HII could i request reader allowing phainon to kiss them for the first time in their relationship but phainon's too shy and he accidentally switches to khaslana while trying to kiss them hehe <33
Like Afternoon Sun (Phainon x Reader)
A/N: Hi anon! :) This request was so cute. The idea of Phainon getting flustered enough during a first kiss that his wings immediately come out completely took over my brain. :D
Reader isn’t affected by the heat of his form here. In my mind, it’s because of their connection. :D Hope you’ll enjoy. 💙
Tags: Fluff. First Kiss. Early Relationship. Emotional Intimacy. Phainon Being Flustered. Khaslana Form. Wings. Soft Phainon. Tenderness.
Word count: 1129
⋆ ✦ ⋆
The wings have appeared before.
The first time was accidental.
You’d pulled Phainon into a hug without warning and the light came so suddenly that you’d both stood there blinking at each other in mutual surprise.
He’d apologized approximately four times before you told him, very sincerely, that his wings were the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.
He’d gone red to the ears.
They come more easily now. Sometimes just from proximity. You’ve learned not to comment on it directly unless you want to watch him become immediately interested in whatever wall is nearest.
You’ve also learned that beneath the self-consciousness, he doesn’t actually mind. That some part of him is glad you’ve seen this. Glad you stayed. Relieved, in a way that runs deeper than he’ll say, that the heat doesn’t touch you.
So when the faint gold starts threading at the edges of him now, you simply notice it, warmly, and say nothing.
Phainon, however, has other problems.
He’s been standing a little too close for the last several minutes. In that particular register of nearness where you become very aware of every inch still between you.
You’re also very aware that he’s aware of it too, and that something is happening that neither of you has said out loud yet.
“You’ve gone quiet,” you observe.
“I’m—” A pause. “Thinking.”
“About?”
“Several things.” He shifts, almost imperceptibly. “One thing. In a very particular order that keeps rearranging itself every time I get close to—”
He stops. Tries again, voice lower, slower, like he’s choosing every word mid-sentence and discarding each one. “I had a phrasing. A good one, I thought. It seems to have left me entirely.”
You look at him. There’s something almost painfully earnest in his face right now. And beneath that, you notice nerves, real ones, not his usual warmth-and-deflection.
“Is it that serious?” you ask, keeping your voice soft.
“It feels serious.” He exhales. “Which either means it is, or I’ve thought about it long enough that I’ve catastrophically overbuilt the whole thing, and the correct answer was obvious from the beginning, and I’ve simply—” He scratches the back of his head. “I’m rambling.”
“A little,” you agree, fond.
“I don’t typically—” A brief, frustrated gesture at himself. “I’m usually considerably more—”
“Phainon,” you say gently. “What is the one thing?”
He looks at you.
Then his gaze drops to your mouth. Returns to your eyes.
Oh.
“Right,” he says. Very quietly. “That.”
He takes a breath, and you can see him trying to reconstruct whatever he’d planned, and then abandoning it.
Because the planned version doesn’t fit the actual moment. It never does.
“I’ve thought about it,” he says instead, plainly. “More than I’ll readily admit, and at lengths that would probably embarrass me if said aloud.”
His hand comes up and touches your waist, so carefully. A question asked through the gesture, an answer waited for. “And I would very much like to—if you—”
All at once, like they’ve been waiting, the deep blue-violet of them flooding the periphery of your vision, gold threading through them like something breathing.
The air around him goes warm in an instant.
The particular warmth that means him, the heat that would burn anyone else and instead only feels, to you, like afternoon sun through a window. Like something that was always safe to step into.
You tilt your face up toward it without thinking. Feel it settle against your cheeks, your throat.
He watches you do that with an expression like wonder.
“Oh,” you say softly, because they’re beautiful, the wings, they’re always beautiful, and you never quite get used to it.
“You say that every time,” he manages.
“Because it’s true every time.”
His ears go pink. “You’re not—this is not making it easier to—”
“I know,” you say. “I’m not trying to.”
He looks at you and then he says, without any of his usual eloquence: “You’re extraordinary.”
So you close the distance yourself.
He makes a small sound. Startled and soft, like the moment hasn’t quite landed yet.
And then his hand at your waist tightens, and he kisses you back. Carefully. The way he approaches things he wants to get exactly right: his whole attention on it, present for every second.
His other hand comes up to your jaw, so gentle. Like you might startle. Like he’s still a little astonished this is real and doesn’t want to move too fast through something he’s been thinking about for too long.
You let him be careful. For a moment. Then you lean into him and something shifts.
The carefulness deepens into something else entirely, loosens into a warmth that’s more certain, more his. He kisses you like a man who has made a decision, and you feel it move through him.
His hand at your jaw tilts you up. His other arm draws you closer, and there’s nothing tentative in it anymore.
The wings curve inward around you both, enormous and quiet. The warmth deepens. It feels like being held inside something luminous.
When he finally pulls back it’s only far enough to breathe, forehead tipping toward yours, not willing to put any more distance than that between you.
He’s looking at you with an expression you don’t think he’d let many people see: slightly undone and deeply happy.
“I had approximately twelve things planned to say,” Phainon says, a little breathlessly. “In sequence. With transitions.”
“And?”
He looks at your lips. Back to your eyes.
“Gone,” he says. “All of them. Entirely. I don’t retain a single word.”
You laugh and watch something helpless and radiant move through his expression at the sound of it, like he can’t quite believe he gets to be this close to it.
“Good?” you offer.
“Exceptional,” he says. Then, quieter, still faintly dazed: “Can we—”
“Yes,” you say.
This time he doesn’t hesitate at all.
The wings are still out when you finally surface, breathless and smiling at each other like you’ve both discovered something you hadn’t known to look for.
He glances back at them with fond, mild exasperation.
“Still,” he observes, to himself.
“Still,” you confirm, delighted.
He shakes his head. Looks back at you. There’s something in his expression now that makes your chest feel full in a way you don’t have words for yet.
“I’ll take it as a compliment,” he decides.
“It is one,” you tell him. “It always is.”
He smiles and pulls you back into the warmth of him, wings and all, like you’ve been there before and fully intend to stay.
⋆ ✦ ⋆
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)
♱⋅── ZAYNE is just a perfect husband, even more than they know.
♱⋅── MDNI just horny thoughts about zayne, once again.
"Zayne is such a wonderful husband."
The entire hospital knows of the mystery lady who seems to be the only thing more important to the man than surgery itself. The one who, if you ask about the cute homemade bento box or a cup of caramel coffee (with whipped cream on top) and a sticky note on the side, will say, “my wife got it for me,” with a smile that you might have thought impossible for him to make.
"Zayne is such a wonderful husband."
Even your apartment neighbors know him as such, the sweet elderly lady on your left always greeting him with a hug and a coy smile, asking what goodies he brought for you today. It’s his own fault, really, always bringing back a new bouquet of flowers, groceries he noticed you running out of, or a new pile of books you begged him to pick up from the library on his way over.
"Zayne is such a wonderful husband."
Especially in your eyes.
Especially when he’s been stuck in the hospital or on a god-forsaken business trip, pushed away from you for days (although he insists anything more than 24 hours is unbearable enough), and nothing can keep him from you once he returns.
He’s such a wonderful husband, especially when he has you on your back, gasping for air and mercy you don’t want as he forces your legs up higher, quivering thighs shoved against your chest.
It’s hot, too hot, and not even Zayne’s Evol can keep up, sweat making long black strands stick to his forehead, dripping down his neck and back as you claw against every ripping muscle there, incoherent, burning up from the inside as you beg for more and more and more.
You were a mess already, undone by an hour prior of tortuously delicate touching, Zayne’s tongue giving unwavering attention to your clit and nipples, building you up until you practically ripped his pants off and demanded that he be inside you. Not that he could ever refuse you.
Now you think it might have been a mistake, feeding an insatiable beast.
You’ve already cum on his fingers, and yet you feel something build again, a pressure that feels more like a complete loss of control, intense and overwhelming as you gasp into Zayne’s neck, scrambling to push him off even as his hips fuck into yours.
“Wait,” a moan, muffling yourself into your palm as Zayne’s thumb goes to your poor abused clit again, misreading your blabbering as an indication you’re close. “Wait! No, no, it’s not. It feels different, just–”
Finally, he freezes. Pulls out, and immediately drops to his stomach, large hands pushing your thighs to your shoulders, tongue already at your cunt. “Don’t stop me.”
The please at the end of his sentence is swallowed by a guttural groan as he tastes you again, rich, heady, intoxicating. His eyes, half-open and lovedrunk, were locked on your face, never leaving, drinking in your unraveling expressions with terrifying devotion as you writhe and arch desperately into his mouth.
“That’s it, love,” he leaves a kiss on your shaking legs before forcing you to hold them up yourself, his fingers immediately curl inside you. The horrible pressure in your stomach coils tighter, threatening to explode. “That’s it, good girl. You’re doing so good for me. Fuck.”
And then his tongue joins his fingers, gently circling your clit as his fingers mercilessly piston in and out of you until they hit a spot that makes you scream. Everything inside you convulses, a violent, helpless shudder that rips a delirious sob from your chest as something bursts. You feel it even as the world spins, thighs and ass slippery and filthy as the obscene sounds of skin on skin are magnified, covered only with Zayne’s low, guttural moans, swallowing everything you give him.
He can’t stop, panting against your cunt, leaving kisses and licking the spray of your release up your abdomen before he’s hovering atop you once more.
“Again.”
Zayne flips you over, hands bruising your ass and waist in ways that make your eyes roll back, a moan ripping from you as Zayne’s hand pulls on your hair, forcing your limp head off the pillow and back, lips meeting yours in a wet, sloppy kiss that has saliva and sweat running down your throat. You think you might be losing consciousness or maybe just your sanity, but gods, you never want this to stop.
pairing: Phainon x Fem!Reader
summary: A painfully ordinary healer is transferred into the worst possible workplace scenario: direct proximity to the literal sun in human form—Phainon, the Deliverer you have been secretly, responsibly, and catastrophically worshipping from afar.
Between overflowing infirmaries, impossible odds, and a boss who thinks throwing you at the Chrysos Heirs is “character building,” you must keep people alive and keep yourself from combusting every time Phainon smiles, laughs, or unforgivably, comes back just to see you.
This is, let's say, a comical story about accidental closeness, professional boundaries being obliterated, and the terrifying realization that the man you admire from a safe distance might be looking back… and finding you hilarious.
wc: 7.4k
PART II
PART I: SAFE DISTANCE? OBLITERATED
Let’s be clear—you’d carved the words into your own soul with the solemnity of a sacred vow: you were completely, incredibly, and catastrophically a worshipper of the Deliverer, Phainon.
Now, sure, the entire city of Okhema felt roughly the same way. The man was basically a walking, talking beacon of hope, holding back the all-consuming darkness creeping from Amphoreus like some divine nightlight.
But for you? Oh, it went deeper. So deep that if you ever tried to explain what Phainon meant to you, any observer would immediately conclude: “Ah. You’re not just inspired. You’re utterly, hopelessly gone on him. You’ve stared into his crystal-blue eyes and fallen headfirst into a pitfall with no bottom, and you’re decorating the walls on your way down.”
In your defense, you weren’t the only one cheerfully free-falling. There were others—a whole clandestine club of smitten citizens who’d formed what could only be described as a “Council of Yearning.”
They exchanged meaningful glances, whispered in coded language, and probably commissioned fan-art in secret scrolls. You knew of them, of course. But joining? Absolutely not. Your adoration was a private, stealth-operated operation.
Of all people, the absolute last person you wanted stumbling across your carefully concealed shrine of feelings was Hyacine—fellow Chrysos Heir, terrifyingly brilliant physician, and, just to really seal your fate, Phainon’s coworker.
Which, naturally, meant the universe immediately cracked its knuckles.
You were a healer at the Eye of the Twilight: reliably average, impressively competent, and gloriously forgettable. You patched people up, dispensed tonics, and made a career out of staying out of narratives. And then, without so much as a warning bell, Fate—or possibly a bored trickster Titan named Zagreus—leaned over the edge of reality, spotted your peaceful little existence, and said, “No. Let’s ruin this one.”
Your supervisor called you in. You stood there, smiling politely, as she announced she was transferring you directly under Hyacine’s guidance.
The news hit you like a sudden, unplanned plunge into the River of Souls. All the air left your body. Your soul began silently packing its bags. You stared at your supervisor with the betrayed expression of a housecat thrown into a wolf den.
Was I that mediocre? Is this a polite way of firing me?
Sensing your internal meltdown, your supervisor sighed and shook her head. Then, with a flourish, she presented you to Hyacine. “My lady, this is (Y/N). A highly skilled healer among her peers. I have every confidence her talents will be of great assistance to you.”
Your jaw practically fell off. Skilled? She thought you were skilled? A brief, sparkly puff of pride fluttered in your chest—then immediately got run over by a panicked Droma. This wasn’t a promotion. This was being handed a teaspoon and told, “Great news! Please dig a defensive trench around the entire city. By yourself. Also, it’s actively flooding.”
Because working with Hyacine came with one horrifying, unavoidable side effect: exposure to the Chrysos Heirs. And worse—him. Phainon. A man with eyes the exact color of a dramatic summer sky, hair that looked like it violated several grooming laws, and a voice so smooth it could probably convince a rock to unpack its unresolved feelings.
For you, being near him wasn’t exciting. It was a workplace safety violation. One accidental moment of eye contact and you’d combust into a neat little pile of polite, adoring ash. Poof. Gone.
Your number one life rule was Distance. Admire responsibly. From afar. You were content with hallway gossip and whispered legends drifting in from the streets. That’s why you steered clear of the “Council of Yearning”—they were brave, shameless, and held public viewings of his speeches. You, however, required a minimum safe radius of several city blocks to function.
Hyacine, meanwhile, was beaming at you. She was so radiantly kind and friendly it was almost physically blinding. She reached out and clasped both your hands, and you jolted like you’d been handed live wires.
“Hello, (Y/N)! It’s an honor to meet you!” she chirped. Her cyan eyes sparkled with lethal sincerity. “I know it’s sudden, but we are swamped. The Black Tide surges are getting aggressive, casualties are rising… we’re all hands on deck! I really, really need another capable pair of hands!”
Her twin-tails seemed to curl persuasively. Your supervisor gave you a firm nod that said, “Do it or I’ll reconsider that ‘highly skilled’ assessment.”
The silence dragged on until it became a physical object. Your throat felt like it was lined with desert sand. Hyacine tightened her grip, effectively holding your hands hostage with pure, weaponized enthusiasm.
You attempted to speak. What emerged was a small, tragic sound, somewhere between a mouse stepping on a mouse trap and a frog having its final thought. You immediately considered sprinting headfirst into the nearest marble pillar and letting the universe sort it out.
Inside your skull, a full-scale riot broke out. On one side: absolute, unfiltered terror at the thought of accidentally running into Phainon and combusting on the spot. On the other: Hyacine’s devastatingly hopeful expression, your inconvenient sense of responsibility, and the very real image of people suffering under the Black Tide.
Duty—and the crippling fear of disappointing a walking sunbeam—won decisively.
“Lady Hyacine,” you started, your voice finally clocking in for work. She leaned closer, eyes shining. “I’m… not entirely confident in my skills.” Her smile wavered, and guilt stabbed you, so you hurried on. “But if people need help—especially now, with everything closing in—I won’t turn away. I accept. It would be an honor to learn from you.”
