wildest fucking (literally fucking…) dream i’ve had in a while and it’s about VARKA of all people 😭😭😭😭😭😭 i’m not even that into him so WHY. story utc cause it was lowkey so embarrassing. some absolute horny filth down below
basically. idek what the context was but he was showing me pictures on his phone. just some regular pictures. until they Weren’t regular at all…
one moment he’s showing off some puppies he saved from drowning in a lake and a cake he baked one evening, WHEN ALL OF A SUDDEN, he swipes. and shows me a Dick Pic.
His. Dick Pic.
Big n Thick n Fat n Juicy and just the way i like it. Some Real Serious Girth. big ass balls too. and a nice n thick happy trail leading to a nice n hairy bush 😭😭😭😭😭
safe to say. i’m shocked. he’s embarrassed. he laughs in that annoying and boisterous way he usually does, and tries to save the moment by swiping to the next pic like nothing happened
except the next pic is of him flexing his Big Ass Arms. tries to save himself a second time by swiping Again but the next pic is him Shirtless and Sweaty and looking suspiciously flushed
atp i look at him and ask him if he’s doing this on purpose, to which he denies and says it’s all just an accident. i then scold him and tell him to be more careful with what he keeps on his phone, and we leave the tavern (i think it was a tavern) before saying our Awkward goodbyes
timeskip a week or two. shit is still awkward as fuck, and whenever we make eye contact or proceed to somehow be in the same space at the same time, it’s hellish. i can’t keep eye contact for longer than two secs because all i can think of is his Pretty fucking Dick, and he can’t hold a convo without coughing or trailing off
so, like the smart man he is, he proposes a suggestion that has me choking on nothing but air: “look, it’s clear that what happened back at the tavern is still haunting both our asses. and i’m really, really sorry about that. why don’t we just fuck it all out of our systems?”
i go “WHAT?” because i think he’s just winding me up again
but he stares at me—looks me dead in the eyes for what felt like years—completely serious. and then i notice it. a Boner.
then FOR SOME REASON. like the Very Logical person that i am, i sigh at him and drag him straight to my house. past the entrance and through the kitchen and beeline towards my bedroom
safe to say that was THE BEST fuck of my dream life. the greatest ride in all of teyvat. bro was indeed very thick and girthy and the burning stretch was The Most Delicious Thing Ever. the size difference (4’9 vs 6’6) was very apparent 😭 best believe i was absolutely slobbering all over Dat Dick. choking on it. also: riding those tree trunk thighs. hell yes.
varka was very passionate too. sweet and loving despite the sheer horniness of it all. held me close and spoiled me with kisses. filled me up to the BRIM with Cock and Cum. very thorough and warm. it was heaven
and even when we were finished, he just refused to slip out of me 😭😭😭 best cockwarming session ever. i was just all plugged up n warmmm n leaking n blissfully happy. very sated. he kept me laying atop his chest and smoothed his hands up n down my back until we both fell asleep
᯽ qifrey x reader
᯽ or: qifrey staring at you fondly and you don't notice in 800 words.
᯽ Tags: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Witch Hat Atelier Spoilers, Manga Spoilers, reader is a fashion diva and i stand by it so hard, qifrey is so in love it hurts
Hello Witch Hat Atelier fandom! I hope that you are all doing well today! This little fic was sponsored by a conversation I had with my beloved @elysiumae because truly, the pointed hats are kinda ugly! A much longer (and angstier) will be coming soon... I hope!
"Can you detect a magical signature on the hat?"
"Hmm…" your non-committal answer worried Qifrey, always used to a witty retort from you. So when he looked over to see your intense stare at the brimmed hat, his mind went to the worst. That you were considering running away with the people who ruined his life.
At least, he thinks they did. The whole 'losing his memories from his childhood' really did hamper why exactly he hated the Brimmed Hats. One could consider it a blessing to not have to live with those horrid memories, but he saw it more as a curse. They robbed him of the chance to hunt them all down and enact the exact level of pain caused by each member.
"Is everything alright?" Qifrey spoke, coming closer so that he could hear your thoughts. Unfortunately, mind reading magic fell under the umbrella of Forbidden Magic. It made sense, but he often wished that there were more types of magic allowed by the Magic Security Council.
(Woe befalls him, he couldn't use his incredible might to answer his heart's burning question. Somewhere deeper, he already knew the answer to it. And even deeper than that, he knew that he shouldn't act on those thoughts.)
"No, everything is fine," you reply, voice still distant but at least you were looking at him. Your eyes have always been more expressive than what you wanted it to be. Even in your most composed moments, you failed to conceal your true thoughts. Even with his one eye, Qifrey will always know the anger you held towards injustice, the disgust when faced with the Magic Council and the fondness for his students.
It was a shame that everyday his own heart grows, that damn parasite takes more of his vision of you.
Walking side by side, the two of you made your way back to his Atelier. The girls were thankfully with Olruggio while the two of you followed another lead. He was worried with the increase in action from the Brimmed Hats, but at least more of their plan seemed to be unfolding.
Selfishly, Qifrey was thankful that they were becoming more prominent, giving him more chances to get his eye back.
"Do you ever get jealous?" you asked while playing with the hat in hand. Truly, he wished you would stop speaking in riddles and half sentences, but he supposed that it was part of your charm.
"Jealous of what?"
"Of how the Brimmed Hats have a better sense of style than we do?"
Qifrey's mind went blank. Was this truly on your mind while fighting for your life against the most terrifying magic to exist?
The worse part was that this didn't even seem out of character. You made no secret of your hatred of the pointed hats you adorned, only wearing when absolutely necessary and taking it off the moment it was deemed acceptable to. For Qifrey, it was never something he thought about. The hat was uniform – a way to signify his status and differentiate himself from those disgusting Brimmed Hats. Yet you treated it like it was a personal affront that you had to put on… What did you call it again?
"It's like putting an upside down cone on my head!"
Oh how he adored you so.
"I suppose they do look rather flashy with their outfit choices," Qifrey carefully responded.
"Right?" you exclaimed, probably happy that someone finally understood your vision. "And their masks are much cooler than anything the Assembly would give us." You continued to go on about the changes you would bring to Pointed Hat Witch fashion if you could. You were always rather cute when you were passionate about something – a sight that was becoming rarer as the days went on. He sighed, wishing to keep you in this sacred moment forever.
