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atsumu saying kuroo gives conman vibes is so hilarious bc i can picture him trying to woo reader and he spots kuroo approaching you and kuroo is telling you something so atsumu comes up and interrupts and when kuroo leaves, atsumu’s like “geez what a slimy guy, am i right?” and you can barely keep a straight face as you tell him “that’s my boss.”
this was inspired by my best friend rue with her series of married under 25 that will always be one of my favorites.
ALBEDO - small arguments with klee on who gets to accept your blown kisses when you leave for class. hates pineapple on pizza but doesn’t have the heart to tell you, so he and klee try to hide it at the back of the fridge. laughs with a little snort that only you can make him do. him picking you up from class first because he really wants his favorite shirt back. learns the new physics unit for you so you won’t pull another all-nighter. acts like grammarly when he’s already forgotten the difference of using “who” and “whom”. professors writing question marks around his notes when they’ve got doodles of you. tries to not cry when klee mentions that your zodiac signs aren’t compatible. forcing kaeya to act like you as albedo practices proposing.
KAEYA - complaining about how his chest is too muscular to sleep on. trying to make breakfast but gives you salmonella when the eggs weren’t fully cooked. stealing company pens when your supply is low. threats from diluc about how much kaeya shouldn’t be staring at you and instead the computer screen for the next report he’s supposed to be typing. saying it’s company policy for you to at least kiss him once a day. both of you turning around when someone says “alberich”. purposefully making small miscalculations so you can come over and fix them (and maybe him with another peck). having diluc pay your aunt’s salon a fat tip even when they messed up kaeya’s perm. convincing klee that he’s on your level and you didn’t pity-accept the ring.
CHILDE - debates on if his family favors you more than childe (and they do). picking out ties when he’s really going to unravel it later for your lipstick stains. laptop wallpapers of you he accidentally screen shares during a meeting. stealing your coffee mug as an excuse for you to visit him at work. charging your computer even when he’s the one who’s got work tomorrow. talks passionately with his hands but will always hold yours if they’re nearby before going on. lies about liking starbucks because you always seem happy to visit. has a secret playlist made for when he’s missing you, and doesn’t tell you what’s his premium spotify password (despite it being your birthday in numbers). flash cards of your college friends’ names from when he wanted to impress them.
ZHONGLI - wakes up early to set up the coffee maker for you after a late night of working. forcing venti to help print love poems so your desk space can brighten up the tiniest bit. accidentally forwarding you the emails of rings he wanted to buy. brings childe to help glare at the boys who didn’t do their part in your final group project (and runs when the professor is asking for a student ID). tries convincing you that crystals are real and decorates the house with them. acts like he doesn’t still know how to use the company computer as a defense for why there’s lipstick on his collarbone. defends his 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner when you moved in for the first time. learning (and failing) to play heart and soul on the piano as he tries to serenade on proposal-night.
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summary: when the world is ending, wriothesley tells you that you've been dating for approximately 365 days, 10 hours, 5 minutes, and 4 seconds.
modern au. college level intelligence implied reader x wriothesley.
warnings: slight sexual reference in one line. nothing too nasty.
"you're not in love with me, right?" you ask wriothesley when it's almost midnight, when the world is a bit bleaker, and when you finished your first criminal law final. your mind hurts, hands have indents from pens, and bedsheets have old ink stains.
it's faint---the realization that settles when your roommate clorinde sympathetically sighs after you call because home isn't home right now as wriothesley isn't there, and you scream to your best friend after the test about how you'll be wearing his hoodie, drinking his tangerine teas, and stealing his pencils. the world is not kind when you realize: you might like wriothesley when he becomes home.
his bedsheets don't have the ink stains, but you half-heartedly sacrifice a hand to hold his while typing your research paper. you watch him make room when the clock turns 2:00 AM. he lets your drool stains exist.
half of your pillows rest on his bed, your clothes rest in his closet, school work is spread between his apartment and yours, and you've shared your secret spotify playlists. somehow, it means something, and nothing at all. it means, wriothesley, i'm slightly in love with you. wriothesley, i'm in love with nothing real.
half the world is telling you how you exist together. how everyone thinks you're dating the boy who laughs at all your jokes, the boy who steps on your toes, the guy who watches you spit out peppermint tea. and half your friends are betting on this moment right now---where you take the first move, where he kisses you and tells you the wait is over, where you laugh in their faces and say you've got the boy you're slightly in love with.
that moment doesn't happen because wriothesley only looks up from the tea pot he's brewing, raises an eyebrow, and lets your mind crumple.
he frowns. "are you okay?"
you frown back and hiss, opposing his tranquility. "answer the question."
taking a seat beside you on the couch, he simply ignores your request.
