Genshin Masterlist - Blog Posts

𝗜𝗡𝗔𝗭𝗨𝗠𝗔

﹙𝗠𝗶𝗹𝗸𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗘𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆﹚

！Baal

▹ Unfortunately, this drink isn't ready :(

！Kazuha

▹Vampire au (Gn!reader)

How they react your death(Gn!reader)

！Itto

▹ Unfortunately, this drink isn't ready :(

！Scaramouche

▹Reader with a strong sense of touch (Gn!reader + harbinger!reader)

▹dom!scara hc's

𖦹꙳࡛࣪⋕5th sense mstr.list

˚ ₊‧ ୨ info — just a series of reader with a very strong 5th sense. as always all works are gn!

˚ ₊‧ ୨ faq— "can I request a person for a sense?" Yep! Just make sure that the sense is already in progress!

"Is nsfw aloud?" Yes, but it's very unlikely since I can't really write smut.

Main.mstr.list

˚ ₊‧ ୨ key — not started -🌐 finished-🍣 unfinished-🍭

꒷꒦ˑ ֗ ִ T○UCH finished-🍣 (ft. albedo, childe, scara)

꒷꒦ˑ ֗ ִ S!GHT -🌐

꒷꒦ˑ ֗ ִ SM€LL-🌐

꒷꒦ˑ ֗ ִ HEAR!ING-🌐

꒷꒦ˑ ֗ ִ TASTε-🌐

Oh, it's over.

Serving size- 0.6k

Nutritional facts- Gn! Reader 

Allergy warning- self-blame, self-degradation, light mentioned disordered eating, Very unhealthy coping mechanisms, Hallucinations, obsessions? 

Overview- reader dies for an unspecified reason.

Contents- albedo, Xiao , Kazuah

Instructions- best read in dark mode.

Formula- drabbles + headcanons

=͟͟͞͞🔬Master list

Albedo-

Although I think he'd be the one to take it most rationally, he'd still be over the edge because of your death.

So it really was coming to an end, well obviously your death was inevitable, so why, why does it still hurt knowing his morning with you is at end. This was calculated from the start he knew he was aware that you couldn't stay with him forever, then why does he want you to. A horrible outcome yet such a lovely journey. But at least it was with you, right?

It still hurts after all this time with you, his thinking was illogical, something he doesn't do unless he's with you.

He tries his best to put the pieces back together, bring you back to him but no nothing works. His hard work went to shit, if he couldn't do the simple task of feeling your comforting embrace then how was he supposed to do anything? Everything hurts alchemy hurts, talking hurts, eating hurts, existing hurts it all hurts so much, but he still moves on at least kind of right? He brushes off his feelings and tries to get over your pacing but the more he pushes it out the harder it comes back, why can't you just leave him alone?

Xiao-

One of the least rational goes back to how he was before he met you. If not worse, way worse.

How could you leave him like this after all you've done with him, you leave? It doesn't matter if it wasn't your choice he still wanted you there. You were the only thing that kept him at bay, but I guess the reason his karmic debt didn't affect you was because it would strike only once but harder than ever. But this was his fault.

 How could he even think straight, you were all that was on his mind, pushing to overwork himself sleepless nights, weeks, years but xiao was used to this nothing really changed, did it? Except for figures that appeared randomly throughout his room, it wouldn't be a bother he's seen worse, just if they didn't remind him of you. If they didn't speak like you did to him, if they didn't look at him with the same look you had towards him.

Maybe if he just didn't talk to you that day, maybe if you weren't in lieyu maybe, just maybe it would hurt this much.

Kazuha-

Again, really again? How long was this going to go on for, because he can’t take this anymore? Was it him, he was the problem right, he had to be. Nothing else was wrong; it was him, his fault, all his fault, and his fault alone.

Changing nearly everything about him, down to the way he speaks, the way he dresses, even the way he sees himself. But nothing was working, no one would love him the way you did. Was it his fault? Was he not worthy enough to be around you forever? That's right, that's the only reason he wasn't with you right now, he knows he's not deserving of your praise, your love, or even your mere presence but he still vied for you. But like the wind, everything must fly away and leave rather whether you desire that outcome or not.

