dei-lusional @dei-lilxc - Tumblr Blog

persianmom-deactivated20251026

don’t abandon joy because it is brief. don’t commit to solitude because happiness is fleeting. it’s okay that good things do not last forever. it’s okay to simply enjoy a thing for as long as you have it.

nylarac

^ relevant art by @catcrumb that legitimately rewired my brain

skodasforge

“It’s photoshopped” honestly in the age of AI that has a homey sort of nostalgia to it. Remember when people used to put effort into faking things?

kaosuqi

photoshop fakers are like the villain with moral standards now

ohmyjulai

Modern AU

elysiumae

drag path.

⟢ pairing: qifrey x gn!reader

⟢ word count: 11.7k

⟢ tags: master x apprentice relationship, eventual exmaster!qifrey x brimmedhat!reader, ambiguous age gap, reader's age is undefined, qifrey x olruggio being gay for each other, qifrey having inappropriate thoughts towards his apprentice, lowkey codependency, reader is kinda manipulative if you squint, spoilers for manga

"The selfishness behind my reason for taking on pupils made me ill. But they'd never have to know that. So I decided that I would put every fiber of my being towards becoming a good educator. Only now do I realise just how foolish that, too, was." Qifrey takes on an apprentice to keep the silverwood at bay. It works, until it doesn't.

⟢ chapters: one | two | three | four

III. AND THE HOUND

Among the handful of villages scattered across the Downs, Azmar is the liveliest by far. But on the eve of the autumn equinox when the harvest festival begins, the place swells with life in earnest—villagers gathering to celebrate the fields' bounty before the colder months set in, filling the square with music, dancing and enough food to feed the village twice over. As usual, you and Qifrey have been invited—though the invitation seems especially enthusiastic this year, after he'd retrofitted the village's water wheel with a levitating spell that'd doubled its milling speed.

The atelier's windows are dark at your backs as you head out together. The lowland winds are strong tonight, so Qifrey decides against sylph shoes; the journey on foot is pleasant enough, with Olruggio chatting easily about some recent commission while you walk quietly at Qifrey's other side.

You never did quite warm up to Olruggio despite Qifrey's early hopes, though perhaps expecting otherwise had been unfair of him. But you seem to have grown accustomed to him at least, your initial wariness sandpapered and buffed down to something almost resembling tolerance. Sometimes, you even answer his questions without Qifrey's prompting, though you continue stubbornly referring to him as Mr. Olruggio despite how loudly he complains about it.

Despite the years, Qifrey finds that Olruggio has slipped back into his life with startling ease. There are evenings where Olly appears in the atelier's kitchen uninvited, sometimes to discuss spellwork or steal food from the stove while Qifrey swats at him half-heartedly with a spoon. His work as an artificer takes him far from the Downs at times, to distant towns and villages scattered across the peninsula, but he always circles back eventually—much to your resignation and Qifrey's amusement.

The three of you arrive to find the festival already in full swing. Lanternlight spills across the village square in warm swathes of gold and amber as music drifts through the crisp evening air—lute and drums and the uneven rhythm of clapping hands—mingling with laughter and the crackle of open bonfires. Qifrey locates the village chief almost immediately, one hand on your shoulder as he guides you through between the long tables laden with roasted meat skewers and honey cakes. Out of the corner of his vision, he catches Olruggio eyeing the steaming decanters of mulled wine with great interest. Typical Olly.

You make your greetings to the village chief while Qifrey introduces Olruggio. The chief's face brightens almost immediately upon hearing about his affinity for fire magic.

"Ahh! You will be a very popular man once winter comes around," he guffaws warmly, clasping Olruggio's forearm with both hands. To Olruggio's credit, he accepts the praise with only minimal fumbling.

Once the greetings and pleasantries are finally over, the three of you drift back towards the noise and chatter of the festival—or rather, you and Qifrey do. Olruggio makes a beeline straight for the mulled wine.