"aren't we going out?" he questions instead, calm, unmoving, as if your world isn't changing and shifting and breaking apart. the san andreas fault feels as if it's collapsing right now, and you should've taken ecology 101 more seriously.
"are you okay?" you spit back because it's cruel whatever stunt he's pulling. it's cruel, the world is falling apart, and you're letting a boy ruin your life. "who just says that?"
on a wadded receipt from his pocket (you ignore the faint imprint of condoms: mega size on the front), he starts scribbling.
1. we hold hands.
2. you wear my clothes.
3. we went to release lanterns together last week.
4. i wrote my wishes and you were one of them.
5. you tell me about your day.
6. you have the spare key to my apartment.
"there's more," he answers now, never fully looking up to meet your stare. perhaps it's the two hours of sleep, or the way your questions have been answered, silently and blatantly by wriothesley for months. he's telling your now that the world isn't ending, the world isn't falling apart when you fall in love with the guy who changes his sleep cycle to facetime. "but that would take too much time."
you disagree. "if a man truly cared about me, he would tell me how we should be dating."
"not should," wriothesley corrects, "are dating."
you breathe for a minute because it's slightly real: the fact he likes you, on paper, written by hand, scribbled and at midnight where he's buried in the crook of your neck and you're not complaining.
"when did we start?"
"last year, crazy," he huffs in a husky tone, and you push him off because you need to focus. wriothesley offers a pathetic frown, but continues staying in reality, holding your hand, tracing patterns with his thumb and recounting the night you drunkenly made him promise to fall in love with you.
last year, last finals season, where his heart was yours, and where you wore the same hoodie as now. it makes some sense, how you skipped over steps, layers of intimacy when pieces of your life exist with wriothesley. it's almost obvious now---you've been in love for a long time.
"who doesn't kiss after a year of dating, though?" you laugh because the interrogation isn't quite over, but the exhaustion of december hits. his forehead lightly hits against yours, and you can read in between the lines that his expression is fond when you lean in. you'll scream to your best friend about how you know what his stubble feels like against your mouth, and clorinde will stop being debriefed about your failed love life.
"i'm not going to judge if you want to go slow," wriothesley shrugs and answers, simple and kind. the world has stopped falling apart, your heart is kinder, and you watch the boy you've been in love with tell you it's real.
the other women! the girl fails! the women who cannot catch a break! the 9-5 girls who start crying when the work gets hard! GRRR!!! Remy reps them!!!!
✦ you and nanami have been working side by side for three years now. when nanami brings his son to work with him one day, it changes the entire trajectory of your relationship in only 24 hours.
✦ nanami kento x f!reader
✦ word count: 1.9k
✦ warnings: none.
contents. | 3. | 4. | 5.
previously.
“he really likes exercise equipment, but he’s too small to use them, especially the elliptical that we have at home. i’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself. instead, we go to the park when we can so he can play. he likes spending time with his friends there. he likes it when i cook dinners for him, which is most nights. he hates vegetables, and i’ve heard it’s common for kids his age but it’s been really tough to get them in him. sometimes - ”
he stops abruptly and blinks at you. you blink back.
“sometimes?” you urge quietly. your hands are folded on your lap and your chest is pressed against the edge of the table.
he clears his throat. “ah, i lost my train of thought.”
you smile, knowing full well there’s no way a man like him just “lost his train of thought.”
you’ll give it time, though, because this time it’s different. this time, you’re willing to wait.
chapter 4
“another friday, another yuto, hm?”
“another?” yuto yells disbelievingly. “there’s another yuto?”
nanami shushes him. truly, it was just another day of figuring out how to phrase things to a small child.
