Eden's solace

"Not all those who wander are lost."

[st4rofeden]

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about eden

Honkai: Star Rail

ideas for future writings

ko-fi for commisions, for if you want to tip me ,and anaxa body pillow funds...

I currently write for the characters I love, you are welcomed to slide to my dms and send me requests. my button is open wide for you <3

things that I would like to write here:

I dislike angst, but I will still write it anyways just wanna tell you heheh

I have work and college, and my writings are inconsistent because im exploring different styles

FOR SENDING REQUEST:

please state that you want me to write something, like: " can you write about (prompt), thank you". so I know you're asking me to write somethinhg, or whichever you'd like, because I'll always post my inboxes! and im still figuring out how this goddamn app works..

we can also be moots!!! you can send them to my inbox or message me

I go by Eden, feel free to call me eden, darling, sweetheart, love, sunshine, my dear , ENGLISH isn't my first language so I may have mistakes on my writings, but dw I proofread everything before I post!

I love writing. keeps me bright in my worst night. i might disappear from posting due to the black tides of projects and assignments. but I shall always come back to this lovely, wholesome app.

thank you for reading!!

[st4rofeden]

spit kink | facefucking | I think that's all

the back of your head was constantly hitting the edge of the pool, before he gently place his hand, holding it steady as he chokes you out with his thick cock, heavy balls dripping with spit slapping against your chin

"ah please- deeper—"

he pleaded more to himself, his eyes are rolled back as he felt his tip kissing the back of your throat. it felt heavenly, thrusting his hips to your face as he drowns pleasure from your hot mouth

your body felt warm, from the warm temperature of the water, steam, and the way he thrusts into your mouth desperately. You did your best! Sliding your tongue on the underside of his length, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked him off nice and good untill he slips out a whimper, spreading his legs wider apart and pushed your head down hard. Your nostrils are invaded by his musky scent, which made you moan on his cock and you couldn't help but inhale it deeply. his hips stuttered

"dont do that- fuck.."

The gesture was incredibly erotic to him. He slammed his length harder once before pulling out with a wet pop, he grabbed his thick wet dick and slapped it agaist your cheek with squelching sounds. The tip erupted with more precum as he slides the length along your face, looking down at you with a fucked out expression

"Do you like it? Being choked by my cock?" He inquired, but not letting you mutter a single word as he gathers his hot spit, dripping down to your tongue, then smacked his throbbing tip against it before pushing back into your mouth

With a loud moan, he instantly exploded in your mouth, his thick, hot seed filling every inch of your small cavern. You gagged and choked, trying to swallow the massive load. He held your head firmly in place, forcing you to take every last drop.

[st4rofeden]

making out w phainon in the library's depths

He kisses you like the air's about to run out.

there's no warning, only the sharp inhale— and then Phainon is on you, his mouth devouring yours in a kiss that feels like a confession and a coronation all at once. his hand slips beneath your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone reverently— like he's memorizing you by touch alone.

and you? You don't dare breathe.

not when his other hand finds your waist, dragging you up against him, chest to chest, heart to trembling heart.

"Shameless" you whisper against his lips, dizzy with the heat building between you.

"devoted" he corrects, voice rough. "that I restrained myself this long."

you let out an 'mmph' as he walks you backward, never breaking the kiss, rather, presses his lips harder against yours, tongue sliding in— until your spine meets one of the tall library shelves with a muted thud. scrolls rustle beside you, precariously unbothered. somewhere in the loft, a candle flickers in warning.

he presses in closer, caging you in with his arms. one of his legs slides between yours, pressing the heat between your thighs, deliberate.

"I smell the risk of someone walking in" you murmur, dazed.

"only if you're loud. don't worry, I'll just swallow it all" and you choke on a laugh— only for it to turn breathless when his mouth moves from yours to your jaw, your throat.

his lips trail slowly — too slowly— nipping down to the base of your neck, then lower. one hand slips under the fabric your shirt, splayed warm against bare skin.

he glances up.

"Permission, dawnlight?"

you nod.

his hand explores upward, fingertips reverent, tracing lines like poetry on skin. he kisses your collarbone. then your shoulder. then a spot just under your ear that makes your knees buckle slightly.

he holds you up, the corner of his lips quirks up, looks down at your flustered cheeks. "always so sensitive. though I should remind you, the shelves are judgmental."

you gasp when his warm hands dips down, caressing your hips, thumb circling a spot that makes you arch just barely.

"we're in a library."

"and this is a lesson in anatomy. would you prefer I use diagrams?"

your hands fist in his shirt, dragging him back into another kiss — deeper now, open-mouthed, sloppy and aching. His hips press forward instinctively, grinding just enough to make you shudder. His breath catches, and he lets out a low, broken sound that makes your toes curl.

"You're dangerous" you whisper against his lips.

he grins— flushed, unrepentant, eyes dark and gleaming.

"dangerous? I was merely indulging your sinful act." he says, voice rough against your mouth that made you shiver. "weren't you the one tempting me to take you right here, darling?"

your muffled moans are audible as he presses against you. you kiss him again, and this time you both forget what silence is.

somewhere, a scroll falls. neither of you notices.