"Perhaps you could bring this up to the Sages the next time we see them?" Qifrey already knew that they wouldn't even entertain this idea, something you were very aware of.
"As if they would listen to something as reasonable as this," you pouted, putting to rest all of the ideas running through your head. Qifrey chuckled at your sullen expression, akin to a sweet brushworm.
"Cheer up, darling. I'm sure one day someone will see your vision." He smiled when your lips twitched, happy that he was still able to bring light into your life.
(Later that night, Qifrey spoke to Coco. With her knowledge of fabric and clothing and his knowledge of your preferences, the two of them were able to create a hat – notably with no brim – that he was sure that you would love. He would make sure to give it to you on the night of the Silver Eve Festival, hopeful that you would love it as much as he loves you.
here’s a lil something that my sister nudged me into making! this wasn’t meant to be anything initially, but my sis saw my draft and went “hey, she looks like she’d be on the cover of a modelling magazine!!”
Even when my skin is flushed from one too many drinks, the warmth that I find solace in will always be wherever you are. Aka; your lover comes home drunk and seeks comfort in your simple embrace.
feat. phainon & gn!reader
content : fluff, mention of alcohol consumption, drunk!phainon, modern au, glassesnon, lots and lots of affection, ooc phainon bc he's drunk and nothing bad happened to him, entirely self indulgent boohoo.
w.c. : 1.2k
note : just a small warm up bc i haven't written in so long ToT and i had one too many shots with my friends and i wondered what it would be like coming home to someone to take care of me while i was drunk and In Love with them. i'm trying to get back into the groove of writing so, i hope you enjoy my rusty skills haha.
Thud!
The sound of the front door slamming closed and whispered curses is what rouses you from your brief slumber on the couch. Through bleary eyes, you push your body up from the plush armrest and focus your eyes on the figure that stumbles its way into your view.
He looks somewhat of a mess; his jacket for the night draped over his shoulder and his hair touseled beyond compare from being pushed back through the night. His eyes are hidden behind his thick black frames but those baby blues still pierce through the glass and remain solely focused on you.
And yet, through his clearly drunken demeanor, he seems to light up the whole room with his beautiful smile as he approaches your groggy figure.
"Baby," Phainon mumbles, slurring over his own consonants. You barely get a second to prepare yourself before his body slumps over your own. He's heavy; all of his body weight presses into you as his face buries itself into the crook of your neck. The smell of alcohol mixed with the signature scent of his cologne fills your senses, but you find it strangely comforting.
"I missed you so much," your lover whispers into your skin, nuzzling the softness of your exposed shoulder. One of your hands reaches up to run through his hair, the other gently patting the broad expanse of his back.
"How did your night go?" You ask, sleep still laced into your words. "I'm guessing you got into another drinking competition with Mydei again."
"Mm," Phainon hums into your neck. His white hair tickles your sensitive skin, but you don't have the heart to pull him away from you. "Yeah… I won, by the way. He didn't stand a chance against me tonight."
Your lover lifts himself from your body and you can fully see him in the warm glow of your lamp. His eyes, beautifully blue, are half lidded from the alcohol and his cheeks are dusted a light rosy hue from intoxication. And yet, it doesn't stray away from his handsome features, especially when you hold his gaze this entire time. His eyes glisten from the lighting in the room, shining brilliantly like little stars that only twinkle and dance for you.
He's cute and so utterly handsome; would he be able to handle a compliment like that in this state?
"Can I kiss you, my love?" Phainon mumbles underneath his breath, words almost too quiet for you to hear. But, like the softest hum of an orchestra's pianissimo, they reach you nonetheless. "Don't I deserve a reward for winning tonight?"
Perhaps it was the way he pleaded to you in both his expression and words, or maybe it was the way he looked so beautiful even when drunk off of however many drinks he downed tonight, but you give in to his simple request.
His soft lips find yours in a heartbeat, the taste of alcohol on the tip of his tongue but not in a way that deters you away. Rather, it's enticing and merely urges you on to get more of that addictive flavor. Despite his drunken demeanor, his kiss is rather gentle and light, almost afraid of hurting you if he kissed you too hard. It makes you laugh; a puff of air exhales through your nose and Phainon pulls away at the reaction.
"Was it that bad?" He asks almost immediately. His lips, the ones you so desperately want to kiss, jut out in a slight pout and the cute sight makes your heart soar. "I'm sorry, darling."
"No, silly, " you coo as your fingernails lightly trail across his cheek. Your heart flutters as his warmth leans into your mere touch and, without a word, he nuzzles his face into the palm of your hand. "I'm laughing because you're being so gentle like the first time you ever kissed me. It's like you're scared of me."
This only deepens the pout on your lover's lips. He holds the hand caressing his face with his own before bringing it to his mouth. A simple kiss is pressed against the skin of your inner wrist and butterflies come to life in your stomach. "It's not my fault you're so pretty, my love," Phainon says as his gaze flits down to your own lips. "I never know if I can restrain myself fully when I'm with you."
Rough hands delicately hold your face as if you would break under his trembling touch. Sky blue eyes meet your gaze again and, like the ocean crashing onto the cliffs overlooking the endless sea, you've fallen in love with him all over again.
"Would it be okay if I redeemed myself?"
"Of course, you don't need to ask."
And he's kissing you once more, this time with much more fervor than before. His lips move against your own in a rhythm that you could recognize with your eyes closed. It's a shift from the careful kiss from before with each ardent caress of his lips growing with more and more passion as his love pours from his body into yours.
"I love you so much… You are my entire world, my love," Phainon whispers in between the flurry of kisses against your lips. His hand cups your jaw and holds you to him until he was truly satisfied with sharing his affections with you. Only after he was satiated with the love bursting from between the two of you does he finally pull away.
"You are my dawn."
Even with his face flushed more than ever, the thick black frames that sit perfectly on his nose sit crooked from the kisses and it makes you giggle at how boyishly charming your lover is. The tips of his ears are a shade of pink that you've come to love, and it only burns deeper once your fingers gently adjust his glasses to sit properly on his face.
