Boxer Al-Haitham Shows Off In The Ring

Boxer Al-Haitham Shows Off in the Ring

Pairing: Boxer!Al-Haitham x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, boxing, injury, showing off, blowing kisses, flirting, locker room kissing

A/N: Boxers are just universally hot. They just are, its how it works.

Boxer!Al-Haitham who looks for you in the crowd and does a little pose for you before entering the ring. He's only started doing this recently after you started dating but and it is a little embarrassing for him but he knows you like it, and it sends the crowd wild which is good for his future deals.

Boxer!Al-Haitham who chills his hands with ice even when he's at home because his fists keep aching. Because of this he's a little bit hesitant to take your hand, afraid of it being too cold and uncomfortable for you to hold. The ice isn't the only thing that melts when you not only take his hand but also proceed to kiss his bruises one by one.

Boxer!Al-Haitham who trains almost day and night, barely having a break because he knows that there are many who can physically overwhelm him. But he can be faster, he can be more agile, he can see through their guard better, that's the key to his victories in the end, his speed and mind.

Boxer!Al-Haitham who gets up after being knocked down only when he zeroes in on your voice and your face in the crowd cheering him on. He might be bloody and bruised but he promised you a date after this and god damn it he won't take you to dinner after losing such an important mach. This round will be his.

Boxer!Al-Haitham who blows kisses into the crowd after his victory and through his slightly dizzy vision manages to locate you and send you a few extra kisses. It's almost funny to see him barely standing tall and still being so stubborn about it. It would be funny if you weren't worried about him collapsing at any moment now. And... there he goes, right after that little wink.

Boxer!Al-Haitham who replays the footage from every one of his matches to he can improve next time. He has pages and pages of notes written about the various forms, combinations, guards and stances he can take or could have taken. Sometimes it feels like he's back at collage studding for a test and not a pro boxer champion.

Boxer!Al-Haitham who loves the massages you give him when he gets to sleep in. There are professionals who do this too but he only wants your hands on him. Plus he can flirt and tease you, be it verbally or when he flexes his muscles under your fingers when you pass over them.

Boxer!Al-Haitham gives you the keys to the locker room so you can wait for him in there and not have to push through all the people storming him along with him after a mach. It's tiering for him too but at least he gets to come back into your arms in private. And maybe hear you scold him about a bruise or two but it's nothing some medicine and kisses wouldn't fix.

Boxer!Al-Haitham who cringes when you buy so much of his merch, the shirts, the boxer gloves, oh god the fucking pillows and boxer shorts. Why did he even agree to those? Well at least you good wearing them, and the fact that his name is on them... he has to admit it does something to him.

Boxer!Al-Haitham who shows off his strength by lifting you up against the lockers and kissing you. Don't hold it against him please, he needs a little good luck kiss if he's gonna do well in the next match. Just don't grind against him, he doesn't have time for a cold shower..

He's not even out yet and I'm obsessing over little crumb I get of him.

Tea date so true

Tea Time with Wriothesley

~ contents: pre-fontaine wriothesley, fluff, a bit suggestive

~ a/n: i'm not that much of a tea person except for sweet iced teas, but i'd wanna have tea time with wriothesley🥺 this sorta made me blush and smile while writing this, but i hope this isn't cringe lol. I hope you guys enjoy it also :)

In the room, the ticking of a clock and papers shuffling can be heard. Wriothesley puts the papers down to close his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. He glances at the clock and sees he's been working overtime for about an hour and a half. He looks at the stack of papers on his desk and sighs. It's gonna be a while more until he finishes with today's paper work. He grabs the papers he put down to continue reading. Suddenly, there's a knock at his door. He tenses and sighs, thinking it's a coworker bringing more work to him. He tells the person to come in. The door opens and he visibly relaxes when he sees it's you.

"It's over your work hours and you haven't come home yet. I figured you got caught up with work again."

He chuckles as he puts down the papers. "Yeah, it's been a very chaotic day today."

You walk towards his desk and as you got closer, you noticed the faint bags under his eyes. You then begin to comb your fingers through his hair, causing him to close his eyes. He has a faint smile on his face.

"When was the last time you took a break?"

He tenses a bit. With his eyes still closed, he signs and says "Not since noon, but that was only for 5 minutes until I had to go out to capture a group of criminals we've been hunting for a while in the main part of the city." You figured he wouldn't be able to leave work anytime soon so you began to think of something you could do to help your boyfriend get through his work. You stop combing his hair and pull your hand away. He opens his eyes and you could see in his eyes, his was wondering why you stopped. You giggle.