"This smells heavenly," Olruggio exclaims when the two of you catch up with him. He's already hunched over a table, sniffing appreciatively as spiced steam wafts thick through cold autumn air. Qifrey's just about to remind him about the dangers of drinking on an empty stomach when Olruggio knocks back a generous mouthful, right before coughing out a wheezy sputter. "Woah. That's some strong stuff."

Qifrey snorts softly. He normally prefers to indulge only in private, but tonight's atmosphere is lively enough to ease his usual inhibitions. "I'll have a cup."

Olruggio grins, already reaching for the decanter again. "Tonight, we drink till we drop," he promises.

"Who's going to get us home, then?"

thelthering

Shopkeeper

You dream of two foxes running along a riverbank, their tails entangled and merging. They snap and yip at each other, and their eyes never leave one another. They dance- their bodies meet and never leave, fur to fur, until their legs become one, their ears listen together, their eyes gleam in the same broad light. From the water emerges a rising sun. The river overflows and only one fox is left to run.

(You have never been good in goodbyes.)

Notes: some pretty depressing stuff (PC going through it). Character death, sickness… just overall lots of angst. Please keep that in mind.

..—•••—..

You never expected it to end like this.

Gwylan lies in front of you, face clammy and pale, bound to bed by as many blankets as you could find. One of his hands is in yours, cold, fingers tangled together. You lift the wet sack from his forehead. Your other slips under. It’s no less warm.

Your lips purse into a tight line.

He had been improving. You thought so. You thought that this sickness was beginning to fade, slowly, but that it was fading. Even the shop had been brightening up, the past few days. You had hoped he’d have enough energy to walk out into the garden today, so you could sit with him and let him smell the roses- breathe actual fresh air. Tell him you weren’t going anywhere. “You know you can rely on me,” you’d say, as you’ve said so many times before, sometimes bemused, sometimes angry and sometimes afraid. “I’m not leaving you, Gwylan.”

But you are leaving me.

You hope he cannot feel much anymore. You don’t want him to suffer any more of this. You don’t want him to feel the tremble in your hands, as you trace his features. You don’t want him to hear as you try to restrain your sobs.

He’s leaving. He said he would, didn’t he? A part of you had known this would happen. So why does it hurt so much? Your whole life has been a consistent cycle of preparing to lose those you love. It is not the first time you’ve seen someone on the brink of death. It will not the first time you mourn someone gone.

You should be used to this. You need to be. You don’t want him to go thinking he's leaving you behind.

You dip the sack back into the bucket, squeeze and return it over his head, before crawling in bed beside him. Your hand wraps around his shoulders and you push your face into the crook of his neck. You try to memorise his scent. You think you feel his hand brush over your hair, playing with loose strands. You doubt he realises. You doubt he can tell you apart from the beddings or the plush pillows. Your doubt tastes like ashes, smoke and burial rites.

“You promised me,” you whisper, as you look up at him. Anger bubbles over. You dig your nails into his shoulder blades. His eyes stare somewhere far ahead, near vacant. You choke back a sob. “Gwylan.”

They briefly scrunch up and focus on you. Still green. Still the same. A shadow of a smile nears the corners of his mouth, as recognition spark in his irises. He tries to open his mouth to speak, but only manages to cough. You lift yourself and help him onto his back, leaning over until it subsides.

He watches you. He must know what’s coming. There’s no fear in his eyes. Only- only sadness. He reaches and you return to his embrace. His warmth should be enough to suffocate. You don’t care. In the back of your head, a familiar voice whispers, I’m sorry.

Your hands hold him tightly. You can’t let go. Not yet. Not ever. You were supposed to have an eternity together. He is yours. His life is not anyone’s to own, but yours. You swore yourself to him. You both promised to stay. To stay, forever.

His breathing is shallow. You wish you could crawl between his ribs and help him breathe.

You try not to sleep. Try to savour every last moment you have with him. You commit every feature, every freckle to memory. Your eyes tire and you have no tears left to cry. You never feel his heart stop. You never know which breath is the last he takes.

When you wake, Gwylan is gone.

You don’t bury him in the garden. You can’t bring yourself to. He’s a seagull, after all. And the land has never been home.