[st4rofeden]

Phainon flirts like he's been hired by the stars to make you swoon before dinner. he'll stop mid battle just to say something like, “If I die today, let it be known it was after seeing the angle of your smile. Tragic, but worth it.” He says things like “My heart trembles like a violin every time you breathe,” and he's not kidding. every sentence is dripping in sugar and sin, but beneath the playful glimmer in his eyes is a heat that makes your throat catch. he'll twirl a flower into your hair without warning, then press his forehead to yours and whisper, “I’d let kingdoms fall if you told me it made you smile.”  half the time you're laughing, half the time you're too stunned to reply, complimenting him with a smile— he'd gasp when you flash a subtle smile to him, like he had been shot and approved by Mnestia, now he's the one swooning over you. and if he ever thinks he's losing your attention? he'll kneel infront of you while holding your hand like its a sacred duty and say, “If I must compete with the world for you... then let the world prepare for war.”

So yes. Phainon flirts like he’s writing poetry during an eclipse.

And somehow—it works.

Anaxagoras flirts like a man who read six romance novels and decided to try a thesis on them. he hands you a graph titled “Increase in Heart Rate When You’re Nearby” and genuinely believes this is romantic (…it kind of is). you'll be sitting together quietly, and he'll murmur:

“There is a gravity to you. Like celestial orbit. I find myself returning, again and again, no matter how far I calculate escape vectors.” you laugh. he looks mildly concerned. "That was a metaphor. Did it… fail to translate?" he'd be memorizing the exact angle you tilt your head when curious , bringing you three types of tea just to test which one best stabilizes your mood patterns, staring at you like you're a philosophical riddle he never wants to solve. and sometimes… just sometimes… he stammers. when you look too pretty. when you call his name. when you kiss the corner of his mouth.

“I—ah. Yes. That… was also... emotionally significant.”

you're pretty sure the next paper he submits to the Grove will be titled about “Love As Quantum Entanglement.”

Mydeimos doesn’t mean to flirt half the time— but he's stupidly good at it. he'll hand you a drink and say, “Eat something. You skipped lunch. Again.” like it’s a threat and a love confession. is there the word 'flirting' in the kremnoan language? soon. for now he just… protects. offers you the bigger portion of food. ghosting his hand on your lower back in crowds, giving death stares for as long as possible to anyone who dares interrupt you looking at the cafe menu, even when you've been staring for almost 10 minutes, the waiting line is already long yet he stares sharp, but when you turn your attention to him, he's already looking at you like a lion cub. he ruffles your hair when you take the petal off his face. but every action towards you is deliberate, lowkey, intimate.

like he's memorized your habits in no time. his voice is always low, steady. It's not about what he says— it's how his smile curls sideways, his hand faint but lightly lingering on yours. if you tease him, he'll raise an eyebrow, while muttering something like “don’t start,” but the tips of his ears go pink. it’s devastating. soft and low, one sentence while you're half-asleep against him, “I’d tear the world apart if it meant you’d sleep safe.” that's Mydeimos flirting. by being your shield—and daring you to fall for him without ever asking.

[st4rofeden]

Phainon pretends he's fine. of course he does, always been. the moment something wounds him— he masks it with louder talks, wider smiles, fills every room with his poetic antics. he complimented everyone he walks past, starts a tragic limerick mid-sentence, even bantering with anyone at his field of vision. but the jokes lands too fast. the smile dont quite reach his eyes. you'll notice when he misuses a metaphor. when he says "sunlight" but his eyes meant lonely. he becomes to theatrical, trying to convince himself he's still bright.and when it gets bad, he vanishes to the highest rooftop, not to sulk, but to shrink. you spot him there with wind-tossed hair and hands folded tightly in his lap, staring at the stars without speaking. he'll still joke when you sit beside him. he'll still say things like “What is a heart but a messy, red clock prone to melodrama?” but when you rest your head on his shoulder, he'll finally exhale, long and slow. and eventually— quietly, like a confession he'll say: “Sometimes I wonder if I burn too much just to hide how hollow I feel.” and when you wrap your arms around him? That's when he cracks, pent up anxiety begin to follow up, he slumps “Ah I'm fine truly! the stars are no—” you cut him off before he finishes. “I need a hug.” you didn't, cheeky. but he did. he'll caress your back soothingly, praising and comforting you like it's his duty. all while he's the one clinging tightly to your warmth, almost squishing you as he buries his face to your neck, to hide himself against the world in your solace

When Anaxagoras is upset, he disappears—but not physically. he's still there, standing exactly where you left him earlier, still doing what he’s supposed to— organizing files, adjusting blueprints, giving sharp lectures with zero stutters. but his voice loses cadence. his sentences turn clipped. he speaks only when necessary, and when he does, it feels like a door half-closed. He won't tell you what’s wrong. Not until he sorted it, dissected it, classified the pain and determined whether it’s irrational. you'll find him in his office late, sitting in the dark, staring at his hands like he doesn't quite trust them. he won't ask for comfort, but when you quietly sit beside him— bring him tea, brush your fingers against his knuckles—he'll pause, just briefly. and if you say nothing, if you give him the silence he understands, he'll lean toward you, just enough that your shoulders touch. Later, maybe hours later, when the lights are still low and your head is on his lap, his stiff shoulders slowly relax as you run your fingers on his scalp, other hand softly rubs your thumb on his cheek. he'll murmur quietly,  “I don’t like this version of myself. But I’m grateful you still choose to be near him.”