"How about I make you some tea? I know that will help you hold you over until you're done with your paperwork." His face softens as a small smile forms.

"As long as you don't try to switch out my drink with one of Sigewinne's drinks again."

You gasp. "That was one time. I was only trying to help her mess with you."

He silently smirks at you.

You roll your eyes and smile. "I promise I won't switch out your tea with one of her drinks." He chuckles.

You walk over to the little drink center in his office where his usually makes his tea. You decide on some green tea to help keep Wriothesley awake while you make yourself some hibiscus tea.

Once the green tea was done heating up, you remember your boyfriend prefers the bitter taste of tea, wanting no sugar, milk, or cream added. While you prefer sweet things, adding about four spoonful of sugar to overpower the bitter taste of the tea.

While making the tea, you didn't notice the eyes watching you the whole time instead of focusing on the paperwork in his hands. Wriothesley put the papers down, quietly got up from his chair, and walked over to you where your back was turned and you were too focused on getting the tea right.

Suddenly, you feel strong arms wrap around your waist, startling you and causing you to squeak. You feel the breath from your boyfriend on your neck as he chuckles.

"You're cute when you squeak like a little mouse."

You blush. "Don't tease me or I'll add sugar to your tea."

He laughs and buries his face in your neck. " But you promised you wouldn't do anything to my tea."

"Yeah, well if you pick on me, I'll mess with your tea."

He laughs some more and apologizes.

You smile and relax in his arms. "The tea is almost ready."

"It smells good. I'm starting to feel relaxed already." His arms tighten a bit more around you. He leaves a light kiss on your neck. He enjoys little moments like this with you. "But that could also be because I have you here in my arms."

You blush. "You're teasing me again."

"Maybe. But it is true. You help me get through the rough moments of work". You smile. He always knew how to make your heart race. You move your hand up to his hair to comb through it again.

After a few minutes of staying in that position, "The tea is ready" you said.

He hums. "Let's just stay like this for a while longer." You wanted to say how the tea would get cold but you would be lying if you said you didn't want to stay like this a while longer also. You snuggled further into him to silently tell him okay.

You can always heat up the tea and have it later.

⛓️ Wriothesley x Reader ⛓️ Eye of the Beholder

In Fontaine’s rugged, unforgiving depths, there is no beauty to be seen by the sane traveler, unless one finds themselves with a curious fascination for filth. The ambience was dark and dreary, with only the most rusted of browns and aged of grays visible to the naked eye. Disgusting, it was, compared to the well-developed aquatic and surface regions of Fontaine and even the rest of Teyvat.

As a warden of Fontaine’s unforgiving dungeons, Wriothesley had no reason to see any sort of beauty in his surroundings. It mattered not if the convict was dressed in the finest reds or the most lowly of rags; if he caught them acting out of line or they somehow managed to slip under the noses of the wardens, he would not hesitate to hunt down the prisoners and bare his fangs. Little bark, all bite, he was known for.

On the rare chances that he did have an opportunity to rise to the surface, his poor eyesight did become somewhat of a hinderance. Under the cover of darkness, everything was in at least twenty different shades of gray. The real world as he knew it was merely blue, golden, and gray.

Through his eyes, the world was merely comprised of shades of those three colors. The rainbow of corals filling the sea and the colorful fish swimming alongside aquatic travelers were sights that Wriothesley was cursed to never behold himself. He had grown used to it, walking along the dungeons and all, but a deep part of him yearned to see the world in its full vibrance.

As you looked down from the water’s edge and found yourself engrossed in the diversity of Fontaine’s nature, Wriothesley would not share that same enthusiasm as you did. Perhaps it was due to his lack of occupancies outside of wrangling prisoners that he found no value in frivolous nature watching. You had faith, however, that if he could actually see what you were experiencing for himself, then he too, would be engrossed by the beauty of Fontaine’s upper-class regions.

He stood by a post out of habit, scanning the area around him while trying to keep his focus on your whereabouts. It was a warden’s habit to remain wary, as it was something that cannot be helped. He wasn’t too eager to hit every sightseeing location in the vicinity, but the fresh air at the very least would do his health some good. Wriothesley rarely had a chance for personal recreation, but when given the chance, he did not hesitate to accompany you on the surface for the time that he was allotted.  

Raising an eyebrow, Wriothesley asked you, “What could you possibly find so intriguing about Fontaine’s waters?”

