Pairing‧˚｡ﾟ･° ｡✎ Yandere!Belarus (Natalia) x reader, Yandere!Ukraine (Irunya) x reader
Word count‧˚｡ﾟ･° ｡✎ 1,379
Summery‧˚｡ﾟ･° ｡✎ These are just some quick pov’s I wrote for these two hetalia girls because they really don’t get enough love.
Misc‧˚｡ﾟ･° ｡✎ Kidnapping, forced marriage, you’re tied down for both of these so you can’t escape, you (the reader) had no idea about the two girls yandere tendencies before waking up kidnapped, I used their human names only.
Belarus:
“I don’t understand.” Were the only words I could think to say. None of this made sense. Every time I started to wrap my head around what was going on something else was thrown at me.
“What are you unable to understand? I thought I was making myself quite clear.” Natalia stared down at me. Never moving her eyes away from mine. When I first met her the pressure of her eyes were unnerving, but after a while I grew to find the calming. She was my friend. It was difficult to find someone you cared about scary.
anaxagoras is a light sleeper, and for the several years of your marriage, he has pretended he isn't.
he pretends he isn't awake when you murmur about how pretty he is while he sleeps, caressing his cheek and trailing kisses along his jaw.
he plays the greatest act as a dead man when your cold fingertips trace shapes underneath his shirt, yearning to feel his pulse just by his collarbone.
you let out your briliant soliliquies freely, thinking they will be left unsaid and quiet. gentle words of admirations and love that you think he won't hear.. but he does. anaxagoras pretends to feel guilty but it's endearing, how you're so shy to the man you've married, and only so bold when he's 'unconcious'.
and tonight is another one of those routines, you think you're being so sly—flirting with him as he rests, brushing your lips against his skin.
but then he chuckles, your breath tingling his skin.
his laughter gets louder when you freeze. "what? i'm not allowed to be awake while you pleasure me?"
Anaxa Layout !!
For @nyx1a-rose 's 100 followers event , F2U with credits please ! Reblogs appreciated !! @ me if using ^^ PSD
Prompt for day 6 : Remake an old edit OR make an edit based off a song!
Here is the old layout if you wish to view ! I really can 't believe i was THAT confident enough to post it ... yet here i am ... but lwk he 's still is my fav honkai character , aventurine being a really close second !!
Your Chrysos Heir s/o turning you into a writer after you leave Amphoreus. It’s hard at first and you never can truly express the memories you spent with them and the emotions they make you feel, but you can’t let the world go without a record of them. At the very least you don’t want to let yourself be able to fully forget the time you spent with them.
So you work tirelessly, perfecting your words. You don’t just write about them being a hero of Amphoreus but also their quirks and habits. About them introducing you to Amphoreus, telling you about their interests, evoking laughs from your throat. Every single memory you can recall, you pen to paper. You’re determined to let every ounce of love you hold for them overflow into the page.
The other Express members become your proofreaders. All of them take turns looking over your drafts for you. Even when they make suggestions, you can see the smile that crosses their faces upon reading your words at seeing how much effort and emotion you’ve put into them.
Even when it’s finished and you hold a completed book encasing your time together, you continue writing. Because there are many more things you love in this life, and you finally have a way to express that love. And when you sit reading over the words you’ve written, you pretend you’re reading them to your beloved Chrysos Heir; telling them about all the adventures you’re going on and all the things you love about the world they never got to see.
omgomg I was just thinking about anaxa as one does and what I would do to piss him off (dont judge me im into it) and I was like.... he would probably be so annoyed with those relationship questions like would you love me if I was a worm. I feel like it would be hilarious to ask him that or anything similar (most probably various in succession of each other!)
i feel like im requesting so much but the anaxa brainworms have really come for me 😭🙏 author ur amazing ily and im glad youre better from being sick!!!
Hypothetically Speaking (Anaxa x Reader)
A/N: Hi again. :) This was such a fun concept. I genuinely giggled the whole time writing it. It also did me so much good, so thank you for sending this in. :) I went for a humorous, lighthearted tone, but the emotional depth is still very much there. This was supposed to be a tiny drabble (just the worm question… truly), and then I thought: absolutely not, I’m making this long, ridiculous, and letting Anaxa be both frustrated and indulgent…in other words, fully himself. :)
Side note: Please don’t apologize for sending your brainworms. My Anaxa mailbox is always open. I’ll also get back to your other idea soon. :)
I hope you enjoy it. 💙
Tags: Fluff. Humor. Reader Is a Menace. Hypothetical Questions (The Worm Question). Playful Banter. Anaxa Losing His Composure. “I’m So Done” Energy. Softness. Kissing. He Is Fed Up But SO In Love. Established Relationship.
Word count: 2158
___
Anaxa is deep in his research notes when you strike. The lab is quiet except for the scratch of his pen and the occasional rustle of parchment. Sunlight filters through the window, catching on his seafoam hair as he hunches over his desk with that intense focus you’ve come to both admire and find utterly irresistible to disrupt.
You approach slowly, carefully, like you’re sneaking up on a particularly skittish cat.
Then you lean against his desk and ask, perfectly innocently, “Would you still love me if I were a worm?”
His pen stops mid-stroke.
The silence stretches.
Very slowly—painfully, deliberately slowly—he lifts his gaze from the page. His eye finds yours with the exasperated patience of a man who knows he’s about to regret engaging but can’t help himself.
“…Beloved,” he says, in the carefully controlled tone of someone already regretting their life choices, “what am I supposed to do with that question?”
You tilt your head, the picture of innocence. “Answer it.”
He stares at you.
Then at the ceiling, as if seeking divine intervention.
Then back at you.
A muscle in his jaw ticks.
“You,” Anaxa says at last, through barely parted teeth, “would not become a worm. The biological impossibility alone…”
“But if I did…”
“No.”
The word comes out flat, final, accompanied by him turning pointedly back to his notes.
You’re undeterred. You scoot closer, leaning further onto his desk until you’re definitely in his peripheral vision. “So you wouldn’t love me?”
His pen makes a harsh scratch across the page. Not intentional, just a sign of his rapidly fraying composure. He inhales sharply through his nose, and you recognize it immediately: classic Anaxa about to lose his carefully maintained calm.
“I would,” he says with forced precision, each word measured and tight, “ensure your safety in such an… improbable scenario. And then immediately dedicate all available resources to reversing the condition through alchemical or metaphysical means.”
You gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. “So you WOULD love me as a worm!”
His jaw clenches visibly. “That is not…!” He stops, clearly catching himself before he raises his voice. “That is not what I said.”
You grin, leaning even closer. “Totally what you said, though.”
He makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, pressing his fingers to his temple.
Ten minutes pass.
You’ve been quiet, seemingly absorbed in a book on the opposite chair. Anaxa has returned to his notes with visible relief, his shoulders gradually relaxing.
Foolish man, thinking you’re done.
“Anaxagoras?”
His pen slows but doesn’t stop. “…Yes?”
“Would you still love me if I lost all my memories?”
The pen stops.
He closes his eye—actually closes it, like he’s summoning every ounce of patience the universe has ever granted him. “Yes. I would work tirelessly to restore them through every method available to me.”
“What if I was evil?”
“…Hypothetically speaking?” His voice is strained.
“Yes.”
He sets the pen down very carefully, like it might shatter if he’s not gentle. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Then I would correct your assumption that embracing malevolence is remotely desirable.” His voice takes on that lecturing quality, the one that means he’s retreating into intellectual analysis to avoid emotional vulnerability. “I would demonstrate that operating in moral gray zones, thinking independently, and breaking societal expectations when they prove illogical—these things do not equate to evil. They make you…”
He pauses. His cheeks turn slightly pink.
“…Worthy,” he finishes quietly, averting his gaze.
You notice, of course. You always notice. But you decide to keep the mood light, storing that little vulnerability away like a treasure.
“So you’d fix my evil arc?” you ask, grinning.
“With ruthless efficiency,” he mutters, picking up his pen again with perhaps more force than necessary.
“…That’s so romantic.”
He groans into his hands.
Five minutes of peace.
Then you ask, “What if you were the worm?”
Anaxa stops breathing.
“…Beloved,” he says, voice empty, “I refuse to participate in this scenario.”
“But you’d be such a cute worm.”
His eye twitches.
He stands. Leaves. Returns with tea. For himself, not you.
“So that’s a no?”
He sips his tea very aggressively. “This conversation is over.”
Later, when you’re curled up beside him, you murmur softly:
“Would you still love me if I couldn’t ask questions anymore?”
That earns you a true pause.
He looks at you. Really looks. The fondness cracks through all the annoyance.
“Beloved,” he says, touching your cheek with a thumb, “you ask questions because you are you. Because you are curious. Alive. Irritating, yes, but in a way that…” He swallows. “In a way I would miss more than I can adequately articulate.”
Your smile turns soft. “So… yes?”
He exhales, defeated. “Yes. Always yes.”
You kiss him. He pretends not to melt.
Hours later, while he’s asleep, you peek over at the open notebook on his desk. There, beneath diagrams and alchemical notes, written small in the margin:
If Beloved were a worm: safeguard until recovery.”
