Al Haitham Drabbles - Tumblr Posts

ᕱ⑅ᕱ ۪ ۫ 〜 ꒰ 𝓂𝓎 𝒻𝓁𝓊𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝒷𝓎, 𝒻𝓁𝓎, 𝒻𝓁𝓎. al haitham x f!reader. sfw. reader is in a skirt ﾉ some playful bicker ◞ some kisses ◞ some naughty touches ૮꒰ྀི⊃⸝ ⸝ ⸝⊂꒱ྀིა ﾉ jus fluffy stuffs ꒰ྀི 1.2k wc

you’re taller than al haitham as children— all dangly, clumsy fawn legs where he’s only a baby sapling that’s just begun to sprout from the soil.

even with his fluffy mop of slate hair, the tippy top of his head reaches under your chin, and it takes two of his strides to match one of your own.

perhaps it’s rude and not at all like you or your mother had taught you, but it’s so much fun teasing him about it— the ‘know-it-all’ little brat of a schoolmate who you consistently place second to, who won’t play with you at lunch break and sighs in boredom as often as he breathes and so evidently does not belong in a classroom of children his age.

it’s so much fun watching him struggle to reach for a book on the fourth shelf, one that you pick out with ease (but certainly cannot read with ease), hand to him with a mischievous twinkle in your eyes, ruffle his hair and seemingly disregard him with a giggle, a lax wave of your hand.

"looks like you're too short to reach that shelf, haithie. i guess it just can’t be helped!”

neither the book he’s been wanting to read for weeks nor the strap of his suspender sliding off his shoulder have his attention now that you’ve stolen all of it for yourself. 

his head tilts curiously and he looks on in a bit of a stunned daze as you skip off to the section of the library that houses picture books and fairytales, two pigtails swaying side to side and the heels of your loafers scuffing along the carpet and he thinks you’re akin to a butterfly— or flutterby, as you like to call them— prancing about in that carefree way you tend to do.

haithie.

what a peculiar feeling the nickname brings him— a certain eagerness, childlike joy bubbling in his tummy and giving rise to something that he can’t seem to place a name to.

(no one’s ever called him by a nickname before. it’s… nice. just nice, and nothing else. yes, that’s correct… nothing else.

…

his face warms at the realization.)

and then he hears you squeal, watches you trip and tumble to the ground, scrape your palms and sit there pathetically on your knees with your shoulders slumped over.

what a clumsy little flutterby you are.

tiny hiccups are peeled from your throat and you begin to cry softly, and al haitham worries. his feet move on their own when he walks toward you, digging in his knapsack for the last bandage he has left. 

“take this.” the boy who you think dislikes you speaks to you for the first time, so you look up at him for the first time, lips wobbly and lashes sticky and cheeks glistening.

his face, however, is unchanging; he is as straight-lipped as you’d expect him to be, brows set in concentration and eyes sharp, piercing.

(but if you look closely, you’d see how the edges are clouded in concern, blunted down and soft and tender and caring— all the things you’d expect him not to be.)

“you really ought to be more careful,” he leans down to your level, wags the bandage in front of your face, “how will you be able to take notes in class if you hurt your hands?”

“you… you…” 

his words present themselves to you as a challenge and it makes you seethe, furrow your brows, scrunch up your nose, frown. 

al haitham swears there must be fumes coming out of your ears. 

“you’ll get wrinkles if you keep pouting like that.”

“don’t pater— pat— hmph! don’t patronize me!” you yap the too-difficult word awkwardly, snatch the bandage from his hand and run off, cheeks swollen like freshly puffed corn, either from the pain stinging at your palms or in embarrassment at having made a fool of yourself in front of your very first, very real, perhaps unrequited, and only love.

two decades later and you're standing uncomfortably with one knee up on the kitchen counter, tippy toes barely brushing the tile floor as you aimlessly reach for the spice tin sitting at the top of the pantry.

you grapple at air, slide your hand over to the left of the shelf, and to the right, and to the left again, and then you think you finally have it when you feel cool metal graze over your fingertips. stretching, wiggling your fingers as far as you can, you hook a nail under the side clasp and drag it to the ledge of the shelf; you have it, until—

“ow!” your hand flys down to the top of your thigh where your skirt has ridden up in your position that has you rather exposed, to where two lithe fingers much larger than your own surprise you with a pinch, and then a cheeky squeeze of your rear.

“need help with that?” before you can register it, your husband reaches up with ease to take the spice tin in his own hand, shaking it in front of your face almost tantalizingly. 

you frown.

(but then you catch sight of the flex of his bicep as he brings it to your level, the veins lining his forearms, his fingers drumming playfully over the tin. and your frown lessens.)

“haithie, i almost had it!” you lower yourself to the ground and whine, craning your neck up towards al haitham. it’s merely a second after that he raises the spice tin high in the air with a pompous smirk on his face that only serves to make him even more handsome, higher up than the top shelf of the pantry and certainly too high for you to reach.

his grin widens when you bounce on the balls of your feet, grip at his shirt and use it for leverage as you try so, so hard to take the tin from him. to no avail, of course.

you furrow your brows and puff out your cheek, look up at him as if you were about to throw a tantrum and then he’s brought back 20 years to his school library, akademiya-prep physics textbook in his hands and you splayed on the floor in front of him with your pigtails and scraped palms and blubbery cheeks and sullen little flutterby wings.

“you’re such a meanie.”

"and you're too short to reach that shelf, darling,” he muses, eyes swimming with hazy mirth as he finally holds out the spice tin for you to grab, watches on with a tender smile as you hug it to your chest and release a dissatisfied little hmph!

you’re older now, shorter than him now— your lips are fuller and your cheeks are dimpled with smile lines, but your childish peevishness has remained. perhaps it’s one of the things that endears him most to you.

and then he’s placating you the way he knows best, running his knuckles adoringly along the lift of your cheekbone because you’re just so cute when you get all pouty and petulant like this, because you melt under his touch like cream in the sun, because your pout softens and before you realize it you’re biting on your lip to hold back a giggle.

oh, how quickly he’s able to soothe your heart like this. his little flutterby.

"i guess it just can’t be helped.”

𐂯 ‧₊˚ thanku for reading i hope u luv teasing hubbie haithie as much as i doooo :3 🌈🍀💝☮️ ! ! consider reblogging or leaving a comment if u enjoyed ෆ