Beautiful blue skies peer into your own eyes filled with nothing but devotion that you have uncovered with your own heart. He is entirely, fully besotted with you with evidence written all over his face. The warmth of his forehead gently leans against yours and you find yourself wrapping your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the ends of his hair.
"I love you too, Phainon. There's no one else I would choose to love other than you."
As if your words held all of the answers to the questions swimming in his head, your lover lights up even more with a smile that sends your heart racing. He's so pretty, so ethereal and you cannot believe he is all yours to love. His eyes flit all over your face as an attempt to absorb every inch of your visage into his memory.
"Can I have one more kiss. Please?"
And you concede to his request, allowing your white haired lover to share one more kiss with you in the gentle light of your lamp. But one kiss turns into two, and two into three, and you find yourself kissing your lover all throughout the night until both of your hearts were satisfied and bursting with nothing but pure adoration for one another.
Not that you mind when he is all yours and heaven too.
Although, if you were to ask Phainon, it isn’t work at all.
❧ pairing. phainon x f!reader
❧ 5.5k words of a self-ship coded gift. modern!au, intimate, slightly suggestive (mdni), a heated kiss.
❧ note. for my lovely friend @elysiumae who had a tiny bout of food poisoning. dear maemae, thank you for always being so sweet to me.
Phainon is home.
He does not enter as he commonly does; with an accidental slam in excitement that is promptly followed by apologetically content chuckles, glad to see you again. That is, when you’re here, finishing your work at home rather than at the office where he’ll catch the furiously familiar clack of keys as you chat with your friends or write your lovely stories in-between bouts of responsibility. On other days, he’s somehow always waiting for you just as you take your first steps out of the building—you have an inkling this punctuality is why he works later than usual when you don’t need him to fetch you—either a treat or a drink in hand to quench your appetite and uplift you, provided that exhaustion weighs on your shoulders. Now, however, Phainon is perhaps more sullen than you are.
There’s a frown on his face, dragging down his handsome features into a facsimile of that silly emoticon he repeatedly sent you when he had a moment to check up on the state of your affliction, of which he would do anything to chase away. He would even fall to his knees without changing into his pyjamas, the image of a besotted lover who can do nothing but keel over for the sake of who compels him so. A man like him—bright-eyed with a gaze as expansive as the sky and a smile filled with affection so deep it may never fill the fissures of the earth—only understands this through your laughter.
“What are you doing?” you ask with a tiny snort, hand reaching for him.
He leans into your touch, arms folded beside your bicep from where you’ve taken station upon the living room couch and he, the soft carpet decorated with a book you’ve abandoned, a box of chocolates that couldn’t fit on a coffee table filled with miscellaneous objects you’ve busied yourself with, and your slippers—his, actually, since you’ve missed him so sorely that even his presence in front of you is, nevertheless, lacking.
Phainon is too far away.
“Lamenting your stomach problems,” he answers, letting the words dissolve into a satisfied hum once he’s able to bunt his head into your palm.
Your touch descends further, cupping his cheek as you squish the pudgy skin in your hand alike the pillow you had done the same to in his absence. “So dramatic,” you snicker and lean in before he can glower further, lips meeting in a terse peck.
It happens, anyway, when his gluttony is as ravenous as an animal whose instinct is to adore you. The whine falls away just as he receives another, and again when he mumbles one more please twice over after the initial request failed once your quick fulfillment produced a smile that brought about a kiss that was mostly teeth and muted giggles. When you separate, Phainon’s eyes are near crescents, a gentle expression that you’ve observed over the years as something that appears solely with you.
“Is my sad Victorian lover finished with his sorrows?” you ask, ignoring the ache in your shoulder as you shift uncomfortably to release your other arm from your lateral leisure to cradle him in your hands and swing his face from side to side, babying him over his meager performance and unable to help yourself from it. Had you expressed such a sentiment, you are sure that Phainon would have only glowed, a sort of delight that brightens across the entirety of his being through the innate promise of it—no one else shall be its recipient.
His voice grows taught despite this, upset sweeping over his countenance in a pointed question that pops the bubble of happiness you share. “How is your stomach?” he prods, eyes flickering to the packaging empty of any sweets with resentful attention. “Do I want to know how many you ate?”
“Nope,” your chirp out, the sound final as you ruffle his hair before brushing your lips against his to placate any complaints.
He calls your name; peeved, slightly disappointed, and undeniably fond. “I can’t trust you after your sashimi comment,” he notifies you, recalling the texts you’ve exchanged throughout the day.
“And I meant it!” you say, wanting to see the momentary spike in your boyfriend’s vexation. But before he can scold you, you inhale loudly with a yawn, extending your arms and pointing your toes as far as you can, tensing your muscles before relaxing. Phainon gently pinches your side from where the hem of your shirt rides up; he apologies through a gentle caress and listens to you claim, “you already don’t trust me since you interrogated me in the first place.”
He huffs, tugging your clothes back over exposed skin and lightly patting it down in a job well done for ensuring a chill doesn’t befall you with how high the air conditioning is set. “Interrogated?” he echoes, straightening from how he had rested his chin atop his arms, closely watching your every action regardless of his push back and the lilt in his tone. “I’m not a detective, and—”
“I know you aren’t,” you interrupt with a roguish quip, “you’d be a pretty bad one—why ask when the evidence is right here?”
Phainon pinches your nose next, another tender reprimand that he, this time, does not amend. “So you admit it, then?”
Laughing, you pretend to nip at his finger when he pulls away. “Admit what?”
In response, he tugs on your cheek, first, to say, “that you ate them and shouldn’t have when you have food poisoning.” And as punishment, he leans in to mouth at the opposite cheek, following the intimate habit you share with a childish raspberry that ends with you wiping the resulting saliva over the front of his dress shirt.
It’s fine; it doesn’t matter—with the dawn tomorrow, there will be no tours to be had nor programs to train. It will only be Phainon struggling to pull away from your serene embrace when you have the entire day ahead to spend together, the hour or two that he dedicates to his morning exercise a dreadful idea especially now that you’re sick. You seem to care even less for it than he does, which distresses him plenty that the thought of tickling you passes his mind, and he almost entertains it after your justification of what you had played ignorant of, incapable of keeping up the charade as you rile him up according to your provocative pleasure.