A.n -  I had this in my drafts for the longest while and as you can see its quite rushed😞

Horror night holiday🦇╭──╯ . . . . .

❝150 notes special ❞

🦴—ah so owner has decided we hold an event to commemorate this lovely milestone and so for 6 days we'll be doing a new fictional(or not) creature! And if i like a day enough I might make a part 2

🕸—Rules, not many rules but there will be no pwp or downright smut but there will be suggestive content. For last the rule if you see me doing a fic the characters are already chosen but you can request characters for certain unfinished fics!

❝Main masterlist❞

🕷—KEY, 💉-done 🏮-not started 🎥- unfinished

Day two- Bloodloss (vampires)-💉

Day two- (succubus/succubi)- 🏮

Day three- (sirens)-🏮

Day four-(Dragons)-🎥

Day five-(Ghosts)🏮

Day six-(Fairy)🏮

Personal library ✎ᝰ.📓🗒 ˎˊ-

Categories:

–Anime˚⊱🪷⊰˚

Toilet bound hanako kun*ੈ♡⸝⸝🪐༘⋆

*comforting mistuba after he experienced a nightmare

*amane with a supernatural s/O (specifically an angel)

Blue lock

×unfortunately, there's nothing in this section :(

The disastrous life of saiki k

×unfortunately, there's nothing in this section :(

Demon slayer (kny)

×unfortunately, there's nothing in this section:(

My hero academia

×unfortunately, theres nothing in this section :(

Assasination Classroom

×unfortunately, there's nothing in this section :(

–Games🎮⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Genshin Impact🏯

*comforting kazuha from his nightmare

*what kind of boyfriend is dainsleif

*Xiao with a s/o that stuttures and gets nervous easily

*gorou dating itto's sister

Project sekai

×unfortunately, there's nothing in this section :(

Danganronpa

×unfortunately, there's nothing in this section :(

Where would you like to go next?

–go back to my navi?– –about me!– –my side-blog–

–my moots and anons!–

This story journal belong to raze!

Welcome to my writing journal! This post will help you guide yourself through my blog and everything you need to request!

If you're interested in K-pop fic, take a look at my side blog! Nishimuraazr1zzkiii. It contains enhypen, tomorrow by together and stray kids!

Here are all the things to keep in mind -

Writing for and master list:

༺Genshin impact༻

〰︎Toilet bound Hanako kun〰︎

⌑blue lock⌑

▻project Sekai◅

〰︎the disastrous life of saiki K〰︎

▻there will be more in the future!

Genres:

Fluff

Angst

Comfort

Au (text or series)

Remainders:

All my works will be sfw. There will be no NSFW but there will be suggestive themes.

I not do anything that contains: incest, rape, or anything with like that.

this post will be updated! For more questions, kindly ask me in my inbox:))

𝐝𝐫.𝐚𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ‧₊˚ part 2 | fluff

╰┈➤ fem reader. reader is alhaitham’s patient (this may be a bit self indulgent hehe). mild flirting. fluff. attempt at comedy, just a drabble ig, i love alhaitham fr— WAH a part 2 ?? masterlist

part 1 | part 2

Unknown Number: Hi. This is Dr. Alhaitham. I received your results. Are you available to come in tomorrow?

Your heart skips a full beat.

Wait. Wait.

You reread the message about eight times, thumb trembling over the screen.

Dr. Alhaitham. Dr. ALHAITHAM.

You never gave him your number. Not directly. The clinic must’ve had it on file from your intake paperwork. Still—why did he text? Shouldn’t it have been the nurse? Or the front desk?

Your brain spins in three different directions while your thumbs hesitate, hovering mid-air. What tone do you even take with a man who has seen your bloodwork and your undereye bags?

You: Hi… yes, I’m free. Is everything okay?

You don’t expect a reply right away, but the bubbles pop up almost instantly—like he was waiting. Watching the clock.

Dr. Alhaitham: I’d rather explain in person. It’s nothing urgent. I just… want to speak to you myself. Tomorrow at 10?

You stare. Blink. Re-read. “I just… want to speak to you myself.”

Butterflies launch a full-scale riot in your stomach. Your cheeks go hot. You’re squealing internally as your thumbs tap out a response that’s way too calm for how your heart is behaving.