Mydeimos gets quiet. not in a cold or distant way— he's never cruel to you— but in that heavy, suffocating silence of someone who doesn't want to burden you. his jaw clenches more than usual. his responses shrink to nods and low grunts, and when you try to get close, he almost flinches— not from you, but from the fear of spilling something he’s worked too hard to lock down. he trains harder on bad days. days in the sparring yard long after sundown, fists wrapped tight, his body glistening with sweat, pushing himself to the edge of collapse. and still, he'll say he's "fine". but if you find him after— press a cool cloth to his bruised knuckles, gently clean his face with cloth and cold water, kiss the lines between his brows, and whisper “you don’t have to hold it all in”— he’ll stop. you'll feel the exhale in his throat. and then, almost reluctantly, he'll sink into you. maybe sit on the bench, head bowed into your chest , arms around your waist like you’re the only thing tethering him, all while his warriors glanced when they get past. no, he doesn't really care. and he won’t speak for a long while. but when he does, its hoarse. “I don’t know how to say it. but... I needed you today. I always do.”

[st4rofeden]

Phainon does not hide his love.

he shouts it from rooftops. he turns compliments into poetry. he would serenade you on a battlefield if the acoustics were good enough. would.

to him, loving you is a privilege.

he buys you flowers because behind the fake sky—"the stars aligned nicely." he crafts a necklace from fallen shards of starlight "so your beauty reflects in every mirror of the universe." he kneels to tie your shoe and ends up pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

when you''re sad, he monologues dramatically,

"pie—"

"who dared wound my beloved?! i shall write a strongly worded letter. or perhaps… duel them with a spoon!" he says that, but he's already prepared to burn them to ashes.

beneath the theatrics is sincerity. raw, honest devotion.

he notices when your voice trembles. he cups your face like it might dissolve. he sings to you when you're asleep, even when you throw a pillow at his face. he'll take it. because you need to hear it. his one in countless proves of his love for you.

for Phainon, devotion is worship. loud and lyrical. but also quiet, when you need it most— his arms tight around you, his lips against your temple, whispering

"I was born under many stars. but I only orbit you."

Anaxagoras doesn’t say he loves you. not at first.

he proves it, like a thesis, in the same way the sun proves daybreak— precise, reliable, inarguable

he learns your patterns like he studies the stars. how many degrees your eyebrows bent depending how sad you are, the kind of books you reach for when you're tired. the exact flavour of tea that calms you fastest. the angle you lean when you're sad but don't want to say it.

he adjusts, he leaves you notes on your desk— questions you like to debate, half-formed poetic thoughts, sometimes just "Today, I considered your laugh and lost 7 minutes of productive thinking. Worth it."

when you're ill, he slips a schedule for your medicine on one of your books. If you cry, he sits beside you in stillness and lets you rest your head on his shoulder like it’s sacred. when he thinks you’re asleep, he whispers

“You are my exception. My constant. My only logical fallacy.”

he doesn't say "I love you". But you can feel it — in the way he lets you annotate his lecture drafts, how he pauses mid theorem just to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

to Anaxagoras, devotion is not passion unbound. But faithfulness made daily, made conscious, made eternal.

Mydeimos ? isn’t good with words.

but he is good with keeping you company. with sharing his presence if it calms you even the tiniest. he just knows what to do when you sulk, when your tears rolled down from your cheek, when you're awfully quiet, he takes care of you delicately like a withering violet

showing up with a paper bag of loaves at your door. when you said you "weren’t feeling like talking." he sits with you in silence until you do.

he shows love through his hands. he often bakes your favorite bread. even if you’re too tired to stand, he just lifts you. If you look cold, he'll offer you a hug by spreading his arms without a word.

and when he decides to speak it? it's short. but it lands like gravity.

"I dont care if you're a mess. I've cleaned worse and loved harder (you)."

He doesn't look at anyone the way he looks at you— gaze lowered, like you’re the most vulnerable truth he knows how to hold.

for Mydeimos, devotion is physical, tangible. never flashy, never loud.

but real — as warm as the bread he bakes and the way his arms never let go when you need them.

[st4rofeden]

Mydeimos braids your hair.

sitting between mydeimos' knees while he holds your locks delicately. careful to not accidentally yank you. he focuses like it's a mission

you just opened your eyes from a quiet afternoon nap

in castrum kremnos. a quiet chamber with cold stone, golden sun spilling across woven rugs and the occasional mug of unfinished tea.

nestled on a low cushion, hair tangled from sleep and dreams and too many rolls in the bed last night. not the good kind—j ust the tossing and turning from a dumb stress dream kind.

and now you're sitting on the floor with mydeimos behind you, legs bracketing your sides, a brush in his hand and your hair looped over one calloused palm.

he's focused... too focused.