It’s been crossed out. Three times.
Another note says:
“Beloved fears hypothetical loss of memory. Must analyze. (Also very cute.)”
You should have stopped after the worm question.
You really should’ve.
But Anaxa sighing and massaging his temples was… well, delightful. And irresistible.
So naturally, you continue.
You try a different angle this time. Entirely ridiculous, entirely curious. “Okay, but what if I turned into a talking sword?”
Anaxa stares at you like you’ve personally offended philosophy itself.
“…Why would you be a sword?”
“It’s hypothetical!”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“But would you love me?”
He sets his pen down very slowly. “Yes,” he says flatly, “I would keep you with me. Wield you. Are you happy now?”
Your grin is instant. “Oh, you’d savor me?”
He freezes.
His ears turn slightly pink. “…That is not what I…”
“Oh? Not even a little?”
The pink deepens. “Stop.”
You don’t stop.
The next day, you flop dramatically onto the bed.
“Would you still love me if I lost all my fighting ability?”
He doesn’t even look up this time.
“Yes.”
“If I forgot you?”
His jaw clenches. The pen halts.
“…I would make you fall in love with me again.”
You smile softly. “Really?”
He shoots you a withering look. “I refuse to repeat myself.“
You continue with your questions. Watching him relax back into his work after each question, then disrupting him again. It’s become a game, and you’re winning by the increasingly spectacular ways his composure cracks.
But this one’s different. You‘ve been building up to this one.
You don’t quite know why you ask it. Maybe because you want to hear him defend you, maybe because sometimes that small voice in your head whispers doubts you don’t want to acknowledge.
“Anaxagoras?”
He doesn’t look up this time, but his response is almost fond. “What now?”
“Would you still love me if I was… incredibly stupid?”
The flask in his hand slips.
It hits the desk with a sharp clatter, rolling across the surface before he catches it. But he’s not looking at the flask.
He’s looking at you.
Slowly. Like he can’t quite believe what he just heard.
“I have,” he says, voice very quiet, “tolerated questions about worms.”
He stands, the chair scraping against the floor.
“I have entertained scenarios involving amnesia and weaponized transformations.”
He moves toward you with deliberate steps.
“But this…”
He gestures at you with both hands, and there’s something almost helpless in the motion, like the sheer concept of your question has overwhelmed his ability to articulate.
“You are not stupid.”
You blink, suddenly uncertain. “But it’s hypothetical…”
“No.” The word cuts through the air. “Absolutely not.”
He’s in front of you now, and before you can process it, his hands cup your face. Gentle but unyielding, forcing you to meet his eye.
“You will not,” he says, voice low and fierce, “degrade yourself in my presence. Not even as a hypothetical exercise.”
You stare at him, breath catching.
His thumb strokes your cheek, and his expression…
He looks wounded. Actually wounded, like your careless question cut deeper than any of the teasing ones before it.
“…Anaxagoras?”
He swallows hard, and you feel it in the tension of his hands, still cradling your face.
“Do not ask me,” he says, voice roughening with emotion he’s barely containing, “if you would become unworthy. Not even theoretically.”
Your heart clenches.
“You are…” He stops, struggling with words in a way that’s rare for him. His eye closes briefly before opening again. Softer now.
“You are the axis around which my world spins,” he admits quietly, and it sounds like a confession torn from somewhere deep. “And I do not appreciate theoretical scenarios in which you become lesser.”
The playfulness drains out of you completely, replaced by a swell of emotion that makes your eyes sting.
“I didn’t mean…”
“I know.” His forehead drops to rest against yours, and you feel him exhale shakily. “But you asked nonetheless. And I need you to understand that your worth to me is not conditional. Or theoretical. Or subject to philosophical debate.”
Later that evening, you’re both in bed.
The lamps are dimmed, casting soft golden light across the room. Anaxa is still somewhat tense beside you, like the stupid question rattled him more than he wants to admit.
You shift closer, sliding your hands over his wrists where they rest on the blanket.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you whisper. “I just… I like hearing how much you love me. Even in ridiculous scenarios.”
He exhales sharply. A sound that’s half-laugh, half-something more vulnerable.
“You could simply ask,” he mutters, still not quite meeting your eyes.
“Okay.” You lean up, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, then another to the corner of his jaw. “How much do you love me?”
Anaxa makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat.
Then, with more speed than grace, he pulls you against his chest with one arm while the other comes up to cradle the back of your head protectively. Possessively.
“Excessively,” he says into your hair, voice muffled and raw. “Against all better judgment. Beyond all reasonable parameters. And with an intensity that borders on catastrophic for my ability to think rationally.”
You smile into his collar, breathing in the familiar scent of parchment and alchemical substances.
“So… enough that if I were a worm…”
He makes a pained sound and tightens his hold on you, practically trapping you against him. “Beloved. Please.”
You laugh—soft, warm, utterly delighted—and nuzzle into the crook of his neck.
“Fine, fine. No more worm questions.”
You feel him relax incrementally.
Then you shift, pulling back just enough to look at him properly. Your hand comes up to trace the line of his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek.
“I love you too, you know,” you say softly, and this time there’s no teasing in it. Just pure, unfiltered affection.
Something in him trembles.
His eye closes, and when he opens it again, there’s a sheen there that he’d probably deny if you mentioned it.
“I know,” Anaxa says, barely audible. “But it is always reassuring to hear.”
You kiss him then. Slow and sweet and thorough, pouring all the affection you couldn’t quite express through ridiculous hypotheticals into the press of your lips against his.
He responds immediately, one hand sliding into your hair while the other spans across your back, pulling you closer. The kiss deepens, turns from sweet to something more heated, more desperate.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing harder.
You shift to straddle his lap, and his hands automatically settle on your waist, steadying you. There’s a question in his eye, but also heat, and that particular look he gets when his careful control is slipping.
“No more questions,” you promise, leaning down to kiss along his jaw, down to his neck. “Just this.”
His breath hitches. “Just this,” he agrees roughly, tilting his head to give you better access.
You feel his pulse jump under your lips, feel the way his fingers tighten on your waist.
“Though for the record,” you murmur against his skin, “I would also love you if you were a worm.”
“Beloved….”
You silence him with another kiss, deeper this time, and he groans into your mouth, giving up on protests entirely.
His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him as he kisses you like he’s trying to eliminate any space between you, physical or otherwise.
When you finally settle against his chest again, thoroughly kissed and warm, he’s still holding you tight.
“Catastrophic,” he murmurs into your hair. “Absolutely catastrophic what you do to me.”
You smile, pressing a kiss over his heart.
“Good,” you whisper.
Anaxa stops thinking.
And simply holds you.
___
A/N: Thanks for reading. :) I hope you enjoyed it. Likes, reblogs and comments always mean a lot.
I miss him. A lot. More Anaxagoras to follow shortly (obviously). :)
cw: anaxa is kinda crazy he puts his gun to reader, possessiveness, mentions of violence, fluff, not proofread im so tired :')
☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★
phainon
phainon was one to pride himself on his natural charm, he was a very easy going guy. the stark contrast between him in battle and off was admirable.
though as much as he hates to admit it, sometimes the warrior takes over his instincts. for instance, right now as he watched the droma’s caretaker openly flirt with you.
it wasn’t just the flirting—though that was annoying enough—it was the way you laughed, the way your eyes softened, the way you didn’t immediately pull away. phainon knew you weren’t his, not in the way that would justify this sudden surge of possessiveness. but logic had never been good at taming instinct.
his fingers twitched at his side, an old habit from years of battle. the part of him that thrived in combat, the part that didn’t hesitate when faced with a challenge, whispered at him to act. it would be so easy to step in, to slide an arm around your waist, to make it clear to everyone in the room—especially to the man standing too close—that you weren’t available.
but that wasn’t his place. not yet, at least. so instead, he forced himself to take a breath, to unclench his fists, to remind himself that he was phainon—charming, laid-back, not the type to pick a fight over something so trivial.
“phainon, this one likes me!”
his stoic expression softened when he realized, in fact, you were talking about the loving dromas and not that man.
phainon smiled gently at your joy, “i can tell, he sure does like you a lot!”
there was a certain edge to his voice that could’ve been missed by onlookers. you gave him a concerned glance, one which he smiled at and didn’t question further.
and yet, when the caretaker let out another laugh, explaining the most basic knowledge of dromas ever, his hand brushing against yours, phainon found himself smiling again. it wasn’t a friendly smile.
“having fun?” he asked, voice smooth but carrying an edge beneath it as he finally approached the two of you.
“yeah—!” you were quick to respond only to look up at phainon and realize his attention wasn’t on you. “phainon..”
“yes my lovely spouse, who i treasure more than any riches and i’d also kill for?” now his attention was focused on you, his smile bittersweet.
the thing with phainon is whenever he looked at you, there was always such intensity.
“don’t start, i’m okay i promise.”
there was a joking tilt to your voice, but it was enough to calm him down.