In the end, all returns to the tide. It’s something he told you in a dream, long ago. The pirates are generous enough to bring you, far and further into the sea, until no land is in sight.

You manage to evade most of their groping and fondling for the part. The trip is not so long and you spend all your free time holding onto him in your little cabin.

Uncharacteristically, their captain stays quiet of quips throughout the journey- only watches blankly, as your little boat is lowered into the water, and you row. You catch his gaze again, leaning over the railing. He looks almost remorseful, or wistful. You shift your eyes ahead and don’t look back.

You row until you can barely make out the pirate ship. There’s nothing around you, but sea. You sit a long time there, holding onto his translucent corpse. His empty eyes stare into the depths of the sea. Fishes of all kind swim by, some more curious than others. The sea is cold and dark, but familiar. You know it is home you’re returning him to. It does nothing to ease your pain. For one last time, you sing Seabird's Lullaby to him, just as a storm approaches. Your voice caries along the waves- not half as beautifully as his,

It's pouring, by the time you're finished. You don't feel the chill, though. The world feels all too distant. And you’re not ready to say goodbye. You know you should be. All this journeying had been to prepare yourself for it. And still…

Your hands gently glide into his hair and you cut out a strand of his mousy hair. You tie it around your wrist in a braid, and instinctively touch the golden heart on your familiar collar. But nothing happens. Not even a the slightest tingling.

The boy you love is gone and you'll never have him again. Something cold has settles on the very front of your chest- like a child’s hand, trying to reassure that all will be alright, that no dangers lurk in the shadows. You lift his face and kiss his dead lips, one last time. Nobody hears your goodbye.

"I love you," you whisper and let go.

You don’t cry after he’s gone. The sea has made your tears the rain, salted with a never ending parting. You taste it on the storm, on your way back home, on every regret you will carry for the rest of your life.

You don't remember disembarking the ship, or crossing town, or making it through the forest. You remember only stepping inside the shop, shutting the door behind you and collapsing inside the garden. You lay flat on the tiles, staring straight ahead without any purpose. Grey clouds float high in the sky, just shy of another rain storm. They almost look like foxes, traipsing over hills. But not even you believe in such coincidences.

You know what is coming next, however. This forest is no less corrupted without Gwylan. And your promise of forever wasn’t tied selectively to him. Your fingers brush over your stomach.

The seal is still there, after all. You’re no less tied down than your fox ever was.

You fall asleep for a couple hours, curled up in a tight ball. Your sleep is dreamless and you wake up with the sun halfway down, along a group of tall naked mannequins surrounding you. They're all faceless, but you feel the pity emanating off of them all the same. They've bundled you up in a soft green cloak. It takes you a moment to recognise it- but Gwylan's smell is indistinguishable.

You bury your face in it, and sit there, until the moon rises. You don't have any desire to go back inside, but the night air grows stale and cold, and you're in no position to be sick. You'll be quite busy from now on. The shop still needs a shopkeeper.

You stand alone before the counter. The shop is silent. "I'm home," you say to nobody.

meltedcoco

Contour Lines

⟣ pairing. professor!qifrey x professor!reader

⟣ 3.6k words. modern magic!au, unestablished relationship, slightly suggestive kiss, likely ooc. Second-person omniscient POV. Not beta read.

⟣ note. my beloved friend @elysiumae is the progenitor of a modern magic school idea but was incredibly busy writing a masterpiece so I wanted to dedicate something just for her as a reward and also a gift for being such a sweet friend to me! to maemae, i tried my best to write in the style you said you enjoy and i hope you like it because this is technically a [redacted] gift <3

Qifrey is a diligent man.

He rises when the sun does—slowly as he cracks one eye open with a small groan matched by his mattress, attempting to hide the blanket of light through an arm thrown haphazardly over his face. Despite his protest, he will study runes into the evening hour after dedicating an even larger portion of his day to nurturing budding talents in mystical arts. He is far from the age of his students, now, with little ink spilled and the skin of his dominant hand long since hardened by stiff calluses.