Her smile snapped back even brighter, like it had never left. She squeezed your hands so hard you were pretty sure your fingerprints permanently fused. “Thank you, (Y/N)! The honor is ours!”
And just like that, with a handful of sincere sentences, your quiet, anonymous, safely Phainon-free life was officially launched into a chaotic, high-risk orbit directly adjacent to the Chrysos Heirs. Your quiet life is over.
Long live the era of suppressed internal screaming and hoping you don’t literally turn to dust the first time someone says, “Good morning, the Deliverer is right behind you.”
The slow, shamble back to your quarters could only be described as “recently deceased.” You didn’t so much arrive as you did decompose across the threshold, before face-planting directly into your pillow with a muffled scream.
One month. One entire, grueling month as Hyacine’s so-called “extra pair of hands.” Her description, you had come to realize, belonged in a museum of tragic understatements, right next to “The Council of Elders had a minor buoyancy issue.” “Swamped” implied a manageable puddle. This was less a swamp and more the entire, churning, vengeful ocean. “Hands tied” suggested a temporary inconvenience. Yours felt permanently superglued to a thousand urgent, bleeding, or feverish tasks.
Your inaugural day at the Okhema infirmary had been a masterclass in horror. The air wasn’t just air—it was saturated with coppery blood and aggressively determined antiseptic, a smell that lodged itself somewhere between your lungs and your soul and showed no intention of leaving.
And then, there were the refugees.
People carved hollow by fear and pain, their cities swallowed whole by the slow, creeping menace of the Black Tide. One look at them stole the breath right out of your lungs and did not return it with an apology. You’d shown up painfully optimistic, mentally prepared for scraped knees, mild fevers, and—if fate was feeling generous—a brave little splinter removal that would make a nice story later.
Instead, catastrophe looked at your expectations, laughed so hard it needed a moment, and then set the building on fire.
And every time that memory bubbled up, panic followed immediately: healers sprinting past like their lives depended on it, a stretcher rattling by with the latest entry in Reasons You No Longer Sleep, and you wondering, briefly but sincerely, how fast one could fake competence under pressure.
You’d watch Hyacine, a whirlwind of calm efficiency, her hands glowing with a gentle light as she sealed wounds that made you queasy. “(Y/N), I need your assistance!” was your constant, adrenaline-spiking call to arms.
And so the days bled together. You became a jack-of-all-healing-trades: wound-tender, pill-counter, sympathy-dispenser, and soup-chef for the weary. You were fairly certain you’d aged a decade. Your bones creaked a protest anthem.
Even so, buried under the exhaustion that felt personal and targeted, there was this annoyingly warm little spark of fulfillment. A kid flashing a shy smile, an elder giving you a grateful nod, tiny moments that somehow refueled your soul just enough to keep your legs moving, despite their loud, ongoing protests.
A crucial, blessed side-effect of this chaotic routine was the distinct and glorious absence of Certain Lofty Individuals.
The Chrysos Heirs remained mercifully in their distant, shimmering orbits. This was your comfort blanket, your security. You could handle anyone else with professional detachment. But him? Psh, nah. The mere theoretical possibility of an encounter made your internal organs try to hide behind each other. Not that he’d ever need you, of course. Hyacine was his personal physician, The Chrysos Heirs physician. If the great Phainon ever got so much as a paper cut, she’d doubtless heal it with a snap of her fingers.
This comforting thought was in your head as you distributed freshly-concocted medicinal herbs, feeling almost competent. Then the infirmary doors swung open.
Instinct, drilled into you by a month of trauma, took over. You spun with your best “We’ve Got This, Please Don’t Panic” smile already plastered on your face, ready to soothe another frantic newcomer.
The smile died a sudden, violent death. It didn’t fade; it plummeted off a cliff, taking your notebook with it, which hit the floor with a sound like the last gasp of your sanity.
Standing in the doorway, framed like a devastatingly beautiful portrait entitled “Nope,” was Phainon himself. The one you worship. Your secret, heart-palpitating inspiration. The absolute last person you wanted to see while you smelled of antiseptic and despair, with probably herb stains on your sleeves.
He was, of course, infuriatingly glorious. Silken white hair, eyes like chips of Arctic sky, a face that could make a poet throw away their quill in despair. And there it was—the universe’s cruel punchline. A laceration, neat and vivid, marring his perfect right cheek. It wasn’t serious, just a rogue brushstroke of violence on a pristine canvas.
The wound didn’t matter. The why did. Why here? Why now? Why, when you resembled a neglected houseplant and he looked like an angel who’d taken a very tasteful amount of damage?
Every survival instinct you’d ever developed in these halls screamed the same, urgent directive: STRATEGIC RETREAT. MELT INTO THE WALL. BECOME DECOR.
You began to back away, a study in subtle disintegration. But the cosmos, it seemed, was in a particularly comedic mood. His gaze, cool and sweeping, snagged on your attempted vanishing act. Your eyes locked.
In that moment, you didn’t just crumble; you underwent a full, internal, silent supernova. Every coherent thought vaporized. Abort. Evaporate. Cease to exist—
“(Y/N), perfect timing!”
Hyacine’s cheerful voice sliced through your internal meltdown. She was beelining towards you. And behind her, following with that effortless, lethal grace, was Phainon, his blue eyes now fixed on you with polite, utterly terrifying curiosity.
The explosion wasn’t metaphorical anymore. You were pretty sure you’d just turned to ash on the inside, while your outside was expected to form words and possibly not faint. Perfect timing. Of course it was. The universe had finally delivered its punchline, and you were the staring, horrified straight man.
The universe slammed the brakes so hard it squealed. Every sound in the infirmary—the groans, the murmurs, the clink of tools—faded into a useless background buzz, like someone had packed your ears with cotton and bad life choices. Your vision narrowed with alarming efficiency.
There was Phainon.
And then there was Phainon plus lighting.
He stood there backlit by a glowing blur, as if the ancient Titans themselves had crawled into the rafters to adjust the lighting and really sell the moment. Subtlety was dead. The message was clear: Behold. Observe. Suffer.
This has gone past absurd and straight into a direct attack on your ability to exist peacefully.
“(Y/N), thankfully I spotted you! There’s been an incident near the Path of Parting—injured warriors, I’m needed immediately. Be a dear and tend to Lord Phainon’s little scratch? Do a quick check for any other bumps or bruises, would you?” Hyacine’s words were a rapid-fire volley of urgency, completely devoid of any consideration for your imminent mental disintegration.
A thousand protests clogged your throat. Assign him to Healer Althea! She’s seen actual centuries! Or Brother Fenris! He’s unflappable! But the idea of articulating this while sharing molecular space with the man himself was as plausible as sprouting wings and flying away. You were a healer, sworn to duty. Your personal crisis of existence was not a valid medical exemption.
Your soul, however, was already halfway to becoming a small, neat pile of glittering dust in the corner. It took a Herculean, soul-straining minute to glue your composure back together. The principle you’d clung to—‘Admire From A Safe, Kilometer-Long Distance’—lay in metaphorical ruins at your feet. And now, here you were. Toe to boot. Face to… devastating face. With your crush.
“L-Lady Hyacine. I-I don’t really think I’m the most… qualified…” you managed to squeak out, a masterclass in understatement.
“Lord Phainon, this is (Y/N)!” Hyacine chirped, blithely steamrolling over your feeble protest as if it were a minor insect noise.
Then he looked at you. Directly. It wasn’t just a glance; it was an ocular event. If Hyacine’s healing aura was a comforting lantern, Phainon’s presence was the heart of a newborn star. You instinctively winced, half-expecting your retinas to issue a formal complaint.
And then he smiled.
Your jaw didn’t just drop; it performed a full, theatrical detach-and-plummet sequence. Internally, your body completed its threatened transformation. You were no longer dust; you were a fine, incinerated ash, and a mischievous psychic breeze was happily scattering you to the four winds.
“The honor is mine, (Y/N). Hyacine has told me much about you,” he said, his voice like sunlight given sound.
SO BRIGHT! CEASE IMMEDIATELY! …NO, NEVER STOP! …ARGH!
But beyond the luminescence, his words finally penetrated your ash-pile consciousness. Hyacine has told me much about you. The sentence looped in your mind, triggering a secondary panic. Hyacine had been… talking about you? To him? A spark of giddy terror ignited.
What classified information had been exchanged? Did he know about your proficiency with poultices, or your unfortunate habit of talking to medicinal plants? The uncertainty was its own special torture.
“U-Uh…” you eloquently replied. Your vocal cords had apparently chosen this moment to embark on a goofy impression of a broken music box.
“(Y/N), I know it’s sudden, but I leave Lord Phainon in your capable hands. I must fly!” Hyacine said, her worry for the distant warriors finally breaking through her matchmaking-adjacent demeanor. She turned to Phainon, beaming. “Don’t worry, (Y/N) is quite skilled. And terribly funny. A wonderful entertainer!”
Hyacine beamed with unmistakable pride. You slowly turned to face her, your expression settling somewhere between a death glare and a desperate please help me. Entertainer? Had you been promoted to court jester? Was this your new role—healer by trade, clown by circumstance?
“Lady Hyacine,” you tried again, voice tight with restraint, “this is all happening very, very fast.”
“See?” Hyacine laughed, pointing at your visible horror like she’d just nailed the punchline. “She’s funny!”
Phainon’s smile widened, and he nodded along, serene and entirely complicit.
You had been betrayed by joy itself.
“I can already see the evidence,” he remarked, his tone suggesting you’d just performed a masterful bit of physical comedy instead of having a slow-motion internal breakdown.
That was it. The final straw. Your knees issued a formal petition to buckle, but you locked them with sheer, stubborn pride. They would not betray you. He would not know. The great, star-destroying secret of your starstruck idiocy would go to your grave, even if that grave felt moments away.
“I’m… flattered, but really, I’m just—”
“Must dash! Take good care of him, (Y/N)!” And in a swirl of robes, Hyacine vanished, leaving you alone in a bubble of deafening, palpable silence with the Golden Heir. The infirmary’s background chaos continued on mute, like an overly enthusiastic pantomime you could no longer hear. Even the air felt smug about it.
Very slowly, with the stiff precision of a rusted machine nearing its last day of service, you turned your head towards Phainon.
He was already looking at you. Of course he was. A small, traitorous squeak escaped you before you could stop it.
Titans above, get a grip. Heal the stupid, beautiful scratch. Send the beautiful, scratched man on his way. Then find a dark closet and scream.
“So… shall we… commence with the laceration… healing?” you heard yourself say. It came out as a bewildered question, as if you were asking him for permission to perform your own job.
Marvelous. Just project total incompetence. Perfect strategy.
“I place myself in your care,” Phainon replied, sincere and steady.
If anyone else had said it, it would’ve been standard courtesy. From him—alone with you in this self-inflicted void—it landed like a sacred oath you had absolutely not trained for. Heat immediately climbed your neck, which you extinguished with a mental bucket labeled Professionalism. Emergency Use Only.
“Right. This way, please,” you said, and a tiny part of your brain threw a confetti parade for managing a sentence with a normal tone and a complete absence of squeaking.
Scratch ‘not sure.’ Scratch everything. I do NOT like this at all.
By the time you ducked into the room, you were a vibrating pile of nerves. Your hands were shaking at your sides, your legs had officially downgraded from “functional” to “overcooked pasta,” and standing upright felt like an ambitious suggestion.
The problem was that Phainon was still there, right behind you, radiating an amount of presence that made you want to scream, sprint, and possibly crawl into a supply cabinet to live out the rest of your days.
As if the situation weren’t already a crime scene, his scent staged a violent regime change in the infirmary. Years of antiseptic—your ride-or-die, your emotional support odor—were immediately overthrown without a vote. You caught yourself wanting to take a long, shameless inhale of him instead, which violated at least three professional codes, two personal boundaries, and one unspoken agreement with yourself.
No. Hard stop. This was unacceptable behavior from your own brain. Get it together. You had a job. A duty. Several patients. Breathe antiseptic, you ordered yourself.
You gestured to a treatment cot with all the grace of a malfunctioning clockwork toy. “If you, uh, could just… right there. Please. Yes.” You sounded like you were giving directions to a suspicious parcel, not a living legend.
Phainon, mercifully, did not comment. He simply sat, the cot giving a tiny, insignificant creak that sounded like a thunderclap in your ears. The small side chamber suddenly felt about the size of a breadbox. A very warm breadbox. Filled with starlight and your impending doom.
You turned to your supplies, your back to him, and took a deep, shuddering breath you hoped was silent. Big mistake.
The room had been firmly in hospital mode—bleach, antiseptic, despair—until he walked in. Suddenly everything smelled like a thunderstorm had just cleaned its life up and then gone outside to bask on a warm rock. The antiseptic didn’t just fade; it packed its bags and left town.
For one wildly inappropriate moment, your brain completely clocked out and suggested you stop everything, shove your face into your hands, and just inhale like this was a paid activity.
No. You are a healer. You have dealt with gruesome wounds, terrified refugees, and Hyacine’s bottomless optimism. You can handle one… gloriously handsome… cheek laceration. Focus!
You grabbed the salve and a fresh cloth while your hands completely betrayed you. This wasn’t a mild shake—this was full-on jackhammer mode. You were fairly sure if anyone set a wineglass nearby, it would explode on principle alone.
You inched towards him with the focused terror of someone defusing a bomb they definitely did not watch the tutorial for, gripping the salve jar like it was one wrong blink away from going kaboom.
“Alright, just… a little of this. Promotes healing. And, um, prevents scarring.” You were babbling. To Phainon. About skincare. “Not that a scar would be… I mean, it would probably look… statuesque? Battled-hardened? Very… narrative?” You desperately wished for the Black Tide to swallow you whole.
He stayed perfectly still, wearing a small, saintly smile—like he was humoring a chimera that had somehow been handed medical supplies. You dipped your fingers into the salve, locked onto the cut on his cheek like a guided missile, and cautiously advanced, every ounce of your focus screaming do not mess this up.
The tremor in your hand was now epic.
Your index finger jittered an inch from his face, tracing chaotic little circles in the air like a drunken moth convinced his cheek was the world’s most majestic lantern.
Phainon’s eyes—previously observing your routine like it was a nature documentary—creased at the corners.
Then he made a sound that definitely wasn’t a full laugh, but also absolutely wasn’t not one. It slipped out warm and light, the kind of breathy amusement that feels illegal to hear up close.
It had the general vibe of sunlight filtering through trees, which was wildly unfair, because you were already fighting for your life just trying to aim your fingers correctly.
Your heart didn’t politely flutter—it wiped out spectacularly, somersaulted twice, and ran away to pursue a career in interpretive dance. You locked up completely, your salve-covered finger suspended midair like a paused loading screen.
“Did I—um—did I do something wrong, my lord?” you squeaked, your voice valiantly aiming for composed professionalism and instead hitting alarmed field mouse.
He shook his head slowly, carefully, like you might bolt if he moved too fast.
“No, forgive me. It’s just…” He raised his own hand—annoyingly calm, offensively steady—and gently closed his fingers around your wrist. Very gently. Unfairly gently. His touch was cool and steady, the human equivalent of grabbing a railing during an earthquake, and it sent a zap of static straight up your arm.
“You’re shaking rather impressively,” he added with quiet amusement. “I assure you, the cut doesn’t hurt. And I promise, I won’t bite.”
Between the hand-holding, the smile, and the laugh that absolutely should’ve come with a warning label, whatever was left of your brain-to-mouth filter finally gave up and resigned.
