. just like jonathan, it's not a matter of embarassment, he thinks of physical affection as a moment of vulnerability that he'd rather not show anyone else. therefore, no matter if gentle or passionate, his kisses always feel so meaningful, full of intent. since he's not very good with words, he tries to compensate with small kisses when you least expect it. be it a kiss on the cheek as you're cooking dinner, a kiss on your forehead when you're working from home or a kiss to your temple when you seem more tired than usual.

☆ josuke

when you guys first started dating, things were quite awkward whenever any sort of physical touch other than holding hands was involved. when he first kissed you he made sure you were also a 100% on board with it before just going for it. things have evolved from that now, he's gotten a lot more used to kissing you. his kisses are both sweet and playful. he loves to be rewared with your kisses any time he does something cool, he's always trying to impress you for that reason. he also enjoys teasing okuyasu a little too much by being overly clingy when you're all together, his lips constantly on your face. he doesn't mind being scolded for that either, as he claims your scowl only makes you look more kissable. he's clearly his dad's son and there's nothing we can do about it.

☆ giorno

his kisses are so smooth that it doesn't matter how long you've been together, you're sure to be left bashful after. his kisses really do feel like silent poetry. he secretly can’t get enough of them, if it were up to him, he’d keep you by his side and pepper kisses all over you all day long. however, that’s not possible, so he sucks it up and enjoys the few small moments with you that his work grants him. one thing he especially loves doing is kissing his way up to your lips, starting from your hands. he sometimes wonders if it’s your lips or the shy expression you’re left with that he loves more. albeit hungry for kisses, he also knows how to maintain his composure. he wouldn’t kiss you when he’s with other people, he doesn’t like to bring the attention to something that is only meant for the two of you. however, he might indulge in a couple of kisses if it’s to show you off to someone he’s not particularly fond off. moral of the story, his mischievousness seeps deep into his kisses.

☆ jolyne

her kisses can both be bold and sweet, it depends on the mood. her main love language is physical touch, so kissing comes as natural as breathing for her. because of this, she’ll have no problem with giving your lips a smooch or two with everyone else around. if you get shy, she’ll giggle and place some more kisses to your cheek. you’re just too adorable, can you really blame her? she thinks of kissing as one way to set the mood right, which is exactly what makes good morning and goodnight kisses indispensable for her, and don’t you dare forget them or she’ll be genuinely upset. that’s also the reason why the first thing she does when you’re crying is kissing your tears away before comforting you. besides your lips, your cheeks are her favourite part of you to kiss. she literally melts at the simple thought of her soft lips smashed against the squish of your cheeks!

☆ johnny

his kisses are just as reserved as him. he has his own experience and that is not to say he doesn’t know how to be passionate, it just takes him a little while to get used to being vulnerable with you. it doesn’t matter if you’re in public or in the privacy of your home, his shyness is pretty palpable. of course, it’s only a matter of time until he gets used to this sort of intimacy again. the more time passes, the more comfortable he becomes, the more reverent his love as a whole starts to feel. kisses in public would still be pretty much out of question by that point, unless it’s just an innocent peck on the lips, but when you’re alone all you can feel is love coming from him. he still sometimes gets shy, so he’ll be left flustered and scowling if you catch him by surprise with a kiss.

☆ gappy

his kisses are confused, innocent, and sometimes awkward. poor guy, we can’t really blame him for being so clueless at times. during the first stages of your relationship, you’ll need to be quite patient as you teach him how certain things are meant to be done. he’s not that fast of a learner, so the first kissing sessions are a little messy. he doesn’t even know what to do with his hands. practice makes perfect though! it doesn’t take that long for him to catch the hang of it, and immediately after that, he’s become a sucker for your kisses. no matter where, when, or who you guys are with, he’ll be begging for kisses. his lips just crave yours, is something he’ll say. his favourite place to kiss are your lips, if that wasn’t obvious enough. it’s just something about the fact that he’s the only one who gets to kiss them that makes him quite eager to steal yet another kiss from you.

⌗a/n : hmm this was a little lazy since i wasn’t actually planning on writing this, but i hope the audience likes it nonetheless 🫰🏻 i didn’t write jodio because im only on chapter 1, so… i might add him once i catch up though. jolyne’s part is a little too self indulgent, sorry about dat. as always let me know if you notice mistakes or anything of that sort! luv ya 💕

want to read more? take a look at my masterlist.

When you fill out your application years ago, you check the box for Rtawahist without even reading the overview. You have no need to do that. You do not bother with listing a second choice, either. You also have no need to do that. Your father will see the application through—that much you already know. Privileged, perhaps, but not unearned. You have every intention of earning your keep.

When the acceptance papers arrive, Rtawahist is stamped as your chosen Darshan. You are not surprised. You are not ungrateful, either. The stars, you think, may have been your first love—you do not take your devotion to them lightly, now any more than you did then, when you studied them.

You have never anticipated that the same stars you devote yourself to could be so cruel, forcing you to watch the man who replaced your father as Grand Sage also be the one who orchestrated his downfall.

You cannot bear the injustice of it.

Your father—who now sits in a cell while the city mocks his name—has been replaced by the very man who put him there. The same man they call a hero. The same man who stripped him of his title, his dignity, and every scrap of respect earned through decades of work and brilliance.

You catch this despicable man just as he leaves his—no, your father’s—office.

“Excuse me,” you hiss, “are you the one they call Alhaitham?”

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you. His expression is unreadable, almost bored—like you’re an interruption that he endures. The veins in your head threaten to burst from the sheer insult of it.

“I’m on my break now,” he says flatly, “if you wish to submit an appeal to any funding proposals, please submit an application according to the prescribed format—”

“That’s not why I’m here,” you interrupt, hissing.

His eyes glance over your figure up and down briefly—your blood boils even more for it—and then there is an almost imperceptible shift in his gaze. Curiosity, maybe, or perhaps recognition. Good, you think, he should recognize you—and he should regret it soon enough. 

“Then I can’t imagine what business you have with me.”

Your eyes narrow. “It’s about my father.”

“Ah.” His arms cross loosely over his chest, as if the puzzle has solved itself. “Then you’ve come for closure. If that’s what you want, I’m not sure I am the one to turn to.”

You grit your teeth. “Do not talk as though he’s dead. I do not need closure for a man who still lives.”

“I never implied he wasn’t. He’s imprisoned,” Alhaitham replies evenly. “By his own actions. I didn’t decide his actions for him—I only carried out what had to be done when his ambitions threatened the nation.”

“What do you know of his actions?” you snap. “You think yourself to know every detail simply because you were the scribe? Handling a few mere documents does not give you the knowledge and upper hand you think it does—you are still nothing but a scribe with a salary that is hardly applaudable. You think you understand him because you saw a single moment from the outside?”

“I understand him because I saw everything I had to,” he replies blandly. “I don’t have to be more than a scribe with a generous income to know I watched him imprison a god. I also didn’t need a report to see him falsify divinity and use that for his own gains.”

“That’s not true,” your voice shakes, “you have no idea what you’re saying. You’re believing the convenient cover-up story that—”

“It’s the truth,” he interrupts. “You just don’t want it to be.”

Your hands ball into fists as your breath trembles. His composure infuriates you—it makes your grief feel small, your faith in your father feel foolish. It makes you feel inferior to a man who has held a title of authority for less than two days. Your father was a foolish piece in the Fatui’s schemes—this you are certain. There is no other truth you will believe. You cannot stand for the injustice of their plans falling on his shoulders and stripping him of his freedom. Stripping you of his presence. 

 “He devoted his life to this Akademiya. To Sumeru. To the Archon, weak as he may have felt she was. And you—you sit in his chair and call yourself righteous for tearing him down and stealing his position.”

Alhaitham exhales quietly through his nose, a trace of weariness threading through his voice. “I stole nothing. I sit in that chair simply because someone has to—and the Archon herself has asked it of me. This is a temporary position. I have no interest in leading the Akademiya long-term. If you wish to read the reports detailing your father’s crimes, I suggest finding the General Mahamatra. I’ll have it arranged so you’re granted permission to see the documents, if it’ll ease your mind.” He shifts slightly, a finality to the motion. “Now, if you would please allow me to continue with my rather limited break—”

You flinch. The words land like cold water against your face. How dare he? How dare he speak to you as though you’re a fool—a child, a little girl who is naive enough to believe whatever reports were written by the same insidious people who used your father as a scapegoat for their own gains?

You watch as he turns from you and begins to walk away. To dismiss you once more. To ignore your existence and the weight you are left to carry because of his selfishness.

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper. The words shake from nothing else but fury. And before logic can tell you otherwise, before it can stop you, your hand shoots out. “Don’t you dare turn from me before I am finished, you scoundrel!”

You catch his wrist. And then you regret it. (Perhaps ignorance, as they say, is the ultimate form of bliss. Perhaps if you had never touched him, had allowed yourself to be ignorant of this discovery, you’d have been able to live some semblance of a happy life.)

It happens in a sudden—there is a searing heat surging beneath your palm, sharp and alive, as though something ancient and dormant has been waiting just beneath your skin for this exact moment. A soft, glowing light emits where your fingers meet his skin, and what looks like a thin, golden thread burns into both your wrists before settling into a mark.

You both freeze.

Alhaitham’s eyes flicker down to the mark forming on his wrist, then to yours. The same shape—a sharp V, and from its bottom, points three thin lines branching outward. You recognize the shape almost instantly—a constellation. Aquila. (How cruel fate is, mocking you with a soulmark that mirrors your favorite constellation and ties you to a man you loathe.)

You stumble back a step, your breath catching in your throat. The glow lingers on your skin for a moment longer, pulsing faintly before it fades—leaving behind the familiar, unmistakable shape burned into your wrist.

No. No, no, no—it can’t be. It can’t. You refuse to believe it. You won’t. 

Your stomach twists, your skin burns, your eyes sting, and the air collapses in your lungs. You drag your hand away from him quickly—as if scalded by his touch—staring at the mark like it’s something foreign, something monstrous, something hideous.

Alhaitham’s expression doesn’t change—still composed, still maddeningly calm. You hate him for it. For being so unfeeling about something that has all but changed the direction that your world spins and the axis that it is tilted on. He opens his mouth to speak, but you’re already shaking your head.

“No.” The word cracks on your dry tongue. “No, this isn’t possible…it can’t be—”

“It would appear,” he says quietly, “that it can.”

The way he says it makes bile rise in your throat. He sounds like he might be identifying a constellation, not dismantling your entire world. Like he’s merely stating an objective fact that he has read in a textbook rather than admitting to changing your whole life. Again. 

You clutch your wrist to your chest, covering any evidence of the mark as if hiding it might undo it entirely. “You…this—” You can’t even form the accusation properly. The words tumble along your tongue, frantic and hurried as you try to string together something coherent. “Undo this! Undo what you did!” you shriek, the words panicked.

Alhaitham freezes, just a fraction, his hand brushing his own wrist where the mark glows faintly. His eyes flicker between your face and the mark, calm on the surface but calculating beneath.

“That would be impossible. I didn’t do this,” he blinks, “nor could I. This…is not in my control. Or yours. And please, lower your voice—people will get the wrong idea if you scream in the halls—”

You shake your head, tears pricking your eyes. “This can’t be real! It can’t—”

“It is,” he says firmly. Louder this time. You blink through your tears and look at him—really look at him, and only now do you notice his pallor. Only now do you notice he subtle tension in his jaw, the faint dig of his nails into his own skin. “This is very real, and it isn’t exactly something either of us can simply ignore. Therefore, it would be wise of you to accept—”

“No!” you shake your head, your voice giving away your horror as it worsens by the second, “No! You can’t be serious. You can’t expect me to accept that the stars would decide this fate for me. They…they would never trap me with…with you! A man so awful, so wicked, so utterly merciless. How could they curse me like this? How could they choose someone as vile as you to be my fate? How could I deserve something as cruel as this?”

“I—”

You turn before you can hear any more words from him. You turn and you run—you run past the halls of the Akademiya, past the streets of Sumeru City, past every vendor and market you know, and you run into the quiet, empty home your father raised you in. The one that is devoid of him now—and maybe always will be. You run from him, from that man and from the mark he taunts you with, from every fragment of happiness he tore away from you and has crushed in his fist.

────────────────────────

They say not even the Archons can come in the way of a soulmate’s bond. It is written and sealed by Celestia themselves—or so the whispers tend to go. You often wonder if that’s just the Akademiya’s way of giving reason to what they don’t understand: linking this inexplicable bond to a power such as Celestia that they find equally impossible to grasp, yet impossible to deny.

If you were not so devastated, you might think it’s funny that you and Alhaitham happen to be a pair. Your visions certainly make for a good dynamic—Dendro and Electro. A formidable combination, as everyone likes to say. The two heighten each other, a sharper and more concentrated source of energy when together than apart. The Akademiya’s been taking advantage of that for years, pairing Dendro and Electro users in Matra units whenever possible.

There was even research once—old Akademiya studies claiming that soulmates who were both vision wielders always shared elements with strong synergy. Hydro and Pyro, perhaps. Cryo and Pyro, maybe. Dendro and Electro—everyone’s favorite in the Dendro Archon’s nation. The reactionary benefits were a popular topic across Sumeru, and being the nation of Dendro, plenty of Dendro scholars happily threw themselves into studying the synergy with Electro.

It spread far enough that even Liyue got involved. A researcher there proposed something new: that some soulmate pairs didn’t have opposing elements at all, but the same one. Their powers, they said, heightened differently—something that is less of a reaction, something that is more of a saturation. A phenomenon they called Elemental Resonance. That theory didn’t last long. The skeptics tore it apart, insisting two vision wielders didn’t need to be soulmates to fight well together. The sages pulled their funding soon after, and the whole thing was left to fade into obscurity.

You have never particularly believed any of it. You doubt the Archons and the gift of their power to you has much to do with your supposed bond to Alhaitham, either. Still, a small part of you almost wonders if those who are divine have a strange sense of humor—what chances that Celestia has decided Alhaitham is your fate, and the Archons have decided that your vision is his match. 

Perhaps if your soulmate were anyone else, you might have believed in the divine. You might have even trusted their judgment. You almost wonder if they have made a mistake until you stare at the lines that mark your wrist—and then you know that, however much you want to deny that the divine have power, you cannot. 

Aquila. Your mark is the shape of Aquila’s constellation. It is proof enough that Alhaitham is your soulmate just as much as your vision is Electro. There is no denying this truth. You would recognize the constellation in your sleep—a scholar of your caliber from Rtawahist’s darshan would never mistake such a commonly known collection of stars. You have studied the stars for so long. Day after week after month after year, you’ve stared into the sky and wondered if each constellation will guide you to the truth. Your father has always said it would.

You remember it vividly—the first time he’d taught you about the stars and their meanings. Azar was always a doting father. You can still feel the warmth of his arms as he’d sat you on his lap as a child, pointing to the sky and guiding your eager eyes.

That one is Aquila, he’d whispered. But in the Rtawahist, we call it Vultur Volans. It reflects an older astronomical lexicon predating the modernized Aquila, you see.

Well. That one is my favorite, you’d whispered back excitedly. And he’d chuckled—you still shiver when you remember the way it felt. Warm. Safe. Good.

Your father was always good. 

And yet, he is sitting in a jail cell with zero contact from the outside world. Even contact from his own daughter requires utmost effort on your part. Official regulatory protocols dictate that you must submit a formal request to the Grand Sage to visit any current prisoners before their trials. Your only options are to follow them—but you don’t expect it to be a yes.

As Acting Grand Sage, Alhaitham alone has the authority to approve or deny any visitation for Azar. No one apart from you will visit Azar—you are the only one who loves him. You know that. You think you may be the only one who even likes him. The thought makes you a little sick. 

When you submit your request, you are certain that he will deny you the right to see your father. You think, deep down, you may have just made the submission more to spite him than to visit Azar. But then the reply comes—short, stamped, and neatly folded in an envelope—and his handwriting legibly scrawls: APPROVED.

You can’t decide if you’re relieved by the opportunity or enraged that you were granted his mercy. 

But you waste little time. When you arrive, the matra who escort you say nothing. They don’t have to. Sharp eyes and distrustfully downturned lips are something you are growing used to, something you are accepting as yet another piece of your truth. People are not exactly unkind—regardless of where you and Alhaitham stand, he is a hero to the nation, and knowledge of your connection is not uncommon by now. People know better than to mistreat the previous Grand Sage’s daughter for his sins. They know to repay the current Grand Sage’s generosity by extending to you their mercy. 

You hate it. All Alhaitham ever seems to offer you is some twisted sense of mercy. Like he is above you. Like his is the one to pass judgment on you while you are helpless to hope it is benevolence. He feels less like your soulmate and more like your superior. 

You finally arrive—the door groans open. Metal drags across stone.

And there he is.

Your father is in a jail cell. He is a prisoner. A criminal. A sinner above all. Divinity will not spare him just because he is your father. They see him as nothing more than a blasphemer. Still, you can never see him as anything but your father. Not as the Grand Sage, not as the figure the city whispers about in disbelief and fury, and certainly not as the man whose name has already been stitched into Sumeru’s history as a traitor. Here, in the dim light, he is simply your father.

Azar sits on the narrow bench, hands resting loosely in front of him, posture still and tall. He hasn’t wasted away, you’re relieved to see—of course, it has only been a week, but you cannot help but worry that food and water are not something they spare kindly to a traitor of the Gods. Still, despite being well sustained, something in him looks smaller. His pride, maybe. His dignity. He has always held it tightly, even when you were a child.

You enter, and then his gaze lifts. The hardness drops away at once. His eyes soften—warm and steady and so in love with all of the little fibers of your existence standing in his line of sight. It’s the way his eyes always look when they fall on you. Suddenly, you are a child again. Suddenly, you ache to hold his cuffed hands and look up at the sky once more and hear him speak about the constellations.

But the sky is hidden by stone in his awful prison, and you fear he may never see it ever again. The thought makes your throat constrict, and suddenly every word on your tongue becomes heavy. Like lead. You wonder if you swallow them down, if lead poisoning will consume your bloodstream and kill you. You wonder if you speak them, the bluntness of their force will kill you on impact, too. 

Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t. That’s how it feels—so you stay silent. 

“Do you eat properly?” He speaks first. “You have always made a habit of skipping meals when you are upset. Who will make sure you drink water now that I am no longer there to notice you are not drinking enough?”

Of course, he breaks the silence first. And of course, it’s to express concern for you, not give you answers. The tears slip down your cheeks like a river washes over stone—unstopping and unthinking. Like a command from the sky, the current does not stop. It does not halt for the world, nor does it slow down for it to catch up. Your tears do not wait for you. They do not slow down in time for you to even decide if they will make an appearance.

Azar is a stain on the cloth that is this nation’s history. You know that.

But Azar is your father. You are his little girl. The blood in his veins is the same retched blood that pumps your heart. You live to a beat of life that was once cradled in his palms. When your legs were not strong enough, his arms carried you through this world, and even when you could stand on your own two feet, those same arms carried away the obstacles from your path and discarded them. No matter the weight, your father bore whatever burden the sky commanded.

How can you abandon a man like that? How can you look away from the face that is a reflection of yours? How can you condemn the eyes that learned the stars for you, so you would never know the struggle of learning every constellation alone?

Your fingers ache to scrub at the stain, to scour it from the fabric, to wash the ugly color out of existence. But your mind knows the truth: no soap, no water, no hand is strong enough to ever clean blood once it’s set.

“You’re asking me if I eat?” You hiss, the words catching on your breath. “They’re saying things, out there. They’re saying you imprisoned our Archon! That you forced the people into dreams and…harvested their energy. That you…that you almost ruined this nation and doomed us all!”