“You just need to take a moment to have a close look for yourself. From floor to surface, its bursting with colorful life,” you said.

Wriothesley shook his head, disinterested in your frivolous observations. The world above Fontaine’s dungeons was just as dull and colorless as the one below him, and so he showed minimal interest in observing the varieties of gold and gray, something he was far too used to seeing in the underground. Silently, he rejected your invitation to observe the waters, and continued resting his body by the post where his gaze remained sharp.

How do you get someone who cannot see the full rainbow to experience life’s vividness through your eyes? Red was but a concept to him, as he was even blind to the intimidating aura of his maroon clothing. Luscious flora was not an attention grabber, with nature’s blessing of the color green being nothing more than a shade of gold to Wriothesley’s wolf-like eyes. The violet corals accenting the forests of pink and orange…to him, they all felt merely the same.

If the physical appearance of color mattered not, then you would have to resort to other methods of conveying the beauty of the world that you saw. You grabbed his arm and tugged him away from the post, dragging him to overlook the waters below. A tall, dancing bush of seagrass waved happily in the gentle current, which you had pointed out to Wriothesley.

“Look at that. What color do you see that as, exactly?”

“…Golden, diluted by a crisp ocean blue. Why do you ask?”

You shook your head, though you knew that he was answering with complete honesty and precisely what he saw from his view.

“Feels like it blends in with the rest of the world, if I’m not mistaken?” you asked.

Wriothesley nodded his head.

“Now…define it not as the golden brown you perceive it as, but more of like…as if the seagrass was brimming with the energy of mother nature herself. It radiates serenity…tranquility…an ornament to emphasize the liveliness that is Fontaine’s ecosystem. This seagrass is but a small example of what the force of life in Teyvat’s has to offer…what we are blessed to call ‘being alive.’ Serenity…peace…the sea itself, all hidden beneath the human nature of envy and illness that is part of this inevitable cycle.

He tilted his head curiously.

“Through my eyes, I simply see it as the color green. To you, however, it exists not as a sight to behold, but as a concept with meaning that the average eye could simply not do justice with sight alone.  

You pointed to a batch of branching corals not too far from the seagrass that you had observed.

“These corals,” you said. “how do they appear to you?”

“Darker than the seagrass, though still a shade golden yellow,” he stated.

“Hmmm…these corals are, in fact, quite energetic compared to their seagrass companions. They are bursting with vibrance, capturing your attention and filling you with joy as you gaze upon their tree-like structure. It’s a sense of happiness that cannot be put into words, yet it brightens you day like a warm sun during early autumn…”

Wriothesley focused on these corals as you explained how they felt, though he could feel his attention drifting from the meaning of the words to the mere sound of your voice.

“That is what I call orange. To you, it is the idea of happiness, bustling with joy and energy. Take pride in being able to embrace its luxury, for we do not appreciate its brightness until it has departed our lives.

Wriothesley seemed more attentive than before, as perhaps you had opened his eyes to the feeling of color, rather than thinking of it as something to merely see. He was scanning the water itself, both surface and floor, attempting to visualize the shades of gold that he sees as the feelings that you had described. After a few moments of observation, he pointed to a rounded coral, distinct from the branches you have described prior.

“Those?” you asked.

He nodded gently. “The rounded, lighter blue ones amongst the branched varieties…”

“The rounded corals serve as a metaphor for our imaginations. Their curious existence invokes a sense of mystery and discovery in the ones who have the honor of spotting these rarities. Nobles of both past and present would adorn themselves with these gems, limited only by their imagination; something that the lower class may not have the honor of witnessing in their lifetime. The diamonds in the rough you see here, are what I know as the color purple.”

Wriothesley had become so invested in your beautiful words, that he had lost his concentration on the truly vibrant world that his eyes were blind to. He looked down at himself, perhaps out of shame for his self-perceived dullness, then gazed out at the sea full of energetic corals and peaceful seagrass that stretched as far as the waters would allow. Nothing more than shades of gray and burnt yellow, he was doomed to see himself as.

But Wriothesley was far from what he viewed himself as. His own unique vibrance told a story in itself. It told how he had experienced years of bloodshed from such a rough occupation, how he showed passion to what was important to him, and how he had the strength to carry on despite the injuries that threatened to take his life on numerous occasions.

The dark red suit told a story in its own. Wriothesley was a tough man, but he was also full of care and compassion. By showing no mercy to those who broke the nation’s laws, he assured that the citizens of Fontaine could roam the streets freely and safely.