“now, come over and feed the dromas with me! this one’s name is castor, very sweet we should take him home!”
phainon let out a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over his heart. "my love, as much as i would adore bringing castor home, i fear he would not fit through our door."
you laughed, reaching out to pet the dromas, who nuzzled into your touch affectionately. "we could make it work," you teased, "build a bigger door, you're strong enough. or, you know, just let him live in our backyard."
phainon hummed in thought, stepping closer until he was right beside you. "tempting," he mused, reaching out to pet castor. "but then i’d have to compete for your affection, and i don’t think my heart could take it."
you rolled your eyes, nudging him playfully. "oh, please. you already know you’re my favorite."
his grin softened into something more genuine, his blue eyes filled with something tender. "good. because my dearest, you are mine." phainon swears the dromas narrowed its eyes at him (the caretaker did too but phainon was too busy enjoying the memoment with you to get mad all over again).
you burst into laughter as the dromas let out a soft sound, clearly pleased with itself. "maybe if you were as cute as them, you’d stand a chance."
phainon clutched his chest. "wounded. utterly wounded."
but despite his theatrics, he leaned in closer, his hand brushing against yours as you both continued to feed the dromas together, the warmth between you as steady as ever.
...
"y'know, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to take one home, then we wouldn't have to come back here. i can't believe that vile man had the nerve to even look at you..!"
"phainon, my dear, we are not actually going to take one home."
"...i like the name kevin, wouldn't you agree, [name]?"
the rest of the day was spent with phainon in your ear.
☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★
anaxa
the carefully crafted lunched in your hands was the least of your worries as a soft click was heard from behind you followed by a pressure being applied to the back of your head.
just to think; you went out of your way to bring lunch to your oh-so-kind boyfriend and this is how he greets you?
you would say you're surprised but... this isn't the first time something like this has happened.
"do tell me, what's the foul mood for now?"
he didn't appreciate the snarky comment as the gun pushed against your head even more.
"my [name], you seemed to enjoy yourself outside with that man. would i be correct to assume so?"
so this is what he's mad about.
you exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. "if you must know, i was just making conversation. you know, something normal people do?"
the gun pressed harder against your skull in response, the warning clear. anaxa hated being mocked.
"careful," he murmured, voice quieter now, more dangerous. "i'm already being generous by allowing you to explain yourself. do not test my patience."
you tilted your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. his expression was unreadable, but his grip on the gun was steady—too steady.
"allowing me to explain myself?" you echoed, amusement creeping into your tone. "and here i thought my oh-so-loving boyfriend would trust me a little more by now."
anaxa exhaled sharply through his nose, but he said nothing. the silence stretched between you for a few moments before the pressure at the back of your head finally disappeared.
anaxa let out a low hum, his voice smooth yet laced with something sharp—jealousy, possessiveness, something only he could wield so effortlessly. "you know how i feel about you entertaining the company of other men," he said, tilting his head slightly. "and yet, there you were, laughing as if you had no care in the world."
you sigh, "i promise you it was a very brief interaction. i even told him i was visiting you for lunch."
anaxa looked away in faux annoyance as he gently took the lunch from your hands.
"thank you, [name]." anaxa was genuine in his thanks, he understood how troublesome it could be to reach him in the grove of epiphany.
you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. "i'd say 'you're welcome,' but i'm not sure you deserve it after that stunt."
he sighed dramatically, setting the lunch down on his desk before taking a seat. his movements were as measured as ever, graceful even in something as simple as this. "you wound me, truly," he drawled, undoing the buttons of his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up. "but i suppose my cruelty knows no bounds, does it? threatening my beloved over something as insignificant as a passing interaction."
"so you admit it was ridiculous?" you quirked a brow, leaning against the edge of his desk.
anaxa leaned back slightly in his chair, watching you with a gaze so heavy it felt like an unseen weight pressing against you. "i admit nothing," he corrected, voice as smooth as ever. "but even the most brilliant minds are prone to… lapses in judgment."
you let out a small scoff, shaking your head. "right. 'lapses in judgment.' is that what we're calling your absurd jealousy now?"
he exhaled through his nose, as if considering your words, before finally opening the meal you had brought him. "call it whatever you like, my dear," he said idly, plucking a piece of food with deliberate ease. "but tell me, if i were to flirt so freely with another, would you be so composed?"
your mouth opened, but the words died on your tongue. anaxa watched your hesitation with something akin to satisfaction, his smirk deepening ever so slightly.
"i thought as much," he said smoothly, taking a slow, deliberate bite of his food. "jealousy, my dear, is a universal affliction. i am simply more… expressive about mine."
you huffed, looking away, but the warmth in your cheeks betrayed you. "you're insufferable and lucky i have the patience for you," you muttered.
he let out a soft chuckle, low and indulgent. "patience," he mused, reaching out to brush a gloved finger against your cheek, slow and deliberate. "such a rare and commendable virtue. though i must wonder..."
his touch trailed lower, tracing the curve of your jaw before finally resting under your chin. with the lightest pressure, he tilted your face ever so slightly upward, forcing you to hold his gaze.
"how much longer will that patience last, i wonder?"
you swallowed, refusing to look away. "depends," you said, barely above a breath. "how many more times do you plan on pulling a gun on me?"
anaxa’s lips curled into the faintest smirk, but his eyes flickered with something softer—something dangerously close to fondness.
"ah," he sighed dramatically, finally releasing you and leaning back into his chair. "a fair question. but, my dear, you wound me. surely you know by now that i only threaten the things i cannot bear to lose?"
you stared at him, feeling both shocked and flustered.
you huffed, shaking your head as you finally relented, letting the conversation settle into something resembling peace. and despite everything—despite his absurd possessiveness, his impossible nature, his maddeningly smug demeanor—you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.
because somehow, against all logic, against every ounce of reason—anaxa was yours. and that was something even he, with all his sharp words and sharper wit, could never deny.
☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★
mydei
mydei always found himself in petty competitions with phainon. whether it was who could pick the most apples to who could slay the most enemies, phainon always knew how to push his buttons.
though he might’ve pushed them a little too far..
“afraid you’ll lose? i would’ve never guessed that the great mydeimos was scared of talking to a girl. or are you scared [name] will end up liking me more?”
“deliverer,” mydei said with a scary amount of joy in his voice, “tell me, do you enjoy being humiliated by a kremnoan heir?”
“so is it a deal?”
“if that’s what you wish to call it, we’ll start now. try not to make an utter fool out of yourself. you won't even be able to touch them."
there was absolutely no way mydei was going to even let phainon breathe the same air as you.
phainon grinned, entirely unfazed by mydei’s sharp tone. “oh? possessive already? my, my, what will [name] think of this? surely they've noticed your crush on them by now.”
mydei exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. “they will think nothing of it because you will not get the opportunity to so much as look at them.”
phainon laughed, tilting his head with an almost lazy confidence. “bold words. i wonder if you’ll still be saying that once they’re hanging off my arm instead.”
the barely restrained fury in mydei’s eyes was almost comical. “you delude yourself.”
“and you’re stalling.” phainon shrugged, already turning on his heel. “come now, mydeimos. unless, of course, you are afraid?”
mydei scoffed, stepping forward with an air of unwavering confidence. “i fear nothing—least of all a fool with an overinflated ego.”
the competition had begun.
mydei was the first to find you. he's always remembered the places you often frequented, the bathhouse being common among them.
mydei found you tucked away in one of the quieter corners of the bathhouse, steam curling through the air in delicate wisps. he approached silently, his footsteps barely making a sound against the stone floor.
he had always been observant—perhaps more than you'd realized. no matter how much time passed, he never forgot the places you sought comfort in.
"i thought i'd find you here," he murmured, his voice low and steady, cutting through the gentle trickle of water. "it's peaceful here," you said softly, returning your gaze to the water, watching a rubber duck float by.
after a long moment, you glanced at him, the tension in your chest easing just a little.
"you always find me."
mydei's crimson eyes softened, a rare hint of fondness breaking through his composed exterior.
"of course," he said quietly. "you're worth finding."
mydei had a huge advantage over phainon; everything that came out of his mouth was genuine.
you felt your body heat amplifying from his intense gaze, the steam from the bath worsening your situation.
the air between you two felt thick with unspoken words, the steam in the room only adding to the intensity. mydei’s crimson eyes were locked onto you with an unwavering focus, as if trying to read something deeper than just your expressions.
“you know, you really don’t make this easy,” you muttered, trying to divert your thoughts, the heat rising in your chest feeling like it might burst through your skin.
he raised an eyebrow, his gaze never leaving yours. "make what easy?"
you shifted uncomfortably, the faintest of blush creeping onto your cheeks. “this... this tension.”
mydei tilted his head slightly, the smallest of smirks tugging at the corner of his mouth. “tension?” he repeated, his voice smooth and calculated. “i’m simply speaking the truth.”
you shot him a glance, his words echoing in your mind. you’re worth finding.
it wasn’t like you hadn’t heard him say such things before, but this time, it felt different. There was no teasing, no veiled sarcasm—just the raw sincerity that mydei rarely offered.
“you never do anything half-heartedly, do you?” you said, a small sigh escaping your lips.
mydei didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence looming like a silent promise. His gaze softened as he spoke, but there was still a quiet intensity behind it.