You: Okay. I’ll be there. Also… is this your personal number?

A beat.

The kind of beat where you spiral. Where you consider throwing your phone across the room, just to escape the weight of your own message.

Your face is burning. Why did you ask that? Why did he use it?

The silence stretches until it starts to ache. And then—ping.

Dr. Alhaitham: Yes.

A full-body meltdown ensues.

You collapse back into the couch like a Victorian woman being told her corset’s been outlawed. He gave you his number. He texted you himself. He wants to talk to you personally.

Tomorrow cannot come fast enough.

The Next Morning…

You show up to the clinic early. Too early. You pretend you’re just organized, but really you’re anxiously clutching your water bottle like it’s a lifeline. You tried to look effortless—pulled-together, but not obvious. Cute, but not trying too hard. Just… normal. Which is laughable, considering the amount of time you spent choosing earrings.

The nurse checks you in with a kind smile. You sit in the waiting room, leg bouncing, rehearsing responses in your head.

Then he appears.

Alhaitham steps out from behind the frosted glass doors. Still in his lab coat, still maddeningly unreadable. But when his eyes find yours—there’s a flicker of something. Recognition. Warmth. Something quieter.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

You could swear—swear—the corner of his mouth twitches, like it’s tempted by a smile.

You follow him in.

The exam room is quiet, neat, humming with soft fluorescent light. You take your seat. He opens your file, but doesn’t look at it. His eyes stay on you.

“I didn’t want to go through the receptionist this time,” he says, voice quiet. “I thought it might make you anxious.”

You blink. The words take a second to land. “Oh. That’s… kind of considerate.”

“Also,” he says, finally glancing down, “your iron levels are low. You’ll need supplements. I’ve written the prescription.”

He slides the slip across the desk like he’s handing you a secret. You take it carefully, like it might crumble.

Silence.

The kind that sits heavy. The kind that means something.

He closes the folder, slow and deliberate. Leans forward just slightly, elbows braced on the desk, fingers laced.

“You didn’t tell me you’d been feeling this way for a while.”

You look away, shoulders curling in slightly. “I didn’t want to be dramatic.”

“You said you were a Victorian woman,” he deadpans.

You smile despite yourself, soft and a little sheepish. “Okay, but that’s just my personality.”

He watches you. Sharp eyes, steady and assessing—but not unkind.

Then, gently: “I don’t think you’re dramatic.”

You suck in a breath, caught off guard.

“I think you’re… overwhelmed. Tired. Maybe not used to being taken seriously.”

Your throat tightens. You bite the inside of your cheek. Something inside you shifts.

“I just treat patients,” he says. “But… I remembered you. More than I expected.”

Your heart slams once, hard. “…Why?” you whisper.

He shrugs, gaze not quite meeting yours. “You made an impression.”

Your grip tightens on the paper in your lap.

And then—his voice drops lower: “If you feel dizzy again… or if anything gets worse—don’t wait. Just message me. Directly.”

You nod, silent.

And as you leave—hand curling around the doorknob, heart thudding in your chest like it’s trying to break free—his hand comes to rest gently on the small of your back.

Warm. Steady. Certain.

You freeze. Just for a breath. His palm lingers there like it belongs, grounding you in the quiet between heartbeats. You swear you feel the heat of it radiating through the fabric of your blouse, straight into your spine.

You try not to melt. Try not to show how much that simple touch undoes you.

Then, just as your breath begins to hitch, he leans in slightly. Not too close. Just enough that his voice slides in low, just above a whisper.

“Go home safely.”

His hand slips away—slowly, deliberately. The loss of contact is almost startling.

You turn, instinctive, eyes finding his.

And he’s already looking at you.

Not blankly. Not politely. No, his gaze is sharp and unreadable, steady and direct. There’s something in it—something knowing—that makes your breath catch and your fingers tighten around the cold metal of the doorknob.

You swallow hard.

You manage to nod. Maybe say “good bye.” You’re not sure. Your brain’s short-circuiting.

You take one step out.

Two.

You don’t even make it to the end of the hallway before your knees buckle slightly. Not enough to fall. Just enough to feel the ghost of his hand still lingering on your back.