“Did you think I would be able to resist the ones with special filling when you bought them specially for me?” you wonder listlessly, particularly indolent as Phainon has decided to splay a large hand over your stomach, stroking over cotton as if that would bring you some comfort.
“Are you forgetting how long it took for you to feel better last time?” He leans closer with the reminder, pressing his forehead to yours and nuzzling your noses together, careful not to bump your glasses askew. “Hmm?”
“How could I forget about my boyfriend taking care of me?” Your eyes narrow as the corners of your mouth lift into a smile that strikes an iron-hot warmth through his chest, melting into a dense, molten liquid that melds with the blood pooling into his face—Phainon cannot, embarrassingly so, do without your teasing and goading.
This close, you can feel the small, aborted puff of amused air he releases, and observe the pretty pink that has begun to bloom across the apples of his cheeks. The memory of that awful time floats over the both of you—the days passing with you in his embrace, of naps and sudden bathroom breaks where Phainon adopted the role of a puppy who must be with you as much as he can, knocking and pawing at the door in worry if you’re okay. But because you’re you, maybe that’s just always, proved by the weight that spreads across your abdomen, his hand pursuing the path across to curl over your waist to secure you in a warm hold.
“You’re lucky that mushroom soup didn’t get you,” he remarks after a moment, wanting to extend the quiet that settled between you.
It does not take you the same amount of time to say, “we didn’t have mush room in the fridge”; the jest comes instantaneously as you level him with a flat look, letting your eyes betray your expectant glee in his reaction.
Phainon tries to huff in exasperation, the sound breaking sharply like thin ice he plummets through, descending into a loud, dopey laugh; so loud that he covers an immense grin in shame, as if he’s been coldly shocked to awareness of how close you are that it must be startling. Yet, you’re smiling, and the sight of it triggers an influx of feeling.
There are so many platitudes that can be said about it; of devotion and desire, wanting and absence, and the depth of it all wherein Phainon loves you. He knows that. You know that. Cyrene, Hyacine, Mydei, Castorice, Cifera, and even a stranger who encounters the two of you on a date knows that. But Phainon also likes you.
Phainon liked you long before the intensity of love ever took root.
He liked seeing you interact with all your mutual friends, so much so that he took it upon himself to approach you speculating why you were so distant with him, exactly. And that was all it took to like you more—to speak to you about things the others would never know, parts of you and himself shared between personal moments of friendship that he was blind to. In his eventual understanding of ‘like’—to like your laughter, to like his own when you’re witty as you are now; to like the hazy sense of craving that filled him regardless of any restraint and especially when you looked at him; and to like you around, no matter where that had been—Phainon plainly encountered love.
He hopes that you will never fail to find him; he hopes he will never be too far.
Phainon’s fingers twirl around a lock of your hair, a link joining you to him. “I can’t go on a work trip without you doing something that’ll make me worry,” he frets, though that may be a result of who he naturally is.
Your fingers encompass the back of the hand resting on your abdomen, keeping him there. All your mischief disappears. “I think this means you shouldn’t go anywhere for a while.”
“You’re right,” he mumbles, leaning into your space, fingertips taking the path up the strands to cradle the back of your head. He kisses you, slow and ordinary. Although he’s playing along, his flush has darkened into a carmine, creeping up to the tips of his ears, remaining as susceptible to your flirtations as the first time and as weak to you even in your vivacious tricks. So, he agrees, “I should stay right here.”
“Then go shower so we can have dinner and cuddle,” you demand with the separation, feeling his happiness against your mouth.
He rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine… Whatever my girlfriend wants, she gets.”
Barking out a laugh, you push yourself up on the couch and he follows in unfurling himself from around you. Once you’re sat upright, you raise your arms, and because you do, Phainon stands so that he can pull you up. Or, so you thought, because he decides to steady an arm around your waist, the other scooping you up from underneath to lift you.
Your giggles continue with a yelp, “what are you doing?” yet you wrap yourself around him—arms around his shoulders, a hand tangling in his hair, and your legs hooking around his hips. “Phainon!” you grumble despite latching onto him, “you’re still wearing your work clothes,” and scrunch up your nose. “My clean pyjamas…”
He only believes you cute, but if he says that, he’s certain you’ll admonish him through a harsh pinch, yank, or—unsurprisingly—a bite.
Instead, he repeats what you’ve said only minutes ago, already on his way to do so. “I have to shower, right?” He cranes his head towards you to press his nose into your cheek with a happy trill. “I think I need help with my back.”
“Do you, now?” You turn to face him with an incredulous look that doesn’t fail to express your doubts. “I think we should make dumplings for dinner then—my reward for helping you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you agree with a nod, “since I’m being so sweet.”
“How can I refuse getting so much time with you to myself?” he replies, aware of the reason and how lucky he is that you are willing to grant him as much attention as he desires, as endless as that is.
“If you can’t, then let’s hurry and shower—I’m hungry.”
Again, he laughs—he doesn’t seem to stop when you’re around—and Phainon also listens; there isn’t a time where he hasn’t, and maybe it comes easier when you have no qualms assisting him in shedding his clothes with an eager touch and an even eager mouth.
By the time your appetite is satisfied, it’s some unknown hour past midnight, having paid little focus when your attention is occupied with Phainon and keeping him awake longer than usual.
This is a typical occurrence; one that is so commonplace you feel no guilt in it. If you weren’t distracting him from the luxury of his dreams, he would be doing that himself, nagging you one way or another to please go to bed because you aren’t feeling too great but also in bewilderment over how you stay up so late, night after night with your excuses of naps falling on deaf ears. The likely reason for that is how they are sometimes taken when you work from home, grossly and criminally without him around to cling to. On other nights, Phainon appears sufficiently satisfied in curling around you and falling asleep to your occasional touch upon him, the sound of a keyboard, and your soft breaths and frustrated hums while writing.
Graciously, you’re all his tonight.