"only when it’s worth it," he said, his voice almost a whisper, but it still hit you like a wave.
your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
he moment hung between you two, the weight of his words settling deep within you. mydei’s presence was suffocating in the best way—an intensity that seemed to radiate from him, the kind that made it impossible to think of anything else but him.
you opened your mouth, but the words stuck. something about his steady gaze and the closeness between you left you speechless, your heart thudding in your chest.
“mydei…” you whispered, almost as if testing the air, "would you like to join me in the bath? i'm sue it'll help relieve any sores you might have?"
mydei's gaze flickered to you, and for a brief moment, the quiet intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by a curious, almost amused glint. he took a step closer, the space between you two shrinking even more.
“you offer me company in the bath?” he asked, his voice holding a hint of surprise. “how… bold.”
you could hear the teasing undertone in his words, but it wasn’t as biting as usual. there was something more… tender in the way he spoke, something that made your heart flutter despite the calmness of the moment.
“i only thought it might help you relax,” you replied, keeping your tone light, though your pulse quickened slightly under his steady gaze. “and you’re always so tense. even the crown prince needs to rest now and then.”
mydei let out a quiet chuckle at that, the sound warm and soft, like the fleeting warmth of the bath. "i’m afraid i’ve never had much time for relaxation," he murmured, his tone shifting again, darker, but with an edge of something more vulnerable. "but perhaps you’re right. it’s been... a long time since i allowed myself the luxury."
there was a pause, and you could see the weight of his words settle over him, like he’d just made a decision. his eyes softened, and he took another step closer, his fingers brushing against your wrist as he gently took your hand.
"then, i’ll join you. for once, perhaps i could allow myself this."
as mydei settled comfortably next to you in the bath, he couldn't help but wonder where phainon had been all this time.
and there was a small voice in the back of his head, saying 'if phainon found you first, would you have invited him into the bath with you?'
he glanced sideways at you, his gaze unreadable for a brief moment as he tried to suppress the discomfort he felt at the idea.
as he took in your relaxed face, mydei realized how important such moments were to the two of you. this was just the start of many more scenarios he would spend with you.
if you enjoyed please consider following/liking/reblogging :)
Contents: How does Anaxa comfort you, and how does he react to you comforting him?
A/n: Good luck on your pulls!!
Words:539
Masterlist ✦ Rules ✦ Ko-Fi
˚☽˚.⋆Comforting you
-Anaxa doesn't look like he knows how to comfort, probably comes off as too blunt, too harsh, too cold, too this or that, too logical in a field that needs tact and sentiment. However, that is not wholly true. He does understand when someone need a gentler hand, or a shoulder to lean on
-Perhaps it can go without saying, but, he doesn't ever go out of his way to really harass/insult anyone, he doesn’t have the time to go on witch hunts and only gets confrontational when met with ignorance or clear disrespect, and so when he's in a relationship with someone he loves all his otherwise snappy qualities turn into heavy attempts at being more empathetic or at least more warm
-He does prefer when you come to him with problems that can be solved or on which he can give his insight on from a more logical perspective, at least that way he can help you best. But with emotional issues he goes more quiet, simply listening to you talk and vent and rant, sometimes offering a few words if you seem to be looking for a quick input, but largely he stays quiet until you're done. Then he does his best to find some common ground between logic and emotion
-He's not clueless, just trying to be gentle with you. He'd also offer to have your head in his lap and run his fingers through your hair, like you do to him. He also rubs your shoulders while you're there
-Makes you tea or if you're feeling particularly rough and visibility crumbling, he throws in some stronger medicine to help you relax
˚☽˚.⋆You comforting him
-Anaxa is shit at receiving comfort as his first habit when he's distressed is to run to his work or to his room and isolate until he has found the solution himself. He buries himself in his work 90% of the time, and the other, rare, 10% is when he's around his grave or under the shade of Cerce’s great shade, pondering about the future and what ifs in silence
-He's stiff as a plank when you offer comfort, he does feel rather weak and vulnerable when he knows you noticed his shift in demeanor, which truth be told - it is not that hard to tell apart when he’s simply frustrated or when he’s genuinely feeling down
-Although that doesn't mean he doesn't grow to really appreciate your concern and often does try to ease your mind, by at least sharing a room while you both work at your own work. He doesn't want to neglect his time with you either, yet it is hard for him to wholly accept it too
-He does prefer more subtle approaches at comforting him, simple questions or gestures like you making him a lunch box and sliding it to him for example, or simply giving him that knowing look of yours. Nothing over the top but enough to let him know he's loved and cared for, he's not alone and if he pushes this away he'd only be hurting someone, someone he loves, and he doesn’t want that. He can’t lose you due to his selfishness and neglect. He won’t
Ⓒ n0tamused/jarttavia_. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.
can I get prompts sentence fluff no. 21 with Anaxa,Sunday and phainon (if not wrong your limit characters is 3 right?)
Fem reader is the one who ask "can I kiss you" and then the male characters Will be the one who reply It
˖ ࣪⊹Memory of the kiss
21."Can I kiss you?" "You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you ask that."
Contents: Anaxa x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Phainon x Reader, written with a fem reader in mind although gender is not explicitly stated anywhere, fluff, I got another request for the same three with the prompt "first kiss" so I sort of mixed those two prompts together here
Words: 330(Anaxa), 486(Sunday),295(Phainon)
Ko-Fi | 1.5K followers event
˖ ࣪⊹Anaxa
The question did not startle him or shock him as much as you expected, in fact he barely reacted at all as his gaze fixed itself onto yours, an invisible thread tying the both of you together. For a moment, Anaxa believes your hearts shared a beat, one or two, but for once he is speechless, letting the pregnant and wordless pause stretch on. He is looking at you with this glint in his eyes that is hard to escape, it is softening the lines of his face and making him seem younger than he is, soft in ways you dared not voice.
‘Can I kiss you?’ - it was such a simple question, too simple for him to ponder over it for this long, but he does. And when he notices the fleeing time he clears his throat and takes a breath, offering you a smile he seldom shared with any other person.
“Yes” he blurted out, shocking you with his boldness. “Now, don’t act so surprised, although I doubt my next confession will feel any less so to you.” He sighs, half in disbelief of his own feelings and the words his tongue was spouting, but Anaxa was nothing if not honest. “You would not be able to guess how long I have waited for you to ask..” he speaks softly to you now, his gaze only flickering to the side for a moment as you feel quiet in face of his honest display. Your mouth opened and closed, at a loss for words, before you took up the hints of a first blush wanting to creep up onto the scholar’s cheeks.
You giggle, and the sound seemingly makes him draw in on himself with a half frown and a furrow of his brows. But before he can banter and scold, you place your hand on his cheeks and lean in, slowly, your breath tickling his skin before your lips pressed together and the world fell quiet around you.
˖ ࣪⊹Sunday
“What seems to be troubling you? You said you had a question for me, did you not?” Sunday asked as he came to a stop before a shelf of books in a lonely corner of the Astral Express, his tone calm and warm but mingled with notes of curiosity for your avoidance of the topic you, yourself, wished to bring up.
You sighed, debating whether the moment was right, but tonight was so far away, and tomorrow was uncertain - there is no time like the present moment. Walking over to him you feigned interest in the messy pile of records that Sunday was busying himself with sorting out currently, but your heart was pounding in your throat and your focus was on him alone. After your fingers brushed against the old and yellowed paper you looked back at him, seeing him still waiting.
“May I kiss you, Sunday?” you finally ask, and if a person could be red and pale all at once, Sunday would be that person now. The wings on his head gave a little startle of their own, a quick flutter up and down as he digested your question.
Just as you were about to excuse yourself and save you both the trouble, he looked about the empty Express carriage, as if someone might see, before looking at you with a glimmer of expectancy and hope. It startled you with how clearly it showed.
“Is this what you meant to ask? This is not another one of your jests, is it?” Sunday inquired slowly, as if stepping around the crack of the frozen lake.
“This is no jest, I promise you. I would not have joked about a matter like this.. If you are-”
He raised his hand and your voice faded off. Sunday shook his head, fighting back the blush that was unavoidably crawling up his neck.
“No, no.. I accept it” he replied in a whisper, wishing no one else to hear the words but you, feeling like a follower making his confession at the cathedral. His blood was rushing, heart pounding in his ears, the sound and the feeling of ants in his clothes feeling worse the more he waited for his judgement. “I admit, I have waited for a long time for an opportunity like this to arise- for you to.. ask..” the more he talked, the more tremors he felt in his curled fingers.
“If you were anyone else, I’d say you were the one jesting now” you spoke in pleasant disbelief as you took another step closer, a motion at which he straightened his back for. Your hand touched his cheek and made him freeze, but once it began to guide him downward, he put up no resistance. Your lips graced his, and it was something sweeter than any honey, better than any redemption. His ears fluttered once more and stretched forward, covering his face and yours.