Wriothesley’s suit was the color of the feelings that you two had for each other.

Not to mention, the color of his face when you explained the meaning behind the red he was adorned with.

⑅ ۫ . ෆ ˟ ໒꒱ KAMA SUTRA: PRINCIPLES OF LOVE it’s silly, al haitham thinks, how madly in love with you he is, how that love defies all sense of logic in his mind.

al haitham x sub!f!reader ౨ৎ . . . nsfw — mdni ໒꒱ ⋆˚✩. established relationship / clit kissies + dry humping / foreplay heavy! / praise + petnames / cervix fucking / creampie / al haitham is only a teeny bit teasing + vewy sweet / 2.7k wc. feedback + comments supa appreciated!

“you’ll never hear the end of it if kaveh catches you with that.”

you paw at the thick book al haitham has laid over the thigh that you aren’t occupying, shying into his neck at the image painted on the cardstock page he’s flipped to— one of a man and woman adorned in fine jewelry, gold silks tumbling off their limbs as they embrace each other in what appears to be a rather compromising position.

truth be told, you’re not exactly sure what led your lover— someone who has rarely ever indulged in the pleasure-oriented faculties of life— to pick up such a text about sex and eroticism as the kama sutra, but the mere thought of it is enough to have heat swirling in your tummy and your legs squeezing around the thigh you’re straddling.

“there’s far more to the kama sutra than just… fornication. it’s more so a guide to living well and the nature of love. a whole section is dedicated to finding a life partner—”

“awh, does that mean you’re gonna…?” you giggle, wagging your ring finger in front of his face playfully.

al haitham’s ears tinge red at your insinuation, but he carries on with the faintest of smirks on his lips that he’s trained to remain invisible. “— and there’s another chapter solely demonstrating when and how to commit adultery.”

and just like that— your toothy smile turns to a frown, nose twitchy as you anxiously toss your hair. “better not be reading that chapter, hmph.” you mutter into the warm skin of his neck, lips curving into a weak kiss that you lay over his pulse.

it’s almost amusing to him, the prettiest pout on your lips and brows knit cutely as you try to hide your disappointment from him, turning your head away from his when he attempts to face you. he blows out a sigh, chuckling sweetly when he catches you and lays a delicate kiss to your cheek. “never said i’d be paying that part any mind, sweetheart.”

when you respond by wrapping your arms tighter around his neck and bury your face in his shirt, he can only bring himself to smile and shake his head as he feels himself enter a bit of a daze that’s full of yearning and craving. unnatural, for someone like himself, but fitting, for someone madly in love.

and so, he gently spreads your legs to slot his hips between them, hiking a thigh over his shoulder before lowering his face to the crotch of your panties, skirt pooling flimsily at your hips. “when a woman reproaches a man, but at the same time acts affectionately towards him, she should be made love to in every way.” he quotes from the book.

the warmth of his breath reaches through the thin cotton and your cunt begins to weep, clenching and oozing out slick in a silent plea for his fingers, his tongue— anything to relieve the weight of desperation that settles heavy on your stomach. and before your hips can involuntarily wiggle against his face in search of respite, alhaitham is already tugging your panties to the side to place a sweet, lingering kiss on your clit. 

you tremble at the sudden heat, soft features overcome with a dazed expression as if that alone is enough to knock all the thought out of your pretty little head. “‘h-haitham, what’re you doing…”

“putting theory into practice.”

and then he’s licking up the length of your slit, collecting your sugary slick in the dip of his tongue before letting it dribble past his lips in a mix of saliva onto your swollen clit— giving it another kiss, and another, and then some— until your chest begins to heave with pitchy whispers of his name, candied with a burning behind your eyes from how badly you need more of him.

“patience, darling …” lips are replaced with a growing bulge as his face levels to meet your own, sapphire-tinged emerald dancing across your features, from the delicate pinch of your brows to the flex of your neck. al haitham presses into you deeper, your bare and puffy folds moulding to the shape of his cock through his slacks, drenching the fabric with your milky cream.

his crotch catches onto your clit and in an instant, you’re curling your fingers woefully into the linen of his shirt, puffing out hot air against his jaw as you sweetly keen into him— f-feels good, ‘haitham, feels s’good.

oh, he thinks you're so pretty like this— clinging onto his bicep and painting his ivory skin with crescents of red, every slow grind of his clothed cock against your achy cunt drawing another eager, desperate whine from your throat. and you only fall more lightheaded as he nuzzles into your ankle dangling off his shoulder, kissing the bone before making quick work to remove the noisy anklet adorning it, because all he wants to hear are the sounds he coaxes out of you; he's sure they're the sweetest sounds to grace the earth.