11:41 p.m.

Your room is dim, bathed in the glow of your phone screen. You’re curled up in bed, overthinking the day in painful HD. You keep replaying every word. Every glance. Every almost-smile.

You haven’t messaged him. Even though he told you to.

You want to. But courage, it turns out, is fictional after 10 p.m.

Then—your phone lights up.

Dr. Alhaitham: Are you awake?

You sit up so fast you almost concuss yourself on the headboard. Your heart stumbles. Hands fumble.

You: yes?

A pause.

Dr. Alhaitham: Sorry if this is strange. I just remembered something you said the other day.

Your pulse is in your ears. You clutch your phone like it might float away.

You: Which thing? (The Victorian woman part?)

A longer pause. Bubbles come and go.

Dr. Alhaitham: No. The part about collapsing into someone’s arms. You joked. But I keep thinking about it. Wondering if someone’s ever really done that for you.

The air leaves your lungs.

The world stills.

This isn’t a joke anymore.

You: No one ever has. Why?

A minute passes.

Then:

Dr. Alhaitham: Because I think you deserve to be caught. Even when you’re not falling.

You sit frozen in your bed, the blanket bunched around your waist, the silence loud in your ears. His words wrap around you like warmth. Like something you didn’t know you needed.

Then, another message:

Dr. Alhaitham: Sorry. That was unprofessional. Good night.

But you can’t stop staring at the one before it.

“Because I think you deserve to be caught.”

The School Auditorium – 10:07 AM

The lights are too bright. The hum of the overhead fluorescents buzzes against the high ceiling, competing with the chorus of second-graders who are very much not using their indoor voices. You’re wrangling your chaos crew down the aisle—two are arguing about who’s taller, one’s asking if astronauts eat soup, and another is trying to lick the back of their own nametag.

You’re functioning on three hours of sleep, a half-drunk coffee that went cold in your cup holder, and the sheer force of whatever maternal instinct allows a person to stop a glitter spill midair.

You don’t notice the man walking onto the stage at first. Not until the noise cuts.

The chatter dies so suddenly it’s eerie—twenty-five small heads pivoting in unison toward the front like a hive mind has seized them.

You look up.

And your brain short-circuits.

There, standing at the center of the stage, is a man. Clipboard in one hand. Other tucked neatly into the pocket of a lab coat. He’s tall—really tall—built like someone who definitely doesn’t trip over his own feet, and carrying himself with the kind of effortless confidence that makes you feel like you’ve shown up underdressed to your own job.

He’s calm. Polished. Crisp lines and clean edges. A quiet authority that makes even the most fidgety of your kids fall still.

Alhaitham.

Dr. Alhaitham.

Your doctor.

Your heart leaps to your throat and lodges there.

He scans the room slowly, methodically. Dispassionate and professional—until his eyes land on you.

And pause.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough. Your breath catches. Your stomach does a little somersault, unprompted.

You are suddenly painfully aware of the state you’re in: oversized cardigan, mystery glitter on your left sleeve, your hair pinned back with a pencil because someone borrowed your last claw clip. There’s a child gripping your leg like it’s the mast of a sinking ship.

He starts to speak—something about germs and handwashing and healthy habits—but you don’t really hear it. The children do. They’re captivated. Spellbound.

You’re just trying to remember how to breathe.

The talk ends after what feels like a hundred years but also three minutes. You start herding your class toward the exit, one hand on a shoulder, another plucking a crayon from someone’s mouth.

And then your phone buzzes.

You glance down.

Dr. Alhaitham : You didn’t tell me you were a teacher.

You stop mid-step. The world tilts slightly.

You read it again.

You: You didn’t tell me you do school tours.

The reply comes so fast you know he had the message half-written already.

Dr.Alhaitham : I don’t. I only agreed because the principal is a patient. Didn’t expect to see you. (Or twenty-five second graders clinging to your legs.)

A breath escapes you—half laugh, half disbelief. Your heart’s still racing, but it’s a little lighter now. Warmer.

You: Yeah well… you might have cracked the case. That’s why I was always sick. Kid germs are no joke.

You watch the typing bubble appear. Disappear. Appear again.