“no, no, that’s not what i meant - i’d like to call a lifeline to help explain to yuto that he’s the only yuto for me, and i simply meant that - ”
“another friday, another nanny not available,” nanami mumbles monotonously. his voice - low and deep and rich like velvet - incites a completely inappropriate response from you.
you frown, masking the tugging in your stomach with unamusement. “you’re the worst lifeline.”
nanami turns to look at you point-blank, hands folding over his abdomen.
your frown deepens when he doesn’t say anything.
“what?”
he draws in a deep sigh before turning back to yuto. “you know the drill. i’ll get you that mango custard today.”
nanami probably broke his back trying to find someone to look after yuto. the sharpness of his eyes have softened, already weathered down from the morning.
“mango custard?” you wiggle your eyebrows, leaning back to get a good look at yuto. “the dessert game keeps getting upped.”
“i lo-ove mango,” yuto declares with his entire chest. “but i think dad likes it more. we also like strawberry. we like cake. cake is so good, like especially the cake with the little strawberry pieces in the middle of the slice -”
“yuto, i think she knows what cake is.”
nanami grunts as he leans over to pull yuto’s jacket around him, zipping it up to the very top. you grin at the sight: a sky blue marshmallow.
“very flattering,” you gush. you feel like one of those aunties that’ll come up to him in 10 years and ask, ‘do you remember me?’ when there’s no way in hell he would remember you from such a young age.
“look at all that extra padding. i think you’re ready for your first sports game.” this time, you wiggle your brows at nanami.
yuto is not paying attention to you. yuto is actually quite upset that he’s got this suffocating jacket on him. he hangs his head back exasperatedly, letting out a long groan.
“don’t make that face,” nanami murmurs. “it’s cold in the office today.”
yuto starts to flop his arms and legs around like a fish. the chair wobbles, swiveling to the side pitifully. nanami reaches for the armrest to stop it from spinning and you watch, partly in awe with how the office chair practically consumes yuto whole. once he’s sure yuto’s giving up the resistance, nanami turns back to his computer.
you try not to stare at nanami. you’ve always been drawn to his sharp features, but you think something else tugs at you now - pity, maybe? just thinking it fills you with dread. you hope it airs along the lines of longing, sympathy, even.
he’s working with pinched eyebrows and the softest, most exasperated sighs - a large contrast from stoicism and silence. your chest tightens.
you cross one leg over the other and swallow. “is there anything i can help you with today?”
you can’t recall the last time you asked him that. you remember asking religiously during the first two quarters of working at the company, back when you were fresh-faced and impossibly jaded - and back when he was simply polite and efficient enough to always say ‘no thank you.’
out of the corner of your eye, you catch yuto slouching defeatedly in his chair.
would you have acted differently had you known? should you have tried harder to extend yourself?
does this … does yuto change things?
it shouldn’t. you don’t think it does, at least.
you frown to yourself. you’re still contemplating it when he murmurs, “i think we just need to finish making the presentation for tomorrow.”
your lips almost part. almost.
“i might need some help with yuto,” he admits, eyes trained on the file on his computer. “he was a little … apprehensive about coming with me today.”
this might be the longest response you’ve ever gotten to that question, much less to any of your other questions.
“yeah, sure, anything,” you nod quickly, smiling at yuto. “really? who would’ve guessed he hates coming here? i thought this was the funnest place on the planet.”
yuto scrunches his nose. “dad said funnest isn’t a word.”
“he’s right, kiddo.”
“then why’d you say it?”
“for fun.”
you lean over and drag his chair to sit in the middle of you and nanami.
nanami looks at you before looking at yuto. when he looks at you once again, you tilt your head to the side. what?
he shakes his head and turns back to his computer.
it’s almost embarrassing how your back pops when you reach your hands up to the ceiling and wiggle your fingers. you sigh out in relief and slump forward.
“do you have the excel sheet from the sukuna account?”
you’re sensing a foreign invader. your eyes narrow. you’re like a white blood cell, and gojo satoru is a pathogen - a threat to your peace and serenity in the workplace.
“ah, hello, dear, sweet gojo. the bane of my existence.”
“how charming.” gojo grins. “happy to be of service.”
“shut up,” a new voice says. “stop bothering her. i need to bother her. and him. both of them.”
you smile tersely. “ah, hello, dear, sweet utahime. currently the other bane of my existence.”