“Oh, I’m not concerned about you biting,” you blurted, nerves clogging your throat. “I’m worried I’m going to accidentally poke you in the eye and then history will record that the Deliverer was felled not by the Black Tide, but by a jittery apprentice with poor depth perception and a jar of goop.”
Phainon just stared at you for a beat. Then one corner of his mouth betrayed him. The twitch spread, turned into a full-blown tremor—and suddenly he tipped his head back and laughed. Not a dignified, noble sort of laugh, either.
This was the laugh of a man who had been caught completely off guard and was having the time of his life about it.
“I understand now,” he said at last, somehow still smiling like that. “It seems the greatest threat I faced today wasn’t the ambush at the Path of Parting, but the infirmary that followed.” He lifted a hand solemnly. “I will henceforth protect my eyes with the utmost caution.”
“Right. Caution is… good,” you mumbled, utterly defeated. “Could you, um, maybe hold your own eyelid open? Just as a safety precaution?”
That absolutely finished him. He broke into another laughing fit, finally letting go of your wrist so he could clap a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking like he was trying—and failing—to keep his dignity from escaping entirely.
You did not waste this gift from the Titans. The second he was distracted—eyes squeezed shut, dignity temporarily abandoned—you lunged and dabbed the salve onto the cut with one surprisingly steady motion, and slapped a clean cloth over it like you were applying a seal to an official decree.
Done. Finalized. No amendments.
“There!” you announced, leaping back as if from a completed explosive device. “All done. The salve will work best if you don’t laugh too hard and stretch the skin. So. Please try to avoid anything… humorous.” You gave a stiff, formal bow. “My lord.”
Phainon wiped a tear of laughter from his undamaged eye, his smile softer now, but no less brilliant. “Thank you, (Y/N). That was, without question, the most entertaining medical treatment I have ever received. And the wound feels… expertly sealed.”
You had no idea whether he was gently teasing you or being genuinely sweet, and that uncertainty was its own boutique brand of suffering. But the evidence was undeniable: you were still alive. Both of his eyes remained firmly where nature intended. His eye was intact. And somehow, against all odds, you had made the Deliverer laugh so hard he might need medical attention for that next.
“J-just doing my duty,” you said, your voice climbing an octave like it was trying to escape your body. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go… inspect some extremely important, very serious, absolutely not-humorous herbs.”
Then you fled. Not walked—fled. Your ears burned, his laughter followed you like a cursed soundtrack, and the horrifying truth settled in: whatever you’d thought a “safe distance” was before? Gone. Obliterated. Breached beyond repair, in the most ridiculous way possible.
A full seven days. Seven days without a single shimmering hair of Phainon, the Chrysos Heir, Deliverer of Amphoreus and Deliverer-unto-you of pure, unfiltered panic.
By day three, your pulse finally dipped below "hummingbird on espresso" and settled into a rhythm a medic might charitably call "living."
By day five, your hands stopped impersonating pneumatic drills, allowing you to handle beakers without the constant, clinking fear of reducing them to expensive confetti.
By day seven, you’d almost built a convincing mental fortress. The whole incident—the blood, the closeness, the laugh—could be written off as a complex psychological cocktail. The key ingredients: sleep deprivation, the ghost of crushed valerian root, and a frankly embarrassing lifetime supply of awe for a man who could probably bench-press a temple.
Almost.
Because your brain, that traitorous organ, had a favorite new party trick. It would wait until you were at your most vulnerable—measuring tinctures, sorting linen, blinking—and then, without permission, replay The Sound.
Not a polite little chuckle. This was a full-body, shoulders-jerking, eyes-squeezing, rewrite-the-archives kind of laugh. It rang around in your head like a cathedral bell, immediately followed by the deeply unhelpful hallucination of warm fingers brushing your wrist.
Meanwhile, your internal monologue had abandoned all dignity and was screaming into an imaginary pillow you apparently carried at all times. We are not thinking about this. We are not unpacking this. We are professionals.
A professional, unfortunately, who was seconds away from dying of secondhand embarrassment.
The clinic, thankfully, was a sanctuary of the ordinary. Hyacine buzzed around with the force of a small hurricane, the Black Tide provided its usual grim workload, and the incident was slowly being filed away in your mental archives under:
MORTIFYING, BUT CONTAINED.
You breathed. You healed. You functioned.
The universe noticed you were having a moment of unacceptable calm and immediately responded by lobbing a sparkly, demigod-sized problem straight into your day.
You were halfway through bandaging an elderly fisherman’s arm. He smelled like saltwater, pure obstinacy, and the medicinal brandy he absolutely claimed was “for circulation.” You were on your third explanation of why “no, you cannot go hauling nets tomorrow,” when the infirmary doors creaked open like they were about to deliver bad news.
You didn’t glance up. Rookie error. Number one.
The sound hit you first. Footsteps. Not the familiar, hurried slap of a junior healer, or the determined tromp of a guardsman. These were… different. Measured. Calm. Each step a declaration of I belong exactly where I put my foot. They were the auditory equivalent of perfect posture.
Your own spine achieved a similar perfection, locking into a rod of pure dread.
No. Nononono—
Your hands froze, bandage half-twirled. The fisherman squinted at your sudden statue impression. From across the room came the magnificent, timely crash of a dropped instrument tray. Clang! Divine entrance, complimentary sound effect.
With all the enthusiasm of someone about to regret everything, you slowly looked up.
There he was. Phainon. Framed in the doorway, sunlight from the hall doing him a ridiculous number of favors. No new gashes. No limp. No plausible, medical reason to be here. He was just… present. Like a masterpiece that had wandered out of its gallery to critique the lighting.
Your mind emitted a sound like a shattered lyre. The bandage slithered from your numb fingers, drifting towards the floor in what felt like a symbolic abdication of your entire career.
WHAT IS HE DOING HERE AGAIN? your brain shrieked internally, loud enough you were surprised the herbs didn’t wilt.
You were frozen. The fisherman was frozen, his eyes darting between you and the living legend in the doorway. Phainon’s gaze did a lazy, sweeping arc of the room—a king surveying his peaceful, if slightly antiseptic, kingdom—before landing directly on you.
And then his face did a thing.
It wasn’t a smile. It was a grin. A full, unguarded, "Well, look what I found" grin. It contained multitudes: recognition, delight, and the faint, terrifying glint of someone who has just remembered a particularly amusing joke. You were the joke.
Your soul attempted a clean vertical exit through the top of your head. Being on the receiving end of that grin felt like getting personally acknowledged by the sun, which somehow knew your name and all your worst moments.
Your knees declared a temporary strike. Your lungs decided to take a coffee break. Your entire existence distilled into one pristine, screaming thought: I am going to evaporate into a fine, embarrassed mist.
“Ah,” Phainon said, and his voice was warm honey poured directly into your ear canals. “There you are.”
There you are.
As if you’d been hiding. As if he’d been peeking behind curtains. As if you were a missing sock he’d just located.
A sound escaped you. It was not a word. It was the phonetic equivalent of a system error, a tiny “kh—” that died in your throat.
The fisherman leaned in, whispering with brandy-breath confidentiality, “Lass, should I be concerned? You’ve gone the color of bad cheese.”
“No,” you croaked, your voice apparently sourced from a rusty hinge. “Everything is… supremely normal.” This was the greatest lie told since the invention of politics.
You bent to grab the fallen bandage with the coordinated grace of a startled chimera, and promptly introduced your forehead to the solid oak frame of the cot.
Thwock.
“Stars—!” you hissed, clapping a hand to the new, throbbing testament to your clumsiness.
And then he was there. How did he move so quietly? Was he part cat? Part ghost? Part beautifully appointed nuisance?
“Are you injured?” he asked, concerned genuine enough to rattle your bones.
“I am fine,” you said immediately, snapping upright with the stiff posture of a haunted coat rack. “Perfectly fine. No injuries. Just… gravity. Being rude.”
His grin deepened. You felt yourself phase slightly out of reality, like a poorly anchored watermark.
“I’ve been told gravity is rather unforgiving in this wing,” he mused, his eyes dancing. “It seems to have a particular grievance with you.”
Oh, he was teasing. This was advanced teasing. This was Hyacine’s doing. You could feel her meddling from three corridors away.
You quickly finished wrapping the fisherman’s arm, patting it with finality. “There. Rest. Drink water. Avoid lifting, straining, or pondering the vast, uncaring void. Also, doors. Doors are tricky.”
The fisherman took his newly bandaged arm, looking at you with deep pity. “You should lie down, child. You seem feverish.”
“I am in the peak of health,” you insisted, staring at a point on the wall approximately two feet to the left of Phainon’s magnificent head. “A silent, internal peak.”
Once the fisherman had shuffled off, casting wary glances back, you were alone. Well, as alone as one can be with the Deliverer radiating quiet amusement in one’s workspace. You turned, a slow, careful pivot like a rusty gate.
“Lord Phainon,” you said, and bowed. It was too deep, too sudden. You nearly pitched forward, catching yourself on a supply table with a clatter of jars. “What… what brings you to the infirmary today?”
Please say you’re lost. Please say Hyacine sent you on a pointless errand. Please say you have a sudden and fascinating interest in our inventory of lint rolls.
“I came to see you,” he said, as casually as mentioning the weather.
Your soul short-circuited. You blinked, waiting for the reboot sequence to complete. “I… beg your pardon?”
“You left in quite a hurry last time,” he continued, leaning a hip against the table you were white-knuckling. “I worried I’d permanently scared you into the walls.”
You did. I had plans to live there.
“Not at all!” you squeaked, your voice achieving new heights of pubescent crackle. “Fleeing is my primary mode of transport. Very efficient. Low carbon footprint.”
He laughed again. Softer this time, but it still hits you like a warm gust of wind, threatening to blow all your carefully stacked composure over. Your heart did a clumsy, joyful somersault and then immediately hid in shame.
“I wished to thank you properly,” he said. “The cut healed perfectly. Not a trace.”
A stupid, helpless pride bubbled up, immediately swamped by a tsunami of nerves. “Oh. Good. That’s… that’s what the goop is for. The goop… works.”
“It does indeed,” he agreed, his eyes crinkling. “I’d hoped to find you in a less… eventful moment. But you do seem to attract a certain atmosphere.”
You nodded. Too fast. Like a malfunctioning doll. Your hands were clenched around the table hard enough that, given another minute, you were confident it would start producing resin.
He studied you, that sky-like gaze far too perceptive. It felt like being read aloud.
“You still look,” he observed mildly, “as though you might vibrate straight through the floor.”
“I am containing the vibration,” you whispered solemnly. “It is a personal discipline.”
He laughed, and—mercifully—pushed away from the table, granting you a full, glorious step of personal space. The relief hit so hard your knees briefly forgot their job description.
“Then I won’t impose,” he said, turning towards the door.
Yes. Perfect. Excellent. Retreat secured. You would live.
“But—”
Of course there was a but.
He paused at the threshold and glanced back, the grin resurfacing with a dangerous little glint of we both know what just happened. “I do hope I’ll see you again.”
Your hope for survival immediately filed for bankruptcy.
Your soul, which had been tentatively creeping back into your body, tripped on the doorstep and fell flat.
He gave a final, effortless wave. “Try not to drop anything next time.”
And he was gone. The space where he’d stood seemed to glow for a second longer, then just became ordinary air again.
You didn’t move. You simply… existed. Twenty seconds went by. Then thirty. Time continued its business without you. Eventually, gravity remembered you were still enrolled, and you slid down the wall like a puppet whose strings had been cut for budget reasons, landing in an undignified sprawl on the cool floor.
A junior healer walked around you with a stack of towels and a practiced lack of alarm. “You good?” she asked. “You look like you’ve just been personally struck by an extremely attractive act of divine intervention.”
You stared straight ahead at a section of wall that had seen everything and chosen silence. Despite your better judgment—despite direct orders from whatever part of your brain was still functional—a slow, stupid, treasonous smile crept across your face anyway.
“I think,” you said, in the calm, distant tone of someone actively spiraling, “that I may have just made a truly historic mess of things with a celestial being.”
And somewhere beneath the panic, beneath the mortification, beneath the part of you drafting a formal apology to the universe, a tiny, stubborn engine coughed to life in your chest.
Because he came back.
He came back, he grinned, he teased—and that was the problem.
Because the awful, delightful, wildly impractical truth was this:
You were very, very glad he did.
That afternoon, the infirmary vibrated with the unique, hair-raising tension of a room that had skimmed the script for the day, clocked its own violent cameo, and decided the healthiest response was to sit back, eat something crunchy, and witness the disaster in real time. This was no longer a place of healing. It was a stage. And the star was a one-man apocalypse in aggressively worn leather boots.
Known, formally, as The Problem.
Among the staff, his name was never spoken plainly. He existed only in the haunted shorthand of survivors: The Glowering Landmark. Captain Grievance. The Man Who Argues with Weather (While Inside). More often, he was announced by a panicked whisper—“He wants more water”—followed immediately by the rustle of someone vanishing into a linen closet.
He occupied the far cot like a thunderstorm that had been bullied into a roughly human outline and was holding a lifelong grudge about it. Arms locked across his chest. A jaw clenched tight enough to powder walnuts. One boot tapped out a slow, threatening rhythm that very clearly translated to I am about to file a formal complaint against reality.
The air around him was measurably angrier. A healer passing by recoiled and hurried off, clutching her head.
“He said my aura was ‘offensively cheerful,’” she whispered, eyes completely empty.
Another healer staggered into view, pale and shaken. “He refused the tonic.”
“He threw it?”
“Worse,” the healer said hoarsely. “He reviewed it. In detail. I’ll never trust elderberries again.”
And where was Hyacine, the head healer, the only known soothe-sayer capable of handling him? Off being magnificent somewhere else. Radiantly mending bones, probably while singing hymns. Abandoning her flock to the wolf. The traitor.
This left you, currently at the supply table, engaged in the profound peace of alphabetizing vials of dreamroot. You were at peace. You were one with the tinctures. You were having what historians would later call The Last Nice Moment.
When hands like vice grips clamped onto your shoulders.
You squawked. “What in the River of Souls—!”
You were then physically, and with great prejudice, shoved forward.
“Hey—no—stop—this is targeted harassment—WHY AM I ALWAYS THE ONE?!” you whispered-yelled, your heels improvising a brand-new interpretive dance across the tiles as you were launched towards certain humiliation.
“Purely a numbers game!” someone called cheerfully from the safe, shove-free zone by the door.
“And you have a… gift!” another added, already retreating.
You craned your neck, betrayal sharp in your veins. “My gift is a pervasive sense of impending weeping!”
“Exactly!” the first voice called back, bright with cowardice. “It’s relatable! He might pity you!”
Traitors. Absolute traitors. You would engrave their names on tiny curses and bury them in the garden. Later.
You turned. The storm cloud had eyes. And they were fixed on you.
This was not a look. This was an audit. A promise of withering commentary. You were fairly certain that look had once made a flower reconsider blooming.
He squinted, as if trying to bring a disappointing insect into focus. “They send the spare parts now?”
Your intestines tied themselves into an advanced knot they definitely didn’t teach in anatomy. You smoothed your tunic, gathered what little courage hadn’t already fled the premises, and snapped on a smile so aggressively polite it qualified as an act of diplomacy. I come in peace, it said. But I am heavily armed with sarcasm and absolutely prepared to deploy it.
“Yes,” you said, somehow maintaining a functional speaking voice. Congratulations. You’ve beaten the game. I’m the final boss.”