Azar does not move. When you were young, your father was always patient with you. He’d sat through every tantrum, still and calm until the energy it took to misbehave slowly seeped out of you. Only when you grew tired—and only then—would he pick you up and sit you on his lap. His voice would never rise. His hands were never harsh. His eyes were never cold. 

Such energy that young body of yours always has. I almost envy it. Will you listen now, my dear?

Yes, father. 

He does not move. He sits through every bitter word you throw at him, still and calm now, just as he was all those years ago.

“They’re wrong,” you continue, desperate now, your voice cracking in between pleading syllables. “They have to be wrong. You would never—you couldn’t do that.”

“I could,” he says simply, his voice quiet but firm. “And I did.”

The words feel like a slap to your face. 

Your father would never hit you, but it feels like he has struck you with his own hand. Your heart stills, your stomach churns, and for one dizzying moment, you almost laugh. It’s nothing more than a twisted and cruel joke. Your father’s sense of humor has always been a little odd—but he is your father. The man who carried you on his shoulders to see Sumeru’s festival lights, who bought you your first paper book and the colorful sticky notes to annotate within it, who brought home pounds of zaytun peaches because you had briely commented you liked them once, who pointed out constellations and told you their stories so you’d forget the nightmares that frightened the sleep away from your eyes some nights.

“You’re lying to me,” you whisper. Your fingers clutch at your robes, desperate for something to hold onto—you cannot hold his hand. Not when they are cuffed. “You’re just…you’re tired, or you’re confused—yes, that must be it. I see now—they’ve poisoned you against yourself. They are accusing you of someone else’s plot through lies, Father, and you are believing them from your own guilt because you could not have stopped it on your own. You had no choice but to follow along—for your own survival. They may not see that, but I do. Listen to me. You can’t simply give in to what they say.”

Azar chuckles softly, the faintest smile curving his lips. Not cruel, not mocking—only tender. “I see your imagination still runs vividly, my dear. But I fear I am precisely what they say I am,” he tells you, in the same patient tone he once used to explain to your young mind how the stars move across the sky. “The father who loves you more than his own breath and the man who did what was necessary to see his ambitions through. They are two sides of the same coin. They never have been separate.”

Your vision blurs, and you shake your head furiously, but the tears don’t stop. “Stop saying that! Why do you lie? Please. Just…stop. Listen to me,” you beg, “you must tell them—the second of the Fatui harbingers is a terrible man. I have seen his records in the Akademiya, father. He once went by the name of Zandik. If he threatened you into doing his bidding, you have to just be honest—there is no shame in being powerless to a harbinger of Snezhnaya—”

His hand, bound by cuffs, cups your cheek. The rattle of metal sounds so horribly wrong—so sickeningly, nauseatingly wrong. “You are my child—my own flesh and blood. I will never stop loving you,” he says gently. “But I will not lie to you. Not even to soothe you.”

The words may have well ripped away the stars you always believed were hung in the sky by Azar himself. You don’t know what’s worse: the fact that his love has never sounded truer, or that his guilt has never been more absent. You don’t understand it. Cannot process it. It isn’t something he can explain to you patiently this time—how he can allow his love and his sins to coexist with ease when it feels like it tears your flesh straight off of your bones. 

“You have consumed forbidden knowledge, haven’t you?” You cry, bordering on hysterics, “It’s caused you to go mad! We can get help. We can move to the desert and live peacefully if you wish—I’ll take care of you. The sky above the desert is the same sky above the Akademiya, I won’t miss this place—I promise! Let’s go, and perhaps your mind will be cleared of all of this nonsense, and we can just forget that any of this has ever even—”

“You are a bright girl,” he interrupts you, “a student I raised, in fact. You know how to find the truth, don’t you?”

You do. You’ve studied the art of truth since before you could even comprehend that there are worlds beyond the sky.

Your father is a criminal. And if, someday, you have children of your own, they will learn of his crimes from the history books. It isn’t a reality you can reverse by spinning the planet backward. There is no undoing this—only moving forward. There is only the future, and what the sky has decided will exist within it.

You will live without your father. And he will rot in a cell. The stars have already decreed it, leaving you no chance to protest. Perhaps even a week ago, you would not have dared to argue with them. It’s funny how one moment can change everything.

“The only truth I know,” you say, blinking through tears as you stand, “is that everything I have ever loved is forever ruined.”

You turn and walk out of the cell, your steps echoing down the corridor. You keep your eyes fixed on the floor, fighting back the sobs clawing their way up your throat. Your vision blurs so completely that you don’t even see the figure ahead until you collide with it. Skin meets skin—and it’s warm, grounding. Suddenly, the ache inside you disappears. For one fleeting second, breathing feels easy again.

Then you look up and see him. And you wish you could stop breathing altogether.

“You’re crying,” he murmurs. Alhaitham is ever the sharp mind—sharper than most in all of Sumeru’s Akademiya—and yet, he is somehow capable of saying something so painfully useless.

“Shocked, are we?” you smile thinly, pulling away from his hands, which have caught your waist to steady you. “Perhaps if you had a little love in your heart, you’d understand why.”

“I understand perfectly well why you cry for him,” he says plainly. “It’s just that he doesn’t deserve tears from someone he’s betrayed.”

“Why did you do it?” Your lips quiver. You search his eyes for answers as though they will tell you before himself—you wonder why you do when he is so cold. Blunt. He would tell you his answer even if you did not want to hear it for yourself. “Why did you take him from me?”

“Do you think you’d be spared from the version of Sumeru he was trying to build?” He raises a brow. Alhaitham is so, so cold, you think—so harsh and cruel with the way he holds a mirror up to your face and forces you to see the truth. How can you bear to look into a mirror ever again? How can you bear to see your eyes and remember they are the same eyes of your father?“Do you really think you’d find happiness in the world he wanted to create? You’d rather he take your life with him?”

“Don’t speak to me about what I would and wouldn’t want as if you know me,” you hiss. 

“I know enough,” he says, gaze steady as it bores into you. “You’re my counterpart. I know that whoever I’m bound to by fate could never be someone so different from me. If you weren’t blinded by the fact that he’s your father, would our views really be so far apart?”

“I am not blinded by anything!” you poke a finger into his chest, “if I was, the only thing I would be blinded by is the horror of Celestia mocking me with you and…and that face of yours that haunts me everywhere!”

“And what? You think you haunt me any less?” he fires back—you realize now that you have only ever seen an Alhaitham that is patient. An Alhaitham who has lost his patience minces his words even less. “You think it’s easy to see your face every time I close my eyes? Your face that so closely resembles his? The man that nearly cost me everything I’ve worked for—my position, my achievements, my peace? You really think I believe someone like you—someone who is as capable and intelligent—can be this naive? You’re not suffering because of me. You’re suffering because you ignored the truth long before I ever spoke it out loud.”

You freeze. Your fingers tremble as you grab his shirt and yank him closer until your faces are level, your jaw set. “What do you mean?” you ask, low and dangerous. “What exactly are you accusing me of, you absolute lunatic? Has that knowledge capsule you touched rewired your brain completely?”

“Why do you think the Matra haven’t questioned you?” he fires back, voice firm but level. “As his daughter, you’d be a prime suspect for conspiracy. You studied under the same Darshan. You really think the General Mahamatra overlooks that kind of detail? Who do you think cleared you? Who made sure your name never appeared in the reports when documents detailing Azar’s plans were found in your own home? You expect me to believe that, for months, you never once suspected something was wrong? That you didn’t see it, or worse—you did, and you dismissed it? You think so little of your own father’s intelligence—that he wouldn’t tell me himself that you were innocent? You really think that he was never aware of your doubts that you shoved down blindly from loyalty, and that he wouldn’t beg me to spare you? He did. And I believed him enough to keep you out of all of his crimes. I have done everything I can to help you keep a shred of your dignity and your life as you know it, so that his mistakes don’t cost you. You think I would purposely ruin things for you? You think so little of me?”

“So what?” you whisper, voice shaking as you glare at him. “What…what is it you want? For me to thank you? To thank you for letting me exist at your mercy and witness how generous you are? Is that it? Is that what you want from telling me this?”

“No.” His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. “I want you to finally see things for what they are, and stop letting your emotions cloud your judgment—”

“So now I’m too emotional?” You laugh, a sharp, broken little sound. “Forgive me, Grand Sage—perhaps being orphaned so young has left you with little knowledge of what it means to be loved, but I have the privilege of understanding exactly what that means. You’d never understand the agony of watching someone you love be subjected to this fate.”

He stills. His shoulders go rigid, the tension in his jaw almost visible.

Too far—your mind screams in sync with your heart. Too far. For a fleeting moment, you almost think you can feel the pain in his chest as if it were your own. 

“You have no idea,” he says lowly, his voice laced with a venom you’ve never heard from someone so composed, “what you’re saying. My parents’ status hardly means I know nothing about love—you’d do well to remember that.”

“Or what? You’ll throw me in jail along with my father, is that it? Use that high authority of yours over my head?”

“Funny of you to lecture me about love,” he snaps, “when all you seem to think with is that blinding hatred of yours. I’ve waited so long to find you—did you know that? Since the day I was orphaned and stripped of that love you seem to think I know nothing of, I always dreamt of finding you—just what luck it would be that the one meant to love me would make it seem like such a rotten task.”

He grabs your wrists, prying your hands off his shirt and stepping back. Even now, the motion is painfully gentle—too careful for how sharp his words sound. Then he turns abruptly, boots bluntly pressing against the stone floor as he walks away one step at a time.

You stand frozen for a moment before rushing after him, the echo of your steps chasing his. “I’m not done speaking to you,” you call, practically jogging to keep up with his long strides.

“I am,” he says flatly, not slowing. “I have a meeting to prepare for.”

“I’m sure you can afford a few moments—”

“I can’t.”

“Well, too bad,” you snap, breathless. “You’ll have to find some way, because—”

He stops suddenly and turns. Before you can react, his hand wraps around your wrist again—not harsh, but firm enough that you stumble closer. “You are maddening.”

“Well,” you say stubbornly, “I suppose it’s no wonder we’re bound to each other because you’re the exact same way.”

“Fine then,” he rolls his eyes. He turns, dragging you along with him, “Then you can say what you need to say somewhere private,” he mutters, low enough that only you can hear. His eyes flick briefly toward the guards stationed down the hall.

He doesn’t wait for you to reply. You follow him (without a choice, considering the way his hand pulls you along) through the corridors in silence, your pulse still hammering from the searing heat of his touch. When he pushes open the heavy door to his office and steps aside for you to enter first, you realize that despite it all, Alhaitham is a gentleman. Painstakingly so. 

He looks at you expectantly, still so stiff in his posture as he crosses his arms and leans his back against the door. Probably so no one tries to come in, you think to yourself.

“Whatever it is you have to say, best make it quick,” he grunts. “I’m a busy man these days—against my will, if I might add.”

You roll your eyes, scowling. “I’m sorry about that comment,” you mutter. “It was cruel.”

“You’re apologizing?” His brows lift in genuine bewilderment.

You scowl deeper. “Say what you will about Azar, but he raised me with proper manners. I’m hardly above apologizing when I should.”

He studies you for a moment, then nods slowly. “Well…I appreciate it.”

“What exactly is it that’s suspected of me?” you ask bluntly, meeting his eyes. “I want to know.”

Alhaitham sighs, shoulders relaxing. “It’s not that your innocence was ever in question—Cyno and I both agreed that if you were involved, you’d have been more of an obstacle during our plan. But ignoring you in any investigation entirely would’ve been foolish. Your father agreed to cooperate during questioning if you were cleared, so I looked into you myself.”

“And what did you find?” you press.

“Like I said,” he waves a hand, “you’re innocence was never a matter of debate. Whether or not you suspected your father before the rest of us and stayed silent…that’s another matter. One I’d rather not get into the ethics of.”

“I knew he was collaborating with the Fatui,” you whisper. “I saw…letters.”

He raises a brow.

You exhale shakily. “That’s all I knew. And I suppose not digging deeper was my mistake. Maybe I could have talked sense into him. I thought it was about money—or maybe knowledge. The man he dealt with was the second of the Harbingers from Snezhnaya. A man once called Zandik, and a former scholar here at the Akademiya. I read the reports—not that I was supposed to, but I did. I assumed Father’s hunger for discovery had just led him into questionable company. I never thought it would…” your voice falters.

“You would never have changed his mind,” Alhaitham says quietly.

You glance up at him, too tired to be offended. “Ah, is that what you think?” you ask bitterly.

“It’s what I know,” he replies. “If love for his daughter had been enough, he wouldn’t have risked everything in the first place.”

“So the problem was that he didn’t love me enough,” you say, laughing without humor.

“The problem,” he corrects evenly, “is that he loved his ambition most. Enough to let it consume him. No amount of love for you could have undone that. If it’s any solace, I think he would’ve regretted it—eventually. For your sake, more than his.”

“Wow,” you sniffle, voice flat. “I’m comforted.”

“Then I’m relieved,” he hums. “I’m not great at comforting. Means I’m doing something right.”

“Listen, Alhaitham,” you say tiredly, meeting his eyes for the first time without malice. His gaze softens the moment he sees your expression. But even then, you don’t soften the blow of what comes next. “The divine may have bound us together, but it’s clear to me that we’ll never make this work. Not when something so much bigger than us stands in the way.”

His eyes flicker—confusion, betrayal, anger, sadness. And something else you can’t quite name.

“How can you be so sure—”

“I’m not,” you cut in softly. “I just know that I’m tired. I need to make sense of what’s left of my life, and to do that, I have to stop living inside this…mess. You’re a constant reminder of everything I’m trying to move past. I think it’s better if we keep our distance.”

“I disagree,” he says quietly. You close your eyes. “But if that’s what you want, I’m not really in a position to argue.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

With that, you leave his office. The skin of your mark burns as soon as you put distance between you, but you force your feet in front of each other with every step. 

────────────────────────

Grandmother had told Alhaitham once, when he was young, that his parents were lucky with their fate. He’d thought her to be crazy at the time. What was so lucky about dying so young? Of leaving their only son behind before even watching him grow? 

The answer became clear when he was a little older. Dying alongside your soulmate, he’d realized, is mercy. He had seen the way Grandmother would clutch her wrist; he had seen the way she would rub at the skin when she thought he wasn’t looking. His mother and father were fortunate—sure, they never witnessed their son grow, and yes, they never accomplished all the things they had dreamt as scholars. But they had each other for the entirety of their life spans since the day their paths crossed. 

Grandmother was right. There is no fate that is more fortunate than that.

Alhaitham wonders if he is the most unfortunate individual to exist—how can it be that the same mother and father who were so lucky in their time had produced a son with such terrible luck himself? How can it be that with a soulmate so alive and healthy and near as his, he is still fated to the reality that he will never have you by his side? 

Even a mind as brilliant as his cannot come up with any explanation for it. And it seems the more he would like to forget you—forget everything, the more you pop into his mind. Even in his dreams, you show up, haunting him and haunting every part of his mind and soul and body. 

You’re soft. Alhaitham is overwhelmed by how soft you are. 

Your lips are delicate, your skin is pillowy under his touch, and something about the way you touch him back is just as gentle, too. Your walls are soft as well—despite being as tight as they are, they’re warm and velvety, and they squeeze around his swollen cock so well.

“H-haitham,” you breathe, “please, Haitham—I need more. Please, baby.”

He shivers twice. Once because you call him Haitham, and a second time because you call him baby. He feels a third shiver creep over his spine when he realizes how much he likes your voice when it calls him sweet things like that. 

Like a bee, you trickle honey onto his tongue—it’s warm and saccharine and addicting. He tastes it and wants to get closer. Nearer. He wants to feel you so deeply in his system, he would happily mistake the stinger and its venom for your love and your affection. 

“Call me that again,” he pleads.

“What?” you smile, cupping his cheek tenderly, “baby? You are, you know—my baby.”

“You’re…you’re so soft,” he pants, groaning as his hips rut into you with a punishing pace—he can’t stop. More. More. More. That’s all he can think. He wants more. More of you and more of your existence bleeding into his. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

“So full, Haitham,” you sob, whining as the thick, blunt head of his cock presses against the sensitive part in the back of your walls. You squeeze around him, and he lets out a helpless moan. 

It’s good—it’s so painfully good, and he’s so close, and the pressure in his lower belly feels so close to snapping. There’s an ache that’s building between his legs, right where he connects with you in between yours. A vulnerable place that only you can get close to, where he lets you make him ache. 

He’s close. So are you. One more roll of his hips and—

—Alhaitham wakes with a start, his breath caught somewhere between a hitch and a curse. The sheets cling damp to his skin—heat is still crawling through his chest, his pulse hammering like he’s run miles through desert ruins to escape them as their walls close in on him. He almost wishes they had. He almost wishes he were in them right now, and that they’d collapsed on him and taken him down for good under the rubble.

Your voice still rings in his ears—soft, broken, begging. Since when has Alhaitham cared for the sound of your voice begging? He can still feel your hands on him, warm and desperate, the vision so vivid that he can still feel the phantom weight of your touch on his skin. And worse, he realizes, is that he had enjoyed it. Every second of his dream, he’d had his lips on you—on your own lips, on the slant of your jaw, against your throat. Every second of his dream, his hands were digging into your hips as if you were the only thing keeping him alive.

He drags a hand over his face, forcing the images back into the dark where they belong. But the ache low in his body betrays him, straining against the slightly damp fabric of his boxers.

Fuck. 

It’s that mark. It has to be. He doesn’t lust over you this way, and the overwhelming truth is that he doesn’t even know you like that. There is no way Alhaitham can be this turned on by a stupid, fleeting image of you under him in his head—he hasn’t even seen you in days. But he supposes that only hurts his case—the longer the days go by without seeing you, the more restless the mark on his wrist has been. The divine must have it out for him. They force you into his senses, into his veins, into his dreams, into his fucking mind, deep in the smallest crevices until even his own body turns into a traitor.

There’s a twitch in his boxers. He covers his eyes with his hand and scrunches them shut with a frustrated groan—this is not a problem that will go away. Alhaitham knows this. He knows that if he gets up and forces himself into a cold shower and somehow manages to evade this problem now, it will only haunt him in his mind again. Even worse, he might just get a vivid image flash in his head in the middle of his work day and make his pants uncomfortably tight—tighter than they already are, that is. 

So, with utmost reluctance, he caves. 

Slowly, a hand wanders down his chest. It caresses the warm, sweaty skin. He tries to imagine the touch as yours—it’s a sickening thought that if he were a bit more coherent at the moment, he’d be horrified by. Your fingers would be less calloused, of course, but he doesn’t take too much time to linger on that thought. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, you’re a headache,” he curses to himself. He’s right. You are. You make his worst migraine possible. 

His finger circles a nipple gently, and he lets out a low hum of approval at the feeling. He wonders if you’d appreciate his physique—the planes of hard-earned muscle, the sharp contours carved from years of disciplined training, the toned definition written into every line of his body. 

You’re pretty, Haitham, he can imagine you saying. He wants to hear you say it. He feels a little nauseous. 

“Don’t tease,” he grits, “we don’t have time for that.”

You don’t care for your job enough to stress over being late—you’re busy against your will, remember? Don’t pretend you care now, he pictures you giggling in response. And you would be right. He doesn’t particularly care for his position. But he has a responsibility for the Akademiya. 

His hand reaches for the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down swiftly and kicking them off under his sheets somewhere. He’ll worry about them later—for now, he worries about the thick, strained cock that falls heavy against his lower abdomen. 

