“phainon?” you call out, dropping your backpack, “please tell me that isn’t what i think it is.”
on the couch sits phainon, all calm poise and smirk, a fluffy golden retriever sprawled across his lap.
“ah,” he says, brushing fur off his black hoodie, “i suppose introductions are in order. this is—”
“no. no introductions. you bought a dog?”
“technically adopted,” he corrects, eyes glinting with that faint mirth you’ve come to dread. “he followed me home. i took it as fate.”
you stare. “phainon. we live in a dorm.”
“a dorm with soul, apparently.” he scratches the dog’s ear. “besides, he likes you.”
the retriever bounds toward you, nearly knocking you over, tail wagging hard enough to create a breeze. you glare up at phainon, who’s half-laughing, half-hiding behind his hand.
“you can’t charm your way out of this,” you warn.
“hmm,” he hums, voice low, teasing. “is that a challenge?”
⸻
2. “towel, please.”
you hear the crash before you see it.
“phainon?” you call, and there’s a muffled groan from the bathroom. you rush in—only to find him half-sitting, half-sliding on the floor, drenched and utterly shirtless.
“before you say anything,” he mutters, “the shower betrayed me.”
“right.” you kneel, checking his arm where a bruise is starting to form. “any dizziness?”
“only from embarrassment,” he admits.
“you’re impossible.” you grab the first aid kit and hand him a towel without looking directly at him. “wrap up before you bleed on the tiles.”
“you’re awfully composed,” he says, eyes tracing your focused hands.
“i’m trying to be,” you snap, pressing antiseptic a little too firmly. he hisses, then laughs.
“ah, so you do care.”
“don’t make me hit you with the towel, phainon.”
⸻
3. “everyone’s here but i don’t care.”
the apartment is full. again. too many voices, too little space.
you glance at phainon across the room; he’s leaning against the counter, expression unreadable.
“want to sneak out?” you mouth.
he tilts his head. “where to?”
“my room. terrible movie. no people.”
minutes later, you’re both under a blanket, the movie flickering forgotten on screen. the laughter from the living room fades, replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breathing.
he turns to you, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “they think we’re hiding for—other reasons.”
you groan. “god, let them. at least they’ll leave us alone.”
“mm,” he says, voice a soft murmur. “they’re not wrong to think we like our privacy.”
you look at him, heart jumping. “phainon.”
he grins, eyes flicking back to the screen. “just an observation.”
⸻
4. “cookie chaos.”
the kitchen smells like sugar and regret.
“i said fold the dough, not fling it,” you laugh, wiping your hands.
“folding is subjective,” phainon counters, somehow managing to get flour in his hair.
you flick a bit at him, and he retaliates by poking your nose with a finger covered in dough.
“hey!”
“you had something on your face,” he says innocently.
you retaliate by smearing a bit on his cheek.
he narrows his eyes. “truce or war?”
“war,” you say—just as he leans in and eats the dough off your nose.
you freeze. he grins, shameless, eyes dancing.
“…you’re lucky you’re cute,” you mutter, turning away before your face can betray you.
“i’ll take that as a win,” he hums, licking his thumb clean.
⸻
5. “bartender hours.”
you always find him at the bar. he insists on working night shifts, and you insist on keeping him company.
“don’t you have class early tomorrow?” he asks, polishing a glass.
“don’t you have sleep?”
he chuckles. “sleep’s overrated.”
it’s easy, the rhythm between you. until some girl leans across the bar and flirts shamelessly, her hand brushing his.
you stare at your drink, pretending not to care.
“jealous?” he murmurs when she leaves.
“no,” you lie. “just… keeping score.”
he smiles that dangerous, knowing smile. “then I’ll make it up to you. free drink?”
you glare. “that’s not the point.”
“i know.” his tone softens. “but it’s cute when you pretend it is.”
⸻
6. “you’re late.”
he’s hours late.
your calls go unanswered.
when the door finally creaks open, you nearly tackle him.
“where the hell were you?” your voice cracks. “i thought—”
“hey.” he rests a hand on your shoulder, expression unreadably gentle. “i’m fine. just lost track of time.”
you hit his chest, once, weakly. “you scared me, you idiot.”
he exhales, steady and low. “i didn’t mean to.”
you press your forehead to his shoulder. “you could’ve just texted.”
he hesitates, then wraps his arms around you. “yeah. i’ll do that next time.”
the quiet hum of his heartbeat against your ear says more than any apology could.
⸻
7. “long day.”
you’re trying not to cry. you fail.
phainon sits beside you on the couch, silent for once.
“it’s just—everything sucks,” you whisper. “i can’t keep up. i’m so tired.”
he doesn’t say it’ll be fine. he doesn’t offer solutions. he just pulls you in, lets you cry into his shoulder, his hand tracing slow circles on your back.
“you’re allowed to fall apart sometimes,” he says quietly.
you sniff, half-laughing. “since when are you so comforting?”
“since now,” he murmurs. “don’t tell anyone. ruins my image.”
⸻
8. “scrabble and sleep.”
you don’t remember who won. you just remember laughing, too much wine, and falling asleep next to him.
when you wake, the blanket’s half-off the bed, his arm is draped over your waist, and the sunlight hits his face just right.
you don’t move.
his breathing is slow, steady. peaceful.
you should get up. you don’t.
“you’re staring,” he mumbles, eyes still closed.
“you talk in your sleep now?”
“only when i’m dreaming something worth keeping.”
you swear your heart skips a beat.
⸻
9. “no-naked rule.”
“we need to talk about boundaries,” you say, staring him down.
phainon glances up from his laptop, bare-chested, towel slung dangerously low. “boundaries?”
“yes. as in wear clothes in the shared spaces.”
“but it’s my apartment too,” he says mildly.
“phainon.”
he smirks, stands, and walks closer. “you sure this is about boundaries?”
you glare, flustered. “yes!”
he pauses at the doorway, voice low. “then perhaps… i’ll make an exception for you.”
“what does that even—”
he’s gone, leaving you red-faced and muttering to yourself.
⸻
10. “wine and static.”
you finish the last bottle of cheap wine somewhere between laughter and confessions.
“we’re out,” you say, slumped on the couch.
“then we improvise,” he says, reaching for your hand and pulling you up.
music hums from the TV, soft static filling the room. he starts to sway, lazy, confident.
“phainon—”
“just follow my lead.”
you do. your head finds his shoulder, his hand fits at your waist, and the world feels blurry but warm.
when the song fades, neither of you let go.
⸻
11. “tickle truce.”
“don’t you dare,” you warn, backing away.
phainon’s grin is pure mischief. “you cheated in call of duty.”
“i did not!”
“you did.”
“phainon, if you—AH!”
you collapse into laughter as his fingers find your sides.
“okay, okay! i surrender!”
he stops, grinning triumphantly. “admit it.”
“fine! i cheated! you’re still the better player—happy?”
he laughs, breathless, hair a mess. you’re both sprawled on the couch, cheeks flushed.
“ecstatic,” he says. “though next time, you’ll still lose.”
“maybe,” you say, catching your breath, “but i’ll make sure it’s worth it.”
You thought you’d just mugged some rich idiot in an alley. Bag over his head, tied to a chair, the usual. Easy money.
But when you pull the bag off—your blood runs cold.
Bright blue eyes, smug smile, and the faintest Snezhnayan accent.
“Oh wow,” he says, grinning despite the rope burns on his wrists and blood seeing from the busted lip “you really went through the trouble, huh? Not many people try to kidnap me. You’ve got guts.”
“…Who are you?” you demand.
“Me?” He tilts his head, smile widening. “Tartaglia. You might know me better as Childe. Number Eleven of the Fatui Harbingers.”
You freeze. “…Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” he purrs. “And now that you’ve got my attention… sweetheart, you’re in way too deep.”
⸻
Kaeya – “Really nice guy who hates only you”
(AU: Mondstadt social darling)
Everyone in Mondstadt adores Kaeya. He buys drinks for the Knights, helps old ladies cross the street, teaches kids how to swordfight. He’s sunshine wrapped in charisma.
Except when it comes to you.
“Morning, Kaeya,” you greet as you pass him in the courtyard.
His smile drops instantly, voice icy. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Seriously? What did I even do?”
He leans in close, his usual smooth tone sharpening into a whisper only you can hear. “You breathe too loud, you walk too loud, and the worst part? You think I don’t notice you watching me.”
Then he straightens up, flashing a dazzling grin to the others nearby. “Good day, everyone!”
You gape at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know,” he says with a wink, only for you. “That’s why you can’t stand me either.”
⸻
Diluc – “Divorce of convenience”
(AU: arranged marriage drama)
You and Diluc married for business reasons — inheritance, land, family expectations. Not love. Definitely not love.
Now, signing the divorce papers, he sits stiff-backed across from you, still painfully polite.
“This arrangement served its purpose,” he says evenly, though his hands clench around the pen.
“Right. Strictly business.” You nod, though your stomach twists.
The silence stretches. Finally, you sigh. “Well, at least I won’t have to deal with you brewing your midnight coffee anymore.”
His eyes flicker. “And I won’t have to hear you humming in the kitchen.”
“Did it bother you that much?”
He looks away. “…No. That’s the problem.”
Neither of you signs the papers that day.
⸻
Kazuha – “True hate’s kiss (only kissing your enemy can break a curse)”
(AU: fantasy curse)
You and Kazuha have been cursed during a mission. Neither of you knows what it does—until Beidou bursts out laughing when she reads the scroll.
“Only kissing your greatest enemy can break it.”
You and Kazuha both freeze.
“I knew he hated me,” you mutter.
He bristles. “Hated you? You’ve been a thorn in my side since Inazuma. Of course you’re my enemy.”
You glare. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
The kiss is supposed to be quick, begrudging. But his lips linger, soft, warm, and the curse shatters with a spark of light.
When you pull back, breathless, he won’t meet your eyes. “…We should test if it worked, do it again,” he mumbles.
⸻
Zhongli – “Soulmates who are fated to kill each other”
(AU: immortal soulmates)
You’ve known Zhongli for centuries, lifetimes intertwined by fate. You find him again in Liyue, sipping tea like he hasn’t aged a day.
“Do you ever tire of this dance?” you ask, hand tightening around your weapon. “Fated to find each other… and end each other.”
He exhales slowly, amber eyes heavy with melancholy. “Tire? Every time.” He sets his teacup down carefully. “And yet… every time I see you again, I cannot bring myself to regret it.”
You grit your teeth. “One day, I’ll be the one to win.”
He smiles faintly, rising to his feet. “Perhaps. But tonight… shall we share one final cup before fate tears us apart again?”
⸻
also got the list of these reverse tropes from pinterest and it kickstarted my writing dump lol
"Academic rivals" is a trope that i hold very dear to my heart
The Akademiya’s libraries always smelled the same: a mix of old parchment, polished wood, and something faintly metallic that reminded you of the laboratories tucked away in the northern wing. It was here, among endless stacks of books, that the greatest academic rivalry of the decade had been quietly brewing.
Alhaitham sat at a corner table, quill poised, head slightly tilted, and eyes narrowed in concentration. His notes were a meticulous mess of diagrams and annotations, elegant in a way that only someone who treated logic like a second language could produce.