"You don’t have to do this" you mumble.

"I know."

his hands move with the same care he’d use disarming a live trap. It’s oddly charming.

"since when do you know how to braid?"

"since I had hair."

makes sense. you almost forget he has a braid.

you felt his fingers brush your scalp. its soothing.

"you're good at this"

he doesn't respond— but you swear the way he parts your hair grows more confident, more proud. his fingers are steady. tugging just enough to hold the strands without pulling too hard.

he forms a low braid, finishes and ties it off with something soft. probably a strip of his old cloak.

you run your fingers through the rest of your hair— neat. it feels good. you feel good.

you glance back, begin to crawl closer, he hummed, you taking his wrist. more like... restraining.

"now match with me." "what?" you tug at his own braid.

"lemme redo it." you look at his braid, hanging beside his cheek

"it's fine..."

"it's loose."

"it's not loose."

"let me fix it please?" you're using the most lethal weapon against him. begging.

"d— you're—" he cuts his own words. he exhales. rests his hands on your hips.

he brush his knuckles over your cheek. "fine. just because im not capable of denying you."

...

both of you have slightly lopsided matching braids. his are a mess, a lots of strands sticking out.

you declare yourself a warrior of intimacy and hair symmetry. he just drinks his tea and mutters something about how he liked it better when you were half-asleep.

But he doesn't take his messy braid out.

not for the rest of the day. doesn't care enough at his warriors giggling. why would he?

they could never compare yours.

[st4rofeden]

your logic sleeps, but the heart still speaks! (professor— you talk in your dream.)

the two of you fell asleep on the library sofa— his head tilted against the worn velvet cushion, yours against his shoulder.

you were supposed to study. he read aloud to you until his voice faded mid-sentence. and now… well. you haven't been able to fall asleep.

not because you're not tired. but because he's muttering.

and it's adorable.

"...empirical structure.. chaos. balanced in symmetr...the shape of your gaze bends axis of thought..."

your eyebrows raised. did he just say—

"..your laugh... repeatable pattern. irregular. beautiful... not for publishing...."

you slip out a snort

you shift slightly. he doesn't stir— just sighs deeply, brows twitching slightly, his voice a little deeper now. not a lecture. more like a thought leaking out

"...I wish— quantify the warmth.. your palms." barely audible now.

there it is again. Your name, nestled into the lull of an unconscious breath.

"you smiled. I forgot my theorem."

you stare up at the library's ceiling. your heart's doing something awkward in your chest now— too loud, too fast, too warm. maybe enough to reach him, maybe no.

you try your best not to melt. you failed.

...

"logically impossible. I would've remembered—"

"you forgot your theorem because I smiled."

he opens his mouth, closes. he never shuts it so fast in his life.

"...that was private."

"you were unconscious."

"still."

you smile, reaching out to adjust his poor glasses that were on the edge of falling.

"dont worry. I liked it."

he clears his throat. looking everywhere but you

"then... perhaps I'll do it again. for research purposes."

[st4rofeden]

Imagine Phainon or Khaslana has been suffering countless cycles just to see s/o again but they only saw them in one cycle just to see them again in the recent cycle Phainon with Stelle/Caelus and Dan Heng saw s/o stuck inside the ice just like March 7th case

oh god more angst. im quite confused with writing this, sorry if something doesn't make sense!

warnings: mentions of blood

somewhere cold, quiet. like a forgotten vault where time is sealed and memory lingers.

they reach the vault on the 17th entry hour.

dan heng breaks the silence first. "another damaged site." caelus steps forward. "looks… recent."

but phainon— he doesn't move.

his eyes are fixed on the thing they've unearthed beneath the frost.

not a weapon. not a coreflame. not even a truth. You.

suspended inside the ice six phased ice just as she once was. hair unmoving. eyelids soft. hands folded as if in prayer, a figure the world forgot. that time forgot— but he could never.

"beautiful as ever, my dawnlight." he whispers

they're talking. but all Phainon can hear is the echo of a memory.

a single cycle— long ago where you looked at him like someone human.

you stayed with him when the stars turned to ash.

you kissed him once. a small peck on the lips. just once. but it fractured him across timelines.

the frost doesn't shatter when he touches it. he doesn’t try to break it. he simply places his palm against it.

a hum.

something in the air recognizes him.

or maybe it's you. your fingers twitch.

"that's impossible," dan heng murmurs. "they're responding."

caelus steps closer, alarmed. "are they… alive?"

Phainon does not answer. he already knows.

hes seen this moment before. not in this cycle, not in this place. but in dreams, that weren't his.

a glint of your laughter in the wheat fields. blood on your knuckles as you pulled him from a war he didn't remember starting. your voice, saying his name like it meant something.

"I remember" he says quietly. "they chose to stay. even when they knew the world would erase them."

his voice shake.

he kneels before the ice. the same way he once did at a grave, or maybe a in front of your figure sitting at the couch, or maybe nothing at all— memory bends around him.