This, too, is an indication of his assiduity. In his youth, Qifrey's professor had lectured him on the importance of the appendage, his own floating around in flourishing waves and fanatical movements regardless of Qifrey’s aloof demeanor. There is an undeniable care to be taken considering magic’s actualization within individually drawn mosaics of sigils, keystones, and rings. And, ironically so, Qifrey specializes in spells cast with water—the elemental sigil fixed at the glyph’s centre as there is no better way to avoid that of which you detest than learning of it so astutely that you may never touch it again.

However, there is something to be said about the purpose of knowing once it lies in want.

elysiumae

drag path.

⟢ pairing: qifrey x gn!reader

⟢ word count: 10k

⟢ tags: master x apprentice relationship, eventual exmaster!qifrey x brimmedhat!reader, ambiguous age gap, reader's age is undefined, mentions of attempt at child murder, trauma dumping and subsequent trauma bonding, qifrey x olruggio being gay for each other, lowkey codependency, reader is kinda manipulative if you squint, spoilers for manga (please let me know if there are any more tags i should add!!)

⟢ chapters: one | two | three

The night is too quiet, and sleep does not come easily.

Qifrey lies awake for longer than he cares to measure, and despite his repeated attempts rest continues to elude him. It hovers at the edges of his consciousness, just out of reach—leaving him suspended in that uncomfortable interstice between fatigue and wakefulness. Each time he turns, the sheets twist around his legs, and when he shifts, his pillow creases uncomfortably against his cheek. And worse is the silence—it lingers, persistent, pressing in from all sides like the bottom of a cold, dark well.

Qifrey only manages to endure it for a few moments longer before he concedes defeat. He pushes himself upright in the dark, the thin blanket slipping down to his thighs, and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

The staircase creaks softly as Qifrey makes his way upstairs. There is no need for a lamp—he knows the path well enough to walk it blind. Each step carries him further down the corridor, the way unfolding beneath his feet in the dark, until he reaches his destination.

The door's been left open a crack. Qifrey eases it wider, careful not to make a sound. Faint light spills through the gap in the window—distant starlight and the thin glow of a half-veiled moon—barely enough to make out the dark shape beneath the blankets. You're curled on your side with your cheek pressed into the pillow, hands tucked loosely to your chest. Fast asleep.

Good. That's good.

swpdz000

This was supposed to be some small response doodles for the tags in this post but my brain acted up and made a comic instead... I apologize if my wording is weird,,, I didn't proofread it TT

Please enjoy the comic aa

swpdz000

This was supposed to be some small response doodles for the tags in this post but my brain acted up and made a comic instead... I apologize if my wording is weird,,, I didn't proofread it TT

Please enjoy the comic aa

elysiumae

suspension of disbelief.

⟢ pairing: qifrey x afab!reader

⟢ word count: 9k

⟢ tags: master x apprentice relationship, exmaster!qifrey x brimmedhat!reader, allusions to vague qifrey x olruggio, afab!reader but reader gets a magic cock, no real mention of gender or reader's body otherwise, bottom!qifrey, top!reader, ooc maybe, spin off from the drag path series, unedited, SMUT (MDNI)

Late at night, Qifrey finds himself missing his old apprentice more than he should. But during the witching hour, the devil themselves appears at his door (or window).

⟢ a/n: title is called suspension of disbelief because reader and qifrey have somewhat somewhat positive sex without turning into trees 😔✌🏻

The atelier settles into a particular kind of quiet during the deepest hours of the night, long after the hearth has burned low and the murmuring voices upstairs finally fade into slumber. It's taken more time than usual tonight; his apprentices had remained awake long after Qifrey sent them to bed, debating the theory of mixed spells with an enthusiasm they only occasionally remembered to hush. He wonders whether they're unaware—of how easily every word and sound drifts through the atelier's walls and wooden floors, down to where he sits in the kitchen below.