˖ ࣪⊹Phainon
Phainon took many things in stride, not being the one to outwardly follow the strict lines of a plan in his daily routines; it was one thing that made him feel grounded and, in a way, free of the worldly burdens, the looming shadow of the future of Amphoreus. The question with which you broke the silence among you was met with a sweet sound of his laughter. It was only natural, but also a way to cover up his surprise as the question repeated itself time and time again between his ears,
As you looked on at him, his face became more serious, his shoulders going tense. “You.. you are serious?” he balked, staring at you as if you’ve grown a second head. Your nod to his question clarified his thoughts, and suddenly everything felt like it was moving, including the ground beneath the soles of his boots. He did not look like was swaying, he wasn’t, he was a warrior of Okhema and has faced foes that would make someone’s nightmares, he did not fall then and will not fall now - but gods, would his knees willingly give out for you.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to ask me that” he told you in a voice more timid than his usual persona, but all the more genuine for it. He didn’t move for a while, still stunned and in disbelief but once you took a step towards him, he met you halfway with a step of his own, raising a hand to your cheek that hesitated before pressing against your skin. Phainon lets you kiss him first, but one taste of your lips had him kissing back in search for more, wanting to commit the feeling to memory.
Ⓒ n0tamused/jarttavia_. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.
you ever wonder if anaxa's hair could be braided? anaxa would be casually doing his daily readings at his desk and you'd wordlessly scoot in next to him, undo the hair clip he initially had on and start braiding away. you'd end up clumsily losing control over the strands, having to redo it all over again, and anaxa'd just let it happen, continue on proofreading a paper or grading assignments with his usual unbothered demeanor. and by the end of the day, anaxa who had skipped mealtimes after hours of concentrated work yet is too exhausted to feed himself would have you by his side holding a fork up to his mouth, ready with a food platter with all the nutrients he needs, whilst gently combing through his hair and admiring the soft waviness of it due to the braid he'd kept on all day.
sometimes being loved by anaxa could be quiet - just like these moments of silent comfort; sometimes being loved by anaxa could be loud - like when anaxa's talking about his favorite topics, be it dromases or a new breakthrough in his latest theory. as boisterous laughter spills from your lover's lips, you can't help but chuckle along. whenever he has the time, anaxa would share them with you and the moon becomes a loyal listener to the two lover's back-and-forth musings. no matter how clueless you are, you'll always ask anaxa questions to clear up your confusion, and that's because you know he'd always bring the answers to clarity for you, even the silliest kind. just like how anaxa knew the solution to your lonely heart was him ♡.
more than obvious ꒱ anaxa 'n fem reader ᰔ fluff ⊹ word count 0.5k
“ANAXA—”
“Rule number one,” Anaxagoras interrupts, as he holds up his hand making you pause mid-sentence. He is always so oppressive, it's like he's someone of a very high caliber, and it doesn't matter even if he is, he might not act so mean when you want to talk to him.
“Fine. Anaxagoras,” you huff, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes, “But you’re not fooling anyone. You’ve been avoiding my question for weeks now. Come on, you know what I’m talking about.”
The Sage glanced back and you saw the faintest gleam of annoyance crossing his otherwise emotionless face. “If I knew, would I be standing here enduring your never-ending prattle,” he replied dryly. “Enlighten me, what is it you believe I’m hiding?”
"Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you."
"Neither does your constant need to interrupt." Each word that left his mouth was dripping with sarcasm. There’s no denying that it’s in his blood to speak and act that way. "Rule number two: silence is golden. Perhaps try it sometime."
You rolled your eyes once again. “You’re telling me you’ve never been interested in someone? Like—ever?” He stopped walking, turning just enough for you to see his arched brow. “What a waste of time,” he said, not daring to give you more answers
Sighing, you tried to mask the frustration bubbling inside you. “A waste of time? Then why do you tolerate me?”
His lips quirked into a sly, knowing smile, but he said nothing.
“Don’t give me that smug look! If you don’t care about people, then why—” Why does he have to be so… so him? Quiet, distant, like the entire world revolves around the pursuit of truth and knowledge. He could spend hours debating the existence of celestial beings, but when it comes to human emotion? Absolutely clueless.
"Why can’t you just admit it already?" you snap. "You know how I feel, and I’m not blind. I’ve seen how you look at me!"
"How I look at you?" he repeats, tilting his head like you’re an experiment gone wrong. "What an astounding observation. Truly, your skills as a logician are unmatched."
"Don’t pretend this doesn’t mean anything!" Your voice rises more than intended to do so. His lips twitch again, it’s not a smile, you’re not sure what is it anymore. "If you’re referring to your unexplainable fascination with me, it’s hardly a secret. Your melodrama makes it rather… obvious."
Heat rises to your face. "Just tell me if you have a crush, Anaxa—”
He smirks faintly before gently flicking your forehead. “First,” he said, his fingers still on your skin before he did it again, and you flinched back, rubbing the spot. “never call me that. Second, you’re hopeless.”
“Hopeless?”
"It’s useless to get so angry," he says with a shrug, already turning away. "The reason and the answer to your question are more than obvious. If you can’t see it, perhaps your next pursuit should be self-awareness."
And just like that, he leaves, and you stood there, stunned, as realization slowly dawned on you.
Experiments in Tenderness: A Study in 5 Acts (Anaxa x Reader oneshot)
A/N: Apparently, it’s impossible for me to write anything short for Anaxagoras. I love exploring him. This can be read as a continuation of my oneshot Quiet Shifts or as a standalone piece. This one turned into a long oneshot (about 6k), but honestly, I think Anaxagoras needs that kind of space. His character is too layered for a quick snippet (at least for now), so instead of trimming it down, I let the length breathe with him. For those who enjoy his sharper edges, his slow vulnerability, and his intensity, I hope this feels worth it.
Summary: A study about dating Anaxa in 5 acts (Precision, Tension, Hunger, Surrender, Devotion).
Warnings: Fluff. Slight angst. Emotional slow burn. Some intense kissing.
Word count: 6092 words
I: Precision
Dating Anaxa means learning a different language of care. He doesn’t bring you gifts like sweets, jewelry or flowers. Instead, he appears at your workspace with a cushion that’s been precisely engineered for optimal lumbar support and a weighted blanket that radiates gentle warmth. No explanation, no fanfare, just practical comfort disguised as casual consideration.
“Your posture indicated discomfort during extended study periods,” Anaxa says when you look at him questioningly, but there’s something almost bashful in the way he adjusts his robe. “Physical strain impedes cognitive function.”
“Thank you,” you say softly.
He nods once, sharp and efficient, but you catch the way his shoulders relax slightly. As if your approval matters more than he’d care to admit.
Anaxa often shows affection through modification. Your favorite pen suddenly writes smoother because he’s adjusted the ink flow. Your laboratory stool is precisely the right height when you arrive each morning because he’s been calibrating it to your measurements. The lighting in the spaces you share together grows softer, warmer, more flattering.
You realize he’s been quietly optimizing your entire environment, making your life more comfortable in a dozen small ways you barely noticed until you started looking for them.
“You’ve been changing things,” you observe one evening as he adjusts a valve that controls the air circulation.
“Minor improvements,” he says without looking up. “Nothing significant.”
But his fingers linger on the mechanism longer than necessary, and you notice how he glances toward you to gauge your reaction. For all his clinical detachment, he’s invested in your comfort in a way that feels deeply intimate.
“I like it,” you tell him. “I like how you notice things.”
His hand stills on the valve. When he finally turns toward you, there’s something unguarded in his expression. Pleased and almost surprised by his own pleasure.
The first time you find romance novels hidden beneath his research texts, you pretend not to notice. But the second time, when a particularly worn copy of The Art of Courtship falls from his stack of papers, you can’t hide your smile.
Anaxa freezes, his usual composure cracking for just a moment. His eye widens before narrowing again, as if he’s calculating the exact probability of this mortification.
“Research,” he says curtly, snatching the book back. “I am investigating certain behavioral patterns.”
“What kind of patterns?” you ask, genuinely curious rather than mocking.
He’s silent for a long moment, clearly weighing whether to dignify this with a response. Finally, he says, “Conventional expressions of attachment. The methodologies appear unnecessarily complex.”
You step closer, noting how his grip tightens on the book’s spine. “Finding anything useful?”
“The theoretical framework is sound,” Anaxa admits reluctantly. “Though the practical applications seem inefficient.”
You can‘t suppress your laugh at his indignation. “You could have just said that you wanted to learn how to give me compliments properly.“
He raises his eyebrow at that. “But where‘s the fun in that, oh sole focus of my remaining eye?“ Although his words sound mocking on the surface, his expression and tone suggest otherwise.
“To me, you’re funny even when you’re not trying to be,” you say lightly, a broad smile tugging at your lips. You can’t help it. Ever since you both acknowledged there was more between you, his presence has filled you with an indescribable happiness. Even more so than before.
Anaxa takes his time to answer. “You should be careful about the information you offer so freely,” he muses. His hand hovers for a fraction of a second, as if he’s running silent calculations on the variables of touch, before brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. The motion is precise, deliberate. Yet there’s nothing clinical in the way his fingers linger, like he’s satisfied with the outcome of a new kind of research only he could design. “There are those who would consider such information valuable data for their own experiments.“
The smirk that follows is different from the ones he gives when he mocks people. It simply exists to unravel you. And it does. Anaxa does. He pretends not to notice when you blush but is unable to hide the quiet sigh of contentment that escapes his lips.