One of his brows twitched. A seismic event. He sniffed. “You look like a strong breeze would apologize to you.”
“And you look like you chew rocks for the texture,” you replied, sunnily. “Shall we begin?”
From behind a nearby screen came the sound of someone choking.
The old man went very still. Then, a low, rusty sound escaped him. “Cheeky.”
“Only on the left side,” you said, grabbing a roll of fresh bandages. “Now. The arm. Let’s have it.”
He hugged his arms tighter. “It’s tender.”
You blinked, slow. “A revelation. I’ll alert the bards. The arm.”
“You lot are all the same,” he grumbled, a well-worn groove in his record of grievances. “All soft hands and softer words. Nattering on.”
You nodded, applying salve with clinical precision. “A fascinating theory. And yet, my colleague tells me you spent ten minutes critiquing the viscosity of your broth. So who’s the real natterer?”
He jerked, then hissed as the salve did its work. “That stung!”
“It’s medicinal stinging,” you assured him. “Think of it as the universe’s feedback.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” you said. “It’s the most intellectual stimulation I’ve had all day. Earlier I had a spirited debate with a door hinge. You’re ahead, but only by a hair.”
He grumbled a continuous, low-grade commentary as you worked.
“Your technique is sloppy.”
“I’m mirroring your attitude—broad, unfocused, and largely unpleasant.”
“You think you know how to fix everything.”
“I know how to fix this. Your worldview is regrettably beyond my pay grade.”
“Insolent child.”
“Cantankerous fossil.”
A heavy pause. The kind where air itself hesitates.
Then it happened—a sound like rocks rattling around in a jar. A laugh. It escaped him, brief and clearly unauthorized, before he could shove it back where it belonged.
He immediately glowered twice as hard. “Don’t get used to it.”
“My head is far too crowded with anxiety and folk songs,” you said, tying the bandage off with a crisp, professional knot. “There. You’ll live to grumble another day.”
He inspected your work, poking at the edges. “Hmph. Adequate.”
You clutched your chest, staggered. “I will carry these words with me into the afterlife.”
It was then you felt it. A distinct, prickling sensation of being observed. Not by the usual terrified-infirmary-staff vortex of pity, but by something… else.
You turned, with the slow, dawning horror of a clown realizing the king has been watching their pratfall routine.
Phainon. That Phainon. The Deliverer in the flesh—lounging in the doorway, one hand half-covering his mouth while his shoulders shook with completely unsubtle, deeply enjoyed laughter. He’d clearly watched the entire performance. Front row. No intermission.
Your soul briefly attempted to exit your body through your feet. “Oh,” you squeaked. “You’re… here. How… unfortunate.”
The old man squinted after your line of sight. “You know him?”
“He’s Lord Phainon,” you whispered, as if stating ‘That’s the sun.’ “The… you know. The Deliverer Phainon. Whose name you probably mutter when you stub your toe.”
Phainon straightened, eyes bright with mischief. “I must say,” he laughed, “in all my years, I’ve never seen him follow instructions. Watching you handle him was like witnessing someone calmly file paperwork during an avalanche.”
You sighed, a long, suffering sound. “I didn’t negotiate. I applied tactical irreverence. It’s like a poultice, but for the ego.”
The old man gave a grudging nod. “She’s got spirit. Annoying, but present.”
Phainon’s laugh finally broke free, rich and bright, echoing in the hushed infirmary. You, meanwhile, studied the floor tiles with intense, academic interest, hoping one might open up and swallow you whole. Your ears were on fire. Your heart was tap-dancing.
From the safety of the herb cabinet, a stunned voice floated out. “By the Titans… she’s domesticated him.”
You had not domesticated him. You had achieved a fragile, sarcasm-based ceasefire. And you’d done it all in front of the one person whose opinion made your brain momentarily forget how to operate your lungs.
Phainon shook his head, still grinning. “Extraordinary.” When he looked at you again, something new flickered there, amused respect, open curiosity. “Truly.”
The old man’s gaze bounced between your spectacular mortification and Phainon’s obvious delight. A slow, creaky spark of ancient mischief lit up his face.
“Well then,” he announced, clearly savoring the moment. “This just got entertaining. Don’t loiter, Deliverer. Either lend a hand or fetch her a chair. She’s halfway to fainting.”
You emitted a small, deeply pathetic sound that could generously be called a reply.
This was going to be a very, very long afternoon.
A/N: Hello guys, this is actually my first time posting and writing and I hope you like the first chapter. I will post soon and please stay tuned! Thank you from the bottom of my heart!
characters: Dan Heng, Aventurine, Herta, Dr.Ratio, Feixiao.
tws: are stated for each character separately, reader is gender-netural, so everyone can enjoy!
Previous part
wordcount: ~5400
As usual, thank you all, my dear sweethearts, for your support!
NOT SUITED FOR MINORS. Not proofread. Author does not endorse or condone any of the actions depicted in real life. Not proofread. Also, English is not the author's first language, so there might be some mistakes.
Please remember that you are responsible for your own media consumption.
Dan Heng kisses you like a dragon who has starved for centuries and now finds himself trembling with the terror and bliss of being fed at last.
The Astral Express hums low and steady outside his door, the rhythm of its voyage lulling the train into midnight quiet. Everyone else is asleep: March curled in her blanket, Caelus absorbed in dreams too heavy for waking words, and even Pom-Pom is nowhere to be found, tucked away.
Everyone except you two.
You are tucked against the wall of his archive, seated comfortably on his futon as if it were a casual place to rest and not the nest of a Vidyadhara, layered and softened through instinct older than Xianzhou Luofu. You don't realize the weight of what it means to sit there. You don't recognize that you are in the heart of his den, where no one else has ever been allowed. You don't see his desperate pursuit.
He has been subtle at first: the small offerings left for you, pebbles smoothed to glass by river currents, shards of crystal glimmering faintly when the lamp light catches them. Some from his personal collection, some from the planets that you've visited together. Small, pretty trinkets you found by your bedside or on the edge of your desk. You smiled when you noticed them, touched them curiously, even asked if March had left them there.
Dan Heng had only looked away, ears faintly red.
He tried even harder. He has let his horns show around you, curved bones gleaming golden in the light of the monitors. He has let his tail slip into being, coils of scales patterned like green fire. He has even guided your hand once, wordless, to rest against one curved horn, shuddering when you touched him there. But you only smiled at the strange intimacy, never seeing it for the desperate language it was.
He understood it, truly. After all, Vidyadhara court with rituals humans cannot name. High Elders love as though eternity could collapse, and Dan Heng, reborn countless times, weary with centuries, wants, for the first time in all his lives, to bind himself to another.
And your obliviousness did nothing to soothe the aching need in his chest.
You just sit there, in his nest, glancing up at him with the restrained interest. His tail shifts, flicking once against the floor before stilling. Tonight, his horns caught your gaze again.
“Do you manifest them when you’re tired?” you ask softly, too innocent, too oblivious.
His lips press into the faintest line because no, Dan Heng manifests them for you. Because Vidyadhara don't court in words. They show. They reveal. They bare themselves to the ones they have chosen.
“Not always,” he breaths out, and you don't see the longing in his eyes, paying more attention to the old book that you hold. You hum in response, eyes on the worn-out page.
“...Aeons don’t dream-” you murmur absently, changing the topic and tilting your head as you reread a line aloud, “-do they?”
Dan Heng exhales slowly, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He rises from the chair, each movement deliberate, shadow falling long across the futon as he steps closer.
“Probably not in the way we do,” he answers, voice low, careful, almost too measured.
The futon shifts when he sits beside you. The air changes, pressing in on your lungs with a quiet density. His presence has always been a calming one, but now, with his horns brushing close to your temple, his tail curled faintly against the futon’s edge, the weight of him is unbearable. The book stills under your hand as you gaze curiously. You can feel his heat even without touching him.
“...You shouldn’t stay up too late,” he murmurs after a silence that burns at both ends. His hand shifts, hesitates, then settles gently on yours.
You blink at him. “Why? You don’t sleep early, either.”
“I-” Dan Heng cuts himself off. His throat works, words faltering where they should flow. His hand stays over yours, firm now, anchoring himself on you.
Tonight, that naive blindness of yours gnaws at Dan Heng. He watches you read from his Aeon texts, lips pursed, your gaze drifting over a history of gods while you sit in the nest he has built for you, utterly unknowing that you are his chosen.
Dan Heng finally shifts, and his horns angle low, framing your face like a cage. His tail slides around your waist, dragging against the futon as it coils possessively over your hip. The book slips from your hands. Your breath stutters when he pins you down with nothing but his presence.
“Do you know what you are to me?” His voice is low, rough, pulled taut by restraint.
“Dan Heng?…” You whisper his name as though it could save you from drowning.
His answer is a kiss.
It crashes into you like a tide breaking stone. His mouth claims yours with a force that startles, hunger uncoiled after too many days of silence. His lips are insistent, dragging your lower lip between his fangs. The strange slide of his forked tongue presses into your mouth with an intimate invasion, curling to taste the shape of you. Dan Heng groans, low and guttural, chest vibrating against yours as if the simple touch sears Imbibitor Lunae alive in his veins.
You squirm beneath him, half shocked, half entranced. He stills you, pinning you deeper into the futon, his weight caging you, his tail tightening its hold until you are wrapped under him, unable to move. The kiss is deep, molten, and dragging. His horns brush your forehead when he lowers his head further, pressing closer, caging you between bone and flash. Your trembling fingers rise to grasp his broad shoulders. Dan Heng shudders violently when you answer his desperate hope with your mouth, and his breath tears out ragged, his tongue strokes yours again in a long drag that feels like a vow written in heat.
“Mine,” he growls against your lips, a sound so primal you barely recognize it as his voice.
“You sit in my nest. You take what I give. You touch my horns. And still, you don’t see it.” His forehead presses to yours, breath hot, words spilling over you like flame.
“I’ve courted you as my kind does. Do you accept me?”
You stare up at him, pulse frantic, the realization beginning to dawn.
“Dan Heng… you-”
He cuts you off with another kiss, slower now, more devastating. His tongue coils languidly into your mouth, tasting, coaxing, drawing you in until your lungs burn. His hands cradle your jaw, trembling slightly, as if he fears the fragility of your bones beneath his strength. His tail winds tighter, a loop across your stomach, anchoring you in place as though you might vanish.
When he parts from you, his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen, pupils in slits, glinting with a hunger that is more than physical. His voice breaks when he speaks, rough and aching.
“I can’t promise you a life unbroken by cycles of rebirth. But I can give you all that I am now and every fragment of me that survives.” His thumb drags across your swollen lower lip.
“Stay. You are a human, small and fragile, but please, stay… Let me build my eternity around you, and I carry the memory into the deeper space until my bones wither.”
Aventurine
tws: pure fluff and yearning, Aventurine's past mentions, you two are in love hihi
Aventurine kisses you like the final roll of the dice in a game where the prize is everything he has ever wanted, where the stakes are not just wealth or power but the fragile thing that is you.
The night is quiet outside your shared apartment, the soft hum of the IPC offices a distant lull, yet here, in your bed, the universe narrows until nothing exists beyond the press of your skin against his. Naked and tangled together after the fevered abandon of lovemaking, Kakavasha molds his body against yours as if you could become one. He holds you like you are the rarest treasure, the one thing in all the cosmos he cannot gamble away. Between you, silence settles. Every heartbeat is a confession. Every sigh is a vow.
Aventurine threads his fingers through your hair, tugging you just slightly closer, as if the world outside could only exist if you were in his arms. You trace small kisses over his jaw, his temple, his cheek in response, each one whispered and feather-light, as if the fragility of this moment could shatter under too much weight. His lips part with a sigh as your fingers brush the terrible mark on his neck, a scar that tells stories of survival, of tragedy, of a boy who was sold, abandoned, and yet rose to power.
You whisper his real name, "Kakavasha", and the sound of it trembles on your lips. His eyes close, glimmering with something heartbreakingly tender, and he tilts his head to capture your mouth with his.
He wants to answer, but words are useless when the press of your body against his says it all. He folds himself around you, every curve, every line of muscle pressing as if to become one with you, as if breathing is impossible without the warmth of your skin, without your tender heartbeat against his. Your hands roam over the scarred skin of his back, touching, tracing, memorizing, grounding him.
He tears himself from you only to murmur, "I love you," more to himself than to you, a promise that tomorrow is worth waking up for because you exist, because you are here.
After all, you keep chosing him.
Aventurine kisses you again, this time with a fierceness that contradicts the gentleness of before, holding you with a hunger that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with devotion. Each press of his lips carries the weight of every gamble he has ever taken, every life he has lost, every calculated risk that led him here, to you. You feel the faint shiver of vulnerability beneath his strength, the rare glimpse of a man who doesn’t hide behind smiles or charm, who is simply Kakavasha in your arms.
You return his kiss softly, letting him feel your certainty.
When you part, he buries his face in your shoulder like a child, inhaling the faint trace of your shampoo, the soothing scent of your skin. His hands slide down your back, the pads of his fingers brushing the sensitive skin along your spine, mapping every inch of you, committing it to memory. You laugh softly when he nips at your collarbone, a sharp contrast to his previous neediness, a small display that breaks the tension and reminds you that he is human, flawed, and perfect all at once. Aventurine hums against your neck, a sound of contentment and need, and you tilt your head to press your forehead to his.
You trace the lines of his face, the curve of his lips, the faint crease between his brows, and he leans into your touch, eyes glazed, sighing as if every worry has dissolved into the simplicity of being held. You whisper his name again, "Kakavasha", and he clutches you tighter, not wanting to let go. He nuzzles his nose against yours in a small display of affection, and a giggle escapes him. You mirror him, pressing back, laughing softly as your noses brush together again and again. His giggle vibrates through you with a mixture of joy, relief, and a pain that only someone who has survived everything alone can carry.
He buries his face in your collarbone after a few seconds, wrapping you impossibly close, murmuring your name like a prayer. His fingers rub small circles over your hipbone as he sighs against your chest. You kiss the top of his head, letting the warmth of your body remind him that home is not a place, but a person.
Just like this, you both drift into sleep, clinging to each other as if the night itself might steal the moment away. Kakavasha is finally calm, knowing that when morning comes, he will wake with your name on his lips, still wholly, achingly in love with you.
The Great Herta
tws: horny scholars (1/2), possessive behaviour, dollification(?) , you are her assistant.
Herta kisses you like the taste of your lips could be cataloged and studied, archived in her mind alongside all the brilliant formulas and theories she cherishes.
The Genius leans in a bit too close in her pristine laboratory, surrounded by the hum of machinery and the faint scent of antiseptic and exotic metals surrounding you both. Her sharp eyes glint as she tilts your chin upward with one demanding finger. Her other hand lingers over the fabric of your clothes as if deciding how best to alter them, how best to dress you in her aesthetic of controlled perfection.
You’ve always been plain, almost painfully ordinary. Just a statistic in a world that seems to value the extraordinary. But to Herta, that ordinariness is a canvas, a vessel she can shape. You shift uneasily under her scrutiny, acutely aware that her mind is racing far ahead, calculating, analyzing something that you couldn't even dream of comprehending.
“Assistant,” she says, stepping back just enough to examine you fully with her head tilted, one hand on her hip in that imperious stance you’ve learned to recognize, “I’ve been thinking… we should make a doll of you. A miniature, perfect replica of you.”