Phainon is rambling on about the history of a new exhibit he helped put up today, the timbre of his voice notably animated in spite of the yawns that intercept every few sentences and the tiny, bashful apologies he provides before continuing. You aren’t facing him, laid on your back with your ear turned towards him on his side, head pressed to your shoulder, and the manner in which he fits into your body is an adequate connection for him, it seems; a leg thrown over yours and his hand resting on your stomach to draw shapes and words over cotton—your name is what he enjoys writing the most. It’s unfortunately distracting.
“Phainon,” you call softly, halting his severe inclination for remorse. With his hummed acknowledgement, you explain, “that tickles,” and press a kiss into his fluffy hair, perfumed with your shampoo.
“I’ll be more careful,” he murmurs, ceasing the antsy fidgeting he was using to stay cognizant of whatever you’re up to—to ensure he does, you rotate to look at him and offer your arm as a pillow, curling the appendage upwards to play with his hair. He only looks sleepier, so you tug, sudden and slightly forceful—he savours this, you know—and hear a hushed, suppressed laugh that breaks through. “…make you something easy on your stomach in the morning. I shouldn’t have let you have that chili oil,” he murmurs, the words slowly becoming clearer as he shakes away his fatigue. “Maybe soup…”
His eyes close so you repeat the enticing yank of a small strand and notice the colour suffusing over his face. “Not mushroom soup, right?” you ask, using a miserable whine that you expect to help him reside in awareness, if only through your foolishness that contradicts whatever he may be feeling.
Phainon yawns your name, moving closer so the tips of your noses press and incidentally prevent you from continuing your playful affections, the awkward angle a difficult reach. “If you have mush room for chocolate, you have mush room for mushroom soup.”
“You’re so silly,” you say, and then ruin the moment with: “get your own joke.”
He ignores it to ask, “is it silly to want to take care of you?” with a voice thick with sugar, as deep and dark as toasted caramel whose sweetness is addicting yet absent of the cloying urge to be devoid of it. Better than any treat, his fervour for you is all that he is attentive of.
Your arm wraps around his shoulder, instead, with its inability to find his scalp, needing to chase after any feeling of him under your care and the resulting contentment in the unmistakable expression of bliss Phainon cannot hide. “Now you’re just cheesy,” you taunt, free hand meeting the side of his face to feel the flourishing warmth.
“That’s good, too,” he remarks, “since you like cheese.”
“Dork.”
Phainon's eyes open, instinctively more conscious to declare, “you like me.” Even in the dark, they draw you in so terribly, the colour murky in shadow and imitating the solemn significance in every purposeful profession of your bond.
Though it is inevitable that the variation in topic would impede his sedation, the statement would come just as easy had he been drowsy like earlier, before your continuous interference. There is a certainty that you would not turn away from him or decide, on some average, mundane day, that you no longer want him. The dread of it and being inadequate or existing as a mere ‘person’ and not identified wholly as yourselves and recognized as someone necessary in order to form a coalescence known as ‘you and Phainon,’ together, is one shared and abandoned.
There is only this: memories upon memories of university—of running and missing in near-intersecting lines, lingering in parallel paths and waiting for the other in wary wonder—in proof of staying and choice and the willful persistence until you were ready. And now, with what you’ve become, well after that period as students, Phainon would wait however long if, theoretically, this life were to repeat with even a minuscule difference of when you would meet or when you may accept and trust who he wanted to be to you. For all that he needs is to land in this soft place, here, next to you—living with you, day after day, as the minutes pass by and the seconds tick along where even a dozen lives of the same banal events and scenarios would never be enough to experience it all.
So, when Phainon tells you that you like him, all you respond with is, “mhm, no,” as the label is unfit to delineate the exact degree of it.
“What?” The word is quite pitiful; weak in its timbre and slightly high in tone when the rejection beguiles his caution.
You laugh, and apologize for the mean transformation of your teasing through a plain validation. “I think I love you.”
He frowns, anyway. “Only think?”
“Now you’re pushing it,” you say with a straight face that’s impossible to maintain, half-hearted in this and the ensuing intention. “I’m kidding… maybe.”
In response, Phainon folds himself over you, a blanket of warmth that blocks out any moonlight from the open curtains. He does not grant you his voice, the only sound within your shared bedroom the creek of the bedspring as he repositions after each movement, the mattress sinking with the weight of his hand braced upon the space next to your shoulder, steadying him so that he can look upon your face. He starts with a small smile—one that you reciprocate with scant difficulty when you’re currently proud of your relentless banter—and feel his against yours through a light grazing of lips. They don’t meet when Phainon giggles, wanting to earn your impatient huff as he tempts with you with balmy breaths that pass between you, convincing you to widen your mouth as if he intends to gift you with a deep kiss.
Maddeningly, he descends upon your neck, first, lips wet with his saliva in preparation to spoil you so, leaving a moist trail in patient kisses that dry so quickly that its chill has you longing for another, if only to have him sear himself properly in spaces barely marked by his fealty. When your breath catches, he feels it, and allows a matching sigh to escape his throat as he tilts your head to the side to reveal more of yourself to him. Phainon grins, thereafter, with the dull drag up your jaw, punctuated with a nip of teeth mimicked upon your mouth once he’s satisfied in warming your skin.
Your thumb rubs across his cheek, cradling his head as you lead him in appreciating you properly, no matter how he kisses the cupid’s bow of your mouth, an early apology for the soft bite to your upper lip, accepted and punished through a detachment. The displeased whimper you welcome from him vanishes into a series of desperate noises as your mouth meets the hollow of his throat, sucking the surface until it leaves a splotchy blush you’ll have to help him cover come Monday morning if it doesn’t fade by itself.
Phainon slants his mouth over yours again; so desperately that any thought of your ailment and how fervent his desire for you to—so plainly—sleep flees from his thoughts, replaced by the call of your touch, the taste of toothpaste mixed with the honeyed-water of your tongue, and a sensation that is purely good. It feels good to kiss you and kiss you and not stop, even if those kisses are lazy without any rush, and hindered from transfiguring into something more amorous. You, yourself, try not to think about what’s it’s like when he’s pressed to you like this: body between your legs and his weight against your chest, shortly alleviating the comforting strain by lifting off you and flattening his palm across your belly—to hold you down or put pressure over where you both cannot forget the feeling of him, thick and heavy as he fills the space deep under his touch.