"every cycle" he whispers, "I looked. I begged aeons. i rewrote variables. I became entropy to defy it."

and now you're here, inside this hollow, ice vessel.

he leans in. his forehead pressing to frost.

"i'll keep burning myself bright through every endless hue— even if it chars my soul to ash. if it means I’ll reach to you."

and for the first time in all the cycle, your lips part.

barely.

like the beginning of his name.

[st4rofeden]

Imagine Phainon's s/o waking up from a stressful nightmare and wandering the house looking for him because they got scared and want his warmth and cuddles

hello! ohhh he's good with words, I can imagine him saying the sweetest, heartwarming, feet clenching things to soothe you. aslo tries his best to flick those nightmares away out of your head

THE NIGHT WAS LONG, BUT YOUR LOVE WAS STRONG

not proofread yet!!

you wake with a jolt. the world is dark and too quiet— the kind of silence that feels like it's holding its breath.

your chest feels tight. whatever dream you were having is fading at the edges, but its echo lingers, cold, unsettling, and wrong.

you reach for the blue guy. but the bed beside you is empty. a flicker of dread threads into your spine.

you sit up, the dim amber light seeping through the curtains. the air is laced with the scent of cedarwood and faint jasmine— Phainon’s blend— but it feels distant now. ghostlike. like a perfume clinging to the memory of him.

"Phainon?" you called. the room is dark despite the amber light, barely see through.

silence,

so, you go looking for him.

your bare feet make soft taps on cool floors. the hallways stretch endlessly, echoing with distant wind and the faint creak of nighttime settling in.

and suddenly you are six years old again, afraid of shadows and silence. your breath fogs in the chill. its raining lightly. you don’t know why, but tears prick the edge of your eye.

why did he leave the bed?

"Phainon…" your voice is fragile, a thin whisper. earlier nightmare creeping up in your head.

then a noise.

glass clinking?

you follow it. how brave of you. despite the lingering dread.

you find him in the kitchen. back facing you. white shirt loose, holding a knife as he… slices fruit.

he's making tea now. other hand holding a handful of grapes

there you stand— with a racing heart, slightly shaking, dressed in crumpled sleepclothes, your nightmare still clinging to your spine.

he turns, and freezes when he sees your face.

then—

"—oh dawnlight," he breathes, instantly beside you like he teleported. "what happened? Are you hurt? was it the war of dreams? did the titans betray you in sleep’s cruel theater?"

you make a small noise, y'know, the kind that says no but yes.

he drops the fruit, wipes his hands on his shirt then cradles your face like you’re made of antique glass.

"you’re trembling." he leans in, brushing his forehead to yours. "was it a dream of loss? of shadows without stars? of me… forgetting to bring you your nighty night forehead kiss?"

you choke out a whine. "no! I… had a bad dream. and you weren’t there." ah. he felt guilty.

the kitchen goes quiet.

then, very softly, Phainon whispers, "...I will never forgive myself for this betrayal."

you tilt your head.

"i went to steep you night-honey tea," he says, his tone low. "you were murmuring and turning... I thought a warm blend might help. but I should’ve stayed. I should've held you through it. I should've... I should've wrestled the dream from your mind like Orpheus from the underworld" oh titans this man.

"Phai—"

"no, don’t soothe me. Let me feel shame," he says, a dramatic hand to his chest. "It makes me a better lover."

Minutes later: you're in the living room.

four blankets draped over both of you like a tent.

you shift in his embrace. the blanket’s warmth isn’t quite enough. Your heart still stutters, like it hasn’t caught up with your body yet.

"Pie," you murmur, your voice barely audible. "it felt so real. like.. something was gone. like you were."

he doesn’t answer right away.

then slowly— quietly, he tilts your chin up, his dramatic air shifts into something still, like moonlight on still water.

"listen," he starts, you tensed.

it’s his serious tone. not the theatrical starborn poet,

but the man who holds you every night like you’re the last good thing in the universe.

"you are real. I am real. this—" he brushes your knuckles with his thumb, “—this is real. whatever cruelty your dreams tried to show you… it has no power here."

your heart rate increases, flustered, but still with anxiety, trying to keep the drops of tears at bay. "I know. It’s just—"

"I know." he leans forward, pressing a delicate kiss to your brow.

"but still, I want you to hear this from me."

"if you wake in a thousand more nightmares,"

"if the stars fall, if time forgets my name—" he pauses.

a tear ran down your cheek.

"I will still find you. I will always come back to you. no matter how many cycles I must go, I promise to break you free, my dawnlight."

a kiss to your tears.

and somehow, it’s that. not the tea, not the blankets. that lets you finally relax. sleeping through the night.