You can feel the deliberation behind it. He’s thinking. Rethinking. Overthinking. You know the feeling too well.

Then finally—

Dr. Alhaitham : I get it now. All the coughs. The dizziness. The stress. You were holding together an entire classroom by sheer willpower.

You stare at your screen, throat tightening.

Something about the way he says it. The way he sees it.

Then another ping.

Dr. Alhaitham : You’re… kind of incredible, you know. Even with stickers on your pants.

You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound that leaves it. A sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a scream.

Because you look down—and yep. There they are.

Two sparkly dinosaur stickers on your thigh.

And suddenly, you don’t feel quite so exhausted anymore.

—usagii’s note

I wish alhaitham was real :(

𝐝𝐫.𝐚𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ‧₊˚ (fluff)

╰┈➤ fem reader. reader is haitham’s patient (this may be a bit self indulgent hehe). mild flirting. fluff. attempt at comedy, just a drabble ig, i love alhaitham fr— just wanted to write something small before disappearing again ehe. masterlist

The first time you met Dr. Alhaitham, he walked in like a problem you weren’t ready to solve.

The door eased open with a soft click, and you barely had a second to breathe before he stepped through. And just like that, every rational thought in your head short-circuited.

He was tall—so tall—and built like the universe had carefully balanced strength and elegance just for him. His white coat hung open, effortlessly draped over broad shoulders, the fabric swaying slightly with each step like it knew how lucky it was. Underneath, his black button up shirt fit too well and his tie perfectly in place.

But it was his face that hit the hardest.

Angular jaw. Perfectly cut cheekbones. Lips set in a neutral line that looked like they’d never curve into anything as mundane as a smile. His hair—a soft grey, slightly tousled like he'd run a hand through it absentmindedly—framed his face with just enough dishevelment to be maddening.

And then his eyes met yours.

Cool, turquoise irises - pupils rimmed with amber. Focused. Sharp. Like a lens sliding into place. He looked at you—not through you, not past you, but at you—and your brain promptly melted into static.

You forgot how to sit properly.

You shifted on the exam table and winced at the ridiculously loud crinkle of the paper beneath you. Great. Smooth. Very dignified.

He glanced down at his tablet. “Name?”

You mumbled it. Or at least, you think you did. Your mouth moved, and he didn’t ask again, so that was something.

His gaze flicked up again, this time assessing. “Hm.”

Just hm.

You wanted to die. Or be swallowed whole by the earth. Or maybe just crawl under the table and never come out again.

He walked closer, writing a few things down, entirely unfazed. His presence filled the room with a kind of quiet intensity, like a thunderstorm just waiting to happen. He asked clinical questions in a deep, calm voice that was way too smooth for your current state of mind.

When he stepped beside you and reached for your wrist, you nearly levitated off the table.

His fingers were precise, cool, steady as they pressed against your skin. Meanwhile, you were vibrating at a frequency only small rodents could hear.

“Pulse is elevated,” he said absently, glancing at the numbers. “Unusual.”

You cleared your throat. “I’m—uh. Just—nervous.”

“I assumed,” he replied, flatly. “Though I haven’t done anything yet.”

Oh my god.

Was that deadpan sarcasm? Was that dry humour? From him?

Your face burned. You could feel the flush rising like a tidal wave, heat crawling up your neck and settling in your ears.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you again. Not with empathy. Not with judgment. Just that same unreadable curiosity, like you were a particularly odd research sample.

“Try to relax. You're only making it worse.”

You let out a high-pitched laugh that did not help your case.

He returned to his notes without another word, cool and methodical as he moved through the rest of the exam. Every brush of contact was maddening. He was so calm, so put-together, while you were over here trying not to pass out from sheer mortification.

Finally, he stepped back and moved to the door.

He paused there, one hand on the handle.

“You should drink more water,” he said, still not looking back. “And maybe avoid overly stimulating environments.”

Then, after a beat—so soft you almost missed it:

“Charismatic doctors included.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

You sat there, frozen, heart racing like you'd just run a marathon on zero sleep and five cups of coffee.

You buried your burning face in your hands.

You were so, so doomed.

The second time you met Dr. Alhaitham, you told yourself it was just a check-up. Just routine. Just to confirm you’re healthy. That’s all.