“You’re insane,” he mumbles, wrapping his hand around his cock and squeezing lightly as he feels a sharp, fleeting pressure of ecstasy run along his length. “You drive me insane.”

Then don’t go insane, he thinks you’d say. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, you know—you’re the one who keeps letting this happen, Haitham.

“You do this to me,” he whispers, arguing back, “it’s your fault.”

That’s rather mean, Haitham. You blame me for everything.

“I don’t,” he breathes—and then his hand strokes his girth. “If anything, you blame me.”

He gasps, eyes fluttering shut as his head falls further back against his pillow. The sheets cover his shame, yet he still feels unbearably bare and open and vulnerable. Touching himself isn’t something new—Alhaitham is like every other human, no matter how much he clings to logic and reason to guide his choices. Granting himself a moment of pleasure is nothing foreign, even if it is rare, given how busy he is. 

But touching himself to the thought of you feels like he’s sinning, even when all he really is doing is giving into the fate divinity has designated for him. Perhaps they had always designed him to be in hell. 

“Fuck, baby,” he moans, repeating your sweet, affectionate name for him back to you—like you can hear him if he speaks to the air and trusts it to carry the words over to you. “L-like that.”

You like it when I touch you this way, don’t you, Haitham? You’d ask.

“Yes, fuck,” he hisses. Filthy. You make him so filthy with the words he spills on his tongue. “It…it feels good.”

I know, you’d coo, I like it when my Haitham feels good. Because of me. 

“Yours,” he agrees, letting out a raspy groan as he tightens his grip and strokes himself faster, feeling the familiar build up in his lower belly as the ache between his legs intensifies, “your Haitham,” he breathes. 

My Haitham, he can hear you soothe, all mine. You were made for me, weren’t you? Made to be my love. I love you, Alhaitham. 

He cums as soon as he hears you whisper those delicate words in the fragile existence of his subconscious. That place that exists but doesn’t all at once. That place that he can escape to, but never really go as he wishes. He gasps, letting out a quiet whimper as thick ropes of cum spill into his hand and coat his abdomen with heavy twitches of his cock—he tries to imitate how he thinks you’d touch him through his high. 

Maybe you’d slow down, teasing him as he bucks into your hand with a frustrated huff. Or maybe you’d quicken your pace, stroking him faster so he’d have no choice but to be at your mercy. (It doesn’t matter, really—he’ll never find out, he’s sure. So he might as well run through every possibility himself and settle on what he likes best as the closest he’ll get to having you.)

Finally, when he slumps against his mattress as he finishes, limbs feeling heavy and tired, he stares up at his ceiling and lets out a shaky sigh as he feels his own erection soften in his grip.

“Same dream again,” he scoffs to himself, rubbing his clean hand over his face tiredly, “you’re depraved, you fool. And you only have yourself to blame—Sumeru dreams again because of your own flawless plan.”

He lies there, wallowing in his own misery and self-pity for a moment before a thought strikes him:

Alhaitham is a linguist. He studies the art of language—its history, its structure, the delicate logic that binds meaning to form. And if anyone knows how to put words together in the language he’s most fluent in, it’s him. He sits up immediately to get to work—and then he is reminded of the shameless mess he’s made and groans. (After this is cleaned, he thinks, after this display of lewdness is cleaned, will be the start of his careful plan.)

So it begins—one letter at a time, he gives you distance. Because physically, as much distance as you ask for within the walls of Sumeru City, Alhaitham will grant it. But linguistically, there is no distance you can create that he will not find a way to close.

—————

Week One: 

To you,

I don’t expect a reply. In truth, I don’t even know what I hope to accomplish by writing this. Perhaps it’s a habit I can’t unlearn—the impulse to record, to make sense of what cannot be reasoned aloud by writing them on parchment. Or perhaps it’s because words have always been my preferred method of thinking, and you have become something I cannot stop thinking about.

You told me that space would be most beneficial. I’ve been trying to respect that. I keep my distance. I let you pass without a word, and I make sure my presence doesn’t reach you unless absolutely necessary. Yet language does not abide by the same rules as distance. Even now, as far as I am from you, I find myself turning my thoughts of you into sentences, as if the act of forming them could bring me clarity. It hasn’t.

I used to believe that words were easy tools meant to define—simple to wield as long as one abided by their rules, like grammar. Then you happened, and suddenly, every word I knew became insufficient. It no longer feels easy to use words. I don’t know what to call this feeling. Perhaps there isn’t a word for it yet.

What I do know is that I’ll write. One letter at a time. Not to persuade you of anything, but to preserve these thoughts before they’re lost to distance. Perhaps, along the way, I’ll find the right word for this state of mind you’ve put me in.

— Alhaitham

—————

Week Two: 

To you,

Another uneventful day, though I suppose “uneventful” is a luxury in the current state of the Akademiya. Meetings have multiplied ever since I transitioned into leadership. Half of them could be replaced by a single well-written report, but apparently, no one else sees it that way.

The Dendro Archon insists I attend, so I do. I listen, I make my notes, and I watch as words—our supposed instruments of precision—are thrown about carelessly, stripped of meaning by overuse. It makes me wonder how many things in life lose their truth simply because they’re spoken too often. Perhaps feelings are the same. Perhaps it’s better that I don’t speak mine aloud.

Today, someone used the word corrupt during a discussion about administrative reforms. They said it as though it were an objective diagnosis, a simple matter of right and wrong. No context. No nuance. They did not give me a proper explanation for why they came to use that word when I pressed. It bothered me more than I expected. Words like that should be used with care, or they’ll become too easily bent by whoever speaks them.

It made me think about how language fails us when we use it without precision—and how I fail at it, too, when I try to speak about you. I’m still searching for the right word for what you make me feel. Something that isn’t dulled or watered down by overuse. There must be one. It just hasn’t presented itself yet.

So give me time. I’ll find it. Studying words is what I do best, after all.

— Yours, Alhaitham

—————

Week Three: 

To you, 

I find my days are increasingly occupied by bothersome interactions, though I suppose that is hardly surprising given my current position. Meetings, receptions, consultations—each demands a performance of attentiveness I must forcefully will myself to demonstrate. I am expected to navigate pleasantries, offer guidance, and answer questions I hardly consider worth any depth. It’s exhausting.

Social interactions in a professional capacity, in theory, should not require this much effort. Yet the expectations that are considered proper, such as tone, phrase, and posture, are disproportionately taxing. I suspect that those who set up these standards for the workplace hardly used their intellect when creating the framework for how we conduct ourselves.

Luckily, when I find myself drained, I can seek clarity by writing to you. Perhaps it is because no pretense is required. No careful phrasing to appease or persuade.

And yes, I am still searching for a word for how you make me feel. Even amidst these endless meetings, my thoughts drift inevitably to you. In one of the manuscripts I reviewed today, I stumbled across an archaic word: eunoia. It means beautiful thinking; a well-minded state. For a moment, I thought perhaps this is the word for what you make me feel—a state where every thought in my head is serene and filled with clarity. It then occurred to me that this would hardly be a fitting word—for all the clarity you might bring me, you are also the only person who manages to turn my mind into a hazy, unclear place. I hardly recognize myself when I think of you for too long.  

So I continue my search, hoping that someday I will find the word capable of holding the entirety of this state you put me in.

— Yours, whether you will have me or not, Alhaitham

—————

Week Four: 

To you, 

I spent the last few days in the rainforest—an inspection trip to ensure the withering is no longer a threat. The humidity there was constant, draining enough to make even thinking a tiresome task. And yet, I found myself thinking more than usual.

In the thick of Apam Woods, I saw several kalpalata lotuses. I’ve heard they’re your favorite. The cliffs that they grow along make for a good contrast, blue and green against a pale grey. They’re said to be the origin of all plant life in Sumeru—the beginning from which everything else grew. I suppose that’s poetic, though I’ve never been one for mythic explanations. Still, I couldn’t help but think that if such explanations were real, every branch and every leaf in Sumeru traces back to the roots of a kalpalata lotus.

Every thought I have seems to trace back to you in much the same way.

I’ve had no luck with a word this week. I thought perhaps the change of scenery might help, but nothing suitable presented itself. Maybe the right term won’t come from research or inspiration at all. Maybe it will reveal itself gradually. Until then, I’ll keep searching.

— Yours, if you would honor me with the pleasure, Alhaitham

—————

Week Five:

To you, 

I’ve spent the past week cataloging old star charts because I know the stars are what you love most—Aquila’s constellation among them. You’re already aware that the Rtawahist tend to call that constellation Vultur Volans, and you’ve certainly seen it in the night sky. I used to admire its symmetry as a child, as my grandmother had taught me to search for it when I could not sleep on restless nights. Now I can’t look at it in the sky without thinking of the shared version of it burned into our skin. 

I’ve never been one to seek meaning from the divine. I believe in consequence, not providence. Yet even I can’t help but wonder what sort of irony governs a world where the person I was fated for is the daughter of the man whose corruption I exposed. There are moments when I think fate must be a cruel scholar, concluding at the expense of those bound within its margins. If it is you with whom I am bound to the margins, then I would not choose to escape them despite the flaws of this design. If you were to ask me whether I regret it, I would say I don’t. Justice doesn’t become less rightful simply because it brings pain. But I wish, more than anything, that it hadn’t been you who had to bear its cost. 

I’ve finally found the word—or rather, two. You are familiar with them, I am sure. I know amongst the scholars of Rtawahist, you are one of the most brilliant—a star right here on the ground that I can witness without reaching the sky. The words are aphelion and perihelion: the points in an orbit when one is farthest from, and closest to, the sun. That’s what you’ve become to me: both distance and nearness. Cold and warmth. The center forcefield and the reason I keep moving. Whether you grant me the closest or farthest point of your light, I will always orbit around you. It is in my nature to do so, and it will never stop at any point in time. 

If the divine truly intended for our paths to cross, perhaps it was not to bind us together, but to teach me that even a life governed by logic is still vulnerable to gravity. If it is you who will pull me down, then I will choose to fall, no matter the force that will shatter me as I meet the ground. 

— Yours, happily so in every world, Alhaitham

────────────────────────

The letters come every week. 

Every Monday morning, without fail, a new envelope waits at your door—your name written in Alhaitham’s impeccable handwriting. The calligraphy is always deliberate and elegant, not a single word crossed out, not a single stroke shaky. He is good with words—you’ll give him that much. Week by week, letter by letter, word by word, he carves his way into your heart. You knew he would. You always knew that not falling for Alhaitham was an impossible task. Not because fate demanded it, but because he had been right that day.

Without your father to blind you, you are not so different from him after all.

You read every letter. You drink in every word. You smile when he complains, and you roll your eyes when he’s predictable. You tear up when he thinks of you, and your lips tremble when he reminds you that as long as he can use words as his tools, you will never truly be free of him. You will never truly be alone.

By Sunday afternoon, the day before the sixth letter is due, you decide to pay him a visit.

You knock on his door. When he opens it, he blinks at you in disbelief, eyes flicking from your face to the world behind you as if to make sure this isn’t a hallucination. You blink back. For a moment, the world tilts on its axis the way it always does around him—gravity somehow always shifts and changes, tugging you closer to the ground when he’s near. Like you’re falling.

“You’re…here?” he breathes.

“Hello to you, too,” you snort quietly. “Proper etiquette is to invite guests in. Especially when they happen to be your soulmate.”

“Ah, well,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “In my defense, my soulmate happens to despise me. That complicates things, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t despise you,” you whisper. “We can talk about that. When you let me in—which you still haven’t done.”

He flushes, coughing as he hurriedly steps aside. “Right. Come in.”

You smile at that. He’s endearing—infuriatingly so. When he isn’t sending your father to prison or dismantling everything you once knew, he is so painfully endearing. And, of course, no one else would see it. You’re sure only you could ever find someone like Alhaitham endearing. Most people at the Akademiya certainly don’t.

When you’re both seated in his living room, opposite ends of the same couch, you whisper, “Thank you. For the letters, I mean. They…made me feel less lonely.”

“Of course,” he says quietly. “Though, I’ll admit, I had some selfish reasons for sending them. But I’m glad they helped. I know the last few weeks haven’t been easy for you.”

“Well,” you manage a tight smile, “Father writes to me too. I’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s responsible for his own actions—it only took a month, huh?”

“It’s not wrong to have faith in people you love,” he says after a pause. “Maybe not to the point where it blinds you, but…it’s not my place to tell you how to come to terms with betrayal.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “You always sound so detached when you say things like that.”

“Detached,” he repeats. “Maybe. Maybe I am—maybe I’m not as rational as I like to think I am.”

“No,” you whisper, “no, if anyone is irrational, it’s me. The facts were always there—I just chose not to see them. You saved Sumeru—and me, by extension, and I gave you a hard time for it.”

“I didn’t save Sumeru because I’m a generous person,” he says quietly. “I did it because there is an order to everything that should be maintained…and I don’t value imbalance to that order. It’s…it’s not about playing a hero.”

“Yes,” you crack a smile, “I forget that being generous is not a fit for that cold image of yours.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he grumbles. You giggle—he lets loose a small, barely-there grin. “I suppose Sumeru’s best interest is not something I stay ignorant of,” he finally admits. “But I’m sure that isn’t why you’re here, either.”

“It’s not,” you agree. “You’ve been writing to me. All this time.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He blinks, startled by the question, as if he can’t understand why you would ask. “Because you asked me to stay away. And I told myself I would respect that. But contact does not have to mean the absence of distance—I wanted to contact you.”

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head as you glance down at your lap. “You shouldn’t have had to do that. If I were worthy of that effort, you wouldn’t have had to fight distance in the first place.”

“I wanted to,” he says simply. “You were the one who needed distance. I didn’t fault you for that. You are worth fighting distance—to me, you are.”

Tears sting your eyes at his words. Alhaitham is good with words. You don’t think it’s because he studies them, though—you think it’s because deep down, he’s a gentle soul that was made to be patient with you. To learn you and what you need when you are unsure of it yourself. To be easy when you are difficult. You know why Alhaitham is your other half—it isn’t just because the divine have said so. It’s because the stars will always guide you to him. It’s because no matter where you are, there is always a way back to him. 

He is always waiting for you. Always watching for you. Always searching for you. 

You press your lips together. “I didn’t want you far because I hated you,” you murmur. “It was because being near you made it harder to accept that things…were changing. I thought being away from you would make losing my father easier.”

He studies you quietly, his voice soft, “Did it?”

“No.”

A breath escapes him—half sigh, half laugh. “So you continued, why? To punish me for the hell of it, huh? You really are something else.”

You know it’s a joke—still, for old time’s sake, you glare weakly. “Be quiet.”

He smiles fondly. “I knew it would be worth it if I’d waited. That one day, you’d come to me on your own terms. Even if it took months. Even if it took years. I would happily wait.”

“Why aren’t you mad at me?”

“Because you’re here now,” he says—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I knew it wouldn’t help to stay apart, but I knew I could never say no to what you wanted. And…I knew we’d never manage to do it for long. You’d have found your way back to me just as I would you. It’s just how things go—the nature of this world. You and I finding each other is in our nature.”

“I wanted to come find you after the first letter.”

“Why didn’t you?” he raises a brow—he almost looks a little hurt. 

“Because I was scared,” you laugh—there’s no humor in it. Only a choked sob. Only a tear that runs down your cheek as his eyes quickly change to soften for you. “If I came, what if you decided I was just…too much? And then you hated Celestia for deciding to bind me to you? And then you hated me? And then no one would love me ever again—”

“You really are something else,” he snorts, grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you against his firm chest. It’s warm. Alhaitham is warm. You never want to be cold ever again. For the first time since you arrived, his composure completely slips. His fingers curl into your shirt as his voice cracks and he pleads, “Don’t go again. I’ll never hate you if you never leave.”

“I’ll never leave if you never hate me,” you sniffle. 

“I should have known you’d be stubborn,” he playfully pokes your ribs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Using my own promise against me.”

“I believe it’s because we’re cut from the same cloth or something like that—that’s what they say about soulmates, don’t they?”

“Who knows,” he snorts, “I don’t waste my time reading hopeful fantasies.”

“Yes,” you let out a watery laugh. He wraps his arms around you tighter at the sound. “You took your time reading up to expand your vocabulary, instead. Like a hopeful romantic.” 

“You took your sweet time coming to me,” he murmurs, chuckling. “What else could I do with my time?”

You hum. “I suppose I did. And you waited.”

“I would have kept waiting.”

You swallow hard. Then, your hand reaches up, cupping his cheek and making his breath hitch. “You don’t have to wait anymore.”

“Is that so?” he glances at you, amused. Hopeful. Affectionate. There’s love in there, too, in those eyes of his—you see it just as much as you feel it. You don’t know everything there is to know about him yet. You don’t know his pain and his joy and the things he keeps hidden away to keep himself safe. You don’t know what he likes to eat and what he doesn’t. What his favorite genre is to read (though you can guess), and what he hated learning most when he was a student. 

But you know you’ll love him. The stars told you so. And you’ll listen—you always do when they show you the truth. 

“Are you happy it’s me?” you murmur, gripping his shirt and pulling him closer. His lips hover over yours, and your breath fans across his mouth. He inhales sharply. “Be honest—would you swap soulmates if you could?”

“Never,” he grins, “I could never hand over such a headache to anyone else. It would be unethical.”

“Huh?” you gasp, “where went all your sweet, fancy words? This is not the Alhaitham I came looking for—my letters promised me a very different version.”

“Can you really call yourself my soulmate if you don’t like all versions of me equally?” he hums. And then he leans in, breaking the distance and kissing you. And you wonder, genuinely wonder, how you could have gone so long without ever feeling his lips on yours. Without ever feeling him against you and completing you this way. “I would never exchange you for anything,” he breathes against your lips, “never. Gravity will always pull me to your maddening charm, you see.”

“You must love being insulted then,” you giggle, pecking his lips, “because that is all I’ve done for, hm…let’s see, ninety percent of our interactions.”

“Do you take it all back?” he pouts playfully, shifting you onto his lap, your legs straddling his waist as his hands roam along your hips. He kisses your jaw, and you close your eyes, humming as you pretend to think about it. “I’m sure you do. You’ve probably realized I’m a catch.”

“The lazy, antisocial scholar who has a reputation for being difficult to get along with,” you think out loud, “let me see—hm, no, I don’t see what catch you’re referring to.”

“How shallow,” he accuses, “basing your assessment on rumors.”

“Actually,” you murmur, cupping his cheeks and cradling his face as you admire his face (he’s handsome. You’ve never given it proper thought, but Alhaitham is the most handsome man you have met. Another infuriating advantage he has.) “I have the object of these rumors right here—no one will know if they’re true or not better than me.”

“Yes,” he breathes, “no one will know me better than you. If you’ll have me.”

“I would always have you,” you press a soft kiss to his nose, “you know that, don’t you?”

“I do now.”

And then he kisses you again. Harder. Needier. He kisses you like he’s been deprived of all that he’s been searching for in this life. Like he’s been denied his rights to his peace. Like he’s lost every path that leads him home. You kiss him back. Like he is the answer to every prayer you’ve ever whispered. Like he is the last thing you have left to anchor you. Like he is the only thing that’s truly yours in this world. 

It’s a blur from there—wandering hands, hiked up shirts, searing touches. His shirt comes off, and then so does yours. His belt is unbuckled, and your waistband is tugged down. Your fingers trace over the hard planes of his abs, and his fingers trace the plush skin of your inner thighs. 

“I want you,” he pants, whispering the words between slow, open-mouthed kisses. “Is…is that okay? It doesn’t have to be—we don’t have to—”

“More than okay,” you breathe. In fact, you add soft, pleading, “want you too.”