“i’m happy to take over the role from gojo,” she says curtly, passing a file to you. “i need you to look through this before i submit it for approval.”
“must i?” you ask, pressing the back of your hand to your forehead and tilting back dramatically.
while you’re busy brooding over extra work, gojo comes around to pick yuto up.
yuto giggles when gojo holds him up like simba. he circles around in his spot, yuto still suspended in air. “everyone praise king yuto. king yuto, we thank you for gracing our presence today - ”
nanami doesn’t shift, doesn’t twitch, doesn’t budge a single muscle. he doesn’t watch gojo swing his child around, he doesn’t ask gojo to put him back down.
full, unadulterated trust.
doubt creeps in. you remind yourself you haven’t known him for that long, you suppose. what’s it going to take to get there, though?
you watch quietly, gnawing on your lip.
“stop bothering everyone,” utahime hisses, tugging on gojo’s collar. “hi, yuto,” she coos, taking him from gojo. “you’ve gotten so big. do you remember aunty utahime? i haven’t seen you in so long. how’s work going today?”
yuto sighs dramatically. it’s obvious he doesn’t remember her, but he’s itching to complain. “work is so bo-oring. i think dad and i should go to the park every day instead.”
gojo ruffles his hair. “sorry kid, this is what life’s all about. luckily, you got a rich dad and … ” he looks to you, “an entertaining friend over here, so you’re basically set for life.”
“entertaining?” you parrot, scrunching your nose. it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.
“derogatory,” gojo clarifies.
“how sweet.”
utahime sets yuto back down in his seat. “anyways, just look over that when you can,” she says to you and nanami.
“yeah, and the sukuna account,” gojo tacks on. “you guys are the best. just awesome. amazing people. great coworkers. keep up the great work.”
you press your palms to your eyes and lean back in your seat. “i think i’m gonna have to go into overtime,” you groan, once gojo and utahime are out of earshot.
“we can finish,” nanami mutters under his breath. “it’s fine, we’ll finish in time.”
you’re not sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself.
you’re fighting for your life. you’re fighting the urge to scream and rip your hair out and do literally anything and everything the main character in a romantic comedy would do when nothing is going their way.
you glance out the window. the sun has been gone for several hours now. you’re left to fend for yourself in this dusty, dark office - which, you figure you might be able to see better if you just got up to turn the lights.
lights are for the weak. it’s time to rely on your hunter-gatherer instincts.
(you doubt hunter-gatherers were as lazy as you are, but that’s another discussion).
you sigh and lean back in your seat.
“why’re you sitting in the dark?”
the lights click on and you jump in your seat.
your heart is racing a million miles when you rub your eyes to adjust. footsteps approach you. what do you do? what would the hunter-gatherers have done?
you open your eyes. nanami towers over you, yuto attached to his hip and a grocery bag in his free hand.
“we thought you might still be here.”
you don’t know if you should be nervous. did something happen?
“what’re you guys doing here?”
he looks at you a little sheepishly. “yuto’s idea.”
oh dear. what’re you to do now? what’re you to do now that you've seen this side of him? what’re you - a woman of nature, one with the trees and the wilderness - to do with a man like this?
he’s shot you straight in the heart with a bow and arrow.
“we got you a mango custard,” yuto grins. “you have to try it. it’s so much better than the strawberry cake.”
“also got you some noodles if you’re hungry.”
as if on cue, your stomach growls.
you are no longer one with the wilderness. if you really think about it, this is the modern version of gathering.
nanami sets the bag down on your desk with the slightest curve of his lips. he grunts as he sits in his seat, yuto clinging to his front like a koala.
“eat,” he murmurs, reaching for your mouse.
he leans forward and you feel the warmth in waves, rolling off of his stiff suit. you still in your spot when he casually hands yuto over to you. now you’ve got a whole child hanging off of your right arm and a bowl of noodles in your other hand, with nanami brushing over you everytime he moves to type something on your computer.
your heart blooms, flowers uprooting from your arteries. you’ve been watered after a long, dry day.
“eat the custard.” yuto is whispering in your ear, but every time he speaks, he gets louder. “eat the custard. eat the custard, eat the - ”
“yuto.”
yuto brings his voice back to a whisper. “eat the custard.”
you giggle, holding up the box. “i gotta have these noodles first, right?”