...

you wake up slow, heavy with sleep. the blankets are still wrapped around you and him.

phainon’s already awake. sapphire eyes admiring yours.

he doesn’t say anything— just leans in and kisses your forehead. then your cheek. next your dark circle.

you squint at him, your voice still rough from sleep. "morning…"

he hums softly, blessed by your voice, he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. His hand smooths over your back warm and steady, like he’s checking to make sure you’re fully awake or no.

you shift a little. "You’re being quiet."

he plants kisses your shoulder. "Didn’t want to wake you."

another kiss, this time right below your ear. "Didn’t want to stop."

you sigh, closing your eyes again. his touch is soft, not rushed. he's not teasing, not dramatic..yet. just… gentle. like he knows last night’s fear hasn’t fully left you.

and you don’t need him to say anything else.

you just let him hold you, and kiss you, until the morning feels safe.

[st4rofeden]

I'll be back once every blue moon

[st4rofeden]

Hi! imagine when you trip over a rock on the streets of Amphoreus and they just

Anaxagoras, adjusting your pillows precisely: "the neck angle must remain at 37 degrees to optimize airflow." where the fuck did you get a pillow?

Pie-non: "She needs comfort! not geometry, oh my stars—"

Mydeimos: "Bye." (covers your ears. glares. carries you while the professor debates the student.)

[st4rofeden]

Soft and spent, the sunlight bends. (2) baker!mydei

warnings: suggestive. part 1 here

night has folded over the harbor town. the open sign is flipped, lights are low, and the bakery smells of cooling loafs. outside, streetlamps flicker, only the front counter lamp glows—soft amber spilling across flour dusted wood. You lock the door. he’s wiping down the last tray when he notices you walking a little funny— leaning against the wall, still sore in the sweetest places.

You barely have time to turn before—

"come here." his hips leans on the display counter, golden eyes piercing, arms folded. apron hugged messily againsy his waist. he still looks good after a long day. so unfair.

you grumble, walking towards him, he watches you, a hint of guilt finally appears on his face.

he pushes off the counter, making way towards you. "I'll take you upstairs."

strong arms scoop you up without warning— hands sliding under your knees and back, like you weigh nothing. you yelp softly, instinctively clutching his shoulders.

"Mydei! we haven’t even cleaned the—" he cuts you off with a kiss on your cheek.

"I’ll clean it later."

he’s already walking, steps thudding against wooden stairs, your breath catching every time his mouth brushes your skin — cheek, forehead, temple. every kiss is warm, familiar, adoring.

"you’ve done too much today,” he murmurs, “I know you're tired."

you don’t argue, not when you’re this tired. not when his arms feel this good around you.

he carries you into the bedroom, the lights are low — only the amber glow of the bedside lamp, the shadows from the shutters, and the gentle flicker of sea-scented candles.

he sets you down with care, like you’re made of spun sugar., very different from...last night. The mattress creaks under your weight as you sit on the edge of the bed.

he kneels before you, not rushed nor sultry. just reverent.

his hands find yours first— fingers lacing together. then, gently, he takes one hand in his, lifting it like a treasure.

"didn’t even make time to take care of you properly, did I?"

He presses a kiss to your knuckles.

"carried too many trays, stirred too much batter." another kiss— slower. and another. until it reaches the edge of your fingers, your breath catching at the heat he leaves behind.

"insufferable.." you retort, cheeks flushed.

"good." he smirks faintly.

his hands slide downward, your legs part instinctively as his fingers graze your calves— thumbs pressing into the skin, easing tension with care.

then, his mouth follows.

a delicate kiss to your ankle, that made you shiver.

then higher — to the inside of your knee, where he had a bite that other day when he's loving you, his breath stays too long.

your thighs twitch under his touch as he leans in again— this time slower, warmer. each kiss lands like a promise, a prayer, a silent vow.

"I know held you too hard" a kiss on your inner knee.

"but you're still soft when I treated you rough." he drags his lips higher.

"I want to make you feel loved." his lips are on your upper thigh.

You’re breathless before he even reaches your hips. and still, he doesn’t rush.

his mouth trails up— pausing to murmur between kisses, voice like velvet

"You’re trembling." his lips press just below your navel  "Let me soothe it." —and you flinch, a soft sound leaving your throat from overwhelm.

"You feel so warm here…"

your hands find his hair. pulling it, bit enough to hurt. not for him.

"you're so gentle tonight." you whisper.

He lingers there, groaning as you pulled his hair,— mouthing the space just above your waistband, nuzzling into your warmth. It’s not lust, not hunger.

he smiles against your skin, his voice rough.

"its my devotion, sweetheart."

...

he eventually crawls up beside you — lifting you into his lap, his arms folded tight around your waist.

you hide your face against his chest, smells like bread. your cheeks are burning hot, luckily he doesn’t tease you for it.

instead, he kisses the top of your head... then your shoulder. then your jaw. hands rubbing your back, your sides, his rough palms eventually rests on your hips, pulling you close to his body.

Thankyou for the support from part 1!!! this was a bit rushed but I hope you like it.