“You’ve started early,” a familiar voice said, sharp with a teasing edge.
He looked up. There she was: her, the bane of his academic life, equally brilliant, equally insufferable when she thought she had the upper hand.
“I prefer precision over procrastination,” Alhaitham replied, deliberately ignoring the way her eyes flicked over his work with that sharp, calculating curiosity.
“Ah, the classic Alhaitham maneuver,” she said, leaning against the table, arms crossed. “Acting like you’re five steps ahead while secretly hoping no one notices your color-coding obsession.”
He raised a brow, a twitch of a smile betraying him. “Five steps ahead is hardly a secret. And color-coding is merely… organizational efficiency.”
She chuckled, and he noted, not for the first time, how disarming it was when her laugh didn’t carry malice—just a little spark of amusement at his expense. “Efficiency, sure. Or perhaps you’re just avoiding admitting you’re terrified I’ll beat you in the upcoming theoretical mechanics challenge.”
Alhaitham’s quill paused mid-note. “Terrified? That’s an emotion I find inconvenient.”
“Conveniently dishonest, more like,” she retorted, sliding into the seat across from him. Her notebook, far less methodical but just as brilliant, opened with a flourish. “Kaveh says he’s never seen two people dissect a problem with such mutual disdain.”
“And Kaveh would know?” Alhaitham asked dryly. He allowed a small smirk; she caught it immediately.
“Oh, he knows,” she said, eyes gleaming. “He told me you spent an entire lunch period analyzing the probability of me actually scoring higher than you—before lunch.”
He didn’t answer immediately, because there was nothing to answer. Kaveh, somehow, always managed to know more than was strictly possible.
“Would you like me to recite the figures for you?” she asked sweetly, as if she were offering him tea. “My calculations suggest you have a 32.7% chance of winning—assuming you don’t make a careless error.”
Alhaitham raised his quill in a mock salute. “Impressive. And completely irrelevant. The rest is all situational variables—fluctuating, of course. Not that I expect you to understand the nuances of a differential model.”
She frowned, tapping her pen against her notebook. “Excuse me, I happen to be quite fluent in differential models. Just because your handwriting looks like it belongs in a cryptography manual doesn’t mean you’re automatically superior.”
He leaned back, allowing the tiniest hint of amusement to cross his features. “Ah. So it’s about handwriting now. Noted. I shall endeavor to threaten your confidence on yet another front.”
“I see you’ve taken inspiration from Kaveh,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Mockery mixed with subtle charm. But I’m not convinced it’s working.”
Alhaitham considered that for a moment. “Noted. I shall intensify.”
Before she could respond, the library’s sliding doors opened with a soft whoosh, and Kaveh appeared, bright as sunlight after rain. “Ah! There you two are,” he said, grinning as though he had just stumbled upon the happiest scene in the Akademiya. “I was beginning to worry the entire institution had been reduced to… well, mere mortals while you two conducted some sort of genius duel over calculus.”
Alhaitham gave a small, disinterested nod. “We are merely discussing—”
“Theoretical mechanics,” she finished, smirking at him.
“—a question of probability and error margins,” he amended, and Kaveh clapped enthusiastically.
“Oh, this is perfect. I feel like I should take notes.” Kaveh dropped into the seat beside her, clearly intending to enjoy every second of the verbal fencing. “Honestly, the way you two bicker could be a study in itself. I’d pay tuition to watch this daily.”
She leaned close to Alhaitham, dropping her voice just enough that Kaveh couldn’t fully catch the nuance. “Do you ever wonder if Kaveh actually enjoys being the referee—or if he just likes watching you squirm?”
“Observational data suggests both possibilities,” Alhaitham replied, calm as ever, though a tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
She laughed quietly, a sound that felt dangerously close to warmth. “You know, if we weren’t so competitive, I might think this is fun.”
Alhaitham tilted his head. “Fun is a variable best left undefined. But I will concede, your presence does… complicate my cognitive equilibrium.”
Her pen paused. “Complicate your—wait. That almost sounded like an admission.”
He returned to his notes with an infuriating calm. “Merely a factual observation. No emotion implied.”
Kaveh leaned back, rubbing his temples in mock frustration. “I swear, one day I’m going to walk into the library and find you two tangled in a debate so heated you’ve forgotten the actual problem.”
“You’d be lying,” she said, eyes glittering, “if you claimed you wouldn’t enjoy it.”
Kaveh’s grin widened. “Guilty as charged.”
The rest of the afternoon slipped by in a blend of sharp glances, quiet laughter, and the scratch of quills against paper. Every correction she made prompted a retort, every argument he presented was met with a counterexample so clever it left her momentarily speechless. And yet, in between all the pointed barbs, there were these little moments—brief, almost imperceptible—that betrayed a fondness neither would ever admit aloud.
When the sun began to dip low, spilling golden light across the library’s windows, she closed her notebook with a soft sigh. “I think I’ve proven my point.”
Alhaitham, still seated, finally allowed himself a fraction of a smile. “And I, I believe, have documented mine.”
“Until tomorrow, then?” she asked, standing and brushing imaginary dust from her sleeves.
“Until tomorrow,” he agreed, gathering his own papers.
As they walked out together, Kaveh trailing behind like a cheerful shadow, she tossed him a glance over her shoulder. “You know, for someone who claims to avoid emotion, you seem to enjoy this more than you let on.”
Alhaitham’s eyes flicked toward her, and for the briefest moment, the cool, calculating mask slipped. “Perhaps observation itself can be… satisfying.”
She smiled, faint and knowing, and the corner of his lips twitched in acknowledgment.
Kaveh, oblivious to the subtle undercurrents, whistled. “Ah, young love in the making—or at least, young rivalry. Either way, it’s spectacular.”
Alhaitham shot him a look that promised consequences, though neither of them noticed that the way she laughed at Kaveh’s antics seemed to linger in his mind long after the library doors closed behind them.
For now, they were rivals. Friends, even. But every shared glance, every teasing remark, and every carefully argued point in the margin hinted at something neither was ready to name—but both would feel, sooner or later.
And in the quiet corridors of the Akademiya, amid dust and ink and intellect, that subtle tension—the kind that makes rivalry deliciously personal—settled comfortably between them.
It’s past two in the morning when your phone starts buzzing — not ringing, just that low hum against the nightstand that feels too loud in the silence of your dorm. You stare at the screen through half-lidded eyes, pulse stuttering when you see the name.
Mydei.
You should ignore it. You tell yourself that every time. But your thumb betrays you, dragging across the screen before you can think better of it.
“…hello?” your voice comes out rough, small.
There’s a breath — shaky, uneven. Then a half-laugh that sounds like it’s been filtered through smoke. “Hey,” he drawls, voice thick and slurred. “Did I wake you?”
You close your eyes. “Yeah, kind of.”
“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry. “I just— I was thinking about you. About us. And I…” He trails off, exhaling hard. You can almost hear the drag of whatever he’s smoking.
“Mydei.” You press your fingers to your temple. “You shouldn’t be calling me right now.”
“I know, I know,” he says quickly. “I just— I can’t stop thinking about you, okay? I tried. I really did.” His voice cracks on the last word, and it’s like someone drives a nail straight through your chest. “I miss you.”
Your throat tightens. You can smell the faint whiff of weed on him even through memory — the cheap kind that clings to his hoodie, the one he used to leave in your room for days. “You’re high,” you say quietly. “Go to sleep.”
“I can’t,” he mutters. “Not without you. It’s— it’s just empty. Everything’s fucking empty.” He laughs again, bitter this time. “You were right, you know. I thought I could handle it, being on my own. Turns out I’m a goddamn mess without you.”
You want to tell him to stop. You want to tell him you miss him too. But you’ve done this before — the late-night calls, the apologies that don’t mean anything in the morning.
“Mydei,” you say, steady but soft. “You broke up with me.”
There’s silence on the line. Just his uneven breathing.
“Yeah,” he finally whispers. “Yeah, I did.” He sounds smaller now, like the air’s gone out of him. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
You swallow hard. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. Or to me.”
“I just want to see you,” he pleads. “Please. Just tonight. I’ll be quiet, I swear. I just— I need you.”
You take a breath that hurts going in. “No,” you say. “You don’t need me. You just hate being alone.”
Something breaks on the other end. A choked noise — anger or grief or both. “Why are you always like this?” he snaps. “So cold, so damn perfect. Like none of this ever touched you.”
Your voice wavers, but you don’t let it fall apart. “It did,” you whisper. “That’s why I can’t let you back in.”
For a long moment, all you can hear is the faint static of the call. Then —
“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess I deserve that.”
And before you can say anything else, the line goes dead.
You stare at the screen until it goes dark, until your reflection blinks back at you — tired, hollow, shaking. You set the phone down face-first and crawl back into bed.
in which: phainon's world turns upside down when okhema's antique store's assistant comes barrelling into his life. through vase fragments and excavation techniques, he falls for you.
warnings: 4k wc, fluff, antique and history buff!gn!reader, very jealous!phainon, canon compliant but set before *everything*, caelus and mydei are in this fic, phaidei mentions if you REALLY REALLY squint like REALLY squint, reader gets injured (nothing graphic), lots of pining and idiots in love, mentions of food, half-unedited.
a/n: cute fic i thought of not too long ago. i hope you enjoy :) rblgs and likes are vv appreciated !
When Phainon first walked in to the homey antique store of Okhema; Treasure of Ages, ran by Theodoros, he was expecting to find some small pieces here and there, something fitting of the small budget he set for himself. While he was examining the pieces along the shelves, the store door slammed open, the antiques jingling violently from where they were haphazardly aligned.
He faintly registers the sound of Theodoros shouting, but his attention is solely captured by the whirlwind that suddenly shook the store upside down.
His breath hitches when he sees you by the entrance, sheepishly hiding behind the overflowing pile of scrolls in your arms.
"I'm sorry, Theo," you apologise, not noticing the white-haired just yet, passing by him as you dump all your stuff on the counter, "but I just- I had to tell someone about my break through!"
You then begin ranting about… something Phainon can't really register. You're speaking too fast, rambunctious as you whiz through the scrolls, something about excavation, treasure, new discovery.
"That's nice and all, Y/n, but I think you're scaring off a new customer," Theodoros says, and only then do you glance at the man next to you, your hair perfectly framing the enthusiastic fire in your eyes.
That fizzles out when you jump back from the counter.
"Oh, I'm sorry! Welcome to the Treasure of the Ages!" You beam. "I'm the store's assistant, Y/n."
"Y/n," he trials, remembering to blink. "I'm Phainon, of Aedes Elysiae."
"Oh, Aedes Elysiae?"
"You know it?"
"Nope! Maybe from a document I've read, but I've never heard of it. What are you looking for, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae?"
"Uh, something nice," he begins, fiddling with his thumbs. "Maybe not too expensive."
"Sounds doable, how about some vases then? I can think of a few that could sit nicely on some shelves and won't dent your wallet."
Phainon leaves that day with a carefully wrapped antique, some leftover change that he could use on groceries, and a blooming feeling in his chest that intensified every time he recalled your friendly smile. He wasn't expecting it, but maybe he'd just have to be a regular to this little store.