But now, even that has given way to soft snores and the steady silence of sleep. Qifrey sits alone at the table, a cup of chamomile tea cradled loosely between his hands. Lately, he's found himself like this more often than he cares to admit—suspended in these stretches of drawn-out silence, doing little more than sitting and watching. Letting his thoughts circle endlessly, like kettling birds, before they wander back again and again, to the memories Coco's arrival have stirred loose from his mind.

On the upper floor, just down the hallway and around the corner, sits a locked room above his own. Left untouched, as though still waiting for its owner to return. Perhaps he's not so different himself, Qifrey thinks.

He's about to finish off his tea and extinguish the fire when the kitchen window creaks. Qifrey glances up.

There's a witch sitting on his windowsill. One leg swung carelessly over the ledge, brimmed hat tilted at an angle that casts half of their face into shadow. Moonlight catches on everything else—the slope of their shoulders, the fine silver threads woven through their cloak like drifting smoke, the faint gleam of their smile through the gloam.

Or rather, your smile.

"Hello, Master," you greet.

elysiumae

drag path.

⟢ pairing: qifrey x gn!reader

⟢ word count: 9.6k

⟢ tags: master x apprentice relationship, eventual exmaster!qifrey x brimmedhat!reader, ambiguous age gap, reader's age is undefined, mentions of self-harm (reader), allusions to vague qifrey x olruggio, lowkey codependency, reader has subtle yandere-ish tendencies if you squint, spoilers for manga (please let me know if there are any more tags i should add this is my first time writing content like *gestures*)

⟢ chapters: one | two

drag path (n): a visible, often continuous trail, mark or disturbance left behind on a surface by an object or person being dragged

Qifrey had told himself it was fine.

The memory-erasure spell Olruggio concocted had worked beautifully, despite the circumstances. His friend's eyes had gone blank for only a moment, and in the next, they'd been taken ahold of by a deep sleep. The sort of sleep that was gentle and kind, even as the silverwood's pale branches writhed and recoiled in remonstration. And when Olruggio awoke, the sun was setting over the lake, and there was no evidence of what had transpired; only the familiar tilt of Qifrey's hat, a dark ribbon rippling in the wind, and the frayed ends of his tassel brushing Olruggio's shoulder.

That had been three years ago.

Now, Qifrey stands at the window of an unfamiliar room in a newly built house that will one day be his atelier, somewhere out in the Naakiwan Downs, east-northeast of the Kahln. The land stretches endlessly before him—open plains rolling into each another until they dissolve into the distant horizon, vast swathes of pale grasses beneath a blue sky that seems to go on forever. It rarely rains out here, on the Zozah Peninsula. An atelier, of his own, under the open sky.

One part of his promise, kept.

But he's not foolish enough to hope that his distance from the Great Hall—from Olruggio—will not cause him problems. Traveling alone had done nothing but proven that even that minute solace was enough for the silverwood to take root once more. And Qifrey would rather die than let his dearest friend's sacrifices have been made in vain.

He needs to stay on the edge. Unsettled. Uneasy. The moment he stops feeling as though the world is pressing in on him, so will the silverwood.

Beldaruit used to hover. For some reason, Qifrey remembers that with uncomfortable clarity. The sage's pale smoke-grey eyes would track him wherever he moved through the magic workshops of the Great Hall—never overt or intrusive, yet always there. And greater than his control over conjuring magic was his talent to conjure nonsensical excuses, ones that he would use to check on the condition of Qifrey's health and mind.

You work too hard, Beldaruit would say in that airy, almost absentminded tone—so lighthearted it could almost be mistaken as jest. And Qifrey would roll his eyes, dismiss his concerns, and Beldaruit would worry anyway.

Perhaps that's what he needs. Someone to worry about. Someone whose concerns and matters would keep him tethered to the present, too busy to fall into the quiet where the tree could spread its roots.

An apprentice, then.

importantpics

elysiumae

easy.

pairing: kamisato ayato x reader

word count: 5.5k

synopsis: the yashiro commissioner is a difficult man, yes, but kamisato ayato is so very easy to love.

a/n: prequel can be found here!

It is no secret that Kamisato Ayato is a difficult man.