He groans, reaching to shove your panties aside to press his fingers into your wet cunt. He takes in the view—dark green fabric dampened by your essence and painted even darker. He grins. 

“Did you wear this to see me? Knew it was my favorite color?”

You swat at his shoulder, glaring as he chuckles. “No, you lunatic! I wore these for myself because they happened to be the f-first….oh…”

You trail off, gasping as his fingertips brush against a sensitive spot along your walls, curling into you perfectly despite never feeling your body before this. You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders as he studies your face. 

“Seems like I found it,” he hums in satisfaction, “that’s where you want me, is it?”

You glare at him in horror. “How lewd! Your mouth looks a lot better when you silence it, you know!”

“Why not help me with that, then,” he hums, “if you’d like to see it that way so badly.”

You do. You silence him with a kiss as much as he drinks in your soft moans while his fingers work their way into you. In and out. In and out. They stretch you open as they curl and scissor their way into you and glide against your warm, wet walls. You like the friction. His fingers are thicker and longer than yours—they reach parts you never thought about reaching. He fits you and completes you in a way that feels intentional. Like there is a reason why he is bound to you as part of what makes you whole. 

“H-Haitham,” you pant—he pauses. His fingers still and his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and you almost feel like you should apologize based on his reaction until his fingers slam against you with a faster pace, brushing harder against that spongy spot. With more force. More cause. 

“Say that again—fuck, say that again, please,” he hisses. 

“Haitham,” you whine, “so…so close.”

“Yeah? Are you?” he groans, “then cum. Cum for me, my beautiful girl.”

You do. You feel the way your walls constrict and tighten around his fingers—almost making them impossible to move, but he thrusts them into you anyway, working you through your orgasm. Your head falls to his shoulder, teeth biting the smooth skin as you mewl at the pleasure that ripples through your body—a lead disrupting the calm still of of water and sending waves along the surface. 

You slump against his chest as he slips his fingers out, panting for a few moments before you shimmy out of your soiled underwear and shift—the wet heat of your cunt grinds against his leaking tip. 

“Fuck,” he curses, gritting his jaw. 

It takes only a moment of thought before he wraps his arms around you and stands, carrying you to his bedroom and carefully laying you against his bed. You stare up at him, skin flushed with sweat and marks from his lips, and he feels his cock twitch at the sight alone. 

“Haitham,” you breathe, wrapping your arms and pulling him down so that your lips barely touch, “fuck me—please.”

He closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath before he rummages through the bottom drawer of his nightstand. You watch with dilated pupils as he slides a condom over the thick girth of his cock, groaning at the friction before wrapping his hand around the base of his length. He guides himself to your entrance, panting roughly as he asks in a low, raspy voice, “Ready?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, “please.”

He pushes the first few inches of his tips past your folds—lets you pull him into a searing kiss as you gasp into his mouth and whine. He’s thick. Thicker than anything you’ve ever taken. You feel the burn of the stretch, and he’s not even fully in you yet. 

“S-so big,” you whimper. 

“You can tell me to stop,” he says softly, “promise. I’ll still be happy, okay? I’m happy with anything as long as it’s you. You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

You nod. But your eyes are stubborn when they open, and he lets out an amused, defeated sigh. “I want it, you know.”

“I know you do,” he kisses your pout, “my stubborn girl.”

You angle your hips upwards before he can say anything else, taking the rest of him in with a quick movement as he sinks into your cunt. His breath hitches as you gasp, and then he bites his bottom lip and closes his eyes, letting out a shaky groan. You watch as he pants, breath labored, while he holds himself back and gives you time to adjust. 

“You’re so pretty, Haitham,” you whisper, “your face is pretty. Know that?”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that about you?” he lets out a strained chuckle, “that’s what you should be hearing. Not the other way around.”

“Well, you took too long,” you say, flashing him a cheeky grin, “so I did it for you.”

Something flashes in his eyes at that—dark and hungry and insatiable as he lets out an amused chuckle. He grabs your ankle, making you yelp as he tosses it over his shoulder and angles himself to press deeper into you. 

“My apologies,” he murmurs, nipping and kissing along your jaw as his hips pull him out almost fully and roll into you with a deep, heavy thrust. You let out a soft cry, eyes fluttering shut as he murmurs, “There we go—that’s a pretty view, isn’t it? I knew I’d be speechless, but this is just unfair, sweet girl…you’re breathtaking, aren’t you?”

“S-stop,” you gasp, turning your face away from him shyly. He laughs—it’s a husky, raspy little thing. 

“Shy? What’s there to be shy about, beautiful? S’just me…a-and you, yeah?”

His hips roll with punctuated thrusts, angling the thick curve of his cock into you—hitting that same spot his fingers found so effortlessly. Whoever crafted Alhaitham took their time—they made him perfectly curved and muscled in all the right places. Of course, part of that is his own discipline. You know—very well, you know that abs and biceps like that don’t form overnight because genetics say so. But he was made by careful, slow hands that took their time on him. And those same careful hands took their time on you to make sure every curve and angle of you would fit against him. Would mold around him. Would curl into him so well, you would never know where you start and where he ends. 

“You drive me mad, do you know that?” he whispers against your ears, “do you know how wicked a woman you have to be—to enter my life so fast and turn it upside down so quickly? Do you know how powerless you have to make me—to come and go as you please, like you did, and possess me that way?”

“I—”

“I’m not done,” he grunts, slamming his hips down and silencing you with a particularly sharp thrust, “you made me sick. Made me some…some shell of myself. Some version I hardly recognized. You turned me insane—more than any forbidden knowledge could have. Corrupted every part of my brain. You have to take responsibility for that.”

“F-fuck,” is all you say, whining as his thumb finds its way to your clit, rubbing harsh circles while the thick head of his cock bullies its way past your folds, sliding the ridges of his length along your folds. You shake from the friction—thighs quivering as you accommodate his punishing pace. 

“You have to take responsibility for…for changing everything as I know it. You think you’re the only one who’s scared of change?”

“I’m not…I’m not scared anymore,” you breathe, “not if it’s you—you…you’re good change.”

“Yeah?” he asks—voice shaky. 

“Yeah,” you nod. 

He kisses you. You kiss back. Your second orgasm crashes over you harder than the first—only this time, it doesn’t break the serene calm of the water’s surface as it's still. This time, the waves are ones you saw coming—ones that bury you under them and pull you deep into the bottom of their depths. 

“Haitham,” you whine—and your back arches off of his bed and meets him halfway as he grinds his hips into you with a sloppy, desperate pace. 

“Yeah,” he pants, voice cracking, “y-yeah, I know. I know…I…I f-feel it too.”

You feel his cock twitch, and then there’s a flood of warmth against the thin plastic that separates you from him. He stills for a moment before he lets out a deep, throaty groan, burying his face into your neck and riding out the shockwaves of his own orgasm with sharp thrusts that don’t have proper rhythm. Not anymore. Not when he’s so far gone in his own pleasure as it burns through every nerve of his body. 

He slumps next to you on the bed—not before he wraps a strong arm around you and pulls you flush against his sweaty chest. Alhaitham is warm. Even when you’re warm, too, you still want to feel his warmth. You don’t mind the burning heat. Not when it’s him. 

“Did you mean it?” he whispers. 

“Mean what?”

“That I’m good change?”

You look up. Light breaks over your face as you smile at him and trace your finger over his chest. “Yeah. You are.”

“You are too,” he says softly, lips curling into a delicate smile. “You’re everything good for me.”

“Does this mean the letters will stop?” you pout, “no letter tomorrow now that I’m here?”

He chuckles. Looks at you with a look you can’t remember the last time you’ve seen before—maybe it was when your father could still look at your mother. Maybe you’d last seen such a look on his face, all those years ago. 

“Do you want them to stop?”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head as you nuzzle closer, “I don’t.”

“Then they won’t stop,” he says, kissing your head. “Promise.”

────────────────────────

Just like he promised, Alhaitham never stops writing you letters. Even when your house is no longer registered under your name and you have no address anymore, he still writes you his letters. 

“You sold your house,” he says quietly. “I saw the papers in the files.”

You pause your fingers from their adventures along his chest. It’s funny to think that some time ago—just a few months prior, even—you’d have stiffened at the words. You would tense at the fact that he knows anything about you and pull away from him. You would tell yourself that you have to pull yourself out of this bubble that surrounds you and throw yourself back into the real world. 

But you know now that Alhaitham is the real world. He is under the same sky as you and watches the same stars. You point to a constellation and he looks. He learns it. He remembers it, too. He is part of your world. 

“I did,” you murmur back. “I just…can’t keep going back there anymore. It’s not the same.”

“Where will you go? You haven’t bought another house yet,” he raises a brow. You roll your eyes—he thinks you didn’t think this through. You roll them out of slight amusement, though. Not bitter anymore like it once was. 

“I’ll find one. I don’t have to move out for another two weeks.”

“That’s highly unprepared. Not a good calculated risk,” he clicks his teeth. This time, you give him a flat look. 

If you are aphelion, Alhaitham is perihelion—opposite ends of the same path, always at different ends, yet always tied together by the same sun in the same sky. You are bound to him by the same, never-ending orbit. And he has sworn this to you, thoughtfully written in the letters you keep carefully hidden away in your drawer. For you.

“I’ll be fine,” you huff. “Mora isn’t exactly an issue. Say what you will about my father, but he left me a generous sum.”

He hums, staring ahead in thought. And then, “You know…you can always live here.”

You pause. “Here?” you ask cautiously, “you mean with you?”

He swallows for a moment and looks down. “Yes,” he says quietly. “With…with me. If you want, that is.”

“Your only other room is taken,” you snort, “by your roommate. And I’m not going to evict poor Kaveh—unlike me, he can’t afford a move.”

“This room is just fine,” he says boldly. Still, you can almost hear the way he’s a little hesitant. Scared, maybe. Still clinging to his pride as he delivers it with a shrug. “The windows are big. The mattress isn’t uncomfortable, either—you’d know. The bathroom has two sinks, too.”

“How convenient,” you nod slowly. 

“Very.”

“Okay,” you whisper. You pause. He stills, but he doesn’t stiffen. You breathe in and then out slowly for a moment before you say it again, louder this time. “Okay.”

Alhaitham’s eyes brighten at that—but then again, they are always bright. His irises are the sky, and every little streak of color that paints them is vibrant enough that you might mistake them for the stars. You might even wish on them, beg them to tell you secrets and show you the way, and lead you down a path that always takes you to him. 

And he’ll always be there. The sun might come out and the stars may disappear from your line of sight, but the stars will always be there. And they’ll always come back. There’s never been a night when they haven’t—not once, not in any chart the Akademiya has ever kept.

He smiles at your answer. It’s barely-there and it goes as quick as it comes, like a shooting star that passes by. But it came, and you have seen it in its fleeting glory.

He kisses your forehead and hums, “Okay.”

Alright, so first things first, lets talk about how/where this doll shows up, because it mostly does so in two main places in Marble Hornets, in Brian's house, and with Tim's medical files.

Let's talk about that first time.

✦ Entry #18

Ah yes, by and large one of my favorite entries of season one, but before we get fully into it the whole that Brian's creepy little doll plays in it, lets talk about what precedes it.

Before this entry comes out, the ToTheArk channel releases one of its own best entries from season 1 of Marble Hornets, Signal. In this video, Jay is told rather explicitly to "come back" to Brian's house and to "find me," all while there is creepy audio about the narrator showing the listener a secret, taken from the short film Silent Snow, Secret Snow.

Entry 18 is of course the first place where we finally see Masky for the first time, but I don't believe this message is from him. Rather, I think Brian knew or told Masky to be at the house, and lured Jay there as a way to scare him, as endlessly throughout Season 1 that really is the prerogative of these two, to scare or intimidate Jay away from the mystery.

Alright, that makes sense, yeah? But, so, what's the deal with the doll?

It honestly could be placed there just to freak Jay out, but I just want to point out the fact that Brian has a habit of doing things with a sort of artistic flare. There is a logic/through line to these actions, to his videos and his choices, even if it isn't apparent to us the viewer.

-

Moving on, ✦ Entry 60,

Alright, so admittedly this one is the main fodder for my theory, but I think it incredibly interesting that Brian leaves the doll for Jay to find with the medical records.

Yeah sure, maybe he is pointing out the fact that Tim had seizures due to the Operator, ok, but most of that folder isn't really about Tim's seizures but instead his childhood and hospitalization, even including some papers about his therapy sessions from MUCH later in his institutionalization, about 7 years later. (If you want to read more about my thoughts on that, click here.)

Why the hell would Brian leave the doll here? He is a man of details and what is he trying to tell us with this one?

Well, Dearest Reader, allow me give my two cents.

Are you familiar with the concept of a therapy doll?

They are a specific exercise often used in child's therapy, where a small doll is usually decorated and used as a tool to help a kid express their feelings and practice social skills, working through them in a safe environment with the doll.

This doll can often represent an important person in the child's life, or even themself at times, acting as a way to help with internal emotional management as well as external! And we know based on Tim's records, "Pediatric Admission Profile," Page 2, "Section XI - Teaching" that Tim has emotional barriers to learning.

Dear Reader, I believe this curious little doll, which we always see in relation to Tim, (either with his protector alter or with his medical files,) which people in the fandom love to misconstrue as a representative the Operator in some sense, is his therapy doll, from all the way back when he was institutionalized.

I believe he kept it as he went through therapy, and it was just something that accidentally stayed with his medical file, along with his older records. I believe that Brian knew of it and decided to lay it in wait before Jay saw Masky as a way to unnerve him, but he thought of it in the first place because it was Tim's, and by extension it was Masky's too.

I think the reason it is un-decorated is because, while abandoned at the institution, Tim didn't have an adult he trusted or wanted to talk to who could be the doll, and he didn't have a solid self image either due to his dissociation. That is why it is blank.

he can tell something’s up with you with a single glance your way. he won’t waste time, he’ll ask you what’s on your mind and trust me when i say that lying won’t get you out of this situation. he won’t stop until he found the source of your unhappiness before pulling you in a tight hug. his hugs usually last a bit during these moments, between his hands running up and down your back and his sweet, whispered words to your ear. if your heart is particularly heavy, he’ll kiss your tears in such a delicate way just to tickle you and bring back a smile on your face. he’ll make sure you know he’s by your side and you won’t have to deal with things all on your own.

diluc, kaeya, zhongli, baizhu, kazuha, thoma, tighnari.

his first instinct is to cheer you up as soon as he starts noticing your mood. what would his world be without his darling’s smile? he’ll try to make some jokes and squeeze you into his arms a little more until he hears your lovely laugh once again before starting to ask you about your worries. sadly enough, his attempts fail to prevent you from breaking down in front of him, his heart aching at the sight of your tears. he wipes away your tears while encouraging you to talk before smothering your face with sweet kisses and reassuring you in the meantime. you best believe he won’t let you leave his side for the rest of the day, that’s just the kind of guy he is.

childe, itto, thoma, heizou, cyno, kaveh, lyney.

he doesn’t really pick up on your mood at the very beginning, but he slowly begins to notice a couple of things which results in him trying to figure out what could possibly be upsetting you. he feels a little embarrassed to go up to you and comfort you out of the blue, but he does anyways because it’s you. he might sit beside you and hold your hand or even hug you without saying much. he’ll let you decide wether to open up or not, but he lets you know that whatever your decision may be, he’ll be there. later that day you’ll find him preparing you a snack and a drink for you with the intentions of staying by your side in the coziness of your own home.

albedo, xiao, alhaitham, wanderer, neuvillette, dainsleif.

he can see your saddened eyes. there’s never a moment when he’s not looking of you, so how could he not notice? he’s quite the strong man and his partner isn’t less than him, so he’s sure you can deal with anything. that is not to say he wouldn’t help you, he just knows that whatever it is, if it was serious enough you’d know to look for him. once you do though, he’ll offer you whatever you need to help you feel better. a hug? reassurance? solutions? whatever it is that is troubling you, dear, you’ve come to the right person. and although he may seem a little distant to some, you know that this man would move mountains to ensure your happiness and he reminds you everyday.

ayato, dottore, pantalone, capitano, pierro.

⌗a/n; wow, i sure love posting with consistency! 😸 this was rushed, i hope you cant tell that much and that you still like it. i noticed that they werent posting a lot of dottore content recently, so i took matters into my own hands 😈 anyways, if there are any mistakes, plsss tell me!!!

want to see more? take a look at my masterlist!

You shuffled the goggles off of your eyes, pushing them onto your forehead and messing into your hair, turning back to your friend.

“Toby Rogers- y’know, that kid who burned all those houses down? Serial killer, dude.” You smiled awkwardly, turning back to your vanity mirror and pressing the makeup brush against your cheek, trying to recreate the infamous cheek gash in the image you had pulled up. You were almost done, detailing the fake teeth at the corner of your lips. “Was really obsessed with him in middle school…”

“Oh, right.” Your roommate, Avery, rolled her eyes, curling the strands of her hair into big voluptuous rolls, making sure each piece looked nice under her hat. She was supposed to be Strawberry Shortcake, you think, it was hard to tell with how little she was wearing of the actual costume. It was really more of a bikini topped off with a strawberry hat.

“You’re still planning on going to AJ’s party, right?” She chirped, flipping the curling iron off and lying it on the counter, reaching back to grab her phone. You paused, giving yourself a once-over in the mirror- your costume really wasn’t the ‘AJ’s party’ type. You turned around in your chair, a little overwhelmed with how messy your bedroom floor was, but promising yourself you would clean it up later tonight.

“Uh, sure- If you guys are still going.” Avery tapped away at her phone, your own lighting up with text messages to your group chat sent by her. You were waiting on the rest of her friends, some people she had become close with in her classes.

It would be fun… you hoped.

“Oh, they’re here.” Stepping out of your room, you followed her to the front door, making sure your makeup looked good in the mirror. Standing on your front step, the rest of the group was there, chittering their excitement as Avery swung the door wide.

You stood awkwardly as they all hugged, complimenting each other on their matching costumes- the other two girls were supposed to be Orange Blossom and Blueberry Muffin, but they more or less matched with Avery’s.

They each had a guy with them, the tallest one wrapping his arm around your roommate’s shoulder, the Ghostface costume he had on making her all giggly. You cringed, fidgeting with the hem of the hoodie you had stitched to look like Toby’s, the stripes on your sleeves were the hardest part.

“Oh! This is my roommate [Y/N], she’s gonna come with us tonight.” You nodded, giving a small wave as they all turned to you. Brushing your hair behind your ear, they all smiled sweetly, but you could tell they were a little put off by the outfit you were wearing.

“Ah, what’re you dressed up as?” The Ghostface guy chuckled, shuffling his mask up to get a better look. 

“Oh- uhm, Toby Rogers? Like, that serial killer. Yeah.” None of them had a clue, you could see it in the weird glances they cast at one another. Avery waved them off, jingling through her keys to pull the door shut and locking it behind you. “We should get going, I don’t wanna miss anyone.”

Nodding, everyone began to walk down the hallway of your apartment building, the guys carrying six-packs of beer under their arms. Sighing, you followed behind, taking the fabric mask from under your chin and pulling it over your mouth.

You would try to have fun tonight, you swore it.

-

“Listen, kid, if you don’t hurry up I’m leaving you here.” 

Jeff crossed his arms, a scowl on his face as he watched poor Sally try and adjust her costume. Toby shoved him, kneeling beside her and reaching back to tie the little bow around her waist, casting a nasty look at the killer.