II: Tension
Two weeks later, Anaxa brings you tea prepared exactly to your preferences and sets it down with unusual ceremony. He has made you tea often before, but this time it feels different. He indicates for you to start drinking. Then, with the air of someone conducting a particularly delicate experiment, he clears his throat and declares, “Your countenance illuminates the shadows of my comprehension like dawn breaking upon the most complex theorem.”
It’s archaic and overwrought and completely earnest. You have to bite your lip to keep from smiling. Instead of just telling you that you make him happy, he has given you a declaration that sounds more like an ode than a normal compliment.
“Did you prepare that?” you ask gently.
His cheeks color slightly. “I may have consulted several historical texts regarding appropriate sentiments.” He pauses, then adds with characteristic precision, “The sentiment itself is empirically accurate.”
Sometimes Anaxa’s dedication to work means missed opportunities. You mention wanting to watch the meteor shower together. A rare event that only occurs every few years. He nods absently while reviewing calculations, murmuring something about “fascinating orbital mechanics.”
When the night arrives, you wait outside, watching the sky as stars begin to streak across the darkness in brilliant arcs of light. His laboratory remains lit, papers no doubt still scattered across every surface, his attention consumed by some theoretical breakthrough regarding his soul research.
You don’t interrupt. You understand that his research drives him, that discoveries can’t wait for shooting stars. But something still sinks in your chest as you watch the celestial display alone, counting meteors that burn bright and brief against the velvet sky.
The next evening, he appears at your door with a complex piece of equipment you don’t recognize.
“I have constructed a device for enhanced astronomical observation,” Anaxa says formally, his usual precision slightly stiff. “The meteor shower’s residual particle trail should remain visible for several more nights, given optimal viewing conditions.”
You look at him—noting his slightly rigid posture, the way he’s clearly rehearsed this—and realize he’s trying to make amends in the most Anaxagoras way possible.
The meteor shower has largely ended, leaving only occasional streaks of light. But he sets up his device anyway, adjusting lenses and calibrating measurements. Through his enhanced viewer, you can see faint traces of cosmic dust still glittering in the atmosphere, the ghost trails of yesterday’s spectacle.
“I should have prioritized differently last night,” Anaxa says as you both peer through the eyepiece at the subtle celestial remnants.
“Your work is important,” you reply.
“So are you.” The words come out quietly, almost accidentally. When you look at him, his eye holds something vulnerable. “That is the evidence supports prioritizing your satisfaction alongside research objectives.”
Even his apologies sound like experimental conclusions. You take his hand in yours.
“Next time, just ask me to wait with you while you work,” you suggest. “I still enjoy the quiet company, you know. That will not change.”
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, perhaps, that solutions can be so straightforward.
One afternoon, you suggest a walk when you notice the tension coiled tight in his shoulders, the way he’s been hunched over his research for nearly six hours without so much as stretching. His eye has that strained, reddened quality that comes from squinting at fine print for too long, and there’s a rigidity to his posture that speaks of someone pushing past the limits of comfort.
The late afternoon light filters through the old trees as you lead him along the winding paths, casting everything in a dense green shadow, streaked with shafts of gold where the light pierced the canop. The air carries the scent of blooming flowers and the earthy richness of well-tended soil, a stark contrast to the sterile atmosphere of his laboratory.
“I don’t require recreational activities,” Anaxa says, but there’s no real conviction in the words. He follows you anyway, his longer stride easily matching your pace, though you notice he keeps glancing back toward the buildings as if mentally cataloguing all the work he’s leaving behind.
You point out things as you walk. The way afternoon light transforms ordinary leaves into something almost luminous, a particularly striking flower growing wild between the manicured garden beds, its petals a deep purple that seems to absorb the golden light. You pause beside it, genuinely enchanted by the unexpected splash of color.
He responds with brief observations about botanical classifications and optimal growing conditions, his tone clinical and detached, as if he can’t help but dissect the beauty into component parts. “Probably a variant of a flower from my hometown. The soil composition here would support the alkaline preference…”
“You don’t have to analyze everything,” you say gently, reaching out to touch one of the velvet petals. “Sometimes you can just enjoy it.”
The words are barely out of your mouth before you see him stiffen. He stops walking entirely, turning to face you with that sharp, calculating expression that usually appears when someone has challenged one of his fundamental assumptions.
“I am perfectly functional as I am,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice now, defensive and more distant than you are used to these days. “I don’t require adjustment. Not when it doesn‘t serve my goals, at least.“
The words hit you. Heat rises in your cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and hurt that you try to swallow down. You’d been hoping to share something simple with him, to give him a moment of peace away from his relentless research. The idea that he might actually enjoy something without needing to understand or improve it had felt like a small gift you could offer.
But his defensive, almost harsh reaction makes you feel naive, presumptuous. Like you’ve overstepped some invisible boundary you didn’t even know existed.
“Of course,” you reply quietly, your voice smaller than you’d intended. “I didn’t mean to suggest that you needed-”
Before you can finish the apology, Anaxa’s hand finds yours. The touch isn’t calculated this time, not the careful, measured contact from his romantic research. It’s instinctive, almost startled, as if his body moved before his mind could intervene. His fingers thread through yours with surprising urgency, and when you look up at him, his expression has shifted entirely.
The guarded expression is still there, faintly, but underneath it you can see something that looks like panic. As if he’s just realized how his words sounded, how they might have hurt you.
“I am…” he starts, then stops. Swallows hard. When he speaks again, his voice is lower than usual, more careful. “I am unaccustomed to such considerations. No one has ever…” He trails off, seeming to struggle with concepts that don’t fit neatly into his usual frameworks.
You can feel the slight tremor in his hand where it holds yours, see the way his jaw works as if he’s trying to find the right words for something he’s never had to articulate before.
“But your intention is noted,” he continues finally. “And appreciated. More than you might realize.”
The admission seems to cost him something, and you squeeze his hand gently in acknowledgment. The rest of the walk passes in comfortable silence, his hand warm and solid in yours. You notice he stops trying to categorize everything, instead letting his gaze wander over the gardens with something that might actually be appreciation.
When you reach a stone bench overlooking the grounds, he doesn’t immediately sit. Instead, he stands quietly, watching the way the setting sun catches in your hair, the peaceful expression on your face as you take in the view. There’s something almost wondering in the way he looks at you, as if he’s seeing something unexpected.
“Perhaps,” he says carefully, breaking the comfortable quiet, “periodic breaks from laboratory work could be beneficial to my cognitive function and to our togetherness.”
You can’t help but smile at the way he frames it. Still clinical, still couched in terms of productivity, but you can hear the real meaning underneath.
“Is that your way of saying you’d like to do this again?”
“It’s my way of saying the data suggests regular intervals of this. It might optimize overall performance.” His voice softens just slightly, the corners of his mouth curving. “For both of us.” And throughout the entire exchange, he hasn’t let go of your hand.
III: Hunger
The first time Anaxa’s control truly slips, it’s during a late-night research session. You’re both exhausted, working by lamplight, and you’ve been debating theoretical applications for hours. Your mind is sharp against his, matching his pace, challenging his conclusions.
“That’s not correct,” you say, leaning across the desk to point at his calculations.
“Explain your reasoning,” he says, but his voice has dropped lower than usual.
As you outline your counterargument, you notice he’s not looking at your notes. His eye tracks the curve of your mouth, the way your lips form each word, lingering there with the same focus he usually gives to equations. The intensity of his attention makes heat rise in your cheeks.
“You’re not paying attention,” you say softly.
“I am paying attention,” Anaxa replies, but his gaze drops to your lips again as you speak. “I’m simply processing multiple inputs simultaneously.”
When you lean closer to see what he’s written, he doesn’t move away. The space between you crackles with tension, close enough that you can smell the faint scent of ink and parchment that always clings to him, mixed with the metallic tang of his experiments. Instead, his hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone with scientific precision.
“This is highly irregular,” Anaxa murmurs, but he’s already leaning closer, his breath warm against your skin.
“Your research methods?” you whisper back, feeling the way his thumb pauses in its careful exploration.
“My capacity for rational thought collapses when you’re this close.” His voice drops to barely above a whisper, rough with want.
The kiss that follows is nothing like his careful, studied attempts at romance. It’s hungry and desperate and completely unguarded, as if months of restraint have finally snapped. His other hand fists in your shirt, pulling you closer across the desk with surprising strength, scattering papers and equipment in a chaos he would normally abhor. Yet in this moment he doesn’t even notice.
The sound of his breath catching against your mouth sends heat racing through your veins, and you can feel the way his usually precise movements become clumsy with want. His lips are soft, warm and insistent as they move against yours.
You can taste the sharp mint of the tea he’d been drinking, mixed with something that’s purely him. When you respond, parting your lips, letting your tongue meet his, the sound he makes is somewhere between a sigh and a groan, completely unguarded and utterly human. The careful control he maintains in every other aspect of his life dissolves entirely.