He's still thinking of you days later. The little vase is the first decoration to line his empty bookshelf, and it sits alone in the centre, waiting for some friends.
So, about five days later, after the conclusion of a gruelling meeting with his fellow Chrysos Heirs, Phainon finds himself before the familiar store again. His heart beats a frantic rythym, one so hurried he takes a second to gather himself, lest he falters before the cute assistant that can't seem to leave his mind.
Lucky stars above, you are right by the counter, resting on your hand with a pen between your teeth. Your spine straightens at the jarring chime of the welcome bell.
"Oh, it's you," you sigh. "Phainon, right?"
"I'm honoured you remember."
"Do you remember my name?"
"Of course. How are you, Y/n?"
"Fine," you beam, "how are you, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae?"
"You don't have to say that every time."
"Yeah but it just rolls of the tongue nicely. Anyways, what can I help you with?"
"I'd like to buy another antique. I have a bigger budget this time, and I want to get my vase a friend."
"Oh? How about a plate from Janusopolis from about five hundred centuries ago? Don't eat from it unless you want to be poisoned, but it makes lovely decoration, the paint has been really well preserved and we've actually ethically recovered some of it, too. Does that sound good to you?"
He blinks, "sounds perfect."
"Just kidding! I don't even know if we have that in stock," you giggle before rounding the counter, making a beeline for the shelves that have 'said plates'.
You manage to find one perfect for him, also miraculously within his price range given how genuine it seemed. After a moment of deliberation, you're carefully wrapping the object for him, expert hands accustomed to this routine by now.
"You know a great deal about antiques, Y/n," Phainon begins, hoping the words didn't sound strained or awkward.
"You could say that," you shrug, "I've always liked archeology and history as a kid, I guess it just bled into my current passions."
"What a blessing."
"What are you passionate about?"
"Me?"
You place the wrapped box on the counter, ready for him to take. Then, your fingers drum against the surface as you nod, and Phainon shys away slightly when your inquisitive gaze dawns on him.
"Swordplay, I suppose," he confesses, suddenly terrified that you might find his interest ridiculous.
Yet, you make a noise of surprise; not a bad one, one that had an upward lilt to it and paired nicely with the widening of your eyes. "That's really cool, are you a warrior of sorts?" You lean closer toward him.
"You could say that," he rubs the back of his neck.
"Are you with the Okheman Guard? I hear they run a tight ship."
"Well, I'm actually a Chrysos Heir-"
"-One of the prophesised ones?" You're over the counter at this point, standing on your tippy toes as fascination gleams in your eyes, and his heart jumps at the sight, a warm flush creeping up his neck.
Carrying the weight of the Prophecy was no light feat, especially given how cryptic it was. 'All shall bid farewell to one, and that person alone will witness the miracle' was never an easy sentence to stomach, and Phainon has never bared it with great confidence, always feeling the weight of an imminent demise with each dawn.
Yet, he coughs into his fist and puffs out his chest. "Yes, that'd be me."
"That's so cool," you coo, clasping your hands together. "You're so cool. There's a hero before me."
The two of you continue talking, him about his work and you about yours, until another client walks in a few minutes later. Phainon, not wanting to overstep, takes this as his cue to leave, but not without sparing you one final glance.
He catches a glimpse of the passion in your eyes and the excited smile on your face as you begin talking about some sort of commission— one so expensive and ridiculous that it's expensively ridiculous, before he closes the door behind him.
This time, content sits in his chest, warming him from the inside out. Despite just seeing you, he already can't wait for the next opportunity he gets.
Which doesn't come easy.
He finds out through Theodoros that you actually are one who embarks on journeys alone to try and uncover forgotten relics, having done it for ages. Concern swells in Phainon's gut, and while he admired you for your passion, did you really have to leave the gates of the Holy City just for it? You do know how dangerous it is outside, right? With the black tide lurking and rampant?
Theodoros, as if sensing the man's anxiety, reassures him. You never go too far and you are definitely not reckless enough to go charging headfirst into trouble, and he should trust all your years of experience.
This trip isn't all that bad. While he was disappointed he didn't get to see you, the shopowner teaches Phainon some basics in antique appraisal, how to spot the difference between a genuine and a fake. While the knowledge was certainly priceless, he couldn't swallow down the discontent bubbling in the back of his throat, glancing occassionally at the door, hopeful. Though, you never come.
Phainon wonders if it was pathetic to spend this much energy worrying over someone he's only met two times.
The following week, Phainon sees you polishing some artifacts behind the counter, deep in concentration with knitted eyebrows and your bottom lip slightly jutted out. He hates to be the one to disturb your peace, but your head shoots up and a smile tugs at your lips when you see the white-haired man approach, and he breathes the sight in like fresh hair.
"Hey, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae," you stand straight with your hands on your hips. "Been a while."
"It has, how was your expedition?" He asks.
"How'd you hear of that?"
"I dropped by when you weren't here. Theodoros told me you were out exploring."
"I see. The expedition went well! I recovered a few little pieces which is sometimes the equivalent of hitting the jackpot these days, especially in more rural areas."
"That's exciting. Can I see?"
You nod and let him inspect some of the treasures you've uncovered; something silver, maybe pendant? And what appears to be a fragment of a vase, a few scratches along the surface, it's a bit difficult to see the paints and pattern, but you point out the symbol of Kephale while explaining what it might be depicting.
"From the corner of this fragment, there's what we can make out to be a boulder, and art on medium-quality vases like this is repeated all around because more talented artisans would only work on finer ceramics. So, since on this side, there's an image of a man lunging, as if pushing something, we can conclude that it might be the boulder," you sigh and rest your chin on your hands. "Still, without the whole artifact, I can never figure out the stories on these ceramics. Finds like these can't really be put up for sale, however, unless we sell them for really cheap."
"I'll buy them off you."
You look up at him, stunned, thumbing the pendant. "Really?"
He nods.
"In that case, why don't I just give it to you?"
"You can do that?"
"Why not? It's my find after all, consider it a gift" you extend it out to him, smiling at him with an excited look in your eyes. Phainon glances between the fragment and your expression, debating whether or not to accept your kindness. "Just take it, the fact that you were willing to buy it after all my venting already means a lot."
"It wasn't venting to me. In fact, it was very informative."
You roll your eyes before pushing it into his hands, "take it, please."
"Thanks, Y/n, I'll treasure this for the rest of my life."
"Alright, you don't need to go that far," you giggle. "Hey, Theodoros tells me your appraisal skills been improving, how about we go test them out?"
Phainon, on the walk home, thumbs the piece in his pocket, subtly feeling every rough ridge and pointy edge. In the haze of his memories, he thinks of you, his cheeks flushed and a slight tug at his hamstrings when he recalls your smile, especially in moments when you think he's not looking at you. You're rambling animatedly about the glaze and quality of ancient pottery, and while Phainon is very fascinated, he also can't help but be entranced by the holder.
Would you ever see him in the same way?
Phainon falls to the hard ground with an ungraceful grunt, the wooden sword clattering out of his hands.
"Why so distracted, Deliverer?" Comes the gruff voice of a certain Kremnoan Prince.
The white-haired laughs, pushing himself to his feet. "I've just been thinking a lot, you should try it out sometime, Mydei."
Mydei scoffs, "and when Nikador pierces his blade through your thoracic cavity, will you conjure up the same excuse?"
"Ah, perhaps I concede."
"What are you even preoccupied with? Your blatantly concealed infatuation on the assistant of that antique store?"
"Hey- hey, not so loud now!"
"Well it's not as if Y/n will be walking by-"
"I wouldn't be walking by? Why not?" At the sound of that familiar voice, Phainon's heart drops to his stomach, a panic that flattens his very being and renders him speechless for a few seconds.
You stand before him, clueless and confused, head slightly tilted. Except he had never seen you in the eternal sunshine of Okhema before, always meeting you with dust filtering through the sunlight as you rambled excitedly under the safe roof of Treasure of Ages.
"I- uh, hey Y/n!" Phainon stammers, adjusting his clothes as he ignores the heat crawling up his neck.
"Hi, Phainon, nice to see you. Were you guys talking about me?"
"Must have been the wind," Mydei mutters for his friend, who has his heart stuck in his throat, jamming any coherent sentences from exiting.
"Maybe it was another Y/n," you shrug.
Finally, the swordsman recovers. "Ah, I don't think you two have met. Y/n, Mydeimos, Mydeimos, Y/n."
The tattooed man gives you a curt nod. "Pleasure to meet you."
"No, it's my honour to meet such an important figure," you clasp your hands behind your back. "I've always been fascinated with Kremnoan history and craftsmanship. That necklace of yours, it's a royal insignia or status of prominence isn't it? The blue gems also give it away given how rare they are, and also the carving of the symbols on the gold, this definitely was created by a craftsman of the greatest talent, it almost makes me envious."
"You're good," is all Mydei says, but the subtle raise of his eyebrow tells more than he lets on.
"I could be better. The ruins of Kremnos are a bit too far for me to travel by foot, so I've never really had the chance to learn."
"And this implies you've been to… the ruin of other city states?" Phainon interrupts, taking your sentence out of context.
"That's confidential," you point a finger in his face. "And for both of our's sake, lets just say the answer is a firm 'no'."
"If it's Kremnos' history you want to know about, you can always come to me."
"Wait- really? Oh, this might be the best thing I've heard in ages! First hand information from the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos-"
Phainon interrupts your excitement with palpable envy, obvious to everyone but you. "How about we continue this conversation for another time?"
"Oh, great idea actually, I have somewhere to be."
"Does that mean you have no time to spare for lunch?" Phainon asks. "I hardly see you outside the workshop, I was hoping to spend some time together."
"That sounds great, but I've already for a lunch date planned!"
Such simple words, yet the shift in the air was almost tangible. Mydei feels it, like a warrior's instinct, he can sense impending danger, especially when the source was so close to him.
Mountains moved, the seas stilled, and Phainon's right cheek twitches.
Lunch date? Date? Date?!?
"Really?" He asks with an over-exaggerated smile that masked something inherently ugly.
"Yeah, lunch date with some treasure map," you grumble.
Suddenly, the mountains crumble back to the way they where, the seas begin crashing against the shore again, and Phainon's back slumps with relief. It's unbelievable how a man's feelings can be so overwhelming to everyone except the recipient.
"I'm exploring a new area during lunch today. Sucks, but whatever, I'll just have a big dinner or something."
"Oh," the white-haired breathes, feeling the thundering of his heart quell. "Shouldn't you have something to eat now, then?"
"I'm fine!"
"Y/n, you need the energy if you're going to be out in the field."
"It's fine, I promise. It gets troublesome having to go back and forth between excavation and eating something with dirty hands."
The concerned look never really fades from Phainon's expression,
After that embarrassing encounter that left Phainon's cheeks red for the remainder of the day, he begins pondering when he felt so uncontrollably… territorial over you. Every so often, his mind would wander over to you, to those long, gruelling hours spent with gravel crackling under the sole of your shoe, to the heavy weight on your back as you'd traverse through overgrown paths, left untouched after years of neglect. He wonders if you're safe, and anxiously waits for a text from you that lets him know you've returned to Okhema.