She was dressed as Annabelle, the creepy dress splattered with fake blood, making the real blood pooling from her forehead look like nothing more than some face paint. Her hair was tied into two neat little braids, Nina’s doing. Sally turned to look at herself in the reflection of EJ’s truck- Jeff had stolen it for the night, claiming he wasn’t going to walk all the way into town just for some candy. She finally nodded, holding her little basket tight in her hands.

This was her first Halloween, with Jeff of all people, so she was a little anxious. The killer, on the other hand, found this holiday to be his favorite. He could waltz the streets of the small town closest to the mansion, hood down and everything, snagging as much candy and compliments as he wanted. People really admired his ‘makeup.’

Toby decided to tag along this year, curious to see all the costumes and jack-o-lanterns. He really loved this night as a kid, he wanted to make sure it was good for Sally, too.

“I’m ready now.” She hummed, skipping forward to wrap her hand around Jeff’s hoodie sleeve, the killer rolling his eyes as he began to walk. Toby followed behind, admiring the decorations and darkly colored leaves littering the ground, a surge of excitement coursing through him. It felt just like one of those older scary movies, the sun dipping just low enough to cast an orangish hue across the clouds, kids running around giggling and screaming, parents tossing out candy left and right- he missed this feeling, what it was like to be normal.

He was older now, officially ‘candy handing-out’ age. He used to relish these days, promising that he would dress up for Halloween until he was sixty- now he had much more important things to worry about than what costume he was going to wear. If only his younger self knew how much of a genuine horror his life would become.

“C’mon, twitch, I ain’t waitin’ on you, too,” Jeff called, snapping Toby out of his trance as he watched kids race across the road, some mother yelling about being careful. He nodded, pushing his mask up over his nose, shimmying his goggles off of his forehead and over his eyes. He was still too paranoid to go outright, the covers made him feel more secure, like fewer people’s eyes were boring into him. He felt that swell of anxiety, having to remind himself that people would be far more concerned with Jeff’s look than his. Shoving his hands into his pocket, he took a deep breath- he had to calm down.

He wouldn’t lose himself tonight, he swore it.

-

“Wh- What’d you get?” Toby helped carry Sally’s basket, the thing nearly overflowing with how much she was getting, everyone was loving her costume. They were nearly done with this neighborhood, but Jeff heard some kids yelling about a Baptist church’s trunk-or-treat, and he was more than excited to show up somewhere holy. It was getting late, the sun almost nearly disappeared, so Toby knew it was almost time to wrap things up.

“Lots’a chocolate. Jeff keeps stealing the good stuff, though.” Glancing up, the killer was popping a tiny box of nerds into his mouth, tossing the cardboard onto someone’s yard when he shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve got like, six more of ‘em- you’ll be fine, squirt.”

It was turning out a lot better than Toby had thought, the brunette’s worries nearly washed away as the night grew more crowded. Jeff had spotted some middle-schooler dressed as Slenderman, the killer nearly doubling over in laughter as Toby hauled his phone out to take a picture. The brunette had forgotten just how popular their boss really was, more of an internet spectacle than folklore now. A meme? Yeah, his big scary boss was a meme. Tim and Brian were going to get a crack out of it. 

Teenagers were out now, older kids walking in packs with their friends, not so much worried about getting candy as they were trying to hide the alcohol they were carrying. Toby had forgotten just how much different Halloween was when you got older- girls dressed in skimpy outfits of cartoon characters, guys trying to play cool as some movie slasher chasing everyone around, and then you had the ones who just didn’t dress up at all. It was weird.

“Damn, when did Strawberry Shortcake lose the baker getup and start wearing lingerie?” Jeff snickered, crossing his arms and nodding towards a group across the street. Toby scanned them, the orangish tint of his goggles obscuring them, but he could easily make out who the killer was talking about. He gave the rest of the pack a once-over, their outfits more or less the same as guys clung to their hips, flirty little touches as they all walked.

He almost missed it though, the one in the middle of the group, unaccompanied. Jeff must’ve seen it at the same time because he was slapping Toby’s arm like crazy.

“Oh fuck, isn’t that supposed to be you?” Toby shoved his goggles off of his face, ruffling them into his bangs just like how you had them, looking utterly bored as your group quickly began to get out of his eyesight. The brunette looked down at himself, wearing that same hoodie that every popular image depicted him in, the stripes on his sleeves the telltale sign. There was no mistaking it, you were dressed up as him.

The brunette didn’t know how to feel, didn’t even really know what to say as Jeff’s teasing went unheard beside him. He couldn’t peel his eyes away, couldn’t stop his hands from flexing and fidgeting with utter excitement.

He had to get a better look at you.

“Hey! Where are you going?!” Jeff yelled across the road, Toby shoving the candy basket into the killer’s hands and jogging in the direction your friends were going.

“I’ll catch up with you guys later! Don’t wa- wait up!”

He disappeared into another block, Jeff letting out an exasperated sigh as he took Sally’s hand. “C’mon, kid. We’ve got some Baptists to freak out.”

-

It was already loud inside the house, music thumping against the walls as people tried to shout to hear one another. 

You hung against the wall of the living room, sipping slowly on whatever alcohol-filled punch they were serving in the kitchen. People were spilling out everywhere, the front yard just as busy as the rest of the rooms of AJ’s house.

It was barely even 9 PM, but nearly everyone from your school was here, familiar faces passing by with glances or cheesy small talk. Avery and her friends had disappeared into the crowd near the speakers, couples dancing and talking with one another, the pulsing neon lights, cheers following every finished game of beer pong, and the atmosphere heavy with vodka and laughter. It was nice, a little overwhelming, but nice.

You could feel the buzz in the back of your head, the tipsy dizziness you held making it a little easier to relax, the music swaying your hips gently.

You couldn’t see through the crowd, but Toby rested his shoulders back on the wall across from you, tapping his fingers across his thigh as he surveyed the crowd. He didn’t even have a drink, awkwardly trying to pretend like he was supposed to be here amongst the buzzed-out college kids.

He had followed you there, staying a comfortable distance behind your group and out of your curious eyes. It was hard not to notice the way your eyes lingered on the houses you passed, smiling at the kids who ran by, and pointing out the overzealous house decorations. You really stood out from your group, a sore thumb from the rest of them. 

What was he doing? Why was he even here? Following some girl because she was dressed as him? Toby knew he was popular, Ben reminding him every time some new post went up on the internet trying to debunk his whereabouts. It didn’t bother him, with his job came weirdos who idolized him- he had just never seen it in person before. 

It really was surreal. 

“Oh my god.”

Toby shot up, straightening as he looked to his side, panic sweeping over him.

Lost in his thoughts and the rush of the party, he hadn’t noticed you pushing to his side of the room, shuffling past to get back into the kitchen for more of whatever you were drinking. You had your mask tugged down under your chin, the facepaint on the left side of your cheek standing out against your flushed cheeks. You even had torn tissue paper to make it look realistic- God, he was going to freak out.

Holding your hands out, you look down at yourself and then at him, comparing your almost identical outfits with a bright smile. “Nice costume, man.” 

Of course, you were cute. He was trying to register you, eyes flinching across your sweet face smiling up at him.

Toby teetered, shoulder flinching just enough to make you glance, but not enough to take the excitement away from your face. He also realized he was just staring and not saying anything- “Oh! Yea- Yeah, hah-” The cool metal of his mask pressed against his cheeks, staring oddly at the fabric one you had.

“Oh damn, you’ve got like- the legit facemask. I just got mine from Spirit, it’s pretty crappy.” You laughed to yourself, holding the solo cup awkwardly in your hands, fidgeting with the lid. Toby immediately regretted his decision, wracking through his brain for some way to get out of here- he forgot how painful small talk was. “I didn’t know anybody else even knew who Ticci Toby was.”

God, that nickname. The play on words was supposed to be funny, but its holder didn’t think it was all that humorous. He smiled at you anyway; there was just something about the way you said it, all giddy.

“Ah, yeah. Mine’s pre- pretty old.” He was fidgeting again, unprepared for how you snuck up on him. “I, uhm, tried my best. Haven’t re- really dressed up in a while.” You complimented him heftily, pointing out the ‘fake’ dirt and blood stains across his hoodie, the great quality of his goggles, and even how he got his makeup to that weird milky-gray skin color. To you, it was just a very well-done costume. 

“No, I get it. I don’t usually go all out like this,” Looking down at yourself, you put on sort of a blush, nervous chirping about how niche it was. Toby couldn’t help but smile. “I just have always really loved his story, so I wanted to make one of my last Halloween’s memorable, y’know?” Ah, candy-handing-out age. A million thoughts ran in the brunette’s mind, but he found himself relaxing again, shoulder pressed onto the wall as you rambled. “I’m just glad I’m not the only one who likes him.”

With you, this close, cheery little features continuing to blab on about the rest of the small details of your own costume, he couldn’t help but find himself listening so intently. A fan? Is that what you were? It felt weird to think about it like that, but the brunette found himself blushing at the thought of an admirer.

“-And I fringed the bottom of his hoodie with a lighter. It was hard to get it to look right, but I really liked how it came out. Y’know, for like him burning his house and stuff- I thought it was a nice detail.” Toby was nodding along, surprised by the little burn holes near the pockets of your lookalike hoodie, the attention to detail far more than he was expecting. “That’s really cool, uh-”

“[Y/N].”

“Uh- Toby.” Was that going to give it away-

“Even got the name down too, huh? Man, I see why you dressed up as him- you fit everything to a T.” He relaxed, your obliviousness laughable, but also a heavy relief.

People brushed by, bumping into both of your shoulders and shimmying their way through. You refocused again, pointing back over your shoulder with a shy smile. “Would you, uh, wanna get some more to drink? I was going anyway-”

Woah- You were inviting him to hang out longer? He was about to refuse, come up with some weird excuse to get back to Jeff and Sally, but the way you gleamed up at him, flashing lights and overstimulating music, it felt so odd.

He was going to let himself give in. He was wearing a ‘costume’ after all, so why not play up the act and enjoy himself a little bit? Slender would have him out running these woods by tomorrow, so why not just take the night and at least pretend like he was still a normal kid? Like all those bad things never happened, being a proxy never happened… He was just a kid who grew up, spending Halloween how normal teenagers did now. Yeah, he was going to let himself have this one night if nothing else.

Toby nodded, pushing off of the wall as you led the way, pushing through the mess of wildly dressed people into the kitchen. Behind you, now, Toby could see the way you still stood out amongst everyone, odd glances being cast in your direction. Just like him, almost, a freak in a sea of hateful eyes. You get it.

“I don’t really know what this stuff is, but it tastes pretty good.” You laugh, flipping the nozzle of the jug holding whatever concoction was mixed with red Kool-Aid, pouring some into two cups. You handed it to Toby, the brunette awkwardly swirling the liquid around with a nervous stare. You giggled at him, wrapping your hand around the sleeve of his hoodie, and guiding him out the back door and onto the patio.

The atmosphere was much calmer than inside, the muffled thumping of whatever song was playing giving a nice rhythmic atmosphere as you sat on top of the stairs leading out into the backyard. You both watched friends and couples dare each other to jump into the pool, the chilly autumn air guiding you to believe the water wasn’t much warmer. Toby sat next to you, mask still snug on his face, revealing nothing for your curious mind.

“So, Toby, what’re you doing here?” You sipped lightly on the drink, contrasting flavors of vodka swirling in the fruity punch, the sting of alcohol making you cringe. Toby hesitated, still tapping his fingers on the side of the plastic cup, trying his best to calm his rushing nerves.

“Uhm- well, y’know… Halloween par- party stuff…” Even though you had taken notice of his stutter ages ago, you forcefully ignored it. You knew better than anyone about nerves, you didn’t want the poor guy to feel any worse about it. Still, his answer made you laugh.

“You’re not supposed to be here, are you?” You smile as he shakes his head, leaning back to glance up at the sky, the moon hanging bright and casting a milky glow across the clouds. Toby really enjoyed it when it was like this, made it easier to see where he was going at night. “That’s alright, I don’t really belong here, either.” You enjoyed the moon because it was pretty. Same worlds, different perspectives.

“How come?” Toby leaned back, too, kicking his legs out as he relaxed, easing into the conversation. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “I only came because my roommate invited me, I didn’t really want to come. These things aren’t really my deal.” You took another sip, Toby taking in every inch of your face, studying every detail as you spoke. “I would’ve much rather gone trick-or-treating. I guess we’re all a little too old for that now, though, huh?”

The breeze ruffled your hair, wrapping your knees in tight against your chest as the air chilled you. Toby caught himself admiring- it was almost like you were wearing his hoodie, the top just a little oversized on you- he could imagine it. “Nah, I used to love it. Wish it wasn’t we- weird to go when you got a certain age like there’s a time lim- limit on when you can ask for candy.” He smiled, flinching his leg a little.

Toby felt his phone buzz in his back pocket, leaning over to dig it out, flipping the screen up to see a text message from Jeff.

“wtf r u?????” “party. dont wait up.” “😡🖕🙄”

Just to make sure, Toby shared his location with the killer, flipping his phone off and shoving it back into his pocket.

You gave him a sideways glance, smacking him on the shoulder playfully. “You haven’t even drank anything- at least try it. It’s not all that bad.” Clearly, considering you were throwing the cup back to finish off presumably your second glass.

Toby awkwardly cupped his hand onto the metal of his mask, sliding it down below his chin. Thankfully, he had remembered to get EJ to redo the bandages on the corner of his mouth, the gaudy wound becoming irritating to deal with. He wishes it was just cool makeup like yours.

Taking a sip from the cup, he cringed, brows knotting as he shut his eyes. “God- That’s like- straight vodka with fru- fruit syrup- Fuck-” It burned his tongue, your laughter so sweet beside him, resting your hand on his shoulder. He made a funny face, fake gagging on the terrible thing.

He sat straight when you gasped, cupping your hands onto his cheeks and turning his head forcefully. His instincts kicked, hands flexing to grab at you, to slam you down across the pavement below- 

Until you were rubbing your thumb across his bandages gently, flattening out the ends that had become soiled with dried blood. Toby forced himself to relax, his heart thudding in his chest with adrenaline. No one usually got this close- touched him- unless they were clawing for their life. It was like a whiplash, having to condition himself differently for your ignorance.

“Dude, no way you’ve been hiding these all night! Fuck, even these look real- how in the world are you so good at dressing up?” You were taking in every detail of his face, assuming the scars across his lips and cheekbones were merely good makeup skills or a talented friend, Toby trying his best not to freak out with you this close.

You seemed to notice it too, because you were snapping your hands back, eyes blowing wide-

“Shit- sorry- I get real excited about these things… The drinks probably aren’t helping either.” You chuckled, awkwardly sitting back and tucking your knees against your chest, silently cursing yourself for making him uncomfortable with your weird obsession. Toby noticed it, immediately catching the switch-up in your attitude.

Holding his palm out, he levels it in front of you, catching your attention. “I’ve, uhm, got the weird hand bandages, too.” He sheepishly smiled, watching as you slowly lit up again, taking his hand between your own.

“No way…” You picked at the medical wrap clinging around his hand, little bandaids and medical tape snugged tight around his fingers to hide the terrible bite marks and scars he had given himself, that gaudy proxy symbol etched into his flesh. He wanted to compliment your makeup, to say something about how realistic it looked-

Until you both heard a piercing scream from across the patio.

“Tyler!”

Snapping your gaze to the noise, you watched as a tall jockey guy hauled a tiny blonde girl over his shoulders, taking two heavy steps before he jumped into the pool, dragging her along with him. Toby was concerned but was quickly caught off guard when you began to laugh, slapping his arm.

“Avery! Are you okay?!” The other girls on the side of the pool knelt down beside the water, reaching their arms out to help the poor girl back onto solid land. They quickly had a towel wrapped around her, and the guy, Tyler, hopped up onto the side, high-fiving the similar-looking guys accompanying them.

You were still laughing, Toby smiling even when the girl came over to the steps, hurriedly trying to get back inside.

“Ah- [Y/N]? Who’s this?” Your roommate gave Toby a once-over, casting a sideways glance as she noticed you both were wearing the same outfit.

“Uh, This is Toby- we’re dressed as the same thing, see?” You were all cheery, smiling up at her even as she dripped water everywhere. Toby recognized them now, the skimpy group you were walking with, the ones who left you alone almost immediately after getting to the party. You tried to act like it didn’t hurt you, but the brunette had seen it all, catching every time you longingly stared at them through the crowd- the way you still did now.

“Right… Well, I’m glad you guys found each other,” You could hear the sarcasm in her voice, her friends hanging behind her and giving you both funny looks, whispering to one another as she talked. Toby knew you noticed it, too. You were pressing your knees against your chest again, shriveling up into yourself. “Look, we’re leaving. Probably going to finish the night out at some bars if you want to head on back to the apartment.”

You began to nod, giving Toby a half-glance of defeat, taking your empty cup in hand as you began to stand up.

“Uh- Ac- Actually, we’re going trick-or-treating. So, don’t wa- wait up.” Toby stared daggers into the girl, unapologetically snagging your hand in his as he stood, taking his cup in hand. Avery watched him with a sour look, glancing back and forth between you two before stepping up the rest of the stairs. “You two have fun, then. Freaks.”

She definitely said the last part louder than she meant to, because her friends were giggling as they trailed behind her, quickly scuttling into the crowded house. You rolled your eyes, trying not to let it show, but the pang in your chest was heavy.

Toby looked at you, took a firm grip on the solo cup, and closed his eyes. You watched with bright eyes as he chugged the rest, throat burning as he groaned, crushing the cup in his fist and tossing it behind him. You smiled, forgetting that your hand was still tucked neatly into his as you both raced off the patio, pushing through the fence gate, and climbing out onto the road. The street lights were on now, kids dwindling as houses stopped handing out candy, but Toby was determined to get you some.

“Are we actually trick-or-treating?” You laughed, Toby dragging you along with him, pulling his mask back up and over his nose. “Dude, we’re like, totally too old for this stuff, now-”

“And? Just cause I’m older doesn’t me- mean I stopped loving candy.” He hollered. You clung against his side, the breeze pushing through your hair and giving your nose a cute little blush, eyes bright with excitement as you gripped his hand tighter. You tugged your own mask up, shimmying your plastic goggles off of your head and over your eyes, completing the entire look. Toby stalled, heart whirling in his chest as you raced down the sidewalk, excitement buzzing in the air.

Jeff was going to kill him, but it would be worth it.

-

“Trick or treat!”

You held out a plastic Walmart bag, the thing nearly busting with how many pieces of candy it was holding. You both had meant to stop five houses ago, but when you somehow wound up in the nicer neighborhood four blocks over, you couldn’t pass up the full-size candy bars they were giving out.

The tipsiness was really hitting now, you both holding onto one another as concerned glances from parents dumping the rest of their candy into your bag. You always hated those obnoxious people who laughed or talked too loud in public, but now, you found yourself doubling over, cackling at the mean comments Toby was dishing out to little kids’ costumes.

“Tha- That’s supposed to be Spiderman? Yeesh.” It wasn’t even that funny, but you nearly hit your knees from lack of air, laughing so hard that your chest was hurting. Toby’s eyes were heavy, neck jerking and body twitching from the overstimulation, his cheeks a rosy color from the swirl of alcohol in his bloodstream.

“Okay, okay,” You raised up, catching your breath as you leaned against his arm, the rusty smell of his cologne surrounding you. “I think if we get any more- hic- we’re gonna be picking all of it up off the ground.” You pointed at the sack, the plastic stretching and threatening to bust out everywhere. Toby nodded, reaching in and snagging a Hershey’s kiss, popping the sweet chocolate into his mouth. You acted offended, holding the bag close as you both laughed.