Her eyes spark with a mischievous glint, and you can almost hear the little hum of pride that always accompanies her genius. But those words make your chest tighten with something ugly.
“A doll… of me?” you whisper, uncertain. Her words send the cold brush of reality against your skin, the knowledge that perhaps she sees you as nothing more than an object, a vessel to satisfy her obsessive whims.
“Herta… I- I don’t know if that’s-”
“Shh,” she interrupts, observing you like a predator admiring a prize. Her fingers trace lightly along your jawline, brushing your lips, eliciting a shiver.
“So predictable. You worry you are insufficient for me, don’t you?”
Before you can respond, she closes the distance, pinning you gently yet unrelentingly against the cool, sterile wall. Her lips press to yours, firm and possessive, and you can feel the subtle, almost imperceptible tremor in her body, betraying how deeply her feelings really are. She presses her finger against your chest, right over your heart, and you avert your gaze in shame.
“You underestimate yourself. To me, you are extraordinary. But I want everyone else to know it too, and that is why dolls are necessary. Each of you for each of me.”
You remember the fleeting glimpse of Herta's fury when she saw another staff member leaning too close to you the other day. It was a rare tantrum that left her sharp and glowing with barely restrained possessiveness. And now, pressed against her, you understand fully: the Member #83 of the Genius Society wants you, all of you, and she is not willing to share even a fragment of your attention.
“I only wanted to make puppets of you for… emotional purposes,” she whispers against your lips, and you taste a mixture of steel and honey in her breath. Her hands are on your waist, pressing you closer, claiming the space that is hers by right.
“So that no one- no one- dares to flirt with you again. Do you understand?” Her gaze pierces yours, unapologetic and intensely focused. You nod, and she tugs at your collar, pressing possessive kisses over your neck. They bloom into the purple immediately, and you let out a small moan that makes her smirk.
“I- Miss Herta, someone might walk in,” you murmur nervously, still conscious of the pristine environment and the potential dangers. Her eyes only flash with defiance and amusement.
“Irrelevant. I am more concerned with you than with trivial intrusions-" her tone is unyielding but carries the same intoxicating vulnerability she rarely allows anyone to glimpse, "-and I demand your kisses.” She tilts your head to the side again, waiting, her breath brushing your mouth as she leans her forehead against yours.
“Come on,” she says, a sly smirk playing on her perfect lips, “create some problems with me~”
You can feel the weight of her desire hanging heavy over you. It is intense, concentrated, possessive, a tidal force contained within the curve of her lips and the precise placement of her hands. Your fingers curl against her waist in a desperate need to answer her invitation. Herta lets you lean in, humming contentedly, her plush lips demanding more and more affection. Even if you try to take the lead, in this dance, it's she who puts on the music and adjusts the rhythm.
When you part, smooth hands trail along your arms, thumbs brushing over your skin in patterns that feel both instructional and intimate. Herta adjusts your posture, your shoulders, the tilt of your chin, and each movement is both a study and a possession.
“There,” she murmurs, her voice softening just enough to send shivers down your spine, “much better. You are… my perfect little assistant.”
Your chest tightens with a mix of anxiety and longing. You’ve never felt so simultaneously admired and scrutinized, so observed and yet protected. In her usual brilliance, Herta senses the swirl of your emotions, and a faint smirk curls her lips.
“Ah… there it is. That little hesitation again. That tiny doubt. It is what makes you human… yet to me, it only makes you more desirable.” She presses another kiss to your lips, lingering longer, her tongue tracing the barest outline of your mouth in a possessive way. You gasp softly, overwhelmed by the intensity of her attention.
“I could spend eternity studying you like this,” she murmurs, “Exploring every nuance, every reaction… And I'll always want more-” her fingers tighten slightly around your wrists, “and more,” she repeats firmly, "and more," her voice dropping into a tone that is equal parts commanding and vulnerable.
“I want to show you that you are more than enough. That your existence is extraordinary to me.”
By the time Herta steps back, your cheeks flushed and your lips tingling, she is grinning that brilliant, infuriating grin of hers.
“Tonight,” she murmurs, “I will prove again that you are more than a statistic. That you are enough. More than enough. And you will understand exactly how exquisite it is to be mine.”
Dr. Ratio
tws: horny scholars (2/2), explicit content, anal sex (to keep reader gender-netural), Ratio is kinda autistic but hopelessly in love.
Dr. Ratio kisses you like a theorem being folded into skin, precise and inevitable, each angle tested until the solution holds.
By day Veritas is all about economy and measurement, kissing you while staring at some complex mathematical equations. Those kisses are never loud, never needy; they are the soft gratitude for your visits to his university office with a warm meal, pressed absentmindedly to your cheek, nose, or jaw. It is a tiny algebra of affection that Ratio tucks away and solves later in the privacy of his head.
But when evening folds the hallways into shadow and the outside noises thin to a hush, his restraint dissolves like chalk in rain. The office door clicks; the stacks of papers become a faraway island where his mind is no longer needed. Veritas closes his codex with an audible click, the sound of his focus snapping shut, and the man who has mapped the geometry of everything gives himself over to something he cannot reduce to theorem.
Ratio comes home and he comes to you.
The time before bed is when his mind slows down. The lights dim to the soft halo of a single lamp in the corner of your bedroom. You curl under the sheets with a worn romance novel, pages dog-eared where you favor the sentences. Veritas lays to your side with a slab of a book that folds logic into tight knots. For a while you read in companionable silence, the quiet of evening hours folding around you.
Then his book slides shut. He does not look embarrassed or theatrical about the motion, Veritas makes it decisive because precision is comfort to him. Slowly, he folds himself into the space on your side, until his long limbs tangle with yours. He is ungainly in the gentlest way because all his competence is reserved for equations and experiments, not for the small choreography of tenderness. His head rests heavy on your chest, ear pressed against your sternum, and you feel him breathe as if inhaling the sum of you.
Then, his lips begin their path along the valley of your front. He finds the beat of your heart near your collarbone and linger as if mesmerised by the proof of living. Then upper, along the column of your throat and the line of your jaw.
When his lips finally find yours, the kiss is long and interrogative, searching for a metric that will hold. You wrap your arms around him, books forgotten, and he relaxes like a student who finally understands the theorem. Ratio hums against your mouth, voice soft with the astonishment of not being able to solve the shape of you.
“You are… hard to quantify,” he murmurs, voice bright and brittle against your cheek.
“Let me try again. For science.”
For a moment his tone is cold, like the plaster head that he wears. Then his hands find your hips and the atmosphere changes. Veritas studies your curves again and again as if he can catalog every centimeter and reaction. His touch is expert because he knows your architecture by heart. He has traced these maps in countless moments, memorized the angles where you tremble. Slim fingers that explore between your thighs are warm and insistent.
Ten minutes later, you kneel on the bed, warm and ready for him, your back arched and your lips parted. Ratio positions himself behind you with that same efficiency he applies to everything he learns. His hands hook under your armpits to pull you closer. His chest presses to your back and his mouth finds the patch of skin at your neck, sucking and whispering small nothings.
Veritas pushes in slowly, not because he is tentative but because he is calibrating. The stretch is exquisite and welcomed, and he monitors your face as if checking instruments. His hips angle just how you like it, then snap with a delicious rhythm that surprises him into a mistimed grunt.
“So tight,” he breathes, each word a punctuation mark. “You are exquisite,” he adds, voice breaking on the last syllable. He sucks at the nape of your neck with a muffled praise.
And when he id finally moves, it feels like a fireworks bollm under your eyelids. Its savoury, its achingly desperate, it makes your body tremble and burns in your stomach. It better than any action that you have had before meeting the pompous scholar.
And mind you, he is also affected by the feeling of you. You squeeze him so tight, take him so well and snug that Ratio goes cross-eyed behind you in a best possible way. He dirty talks in the way only he can: factual fragments that turn erotic because of the heat in his voice.
“I am filling you-” he says, absurd in its textbook bluntness, “-and this is optimal. You are calibrated to my geometry.”
Between those clinical confessions Veritas groans and stumbles on metaphors, alternating between ownership and worship. His stare softens into something unguarded, zeroing in on how your face contorts in pleasure.
"I must be violating every protocol," he pants, "but your compliance yields the most efficient results." His voice is rougher when he speaks mid-thrust.
"I like the way you compress, the way you take me. Measure me with your insides again," Ratio commands and then is aghast at his own wantonness. You push back on the trembling legs, meeting his rhythm with an urgency.
Veritas groans your name – he is terrible at pet names, so it comes out simple – then laughs, breathless and thrilled, the sound reverberating against your back as he speeds up, letting you get more addicted to being full of him.
He kisses the back of your neck again and again, mouth hot and wet, while his work in a rhythm that is nothing like the measured beats of his laboratory metronome. His hands are merciless and precise, fingers digging into the softness of your hips, thumbs pressing into the curve where your ribs fold into your waist.
You come apart with a cry that is animal in the best possible way. Ratio follows not long after with a stuttered arch, his body shuddering against yours as he fills you.
The aftercare is your favorite time. Ratio lays you down gently on the sheets, tucking you in like a puzzle piece he refuses to lose. Then he traces the line of your spine with his fingers, murmuring instructions into the air: “Breathe with me for ten counts,” “Stay still,” “Are you warm enough?” “I’ll bring you some water.”
The next morning Veritas is in his office at 8.00 am sharp, as usual, preparing for the long day of curing idiocy. The room hums softly with the sound of his measured steps as he gathers the materials for the lessons he must teach.
Yet everything he touches feels meaningless without you.
His notebook lies open on the desk, and in the corner your name is written with delicate precision, enclosed by countless little hearts that he has traced over and over until the ink began to smudge. A framed photo of you rests on the desk, glass slightly stained with his lip-prints, as though by kissing the glass he might commit every detail of your face deeper into his memory. Even the open page of his notes betrays his usual coldness, for there again your name lingers, ringed by those small desperate hearts, each mark proof of a love so consuming it spills past his control and stains everything he touches.
Feixiao
tws: no honry scholars in this one, only longing foxians, angsty, hurt/comfort
Feixiao kisses you like someone afraid of forgetting what love tastes like, as if every brush of her lips must etch itself into memory before war or fate can steal it away.
The mist over Rainsoar Lake clings to your clothes, to your lashes, to the hollow of your throat when you watch a peaceful landscape in front of you. Yellow heart blossoms drift past, landing on the water's surface like a golden blanket. Fishes leap and clap water against the air, gulls of sound in the hush.
Something shifts behind you.
"You always do this," you say, voice small in the mist. "Sneak up on me and then act like it is my fault for not noticing you."
Feixiao laughs with a sound that scatters the mist into finer beads. Her hand finds your body immediately and her fingers possessively curl around your waist.
"I knew you would be here," she says, stepping in front of you, blocking the peaceful scenery. When you frown at the audacity, she smirks and steals a sly peck from your lips.
Immediately, you relax in her gentle embrace. Your hands crawl under her coat, to the scar on her back that runs like a calligraphy stroke, painting the ail skin with pinkish hue. Now, you can recall its shape from memory. It’s narrow, but crude. But most importantly, you know that this is an old road she refuses to walk now but that still defines the direction of her steps.
In the lamplight of the lake, every scar of hers looks like a constellation. You trace them with your fingertips, and Feixiao lets out a sound that is not entirely a grunt but something closer to a purr.
The blossoms press their perfume into the air, sweet and heavy, and the petals stick to her coat and to your hair. Each time a fish explodes from the lake you see the motion in her jaw and the twitch in her ears: the hunt that is both memory and promise. You know your touch helps to keep her steady, so you keep soothing her aches with your hands.
"Feixiao," you murmur her name, because speech will not be wasted even under water and under mist. She shifts closer and her answer is a softer thing than you expected.
"You say it as if you are making a promise," she says against your lip. Her voice is a low thing, cheeky and dangerous, a soldier's laugh. "Say it again."
So you do.
“Feixiao,” the syllables come out like an offering.
Foxian hums and kisses you properly then, like a beast who has learned the art of gentling her touch. It is soft at first, too measured and almost ethereal. Her mouth fits around yours with the confidence of someone who knows where to press so things will not break.
But of course, there is a hidden wildness there because Feixiao is made of storms. When you part your lips, yearning, inviting, the kiss deepens, teeth and tongue finding one another in a soft insistence. Her hands move, one cupping your face with an intimacy that cracks something open inside you. The other firm hand slides down to your waist, anchoring you to her.
"You are warm-" Feixiao says suddenly, breaking the kiss long enough to press her forehead to yours. Rain threads down the fur on her ear, forehead, cheek, and finally mixes with the tears you didn’t notice you cried, "-and dangerous for me."
You laugh, small and breathless, because you want to soothe her aches so badly, yet you know that it is never enough to calm the beast inside her mind.
"You are supposed to be the dangerous one. You carry the title," the only thing you can say through the bile in your throat.
She snorts with amusement.
"Great General-" Feixiao repeats, using the title everyone uses to make her larger than a simple human, “-is a Lacking one.”
Her confession presses even harder into your heart. It’s not the emotion fully, no. It blooms like a poisoned flower between your ribs. You reach for the sprouting weed there, and Feixiao frames your hand in hers as if to show you a map of your own body.
The rain gathers around the syllables, approving or indifferent, you cannot decide. A fish keeps leaping near the reeds, scattering droplets that sparkle like punctuation. Feixiao smiles, and the fox in her creases into something softer, something younger and girlish at once.
"Will you spend this night with me?" she asks, absurdly direct as always.
You answer honestly, because loving her rewards bluntness.
"I will. And I will not-" you hesitate, because there are vows you cannot make for battles she might have to fight alone, "-I will never ever leave your side," you feel the tears build up again.
"Good," Feixiao says, and then kisses you again, this time slower and more deliberate. Her teeth gently press at the seam of your lower lip as if checking for breakage. The kiss becomes a conversation without words.
At one point she pulls back to look at you again, rainwater beading at the lashes of her teal-ringed eyes. There is the flash of something very old inside them.
"Stay."
You do stay, because you want to be a witness and harbour, because you want to be the calm island in a life seamed with storms.
You rest your hand against the scar at her collarbone, and Feixiao leans into the pressure as if it is the only thing steady in a changing world. Around you the lotuses bob and the turtles blink. A fish makes another impatient splash. The rain continues its soft, tireless hymn.
"Promise me… nothing-" she says after a long moment, voice low and absolute, "-but this: if I ever become the hunter and you will be my pray,“ she stills because this one thought, that she could hurt you of all people, almost makes her gag from fear. Yet, she continues, “-make me remember this moment. Make me remember that you will meet me with a kiss upon returning."
You smile, and the smile is a promise to be cherished.
“I will.”
.
Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!
I love Feixiao, but she seems to have so little recognition in the fandom that it physically hurts me. Also, did I say that writing for Ratio is a big pain in the ass? Well, now, I definitely did.
P.S. I'll proofread it later, rn I'm just too tired :c
Aaaand I'm open for character suggestions for the next part!
You weren't quite sure how Zayne felt about you. But you were pretty convinced it wasn't exactly... great.
Constantly showing up at Akso wounded - some instances more serious than others. Having a finicky heart that constantly required check-ups. Being so high-energy when he was so reserved. If you had to guess, especially based on his interactions with you?
You'd say that Zayne likely tolerates you because he feels obligated to. Y'know, being childhood friends and now doctor and patient. He kind of needed to tolerate you for these things to work.
Which is probably why it hurt so much trying to move on from him. Considering you had never been in a romantic relationship with him the first place, most would assume it would be easy to get over. Rather, you were mourning the chance you'd likely never get.