Then, he thinks about your conversation with Mydei.
Who else in your life are you rambling about ceramics with? Who else in your life has been enraptured by your love for history? Who else in your life is he competing against for your affection?
These seeds that have planted themselves in his chest blossoms into something uncontrollably and ugly, especially when Caelus, an admirable outlander from beyond the sky also worms his way into your presence. Phainon finds the two of you outside the shop one day, standing with a large map in between, blissfully unaware of his approaching presence.
Despite how quickly his footsteps echoed around the market, Phainon tells himself that it's not a big deal that the two of you are so friendly. It's not a big deal that you're standing so close to him. It's not a big deal when Caelus asks if he can come on your expedition.
"Wait, I could have asked to accompany you this whole time?" The Hero of Okhema guffaws.
"Well- maybe not the whole time, but times when I leave for personal discoveries, I wouldn't have seen why not."
"I didn't know, otherwise I would have loved to join you!"
"Then come with us now. I wouldn't mind for where we're headed today, maybe I could use a few fighters to protect me."
With that, something within Phainon snaps. Something competitive.
Whenever you would ask for help carrying something- your bag, a toolkit for excavations, or even just your water bottle, he was eager to help no matter the size or weight. Everything you have pales in comparison to the heavy claymore he wields, and what was the point of having remarkable strength if he couldn't show it off?
He's proudest of his arms, and he was determined to show you just how hard he works for them.
On the way, if there were paths infested with titankin, Phainon would leap into action, weapon manifesting into his hand as he clears the stone creatures with ease, beaming at you like a dog awaiting a treat.
"That was… really impressive," you murmur, bewildered. "Normally, I just take long routes to avoid them, or stake it out until they move."
"Really? Well, next time you need a titankin exterminator, keep me in mind!"
"I will, thanks Phainon. Let's keep moving guys, we might actually get home earlier than expected if our great hero here can keep clearing the path for us."
Caelus glances at the white-haired with a knowing look, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as you continued on ahead without the two. Phainon just rubs the back of his head before running after you.
As you uncover chest after chest, all with hidden goodies inside, it's Curtain-Fall Hour by the time you return to Okhema. You and Caelus both haul a considerable bag of goods over your shoulders, while Phainon held multiple without showing a single sign of struggle, save for a droplet of sweat. When either of you offered to lessen his load, he simply brushed it off, and told you to keep going.
When you're back in the safety of the gates, Caelus parts first while Phainon insisted on walking you to your door, which thankfully was not far from Marmoreal Palace.
"This might be the most luck I've had with any expedition," you say with a grunt, gently lowering your bag to the floor. "I can't believe everything we managed to find, however, I'd like to say the efficiency was because of the two warriors I had by my side."
"Aw c'mon, I defeated way more titankin than Caelus."
You giggle, "alright, majority of our efficiency was because of you. Does that soothe your ego?"
"It does, thank you very much. So, anymore expeditions coming up?"
"Yes, actually. A private one though, so I'll have to embark on this one alone."
Phainon slumps, "that's a shame, I would have loved to go on another one with you."
"We'll get the chance! I'll think about personally inviting you every time I can."
"That sound great, actually."
"I'm glad we agree. Thank you for today, Phainon, I think it's time for you to go home and get some rest-"
"So, when will you be back from your expedition?"
You blink, "I set off in two days, you'll probably see me at Theodoros' in three. It won't take long."
He nods. "I'll see you then."
"See you then."
Premonition tugs at Phainon's gut as he approaches Treasure of Ages.
It's not a feeling that's easy to swallow, if anything, it carries him to the storefront and settles uncomfortably when he sees you're not behind the counter, nor near the shelves, or anywhere in the store for that matter. It's quiet, interior lacking the one person who keeps it vibrant for him.
He almost doesn't want to ask Theodoros where you might be.
"In the medical wing, Y/n came back with a pretty nasty injury and-"
It's all Phainon needs to hear before he's practically bolting across Okhema, unthinking of anything but your condition. From the lack of urgency in Theodoros' voice, it might not have been serious, but he refuses to believe anything until he sees it for himself.
Thankfully, you are well and conscious, just bedridden as your ankle is elevated by a sling. Your eyes widen with surprise when they meet his and you try to sit up slightly to greet him.
"Phainon?" You say, baffled by his presence.
"Are you alright?" He asks frantically, rushing to your bedside, his hands digging into the sheets that you rest on.
"I-I'm fine."
The normal, mischevious blues of his eyes are replaced with pure panic that intently scan your face for any signs of discomfort, so intense that you cower slightly underneath the attention. Not even the nurse showed this much concern, not because she was terrible at her job, but because you had deflected all of her concerns like a mirror.
"How'd you know I was here?"
"I came to the shop, Theodoros told me you were injured on your expedition."
"Ah, well, maybe just a tiny bit."
"Just a tiny bit? Yeah, right, what happened?"
"I just sprained my ankle, that's all."
"Where?"
"Roughly halfway of my journey home," you speculate, "could have been further, though! I hobbled back just in time."
He frowned, "this is why you should always have someone with you."
"That's unrealistic, as much as I would like an exploration buddy, everyone has their own lives, they shouldn't spend it going antique-hunting with me."
"I wouldn't mind that…"
"And give up your duty as Okhema's protector?" You scoff, "no way that's happening. Lady Aglaea would have my head right off and sew it back on."
"Fine, then can you promise me you won't go adventuring while you're still healing?"
"That's possible, there's still a ton of artifacts I need to go through from our expedition, but… staying cooped up all day is going to be so boring."
"You need the time to heal, Y/n," he says matter-of-factly. "I'll be checking up on you everyday so don't even try to rebel against the doctor's orders."
"Fine," you cross your arms, turning your nose away from him, but there's a ghost of a grin playing along your lips. "Thanks for your concern, Phainon. It's nice to have someone who cares this much about me."
That fleeting feeling in his gut returns, but this time its not premonition; something lighter, more pleasant. It's his heart that speaks this time, almost begging to be freed, otherwise these feelings of his might not survive being blanketed for another few months.
The words tumble out before he can stop them.
"Well, it's only natural to care about someone you like."
"Phainon, that's so sweet, I like you too! That's why you're one of my closest friends."
Phainon's jaw drops, and he's utterly speechless as your words pierce through his heart, settling heavy in his chest. So much for a light, airy feeling in his chest.
The silence that follows is deafening, and it's in the sudden awkwardness that you realise your mistake; perhaps a few seconds too late.
"Wait— as in, romantically?" You splutter.
"It's okay if you don't mean it romantically!"
"No, no, I- this is so awkward, I do like you, Phainon, but I thought you were already… interested in someone else maybe..? So I always felt horrible about… having feelings for you?"
"Me? Interested in who?"
"Someone you spend almost everyday with... maybe?"
"You don't mean-"
"And even if it that wasn't the case, your social circle is far more impressive than mine, and you know so many incredible people, I just thought you'd never look at me that way."
Titans, you are so daft. "But Y/n, you are one of those 'incredible people'."
"All I do is dig at dirt and find shiny things."
"That is a criminal oversimplification and you know it."
"It's still a criminally simple line of work compared to what your friends do. Can you really compare me to a future demigod, or powerful outlanders?"
"That doesn't undermine what you do, or make your passions any lesser. History is an important part of culture, just as much as our future, and it's only thanks to your wisdom that we get to interpret it!"
You blink. "That's really nice, I appreciate it."
He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed by how enthused he was. "So… would you like to go out sometime, then? Maybe when you're healed and not bedridden?"
various genshin impact men being silly while drunk. (includes: childe, kaeya, diluc, kazuha, itto, ayato, thoma, wriothesley, zhongli)
Childe
It’s rare for you to see Ajax actually drunk. He’s usually too careful, too practiced in keeping himself sharp for missions and appearances. But tonight, with the weight of Fatui business lifted for a few hours and you by his side, he’s had a little too much wine.
He leans across the tavern table, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy with that mischievous spark. “Can you be my girlfriend?”
You blink at him. “…Ajax. I already am.”
His mouth drops open like you’ve just gifted him a miracle. “You are?!” He throws his arms around your shoulders, nearly knocking the empty bottle onto the floor. “Oh, lucky me! I must be the happiest man in Teyvat! Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about you saying yes?”
You laugh, patting his back. “About two years ago, when you asked the first time?”
He pulls back, frowning in exaggerated shock. “Wait. Don’t tell me this is a dream. Because if it is, I’ll just have to—” He clenches his fist dramatically— “punch the dream until it’s real!”
“Ajax, that’s not how dreams work.”
“It is in Snezhnaya.”
⸻
Kaeya
You were only supposed to be sharing a quiet drink with Kaeya at the tavern. Somehow, three drinks became six, and Kaeya’s usual smooth composure is… looser now, his smirk lazier, his laugh louder.
He leans heavily against the bar counter, gazing upward. “Oh, look at the stars! Ursa Major… so beautiful.”
You follow his line of sight, only to deadpan. “Kaeya, we’re inside. Those are ceiling lights.”
He tilts his head, long lashes fluttering as though he’s truly considering your words. Then, with a grin, he props his chin in his palm. “Then I must say… Mondstadt’s interior decorators are criminally underrated. Almost as dazzling as you.”
You snort into your drink. “You flirt like this sober, too. What’s your excuse now?”
“My excuse,” he says smoothly, though his hiccup ruins the effect, “is that wine makes me honest.”
⸻
Diluc
Diluc doesn’t drink much. In fact, he usually avoids it. But Kaeya had been in one of his pestering moods, and against all odds, the brooding owner of Dawn Winery had agreed to join in. Three glasses later, he is swaying slightly in his seat, brows furrowed like a scolded child.
You stand to leave for just a moment. “I’m going to the restroom.”
His hand shoots out, gripping your sleeve with surprising desperation. “Please don’t leave me!”
You freeze. “Diluc, I’ll be gone for two minutes.”
His red eyes widen, glassy and dramatic. “Two minutes is long enough for tragedy to strike.”
You raise an eyebrow. “What kind of tragedy could possibly happen in two minutes?”
He leans forward, voice low and serious. “…You might not come back.”
You sigh. “Diluc, do you want to come with me?”
He nods solemnly. “Yes.”
“…No.”
⸻
Kazuha
The night air is cool, carrying the smell of sea salt. You sit with Kazuha on a grassy hill, a bottle of sake long since emptied beside you. He’s lying flat on his back, watching the drifting clouds, an uncharacteristic grin plastered on his face.
Suddenly, he lifts his arm above him and lets it flop uselessly to the side. “My arm is floppy. I’m like a puppet.”
You laugh. “You’re supposed to be a disciplined swordsman, Kazuha.”
“Disciplined puppet,” he corrects, rolling onto his side to look at you, his eyes bright in the moonlight. “Would you still travel with me if I were just… strings and wood?”
You tilt your head, pretending to consider. “Hm. Only if you recited poetry in a funny puppet voice.”
Kazuha bursts into laughter, clutching his stomach. “Then I’d be the happiest puppet alive.”
⸻
Zhongli
Zhongli rarely indulges in wine, but tonight Hu Tao had insisted he “live a little,” and the usually composed consultant has… softened.