You try not to copy Phainon too much, either—panting into his mouth through stuttered breaths induced by affections so persistent that a thin, gossamer strand of saliva maintains the link between you, snapping only when he finally speaks.
“Doesn’t feel like you ’maybe’ love me,” he says, and you wish he hadn’t. Yet he lingers above you, forgetting your feigned expression—miffed at his riposte—to caress your sides, squeezing every inch you’ve bestowed him permission with.
Still, you warn, “don’t get handsy—my tummy hurts,” despite your instigation of him and the heat that licks up your spine, accompanying the shallow ache that has no relation to what torments you so.
His expression turns wretched; immediately, you laugh.
“It’s not funny!” he whines, petulant though his tantrum comes to you through the descent down your body, his gaze never straying from yours.
Once he reaches your hips, his hold tightens upon them, an announcement of his desire to be closer, gently pushing up the shirt you’ve stolen from him to smooth his hand over your skin. There, he presses feather-light kisses over the surface before growing firmer once you begin to squirm at the ticklish feeling, careful not to upset more than your already difficult stomach, and avoid it being directed towards him.
Your fingers card through his hair, pushing back his bangs to reveal the forehead you feel a fierce need to employ his current tactics upon; to reciprocate his ardent affections. “I’m okay, really.”
“No, you’re not,” Phainon argues, tilting his head to press his ear to your abdomen to—absurdly enough—listen to the agitating grumble and churning of your gut as proof in being correct. “This is because you ate all those chocolates,” he decides, facing you with a stern look. “I’m putting you on a chocolate ban.”
You jut out a lip and widen your eyes, gradually lowering the edges of your mouth only to force a wobble. Phainon evades the sight by pressing his cheek into your tummy, directing his stare towards the side of your bedroom rather than your pleading.
"You’re putting me on a chocolate ban?" you repeat to confirm it; he knows what you’re doing—it’s not going to work. He doesn’t answer, so you continue. "Next you’re going to ban me from all the lemon squares in the fridge because they’re acidic."
He mumbles into your skin, breath warm, “technically, they could be…”
“My Phainon doesn’t love me anymore,” you cry, pretending to keel over as he had earlier—as much as you can, anyway, with you already lying down, which makes it all the more preposterous as all you manage is a slight thrashing of legs and flailing of arms, wary of hurting him.
He gasps, sitting up on his knees with boisterous laughter. “Take that back!” But something washes over his expression; giddy, devious, and—most of all—dangerous, regardless of the steady, pleasant caresses upon your body.
“Tickle me and I bite you,” you warn.
“What difference is there from what you already do?” Phainon’s grin widens. “Is that meant to deter me?”
Wordlessly, you whack him with a pillow.
“That’s new.”
And the words are enough to have you pulling away from him, cramming yourself into your side of the bed, so close to the edge that you debate slipping off in a melodramatic fall that you can’t conclude as a reason that would grant you that his charming glee or exacerbate his latent concerns. The potential misery in that is sufficient in dissuading you, deeming your sour silence ample in capturing his aptitude in appeasing you while obvious in facetiousness.
Drawn to you, Phainon’s arms slip around your waist, curling against your back with his breath fanning over your nape. “Forgive me?” he whispers into the skin, muffled by your hair. “What if the chocolate ban is only until you get better? And I’ll hunt down a special matcha flavour just for you—a reward for being so strong.”
He’s annoying, but you want to ask, when isn’t it just for you?; filled with affection that forces your shoulders to shake despite yourself; suppressing your giggles. It only has him tucking himself around you, eradicating any remaining distance so that the length of his abdomen settles against your back, whereas his hips curve around your own, wedging himself between your legs so his feet brush against your calves.
Phainon seems to forget that it's the summertime.
Since the first time you’ve ever touched—platonic and hesitant to be near someone as bright as him—you’ve immediately perceived the warmth he radiates. Normally, he is a bit better with this; happy with holding hands before bed to avoid muggy, sweat-slicked skin, but you suppose that if you are suffering, then he must hold you. He sighs with the spot he’s taken behind you, inhaling the scent of your hair, matching his own, as the arm around your waist tucks against your stomach to pull you impossibly closer when there is no more space left to fill.
“Wake me up if your stomach hurts again,” he firmly instructs you, incapable of letting go of your conversation from yesterday.
“I was only joking,” you say, and are honest in the declaration. You wouldn’t want to subject him to a sight nor an experience in the escapades of expelling whatever it was that ruined your gut.
Still, he argues, “I’ll complain.”
You huff. “About not being allowed in?” He nods and you softly pinch the skin of his forearm. “I think you’d complain about the smell, actually.”
“You’re wrong,” Phainon mumbles with a fleeting yawn, and he wiggles against you, shaking the rising drowsiness from his body to convey his devoted obligation to care for you; one he’s freely taken upon himself and unwilling to give up. “I’ll complain more if you don’t let me make sure you’re okay, you know?”
It’s enough to render you silent, yet Phainon does not mind. He knows you’re still awake and listening—your natural bedtime is anywhere from two to three in the morning, maybe later if you’re up with your friends, and only earlier if you’re especially tired or he can tucker you out. And the scarcity of your voice is caused by your contemplation in what, exactly, you should say.
A thank you would be sufficient knowing him, and you would receive his sweet smile and the gentle dismissal of your appreciation. Phainon believes it part of his commitment to you, and the usual discussions of love would say this to be, in a way, correct. That with commitment there is a certain expectancy in behaviour and attention. To ‘tend’ to you like a gardener to a flower when Phainon is, truthfully, the sun that shines without thought—merely because it does and it can.
Phainon can take care of you; he doesn’t have to, but he does. And those discussions of love attempt to explain it and this through some sequential logic, of which is disparaging in the irrationality of it all. There is a man out there with white hair and blue eyes, maybe not as tall as he is but surely as kind. He could be as athletic as Phainon, or maybe he isn’t. He could also be a woman. But it’s Phainon you’re with—somehow it’s him.
It’s Phainon you love.
And there is no logic to what he wants to do. If one were to say that humans dislike the stench of bile and waste, then why should Phainon sit on the bathroom floor to watch you deal with it? The floor is disgusting, too, so he could stand, but that itself is strange—the vision of him awkwardly on his feet as you suffer. So, there is no point in determining what you should say or the proper way to reply when all you must do is ask.