While also feeling sorry for your younger self who harbored such a crush on him while growing up. You had dreamed of reuniting with him after he had moved away, and seeing how awkward things had been at that first unintentional reunion? You figured he was just a bit awkward still, just as he was as a child.
But now? You feared it was disgust from the start, mixed with annoyance. I mean, he denied letting you sit at the table with him at first, to this day you still felt bad about intruding on his lunch.
"Good afternoon." Zayne doesn't stop typing on his computer as you enter. "Hey, Dr. Zayne." You reply a little more causally than you wanted, internally cringing as you took a seat in front of his desk. This was just adding to the reasons you were sure he didn't like you.
"Just a moment, I'm finishing this report." You can only muster a nod, hands tightly clasped in your lap as you mull over the words you're about to say. Seconds tick by in silence before Zayne finally stops typing, moving his mouse to save the document.
"Today's visit is just a typical routine check up." he starts formally, moving to grab the stethoscope around his neck and roll his chair over to you. "Actually, Dr. Zayne." You hesitate to meet his eyes, cool and calculating. Honestly quite intimidating.
"I wanted to talk to you about something first before we move forward with the appointment." You clear your throat when you see the slight raise of his brow. "Proceed."
"This will actually be your last appointment with me. I put in a request to be transferred to a different primary care physician."
The silence that stretched lasted far longer than the typing of his report. Zayne's expression was unreadable, so many emotions flashing through his typically calculating eyes that you wanted to sink into the chair you sat on and disappear entirely.
"Why would you do that?" It wasn't Dr. Zayne talking to you, you realized that the second he opened his mouth. This was Zayne, the boy you had grown up with, the boy you had crushed on so hard. The man you prayed you'd get a chance to reconnect with later on in life
The tone of his voice was far less formal, and if you weren't mistaken, he sounded hurt. "I-I um..." you stammer, cheeks feeling warm as you try and recall the lines you had practiced. "You're such a busy man, and your patient waitlist is miles long. I take up so much of your time and I figured I'd be doing you a favor by leaving as your patient."
"Doing me a favor by leaving me?" He shot back almost immediately, and it was not the response you were expecting. His brows were pinched, his jaw tense. You realized a moment later that his fingers were trembling as he set them down on his desk.
"Have I done something to make you think you are a burden?" The promise he made to Josephine echoes in the back of his mind, but that is far from being the only reason he wouldn't want to lose you.
Not when he just got you back.
Being put on the spot like that, called out directly left you a little stunned. So stunned that you couldn't stammer an excuse, instead a quiet mumble of "Yeah, kinda." slipped past your lips.
He's left a little speechless himself, heart racing a mile a minute as he tries desperately to think of something - anything to say so you won't walk out of his life again. But he's never been all that great with words, his biggest kryptonite, his achilles heel.
He couldn't just spill his guts out for you, could he? Here you were attempting to distance yourself from him thinking it would be doing him a solid. Here you were admitting he made you feel like a burden. A declaration of love would surely scare you away for different reasons all together. He was stuck, dammit. So stuck.
"M'sorry Zayne. Really, this is ridiculous to put you through." you moved to stand, ready to run, and panic shot through his entire being. "No, don't you dare." It's all he could manage, standing and moving without thought as his hand wrapped around your wrist.
"You are not a burden." he starts, voice steady and firm despite the roaring of blood in his ears. "Not to anyone, and especially not to me."
"It's my fault you feel this way. I've never been the best with words, and I'm not sure what it is about you but you just make me feel so..." he swallows, he knows exactly why you make him feel the way he does but that is too much to unload right now. "Shy."
"I lose all my sense when you're with me, in front of me. I worked for years on my people skills since I was so awkward when I was younger. I've managed to break out of that shell and yet you..." he swallows, eyes darting around his office before meeting yours again.
"You send me right back to our childhood. You leave me speechless in a good way. Because I find myself wanting to impress you but I panic and can't think of much to say..." He's rambling, he can feel his ears turning red when he realizes. But the look on your face is nothing short of stunned, a blush creeping over your own features.
"I'm sorry for giving you the wrong idea, I want you in my life. I can settle for just having this, being your doctor and all. But truthfully, I'd like for us to be so much more."
Was he pushing it?
"Zayne... now I'm the one left speechless." You start softly, and he can see the guilt in your eyes as you process everything. "M'so sorry for this, I feel like I've made such a scene." Apologizing, again. He shakes his head, hand still wrapped around your wrist. "Don't apologize."
He swallow the lump in his throat. "Just... start by telling me you won't leave." It takes you a second to realize his thumb had been rubbing slow, soft circles on your pulse point. Something he had done since childhood, a comforting gesture when you’d get upset.
“I won’t leave, Zayne. Trustfully? I don’t think I ever could.”
Idk how to feel about this, I’m so used to writing smut that sometimes writing stuff like this feels so awkward. But since I took the time to write it I might as well share it? Idk I may delete later lol it's so random hnghhh
Premise : Picture a parallel universe where all your blorbos are the ones expressing their profound yearning for you (yes, YOU) through the sacred arts of fanfics, fanarts and exchanging kudos. Perhaps you're a celebrity, perhaps you're just an ordinary person charming enough to have an entire fandom behind you or, you're the fictional character in this universe instead. Let's dive into this website, shall we?
Note : So uh, I typed this down with almost zero critical thinking and 100% whimsy within one hour. Character selection is random, too. Please excuse any unintentional errors <3
— THE WRITERS AND ARTISTS
Phainon has an erratic writing pattern, no one can guess what this guy will whip up in his next post. One moment he's weaving gourmet in text-form about an emotion-packed forbidden love story between knight and monarch and the next he's posted some unedited word vomit with a witty ‘no beta we die like ___’ tag. That, or it's his stick figure comics against the world. Everyone thinks he's mad funny though, so the readers forgive him.
Scaramouche who started as a HATER. What do you mean people are so obsessed with one person that they've made a digital shrine of fanfics and fanarts for them? He's going to do a thorough research on you... for the sake of ethically sourced hate of course. One thing leads to another, his ‘research’ spirals and all you need to know is that he's a diehard [Name] simp now — not that he'd admit it.
Mydei who, in great contrast to his usual self, writes some very cutesy stuff. “What if you two turned into chimeras for a day” stuff like that. He's mostly known for his chibi drawings though. Very escapism-from-a-burdened-life themed, if you want to psychoanalyze, that is.
Sunday who just can't cross the boundary of writing gentlemanly hand-kisses and heartfelt hugs in terms of physical affection, even though he's probably read hardcore smut by someone else. And even when he's writing about kissing your hand, he's squirming in his seat, wings restless enough for him to start taking flight or something. His characterization tends to be very thoughtful though so the readers don't care.
One of the very first dwellers of the website, Gepard's... unique drawings fed many people back in the days and are still remembered fondly to this date. Nowadays, he isn't as active as he used to be though.
Venti's blog is dedicated to poetry about you, everyone is low-key jealous of his rhyming skills. He's also one of the more active people, sharing others' works regularly without fail.
Dr. Ratio who becomes SICK of the amount of mischaracterization floating around about you in the fanfics and the burn from the majority of the fics not meeting his standards, so, he starts writing fanfics catering to his specific needs himself.
Alhaitham who posted like two or three 10k something word-count fics and then dipped because he lost motivation. The readers are still in mourning, because he left them on a devasting cliff-hanger. Kaveh, Cyno and Sethos have made a ‘Day X until @/vulturevolans posts’ chain in the comments. They just don't know it's Alhaitham who's the writer.
Albedo is that artist whose works you'd think would be hung on museum walls, yet, he's here posting jaw-dropping art with you as the muse. His ‘character study’ series of sketches about you is noted to be... very brainrot-worthy, let's say.
— MISC. INHABITANTS
Aventurine is the famous ‘commissioner’ guy who drops by people's inboxes with hilarious memes seeking fic or art, or just to appreciate the existing works. You can bet he's commissioned something out of every writer and artist on this site.
Childe is another commissioner. He'd most likely commission Phainon though because he knows Phainon can whip up a good flirting-through-sparring oneshot with accuracy ensured about how a sword works and all. They say Varka of Mondstadt has this fic printed and binded like a book.
Don't tell the Trailblazer and March 7th, but Dan Heng is one of the admins who manage the site. He knows every work posted here like the back of his hand. He may or may not know about the true identities of everyone who has an account on this website.
— NOTABLE READERS
Anaxa who gets exposed as a fanfic reader in class after he accidentally comments, ‘‘This looks like something that you'd find in fanfiction.[you].net.’’ while grading a few students' (read: Phainon and Castorice) essays. He got back at them with the threat of ‘If the next fic doesn't meet my standards, I'm failing you.’ though. So, no worries.
Argenti who's known as the ‘long comment guy’. He leaves whole paragraphs of praises with sparkly rosy emojis under every work on the site, without exception. It's kind of an honor to receive his comments.
Ayato, Jing Yuan, Flins, Neuvillette and Zhongli aren't really part of the dramatic crew. They tend to savour the works from a distance. They don't even have to commission the writers here, the sincere compliments and ideas they share are enough to keep the facilitation of brainrot smooth.
A pre-relationship ZayneMC one shot that originated from this twitter interaction
warnings: pre-relationship; no smut, just unspoken feelings and slow-burn-esque tension; but obviously per the above screenshot, some vague discussion about sex; Zayne and MC are both mentioned to be virgins in this fic, idc if that does or doesn't fit your hc's; second person POV; only allusions to reader's gender are via "Miss Hunter" used one time and "sister" used one time; I think that's it, let me know if I should add something else
word count: 3.8k (oops)
a/n: it's not even 24 hours after I tweeted that reply and I gained like 100+ new followers on Twitter and have like 40-50 replies to go through requesting tags on this, which is a crazy response. I SINCERELY HOPE that you guys enjoy this and that I did not just build anticipation for people only to disappoint lol. Either way, happy to hear thoughts, even if they are critical! Feedback helps me improve, so I'm always open to suggestions 🩵
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"The doctor is ready for you," the receptionist calls to you over the lobby desk, making your heart lurch with excitement. You run your hands through your hair for the 18th time and take a steadying breath, swallowing the urge to launch out of your chair and skip down the hall, as over-eager as you always are ahead of seeing your childhood-friend-turned-primary-care-physician.
The surprise came six or seven months ago when, during a routine appointment with Dr. Noah, you were introduced to the new doctor that would be taking over some of his patients in his retirement. The air left your lungs all at once, pure shock nearly dropping you to your knees, when in walked the sweet, quiet boy from your childhood you gave up hope on ever seeing again.
The sweet, quiet boy your heart never forgot about, even after he disappeared from your life without a trace, even after all the years of separation, even after all the time spent wishing you'd somehow cross paths again. The sweet, quiet boy your heart never let you forget about, despite the many days spent wondering where he was in the world, despite the countless nights spent missing him, despite all the perfectly suitable romantic options over the years that just fell flat because that very stubborn heart of yours continued to hold on.
And while your heart rejoiced at finally being reunited with that boy, all those feelings flooding back in the instant he walked through that door, your body had become keenly aware that he was now a man: tall, strikingly handsome, elegantly styled, graceful in ways that seemed unfair, carrying the air of experience. It made reconnecting slightly difficult at first, a few awkward lunches or coffee meet-ups full of nerves in the very beginning, but it didn't take long for things to fall back into the same smooth, easy rhythm you had as kids, both eager to catch up on all the missed time.
And just like back then, it only took one glance from his piercing emerald eyes to pin you to the spot and make your heart race in ways you were sure would one day lead to a cardiac emergency. Ironic, you think.
Fortunately, should that happen, there's quite literally no one better suited to save you than the very same perpetrator. Unfortunately, it was quite troublesome to always be dealing with inexplicable tachycardia in the presence of your cardiologist, who was quite concerned.
As you knock on Zayne's office door, that tachycardia threatens to surface and you do your best to fight it mind-over-matter. But the second you hear his rich voice call for you to enter, the battle is lost.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Li," you greet with an impish lilt as you take a seat in the exam chair; you never were able to stop yourself from teasing him, then or now. He pauses his typing to cock an eyebrow at your obvious cheek and you can't help but snicker.
"Good afternoon, Miss Hunter." His pointed return has you laughing again, and you catch a little smirk as his attention shifts back to his computer screen.
Not wanting to interrupt him, you quietly study his features in the few moments it takes him to finish his task, admiring the chiseled angles of this new, matured face of his. Puberty sure was kind to him, you think to yourself. If cardiothoracic surgery ever grows dull for him, surely the modeling world would welcome him with open arms.
"Now then..." He suddenly shifts focus, forcing you to quickly reign in your leering. "Before we discuss the results of your most recent ECG, a bit of housekeeping is in order."
You nod as he returns to his computer and clicks a few times, presumably pulling up your medical record.
"We're due to update some information," he explains before flipping one of his monitors towards you. "Are these medications and dosages still accurate to what you're following currently?"
You rise from your seat and lean over his desk for a closer look, reviewing the list with furrowed brows and a hum. "Everything that's listed is still correct, but there's one prescription missing." With a finger to your chin, you meet his gaze, his brows similarly furrowed as he tries to puzzle out what medication would be missing. "As of this summer, I've been on a thousand milligrams of sucrose weekly, per the orders of my doctor's dentist."
Your face pulls into a delighted grin as his falls deadpan, one of his hands coming up to flick your forehead. With a chortling laugh, you fall back into your chair, rubbing your forehead as he returns the monitor to its original position.
"Barring that, everything looks correct, yes?"
"Yes," you give with a lingering little giggle, never shy about laughing at your own jokes. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes with a half-smile, painting the perfect picture of the phrase 'fond exasperation,' and you can't help the way it turns your grin just a little dopey or makes butterflies erupt in your stomach. These were the most precious of little moments with Zayne that made your heart soar.
With a pointed nod, he gets back to business. "Moving on. Any major illnesses in the past 12 months?"
"No."
"Any major injuries or surgeries in the past 12 months?"
"No."
"Any incidents in the past 12 months that required hospitalization?"
"No."
"Any new or worsening allergies?"
"No."
"Do you drink alcohol?"
"Socially."
"How often do you drink four or more drinks in one sitting?"
"Never."
He pauses to look at you, again with that cocked eyebrow that does funny things to your insides. "Does that actually mean 'never' or does that actually mean 'sometimes?'"
"Dr. Li, what do you take me for?" You feign offense with a hand to your chest, but he simply levels you with the same silent look. "Truly, I don't have the tolerance you must think I have." His eyes narrow a fraction as he considers you and your innocent smile for another moment, the intensity of his stare drawing heat to your cheeks. When he finally seems convinced enough to return to his questions, you release the breath you hadn't realized you were holding under his scrutiny.
"Do you smoke, either tobacco or marijuana?"
"No."
"Do you use any recreational drugs?"
"No."
"Are you sexually active?"
You should have expected it, should have known this question would come up at some point and been better prepared to school yourself, but your whole body involuntarily goes rigid. You quickly mumble out a "no," trying and failing to hide your sudden tension, painfully aware of his discerning gaze swinging your way to study your reaction. As you feel your neck to your crown grow flame-hot, you keep your eyes riveted to the floor like your life depends on it, sure that there must be visible steam emitting from your ears.
After a long, tumultuous moment of loaded silence, he finally says, in a voice both gentle and quiet, "I understand our...friendship may make this an uncomfortable topic... however, for the sake of your health, it's best to be honest here."