You sit with him on a bench, the glow of Liyue Harbor’s lanterns surrounding you. He gazes at one of the posts nearby, eyes distant and thoughtful. “You look almost as pretty as this moon.”
You follow his gaze. “…Zhongli, that’s a street lamp.”
He hums, lips quirking slightly. “Indeed. And yet, somehow… you are almost as pretty as that.”
You blink at him. “…Are you seriously comparing me to a lamp?”
He nods sagely, like he’s reciting scripture. “A lamp, too, guides the lost traveler home.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Drunk Zhongli is just poetic nonsense with worse metaphors.”
⸻
Wriothesley
You never thought you’d see Wriothesley drunk, but someone smuggled strong wine into the Fortress, and he hadn’t refused. Now, sitting across from you, he’s slouched in his chair, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Have you ever thought about penguins?” he asks suddenly.
You choke on your drink. “…Penguins?”
“Yeah.” He points at you, deadly serious but clearly tipsy. “I think we should think more about penguins. They’re small, stubborn, walk around looking like they’re wearing suits…” He grins. “Kinda like me, right?”
You burst into laughter, nearly crying. “You are never living this down.”
“Good,” he says, resting his chin on his hand. “Then I’ll be your favorite penguin forever.”
⸻
Arataki Itto
Itto is not new to being drunk. He is new, however, to realizing he’s dislocated his shoulder mid-drinking game.
“Let’s go play baseball!” he bellows, holding an empty sake bottle like a bat.
You gape at him. “Your shoulder is dislocated, maybe not right now.”
He looks at his arm like he’s just noticed it hanging at an odd angle. Then he grins wide, teeth flashing. “Hah! You’re right—Arataki ‘One-Armed Wonder’ Itto, swinging for the fences!”
You groan. “Archons save me.”
“Don’t worry, babe! I’ll hit a home run with one arm and a hangover. That’s the Itto promise!”
⸻
Ayato
Ayato is one of those people who looks elegant even when drunk. But his words… well, his words betray him.
“You have a stupid face,” he says smoothly, sipping his wine like it’s fine tea, “and it’s my favorite one to stare at.”
You nearly choke. “…Did you just—?”
He tilts his head, smirking, the tipsiness only evident in the slight pink of his cheeks. “Don’t make me repeat myself, darling. I meant every word.”
You cover your face with your hands, groaning. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love with you, yes,” he says without missing a beat.
⸻
Thoma
You’ve lost track of how many cups Thoma has had, but his cheer hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it’s doubled.
“I will definitely remember this tomorrow!” he declares, pointing a little unsteadily at you. “How could I ever forget?”
You cross your arms. “You never remember when you drink.”
“That’s slander. Absolute—hic—slander.” He leans forward, eyes already drooping. “Tomorrow, I’ll prove you wrong.”
Tomorrow: he remembers nothing.
“See?” you tell him, arms crossed. “What did I say?”
He stares at you blankly, still nursing his headache. “…Did I propose to you or fight Itto last night?”
“Both.”
⸻
i found these “drunk dialogue” prompts on Pinterest and decided to make the about my favorite sillies
anyways I’m Delia, this is a side blog and most of what i post i have written months if not years ago lol. these wips have been sitting in my docs for forever now so i decided to give them their own space, thats why i’ll be posting a lot daily. when i run out of stuff i have already written i will start writing stuff that’s a bit more up to date with the Genshin and Star Rail fandoms.
Asks and requests are encouraged!! they are what get me out of my writing slumps and i love bringing people’s ideas to life.
I also do NOT give anyone permission to feed my works into AI. anyone who comments or asks that i turn a certain piece into a chat bot will be blocked.
i also ask minors to stay mindful, anything of mine that is rated above PG13 will be tagged and it will be up to you yourself, to not interact with it. stay safe and sane out there guys.
I’m 22 and have been playing both genshin and star rail since their release (even tho its been months since i touched genshin. i got a bit burnt out) english is also NOT my first language so any mistake that i make is on purpose because i have no respect for this language.
It’s late here in Liyue. The streets are quiet, the waves are brushing against the docks like they’re whispering secrets — and still, all I can think about is you. Funny, isn’t it? I came here chasing challenge, craving battle, but the only thing that makes my heart race these days is the thought of you. I miss you more than I’ll ever admit out loud. The bed feels colder, the nights longer, and the mornings… gods, I almost called your name when I woke up the other day. You’d probably laugh at me for it.
How are things back home? Has Teucer been behaving? Tell Tonia and Anton that their big brother’s still alive and causing trouble, as usual. I hope they’re keeping you company — though, knowing my siblings, they’ve probably wrapped you around their little fingers by now. You always were too soft with them, dorogaya. Not that I’m complaining. The thought of you sitting with them by the fire, snow falling outside, makes this distance a little easier to bear.
Liyue’s beautiful — full of golden light and ambition — but it’s missing something. It’s missing you. Every time I walk the harbor, I find myself looking for your face in the crowd. I swear I can almost feel your touch when the wind shifts — that same warmth from the nights we spent tangled up together under the sheets, when you whispered my name like it was something sacred. You’d trace my scars with your fingers and tell me they made me real. No one’s ever done that before. No one’s ever seen me the way you do.
You’d laugh if you saw me now — the great Childe, Harbinger of the Tsaritsa, brought to his knees by the memory of a kiss. Moyo solnyshko, you’ve ruined me in the best way. I still carry that little ribbon you tied around my wrist before I left. I don’t think I’ll take it off.
Take care of yourself, and don’t let the cold get to you. When I return, I’ll need you to warm me up properly — and you know exactly how.
you could be sitting in a pool of your own blood, lips dry and cracked and skin so deathly pale that you look almost dead, and he would still look at you as if you've kissed life into every being on this planet. aka ; you've fallen ill and your boyfriend takes advantage of that.
feat. phainon & gn!reader
warnings : fluff, established relationship, modern au, entirely self indulgent boohoo, phainon.
w.c. : 2.4k
note : guess who lost the battle w my cold?? orz i was in the TRENCHES so this is my light and short comfort fic of what i wished happened while i was asleep for 18+ hrs again to heal from this illness + sore throat orz no phainon to care me but that also means no phaicham homemade soup so... a win is a win ig nodnod
Phainon loves everything about you.
He loves how your eyes avert from his whenever he compliments you, always admiring the way you fidget underneath his gaze and deny his words or tell him to 'be quiet' with a gentle shove. He loves it when your eyes visibly light up when he mentions grabbing a sweet treat after stuffing your faces from dinner despite your comment of not having enough room for anything else.
They're his favorite color on you and he never misses a moment to remind you again and again.
He adores the feeling of your body on his when he grabs something out of your reach and you're desperately jumping up to snatch it away from him. He adores the soft and warm your hand is when he swiftly slides his palms into yours and how your eyes widen at the fingers that have suddenly appeared interlocked in yours. His rough callouses, his prized possessions from both farming with his parents back home and from his dedication to keeping his body in shape, are a stark contrast to how smooth your hands are, and yet it's where his hand loves to be.
You never pull away, even when you're mad at him for whatever shenanigans he has pulled prior.
He cherishes the tender, love filled gaze directed at him when he rests his head on your lap after a long day. Phainon could stare into them all day if he could, but you always shy away when you've noticed how long he has been watching you. With your fingers buried in his fluffy hair, the gentle massage against his scalp soothes all of his worries away. It's quiet moments like these where you're free to show him affection through your touch or from whispered compliments, a rare occasion from you but he never minds; it's still your love and he would do anything to be the recipient of it.
He could be facing the worst fate in the world for the 33,550,336th time, but a single touch from you, a mere whisper of his name even, would be enough to give him the hope that everything will be okay. As long as you remain by Phainon's side, as long as you continue to love him in the special way that you do, he feels near invincible.
However, out of all the things that he loves about you, Phainon especially loves it when he has the perfect chance to shower you in his favorite love language: annoying you affectionately beyond compare, especially when you've been vocally and physically incapacitated by the cold that has seized your body.
phaicham (6:45 PM) : so... you're bedridden and can't speak because of your sore throat with no access to any soup or medicine? say less, my beloved. your precious knight is On my way!
you (6:46 PM) : pls don't come here. you'll get sick too.
you (6:50 PM) : Phainon. I'm being serious do not come here.
Read 6:50 PM
The text shines harshly against your tired eyes in the midst of your softly lit room. The warm light of the fairy lights delicately hanging off of your wells are gentle on your eyes and provide just enough light for your sickly body to see but not enough to hurt.
It's warm in your room due to the summer heat and you're in a perpetual state of hell with the air conditioning blasting air that's too cool for your body without your duvet on and your body overheating in seconds and sweating your butt off should you have your duvet on. So you do the next best thing and have half of your body sprawled out from your blanket and the other haphazardly tucked underneath to equalize the use of both temperatures.
Is it working? Absolutely not, but you don't care; this is the most comfortable you're going to get before the storm that you unfortunately love with all your heart arrives.
You know damn well that your very loving and especially doting boyfriend is not joking about being on his way to care for you, and you mentally groan at the thought of having to weakly fend for your life against his actions towards you knowing full well your physical limits for today.
Not that you hate them... but affection is something you're working on accepting and Phainon is never one to hold back on sharing his affections towards you either physically or verbally. And if he were to start being physically loving to you, which no doubtedly he will be, there's a definite chance that he can catch whatever you have and the thought of your lover, bright and full of warmth, sick in bed does make you worry.
In the midst of your pitiful lamenting of having a lover that loves you so much, the jingling of keys perks your ears up and your eyes snap up to your bedroom door. There's a brief pause as you hear your front door swing open and close, then footsteps. They walk around your apartment for a brief moment before they get closer and closer to your bedroom door until-
Beautiful seas of sky blue peer at you through the sliver of space from your cracked door. They assess your situation, scanning your demeanor, and only when he realizes that you're not sleeping does your boyfriend fully reveal himself.
He's wearing something simple — a black form fitted shirt and a pair of comfy grey sweatpants — and yet he looks just as charming as he usually does. His eyes, always shining with adoration aimed only at you, flit over your pitiful figure on your bed and his eyebrows tilt upwards in a sympathetic smile.
"Look at you, sweetheart. You look so miserable," Phainon coos, kneeling down at your height. His fingers brush against your forehead and blue eyes narrow at the sweat on your forehead. "It's so warm in here. Why didn't you turn on the air conditioning?"
You meekly croak something in response, an attempt to respond to your lover but with your sore throat all you can manage is a hoarse and breathy noise. Phainon blinks in surprise, the surprise of your voice shocking him for a mere moment before he chuckles softly.
"I didn't know it was this bad. Let me get you some food in your system before we take your medicine."
You've drifted off in the brief time that your boyfriend had left your room; you're so used to the slight burn of your eyes as your eyelids close and the dry pain of your throat with every gulp that at this point it's almost comforting to you. It's quiet in your room with the only sounds you can hear, outside of your haggard breathing, being the distant humming of your lover in the kitchen and the faint buzz of the kitchen lights through the cracked door of your room.