You’re quite sure that most of the common folk would agree with your assessment, despite never having met the Kamisato clan head face to face before. As the head of one of the most eminent and illustrious clans in Inazuma, surely the Yashiro Commissioner must be a man of high standards and demands, they sympathise with you, shaking their heads in pity. The Yashiro Commission’s festivals and events are all meticulously planned with consideration for the people, but I heard that he only has one personal assistant. Surely he must work you to the bone!

Contrary to what they think, however, Kamisato Ayato is difficult for a completely different reason in your eyes.

It’s only a few weeks from the Irodori Festival, the very first celebration of cultural exchange that Inazuma will be able to enjoy ever since the Raiden Shogun closed the country’s borders years ago. Because of this, the anticipation among the citizens have only been growing ever since it was announced, with many townsfolk passing by eagerly asking after details with bright, excited smiles.

In stark contrast, however, the inside of the Yashiro Commission resembles a swarm of ants on a hot stove, messengers and officials rushing frantically to and fro as you make preparations for the event. And the preparations seem to be only increasing the closer you draw to the date, with your master being called to Tenshukaku more and more frequently for discussions. There is still much work to be done, however, which explains why you’ve been holed up alone in your master’s study for most part of the day with a sore back from hunching over papers and an inkwell that’s fast running out.

Just as you’re about to reluctantly start on a fresh batch of paperwork, you’re interrupted by the door to your master’s office sliding open. Thoma stands in the doorway, just as he has several times over the last few weeks, wearing a guilty grin on his face. While the sight of him used to be a welcome break from work (you are a seasoned taste tester for the fusion desserts he enjoys experimenting with), now you only let out a long, vexed groan and promptly knock your forehead against the expensive Yumemiru table.

“My apologies…” Thoma begins sheepishly, but you don’t seem to be listening.

“He’s got to be doing this deliberately,” you declare in frustration, setting down the pen so that you can massage your temples. “You’re telling me that milord forgot his umbrella again?”

Keep reading

meltedcoco

You're more responsible than this. Disciplined. Focused. Yet you make one mistake in entertaining Cyrene and meet someone you'll eventually develop feelings for in the second semester of sophomore year.

❥ synopsis. What it's like to date someone who is ignorant of how you feel about them for four years. Or, the three times you try to confess to Phainon and the one time you succeed (by accident).

❥ tags. uni!au, modern Amphoreus, strangers (kinda) to lovers, idiots in love (keyword: idiots), slow burn, getting together, fake dating & 3+1 (later), gender-neutral reader. Not beta read.

❥ wc. 21k

❥ note. This chapter covers strangers → crush. All texting styles + the slow reveal of Reader's background are deliberate. Text identification are as follows: Phainon (𖤓), Cyrene (♡), Castorice (✿); names change but emojis are consistent. Reader’s chimera is named Chocolate Pudding.

chapter list.

PRELUDE.

It's undeniable at this point—you're going to fail this class.

Despite being the Month of Balance, you surely lack any of the discipline you are expected to employ. To others, this doesn't seem so strange as no one anticipates such a thing from someone like you, especially when you've already gone weeks without shattering your resolve. That is, undeniably, something you are proud of, and that itself is contradictory as you are not a proud person. And all you simply mean is this: no one has noticed.

meltedcoco

PHAINON143—masterlist

“You don’t fall in love like you fall in a hole. You fall like falling through space. [...] And the falling was really the big jump that you had to make to be with someone you don't want to be without. That's it. PS You have to be brave.” Jeanette Winterson in Big Questions from Little People: And Simple Answers by Great Minds by Gemma Elwin Harris.

❥ synopsis. What it's like to date someone who is ignorant of how you feel about them for four years. Or, the three times you try to confess to Phainon and the one time you succeed (by accident).

❥ pairing. phainon x gn!reader

❥ tags. uni!au, modern Amphoreus, fake dating, strangers (kinda) to lovers, slow burn, idiots in love (keyword: idiots), getting together, 3+1 format (ignore the prelude).