His mouth moves against yours with increasing urgency, all his careful restraint unraveling in moments. There’s still something methodical in the way he kisses you, like he’s cataloguing every response, memorizing the exact pressure that makes you gasp, the precise angle that makes you melt against him. But underneath that analytical mind is pure hunger, raw need that he’s clearly been suppressing for far too long.
The hand cupping your jaw slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair with a possessiveness that surprises you both. You can feel the slight tremor in his touch, the way his breathing has become uneven. When he tilts your head to deepen the kiss, you hear a soft sound. Papers sliding to the floor, perhaps, or maybe just the whisper of fabric as you lean into him.
When he pulls you further across the desk, your knee knocks against an inkwell, sending it clattering to the floor with a crash that echoes in the quiet laboratory. Neither of you care. If anything, the sound seems to spur him on, his hands sliding into your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as he deepens the kiss even further. You can feel his careful composure completely abandoning him, replaced by something raw and immediate.
His free hand finds your waist, fingers pressing against the fabric of your shirt as if trying to anchor you to him, to this moment. The touch burns even through the layers of clothing, and you can feel the controlled strength in his grip. Careful not to hurt, but firm enough to leave no doubt about his intent.
“I am not used to not being in control,” he murmurs against your mouth, the words vibrating against your lips. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away. If anything, he holds you tighter, as if the admission has freed something in him.
“Is it a bad thing?” you whisper back, breathless, tasting the words on his lips.
“Not at all. Just something I need to study a lot more. On a regular basis, to be precise.” His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard. His pupil is dilated, and you can see every fleck of silver in his eye, the way his eyepatch casts a shadow across part of his face.
His breathing becomes more frantic and he pulls away to catch some breath. His chest rises and falls sharply, robe shifting with the force of each inhale, and for once he doesn’t bother to hide how undone he looks.
His breath feels warm against your skin, yet you feel even warmer inside. He kisses the corners of your mouth and then your temples, as if honoring not just your body but the place where every thought begins. “You’re brilliant,” he murmurs, kissing your temple once more before pressing his lips to your forehead with a soft inhale. The words settle over you like a vow, quiet and tender, carrying far more weight than their simplicity suggests.
When he looks at you again, he groans and starts nibbling at your lips, while murmuring, “I may never gain all the answers from the gods I seek.” He moans, lips brushing yours, words fractured between breaths. “But you-” Another kiss. “gave me answers to questions I never dared to ask in the first place.”
Then, before you can respond, Anaxa kisses you again. Deeper this time, more confident. This kiss carries intention, purpose, as if he’s reached some internal conclusion about what he wants. His mouth moves against yours with renewed hunger, and you can taste his growing certainty, feel it in the way his hands begin to explore with deliberate precision.
One hand slides from your waist upward, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs through the thin fabric of your shirt with the same methodical attention he brings to his most delicate experiments. When his touch finds bare skin where your shirt has ridden up, his breath catches audibly against your mouth. A sharp intake that speaks to how affected he is by the simple contact of skin against skin.
His fingers map the line of your spine with care, each touch measured and intentional, as if he’s committing every response to his memory. The contrast between his usual clinical detachment and this tender exploration makes every caress feel more significant. You can feel the slight tremor in his hands, the way he pauses when you react to his touch, filing away your responses like crucial data.
His free hand cups your face again, thumb brushing along your jaw as he pulls you closer, angling your head so he can deepen the kiss further. The dual sensations—his mouth claiming yours while his other hand continues its careful exploration—make it difficult to think of anything beyond the heat building between you and the way he touches you like you’re something precious he’s afraid to break.
When you finally break apart, both breathing hard, he looks almost stunned by his own loss of control. His hair is mussed where your fingers had tangled it, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger, less guarded. His usually perfect appearance is completely disheveled. Robe rumpled, collar askew, lips slightly swollen from kissing.
“That was enlightening,” he says, voice rougher than usual, as if he’s still trying to process what just happened.
“Your best discoveries usually are,” you reply, reaching up to smooth down his hair where your fingers had tangled it, marveling at how soft it feels, how it slips through your touch like spun sea foam in the lamplight.
IV: Surrender
Dating Anaxa means learning to read affection in precision rather than poetry even though he gets better at giving you compliments day by day. It’s the way he remembers exactly when you like which beverage and how you prefer your food, how he continues to modify equipment to fit your needs, how he saves you the comfortable chair without ever mentioning it.
It’s also learning to treasure the moments when that precision breaks down. When he kisses you like it’s the only thing he wants to do, when he admits he’s been researching romance further because he wants to do right by you, when his careful composure cracks just enough to show the depth of feeling underneath.
“I may not excel at traditional demonstrations of affection,” he tells you one evening, his arms around you as you both review research by firelight. His voice is matter-of-fact, but you can feel the slight tension in his embrace.
“No,” you agree, settling more comfortably against his chest. “You excel at better ones.”
His arms tighten around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. Soft, unplanned, perfect.
One day, you find him four hours past when he said he’d stop working, bent over a complex apparatus that pulses with an eerie, blue-white light. The energy it contains makes the air itself feel thick and electric, raising the fine hairs on your arms even from across the room. His movements are sharp and focused, but you can see the fatigue in the way his shoulders curve inward, the slight tremor in his usually steady hands.
This isn’t careful research. This is the same reckless obsession that led him to remove his own eye, to experiment on his very soul in pursuit of answers that might not exist.
“Anaxagoras,” you call softly, not wanting to startle him when he’s working with something that clearly shouldn’t be disturbed.
He doesn’t look up, his attention completely absorbed by the delicate calibrations he’s making to the device. “I’m nearly finished. The resonance patterns are responding better than anticipated.”
But you can see the cost of his focus written in every line of his body. The pale cast to his already fair skin, the way his eye has taken on a bloodshot quality from strain. There’s something almost fevered about his concentration, a desperate edge that speaks to someone pushing far beyond safe limits.
You’ve seen this before. The way he disappears into his research when he’s on the verge of what he considers a breakthrough, losing track of time, of basic needs, of everything except the relentless drive to understand. It’s the same intensity that led to his greatest discoveries and his greatest losses.
“You told me you don’t want to lose me,” you say, and you can hear your voice catching slightly despite your efforts to stay calm. “But what about me? I don’t want to lose you either.”
That makes him pause. His hands still on the apparatus, and for the first time in hours, he looks at you directly. There’s surprise in his expression. Genuine, startled surprise, as if the idea that someone might worry about his wellbeing is not just unexpected but completely foreign to him.
“The risk is minimal,” he says, but even as the words leave his mouth, you can hear that they lack his usual analytical conviction. “I’ve calculated the probability of adverse effects based on previous iterations-”
“You’ve calculated wrong before.” The words come out sharper than you intended, edged with fear and frustration, but you don’t take them back. You can’t. “When you tried to bring back your sister. You told me that-”
His eye flashes with something dangerous, a warning that you’re treading on ground he’s marked as forbidden territory. But you push forward anyway, because this matters too much to back down.
“I know you’re trying to find answers for her. And I accept that. But not if it costs me you.“ You take a deep breath and look to the side. “Because my soul already carries its answer. And it doesn’t require dangerous experiments.“
The silence that follows feels heavy with unspoken grief, old guilt, and the weight of choices that can never be unmade. You watch as something shifts in his expression. The defensive anger cracking just enough to reveal the raw vulnerability underneath.
Finally, slowly, reluctantly, he begins powering down the apparatus. The eerie light fades gradually, taking with it the electric tension in the air. His movements are stiff, almost painful, like he’s fighting every instinct he has.
“I don’t…” Anaxa starts, then stops. His hands rest on the now-silent equipment, and you can see the way they shake slightly. From exhaustion, from adrenaline, from something deeper.
Your chest aches at the quiet honesty of it. He doesn’t say more, but he doesn’t have to. You can hear the rest in what he leaves unsaid, in the way his voice falters, in the tremor of his hands.
So you step closer, brushing your fingers over his sleeve until he finally looks at you. “You don’t need to explain,” you murmur. “I understand.”
Anaxa strokes over your cheek once, then retreats his hand. “I’m not accustomed to… to someone being concerned about my wellbeing,“ he adds.
The admission is quiet, almost lost in the sudden stillness of the laboratory. There’s something achingly lonely about the way he says it, as if the very concept of someone caring whether he lives or dies is genuinely foreign to him.
“Well, get used to it,” you say gently. “Because I am concerned. Constantly.”
When you touch him slowly, you can see and feel the exhaustion written in every detail. The tight lines around his eye, the way he holds his shoulders as if they’re carrying weight far beyond the physical. There are ink stains on his fingers, burn marks on his sleeves from whatever volatile substances he’s been working with.
Without really thinking about it, you place your hands on his shoulders, feeling the knots of tension beneath the fabric of his robe. They’re rock-hard, the kind that speak to hours of hunched concentration and stress held too long in the body.
Anaxa freezes immediately, every muscle in his frame going rigid. “What are you-”
“Relax,” you murmur, beginning to work at the tight muscles with gentle but firm pressure. “You’re going to give yourself a permanent headache if you keep this up.”