Though the thought of Phainon cooking in the kitchen worries you — he's not known for his ability to cook — the dry pain itching in the back of your throat distracts you from the reality of your kitchen possibly burning down. Rather, it's more comforting knowing that there's someone home with you with the intentions of caring for you in your time in need.
Even if that someone could easily make your situation much more worse than it already is.
There's a gentle a knock on your door and your eyes open just as your boyfriend reappears into your bedroom with a steaming bowl of soup in his hands. As you breathe in, there's a nasty, wet congested noise from your nose and blood flushes to your face as Phainon hears the brunt of how sickly you are.
A weak apology attempts to leave your lips, but your lover pays you no mind. With a simple smile tugging at his lips and his brows pulled upwards, he gives you a look of pity before your bed dips a little as he takes a seat at your bedside.
"Don't worry about it, darling. Come on, let's get you up." His voice is so gentle, a timbre that you're so familiar with and one that tugs at your heartstrings from the contrast of the delicate way he's treating you and the abrasive whispers that you're limited to.
The soupy broth before you is steaming, fresh off of the stove, and to your surprise it looks and smells appetizing. There's carefully chopped carrots floating in the yellow-ish liquid, bits of celery here and there, and small chunks of chicken — a tantalizing bowl chicken noodle soup perfect for your sore throat and light enough for your poor stomach.
It looks and smells perfect. A little too perfect.
As if reading your thoughts, Phainon chuckles softly from beside you and your eyes flit over to your boyfriend. Eyes of azure are twinkling with mirth and, through the cold fighting through your body, the warmth of your blood rushes to your cheeks at being caught making faces at the small bowl of soup.
"You're furrowing your brows; is my cooking really usually that bad?" Phainon asks you, tilting his head and in this moment you're reminded of just how similar he is to his fluffy dog back in his hometown. You turn your head to the side briefly to give your lover a side eye — he laughs even harder.
"Relax, I asked Mydei to make some soup for you and he wrote very clear instructions on how to heat it up so I wouldn't ruin it. Don't worry, I'm not poisoning you, sweetheart."
Relief floods your system and your body immediately relaxes knowing that you weren't about to be fed some rancid tasting soup. Slowly, your hands raise to take the steaming bowl away from your lover and fill your stomach with something for the day, but as your fingers touch the warm ceramic of the bowl, it's pulled away from your reach.
A quizzical look spreads across your face and with an eyebrow raised, you look up at your boyfriend who's smiling at you cheekily. Something is brewing in that thick head of his and you know for sure you aren't going to like it.
"Hm, what was that?" Phainon begins, his eyes never leaving yours with mischief dancing dangerously in those hues of blue that you love so much. "You want your devilishly handsome and loving boyfriend to feed you soup because your hands are so feeble and sickly that you can't lift the bowl properly?"
There it is.
Your lips part, but all you can manage to get out is a gruff whisper and a shake of your head. Your fingers reach for the bowl again, but you're dreadfully reminded of your boyfriend's towering height compared to yours and how often he abuses it.
"Don't worry, since I love you so much I'll do what you ask for and feed you, sweetheart."
Your glare is near lethal, pointed daggers directed at the teasing smile growing on Phainon's lips, spoon full of soup held carefully in front of your lips. You're tempted to curl up back underneath the blankets and deny him the satisfaction of getting under your skin, but the soup smells so decadent and heavenly….
The steaming broth, light in flavor but delicious nonetheless, warms your throat almost immediately and the sharp, biting pain that flared up with every breath slowly fades away with each spoonful. Embarrassing as it is to be spoonfed something you could easily eat independently, there's something so tender about being cared for that moves your heart; Phainon's quiet hums as he gently gets you to part your lips for the spoon, his soft touches as he wipes away any dribble of broth that escapes the corners of your mouth, and the never ending fond and affectionate gaze that settles on you.
His love envelopes you in warmth, like the blazing flames residing in the hearth of a home. He is the sun incarnate shining down brilliantly with his golden rays just to melt away the cold that seeps at the edge of your fingertips. His love is ardent and bright and you cannot hide from the sun no matter how hard you tried to; light always finds a way to break through even the darkest corners.
Though, at this point you don't ever want to. Phainon's love is bright and passionate, nearly all-consuming.
And it's addicting.
"I love you."
There's a shrill clang as the spoon clatters into the ceramic bowl and a gasp from your boyfriend. Though small and slightly raspy, the words that have slipped from your lips are as clear as day. With quick movements, the bowl is hastily placed on your nightstand and a trembling, warm hand encases your own.
"Say that again, won't you?" His voice is shaking, a quiet whisper as if any decibel higher would shatter this moment.
"I love you, Phainon."
As his name slips out in a hoarse murmur, Phainon wastes no time in cupping your jaw in his hands. With a soft murmur of your name, his lips are on yours before you know it. He's kissing you with a fervor that you're all too familiar with; gentle and affectionate, yet he yearns for more and he isn't afraid of being greedy with you.
A kiss that's just like him.
He's insatiable when it comes to you. It doesn't matter how much he takes from you, how much attention he devours or how many devoted kisses he can steal before you slip away from his fingers, he'll always want more, more, and more.
"Stop, you'll get sick…!" You manage to get out as your hands swiftly reach up to press against Phainon's lips and push him away from you. Endless blue eyes peer into your own, engulfing you with a desire only held back by your palm. A large hand wraps around your wrist, holding it gently as he kisses into your hand before freeing his lips.
"I don't care. Let me kiss you, please?" His kisses trail down from the center of your palm to your inner wrist, the light touch sending shivers up your arm.
"Please?"
Every thought in your mind is screaming at you to be rational about this; say no to your boyfriend and deal with his pouting for the sake of his health and wellbeing.
But his love is addicting and he is so addicting to love.
You follow what your heart tells you. You don't fight him when he leans forward to capture your lips in another kiss, this time his passion overflows into you and your hands find their solace in the sea of soft white tufts. Quiet whispers of affection, 'I love you's mumbled against your lips, and a man who yearns for your entire being fills your heart with the love you so crave.
And you don't pull away, not like you would ever want to.
5 Times Phainon Thinks “I Love You” (And the 1 Time He Says It) (Phainon x Reader Oneshot)
Synopsis: Laughter, protectiveness, quiet peace, raw vulnerability, desperate intimacy. Each moment brings Phainon closer to saying the truth he can’t hide anymore: he loves you.
A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for about a month. It’s a full rollercoaster: fluff, angst, smut, and confessions. Phainon gets to be playful, eloquent, protective, vulnerable, messy, and honest. I love him for all of it. This is written as a standalone, but in my mind it follows after Shared Smiles.
Word count: 5518
Warnings: MDNI. Smut-ish intimacy (not fully explicit but mature themes in part 5). Light panic attack / anxiety episode (Phainon in part 4). Fluff. Intimacy. Tenderness. Love Confessions.
✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦
1: Laughter
The festival game vendor is incredibly insistent. “Three throws, Lord Phainon! Surely the hero of Okhema can best a simple ring toss?”
Phainon opens his mouth with what you recognize as his “polite public deflection” expression. The one that somehow makes people feel honored to be gently refused. But you’ve already pressed coins into the vendor’s palm and shoved three rings into Phainon’s hands before he can deploy his diplomatic exit.
“I don’t think—” he starts.
“Don’t think,” you say, grinning. “Just throw.”
His first toss misses spectacularly, the ring bouncing off the back wall with a clatter that draws attention from nearby festival-goers. His second somehow manages to loop around the vendor’s hat rather than any of the bottles. By the third, a small crowd has gathered, and Phainon’s composure is visibly fracturing.
“This is—” He tries to maintain dignity. “The physics are clearly—”
“Rigged?” you offer helpfully.
“I was going to say ‘probabilistically unfavorable.’”
“That’s just a fancy way of saying you’re bad at festival games.”
The laugh that escapes Phainon is startled and genuine. Not the controlled, musical sound he uses in public, but something brighter and younger. He presses his hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking with the effort to contain it.
And that only makes it worse. You’re laughing too, helpless against the absurdity of watching the great hero of Okhema be defeated by wooden bottles.
“Compose yourself, my dawnlight,” Phainon whispers, but his blue eyes are shining, betraying him completely.
Another laugh breaks through his attempt at gravity, and he gives up entirely, doubling over with you in the shadow of the festival tent.
“Next one?” You ask him, wiggling your eyebrows in an exaggerated manner. Phainon tries to stay composed but breaks into laughter.
When he catches himself again, he sighs theatrically and puts a hand on his hip. “Do you enjoy seeing me fail this much?”
“Maybe a little,” you admit and kiss him on the cheek. Phainon laughs another time, and the sound goes right into your pores. “Mostly because you look so endearing when you give it your all.” You raise on your toes and kiss him shortly behind his ear. “Not just endearing, though,” you mumble lowly, and you feel his pulse quicken.
Phainon clears his throat loudly and pulls you toward him by the waist. "Lead the way then."
You head straight for a strength tester. One of those games where you strike a pad with a mallet to send a marker up a tower. Surely this will go better than the ring toss.
Phainon takes the mallet, weighs it in his hands with scholarly assessment, and swings. The marker barely reaches the first level. His eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise.
You call his name in encouragement. He shoots you a look somewhere between frustration and amusement, then tries again. And again. By the fourth attempt, he's stopped trying to win and started analyzing.
"The fulcrum is intentionally offset," Phainon mutters, gesturing at the mechanism with the mallet. "And the weight distribution—" He turns to explain the physics to you in detail, complete with hand gestures, entirely forgetting he's still holding the mallet and blocking other customers.
The vendor clears his throat pointedly.
"Ah." Phainon has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Perhaps we should—"
You're already tugging him away by the hand, both of you dissolving into laughter at his inability to just accept defeat without turning it into an academic lecture. His shoulders shake with it, that bright, unguarded sound that makes your chest feel too full.
When Phainon finally straightens, wiping his eyes, you catch something in his expression. Wonder, maybe, or surprise at himself. Like he’s forgotten he could sound like that. Be like that.
“You’re terrible for my reputation,” Phainon says, but there’s no reproach in it. Only warmth. He pulls you in his arms, pressing soft kisses onto your hair. Three kisses, one for each failed attempt and a reminder of how easily you make him laugh.
I love you, Phainon thinks, the realization settling in his chest with unexpected certainty. I love how you make me forget to perform.
He doesn’t say it. Instead, he tucks it behind a grin he didn’t know he had and buys you candy and a sun-shaped plushie with hands that are still shaking from laughter.
Later, when the plushie sits on the windowsill, its smile catching the lamplight, Phainon will glance at it and remember. Not only the festival and the laughter, but the way you looked at him as if even his failures were golden.
✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦
2: Public Defense
Phainon is drawing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb, occasionally humming softly. He pulls you closer to his side when the discussions grow more heated. You’re at a public gathering. One of those tedious political salons where Okhema’s elite pretend civility masks ambition.
It’s been predictably dull until someone decides you’re fair game.
“Though one must wonder,” the merchant’s wife says, voice dripping with false sweetness as she surveys you over her glass, “what qualifications our dear Lord Phainon’s companion brings to these discussions.” A delicate pause, perfectly timed for maximum damage. “Beyond the obvious… companionship, naturally. Though I suppose that’s qualification enough for some.”