[st4rofeden]

hey so how do you think Boothill would deal with a s/o where he’s worried he won’t be comfy for them to lay their head on his shoulder or cuddle with. And s/o is like “:) don’t you remember me complaining about other people’s beds being too soft that I can’t sleep. I ended up not sleeping cuz i was very annoyed about it. I like my bed hard. You’ll actually be very comfortable for me”?

it would be a VERY wholesome and sweet dynamic, for someone who’s all metal and grit on the outside but probably a lil soft and unsure when it comes to these things, you'll have to keep assuring him until his doubts melts away

warnings: none! thumbnail isn't mine. here

it starts when you're both sitting down to rest— sunset painting the horizon red, the heat of the day finally easing off. you scoot closer, eyes fluttering half-shut, clearly ready to use his shoulder like a pillow. But right as you're about to lean in—

"wait— uh, you sure y'wanna do that...?" he stiffens. as if he's not stiff enough already.

you pause, just stare at him.

"do what?"

“lean on me. I mean— I ain't exactly a feather bed. steel plates, no give. ain’t soft like a proper pillow.” he awkwardly looks away, scratching the back of his neck.

a moment of silence before he chuckles nervously, clearly trying to brush it off, but there’s an edge of self consciousnes there he can’t quite hide. as if the thought of not being “comfortable enough” for you bugs him more than he’d ever admit.

so you just smile — soft, knowing. and he smiles back sheepishly—

"dont you remember what I said about soft beds?" you teased gently.

he didn't immediately respond. you lean your chin into your palm, gazing him with warm eyes.

"Every time I stay somewhere else, I complain about the bed being too soft. Like I’m sinking into a marshmallow and I can’t get up. I didn’t sleep for two days because the pillows swallowed my head."

he just stares, words fumbled between surprised and concern. you took his hand, slowly leaning to him again. slowly.

"You? mister no-nonsense-with-a-six-shooter? you’re perfect for me. you’re like the firmest, most supportive mattress ever. yep. you’re definitely my ideal bed."

Boothill short-circuits for a full five seconds. poor man. lucky man. he looks at you with a deadpan.

"darlin', did you just call me a mattress?"

you giggled. "the best one I've ever had."

you lean against him again — firmly this time. He stays rigid for a moment, then slowly relaxes, warmth rising in his cheeks, arms settling around you like he’s still unsure he deserves it.

me mutters quietly. “well. reckon I can live with bein’ your favorite place to nap.”

he eventually realize.

you're soft enough for both of you.

[st4rofeden]

Just finished reading the fanfic where Phainon sings for sick reader. What if reader dies and Phainon always sings them a song whenever he visits their grave 🥰🥰🥰

MY FIRST INBOX I LOVE YOUU..huh? pienon ANGST?YOU. I warned you.. Better start packing your things up and hope I don't find you.. Sure!! Phainon angst💔💔😔 my heart shattered 33 million times just by thinking abt it

End of Beginning

A quiet grave near the old house where you used to spend your time with him. the sky is heavy with clouds. flowers are wilted. the stone is warm from his touch. it’s been a year. but he still sings.

the breeze carries it.

softly. like it remembers you.

there's no one else around.

just a gravestone with your name carved in silver, chipped slightly st the edges, where his fingers trace each letter like they still hold heat.

the grass is overgrown. the bouquet he bought you last week is dry now, its petals scattered by the wind.

he kneels beside the stone like always — too dramatic to stand, too reverent to sit.

a small, weather-worn journal rests in his lap. his. he doesn’t read from it. He never needs to.

because it’s your song.

the one he wrote on the first night he realized he loved you.

the one you said made you feel like a constellation.

The one he’s sung at your grave every month since you left.

he kneels there quietly, almost afraid to break the silence.

"My voice still rises where yours used to echo. the world still turns — but I swear it drags without you."

his voice cracks on the second line.

the song continues — soft, a bit broken. but whole in the way grief makes things too full to carry. the melody spills into the wind and disappears into the trees like it always does.

"you always hated this part." he mutters between breaths. "said it was too indulgent. said I was showing off."

he smiles... faintly.

"I was. for you."

he finishes the song. no applause. just the wind. he stays a little longer.

he seemed to be deep in thought, then he leaves a new page from his journal at the base of the grave.

still singing, still yours. don’t make me wait forever, my dawnlight.

then he rises, slowly.

gives one last look.

and then he walks away

he'll be back in a month.

and another.

with the another bouquet. same journal, same silence

same devotion.

like an eternal cycle

like the a sun destined to burn itself away. dim light holding itself to not go astray

until the remaining fades away.

[st4rofeden]

“MY IMMUNE SYSTEM FAILED— HIS LOVE DID NOT.” - PHAINON ft. The Smiths

a/n: I plan on making multiple characters in one post. but i changed my mind!! they'll have separate one shots. Warnings: nothing.

summary: you sick. phainon insist on singing you to sleep.

─ · ·✦•๑࿔༻𖤓༺࿔๑•✦· · ─

you gaze at the holy city of okhema, admiring the view of kephale's statue. carrying the dawn device. feeling unusually tired

You sneeze once.

Phainon gasps like you’ve been shot.

"No—no! Not my dawnlight! Not my tender starlit songbird! Speak to me!" You're alredy flushed. now it gets worse by his petnames. "It’s just a—"

"No talking!" He presses a single finger to your lips. "Save your strength. Every syllable is a diamond lost to the void."