“w-wan’… kiss…”

“what’s that?” he whispers against the inside of your knee, the swell of your breast, the hollow of your clavicle as he travels lipwards— covering every inch except the place you need to feel him most.

“i wanna kiss on my lips, ‘haitham!” you throw a tiny fit, and it’s nothing short of adorable when your tongue does a poor job of biting back your impatience. the uneven pout of your lips and the twitch of your nose have his veins aching with such a strong need to dote on you, tend to you until he rids you of the pain of your burning desire and all you’re able to voice is 50 different whimpers of his name.

“but if i kiss you here,” al haitham teases as he runs a thumb over the dainty curve of your mouth, stopping it at the swell of your bottom lip before releasing a strained laugh, chest knotted up with half-pleasure and half-pain, for all he wants to do is kiss and suck and lick and nibble the soft flesh— feed on it, even— and with a generosity wherein you’re ready to offer anything, everything, he’s almost positive you’d let him. “i’m afraid i won’t be able to stop.”

“don’t want you to stop… never ever.” your eyes are hazy with the light of the stars and you’re looking up at him with so much ardour, busying your lips with soft suckles on his finger while he hastily frees his cock from the confines of his slacks. and his gaze stays on you all the while— because you look so pretty like this and your words settle in the deepest depths of his soul and he thinks he could just devour you whole.

“never ever, hm?” he muses, eyes warm with mirth. you shiver and twitch under his gentle hold, where he kisses the corner of your parted lips, nosing along your cheek to place another on your brow, a final one against the hot lobe of your ear. his breath fans over your neck as he teases your little cunt open with his leaking tip, and you feel him smirk against your skin when you obediently spread your legs wider to accommodate his size. “you wouldn’t be able to eat or drink anything ever again.” 

it’s almost tragic— the soft, dreamy lulls of your head, the cute whimpers of his name, the saliva that pools and spills around the thumb he pops out of your mouth— he’s barely gotten the flushed head of his cock past your tight ring of muscle and you’re already so complacent, pliable for him. 

“don’t care… s’long as i have you,” you sniffle, fingers grappling weakly at the tufts of platinum and sage that curl around his neck, trying to lean up and nuzzle your nose against his. “please, kiss me?”

and it’s in the way you ask him: with dew clinging to your lashes and a timid quiver to your breath that makes him submit all at once, because what kind of a person would he be to deny his lover when she asks so sweetly?

and just as al haitham’s lips meet yours, he’s reprimanding himself for not giving you a kiss sooner. because on your tongue he tastes the spice carried through the sumeru wind and zaytun peaches and all the fluttering pieces of romantic prose you eat and gosh— alhaitham is the furthest thing from a poet— but surely, he doesn’t need any kama sutra to teach him about the love he holds for you in his heart.

he kisses you and kisses you and kisses you some more— smirking against your lips when you sigh happily and melt into the palms that smooth up your waist. “pretty little thing, aren’t you?

“uh huh, wanna be everything for you,” bringing your other leg to rest atop his shoulder, you respond wetly through the spit bubbling at your mouth and the blood that flows straight to your brain as he begins to fuck you languidly with his tip, watching your slick drip and ooze around the bulbous, red head.

he shushes your sobs sweetly, the pads of his thumbs dipping just at the edges of your eyes to collect any tears before they have a chance to be shed. “shhh— f-fuck— s’okay, you’re doin’ so well— doing so well for me.”

you begin to pant against the hollow of his neck as he eases his full length into you, all the ridges and veins decorating his cock that you’ve come to memorize over the months perfectly snug against the tightness of your delicate walls. his head falls forwards and his forehead bumps against your shoulder, a harsh, erotic groan escaping him when your little cunt begins to squeeze and clench around his cock, sucking him in further, all the way until he’s knocking at the sponge of your cervix and his pubic bone is flush against your clit.

your hips jerk at the sharp pulses of pleasure that build in your abdomen as he grinds into your womb— the sweetest, breathiest whines of ‘h-haitham, ‘haitham, s’big flood his brain because he’s deeper than he’s ever been, with the backs of your knees sticky against the bridge of his shoulders and your body quivering under him from how full you feel.

he does all he can to wash away the ache in your tummy— sliding a palm between the couch and the back of your head to cradle it, pressing hot kisses over the apple of your cheek as he continues drawing his hips back and forth.

and he continues fucking into your womb like this, thumb sliding in the thin space between his crotch and your clit to rub sloppy hearts on the puffy nub, and— oh, it feels like heaven.