Scattered titters ripple through nearby guests. The implication hangs in the air like poison. That you’re decorative, not substantive. That your presence at Phainon’s side is transactional rather than earned.
You feel Phainon go still beside you, the quality of his silence changing from polite attention to something far more dangerous. The circles his thumb had been tracing on your hand stop. His grip tightens slightly.
“Curious.” His voice cuts through the murmurs with perfect pleasantness, warm as sunlight and sharp as broken glass. He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t need to. The room orients toward him anyway, conversations dying as people sense blood in the water. “You ask for credentials only when the evidence threatens your assumptions. I wonder why that is.”
He lets the question hang, rhetorical and cutting. “My companion has spent the past month cataloging corruption patterns that our most esteemed scholars”—the emphasis is subtle but devastating—“missed for years. Patterns that, had they been identified earlier, might have saved the areas and settlements we lost.”
The temperature in the room drops. He’s made it about lives, not pride.
“In fact, my companion has identified three critical supply route inefficiencies that will save Okhema not hundreds, but thousands in resources—resources we desperately need. All of this has been done without demanding recognition, without requesting title or position, without once leveraging proximity to me for personal gain.”
His gaze sweeps the room, landing on several faces that suddenly find their drinks fascinating.
“One might argue that makes my companion more qualified for these discussions than those who purchased their seats at this table through inheritance rather than merit. Or those whose contributions to Okhema’s welfare begin and end with their ability to host lavish gatherings.”
The merchant’s wife’s face flushes red. You can see her trying to formulate a response, finding nothing that wouldn’t damn her further.
“But perhaps,” Phainon continues, voice softening to something almost gentle—which somehow makes it more cutting, “you were simply concerned for Okhema’s standards. How thoughtful. How admirably civic-minded.”
The sarcasm is delicate enough to deny but obvious enough to sting. “I’m certain my brilliant companion would be happy to discuss those findings in detail—corruption vectors, supply optimization, all of it.” He pauses, letting anticipation build. “Though I confess, the technical aspects may prove somewhat… challenging for audiences unfamiliar with advanced analytical work.”
Someone coughs to cover a laugh. The merchant’s wife looks like she’s bitten into something rotten.
Phainon turns to you then, and the warmth in his expression is genuine, the protective steel underneath it unmistakable. “Would you like to explain your latest findings? I believe our host expressed interest last week.“
You meet his eyes and see the fierce protectiveness there barely disguised as courtesy. The unspoken message is clear: I’ve given you the floor. Now show them exactly how wrong they are.
When you begin to speak, your voice is steady, and Phainon’s hand never leaves yours.
I love you, Phainon thinks, watching you hold your head high and explain complex concepts to a room that moments ago dismissed you as decorative. For your grace under fire. For your brilliance that needs no defense but deserves one anyway. For making me want to burn the world down for you.
He doesn’t say it. He lets the silence after his defense hold you like an arm, and makes sure everyone in the room understands: harm you, and they’ll answer to someone who can dismantle them with words alone.
By the time the evening ends, three different council members have requested meetings with you to discuss your findings. The merchant’s wife leaves early.
Phainon’s thumb resumes its gentle circles on the back of your hand. And though the room still hums with the echo of his words, all you feel is that quiet touch. His way of reminding you that beneath the performance, you are what matters most.
✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦
3: Domestic Awe
The kettle’s click breaks the silence, but neither of you moves to address it.
Lamplight paints everything in shades of amber and shadow. Your head rests on Phainon’s shoulder, warm weight anchoring him to the present moment. His annotations lie forgotten on the side table. He’s been trying to review Aglaea’s latest strategic proposals, but your hand settled on his wrist an hour ago with gentle insistence, and his discipline has bent around your touch like light bending around gold.
“Stay,” you murmur against his half-unbuttoned shirt. Not a question. A request that sounds like trust.
He does. Pen lowered, breath evening out, the constant performance finally allowed to rest. He pulls your head against his chest, fingers combing through your hair. The repetitive movement soothes both him and you.
This, Phainon thinks, is what safety feels like. Not the absence of danger—he’s lived too long to believe in that—but the presence of someone who lets him be smaller than his legend. Someone who wants the man, not the myth.
Later, when his stress has eased, has faded into the background for a change, he allows himself to let go of his control. His head is in your lap, and he listens to your voice when you tell him stories about work, the new books you have started reading, and the pastries you have been tasting the day before. Fully content, he nuzzles his face against your thigh, murmuring, “Thank you.“
“For what?”, you ask, laughter in your voice.
“I feel so sleepy,“ Phainon says, yawning and pressing himself closer to you.
“I didn‘t think I am boring you that much.“ You know that‘s not what he meant, but you can‘t help teasing him anyway.
“Never,” Phainon replies instantly, raising his head. “I’d forgotten what peace feels like. Real peace. Not the absence of crisis, but something pure. Like the presence of this. You. You‘re truly one of a kind. Personal miracle, certainly, amid all the prophecy heaviness.“
Suddenly, you are tearing up, but you swallow the tears for his sake. “A poet has been lost on you,“ you say, gently stroking his face. He leans into the touch and kisses your wrists.
“Only for you,“ he says earnestly.
When Phainon sits up again later, it is only so he can wrap both of you in a blanket. He pulls you closer, takes in the sight of you with unhurried attention, then draws you into his arms properly.
Phainon studies your profile the way he studies history: reverent, unwilling to rush. The curve of your cheek, the rhythm of your breathing, the small crease between your brows that appears when you’re thinking. Every detail precious, worth preserving.
You shift, pressing closer, and make a small sound of contentment that does something complicated to his chest.
You press a hand against the sun-shaped tattoo on Phainon’s neck, and when he leans into the touch, he exhales more softly than you’ve ever heard him.
I love you, Phainon thinks, the certainty of it filling all the spaces in him that usually hold speeches and strategies. In this plainness that needs no audience. In this quiet that asks nothing of me.
Phainon doesn’t say it. He kisses your cheek instead, soft and lingering, and decides the proposals can wait. Some things—most things—matter more than duty.
Tonight, you matter more. And with every new dawn yet to come, you always will.
✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦
4: Fracture
You find Phainon in his chambers well past Curtain-Fall Hour, the door left slightly ajar. Unusual for someone who values privacy as much as control. Inside, papers litter every surface: casualty projections, corruption spread patterns, letters from settlements requesting aid Okhema can’t provide.
He stands at the window, hands braced against the frame, staring out at the city below. His cape hangs discarded over a chair, shirt untucked, his white hair disheveled from running his hands through it too many times. Even from behind, you can see the tension radiating through his shoulders.
“Phainon?”
He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t seem to hear you. The lamplight catches the tremor in his hands where they grip the windowsill.
"I'm fine." The words come out clipped, sharper than he intends. He doesn't turn from the window. "You should be resting, my dawnlight. It's late."
It's dismissal disguised as concern—the same technique he uses in council meetings when someone gets too close to a truth he's not ready to address.
You don't move. "You're not fine."
His shoulders tense. "I said—" The words snap out too sharp, too brittle, and he cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard enough you can see it even from behind. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter but strained. "Please. I just need… I need to…"
But his hands are shaking where they grip the windowsill, and you can hear the fracture in his voice underneath the control.
"Phainon." You step closer. "Look at me."
"I don‘t know—" The words crack open, and suddenly the wall breaks entirely.
When you touch his shoulder, he flinches, spinning to face you. His blue eyes are red-rimmed, pupils blown wide with something that looks like fear.
He turns back to the window, body trembling. His breathing comes uneven—in, out, stuttering—and you hear him sniffle. He presses his fingers to his temples like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. When he finally turns to face you again, his eyes hold something raw and unfamiliar.
“If I start to unravel, it won’t stop—” His voice cracks on the words, all eloquence stripped away. “What if I’m not enough for Okhema?”
You’ve heard him speak to thousands. Watched him hold rooms spellbound with nothing but conviction and carefully chosen words. This—this raw, fractured sound—is nothing like that practiced eloquence.
“The projections.” He gestures vaguely at the papers, the movement jerky and uncoordinated. “The Black Tide is spreading much faster than we anticipated. Three more settlements lost contact this week. Three. And Aglaea—” His breath hitches. “She looks at me like I should have answers, like my words can somehow hold back corruption that devours stone and flesh without distinction.”
Phainon presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, shoulders curling inward. “But I’m just someone who’s good with language, apart from fighting skills. That’s all I’ve ever been. Pretty words and prettier delivery, and everyone believes it means something, but what use are speeches against the end of everything?”
His hands are shaking violently now, chest rising and falling too fast. You recognize the signs of panic spiraling out of control—you’ve seen it in soldiers after battle, in survivors of attacks. But never in him. Never in Phainon, who faces everything with unshakeable poise.
“What if I fail?” The whisper is almost inaudible. “What if everyone who believes in me—who trusts me to have answers—realizes I’m just… I’m just performing? That I don’t know any more than they do, I’m just better at sounding confident?”
Tears track down his cheeks, and he seems not to notice or care. “How many believed my assurances? How many trusted my conviction? How many died because I made hope sound inevitable?”
You move in front of him, but he won’t meet your eyes, gaze fixed on some middle distance that holds only horror.
“Phainon, look at me.” Gentle but firm.
He shakes his head, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “I can’t—if you look at me like this, you’ll see it too. See that there’s nothing behind the words. That I’m—”
“Look. At. Me.” You catch his face between your palms, forcing his gaze to yours.
His eyes are glassy with unshed tears and something wilder. Genuine terror barely held in check. His breathing is ragged, irregular, the kind that will lead to hyperventilation if you don’t intervene.
“I’m going to fail them,” Phainon chokes out. “Everyone. You. I’m going to fail you and you’ll realize I was never worth—”
“Stop.” Your thumbs brush away tears he doesn’t seem aware he’s shedding. “Listen to my voice. Can you do that?”
A jerky nod, but his breathing is still too fast, too shallow.
“We’re going to breathe together. Match my rhythm.” You place your palm flat against his sternum, feeling his heart hammering like a trapped bird. “Feel my hand. Focus on that.”
“I can’t—”
“You can. Breathe in for four counts. One, two, three, four.” You demonstrate, keeping your voice low and steady. “Hold for four. One, two, three, four.”
Phainon tries to follow, breath stuttering, body trembling under your hands.
“That’s it. You’re doing it. Now exhale for six. One, two, three, four, five, six.”
Again. Again. Slowly, painfully, his breathing begins to even out. But the tears keep coming, silent and devastating.
“You’re not alone in this,” you say quietly, firmly. “Whatever comes, whatever the Black Tide does or doesn’t do—you don’t carry that weight alone. Do you hear me?”
“You don’t understand.” His voice is thick, wrecked. “If I fail—if my words and actions aren’t enough—people die. That’s not metaphorical. That’s not political. Real people with families and hopes and—” A sob breaks through his careful control. “And I’m supposed to inspire them to keep fighting, but what if I’m just inspiring them to die for a cause we can’t win?”
“Then let it be we,” you say, fierce and certain. “Not you standing alone trying to hold back the corruption with speeches. We. Together. You think you’re performing? I’ve seen you, Phainon. I’ve seen the way you break yourself apart to keep everyone else whole and to make them happy. The way you carry their fear so they don’t have to. That’s not performance. That’s sacrifice.”