The streets were nearly empty now, most of the houses’ lights being turned off and decorations unplugged, the only sign of activity from cars driving by or random groups of kids racing back home to review their hauls. You could feel your own room calling to you, your intoxication pulsing sleepiness into your mind.

Toby noted when you yawned, taking that as a silent sign that the night was ending, preparing to part ways with you. He nearly reached back into his pocket, going to give Jeff a call to come pick him up.

“Wanna go back to my place?”

He paused, your heavy eyes grinning up at him.

“Uh- What?” He could feel himself blushing. Was it just the vodka? He hoped so.

“Well, I ain’t gonna eat all of this by myself. Besides, I’m not trusting myself to get back without crashing out in a bush somewhere.” Toby laughed, rolling his eyes as you waited for his answer, shifting your weight nervously. You smiled when he nodded, your arm quickly wrapping around his and dragging him down the rest of the street.

Reaching over, he took the bag of candy from your hands, stuffing it under his arm. You walked slowly, taking in the dulled-out character inflatables and oversized skeletons in people’s yards, pointing out the Spirit Halloween animatronics that you found so cool. He couldn’t help but find himself staring, encapsulated with you. You found such beauty in what everyone else found offputting, admiring what even he would call strange.

“You’re so weird.” He huffed with a grin.

You glanced up at him, rolling your eyes. “You like it.”

Toby couldn’t find a good answer, turning his attention back to the street lights out front. He did like it. 

“So, I never asked about you- Like, really. What do you do when you’re not wearing the best Toby Rogers cosplay ever?” Toby glanced at you, stalling out mentally as he tried to come up with something.

“Uh, I travel a lo- lot. Kinda like an on-call thing. Uhm… Yeah.” You nodded along, but the brunette wasn’t entirely sure you were hearing what he was saying. You were just looking at him, eyelids hanging low as you took in every detail of his face. He smiled, reaching his free hand to tug your mask down under your chin, your sly grin hidden underneath.

“Tell me abo- about you, [Y/N]. What is Ms. Rogers doing when she’s not ob- obsessing over me?”

Toby paused, a dead stare into your eyes as he choked on his words. He slipped up- Did you notice, would you care? He could feel the panic rising in his chest, jerks twinging at the back of his neck, anxiety swelling-

“Woah, easy tiger-” You’re giggling, pushing the strands of hair that fell in your face when you did an unbalanced little bow. “Didn’t know I was in the presence of such a celebrity.”

Toby was already relaxing, shoulders untensing faster than they wound, trying his best to settle his shaky hands. “But, I don’t know. I’m in between jobs? School?” You fidgeted with your hands, your arm still wrapped tightly around his. The weight was comforting. “I’m only still here because it’s where I grew up, but I don’t know what I’m doin’ now…” Your stare was distant, fidgeting with the fabric of his sleeve as you talked. 

He was about to say something, trying to muster up some affirming speech that Tim used to tell him when things got rough. But you were tugging him off of the sidewalk, skipping towards some apartment complex building. “We’re hereee…”

He followed you through the neat hallways, the stout smell of clean and tacky air fresheners strong on the brightly colored carpet. Toby didn’t know if he had ever been in a place so nice, dozens of doors lining everywhere you went, feeling like he could get lost if you weren’t dragging him into an elevator.

Pressing your floor button, he leaned back against the brassy walls, your hands rummaging through your pockets and hauling out a set of keys. Cute little keychains were hooked onto the loop, reaching back into your pocket for your phone, swiping across the screen.

“Here, smile-” You were leaning back against him, holding your hand high in the air to take a selfie, Toby grinning goofily up into the camera. Looking over the picture, you smiled, never moving off of his shoulder as the elevator took you up, Toby’s heart soaring much higher.

-

“How many of those are you going to eat?” You gasped, tossing another Skittles wrapper onto your floor, adding to the mess that you swore you were going to clean up.

Alternatively, you were lying on your back, laid out on your even messier bed, stuffing your face with possibly the most unhealthy amounts of sweets. Toby sat on the floor, his back pressed against your footboard, rummaging his hands through the sack and tossing pieces up to you. 

He looks really good in just a t-shirt, you thought, catching yourself staring at his toned shoulders.

“As many as I want.” He grinned, popping another jawbreaker into his mouth. Your twin pairs of goggles and masks lay scattered on the floor, hoodies bunched at his feet. Toby was in bliss, the sweet smell of your perfume and clothes soaked in all around him, pieces of you everywhere he looked. Posters of your favorite bands, corkboard full of keychains and polaroids, even your wall-mounted TV playing some older murder mystery documentary. He loved how normal it felt, how comfortable, and different.

In his mind, he could see you going through the motions every day, the boy longing for even just a taste of that. In the way you admired his weirdness, he admired your normality. Same worlds, different perspectives.

“I’m officially cutting myself off until Christmas.” You huffed, climbing off of the bed and staggering to your vanity. Toby watched as you fiddled through your makeup, popping open the box of makeup wipes and taking one out. Pushing your hair behind your ears, you began to wipe the design on your cheek off, rubbing the wipe over your eyes and cleansing your skin of the fake deep-set eyes. The brunette was lost, mesmerized by how your rosy cheeks looked so sweet in the warm light of your bedside lamp, eyes brighter than ever.

Sitting off your chair, Toby sat up a little when you grabbed another wipe, kneeling next to him. “Your turn.”

He stuttered, glancing from your now-clean face to the wipe in hand, nervousness creeping up in his throat. The wipe was cold, pressing it against his as you tried to clean him off, Toby watching through worried eyes when your face started to contort, confusion heavy in your features. “Dude, like, none of this is coming off. What kind of makeup did you use?”

“Hah- Uh, the good stuff, y’know?” He could tell you weren’t convinced, scrubbing just a little harder on his cheekbone until the grayish skin became littered with red irritation. You sat back on your heels, cupping the side of his cheek with your free hand, running your thumb across the skin under his eye. Toby flinched, your other hand coming up to cup the other side of his head, eyes tensed in focus. 

Fuck, here it goes.

“This isn’t makeup, is it?”

Toby cringed, refusing to look you directly in the eyes. His fingers flexed, the outline of his pocketknife pressing against his leg, a silent reminder. He didn’t want to do it, God, he silently begged not to, prayed for you to brush it off so he could get out of here. The room felt so small now, your closeness becoming increasingly irritating the longer you stared.

But the brunette knew that if you reacted how everyone else did, with panicked screams that would have your curious neighbors come knocking, he knew what he would have to do. Even someone as awestruck as you couldn’t keep him from the inevitable.

He clenched his jaw when you dropped your hands, parting your lips like you wanted to say something, but getting tangled in your own thoughts.

“[Y/N]. I’m- uhm- I’m him, okay?”

You just kept staring, “I get it, your costume was good- okay? I don’t-”

“No, I’m not- Jeez,” He slid his hand up the side of his thigh, finally forcing himself to look at your confused face, eyes snagging onto every detail. “I’m Ro- Rogers. Like- Toby, Toby Rogers… I’m Ticci Toby.”

Tapping his heel on your carpeted floor, the brunette waited, collecting every twitch of your eyes or shaky breath that you took. He was ready for the yelling, the panic, taking calculated measurements in his head of just how many steps it would take for you to get to your bedroom door. He had done it a million times, ended someone’s life a million times. He would force this time not to be different.

His hand flexed around the indent of his pocketknife, ready to flip the metal open as you sat up onto your knees.

Your hands moved slowly, following the same motion you had been making all night, but this time it was more meaningful. Toby flinched as your warm fingertips brushed along his jaw, wrapping gently around his cheeks as you said nothing, the brunette trying to keep the floodgates of panic from cracking open in his mind.

That’s when he felt your fingernails picking at the bandage on his cheek, pinching the edge, and slowly, carefully removing the sterile cloth underneath, the fabric spotty with dried blood. Toby let his eyes shut, his facial wound now on full display, slowly ticking the seconds of silence by in his mind, relishing in the fleeting feeling of his ‘normality.’

He was a fool to ever think he could have something so nice-

“The pictures on the internet do not do you justice.”

The rush came to a stop, eyes slowly flinching open as he looked at you, his brows knitted in confusion. “What?”

“There’s these pictures on Twitter, really blurry, but still- of you. They don’t make this thing look half as cool as it really is.” As if to confirm it for yourself, you brushed your thumb across the edge of his skin where the flesh broke off in torn tissue and exposed the side of his gums. You watched to see if he would flinch, carefully pressing the softness of his cheek to watch the skin stretch and move- it was real.

Toby watched as you sat back, setting your hands down in your lap. It was strange how the brunette found himself missing the warmth of your touch, already.

“Toby… Toby… How the fuck did I not see it sooner?” You repeated his name over and over, rolling the syllables off your tongue and stapling them in your mind. “How did I not notice? I’ve seen your face a million times.”

Toby could barely register any of it, his heart thudding a mile a minute as you carried on like everything was normal, more angry with yourself for not noticing it was him than anything. It was almost a blur as you scooted forward, leaning in close to wrap your arms around his neck, hugging him in so gently. 

He could feel himself melt, hand unraveling from his knife as the panic dissipated, the sweet, lovely smell of your perfume heavy in his nose. He had to be dreaming, he thought, slowly coaxing his hands around your back and pulling you in closer, forgetting the last time he had even had a hug at all.

But then it ends all too quickly, your hands pushing back on his shoulders, a panicked look in your eyes.

“I must seem insane.” And then you’re standing up, running your hands through your hair, pacing back and forth across the messiness of your bedroom. Toby shakes his head, standing off the ground, reaching out to you. “I’ve been going on and on about you all night- I must seem so psycho and crazy. This is so embarrassing- What the fuck?” 

He’s grabbing your arms, pulling you back over to the foot of your bed, and sitting you down, an exasperated smile on his face. He was so worried about you freaking out or becoming terrified that he completely forgot who you were. You had been rambling about him all night, unknowingly complimenting the boy right to his face, and Toby was scared you wouldn’t like him. Just like how you’re worried about looking crazy, embarrassment flooding your face as you hide your palms in your hands.

“[Y/N], lo- look at me.” He tugs your hands away, sitting beside you on the bed, leaning down so you’re forced to look at him. You nervously hold his gaze, face so red and flustered, he’s smiling at you like a little kid. “It’s cute.”

And then you’re flopping back onto the bed, screaming into your hands as Toby laughs, running his hands through his hair.

Is this what it’s like? Teenagers hiding out in their rooms, casting sheepish glances at one another all night until one of them cracks, everything flooding out. He should be taking a priority, getting the hell out of your room and out of your life before he gets mixed up with something he can’t pull himself away from. But the flirty touches, teasing, and everything else that got him here clouds his judgment.

Then you’re sitting back up, scooting closer, and throwing your arms around his neck, abandoning every thought he was just brushing over in his mind. He holds you close, your face hiding in the crook of his neck, taking uneven, steady breaths as you try and rationalize it all, before giving up. “I’m sorry, Toby.”

And now it’s his turn to be confused, leaning back to look you in the face. “For?”

“Everything. The things even I couldn’t have controlled, the things that made you this way- Nobody’s probably ever told you before, so I will: I’m sorry. I’ve studied your story so many times, went over every detail, ran your perspective in my dreams- but even still, I can’t possibly imagine.”

The brunette can’t feel pain, he doesn’t understand the cut of a knife or the sting of a bullet. But the pang that snags in his chest, this heavy weight that feels like all the pain he's ever missed out on- that hurts worse than anything. But looking into your eyes, his hands planted firm on your skin, the solid weight beside him- It’s like it's all never even mattered in the first place.

For the first time in his life, he’s being seen. Viewed as more than just a weapon.

Screw the different perspective, screw the polar opposites, he’s in the here and now. It doesn’t matter if he’s been pretending tonight or his entire life, right now is real. He’s not going to lose it.

“Ca- Can I kiss you…?” It’s nearly a whisper, his voice so quiet and nervous as he leans forward on your bed.

You glance from his eyes down to his lips, heart thumping so loud you’re scared he might be able to hear it. You nod anyway, blinking slowly as you hold his gaze. “Y- Yeah.”

Toby brings his hand up nice and slow, cupping the side of your cheek as he leans in, fingers trembling against your skin. Your hand reaches to cup his, warm fingers relaxing atop his, a satisfying weight that has the boy swooning. Then you’re leaning in, too, slowly fluttering your eyes shut.

And then your lips touch, and everything just holds for a moment.

All the rush of the night, the nervousness, the excitement, it stops for just this one second.

You’re leaning into his touch, soft lips pressed firmly against his rough ones, slowly twinging your jaw to coax him deeper. He feels like he’s melting, skin so hot to the touch when you reel him in, your free hand snaking up the backside of his neck and into his messy curls.

He groans into your mouth, breaking the kiss and leaning back, breathing heavily. Your face is so flushed, cheeks a deep vermillion that makes Toby smile a little, grinning as he still cups your cheek. Your fingers brush through his hair, coaxing his head into your hand with such gentle touches. It’s so sweet, so calm, a complete turn from what the brunette is used to.

He knows pain, and rough, and cold- but you- there’s only sweetness, and caring, and warmth behind those eyes. He wants more of it, to feel more of it, he has to have it- to have you.

It doesn’t hit him what just happened until you’re giggling in front of him. Then that hold snaps, his conscience rushing back into him, and he’s leaning back further-

“I’m so so sorry- Oh my god- I don’t kn- know what I was thinking- I- Gah- I’m so sorry-”

“Toby.”

“If I should go- or- Oh, my god- I’m sorry- I should-”

“Toby.”

“I’m just so-”

And then your hands are wrapped into his hair, pushing forward until your lips collide, hurried, loud kisses that have the brunette spiraling, eyes fluttering shut again. There’s that warmth, your body leaning in to press close to his, arms wrapping around his neck, he thinks he might pass away.

You pull back, taking a deep breath as Toby collects himself, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. He’s a mess, brain running a mile a minute, his body having a hard time catching up as he twitches and jerks. 

Throwing your leg over his, you straddle his thighs, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck and holding him close. He’s swallowed by the sweet smell of your perfume, resting his chin on your shoulder as he wraps onto your back, heart thumping against your chest. He finds the thoughts flooding, dissipating the more he breathes, disappearing into this blanket of quiet.

“You alright?” You whisper, brushing your fingers through the back of his hair, his skin tingling with your touch. He hums low against your shoulder, running his fingers up and down your spine, the touch making you sigh. He could live forever in this moment, could die happy right here.

But when his fingers mindlessly dip a little too low, brushing your lower back right above the waistline of your jeans, Toby mewls at the way you grip onto tufts of his hair. It’s abrupt, a reaction, but he feeds into it anyway. He brushes that spot again, right above your tailbone, and you’re taking a deep, shaky breath against his neck. He likes that a lot.

Gently, he tugs the hem of your shirt up, just enough to see a peak of your skin. You pause, hitching a breath when you feel his cold fingers wind up under your shirt and press against your back.

“Toby-” He promises he’ll stop if you ask him to, making sure you know that- but you’re shaking your head, gripping onto his arm as he pushes his hand higher, snaking his fingers along the bony press of your back. You let out a low groan, quiet, but just enough to have Toby aching for more. He stops when his fingers brush the strap of your bra, dipping back down to caress the curve of your skin, studying every detail you’ll let him get.

“You’re so pretty…” He whispers, the dull lamp glowing across your flushed face making him blush, your body relaxing against his hold. Your noises are like a drug, he wants to hear them over and over, the softness of your voice so intoxicating. But more than that, he wants you. If this is all he gets, he’ll cherish it for the rest of his days.

Wrapping an arm around your back, he’s flipping you over, pushing you up to the center of your plush bed and towering over you. “Toby…” He drinks in your sweet gasps as he intertwined his lips with yours, tasting how sinfully delicious you were with a swipe of his tongue across your lower lip. Toby’s hands wandered the expanse of your body, cupping your head to kiss you deeper, snaking down to rub your waist. It’s so greedy, so hurried and eager, but doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out.

Your fingers run through his curls, following his head as he moves off your lips, slowly pressing a trail of gentle, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck. You’re gasping, running your hands across his shoulders, digging your nails in when he kisses just above your collarbone- but then he’s sitting back, pushing up and off of you with a worried look.

“Fu- Fuck, I’m sorry-” And then you’re sitting up on your elbows, a concerned look on your face. “I’m not be- bein’ myself tonight- I don’t know what’s wrong. Shit, [Y/N], I’m sorry-”

“Toby, it’s alright-” You laugh, pushing up to sit in front of him, reaching out before he takes your wrists in his hands, holding them down.

“No- I just, never do any- anything like this- It’s like I can’t stop-” Even through his apologies he’s staring at your lips, that hunger pooling in his chest for another sweet taste.

“You’re telling me I get to kiss the boy I’ve had a crush on for years, and he’s worried about not being able to stop?” Exasperation was heavy on your face, it’s almost laughable how much playful irritation was in your voice. Toby caught that last part though, the words going straight to his head.

“You gotta crush on me?” He smiles, redness tinting his cheeks. He’s still holding your wrists, your eyes slowly widening as the heat settles on your face.

“I, uhm- Well, you see-” You’re scrambling for words, the cheesy smile on Toby’s face not helping your case at all. “I mean, I thought it was kinda obvious. I dressed up as you for Halloween, man.”

He doesn’t let his conscience weigh him down anymore, pulling your hands to wrap around his neck before he pushes you back down onto the bed, swallowing the sweet taste of your lips against him. He can still taste the sourness of the candy you were eating on your tongue, too. He licks at the plush of your lips, drinking in your gasps as he intertwines his tongue with yours. Kissing you like he’ll never be able to again. Because, God, knowing his luck- he probably won’t.

You’re a giggly mess, spreading your knees for him to slot between them, his muscled arms wrapping around the small of your waist. “And I’ve nev- never seen someone be able to pull off my go- goggles so well.” He prays you won’t be able to feel the bulge he’s sporting, but when your legs wrap around his hips, he loses all hope.

Your stomach flutters, tingles across your skin as he’s back on your neck, little nips and kisses that have your back arching off of the comforter, arms tightening around him. He would kiss you forever, marking every inch of your skin with a delicate brush of his lips, he could waste his time like that forever. You wrap your legs around Toby’s waist to pull him closer, feeling the outline of his cock. He grinds against you, letting out low groans at the snag of your clothed core. Both of you knew it- he needed you so badly.

But then you’re pushing your warm hands up the back of his shirt, fingers scorching across his toned muscles and scratching your nails into his skin. You push the top off of his shoulders, up and over his head before throwing it to the side, glancing down at the slim but strong figure looming above you. Scars adorn his skin, long gashes or scattered fragments of bullets that have clipped him, not to mention the littered cigarette burns all down his abdomen. He finds it disgusting, blemishes that he can’t stand to look at.

But you’re tracing them with your fingers, rubbing your thumbs across the blistered burns that made him sick, taking in every inch of him. And smiling. Was it possible to fall in love this fast?

“They’re disgusting.”

“They’re so cool.”

He can’t muster the words to fight you as you’re reaching deeper, pushing your hands further down his torso to snag onto his jeans, reaching for his belt. Toby’s body comes to a rushing halt, his heart beating so hard, the feeling of his cock finally getting the attention it wanted.