At that, your eyes flick up to meet his, then quickly return to their spot on the floor. "I am," you assert softly, suddenly feeling like you might suffocate in that office.
In your periphery, you can see the way he tilts his head, considering. "Your sudden nervousness would seem to imply you're lying." Coming out of anyone else's mouth, it would easily sound accusatory, but from Zayne, there was only a gentle observation and an even gentler request to understand.
"I'm not lying..." your brows knit together before you will your eyes to drift up and meet his again, only to be overwhelmed and have to avert them to some nondescript spot on the wall. "I'm...embarrassed."
He wheels his chair around the corner of his desk and stops directly in front of you, aiming to bridge the gap between you, both literally and metaphorically. Knee-to-knee, he tries to capture your avoidant gaze. "Did I embarrass you?"
"No, I--" The thread of guilt in his voice has you jumping to explain yourself, heart squeezing, but your voice dries up in your throat when your eyes meet his once more and find him so much closer than before. Your mouth opens and closes a few times and you have to force a hard swallow in order to try again. "You didn't embarrass me." Then, quieter, you add, "if anything, I embarrassed myself..." Despite the desire to avert your eyes again, you find you're unable to.
"Can you help me understand how, why? Is it that you find it embarrassing to not be sexually active at the moment?" His earnestness makes your chest constrict and--oh god, he's so close, does he seem like he's gotten even closer?
"Zayne..." Your stomach twists knowing what you've resigned to admit out loud to him. "I'm... a virgin..."
Something indiscernible flashes across his features and all at once you feel hot enough to burst into flames, yet you still can't tear your eyes from his. He hums, giving nothing of his internal thoughts away. "And that's... embarrassing for you? Being a virgin?"
"S-sometimes..." You take to chewing on your lip to try to ease the way everything in you is screaming to jump out the 4th story window to your left. "It just feels like..." With a slow breath, you search for the words, any words. "At my age..."
In your heart of hearts, you know you just saw the corner of his lips lift, despite it only being an excruciatingly tiny amount, and, unsure of what it means or where you stand with him, it fully plunges your thoughts into the chaos you were trying to keep at bay.
Was it embarrassing to be a virgin at any age? Certainly not. Unless there was one person--one devastatingly desirable person that you ached for mind, body, and soul--that you already had slim chances of ending up with, which could possibly become even slimmer if he knew of your inexperience. Zayne surely wasn't the type to care about a little inexperience, but an intelligent, successful, mature man with a face like that? It stood to reason he had experience under his belt and desired a partner that could keep up with him, that he didn't need to teach.
Another long-seeded insecurity starts to drag itself to the forefront, opening up a gnawing pit in your stomach the way it always does when it rears its ugly head: the possibility that Zayne might view you as family, a sibling even.
in your eyes, even during childhood, Zayne has always been the one your heart longed for, but what were you in his eyes? Were you ever anything more to him than the troublesome little girl next door he was forced to look after? He was always smarter, better focused, better at communicating, better at not scraping his knees at every turn, and he certainly never made you feel less than for any of that, but could it have slowly sealed you away in a position of juvenility in his mind? Now, presently as your doctor, is he simply taking care of an adoptive little sister with nostalgic, familial fondness?
And did admitting your virginity to him only further cement a perceived gap in maturity?
As you lose yourself in your internal spiral, he assess you, expression soft, before leaning back in his chair and picking up a pen to twirl idly.
"Would you feel better..." He begins, snapping you back into reality, your eyes refocusing on him and his uncharacteristically relaxed posture. "...if I told you I was also a virgin?"
You gawk, features blanching, sure that you couldn't possibly have heard him correctly. And then you realize: he must be joking, or otherwise lying to soothe your ego. "Yeah, right," you roll your eyes before fixing him with an incredulous glare, your turn to cock a brow in his direction.
The corner of his lips lifts higher, this time enough that that it would be noticeable even to one not so well-versed in Zayne's micro-expressions. "It's true," he insists with his barely-there smirk.
You cross your arms and lean back in your seat, unyielding. "I appreciate you trying to make me feel better about the situation, but I'm not buying it."
His little crooked smile widens into something big enough to be called a grin, at least by Zayne standards, and he huffs a laugh through his nose. "While I did say it to make you feel better, it isn't a fabrication. It's the genuine truth."
The two of you--languidly leaned far back in your opposing seats, knees nearly brushing--look at one another for a long, drawn out moment as you weigh his words. And you hate what those words are doing to your insides, the little butterflies that rise in your stomach, the hope their fluttering wings are starting to stir up.
"It just doesn't make sense," you finally level, which seems to amuse him even further.
"Why not?"
As you consider him, still steadfast in your skepticism, he tilts his head at you ever so slightly, maintaining his wisp of a grin, making your heart clench with how effortlessly handsome he is.
"You're too attractive," you offer, both as an answer to his question and as an accusation. He coughs and splutters as if you just threw water in his face, clearly caught off guard by such a blunt declaration, and yet his grin never falls. Before he can recover himself too much, you continue. "And too smart. Too kind and caring."
"Confusing that somehow such high praise is evidence against my candor." With a bemused, breathy chuckle, he rests an elbow on the arm of his chair and leans his head on his knuckles, eyes sharp and glittering.
"It just stands to reason that someone at some point must have made advances towards you." You lean forward, eyes narrowed, elbow planted on your knee as you drop your chin into your hand and study him.
"I was several years younger than everyone in my class, and far too occupied with course work to take notice. Beyond that..." In turn, he sits forward in his chair, forearms coming to lean on his knees as he brings his face close to yours. "... Am I obligated to accept advances from just anyone simply because they were made towards me?" His voice drops, sending a wave of goosebumps down your spine.
"N-no...I suppose not..." you concede, just a little breathless at the new proximity. You catch a whiff of his cologne and your eyes nearly roll back into your skull.
"You, on the other hand..." He pauses, tracing your features with his gaze, and it feels as though you might combust on the spot under such close attention. You take a long, steadying breath, willing yourself to keep a level head. "If we examine the reasoning you gave earlier, and the fact that you were surrounded by peers primarily within your own age group, to use your words... 'it stands to reason that someone at some point must have made advances towards you.'"
With your brain currently overloaded with equal parts nerves and desire, it takes a minute for his point to hit you. But when it does, you can't stop the cheshire grin that splits your face, finding a blunder in his words. "Dr. Li," you tease. "Are you calling me attractive?"
"Yes." He answers without hesitation, seeming nearly unfazed save for the bit of color that rises to his cheeks, in stark contrast to you who's gone from grinning to slack-jawed with just that one word. Your heart pounds so heavily in your chest you think it might beat its way straight out of your rib cage. "But that doesn't absolve you from the question," he continues, and it takes you even longer this time for your brain to pick up the pieces of the conversation and figure out how to close your gaping mouth.
"Advances..." you start, mostly in an attempt to pull yourself from your daze. "There were some..." With a hard swallow, you will more coherent sentences to find their way to you. "A few dates here and there, but nothing that went anywhere..."
"Hmm," he hums thoughtfully. "Because you didn't want them to? Or because they didn't want them to?"
You blink, feeling suddenly sober as you try to avoid saying the explicit truth on the tip of your tongue: because none of them were you. Shaking your head to clear the thought, you try to find the right thing to say. "A little bit of both, I suppose... I never really felt a spark with any of them, so at the end of the day, I would've cut them off anyway. Some of them just beat me to the punch."
He tilts his head to the side inquisitively. "You've never felt a spark with anyone?"
Your lips turn up in a slow smirk at his question, gaze dropping to the side. "Well, I didn't say that..." Heat returns to your face as you glance back up at him through your lashes, and the way his adams apple bobs elicits a fresh wave of butterflies in your stomach.
"My apologies for putting words in your mouth," he breathes, voice huskier than you've ever heard it. He's so, so close, close enough that his breath tickles your overheated cheeks, and you want nothing more than to close the short gap between you and touch your lips to his, to make sure he actually understands.
"W-what about you?" You try, blinking rapidly, attempting to stay grounded in the conversation and beat back the urge to attach yourself to his face.
"What about me?" With a single knuckle, he traces a feather-light line up the forearm you're leaning on, and it takes everything in you to not fall right out of your chair. You're almost certain he notices the goosebumps he leaves in his wake.
"Any dates? Any attempts?" You breathe, or, maybe more accurately, wheeze.
His only response is a low hum and a slow shake of his head.
"None at all?"
Again, a shake of his head. Somewhere in the back of your mind is a flash of disappointment that he doesn't consider any of your get-togethers to have been dates, but you quickly shoo the thought away; they were always proposed as meetings between friends, never actually dates, even if wait staff, cashiers, and baristas were constantly assuming you two were a couple on a date.
"Zayne, you've never been on one date?" The incredulity creeps back into your tone.
Still shaking his head, he explains, "I never had the time. Or the interest."
"It's still just... hard to believe," you murmur.
"That I didn't have the time for dating while I was finishing med school early, training as a combat medic, or starting my career as a surgeon?" He lifts a brow with a little smirk that's so cute it's painful.
"Yeah, okay, well, when you put it like that..." You roll your eyes and playfully bump his knee with yours. "But still, even with all that... no one's ever caught your eye?"
"Well, I didn't say that," he echoes, grin growing to a size that's surely bigger than you've seen from him before, eyes sparkling with mirth--and, you dare to let yourself think it this time, perhaps, a hint of affection.
All you can do is stare with a matching grin of your own and a stomach full of butterflies threatening to carry you away, desperately hoping that you're not somehow playing tricks on yourself, that this moment of understanding isn't something you managed to twist in to being inside your own head.
Just as you're finding the courage to reach out and make that direct contact, finally voice the scary question, Zayne's desk phone shatters the intimate silence and you have to restrain yourself from throwing it at the wall.
It takes him a moment, but he clears his throat and slides his chair back over to pick it up with a curt greeting.
"Yes, I'm just finishing up with the current patient now." A pause. "Thank you."
As he lays the phone back on the receiver, he meets your waiting gaze again and the fond smile that graces his face makes your heart squeeze for the upteenth time since entering his office.
After a beat, he clears his throat. "Well... I suppose I don't need to ask about a history of STI's..." He clicks through the remaining health screening questions left abandoned on his computer screen and you can't suppress the snorting laughter that bubbles out of you.
That easy, smiling quiet charged with unspoken understanding falls between you again once more, until you reluctantly tell him in a soft voice, "I'll get out of your hair."
It takes another moment, but you both stand and head for the door. As he reaches around you for the handle, you turn before he can pull it open, meaning to add one last thing, only to find yourself caged between his tall frame and the wood at your back. His scent washes over you and makes the room spin as you both process unexpectedly being chest to chest. You decide the pink hue of his ears is your favorite color, before remembering your favorite color has actually always been hazel green.
Attempting to chase that fleeting courage from earlier, you look up at him through your lashes and inhale deeply. "Zayne?"
"Yes?" He breathes, failing to hide his anticipation, if he was even trying in the first place.
"Are you... free for dinner some night this week?"
He gives a single jerky nod in response. "Thursday, I believe."
Your smile widens slowly before you whisper. "Good. It's a date, then."
Surprise flickers across his face before being replaced with his own slow smile. When you lean up on your tip toes to quickly peck his cheek, he inhales sharply, his body going rigid as a board, ears promptly ramping up into a bright crimson.
He's still frozen in place, processing the moment when you lay your hand over his to finally open the door. As you step out into the hall, you turn back one more time, having suddenly remembered something.
"We never discussed the results of my ECG."
Zayne finally thaws and leans through the door frame, capturing your chin between his fingers. "I guess you'll just have to make another appointment," he says in a low voice, just before his warm lips find your cheek in turn and your heart erupts in the halls of Akso Hospital.
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a/n: I really didn't expect this to turn out this long, sorry y'all lmao. I miiiight in the future write that date (which I think I could tie into Heart Within Reach? But I'd need to do a full reread to make sure I didn't somehow write myself out of that as an option) which might also get a future continuation of ZayneMC's first time together because that's kind of been rattling around in my brain too lol. Hopefully if you made it this far down, that means you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading!
Dipper's Delusions (But Long)
(It's split into two parts so keep reading for resolutions!)
Tags: NSFW (MDNI), AFAB reader, pure filth. Read at your own discretion, ANGST, they act mean, mentions of stalking, toxic behaviors, messy relationship dynamics, fluff ending, break ups/makeup
Intro: This break up was NOT mutual. He made that known in every possible way. But, you were a woman riddled with pride, often stopping you from making things right until it was too late. The day was so vivid in your memories that you tried anything to get it out. The soft television static as you stared at his devastated expression. It was like you somehow confirmed that his worse nightmare WAS true... he truly was unlovable. You never seen him crumble until that night. You had to manually stop every muscle in your body to rush to his aid. The way he was hunched forward sobbing into the carpet. Those eyes that never begged for anything but you. You felt your mistake at that moment. But, you couldn't get yourself to make it right.
You want to know what made it even worse? It wasn't his hoarse voice sobbing for you to stop packing your things. It wasn't him telling you that you were all he had, no... none of that. It was when you ripped your jacket off the hanger and saw something fall from your harsh movement. He didn't even notice that you saw it. Not with how hysterical he was. The small jewelry box. Fuck. How, you hated yourself when you realized... he wanted to propose.
It's been months. You tried so hard to maintain your pride. But, when the spring flowers wilted... when the air got colder... you knew. You were at fault. You broke up over something that could've been an honest conversation. You found yourself going on so many dates to get your mind off of it. But, you couldn't even get yourself to feel real emotions with these bachelors. You were picking at the steak, listening to the ramblings of a coworker who went on and on about how many wanderers he's killed. Your mind was elsewhere... more like it was thinking about a timeline that didn't exist anymore. It was now fall. You'd probably be looking at venues with him. He'd kiss your temples as you skimmed through wedding catalogs. Knowing yourself... you'd probably have to close his eyes as you looked for wedding dresses. Now you're here, biting into cold steak.
You felt eyes on you constantly. It was not unnerving for one reason or another. You knew who that gaze belonged to. You wanted nothing more to rush to him and apologize. But, when you did... you were met with absolute and unadulterated rage. He was crumbling and YOU were out giving affection to other people. Trying to start a new life that was supposed to be HIS. So... started the "trial period". An agreement made by you. Let him take his anger out. Become the outlet for his hostile emotions. In return, whenever he's ready... you can settle on whether or not he wanted to continue the relationship.
Rafayel: (1) His usual bubbly and dramatic behavior was long gone. He was stoic and almost brooding. Moving your hand every time you tried to intertwine your fingers with his. It's fine. You'll stick to the agreement. You pushed all your spit to the front of you mouth, dispensing it to his length. Usually, this would have his body shivering. Making him look at you with a soft blush and a plea to continue. But, when you looked up... you saw him expressionless. His fingers threaded through your hair, grabbing a handful towards the base of your skull. Your eyes widened as your air got cut off by him using you like a toy. Not even a pant was heard from him. "Did you do this with everyone you went on a date with too?" You shook your head as you shut your eyes tightly. "Say it... use your words". You tried to talk but he'd push farther and farther into your inviting mouth. "Come on... oh right, you can't."