You definitely didn’t fix your hair twice in the waiting room. Or rehearse what you’d say if he asked anything personal. Or almost chicken out at the front desk.

And then… there he is again.

Same white coat. Same unreadable face. Clipboard in hand. He doesn’t smile. He nods. That’s it. Like you’re a piece of data.

“Still having the same symptoms?” he asks, setting his pen against paper, eyes flicking up for half a second.

“No,” you say too quickly. “I mean—yes. I mean—sort of?” You feel the shame rise like steam in your face. Be normal, you beg yourself silently. Be a normal human.

His brow furrows. “That’s… not very clear.” He’s not being rude. He’s just direct. His voice is so flat, so serious, it makes you squirm.

You try to say something coherent while he approaches with the stethoscope. And then it happens again—he touches your wrist to take your pulse.

Immediate panic.

He blinks. “Still elevated.”

“It’s warm in here,” you blurt.

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s… twenty-two degrees Celsius.”

You die. Right there. He probably thinks you’re about to pass out. Or lying. Or both. Meanwhile, he’s moving through the appointment like you’re not experiencing a romantic crisis every time he breathes near you.

“You’re giggling,” he says, suddenly.

You freeze. “I’m—not!”

He looks up. That same unreadable stare. “You are. It’s fine. Some patients get nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you say way too fast, your voice a squeak now.

He just nods again. “Hmm.”

Hmm.

That’s it. You’re never recovering from this.

Then, as he’s about to leave, he pauses. Flips through his notes.

“You drink enough water now?” he asks without looking at you.

Your stomach flips. He remembered.

You nod.

“Good,” he says. Still serious. Still calm. Still a walking paradox of soft hands and distant eyes. “You seem better. Maybe next time, you won’t giggle.”

And then he leaves.

And you sit there.

Absolutely gone.

The third time you met Dr. Alhaitham, you weren’t supposed to be here. You just needed toothpaste. That’s all. One boring little errand.

You’re in your softest hoodie, your least presentable state, and you’re standing in the pharmacy aisle, zoning out while debating between two brands of lip balm—because clearly, your life is thrilling.

And then, you hear it. That voice. Calm, low, quiet—but unmistakable.

“Excuse me.”

You turn.

It’s him.

Your doctor. In a black button-up and fitted trousers. No white coat. No clipboard. No clinical detachment to protect you.

Just… him. Hair slightly tousled. Glasses pushed up on his nose. Holding a box of vitamins like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

You nearly drop your chapstick.

“Oh,” you say. Too loudly. Too high-pitched. “Hi.”

His eyes land on you, calm as ever, and he nods like it’s perfectly normal that the man you’ve been lowkey fantasizing about is now standing three feet away by the travel-size shampoo.

“I remember you,” he says, flatly. Not unkind. Just observant.

You nearly ascend. “Uh—yeah. I’m… still hydrated.”

A pause. The corner of his mouth twitches. Twitches.

“That’s good,” he says, and somehow it sounds like a compliment.

You just stare. Like an idiot. Because he’s wearing a real person outfit. And his sleeves are rolled up. And his forearms exist. And he’s not doing anything wrong, but you’re actively malfunctioning.

He glances down at the item in his hand, then holds it up. “Do you know if these actually help? I’ve read mixed studies on the absorption rate.”

He’s asking you. For an opinion. On vitamins. And you’re trying to remember how to form a sentence.

“I—I mean, I just… get the gummies,” you say.

He actually blinks. “Gummies?”

You nod. “They’re easier to… chew?”

Another pause. And then, a quiet, rare sound: a soft huff of amusement. You don’t even think it’s a laugh. But it’s close enough to make your chest burst like a firework.

“You’re different outside the clinic,” he says simply.

You panic. “Is that bad?”

“No,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “Just… surprising.”

Your heartbeat is in your ears.

You manage a half-smile. “You’re different too.”

He tilts his head. “How so?”

“You… have forearms.”

His eyebrows go up. You want to eat the floor.

“I mean—not that I think about your forearms—I just—”

He’s watching you. Quiet. Sharp. Then he says, very calmly:

“You’re blushing again.”