His hands rest on either side of your shoulders, a dark shadow over you as you slowly undo his belt, unbuttoning his jeans hastily. Hands dipping past the band of his boxers-

He was big- so mouthwateringly big. Flushed a deep shade of pink at his tip, pulsing in your hand so comfortably- every part of Toby was so endlessly pretty to you. He was gasping, eyes trained on how your fist slowly moved, so hot and heavy in your grasp as you pumped him at a steady, methodical pace. “Ah- Shit…”

Glancing back up to you, your face is so red, lips parted as Toby takes your jaw into his grasp, forcing you to look up at him before he bullies his tongue past your lips, little groans slipping past. Your back arches into him as his hands snake up your shirt, parting from your lips only to push the fabric over your head, capturing your kiss quickly again. He thinks he can manage, thinks he can keep his composure- but then your thumb runs over his slit, precum dribbling out onto your finger, and he's moaning into your mouth like he's never been touched before.

He hasn’t, not like this, not this gentle.

“[Y/N]- Oh God-” You’re biting his bottom lip, fingers clenched tight around the swollen head of his cock and pumping gently, his hips twitching and jerking for more. He pushes off of you, the breathless flush of your face so pretty under him, but then he’s glancing down.

And, fuck.

Your tits sit so pretty in your bra, blushed skin laid out beneath him as shaky hands reach to unbutton your jeans, jerky fingers quickly tugging them down your thighs and onto the floor below. And then he can’t believe how he's gone this long without you, or how he'll be able to survive another night if you’re not with him. 

Where you admire his blemishes, he admires your perfection. Not a nasty knife scar or bullet nip anywhere on you, skin so soft and warm, his cold hands running across your smooth hips. “Gorgeous.” It’s the only thing he can think to say, but it doesn't do you any justice.

“Let me- Can I touch you? Pl- Please-”

You don’t answer, just rising up off of the bed to reach behind your back, unclipping your bra so seamlessly as it falls off your shoulders. Toby nearly moans when you toss the fabric to the side, chest rising and falling with shaky breaths, tits so round and heavy- so pretty.

Falling to your side, he’s holding you close, one leg draping over his bony hip as he shimmies his jeans off. Your legs spread wide, hands gripped tight into the softness of his curls as rough lips wrap around your nipple. You’re gasping, skin fluttering with every touch across your abdomen, cold fingers slowly trailing down just below your belly button. He stays there, tongue pressing flat across your nipple as the pads of his digits line the hem of your panties, teasing as you buck your hips up, silently begging for him to go lower.

The brunette’s fingers were now rubbing against your folds through your panties, causing you to jerk at the friction. He playfully nipped at your collarbone before glancing up at you through heavy eyelids. “My turn, pretty girl.”

“Toby- hah- Yeah-” His free hand wraps behind your back, cradling you into his side as he pinches at your unattended nipple, rolling the bud between his fingers. He smiles against your tit, a long sigh of relief when you feel his fingers break past the line of your panties.

His fingers dip into the warm folds of your cunt, dipping down to collect your arousal on his digits, messily swiping across your plushy lips. You’re already soaked just from kissing, Toby popping off of your nipple to snag your lips, kissing you hungrily as you pant into his mouth. His fingers circle your clit, the nub pulsing and jerking at his touch, hips rising and falling as they chase the sensation. “Jesus- You’re soaked.”

Swirling deftly around the sensitive nub, you gasp, heat so prominent on your cheeks. “Don’t worry, I go- got you.” He’s unable to decide between sucking harshly on your poor nipples, or soaking his tongue in the warmness of your mouth, lips glistening with his saliva. And it’s driving you mad, keening and pulling at his soft locks. You’ve never been touched like this before, and Toby didn’t know if he would be able to stop.

Then he’s plunging knuckle-deep in your gummy pussy, the tips of his long fingers massaging your plushy walls. You cry out, breaking from his kiss and giving him a good excuse to snag back onto your tit, gently biting on your reddened nipple.

He’s pumping his fingers rhythmically, curling them in a way that has your eyes fluttering shut, fingers tugging his hair so hard it makes him groan at the pressure. His digits glisten in the low light, hand stretching the fabric of your panties He’s hitting that little spot each and every time., looking like he was absolutely in heaven as he rolls and swirls his tongue against your nipple, lips wrapped tight around the skin.

“Sh- Shit, Toby-” You groan, grinding your hips down as he stuffs his fingers all the way to the knuckle, the two middle digits spreading and pressing against your walls, coaxing your legs to spread wider. His palm bumps against your clit, holding his hand there to press firm against the bundle of nerves, your jaw hanging loose when he leans up to go in for more kisses. He is all over you, barely able to breathe as he ravages your skin, fingers bullying their way deeper until you can feel yourself gushing across his palm. The noises are so lewd, the schlick, schlick of your wet cunt taking him back in, walls clenching around his thick fingers. You can’t stand it, can’t take it anymore-

Toby can see it in your face, in the way you stop kissing him back to let out a long, guttural moan that has him in bliss. His fingers beat faster, fucking your swollen cunt open as his unattended cock throbs and leaks against your thigh, begging to replace his fingers.

“S’good Toby. Fuck. Right there- Don’t stop.” And then your arms are wrapping around his head, cradling his face into your neck as you fall apart on his fingers, pussy gushing and practically dripping with your orgasm. You think maybe you see stars, or it’s just the freckles on the brunette’s skin when he captures your lips, drinking up every moan you feed him.

His cock is wilting, throbbing, and twitching against your leg as you finally settle out, breathy groans that have you both staring at each other through heavy gazes. He slips his hand from your ruined panties, pulling your knee up higher to spread your legs more as he slides the fabric from your hips and tosses them somewhere unseen, taking his cock in his soaked fingers. 

Your breath hitches at the way he drags his swollen head teasingly across your slit, pooling your slick on his achingly hard tip, smearing your juices with his cockhead as he pumps himself lazily. It’s so torturously good, his face disappearing into the crook of your neck as he gently nibbles your burning skin. “Need you so bad, Toby.” You breathe out, nearly panting. “Co- Condom. In the nightstand-”

Despite wanting to feel you, really feel you wrapped around him, he kisses just below your jaw before rolling over. Fishing for a condom in your drawer, he misses you sitting up, fresh orgasm giving you a rush of need as you watch him haul the packet in between his fingers.

Because then you’re pushing his shoulders down onto the bed, straddling his thighs as you snag the condom from him, quickly tearing open the packet. Toby watches with excitement, hands reaching to cradle against the sides of your thighs, fingers digging into your plush skin when you slowly slide the latex down his throbbing length. It’s snug, but thin, able to feel every pulse of your cunt as you take the base of him in your hand, swiping his tip along your folds, wetting himself. It was all the preparation you were going to give yourself because fuck Toby needed to be inside your pussy right now.

Then you feel like you’re being split apart- Toby’s cock was slowly pushing up into your warmth as he presses through the first ring of muscle. Before you can overthink, you’re nudging your hips down gently. So agonizingly gentle that Toby has to stop his hips from riding off the bed. And you can do nothing more than let out barely-audible whispers of his name as you seat yourself on his throbbing cock into your snug cunt. “Ah- Hah-”

You feel so full. So drunk off of the delicious burn of your pussy, hands resting on his chest as he watches you. 

You’re so nauseously tight, gripping his length in a way that had his eyes rolling back, fingers digging red marks into your skin. You’re both breathless, eyes clamped shut and bodies shaky when your hips finally meet his, so utterly full of him. Toby can’t even find the words for it.

That’s when you hear voices from outside your closed bedroom door, Avery and her friends returning from whatever drunken night they had, loud as ever.

In a panic, you push your hands over Toby’s mouth, the brunette’s hot breath fogging against your skin as he smiles, waiting patiently as they all file into Avery’s room, voices slowly dwindling out. Meanwhile, you’re pulsing around him, cunt clenching as you’re forced to wait.

But eventually it's all clear, palm slowly letting off of his mouth, a teasingly smile plastered on his face. You roll your eyes, quietly laughing as you steady yourself, pushing your knees further against his sides. You’re pulling your hips up eagerly, achingly fucking yourself at a slow, sensual pace. His tip kisses your cervix as you roll your hips sensually against his, making sure you feel every vein and twitch against your tight walls.

“Y’looked so beau- beautiful tonight. So pretty dressing up as me.” Toby gasps, running his hands across your thighs, up the sides of your waist as you dig your knees into the mattress. It sends shivers down your spine, ones that go directly to your clit as you lean forward, pressing your chest against his. Sweaty forehead meeting his, he leans up to meet your pitiful kiss, hips still pushing back as your clit rubs against his abs.

Surprised moans get choked in his throat as you rock your hips back and forth, pulling all the way up till his furiously flushed tip is teasing your sloppy hole, slick glistening on his length, just to nudge yourself down again, relishing in that full feeling. 

Wrapping his hands around the back of your thighs, he massages the plushness of your ass, smiling to himself when you wrap your arms around his neck and hide your face into the crook of his neck. “More, Toby.”

“O- Okay…” He breathes, bending his knees to get a better angle, the divot of his cock pressing against that sweet spot and making you mewl. The weight of you on top of him is so satisfying.

Toby starts up a satisfyingly good pace, thrusts get deeper and deeper until he finally buries his cock into you as deep as it could go. Throaty groans spill out of his mouth, he looks over and kisses your forehead gently, taking in every moan and whine you muffle into his neck. “Oh- hah! Yeah, yeah, yeah-”

Even if his body was exhausted, he couldn’t feel it. All he could tell was that your cunt was gripping him so hard his jaw was clenched, grinding his teeth as he fucked himself up into that sweet warmth. “So good- Oh, feels so good-”

“Oh god. Toby, right there-” You gasp out in pleasure, starting to move in shallow thrusts that have your eyes rolling to the back of your head, the curve of his cock knocking that swollen sweet spot over and over, each thrust more prominent than the last. You bounce your ass back on him, meeting every thrust that he delivers so deep into the swell of your pussy, clit aching and throbbing as it rubs against his hard abs. “You’re so- doing so good, baby-” He huffs.

Feeling that very familiar coil in your abdomen, you mewl, “Toby- I’m gonna-”

But then his thrusts halt, hands reaching further up your back to hold onto you tightly, sitting both you and him up as he crawls up onto his knees. He’s got your weight in his arms, cock still nestled so deeply inside of you as you wrap your limbs around him, leaning in to kiss along his jawline sticky with sweat.

He gives up thrusting now, hips rutting and grinding into you in a way that has you moaning deep and long, cunt throbbing with the ache for release. He’s in so deep- so full. 

Kissing against your rose cheeks, he looks at you with fucked-out eyes, trying his best to ride out the last of this moment as he feels his gut pool with warmth. His arms reach around your slender back to dig his nails into the unblemished skin, holding you as close as he physically could. It felt so perfect. Your hips grind back to meet Toby’s, thighs trembling as they cling to his hips. “Shit, [Y/N], I think yo- you were made for me.”

And then you’re capturing his lips, breathy moans as you feel him throb inside you.

“Close?” 

“Mhm…” He sighs, leaning down to kiss along your shoulder.

You grind your hips deeper, chasing that heavy feeling that builds in your gut, clinging onto whatever you can grab of his skin, brushing your hands up into his hair and pulling. “Hngh- Toby. Inside- ” You whimper, overstimulated, and your senses filled with only the brunette, you finally cum, riding it out on his deep thrusts. “Oh, fu- fuck. Gonna cum. Gonna cum, my pretty girl- Hngh-” He moans out as your pussy clenches down on him, finally tipping over the edge as well.

You feel Toby cum in hot spurts into the condom, rasping your name over and over as if it was the only word he knew. He collapses onto you, careful not to crush you with his full body weight as he pants against your neck, slowly tugging himself from your gooey warmth.

As you both come down from your highs, he quickly removes the condom and hugs your sweaty body closer to his, kissing along your neck and up to the corner of your mouth. Eventually, he climbs off of your bed, searching your messy floor for his boxers, tossing you his t-shirt which you happily pull on. 

He fishes new panties from your dresser- quietly spazzing out at all the different colored bras and matching bottoms you had to choose from- and tugs on his own boxers.

Every movement after that is laced with exhaustion, tired, sticky bodies shuffling under the covers as you cling to his side, breathing in his smell like it’ll be the last time you do. He’ll make sure it’s not.

Flipping your lamp off, the only glow is from your TV, dim lights reflecting off of your still-rosy skin. He takes every moment to kiss along your cheeks, brushing your hair from your face, and cradling your body tight against him. He doesn’t really remember how you coaxed him into taking off the wrap on his hand- with the false promise that you would change the soiled bandages out tomorrow- but you do, unraveling the fabric until that horrific proxy symbol contrasted against his pale skin. A mark, a reminder of who he was returning to when the sun rose tomorrow.

He promised to let himself have tonight, but he knew that tonight wasn’t going to last forever.

But then you’re bringing his hand to your lips, placing a sweet, deep kiss right at the center of his palm. And he melts. He wasn’t lying when he said he thought you were made for him, the sour look on his face disappearing when he was cupping your cheeks, pulling you impossibly closer to kiss against your skin.

You kissed against the scar on his cheek, soft lips on jagged flesh, and he knew.

You spend the rest of the night fishing stories from him, things he promised he would never tell, but find your reactions just too good at the mention of Masky and Tim. Your obsession seemed to run deeper than him, but he was your favorite.

-

Toby would have never felt the dip in the bed beside him, or the fingers that messed in his hair, but he did feel the fist that clenched onto his jaw much harder than you ever could’ve.

“Rise and shine, twitch.” Jeff, in all of his ugliness, sat on the edge of the bed, teasingly patting Toby’s cheeks. The brunette sat up, pushing the killer off of him and out of the bed, hoarse little chuckles erupting as he felt you stir next to him.

“How the fuck did you get here?”

“Front door, duh. You sent me your location last night, remember?” Toby noticed through your open bedroom door that your front door was swung wide open, the killer smiling with satisfaction, but his face slowly dropped when he saw you slowly sit up.

“Toby? Wha-” You see Jeff, Toby ready to reach out and clamp your mouth shut, prepping for a terrified scream. But then you’re sitting up, Jeff awkwardly glancing back and forth between you two as your lips part. “No way.”

Toby should’ve known better.

Because then you’re bombarding the killer, sitting on the edge of the bed, and studying every detail of his face, fangirling, of all things. Toby smiles, laughing to himself as you banter on and on about newsletters and obscure websites, Jeff casting you concerning looks as you recount his entire backstory. 

-

It’s well into the afternoon by the time Jeff finally pushes Toby to leave, barking about how he was supposed to have him back hours ago. The killer would never admit it, but they were only there that long because he enjoyed hearing someone harp on how good of a killer he was, complimenting him like he had always wanted.

Jeff’s already in the truck waiting as Toby kisses your face, kissing against your hands as fear courses him, fear that this will be the last time. But then you’re grabbing his phone, typing in your number, and sending yourself a text. A promise.

“For whenever you want to stop by ;)”

Followed by your address.

And then he’s back on the road, Jeff harping on and on about how ‘you weren’t that bad’ or ‘if Toby wasn’t careful he’d snatch you up.’ He couldn’t hear him though, too busy studying every detail of the photo you had sent him, the two of you smiling half-drunk in that elevator. It was already his wallpaper by the time they made it back to the mansion.

And he was already making plans on how he could sneak away tonight to come see you.

God, how he loved Halloween.

Thanks for reading!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

Thanks to my wonderful editors @h3llw1 and @solarbites!

Happy Halloween!

The cool, night air gave you chills all over as your feet pounded against the soft forest floor under your feet. With every quick step you took, another short burst of breath escaped your lips. It felt like you were being pushed back by a sudden gust of wind, but the trees continued to look blurry in the corners in your eyes, and that was a good thing. You kept your pace – even if it felt like the breeze kept poking needles into the cuts on your skin.

You had decided to actually dress up today but stayed mindful enough for the fall weather. So, you weren’t exactly dressed for the occasion. Maybe next time you decide you want to get attacked by some psycho swinging hatchets; you’ll be a little more fucking prepared. 

The whistling of said hatchet reminds you of why you were running. The sound of his weapon whirred by as it lodges itself deep into the bark of a tree. It’s already behind you as your mind yelled at your body to keep up. His other hatchet thwacks into a tree too close to your head and you scream involuntarily. You stumble to a stop stupidly, stabilize yourself, and drag your body to pivot and sprint to the right.

You weren’t sure how long you could keep going. But - as much as your lungs burned - that buzz that came from fighting for your life nagged at you like a bitch. You don’t care how much your body hurts because you will deal with the consequences later.

You’re not going to let yourself die.

Toby grunted as frustration and anger seethed in his veins. Wrapping his hands around the handle of his hatchet, he kept his eyes trained on you as he struggled to pull the thing free. He’d all but forgotten that the other one was a few feet away. He wasn’t normally fond of losing his favorite toys. He wouldn’t lose you either.

You were a stupid, stupid girl, after all.

His head violently twitched to the side compulsorily when he finally dislodged his weapon. A few wood chips flew out and landed on the muddy leaves below. He stood there, taking and letting out deep breaths.

He thinks about what might be going through your mind as you keep running. Maybe about how you were gonna get out of here, call the pigs, and have some nurse tend to the wounds he gave you. He smiled and tightened his grip on his hatchet as he fantasized about your naïve hope. He knew these woods like the back of his hand.

You wouldn’t make it out of here in one piece.

You slow down as the structure of a house comes into view. It fits the eerie atmosphere perfectly – chipping paint, broken windows. You’re not here to admire the neglected building, though, and you stomp up the small steps. The door lets out a low groan as you practically shove it open using your shoulder.

Slamming it behind you, your head whips around for the exit or some type of weapon. In the distance, you can hear the shrill whistle of the man outside, an involuntary thing, you’ve noticed. Just how long have you been fighting this freak? Enough to learn his quirks, that’s for sure. 

Delving deeper into the house with hurried steps, you look around for a kitchen. Find a weapon, find a weapon, you repeat to yourself, the sound of your quick gasps filling your ears. You catch yourself on the doorway when you almost rush past it.  

You barely stepped foot into the room before crying out when you felt something make impact with your back. The dull, heavy pressure sends painful shockwaves through you. Having the wind knocked out of you, the muscles in your back spasm and you buckle forward. He shoves you, and you wheeze as the edge of the rusted stove in front of you digs painfully into your stomach.

Your eyes immediately land on a cast iron skillet, and you think you have less than three seconds. You smash the pan against the side of his head, your grunt and the metal clang the only sounds in the room. You were confused as to why he wasn’t yelling out in pain. But your arms jerked upward, the heavy iron bludgeoning into his chin and he stumbles back.

Toby can hear the ringing in his ears with each blow to his head, his world spinning for far too long than he would’ve liked. He snarls and grabs your arm, throwing you in the direction of a wall hard - causing you to drop your makeshift weapon.

He looks at you, at how your legs shake as you try to steady the world around you. Look at you - you looked like a fawn. With your wide eyes and trembling form. Guess he’ll be your coyote, right? He’d sink his teeth into the side of your neck and stain his maw with your crimson flood. You were just pretty enough that he couldn’t wait to watch your eyes roll back when he greedily kept the air from inflating your lungs.

No, but you weren’t a fawn, were you? He’d seen more fight in you than any of the losers he was tasked to kill. They sobbed – they fucking begged on their hands and knees – to keep him from tearing them limb by limb. You were stronger than he thought you’d be, but you weren’t as agile as he was, he thought.

His face stretched as another wide, sinister grin spread across his face. His gloved hand tightened around the hatchet’s handle. He could hear the leather creak if he focused on anything other than your breathing.

You duck and stumble out of the way as you hear the spitting of wood above your head. He yells out a loud “fuck!” and attempts to yank the weapon free. You run out of the room and almost collide with another wall. You pivot on your heel because there was no way you’d run away from the front--

Gasping, you caught your balance before you could fall through the gaping hole on the floor. No time to jump, you told yourself, and you spun once again. Sprinting down the hall, you were met with the door to a room rather than any kind of exit.