(2) You were draped over Rafayel's lap as he painted. Shivering slightly as you not even a cloth adorned your skin. He dragged the jade color on the canvas as his other hand occupied itself pressing the tip of another paintbrush on your sensitive bud. Your hips lifted a bit only for him to smack your ass so hard you flopped back down. He continued until you felt the paintbrush entering you. "Keep it there. If it so much as moves... our contract ends." His thumb rubs soft circles on your bud as you clawed at the couch. His large hand gave yours a harsh smack as well, reminding you the amount his couch costed. "Did I give you permission to destroy my couch? No? So keep your hands forward." You toes circled as he rubbed you just the way you liked. But, you had to work overtime to tell your pussy not to clench or pulse. There was no way you'd lose this chance.
(3) You had sex with Rafayel when he was in his lemurian form before. But, it was gentle and understanding of your mortal body. He would rock into you as your hand pumped his second length. That wasn't the case at the moment. His webbed hands covered your mouth as you laid on top of your ripped clothes on the sand. His tail swishing so violently that it kept splashing the shallow sea water onto your face and body. Your nails dug on his back so hard as he rocked into both your holes. The force and pace was inhuman. Yet, you didn't care. Not right now. He was finally making noises. Finally moaning your name desperately. His cocks rubbing against each other from the gummy layer separating both your holes. You felt your face getting splashed more and more with the water, making it hard for you to breathe. It somehow made it even more pleasurable. "F-fuck... stop fucking moving. I'm going to cum soon. Hold your breath until then. It won't be long."
Xavier: (1) Oh... how pissed he was. He opted for silent treatment. He laid on his back before bed. You only wore panties and a tank top. He made you straddle his naked lap. "I'm going to bed. Grind on it until I'm awake. Don't stop." He was out like a light. Holding on to your hip gently. You pushed the silk fabric to the side as you slid back and forth on his length. The edge of his tip rubbing deliciously on your clit. This would be fine... amazing actually. Until it was hours in and he would NOT wake up. Your body shaking and trembling. But, you knew the moment you stopped he'd wake up and end the contract. He started to stir awake after another two hours. When he rubbed his eyes you finally stopped moving. Your cheek placed on his chest as you panted. He moved your face off him, grabbing his length to press against your anticipating hole. Pushing the tip in only to pull it back with a pop."You haven't got your fill? What a greedy thing."
(2) You should've known there was more to it when he asked you to the park. Or the second message ordering you to wear a skirt and nothing else underneath. You really should've known. Public sex wasn't really in his alley. He didn't like the idea of anyone else seeing you. But, since you went on those dates... you dressed up for them... you wanted to be seen, huh? Now here you were. Reduced to a babbling, begging, sobbing mess. People frequently passed by in the path you were being ravaged at. He had you in reverse cowgirl. Making you look at people getting closer and closer, all while being covered by your body. His hips jerking into you so hard that you couldn't stop moaning. His balls slapping your clit every single time making your tits bounce violently. "Oh... look. Someone's getting closer." The thrusts sped up. You slapped at his arm to get him to slow down at least. Anything. But, he leans to your ear. A promise and a threat laced deliciously into one. "Don't. The pretty contract said I could do whatever I please."
(3) You saw his newest bank statement going to glow in the dark markers. Not really knowing what his intentions were with it. But, you paid it absolutely no mind. Until the bedroom is pitch black and you knew exactly what he had in store for you. His name was written all over your body as if he was claiming you in the most humiliating way possible. Your cheeks had his name written on it, one on each tit, the valley of your breasts, your ass, tiny little 'Xavier's scribbled on each fold. He used his evol to light the room up, setting the ink. "No one will see this, don't worry... unless there is a power outage". Cheeky bastard. His lips latched on to your neck. Fucking into your swollen puffy pussy as his pace never relented. Not when he could see his name laying ownership on every inch of your skin. Chuckling to himself as you started to get close to your orgasm. "Who owns this pussy? Tell me." His name came out of your lips as a broken squeal. "No. Say it again. Every syllable." This kept happening over and over again. "Say my name once more... promise it's the last time". You both knew it wouldn't be.
Zayne: (1) You were getting a "check-up". So normal right? Yeah it's also normal that he spread your folds with his pointer and ring finger, the middle finger circling your entrance. "Any sexual activity in the last couple of months?" There was something... borderline sinister laced in his tone. The pad of his finger tapped at your entrance, a hint to respond quickly. You shook your head. The smirk on his face did NOT go unnoticed. His middle and ring finger inserting inside you. "Good girl." Even with the praise... you still felt tension from him. Your legs trembling on the hospital bed as he pushed his fingers out and in with the loudest squelching sounds. He used his evol on his stethoscope. Rubbing the even cooler metal on your nipples. Seeing how beautifully they hardened and peaked. All while his other hand worked on pumping in and out of you. He kissed your belly softly. "I'm going to listen to your heart for any... abnormalities." His stethoscope kept rubbing on your nipples, no where near your heart.
(2) You were his plus one to a medical gala. Dressed in a backless, long sleeved black dress. His hand stayed on the soft arch of your back. It was a good night... or it was in your mind. You spoke to the male doctors a little too much, in Zayne's eyes. Smiled too politely. Which he didn't tell you he had a problem with, more like... he showed you he had a problem with it. His hand escorting you quickly to his car. Your hand going to open the passenger door but he pushed you to the backseat. Now, that's how you got into this position. Your heel was almost falling off your foot as he rammed into you. The back of his car was cramped for both of you. The car was fogged up, rocking violently, everything just a clear show of what was going on inside. His hand covering your clit. Not letting you touch yourself as he fucked you into oblivion. "You don't get to cum until I do". He was nothing but a patient man. He would last hours if it meant pulling multiple orgasms from you. "I feel you tightening up. Keep it in."
(3) You went to pick him up from the bar. He wasn't one to drink, obviously. But, this was the first time in many years he's even agreed to go with his colleagues. He was on you like a savage animal on the dining table. Setting you on the middle of it. Clawing at your clothes as he crawled towards you. His large body covering yours. His hands cradled your head as he spoke roughly in your ear. "Missed this? Huh? To think... those people were so close to you." Your words came out like pants. His hand gripped your cheeks hard. "Speak.. brat." You clawed at his arms. The pleasure was so overwhelming. "Get your hands off me. Compose yourself and respond to what I said to you. NOW". Yes, sir.
Sylus: (1) You struck his pride. So, be prepared to face those consequences. One on your tits was in his mouth as he fucked into you so slowly. He bit on the soft squishy flesh. Leaving the same bite marks he left on your other breast. You didn't know what to beg for anymore. Beg for him to stop biting so hard? Or beg him to speed up? You wrapped your arms around his neck. Your eyes saying everything you wanted to say. Usually he'd accommodate, he'd smile at you and do whatever for your pleasure. But, he just moved his teeth to your shoulder. Then, to your collarbones. By the end you were littered with bite marks and desperate because he kept edging you towards an orgasm only to deny you. Motioning for you to leave his room even though he didn't cum either. "Leave. I'm tired."
(2) You were upside down. Your vision blurring every time his length pushes into the back of your throat. His evol kept you flush against his body face as he licked soft and slow swipes of your pussy. It seemed he was getting off on this. Going so desperately slow that you felt like it was torture. Your hands were tied behind your back, clawing at the manipulated energy of his evol. He groaned into your pussy as he rubbed the tip into the back of your throat again. His hands snaking to your head to keep his length deep in your mouth, grinding until you were forced to swallow all he had to give you. Giving your neglected bud a soft lick, making you crash to the edge quickly. He knew your body so well, made it so it was one of the most unsatisfying orgasms of your life. He chuckled into your folds, "what's the groan for?" You tried to speak even if his soft cock was in your mouth, but, you were cut off by him sucking on your bud. Eating you like a man starved. You whined. The sound was a warning for what was to cum. He pulled back when you gushed on his face, a gurgled sob escaping your throat. "Again. Give me ten more. I don't care how long it takes."
(3) His room had a massive mirror. You thought it was to admire himself or something. Only to find out he bought it the day after you both were intimate the first time. Now, he was using it to his advantage. His hands cupped your face forward as he pounded you from behind. His abs rubbing against your back as he smiled at you through the mirror. You head leaned forward, nuzzling into the black satin sheets only for him to use force your gaze back towards the mirror. "Kitten, I told you not to stop looking at the mirror". It was too much. He looked like a greek god with how his sweat dampened his hair, how it trickled down his eyebrow, how it glistened his abs. "You're tightening up, doll. Do you like this?"
Caleb: (1) His sweet girl is gone in his eyes. The moment he saw you on all those dates, it seemed like you faded away. But, lucky you... he was MORE than willing to bring you back. To show you who you belonged to. He wasn't acting like Caleb. No, absolutely not. He was Colonel Caleb. He would put you through this trial run and break you down until you knew better. His mechanical hand kept vibrating on your nub as his evol pinned you to the bed. You shrieked as you felt it heating up so much to the point it was an unbearable heat. "Nuh uh pips... Five more seconds." Your eyes were welling with tears. The pleasure and the uncomfortable burn was making you see stars and come back to in seconds. "One..." he kept pressing harder on your poor abused nub. "Two." You were squealing at this point. Wanting to cum so badly but the burn was making you move your hips away. "Three." He moved. The burn replaced with an ache and disappointment of not having an orgasm.
(2) You were sitting in the co-pilot seat as Caleb flew you personally. It should be a great honor to be here. To be flown by Colonel Caleb personally like he was your butler. Until he put it into autopilot. Pulling you on to his lap. Slipping his hard length into your greedy hole. "Make me cum in ten minutes. Go on. I'm not going to help you". Your hands were placed on his toned thighs as you rode him. His mouth latched on your tit. You didn't know if he was doing everything on purpose or not. Usually at the five minute mark he was pulling the condom off to fill you up properly. But, now it was eight minutes and nothing. Not even a drop of cum. You felt the aircraft drop. Hurdling to the earth. You looked at Caleb in panic. "Two minutes... you have two minutes for me to fix this." You barley made it on time. Your heart racing as he landed safely. Your womb full of his cum.
(3) Days like this you realized how strong Caleb was. He lifted you up in a full nelson position whilst keeping your crotchless panties on. Fucking into you hard as his evol kept you up. He used the time his hands were free to grab your phone. Easily getting in and going to your contacts. One by one he was deleting every single man in your contact list. "Did you go on a date with him? Hmm?" You had to be honest. Giving him a meek nod. He growled in your ear. Slamming into you harder as he blocked the number. "Going on dates... all while soaking my cock? Didn't take you for a slut, pips... don't worry. I'll make her pay the consequences." He rubbed your bud with his mechanical fingers. He smiled at the mess. His fingers grazing the fabric of your panties. "You'll give me this pair when I'm done with you." Your liquids sprayed all over the furniture. Gasping for air as he chuckled. "You're a big girl... you'll clean your filth up later."
FINAL DAY OF CONTRACT: Winter was finishing up. The promise of spring showing with how the blossoms were scattered on the streets. You had your hands deep into your pockets. Fingers shaking slightly with anticipation as you waited for him to say something, anything. He opened his mouth to speak but just as quickly shut it closed again. You didn't know why... but, you felt you needed to start the conversation. "I... I saw the engagement ring". You saw the way his shoulders shook. As if he wanted to cry or maybe he was just riddled with stress. His hands went into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out the box. The same cut, style and stone you wanted. Something so uniquely you. A promise that, no matter what, he'd always adore you.
Rafayel (pt.2): "My beloved bride... let's go home". You didn't need further coaxing. Smiling to yourself as you placed your things back into his house. He took you to the ocean, the waves hitting the shore so melodically that it almost lulled you to sleep. He smiled as he put down the blanket for a picnic, his gaze focused on the ring on your pretty finger. He kissed your temples as he whispered praises and confessions of love. "I love your eyes... kiss... your nose... kiss... your lips..." He pulled you to his lap. "Let me show you how much I love ALL of you."
Your bodies moved together like a beautiful dance. Your breasts pressed tightly on to his chest as he rocked up into you. "I love you..." "I love you..." "A-ah... I love you". You loved when he was like this. Cheeks and ears tinted in a rosy blush. How his eyes shut closed and he nibbles at his lower lip. He held you so close to him, his fingers rubbing your nub. "Come on... feel good on me. Please". You finally let go. The ecstasy and romance making it so overwhelmingly good. Especially how your walls were painted by his warm liquid love.
Xavier (pt.2): "My light... you're all I'll ever want." You both walked around Linkon. It was an unspoken thing between you two, walking aimlessly to expend the night as much as possible. He kept making excuses to look at your ring, even if he was the one who bought it. "Oh such a pretty ring madam... who got this for you?" He teased you all night. How beautifully your prince smiled as the sun started to set. His fingers intertwined with yours. Kissing your knuckles as you both headed home.
His kisses got more and more heated. Your apartment smelt just like you. You chest pressed against the wall, your leg propped up with his hand as he thrusted into you. "Sorry... I'll make it up to you. Promise." He groaned into your ear. You could feel his balls tense as he was reaching his peak. "S-shit... you feel so good.." You both flew off the edge. He pulled out a bit to spray the rest of his cum on your folds.
Zayne (pt.2): "My love... I'll always make time for you." He took you to a small bakery he found after the breakup. His smile never falling as he held on to your hand. The smell of croissants, cupcakes, chocolate, macaroons filling your nose. Warm rich hot chocolate filling your throat. He took your hand as he got his phone out, snapping a picture of your ring alongside the cute atmosphere of the bakery. "Help me with a caption, dear?"
He pants into your neck. His dick rubbing between your folds. The slit of his tip rubbing precum on your little nub. He kissed your neck as he groaned. "Fuck... I'm not even inside you yet and you feel this good." His thrusts sped up as he drizzled his cum on your folds. Grunting before he pushes his sensitive dick into your pussy. "I got one more... cum with me baby." You didn't even need to be told twice. His whimpering mess made you closer and closer to your orgasm.
Sylus (pt.2): "Kitten... what a beautiful art piece you are". When you got home everything was set up beautifully. Luke, Kieran and even Mephisto in on it. You could see the gold paint on Mephisto's beak and Luke & Kieran's hands. The dining table had an array of food scattered throughout. Sylus led you to your seat, seeing your name etched in gold on the side of it. Giving you a permanent seat in his dining table. He kissed your finger, right on the ring he got you. "Now... I'd get to see you every afternoon for dinner."
He made love to passionately. Cradling your head as he rocked gently into you. "There you go, angel. You feel so good, pure heaven." He kissed your face lovingly. Rocking a bit faster to get deeper inside you. Your legs shook gently as they wrapped around his waist. He nuzzled his cheek into yours. "Cum with me... please angel." You nodded as your walls tightened around his length, a clear sign you were there. He whispered sweet nothings into your ear as you both came together. His cum dripping out of you.
Caleb (pt.2): "Pipsqueak... I've been waiting for so long to call you my wife." He brought you back to his home in Skyhaven. Leading you to your shared room as he got a box from the closet. Handing you a photo album he was preparing for you. "It has all our memories... and some letters I was writing." You looked at your pictures from your childhood, high school years, when you'd visit each other during college. But, you saw the letters he made you. The poems and sonnets of him even as a young boy... all saying he'd marry you one day.
Your hands laid on his chest as you rode him gently. You panted and moaned as he stared up at you with those big puppy dog eyes. "Y-yes... you know my body so well..." You saw his muscles flex and twitch, so you kissed his temple. Seeing him bite his lip so hard you could've sworn he'd bleed. "I can't... fuck.. not until you do." You came hard on his length. Seeing his head roll back as he came inside you over and over again. Seeing the warm liquid spill out and coat your thighs.
Dipper's notes: It's a long one. Thanks for reading!
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