His breath hitches again, but this time it sounds more like relief than panic.
“You’re allowed to be afraid,” you continue, keeping your palm pressed against his chest, feeling his heartbeat slowly steadying. “You’re allowed to not have all the answers. That doesn’t make you a fraud. It makes you human.”
“But they need me to be more than human.” The admission comes out broken. “They need the Worldbearer, not… not this.”
“No.” You say it firmly enough to make him focus on you again. “They need someone who understands what they’re fighting for. Someone who’s afraid with them, not someone pretending fear doesn’t exist. Your words work because you mean them, Phainon. Because you care so much it’s destroying you from the inside out.”
He makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “That’s not sustainable.”
“No,” you agree. “Which is why you don’t do it alone anymore.”
For a long moment, Phainon just stares at you, like he’s trying to understand a language he’s never learned. Then something in him simply gives way.
He collapses forward, arms wrapping around you with desperate strength, face buried in your neck. His whole body shakes with sobs he’s clearly been holding back for weeks, maybe months or even years. All that perfect control dissolving into raw, messy humanity.
You hold him while he breaks apart. While the sparkling hero of Okhema admits he’s terrified and lost and drowning under the weight of everyone’s expectations. While he lets himself be, just for a moment, small.
“I’ve got you,” you murmur into his hair, feeling him shake apart in your arms. “I am in awe with you. Not the speeches or the performance. You. The man who’s afraid and fighting anyway. The man who cares so much it hurts.”
He doesn’t respond with words. Just holds you tighter, like you’re the only solid thing in a world gone liquid with fear.
I love you, he thinks, almost feral with relief and gratitude and exhaustion. For seeing me like this—seeing the worst of me—and not turning away. For being strong enough to hold me when I can’t hold myself.
He doesn’t say it. Can’t form the words around the sobs still catching in his throat. But he holds you like you’re oxygen, like you’re the only answer that matters, like maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t have to carry everything alone anymore.
And in the quiet after the storm, when his breathing has finally steadied and his tears have slowed, Phainon lets himself believe that this is the truth.
✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦
5: The Body Remembers
The vulnerability of the previous night has left something raw between you. A new awareness that crackles in every glance, every accidental touch. When Phainon finds you after Parting Hour the next day, there’s something different in his eyes. Not the polished charm he shows the world, but hunger barely contained beneath careful control.
“Come with me.” Not a question. Not a command. Something in between that makes heat pool low in your stomach.
His chambers. The door closing with soft finality. The lock engaging with a click that feels like a promise.
For a moment, you just look at each other. The lamplight paints him in shades of gold and shadow, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his blue eyes. He’s removed his armor somewhere along the way, left only in shirt and trousers, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Even partially undressed, he looks like art. Beautiful and unraveling.
Then Phainon moves.
He crosses the space between you, hands coming up to frame your face with careful reverence. “I need—” He stops, forehead dropping to rest against yours, breath unsteady already. “I need you to tell me if this is too much. If I’m too much.”
His control is hanging by threads. You can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his pupils have blown wide until only a ring of blue remains, the tremor in his hands where they cup your face. He’s restraining himself, holding back with effort that shows in every line of his body.
“You’re not,” you breathe, and feel him shudder.
“I want—” Phainon’s voice drops lower, rougher. “I want to touch you. Everywhere. Want to know what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into me, what makes you say my name like it’s the only word you remember.”
Heat floods through you at the raw need in his voice. This isn’t the eloquent orator. This is someone stripped down to pure want.
His lips find yours. Not gentle, not careful, but hungry. Desperate. Like he’s been starving for this and can finally, finally let himself have it. His tongue sweeps into your mouth with claiming intent, swallowing the sound you make.
He walks you backward until your legs hit the bed, never breaking the kiss. When you sit, he follows you down, weight settling over you with careful control, his hands restless with wanting.
Before he can speak, your fingers find his throat, tracing up to where the sun-shaped tattoo marks his skin. You press your lips there—deliberate, lingering—kissing the symbol of everything he carries.
Phainon goes completely still above you. His breath catches, held suspended like he's afraid to break whatever spell this is. Then his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, holding you gently against that mark of duty and burden, and the sound that escapes him is broken and wondering.
"You—" His voice is wrecked already. "How do you always know exactly—"
He can't finish. Instead he captures your mouth with his, the kiss deeper now, more desperate. Like you've just acknowledged something he thought he'd have to carry alone forever.
When he finally pulls back enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours, eyes searching yours with that devastating intensity.
“Tell me,” Phainon murmurs against your mouth, hands sliding under your shirt with hunger. “Tell me what you want.”
“You. Just you.”
The sound he makes is broken, grateful. His hands explore your skin like he’s memorizing every spot, learning what makes you shiver, what makes your breath catch. Every touch deliberate, questioning. An articulation of need that goes beyond words.
He undresses you slowly despite the urgency vibrating through his frame. Each revealed inch of skin receives attention from his mouth, his hands, until you’re trembling and he’s barely touched you where you need most.
“So beautiful,” Phainon murmurs against your hip, lips trailing lower. “Let me—I want to make you feel—”
Whatever he means to say dissolves as he puts his mouth on you properly, and coherent thought becomes impossible. He learns you with that same focused intensity he brings to everything that matters, paying attention to every gasp, every shift of your body, building pleasure with careful precision until you come apart with his name on your lips.
When he finally settles above you, still mostly clothed while you’re bare beneath him, the look in his eyes steals your breath. Awe and desire and something deeper, more devastating.
You pull him down into another kiss, helping him shed the remaining barriers between you. When skin finally meets skin, he groans into your mouth, hips pressing forward with barely restrained need.
“Please,” you whisper, and watch his careful control fracture completely.
He enters you slowly despite the desperation evident in every line of his body, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. One hand braces beside your head while the other finds yours, fingers threading together with desperate strength.
“Look at me,” he manages, voice wrecked. “Please, I need—I need to see you.”
You do, and the intensity in his gaze nearly undoes you. Like you’re the only thing in existence that matters, like he’s trying to memorize this moment in crystalline detail.
He moves with careful certainty at first, watching your face, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you tighten around him. But control can only last so long against need this profound. His usual eloquence dissolves into broken syllables, your name the only word he can hold onto.
“So perfect,” Phainon breathes against your mouth, hips snapping harder. “Feel so—you’re so—” Words fail entirely. “I lo—I need—”
You tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he makes a sound that’s half-groan, half-prayer. His free hand slides down to where your bodies join, touching with careful precision until you’re gasping, arching, trembling beneath him.
“That’s it,” Phainon encourages roughly. “Let me hear you. Let me—please, I need to hear you—”
When you come apart around him, his name breaking from your lips in desperate repetition, the look on his face is transcendent. Wonder and possession and love so fierce it feels like being consumed.
His control shatters completely. He buries his face in your neck, hips moving faster, rhythm breaking into something more desperate, more raw. Your name falls from his lips like prayer, like worship, like the only truth that matters.
I love you, Phainon thinks desperately as pleasure builds toward breaking. I love you, I love you, I love you—
The words burn behind his teeth but come out as your name instead, broken and reverent and completely undone.
His climax tears through him with devastating intensity, your name the only sound he can make as he shudders apart in your arms.
After, in the stillness that follows, he holds you carefully. Hands faltering slightly as they trace your face, your shoulders, like he’s confirming you’re real and present and his. His breath comes in unsteady gasps against your neck, and you can feel wetness there that might be sweat or tears or both.
“I—” His voice is completely wrecked. “That was—you’re—”
You turn in his arms, cupping his face, and find his eyes bright with unshed tears and emotion too big for language.
“I know,” you say softly, and Phainon makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob.
He pulls you closer, impossibly closer, like he can’t bear even breath between you. His hand cradles the back of your head with devastating gentleness, lips pressing to your temple, your cheek, anywhere he can reach.
Your fingers trace idle patterns along his neck, following paths you've learned by heart. When you press your lips there—soft, unhurried—Phainon shivers despite the warmth of tangled limbs and shared breath.
"Again?" Phainon’s voice carries amusement, but you feel his pulse jump beneath your mouth. "If you keep this up, I won‘t be able to control myself for long.“
You don't answer with words. Just another kiss, and another, until he's holding you tighter and breathing your name like a prayer he's too exhausted to finish.
I love you, Phainon thinks, helpless and certain and more vulnerable than he’s ever been. I love you. I love you.
He doesn’t say it. But you feel it in every trembling touch, every careful kiss, every moment he chooses to be fully present rather than hiding behind performance.
Some truths, you both understand, live in the spaces between words.
✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦
+1. The Saying (After Everything)
The vote has been close. Closer than it should have been. The proposal to expand Okhema’s defenses against the Black Tide has nearly failed because of political maneuvering and fear. Phainon’s spoken for three hours straight, dismantling arguments, rebuilding consensus, holding the room together through sheer force of conviction.
When it finally passes, he smiles that public smile, accepts congratulations with grace, plays the role everyone needs.
Then Phainon finds you.
You’re waiting in the garden, and the moment he sees you, something in him simply gives way. The mask, the mission, the weight he carries—all of it suddenly too heavy.
His knees buckle.
Phainon drops in front of you like the light itself went out and found a home at your feet, hands coming up to grip yours with desperate strength.
“I don’t know what the future looks like.” His voice is shredded from hours of speaking, but clear in its conviction. “The Black Tide keeps spreading. The politics keep shifting. Everything is uncertain.”
He looks up at you, and there are tears on his cheeks he doesn’t bother to hide.
“But I love you, my dawnlight.” The words finally, finally free. “I love you. Not because you stand beside me in public, not because you validate my work, not because you make the performance easier—though you do all those things, beautifully and without being asked.” His hands shake where they hold yours. “I love you. The person who makes me laugh at festival games. Who grounds me when I’m spiraling. Who lets me be afraid and small and imperfect.”
He brings your joined hands to his forehead, bowing before you in a gesture that has nothing to do with performance and everything to do with truth.
“You. All of you. Not the symbol who stands beside the Worldbearer. You. The person who sees through my rhetoric to the mess underneath and chooses to stay anyway.”
His breath hitches. “I love you. And I will keep loving you regardless of what tomorrow brings, regardless of whether I’m enough for what Okhema needs. That’s the only certainty I have left, and it’s the only one that matters.”
The garden is quiet except for his ragged breathing. You sink down to your knees in front of him, cupping his face, watching tears track down his cheeks in the dim light.
“I love you, too,” you say simply. “All of you. Especially the parts you only show me. This will never change.”
Phainon makes a sound between a laugh and a sob, pulling you into his arms with the desperation of someone who’s finally stopped running from the truth.
“I love you.“ Phainon says it like an oath he intends to keep even if the world doesn’t. And kneeling there in the garden, both of you breaking and whole at once, he means every word.
✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦ ☼ ✦
A/N: Thanks so much for reading. I’ve got more fics in the works, so stay tuned. :) My creativity’s running wild right now, and I plan to ride the wave while it lasts.
I hope you enjoyed it. Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated. They fuel my writing. :)