You’d remember to set this house on fire when you made it out alive.

The room stunk of decaying carcasses and a thick powdery smell – the former outperforming the latter. You make your way to a second door and find yourself in a bathroom. You think there’s nothing here heavy enough to hurt him until your eyes land on a towel rod that hung loosely from the wall.

With a determined tug it comes out and you know he heard it. You can tell by the way you hear his heavy boots scramble in the direction of the room. You take a deep gulp of air and press your back against the wall next to the door.

The air was heavy with tension as the door creaked open. His shadowy figure stretched on the floor, and he walked right in. Would he turn around? Would he sense where you were before it was too late?

While he twisted around, you slam the rod into the side of his head. He’s disoriented for a moment, his head rolling to the side. Before he could react, you lifted your right leg, and the bottom of your shoe made contact with his stomach – sending him hurtling back.

Toby lets out a groan as he loses his balance and falls into a tub. His limbs sprawl out, legs and arms dangling from the sides. He attempts to move when a raw, guttural scream that causes his chest to tighten makes him stop. His eyes dilate as he stares at you wildly. Something about your scream has shaken him to his core. His head was still dizzy and a little numb from the force of your hit. And yet he couldn’t help but admire your resilience. He should be livid – breaking all your fingers and pulling your pretty little teeth out of your mouth one by one.

The man’s tics overtook him, his eyelids squeezed shut with a sudden intensity. He opens them again, and you’re still rooted in the same spot – breathing heavily. He’d never seen a girl look as hot as you did right now. He didn’t think that was even possible in your state. Your clothes, hair, and face were caked in mud and blood from your gashes. A girl like you should’ve been screaming in pain and crying for her mommy. But you stared at him with a burning defiance that caused his heart to pound violently against his chest.

His hatchet lay at your feet, and he realized that you had gotten him. You won. He could try attacking you again – he was bigger than you – but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He can’t fight back anymore; he just stares in what he can only assume is awe. Years of taking lives and witnessing more gore than anyone ever should, could not have prepared him for this moment. You didn’t stop – you just couldn’t. It was… admirable. Beautiful, even, if he was a more sentimental person.

You piqued his curiosity like nobody had ever done before. He wanted to know what made you tick. He wanted to study every movement, sound, and judgement you’d ever make. You could break all the bones in his body, and he’d come running back to watch you do it again when the Operator put him together again.

You astonished him.

“Perhaps my lady has not given me reason to think she would be interested in such a proposition,” he mutters.

This time, his voice does, in fact, sound the slightest bit petulant—like a child who sulks after being scolded. His tone is usually one that is far too courteous. Painfully so, in fact. (You’ve spent a good number of exasperating moments insisting he be more casual with you. You reap the rewards of those efforts few and far in between). But now, he betrays himself with a flicker of frustration, far too evidently for even you to miss.

He realizes too late how childish the words must sound spoken so irritably. You can tell that he clenches his jaw, seeing the tension even under the mask as he forces himself to still the bitterness spreading through his veins.

“Tell me, my dear knight,” you grin. You can imagine the unhappy lift of his brow as you speak, “what makes you so certain I would be disinterested in such an enticing offer?”

“It seems my assumptions were incorrect,” he grunts, straightening his back before promptly adding, “forgive me, my lady. I must see to rather urgent military affairs. I shall be seeing you—”

“Jealousy is unbecoming on you, Sir Capitano,” you quip, your hand grabbing at his wrist, tugging him towards you. He stills, stiff as a statue as your hand reaches for his helmet once more.

This time, he doesn’t stop you. He allows the lithe, delicate fingers he knows so well to grab at the edge of his helmet, carefully tugging it off before his face slowly reveals itself to you. You smile, cupping a cheek before tracing your thumb along the soft skin of his face.

“I am not jealous,” he says stubbornly.

“Haven’t they taught you never to lie to a princess?” You hum, stepping closer. His lips twitch just a fraction at the edges before two strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you towards him. Flush against his chest. Tucked right against his heart. Pressed so close, you almost wonder if you could feel his heart beating through the armor if you paid close enough attention.

“You torment me, my lady,” he murmurs quietly, “I fear I cannot accept this arrangement. It would tear through my soul to watch you be wed to another.”

“Then do not watch me,” you whisper.

You have seen his eyes flicker with soft, warm affection countless times. There is beauty underneath the helmet he wears so often, beauty that not many are so fortunate to see. You see it often, though. In private, hidden moments that he affords you. In the quiet of your chambers where the maids cannot disturb you. In the corners of the palace where no one can interrupt your fleetingly lingering touches and longing gazes.

Your hands hold his face, slowly pulling him closer as you study every precious slope across his skin. The slightly jagged curve of his nose. The plumpness of his lips. The slant of his sharp cheekbones. Every feature you know by heart, and revisit in your dreams.

You smile lightly at the thought of his jealousy, as guilty as you should feel for teasing him. Your knight—and you, his beloved princess.

“Do you wish to marry a prince?” He asks, leaning into your neck, breathing in your scent as his nose trails up your jaw until it reaches your cheek. Your breath hitches. His lips quirk into a smile.

“I wish to marry someone who owns my heart,” you say breathlessly, “prince or not.”

“Perhaps what you need is someone who is far more capable of carrying the weight of your heart. You possess rather discerning taste—it is not easy to please you, my lady.”

You huff, glaring at him from the corner of your eyes as you ask, “do you mean to call me difficult?”

“Among other things,” he chuckles. There’s a light, teasing trail of kisses pressed to your skin, leading straight to your lips. Capitano knows exactly what he’s doing, though—he stops just at the corner of them, making you pout as you try to lean in and close the gap.

He grins smugly, pulling away just enough to create distance between your mouths.

“You should not toy with a princess,” you say, displeased.

He hums, rubbing the small of your back as he counters, “and you should not toy with the heart of a man devoted to you.”

“Forgive me, my dear knight,” you murmur, gently bringing his face closer as your hands cradle his face once more, “I shall not torment you with such teasing again.”

“I am most grateful, your highness,” he fights back a chuckle.

Jealousy is unbecoming on someone as noble as the captain of your military forces. You like the way it looks on him just a little, anyway. Love the way his posture is more rigid and his voice is sharper when forced to consider the possibility of your heart yearning elsewhere. Enjoy the way he holds you tighter and closer as cool armor steals your warmth.

“Shall I tell this prince I am not interested?” You ask with a knowing look.

He hums thoughtfully, a smug smile playing on his lips as he replies, “no, I think I’d rather witness the expression of his highness when he realizes his charms hold no sway over you—a rare defeat for a man so certain of his allure.”

“Someday I shall marry you, my dear knight,” you whisper. Finally, with a softened look, he leans in to kiss you. Slow. Delicate. So gentle, it almost feels like you are one whisper from the wind away from falling apart.

“I look forward to it, my lady. Not even celestia could stop me from claiming your hand.”

————————

It’s not simply your physical attributes or style, his ‘type’ is literally everything you embody. The shape of your jawline when you lower your face, the delicate shadow your eyelashes cast on your cheeks, how your chest moves when you take a deep sigh. From the minor and inconsequential attributes, he memorized it to his heart until the only thing his gaze is seeking is you across the room. He was always silently enamored, his eyes watching you with reverence. However, he is a mastermind, first and foremost. Concealing his inner sonnets for his love for you came naturally just as he conceals half of his face with a Khaenri’ahn mask.

You, on the other hand, were oblivious. Nervous, even. Facing off the most powerful man, cursed with immortality just as you all those centuries felt intimidating, especially when you couldn’t grasp why his gaze kept lingering so melancholically.

“It is… good to see you again, Pierro,” – that was your initial words when the two of you spoke formally. In truth, your mind was filled with wistful thoughts: he probably settled down with someone after 500 years of immortality.

In the meantime, Pierro’s mind was at comical odds with his cold exterior as he thought: Hmmm… Yes, I’ve already decided on the name of our potential third child.

But of course, he didn’t say that, even if he looked slightly mesmerized. Instead, he just settled with a polite: “A pleasure, indeed”. It's only a matter of time before he accidentally slips and calls you his spouse in front of people.

✧ Il Capitano was avoiding you like the plague, and you couldn't fathom why. Whenever you crossed paths, his oppressive silence would intimidate you further. He would linger behind you, a looming presence so quiet that at times, you’d forget he was even there. Alas, when you finally muster up the courage to approach him directly, he'd respond with the briefest of words, avoiding any attempts of chatter.

It infuriated you. So much so that you started wondering if perhaps you did something wrong. He sparred with you countless times, the taste of a battlefield is nothing foreign when he trained alongside you. You felt like a stranger. Why he was so eerily silent was beyond your comprehension, and alas, his pitch-black expression did not portray any facial clues on what he was thinking.

The truth of the matter is that Capitano has mastered the art of keeping his head impassively still. With a helmet on his face and lack of visage, no one sees his gaze ogling your form whenever you train. Your movements mesmerize him during battles, your legs swift and your stance is powerful. Of course, he would be silent when he is staring directly at your beauty in action. You rendered him speechless, and now the Harbinger is diverting himself by discreetly peeking at you. Thank the archons for his helmet hiding his gaze.

But the Captain scolds himself. No, he mustn’t! It is improper of him to even lay his eyes upon a being so diligent and strong as you, he must respect-… Nope, his head is automatically turning towards you anyway. Lost in his silent battle of self-reprimand, he didn’t notice you suddenly approaching:

“Captain, we need to talk. What is the reason for your cold shoulder towards me? If I have done something improper you must tell me… You always avoid me, even when we’re supposed to cooperate.”

The same characteristic silence followed him, however, seeing you cornering him so sternly, even the Harbinger had to drop his resolve.

“...You must forgive me. Your beauty had overwhelmed me to such an extent that I felt ashamed to admit how you rendered me speechless to approach you.”

✧ A long time ago, before Il Dottore bore the title of a Harbinger, there was a young boy named Zandik. This little Zandik was trainee Dastur, a prodigy of his field and academic year. But he wasn't the only top student of the Akademiya, in fact, this young man was standing in the shadow of a brilliant senior student whom he always looked up to with innocent wonder – you.

You weren't aware of the younger student with short turquoise hair trailing you. He, however, was aware of you because your portrait often graced the accomplishments of the establishment, thesis research, and any academic honors of the top young researchers. Since you were a senior, Zandik couldn’t share lectures with you, yet it didn’t stall him. Every thesis bearing your name, he read; every book you borrowed from the House of Daena, he memorized meticulously. His revenant studies of everything you did mesmerized his young mind, leading him to linger behind the lecture hall doors, drawn to where you so often spent your time.

It was a harmless habit, the boy believed; surely you never noticed him?

One day, Zandik spotted you chatting with your peers in the hallway. Unfortunately for you, you inadvertently left behind your precious notebook, forgotten in the rush to your next class. The young man didn't have it in himself to run after you and directly return it. Instead, it was his chance to study your secrets. His hands hesitated only briefly before he grasped the notebook, feeling the weight of the handwriting he so admired.

When he first opened the notebook, the first page read in massive writing: “I KNOW YOU'RE STEALING MY NOTES – THIEF.”

That was approximately 400 years ago. So much so that the memories of your student self were long forgotten in your mind. When you later on met the 2nd of the Fatui Harbinger, you expected the Fatuus to coerce you for cooperation. To demand you to leverage your expertise in Khaenri'ahn technology, or perhaps blackmail you into his maddening cause. But none of that transpired.

The grown man, now known as Il Dottore, stood blankly in front of you, eerily placid. His once youthful awe had matured into something far more inscrutable, like a long-buried sincerity breaking through his Doctor’s mask. Without a word, he extended a hand, offering you an old, tattered notebook. It was that same old notebook from your Akademiya days.

“... Huh? Where did you get this?”

“Perhaps a young boy was too excited to pilfer what wasn't his. I apologize for borrowing it. That boy never wanted his idol to think of him as a thief. If it wasn't so arduous to seek you out all those centuries, I would've returned it to you earlier.”

✧ With his face perched on his knuckles, Scaramouche sat down listening to your ramblings. You would think a Harbinger with his temper, would long since exhausted his patience, waving you off to scram from his presence. Yet the moment you start talking, he is obediently listening, like a devoted man waiting for his blessing from the Grand Narukami Shrine

“But I never saw you enjoy any snacks or drinks while you’re out,” – you mused with excitement, launching on a tangent about this mysterious Inazuman beside you. “Oh! How about this, I’ll start guessing your favorite pastime food or beverage and you tell me if I am right or wrong.”

Scaramouche raised an eyebrow, but crossed his arms indifferently - “A futile endeavor but suit yourself anyway.”

Undeterred, you accepted the challenge. You listed each and every single delicacy in Teyvat that you could recall, from Inazuman mochi, dango, and sake to even Mondstadt’s Cold Cut Platter and wine. The Balladeer only scoffed, amused at your silly attempts to deduce him, as if he was some mystery you should decipher.

“Ugh, Okay! My last attempt. Is it… green tea?!”

Scaramouche went silent at the sight of your anticipation - “Hm,”

“No way… did I guess correctly, at last! Are you a herbal tea enthusiast? Oh, I knew it, I knew it!”

You exclaimed with unattained joy, leaving the Balladeer to silently observe your self-proclaimed victory. The truth of the matter is - that wasn't the correct answer. Scaramouche doesn't care for any teas or snacks, not when his artificial palettes found human indulgences to be redundant. Yet, looking at your jubilant face, glowing with delight as if you’d uncovered some profound world secrets, he couldn’t bring himself to confess. How foolish.

“Hah, fine, you got me. You must be thrilled to guess something so mundane.”

“Well, maybe mundane to you, but I was pretty curious what a living puppet would prefer to drink.”

Your sudden words caused Scaramouche to freeze. He never told you he was a puppet by nature, and most people would never guess what he is. Yet here you were, stating it so simply and obviously. Most ridiculously, you didn’t seem crestfallen by the weight of this truth. “You knew…? I'm not sure if I should compliment your keen observation, or if this is another one of your random guesses. What gave it away?”

“I thought it was obvious.” - you eased a sincere smile, your hand reaching to carefully brush a stray hair on his head. “No regular human would have such a perfectly pristine face like yours. Even if they had the most luxurious face-care routine.”

If puppets had blood flow, there would've been a pink hue dusting his cheeks. It seems he was the fool here after all. Ever since that day, he has found the taste of green tea to be rather soothing.

✧ A popular misconception about Pantalone is that he allowed you to walk into his life and pursue him so easily. Trully wrong. In reality, it was this Harbinger who had been pursuing and courting you from the very beginning - like a lovestruck fool, no less.

At first, Pantalone tried to be the charmer. He’d offer you heavy bags of Mora as if it was pocket change and say in his best alluring voice - “Go spoil yourself with something new, dear. I want you to look your best on our next date.”

The issue was you were dense like a rock. Because you blinked at the mora and said simply: “Why? I already have comfortable clothes, I don’t need any right now.”

He wanted to slap himself. Any attempts at spoiling you with riches or gifts were futile, especially when you humbly rejected his monetary help out of casual practicality. You always stated that others in need would require it more. Very well, he won’t sulk just yet. He decided on his next act of refinement. He’d invite you with him to any luxurious events: galas, opera performances, dinner parties; all carefully orchestrated to impress you, showcasing how he can provide you with any wonder from the world, linking his arm elegantly with yours to flaunt how you’re accompanying the 9th of Fatui Harbingers himself.

That didn’t work as well. Whenever a business meeting occurred with vital connections, your gaze bore no interest in the wealth of the higher class, nor did you beat around the bush to dismiss yourself. Instead of marveling at the company of riches and endless champagne flutes, he’d instead find you marveling at the ducks swimming in the pond of a garden – “Look, duckies!”

Pantalone was in visible distress. All this gold that people die for yet you so naively dismissed him. Was he unworthy of your simple love? Was he too pompous for you and forgot his own origins? His self-doubt gnawed at him at night, so much so that his own subordinate would see him pacing in his office with a tremor of restlessness, thinking how he should open this topic with one he so openly treasures.

“My dear, please tell me what your heart seeks,” – he once opened the discussion with you, his hand clasping yours in an act of pleading. “I do not wish you to be uncomfortable with my actions. Just say the word and I will bring you what you want.”

Once more, you blinked at him in that same sweet innocence, but instead, you spoke with a smile: “Oh, you silly, silly man Pantalone. I never wanted your mora or status. I do not wish to be indebted to you, no. I just wish you to be as you are. If you want to take me to a restaurant, take me there, not because it’s a fancy establishment, but because it has your favorite food. Plain and simple.”

The young Harbinger didn’t know it was possible to fall in love even more. It seems he mistook your humble sincerity with naivety, never once pondering that perhaps you didn’t want a partner for the sake of connection or money. That being his true self was something he could even offer you.

In the upcoming days, Pantalone’s subordinate could clearly see was smitten beyond logic or reason. Like a grinning child, resting his chin on his palm when sitting behind a desk, feet almost kicking with excitement. He really was enamored with you from the start.

✧ If there is one thing Tartaglia’s heart relishes, it’s the rush of a challenge. And you, as a whole, challenged this young man on a daily basis. His bubbling persona and eccentricity to rush into action was an antithesis to your blunt calmness and reason. If he is the one launching into battle, you are the one who is yanking him by the collar while maintaining that unimpressed look.

Thus, as a challenge, Childe took it upon himself to make you break that serene attitude from you. At least once, and his heart will soar with victory. Unbeknownst to him, everything he did fumbled.

He started with cheesy attempts to flirt with you, flipping his ginger hair back while leaning on the wall with a captivating smile to make sure your eyes were on his form alone. It might have made you swoon, if he hadn’t miscalculated and leaned against the door instead, stumbling awkwardly when it swung open.

Another attempt was made when he tried to play the savior. The two of you were strolling when a Hydro Hilichurl Rogue stumbled upon your path in the wild, its makeshift scythe warning you two to get away. For the Harbinger, this was an easy opportunity to dispel such a puny target and save you. Except the Hilichurl Rogue kept throwing hydro slimes, which his vision of the same element was useless against. You managed to drag Tartaglia (almost) unscathed.

Everything was going against Tartaglia’s luck and he felt like an utter failure in front of you. He’s the 11th, for crying out loud, he always fairs well when something challenges him. Yet here he is, getting bandaged by you after fumbling countless times in your presence. Your first impression of him must be beyond salvageable at this point.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you’re a problematic teen who gets into trouble all the time. Because you sure act like it,” – you stated to him simply. Securing his cuts and bruises on his shoulder.

“If I confess that such accidents rarely happen, would that change your opinion of me, or is it too late to start from zero? Ouch-” he winced when you tightened the bandages, his bruises not alleviating the sensation. The culpability of it all made him sulk, realizing he was probably putting you into trouble with all his shenanigans. “I’d die for you, you know.”

“That is the dumbest thing I've heard.”

Your words were concrete, his gaze averted with guilt and sorrow. But you continued quaintly.

“Why would anyone say something so senseless? I don’t want you to ‘die’ for me or anyone, even. What about ‘keep living’ for someone? For me… for your family, for yourself. Anyone can blindly plunge themselves to their death, but it takes actual courage and strength to keep living for those you care about. So please, do that for me instead of getting into trouble.”

The once serious expression on Tartaglia's softened with each word you spoke. Now he realizes that perhaps you putting up with his impulsivity stemmed not from frustration, but out of sincere worry. Maybe in his attempt to charm you, you were the one charming him all along. Especially when you sit so close to tend to him, it would feel so natural to wrap his arm around and embrace you.

“You’re right… I suppose it is reckless. Living for yourself seems truly priceless if it means seeing you beside me for another day.”