“Phainon?” you call, his name perhaps an endearment on your tongue solely because it is his.
He responds with your own, apparently still awake. Apparently still waiting for you. “What is it?”
“Will you hold my hand if I do wake up?”
His chest rumbles against your back, laughter filling the night. It floats towards your ears from how near he is to them, and every other part of him finds you—his legs seem to fit better, and the rise and fall of his body syncs with yours. And, in proof of how he will always be where you need him, his hand leaves your stomach to find the back of yours.
His palm is large against it, eclipsing so much of it that your chest tightens within the safety in his touch. And between the crevices drawn from the mountain of your knuckles, Phainon fills each space, the tips of his fingers curling to reach the underside of your palm in a one-sided handhold. He tells you, without wavering when he lacks any fear in his heart, “I’d hold your hand if you went skydiving.”
Snorting, you wonder, “would you even let me do something that dangerous?”
He hums, the sound vibrating from where you’re pressed together. “If you really wanted to, maybe, but I have to come with you.”
“What if you’re scared and can’t do it?” you propose.
It doesn’t deter him. “I’ll do it because you’re there.”
“Sappy,” you coo, no matter how much that response pleases you.
Phainon simply says, "I won’t let you do anything alone,” and squeezes your hand—a tangible sort of declaration.
“Okay,” you answer, only to say his name again, catching his attention with it because you can. “Phainon.”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
His lips are soft on the skin of your nape. “Glad you know now,” he jests, and wrecks the little moment with his next words. “Since we love each other so much, we should go to sleep and see if we can kiss in our dreams.”
“You’re so silly.”
Although he struggles, he has enough energy to say, “you already used that one.”
“Come up with a better one, then,” you argue and rock your body just to disturb him and keep him with you for a bit longer.
He chuckles, muffling the sound into your shoulder when he really should be sharing what’s so funny with you. But rather than anything humorous, all that he expresses is joy despite the confession having absolutely no relevance to your challenge of him. “I love you, too,” he admits with a tender vocalization of your name.
It’s late, anyway, and Phainon has already done his best to entertain you for this long, so you let it be. Really, you just like the ordinary sound of it all; a verity in always converging towards this single point. And when the sun rises in a few hours, you lie just a little, telling him you really did kiss him in your dreams so you can do it in reality and find yourself at the beginning of another day to experience everything—with him—all over again, right from the very start.
this genuinely feels so unreal to me. what do you mean i have e5s1 blade with a guaranteed final copy 😭?? i’ve waited possibly a whole year for this exact moment, and now it’s here and i’m so happy
thank you all for the amazing interactions i’ve had with everyone the past few months (and even years, some of you)! i love you all and hope you remain happy, healthy, and safe :)
been going through one of the hardest times of my life, so i’ll be running this blog on queued posts for the foreseeable future
i’ll still post that mydei fic
i’ve been chipping away at it because i realise i’ve left it to rot for so long, but it’ll probably be my last fic for a while. i may post some others from time to time if i have the energy and creativity for it. in other words, there will be a lot less rambles from now on
thank you for reading this if you have, and for understanding
thinking of kissing mydei n my lipstick stains his lips but he doesn’t even realise it (and i don’t tell him :3). he’s walking around okhema and everybody’s staring at him with wide, wide eyes and he has no clue why
people stare at him often, sure, but even this seems like a strange overreaction. mydei’s used to people gawking at him for whatever reason, so he doesn’t get why. nothing feels particularly different today…
until krateros catches sight of him
the poor old man immediately clutches his pearls. he thinks mydei’s growing vainer by the day—what with the additional braids in his hair and the occasional flower or two woven between his strands—and that moving to okhema has ‘softened’ his warrior heart
but lipstick? oh. oh no. mydei’s mentor thinks he might just be on the verge of a heart attack
concerned about the state of his teacher, mydei is quick to ask if anything’s wrong. krateros only wordlessly points towards the prince’s lips
confused, mydei gently ghosts two fingers across his bottom lip, and when he lifts his digits to inspect the issue, the young man can feel the tips of his ears beginning to burn
this is genuinely how i feel whenever i rb someone’s fic with absolute WORD SLOP and clog their tags by maxing out the 150 character limit per tag 😭. on All Thirty Tags… 😭😭😭 MIND YOU THIS IS JUST ABOUT THE PRELUDE. the PRELUDE to the actual series. fuck me
okay so i reached the tag limit for reblogging but i still have sm i wanna say about the prelude for honey’s phai143 series, so i’m making this separate post for the rest of my thoughts!
i hope you realllyyyy don’t mind my word vomit honey 😭 1.4k words of it TT orz. mostly just me pointing things out that i noticed and had me screaming
these were originally just tags so if they read weirdly then that’s why. i tried mashing them together to make actual paragraphs. prolly still largely incoherent
picking up from my last tag, i really love how you wrote phai as a tutor; patient n understanding, explaining things n breaking them down in a way that reader can understand w/o being condescending!! gentle rebuttal and not harsh correction. reassuring encouragement when reader's on the right track
OH. HIM TAKING READER'S HAND TO TEACH THEM HOW TO TWIRL A PEN. AND READER SHIFTING CLOSER TO TEASE HIM AS HE BACKS AWAY? JUST FOR THEM TO TUG HIS CHAIR BACK BY THE LEGS?? OH MY GOD. OH.