“I don’t require-” But his protest dies mid-sentence as your thumbs find a particularly tight spot near the base of his neck and work at it carefully. His eye closes involuntarily, and despite himself, a soft sound escapes him. Somewhere between surprise and relief, as if his body is betraying him by responding to care he insists he doesn’t need.
“This is highly irregular,” Anaxa mutters, but the words lack any real resistance. His breathing, which had been shallow and quick from stress, begins to slow and deepen.
“So is working yourself into an early grave,” you reply, continuing the gentle massage. You can feel him gradually relaxing under your touch, the rigid tension slowly leaving his frame one muscle at a time. “When’s the last time you actually rested? Really rested, not just collapsed from exhaustion.”
“Rest is inefficient.” But even as he says it, you can hear how automatic the response is, like something he’s told himself so many times it’s become reflex rather than belief.
“Rest is necessary.” Your hands move to work at the base of his neck, where the worst of the tension seems to be concentrated. “Even your precious equipment requires regular maintenance and downtime.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and you think he might argue the point. His mind is always working, always pushing, always demanding more from himself than would be reasonable to ask of anyone else. Instead, when he finally speaks, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.
“I don’t know how to let someone take care of me.”
The admission is so vulnerable, so completely at odds with his usual controlled precision, that it makes your chest tighten. You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, as if he’s encountered a problem that has no logical solution, no clear methodology for resolution.
“Then practice with me,” you say softly, pressing a brief kiss to the part of his neck you’ve been massaging. Anaxa exhales. A long, surprised sound that now resembles a sigh.
“I will work on it,” he says, his breath unusually quick. “With you. If you allow it. Although I lack experience in the matter.”
“You don’t have to know how,” you continue, your touch gentling further as you work at a stubborn knot. “You just have to let it happen.”
Another long pause, filled only with the quiet sounds of the now-still laboratory and his gradually evening breath. Then, almost inaudibly, he says, “This is acceptable.”
Anaxa turns and studies you, taking you in as if observing a new specimen, then lets his mouth lift upward slightly. “You’ve been invaluable since day one. Over time I’ve found I prefer—no, I want—your company more than anything my theories ever promised.“
The smile he offers is small but real. It lands warm and steady, and your chest feels impossibly full.
Coming from Anaxa, who measures every word and admits nothing without analysis, it might as well be a declaration of devotion.
V: Devotion
The first time you visit Anaxa‘s private quarters, you’re not sure what to expect. Everything is precisely organized. Books arranged by subject and frequency of use, equipment cleaned and properly stored, not a single item out of place. It’s exactly what you’d imagine Anaxa’s space would look like.
Except for the dromas plushie sitting on his bedside table.
It’s clearly old, well-loved, with slightly faded fabric. Completely at odds with the clinical perfection of everything else in the room. You stare at it, trying to reconcile this soft, childlike object with the man who treats everything as a precisely calculated equation.
“That is…” he starts from behind you, voice unusually tight. “My sister gifted it to me.“
You turn to look at him. His usual composure is strained, shoulders tense as if he’s bracing for mockery or questions he doesn’t want to answer. The vulnerability in his expression, raw and unguarded, makes your chest tight with emotion.
Instead of asking questions or making observations, you simply cross the room and wrap your arms around him. You feel him stiffen in surprise, then slowly, carefully, his arms come up to hold you back. His embrace is tentative at first, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed this comfort.
“You don’t have to explain.” you murmur against his shoulder. “I understand.” You think about the lab where you have said those exact words to him, but it feels different now.
His grip tightens then, and you feel some of the tension leave his frame. When he speaks, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Others find it undignified, ridiculous even. A weakness.”
“Others are wrong.” You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, noting how his eye is bright with carefully controlled emotion. “It’s love. That’s never undignified.”
For a moment, he simply stares at you, as if trying to process this information. Then, almost wonderingly, he says, “You continue to confound my expectations.”
“In a good way?”
“In the best way,” Anaxa admits quietly.
Later, when exhaustion finally claims you both, you find yourself settling against his side in his precisely made bed. The mattress is firmer than you’d expected, the sheets crisp and perfectly tucked. Everything arranged with his characteristic attention to detail.
Anaxa lies stiffly at first, as if unsure of the proper protocol for sharing sleeping space. His arm hovers uncertainly before finally settling around your shoulders, the touch careful and deliberate. You can feel the tension in his frame, the way he’s clearly overthinking even this simple intimacy.
“You can relax,” you murmur against his shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of his soap mixed with something that’s uniquely him. Metal and parchment and that sharp, precise essence you’ve come to associate with his presence.
“Merely adjusting parameters,” he replies quietly, but you feel some of the rigidity leave his posture. His arm settles more naturally around you, fingers tracing absent patterns against your shoulder through the fabric of your shirt.
The room is dark except for the faint glow of moonlight through the window, casting everything in silver and shadow. You can hear his breathing gradually evening out, feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. His free hand rests on his chest, fingers twitching faintly, as if even in rest, his mind can’t help but keep working.
“Thank you,” he says suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. “For accepting the situation with my sister’s belongings. For not finding it peculiar. For not considering me-“ He inhales sharply and clears his throat. He doesn’t even need to finish the sentence for you to understand him.
You shift slightly to look at him, noting how the moonlight catches the sharp line of his profile, the way his eye reflects the faint light. “There’s nothing peculiar about this, Anaxagoras.” About love, your mind adds. About us.
His breath catches almost imperceptibly at the use of his full name. His arm tightens around you, and when he speaks again, his voice carries a vulnerability you’ve never heard before but want to hear many more times.
“I have no experience with this form of attachment. The theoretical models are inadequate for practical application.”
You press a soft kiss to his collarbone, feeling the way his pulse jumps beneath your lips. “Some things can’t be calculated. Sometimes you just have to trust the process.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, considering this. Then, with characteristic precision, he mutters, “I find I am willing to trust your guidance in this particular experiment.”
Sleep takes you gradually, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his chest, the gentle weight of his arm around you. You feel him press a soft kiss to the top of your head. Tentative and sweet and genuine.
Just before consciousness fades completely, you hear him whisper, almost to himself, “My soul remains fractured. And yet, I feel more complete than ever.”
His arm remains around you throughout the night, protective and warm, never loosening even in sleep. And if you notice him glance toward the bedside table once before dreams claim him—toward the small reminder of someone he loved and lost—you don’t mention it.
In the morning, he wakes before you but doesn’t move, content to let you sleep against him. When you finally stir, the first thing you see is his face in the soft morning light, unguarded and peaceful in a way you’ve never seen before.
“Good morning,” he says quietly, his voice warmer and more open than his usual precise diction.
Anaxa shifts both of you and kisses you, more gently than you’d thought him capable of. You hum into the kiss, content in a way that feels eternal.
“Good morning,” you reply, nestling closer to his chest.
He kisses you again, lingering this time, and when he pulls back his eye searches yours with quiet certainty. “Stay,” he murmurs. The word is simple, but you feel everything he leaves unsaid in it.
You tuck yourself closer, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Morning light spills across the room, but for once neither of you moves toward the day’s work. He only tightens his hold around you, as if the experiment worth repeating is this: learning how to keep tenderness.
———
A/N: Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. They fuel my writing. :)
More works for Anaxagoras are planned. He’s not done with me yet.
Even workaholics aren't immune to a gentle touch...
This was a pretty rare occasion where your lover could bring his work home to complete. It was just a few simple reports, so it shouldn't take that long, right? Wrong. You're not sure the details, but each page was so lengthy that you didn't know how your lover's wrists weren't aching. He had been working all of yesterday straight into today, so you were lucky to even have him at home for dinner, you suppose. The man set down his pen with a yawn and a stretch.
You were lying down on the couch, whilst he sat at a desk, two neat stacks of paper piled high beside him. You stroll over to place a kiss on the top of his head. "How about you join me on the couch?" You ask, nuzzling into his hair almost as a bribe. Your lover really couldn't say no to you, so he picked up a hard covered notebook to press on and followed you back to the couch as you grinned with delight. Once you sat down, he sits himself on the floor between your legs, resting his head on your thigh.
You start undoing his hair, gently running your fingers through the soft strands and easing out the knots. A pleased hum slips past your lover, as he relaxes into your touch. But of course, he still had to finish his work, so he writes and writes until he finds that his pen feels unusually heavy in his hand, and it's becoming harder to keep his eyes open. You are content with your hands in his hair, oblivious to the... side effects of your ministrations. But your lover was ever the workaholic, and he tries to keep writing despite the way his eyes were shutting on himself. It's not long before you hear something fall to the ground, so you look down only to find that your lover's pen has rolled off his lap, and the full weight of his head is on your thigh.
You can only break out into a lovesick smile at the sight, your ever-busy lover sleeping peacefully against your leg with a blissed out expression. Careful not to wake him, you skillfully reposition yourself on the floor, setting your lover's head comfortably in your lap instead. Getting comfy yourself, you close your eyes and drift off with your lover, not caring much for how your back and neck would probably ache the next morning.
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Ft. Anaxa, Jing yuan, Dan Heng, Sunday, Albedo, Alhaitham, Ayato, +your favs