“feels like heaven?” he’s asking, charmed by your guileless wonder as you wrap your arms around his neck and meekly tug his face closer to yours, rubbing your nose against his cheek like a puppy endeared to her owner.

“mhm, feel you here, ‘haitham… in my tummy,” you giggle in ecstasy, at the thought of his cock twitching wildly in you and his cum filling you up there, hot and sticky and oozing like sweet milk down your thighs— you want it so bad; you want it everywhere. to have him mark you with his seed as a proclamation of his love, fuck, you think you might cry.

and you do, because you want him— all of him so, so bad.

you sniffle when you feel the tears rush down your face and al haitham can only groan at how overwhelming everything is: the wild pounding of his heart against his ribs and the starry night reflected in your eyes and your walls hugging his cock so tight like it loves it. 

“h-hey now, ‘m gonna cum if you keep sucking me in like that— f-fuck.” 

he’s worked you up to that soft, dreamy headspace— where you’re hiccupping on shallow breaths and your bambi eyes are glazed over with honey and the words come tumbling out of your pretty lips before you have a chance to think them through. “cum in me— pretty please, wan’ your cum in my tummy, wan’ it everywhere—oh!"

it’s all so much, because it’s only been a short while but your words send a glow of numbing pleasure through his head, down his chest to his cock— and then he’s cumming— thrusts jerky before he plunges into you completely, spurt after spurt of thick white ribbon filling your womb, flushing your limbs full of warmth. and you’re right there with him, as the head of his cock twitches and drags over that spot nestled deep in your cunt and his thumb continues its assault on your clit, gravelly voice spewing sweet nothings into your hair while you keen for him sweetly.

you’re so pretty when you cry, so pretty when you cum— he tells you as he clears your face of any stray hairs before thumbing your tears away. the next few moments are silent and he takes them to admire you, the heave of your chest as your breath steadies, the almost doll-like pout of your lips, the precious way you suck your cheek in between your teeth to defy the flustered grin that forms under the curious gaze of your lover.

“don’t hide your smile from me.” the most tender smile graces his face when you begin to giggle shyly, eyes beaming with starlight and mouth curved up like the softest of petals. “so long as lips shall kiss, and eyes shall see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

another passage from the kama sutra, you presume. the delivery of the line, words thick and dripping affection like molasses would’ve made you swoon if it weren’t for the mere fact that it was al haitham saying them. in a failed attempt to suppress the onslaught of laughter, you suck you bottom lip into your mouth, only for al haitham to tut you with a playful roll of his eyes and a shake of his head.

“i suppose such poetry is unbefitting for me, huh?”

your legs slot under his arms to wrap around his waist more comfortably, heels resting against his back dimples and fingers tracing hearts over the dips and grooves of his biceps. he’s picked it up as one of your habits— something you do when you feel particularly endeared to him. “you should leave the lovey-dovey stuff to me.”

perhaps you’re right, he tells you through bated breath— perhaps he’s the furthest thing from a poet, a romantic, but there’s no denying how you make him feel like he could compose the greatest love story in all the universe— and it’s silly, he thinks, how madly in love with you he is, how that love defies all sense of logic in his mind. 

perhaps al haitham is the furthest thing from a poet, but if you were to tell him he was your world, he would tell you that you’re everything that makes the world good and beautiful and pure. tell him you’d die without him, and he’d tell you that he could still exist without you, but that’s all he’d ever manage to do. you can say that every day spent with him is like a story, and he’d tell you that you make him feel like he’s living in a fairytale— every second of every day.

but al haitham is a scholar, not a romantic, and such poetry is unbefitting for him. right?

from coco ๑‧₊˚ ෆ i squealed a whole lot while writing this .. my littl baby boy my prince my moon my sun my stars my everything ! i lov u so much so much so much so much foreva n’ eva n’ eva ;;n;; ! comments + reblogs + feedback of any kind ! r supa ! dupa appreciated !! thankies a billi for reading ໒꒰ྀི∩´͈ ᐜ `͈∩꒱ྀིა

I am once again coming back to say that I am not immune to sexy dark haired wolf man. Now that I know he's basically a boxer, I don't want him, I NEED HIM CARNALLY.