“no you don’t,” yuto shrugs. it must be nice to be a three-year old, considering how easily he made that decision for you. he shifts so he’s sitting on your lap, digging through the grocery bag to find the custard. “i think you should have the custard first.”
“let her eat.”
you let your eyes rest on nanami for a moment. his brows are slightly furrowed, with the same pinch from this morning. it feels that just as much as he hates overtime for himself, he hates it for you too.
it makes you feel warm.
“thank you,” you whisper.
if he hears you, he doesn’t say anything. he makes sure your computer is shut down by 8:00.
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summary: contrary to popular belief, alhaitham struggles to write a love letter for your last day in sumeru after so many journals are filled with your heart already.
Alhaitham, for the first in decades, spends today stumped. Today’s a moment reserved for geniuses to mock and wait. For graduating first in his class, he sits in the comfortable lodgings of home, runs his hands in grey hair turning white by the second, bites his lips and fiddles his hands, and nearly slams his head against the table. This, Alhaitham thinks, is foolish. He’s being idiotic enough for Kaveh to take notice, slumming enough to have his roommate offer tea instead of the day’s scoldings on the height of paperwork left on dinner tables, suffering enough for the other man to light another candle when the previous wick has a dead flame. Alhaitham is being foolish, mindless, wordless when he’s spent years decoding ancient ruins to create meaning out of the words the world could never define before. Alhaitham is silent this time, filled with maybe vulnerability, a mourning that this has to end, that this struggle between his sensibility and foolishness collides and yearns to have something with you.
In all frankness, no sense exists in his quietude. Behind his desk, the shelves are filled with journals, notes, abstracts about you, how you exist in his pages, how you are memorized in the moments he spends with you.
In August 21st, we grazed hands. I thought you blushed for a second; I thought my heart should rest, so I stopped thinking.
On October 3rd, the archons reminded me your hair glows in sunrises and sunsets.
You said you wanted family again. I cannot promise you I have one left, but I am willing to let you know what I had. (September 16th)
We saw the night together. You wished for your siblings when the North Star burned. I admit my selfishness stands between your journey when I wished another hour with you. (December 30th)
(May 19th) Do you read the books I say? I hope my head can be yours one day.
POV: you’re the hot waiter, and they’d pay you to brush their shoulder again
a/n: “you should include lore one day” no.
includes childe, kaeya, albedo, diluc, xiao, zhongli. tw!!! implied sexual harassment but not more than a sentence in xiao’s.
CHILDE: keeps asking for water as an excuse to see you. It’s maybe his fifth glass when he catches you glancing, and he’s so confident that long restroom lines don’t matter when your long peeps at bobbing adam’s apple. So what if he paid Teucer to finish his water quicker, and so what if he told the other waiter that VIP guests only deserve the best water from your pitcher? Let Childe think that tap water’s different when you’re tapping his buttons on if he really does need a 10th glass of water for a table of two, but Childe would really prefer it if you were removing his shirt’s buttons. Because maybe he wants to drink in the way you smile, the way you laugh at Teucer’s latest story about sand crabs on beaches, and ask if you’d like hugs behind kitchen sinks or being swept up in his arms when brooms have never been the shape of you. And sure, his snapback might be backwards, but Childe’s always been the type to bend backwards if it means to catch sight of your heated cheeks (or smile) again.
KAEYA: purposely spills water on himself so his white shirt can cling onto his figure. How was he supposed to remember that water was on his end of the table? How did he conveniently let your figure against the table’s frame and let gravity be a truth? Yes, gravity is cruel when water outlines well-worked for muscles and puffed chests. Ah, yes, gravity is an ugly mistress when you drop apologies and soak paper towels in an attempt to make water disappear. But, Kaeya thinks, making his shirt disappear is so much easier. And don’t let your hands disappear when he does need them to punch in his number on your phone for your offer on dry cleaning that dress shirt of his. And, yeah, this restaurant may not have doggy bags, but he’d like to take you out Sunday night if you’re free. (Because, maybe it does boost a bit of his ego when Kaeya catches you staring, or how his biceps can prove to catch more than hesitant glances. Maybe he won’t regret letting Albedo groan and forcing him to stay in the bathroom when Kaeya could be your main course today.)