❥ note. Dedicated to my beloved Ais (@sunphais) who was my first follower and supporter on the fic that started this blog; thank you for being my friend!

PRELUDE.

STEP 1. He confesses to you first.

Although it sounds like a cliché romcom or a fanfiction Castorice would share with you, you can't seem to listen to anything but your heart. So, you say yes, and Phainon becomes your boyfriend in a way you didn't quite imagine. ⤷ The spring of sophomore year.

STEP 2. Get stuck in the pouring rain.

You have no reason to entertain this for any longer; Phainon is popular and you're sure he can manage this all on his own. Still, it's difficult to want for anything else, especially when you have nowhere to go during terrible weather that feels a little less like chance and more like it was meant to be. ⤷ The summer of junior year.

STEP 3. Ask him out on a date.

If you do this, he has to realize that your affections were never make-believe. But your mind is already running a mile minute, muddied and disorganized. Whether it's the pressure from your last year of university or the fact that you've been lying to not only Aglaea but Phainon for three years straight, you're only certain of one thing: you're scared to lose him. ⤷ The fall of senior year.

STEP 4. Wait for the clock to strike midnight.

Cyrene has always believed in fate, and maybe all your failed attempts is exactly that: no matter what you do, there's no alternate universe where a real relationship would have worked out. On the cusp of the new year, you decide on a fresh start. We all have to move on at some point, right? ⤷ The winter that follows graduation.

elysiumae

nerolis/nectarines.

⟢ pairing: phainon x f!reader

⟢ word count: 14.2k

⟢ tags: abo dynamics, omegaverse, beta!reader, omega!phainon, mention of discrimination against betas, secondary gender stereotypes/roles, eventual smut (mdni), more fleshed out reader, much much unnecessary yapping about amphorean history

Back in your home village, betas were often regarded as unmateable—half-formed things left out of Cerces and Mnestia's blessings of perfect union. They could not carry on family lineage like alphas, nor were they fertile enough to command a bride price the way omegas did. They could not scent, could not bond, and were therefore regarded as socially worthless. You'd quickly learned not to expect—or desire—otherwise. Or, on the journey to Loukas, an encounter with Phagousa's Soul-Purifying Spring causes everything to go sideways for you and Phainon—the most desirable alpha in the Eternal Holy City.

⟢ chapters: one | two

The road to Loukas exists less often than not.

Progress has been slow-going the past half a week, and it doesn't seem as though today is going to be any different. The sun's already nearing its zenith in the sky and you have yet to make any headway. Not for a lack of effort—the ground before you simply refuses to match the lines on your maps—but the outcome remains the same, regardless. Perhaps you were too generous in calling the loose stone crumbling beneath your feet a 'road' at all.

This relentless heat isn't helping your mood, either.

You finally give up poring over your maps, wincing at the stiffness in your neck as you look up. To your right, the cliffs rise upwards in jagged lines before falling away sharply, giving way to the Aegean sea beyond. Sunlight splinters over its waves like mirror shards scattered across phthalo blue.

Were this any other time, the sight might have captivated you. Instead, you turn your gaze inland, a hand raised against the sun's glare to scan the rocky slope.

It hadn't been your intention to split up earlier, but your companion had noticed your breaths flagging during the uphill climb and insisted you rest—here, beneath the shade of this fig tree—while he went ahead in search of your landmarks. A rocky outcrop in the shape of a clenched fist, the annotations stubbornly insist, in minute script crammed between the weaving ink lines of the coast. With how old these records are, you'll be surprised if he finds it still standing, if he finds it at all.

But Fortune favours the fair—and so, he does.

elysiumae

nerolis and nectarines.

⟢ pairing: phainon x f!reader

⟢ word count: 14.2k

⟢ chapters: one | two

The road to Loukas exists less often than not.

This relentless heat isn't helping your mood, either.

Were this any other time, the sight might have captivated you. Instead, you turn your gaze inland, a hand raised against the sun's glare to scan the rocky slope.

But Fortune favours the fair—and so, he does.

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