then the scene of them parting after their first study session was so soft n sweet :( phai's hesitation n insistence on walking reader home,,, and then reader trying to decline and deciding to walk him home instead next time... it's so cute how he sounds almost shy when asking for another tutoring session. then reader turning back to face him just to find him doing the same?? SOOO CUTEEE UEUEUE 😭😭
OMGOMG YOU DID THE “Phainon is typing...” THING AGAIN!!! yup. i stand by what i initially said—he seems almost shy and in disbelief at reader's gratitude n enthusiasm to hang out again, faltering in his usual fast responses :)
ANAXA IMMEDIATELY CLOCKING PHAI’S TEA WHEN HE GOES TO SIT IN YOUR LECTURE HAS ME CACKLING HAHAHAH!! their back n forth was so funny to read! the fact that he got Anaxa to laugh like that was an achievement in itself. also worlde mentioned!! i love doing my daily worlde on discord :3
AND OMG. “Phainon is typing…” #3!!! when reader responds to his “DO YOU EVEN LIKE ME” message with “Of course I do”... THE MAN WAS TOO STUNNED TO SPEAK! and phai’s gift to reader 😭 that was so adorably sweet of him! cooking/baking really is one of his love languages, and his simple yet earnest words of “I’m proud of you” really got my heart melting. honeyyy 😭😭
“Phainon is typing…” #4!!! ohhh this one makes me sad :((( it’s as if he was affected by cyrene’s “Oh? So they won’t need you anymore” text, as well as her suggesting (in a teasing way, of course, not maliciously) that perhaps reader and he may not continue to get along after their tutoring is over :(
i think even rene picked up on his shift in mood because of her “Phai?” shortly after,,, HHHHHH 😭 but then his delay later seems more thanks to reader’s “But I didn’t see you today”, like he’s surprised reader Would Want to see him everyday :) just a cute little possibility mayhaps
and i feel like you capture phainon’s rising anxiety really well! it makes my heart ache, the way he was triple checking whether it’s alright for him to come over 😭😭 then he’s still nervously checking once he’s at reader’s place if he’s making them uncomfortable :(!! that whole section and the following one was brilliant, i could feel all his tension and it hurt so bad HHHHHH 😭 such a gentleman, never wanting to cross your boundaries
(also, not the eternal recurrence reference 😭)
and Oh… that scene of them half-hugging after reader receives that massive binder he made just for them 🥹🥹 followed by the scenes of them casually (and honestly a little intimately) enjoying e/o’s presence at such a late hour really warms my heart 😭!!! it felt slightly domestic almost
THEN WHEN HE GENTLY CATCHES READER’S HEAD WHEN THEY DOZE OFF BEFORE IT HITS THE TABLE?? OMFG. I WAS SQUEALING 😭😭!!! “If he were to press his chest against the couch to get closer, your noses would touch.” HONEY YOU ARE KILLING ME. you are killing me honey.
that entire section of them slowly getting sleepy together is sooo endearing, my heart was clenching so hard :’(
“[...] searching for sea glass in the colour of his eyes before you even knew he existed.” THIS IS? SO? BEAUTIFUL?? WHAT. oh this sentence hit so hard 😭 what a BANGER!! WOW.
AND THEN “[...] praying his joy will follow you into your dreams [...] ‘Go to sleep,’ Phainon whispers, ‘I’ll stay right here.’ [...] having kept a promise you hadn’t realized he made.”?? OHHH MY GOD. this entire section man 😭😭😭 it sounds so reverent and soft and YEARNFUL :(((!
then the moment when reader sprints to phainon to tell him of their success in their exam with him catching n spinning them around 😭😭!! i could just feel all the elation oozing out at that part :’) it’s so sweet! i love that detail you add of phai getting all modest n sheepish when reader tries to praise him too! you really do get his character so right!
but ohhh man,,, the peeking sadness phainon tries to mask when he realises reader may not need him anymore since they passed the test…… and then he relief he feels when reader says they still need him 🥺 ooouuughhh :(
i like the way you wrote their ‘debate’ over what love is—how they bounce off of e/o’s responses with genuine interest and attention like they really do value e/o’s thoughts n opinions!
bUT. BUT THEN?? then the conversation leading to them learning that neither had ever fallen in love before—all while laying so close together with intertwined fingers??? HONEY. HONEY THIS IS SO. SO SO INSANE. I WAS ACTIVELY CRASHING OUT 😭😭😭 PHAINON’S LIPS CURLING INTO A GRIN WHEN HE TURNS AWAY FROM READER THINKING THEY WON’T CATCH IT BUT THEY DO ANYWAY???????? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 😭😭
AND OH GOD. THAT LIBRARY SCENE… it went from playful n flirty to something more charged n tipped with angst+tension realll quick 😭! SO DELICIOUS! ABSOLUTELY MOUTHWATERING!! i loved that call back to when reader had pulled phai’s chair closer to them back at the cafe, but now it’s phai pulling reader closer by their library chair :’)
phainon’s hopeful question of “You said I was a dork and that was cute, remember?” and reader replying with “Did I?” punched my heart tho 😭 i could feel how that wounded him :( how he quickly tries to recover and downplay what he said by growing the distance between him and reader, distracting them with his pen twirling :(
OH!! “Phainon is typing…” #5!!! omg, him making cookies of THEIR CHIMERAS for them!! it sounds like a little confession of sorts, almost. plus reader deflecting and redirecting his ‘confession’ makes it seem like his 2nd hesitation relates to him wanting to clarify that it really is just made for reader, simply cause he wanted to :’)
more importantly, i love the little heart2heart cyrene has with reader towards the end. of her pointing out how phainon doesn’t like being seen and how he always puts on a mask. i adore when authors highlight this point about phainon’s character. it’s such an important part of him to understand, and you truly get it honey!! it’s been a consistent detail throughout this entire fic which was so lovely to see :)
cyrene being phai’s oldest childhood friend and noticing his positive change in behavior (as well as reader’s too!) makes his n reader’s relationship all the more meaningful n impactful in my opinion :) she really notices. and i also appreciated the part about reader feeling conflicted about phai being unable to deny them. because yes—ofc they don’t wanna take advantage of him, but it Doesss sorta suggest that they may hold a special place in his heart
AND THE ENDING!!! AAAAAAAAAA 😭 READER FINALLY CONFIDING IN CYRENE n acknowledging their feelings! it’s so sweet how cyrene maintains her teasing demeanour, very characteristic of her, but there’s also that sense of sincerity in her tone. i think that was a really good way to end the prelude and have it introduce the main series!
there’s already so much yearning n budding tension between phai and reader, so i am SOOO excited to read the following parts and see how their relationship develops! very beautifully done honey! i am truly so enamoured by your writing and the way you write all the characters and their relationships with reader :’) phainon particularly feels so unbelievably real—i feel very warm having read this (despite the nipping angst at times HUHUHU 😭 )
thank you for your hard work! such an artistic talent you have <3!!