ALBEDO: Klee says you should kiss him to make it better when he’s burned his hand against the KBBQ grill, and Albedo might just now need to work on his autobiography on the top 10 things that caused his fall from grace. Sure, Albedo might have been praying you didn’t notice him lowering his voice a few octaves down. And sure, Albedo might think you’re pretty enough to be given half of his paycheck when he’s ordered two different meals past the family budget. But Albedo might have not entirely believed that Klee would’ve caught on even if it had been their third night here this week. Kaeya’s trying to not laugh, Albedo’s trying to not let blush consume his neck and cheeks, but you smile (enough to make Albedo wish he brought a heart monitor). And you let out a giggle, offer him a glance and brighten up the room when he’s not being so bright with his words right now. You don’t let food go to waste and provide him the additional service of tasting his lips if interested.
VENTI: is the center of the world, or maybe just the center of your world even if it’s only for a few seconds. Let the lines of Rex Orange County escape his lips because you’re not the one to press them closed. Picks up the mic when your manager is yelling at you for a band’s missed booking, and twirls the wires with the hope that there’s some autotune because you’re watching with bright eyes now. And, even when there’s possibly puke in your hair or half-chewed spaghetti on your shoes, he thinks you’re really pretty. You smell like sweat, tears and minimum wage, but all Venti can really think about is the way you smile like he’s single-handedly saved your ass from angry bosses today. Because you might slow dance in the arms of checks and tips, but Venti wonders if you’d look nice in the sleeves of his overpriced jean jacket that’s got him convinced on why you keep staring (or at least the reason why he’s so clammy).
XIAO: hits the guy who keeps harassing you and touching you with little to no regard of public decency. You could’ve handled it, you’re good enough to throw a punch, you’re smart enough for emergency codes, but Xiao’s not ready to let all his unsubtle staring go to waste. And maybe it’s because Xiao’s not good at dancing in bars, slipping numbers in napkins and hoping that a big tip appeals to you. He’s only good at hiding his ears when they burn from the moment you two brush knees, trying to remember if your and his zodiac are compatible, and blushing when you lean closer for a better view of his bruise. You might think it hurts when he isn’t being as cool as ice, you might think he’s stupid, or that he’s dumber for even trying to sport socks and sandals together, but all you really do think is that he looks prettier in neon lights. Because, when you’re so sure that you can hear Venti’s voice inside for miles and miles, all you offer is some lessons on how to tango because his heart’s already got the tempo.
DILUC: Perhaps he really is being, as the youths said, a little out of pocket for this. Leaving bad restaurant reviews on the only other bar in this strip mall was not the best thing to be happening to him at the moment, but a bar owner’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. While he didn’t start this fight, he’s not going down as the guy with “the worst bar with the ugliest owner ever” as his legacy. Which is why his next tactic is so dastardly: what better way to destroy a rival than to infiltrate their services. Really, he thinks, it’s almost too clever. Unfortunately, the obscenely attractive person waiting at these tables is possibly the nicest person he’s ever met. Which means when he writes his next scathing review, he’s going to feel a little bad for the angel who waited for him. You read the very same review the next day, because you’ve been ceaselessly entertained by the increasingly absurd claims that the other bar owner keeps leaving on Yelp. To your consternation, there’s a note at the very end, detailing your attention to the table settings, amiability, and the perfect service, even a suggestion of a raise and a promise to come back. You can only chuckle at the thought of the mysterious restaurateur from the next bar to pull up with another bad mustache and hat. Though you don’t have any favorites with your customers, it seems this man is starting to fill all five stars in your heart.
ZHONGLI: he is a liar, a bad liar that likes convincing Childe about this was definitely the last time they should travel to this dingy restaurant to pick up the incredibly cute waiter. And in the time it takes to convince Childe, again, that “This is seriously a one time thing, I’m almost certain I’ll get the bill next time!”, he even starts to believe himself. After all, Zhongli’s only two cents short this time, which is at least a step in the right direction because he didn’t think this far. All he really thinks is how pretty you look underneath cheap bar lights and with a small laugh at him. You’re seriously much too cute to be here, too cute to have himself strut up to the counter with Childe's hard earned cash. He almost pulls it off too, until he ends up knocking the toothpick dispenser down. Well, that’s the end to this almost romance, he can’t come back here. Maybe he’ll try again once he steals someone’s identity. You’re too nice for your own good when you tell him that it’s fine, he doesn’t need to foot the poor dispenser’s repair bill. Now, he owns an obscene amount of toothpicks he will most definitely need to not look at in disgust when he goes home after this. Zhongli rushes Childe out the door after a few hurried moments pressed over the table.