You wish for lightning to strike you on the spot. He adjusts the box in his hand like this is all very standard and unremarkable.

And then, as casually as anything:

“I’ll remember the gummies next time.”

And he walks away.

Leaving you standing there like a disaster in a hoodie, holding two kinds of lip balm and a pounding heart.

The fouth time you met Dr. Alhaitham, the waiting room is cold again, or maybe you’re just more sensitive today. You clutch your jacket tighter, feeling that weird mix of dizzy and tired that’s been creeping up for days. You told yourself it was nothing—just stress, maybe. But now you’re here again.

The nurse calls your name, and your heart skips. Because you already know who’s going to be behind that door.

You step into the exam room and sit down, and sure enough—there he is. Doctor Serious. Doctor Calm. Doctor devastating.

Except this time, his eyes linger longer when he sees you.

“You don’t look well,” he says immediately.

You blink. “Gee, thanks.” why do you think I am here ? well it is also to stare at your gorgeous face but I am not going to disclose that to you.

His brow lifts. You didn’t mean to sound so sarcastic. But your voice is quieter than usual, and your usual panic feels dulled by how out-of-it you feel. He steps closer, watching you carefully.

“Dizzy spells?” he asks, sitting down across from you. “Headaches?”

You nod. “Yeah. And I feel kinda tired all the time. Like… weirdly tired.”

He watches you. Really watches you. “Have you been eating regularly?”

You hesitate. “Um. I mean. Mostly. Maybe not perfectly.”

“Have you fainted?”

“No,” you say. “I just… feel like a dying Victorian woman sometimes.”

That earns a real reaction: a soft exhale, not quite a laugh—but the closest you’ve ever gotten. He looks at you again, like he’s trying to read through your jokes.

“Victorian woman,” he echoes.

You shrug weakly. “I’d look really cute collapsing into someone’s arms.”

His lips twitch. “Let’s avoid collapsing for now.”

He runs a few tests, checking your pulse again—so gently—and this time when your heart spikes, he doesn’t even comment on it. He just looks at you, a bit more quietly than usual.

“Your iron might be low,” he says. “Have you been on your period recently?”

You blink. “Why would you—how’d you—?”

“You’ve been here before,” he says simply. “You were flushed and talkative. Now you’re pale and slow to respond.”

You stare. “So you… remember me that well?”

He doesn’t answer. Just writes something into his file.

And then, suddenly, he says:

“You were at the pharmacy the other day.”

Your stomach flips. “Yeah.”

“I bought the gummies,” he says.

You blink. “Did they change your life?”

“Not yet,” he murmurs, writing something down. Then: “I don’t usually see patients outside the clinic.”

You don’t know what to say. He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, but his voice is… softer.

“I just mean,” he says slowly, “you’re different. Less anxious today. Or maybe just tired.”

He looks up, and for the first time, there’s something like concern in his eyes.

“I want you to get a blood test,” he says. “I’ll write a referral.”

You nod, barely processing, because all you can focus on is the way he’s not looking at you like you’re a puzzle anymore. He’s looking at you like he actually… cares - well he is a doctor it is his job to treat you, his patient and to care for you as his patient.

And when you stand up to leave, a little wobbly on your feet, he places a hand gently—so gently—at your elbow.

“Careful,” he says. “You’re still a little pale.”

You look up at him.

“Will you be there when I collapse dramatically?” you ask, trying to joke through the fog in your head.

He doesn’t smile. But his voice is quieter than ever when he replies:

“Always.”

And then he lets go.

part 2

usagii's note ‧₊˚

welp, ill write another part tmr when i come back from college, ugh i love haitham, i wish he was real ssksjkjskjs

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐓

—zhongli x reader : sunset berry tea (fluff)

— alhaitham x fem! reader: blurred lines (professor x camgirl! student) NSFW

—alhaitham x reader: yum-yum (fluff)

alhaitham x reader :between dreams and promises (angst and fluff)

𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐋

— jing yuan x fem reader : let me call you mine, just for tonight [REQUEST] (emperor x assassin) NSFW

© 𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗂-𝖻𝗎𝗇 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟦. 𝖣𝖮 𝖭𝖮𝖳 , 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 , 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌, 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗒 𝖾𝗍𝖼 , 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