You come back later to clean up, a little sad that the cute guy and his redhead friend probably won’t be coming back after this. But surprisingly, contact info and an apology are left in the toothpicks, to someone named Zhongli. And you can’t help but chuckle because, maybe, this part time job can get you a to-go date.
summary: you think despite it all—the way your sister swats your smudged lipstick, the plus one’s ripping off rings for flings, and the bodies that move along to music—that al-haitham’s too interesting.
f!reader x al-haitham.
Champagne’s on the floor, and falling is the wasted napkins and bodies with alcohol fueling their systems. You’ve given the finger already to this guy who really wants to finger you, makeup bags spill more than secrets tonight, flowers are lost for all different reasons, and you’re already a goner when Al-haitham comes into the room.
“You’re here?” Al-haitham asks, raising both a question and eyebrow to see your limp body in what should be an abandoned chamber. “You know, the wedding’s supposed to be outside.”
And you smile.
It’s outside. The vows yet to be broken, heels that bleed, photo books with stolen polaroids from family, and Paramore songs stealing the lungs of young teenage girls.
It’s a wedding. Undeniably a wedding.
It feels loud and suffocating to be in a room of all the extended family you barely know, to know liquid courage can’t ruin you tonight when you’re driving the car.
“It’s not my scene,” you admit and lay down on the bed. Al-haitham takes his place beside your right, fixing the stranded pieces of hair that fall out when your life doesn’t seem to be falling into place. It would be cuter if he didn’t use saliva to stick it all back together.
Al-haitham lets out a laugh and eggs you on. “Who invited the crowd?”
“A weirdo,” you respond with a grin but, to be fair, maybe your opinion shouldn’t matter. Two, to you, is already a crowd. (Two’s enough of a crowd when you look into Al-haitham’s eyes and see you, the reflections of you, the pieces of you that he likes enough to stare at and always find at parties like these.)
You tuck your arms underneath your head and turn to face Al-haitham. He’s tired, worn down, not used to the way Kaveh stands as a best man instead of the drunkard tonight.
“Can we leave?” you whisper loud enough to let Al-haitham hear a bit of your thoughts this time. Even his saliva can’t solve the way your hair smushes against the sheets. “No one needs to see us.”
His eyes roll and lets a smile slip. “We need to wait for the end, love.”
You frown. “My feet hurt, my bra’s already slipping, and I’m pretty sure my sister stole the spotlight.”
summary: contrary to popular belief, alhaitham struggles to write a love letter for your last day in sumeru after so many journals are filled with your heart already.
Alhaitham, for the first in decades, spends today stumped. Today’s a moment reserved for geniuses to mock and wait. For graduating first in his class, he sits in the comfortable lodgings of home, runs his hands in grey hair turning white by the second, bites his lips and fiddles his hands, and nearly slams his head against the table. This, Alhaitham thinks, is foolish. He’s being idiotic enough for Kaveh to take notice, slumming enough to have his roommate offer tea instead of the day’s scoldings on the height of paperwork left on dinner tables, suffering enough for the other man to light another candle when the previous wick has a dead flame. Alhaitham is being foolish, mindless, wordless when he’s spent years decoding ancient ruins to create meaning out of the words the world could never define before. Alhaitham is silent this time, filled with maybe vulnerability, a mourning that this has to end, that this struggle between his sensibility and foolishness collides and yearns to have something with you.
In all frankness, no sense exists in his quietude. Behind his desk, the shelves are filled with journals, notes, abstracts about you, how you exist in his pages, how you are memorized in the moments he spends with you.
In August 21st, we grazed hands. I thought you blushed for a second; I thought my heart should rest, so I stopped thinking.
On October 3rd, the archons reminded me your hair glows in sunrises and sunsets.
You said you wanted family again. I cannot promise you I have one left, but I am willing to let you know what I had. (September 16th)
We saw the night together. You wished for your siblings when the North Star burned. I admit my selfishness stands between your journey when I wished another hour with you. (December 30th)
(May 19th) Do you read the books I say? I hope my head can be yours one day.
this notif was literally so funny to come back to help and u blocked him right after? LMAO white boys are so… like we’re both asian chels we can’t both fit into the stereotype
RIN I JUST SAW THIS. THIS IS VERY... on brand of me
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summary: you think despite it all—the way your sister swats your smudged lipstick, the plus one’s ripping off rings for flings, and the bodies that move along to music—that al-haitham’s too interesting.
f!reader x al-haitham.
Champagne’s on the floor, and falling is the wasted napkins and bodies with alcohol fueling their systems. You’ve given the finger already to this guy who really wants to finger you, makeup bags spill more than secrets tonight, flowers are lost for all different reasons, and you’re already a goner when Al-haitham comes into the room.
“You’re here?” Al-haitham asks, raising both a question and eyebrow to see your limp body in what should be an abandoned chamber. “You know, the wedding’s supposed to be outside.”
And you smile.
It’s outside. The vows yet to be broken, heels that bleed, photo books with stolen polaroids from family, and Paramore songs stealing the lungs of young teenage girls.
It’s a wedding. Undeniably a wedding.
It feels loud and suffocating to be in a room of all the extended family you barely know, to know liquid courage can’t ruin you tonight when you’re driving the car.
“It’s not my scene,” you admit and lay down on the bed. Al-haitham takes his place beside your right, fixing the stranded pieces of hair that fall out when your life doesn’t seem to be falling into place. It would be cuter if he didn’t use saliva to stick it all back together.
Al-haitham lets out a laugh and eggs you on. “Who invited the crowd?”
“A weirdo,” you respond with a grin but, to be fair, maybe your opinion shouldn’t matter. Two, to you, is already a crowd. (Two’s enough of a crowd when you look into Al-haitham’s eyes and see you, the reflections of you, the pieces of you that he likes enough to stare at and always find at parties like these.)
You tuck your arms underneath your head and turn to face Al-haitham. He’s tired, worn down, not used to the way Kaveh stands as a best man instead of the drunkard tonight.
“Can we leave?” you whisper loud enough to let Al-haitham hear a bit of your thoughts this time. Even his saliva can’t solve the way your hair smushes against the sheets. “No one needs to see us.”
His eyes roll and lets a smile slip. “We need to wait for the end, love.”
You frown. “My feet hurt, my bra’s already slipping, and I’m pretty sure my sister stole the spotlight.”
Hesitating for a bit, Al-haitham moves closer. “If you wish, I can completely take the bra off. I’ve got some tips on what could hold them instead,” he teases and tangles your fingers with his.
You nearly kick him off with your heel. “This is why people don’t like you.”
“The groom does. That’s why we have to stay.”
And you click your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “Well, I don’t like the bride,” you answer and let Al-haitham’s arm wrap around your waist to hold the small of your back. “She’s so dumb. Her dress? Too heavy. Her music choice is plain annoying. And why did she invite everyone? It’s going to be crazy expensive when the whole thing’s over.”
Al-haitham laughs and shakes his head. “Well, I like her. Sometimes, I even think she’s pretty.”
“Prettier than me?”
And he pecks your cheek. “I don’t know yet. That’s why we got to stay tonight.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, but Al-haitham only rolls his eyes.
“Stop losing your head,” he whispers, lips ghosting your neck. “You already gave me your ring finger and heart; we can’t lose the last thing I like about you.”
You turn to him and watch the red in his eyes shine when the light is kind, when the light reminds you how sunsets bleed and how Al-haitham becomes the boy your heart pours for.
Right, you smile and look at him with drunken laughs and a hum of some song that reminds you of love, if it ever existed in a place like this. Right, you’re here.
It’s a wedding.
It might be yours, it might be Al-haitham who steals your hand for a first dance, Cyno might stop saying the jokes and cry about the man he’d never thought would find love, but this time you don’t ask to go home because he’s already become it.
2087
stormborns
yousharknotpass