You slip out a cough, He immediately whirls around and begins pacing the room, hands flung in the air like he’s directing a tragedy. "How dare the universe steal your glow? I should've guarded you better. This is what happens when mortals kiss the sun with uncovered shoulders."

"You’re being ridiculous."

"im being devoted!"

10 minutes later!

You’re lying in bed—buried under four blankets, a heating pad, three herbal teas, and the smell of something vaguely medicinal and fruity. he returns with a bowl of something steaming.

"I made soup. Well, attempted soup. It’s… passionate in flavor. but tastes like love!"

You take one taste and cough, he looks at you with horror—

like...like he just murdered you.

you flick away his thoughts when you hold his face, squishing his cheeks.

"...why is it sweet?"

"I put honey. and cinnamon. to counter the bitterness of your suffering." what a gentleman.

"phainon, did you put love potion logic in your chicken soup?"

"...is it working?"

didn't taste bad as you thought it would be. you carefully lay down to the sheets. he gets you a new heating pad, he gently wipes the lingering chicken soup on the corner of your lips, applies your favorite lip balm on your lips to keep it moist... like he's done it countless times. he's quite sweet sometimes. even though its layered by his dramatics.

you're too tired to talk, and you told him ,and you should’ve expected what would happen next.

"Would you like music?"

"No."

"Wonderfull, because i've already written a song called "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out." what..? no. he stole it somewhere

He pulls out a lyre from somewhere (you don’t even ask anymore lol), perches at the edge of your bed, and begins serenading your fever dreams.

"And if a double-decker bus Crashes into us To die by your side Is such a heavenly way to die"

you melt for a second.. then he improvises.

“You’re beautiful even while sickly, Your sneeze is a kiss from the divine. I’d catch all your colds if it meant You’d always, always be mine…”

you throw a pillow at him, and he catches it juuust in time.

"I see. you want me close."

He climbs into bed beside you, carefully spooning you like you’re made of spun gold and paper petals. and you surrender.

as you slowly drift to sleep.. His voice softens. The dramatics fade. His arm tightens around your waist, and he presses a feather-light kiss to your temple.

"I’m loud, yes," he whispers, "but not because I’m trying to annoy you. I just love you in a way that refuses to be quiet."

You’re too tired to reply. But you fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart against your back. and he doesn't leave your side.

Not even when he starts humming your name into the warm folds of your blanket.

========================

if you bring me phainon angst...better srart counting your days....

[st4rofeden]

Soft and spent, the sunlight bends. baker!mydei

A sleepy coastal town. You and Mydeimos run a quiet little bakery on the corner — locals love your cinnamon rolls and his rye loaves. It’s nearly noon. The open sign is still flipped to closed. The reason? someone won’t get out of bed after last night left a beautiful mess of limbs, sighs, and sore thighs. and Mydeimos is officially done letting you sleep through prep hour.

warnings: suggestive!

The oven is warm.

The croissants have risen beautifully.

The only thing missing from the scene?

You.

Still wrapped in the bed upstairs like a sleepy pastry in human form, you’ve ignored three alarms, one kitchen timer, and the smell of freshly baked bread.

Mydeimos stands at the base of the stairs, arms crossed, quiet. Not annoyed. Just... silently victorious.

"told you you'd feel it this morning." his rough but soft voice rings from downstairs.

silence

"last call. we're opening in twenty."

a muffled whine escapes from upstairs

he climbs the steps slowly, the wood creaking beneath his steps.

he doesn't knock. just opens the bedroom door and leans against the frame.

there you are, buried in the blanket, sprawled on your stomach, hair tousled and skin still warm from dreams and something less innocent. you dont even turn when he enters— just whine into the pillow like the idea of movement might kill you.

"everything hurts."

he's already beside the bed.

"not complaining, were you?"

You lift your head weakly and glare. He smiles— a quiet, rare curve on his lips that's all teeth and dark amusement. this man.

"I can't walk."

"I know."

he says it so plainly. like its your own fault, like he's a little proud of it.

you groan, throwing your arm over your face.

he leans in, presses a kiss to the back of your neck— slow, warm, deliberate. it sends a shiver down your spine, and he knows it. his voice is brushing your ear delicately.

"get up and I'll feed you."

a pause.

"you'll need the energy, we open up soon. and im not carrying you again unless you beg."

you turn up your head just enough to glare. and again, he's already smirking.

Somehow, he gets you out of bed.

He sets you on the chair like a sack of flour. You let yourself flop sideways, cheek against the table's wood surface.

He moves to check the proofed dough on the prep counter, strong hands moving with practiced precision. You peek at him through squinted eyes — he’s in his bakery apron, tied tight around his waist, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in focused irritation. He looks good like this. Unfair.

he came back after picking up a plate and a glass cup. infront of your now slouched form. eyes in level with his abs covered by the fabric of this shirt.

He sets a plate down beside you — warm sourdough toast with honey butter, soft scrambled eggs, a slice of peach tart, and your favorite cup of tea.

"...you made this for me?" you slowly picked up the tea

he shrugs, leaning his hip against the table, arms folded.

"I wrecked you. I feed you. balanced equation."

you choke on your tea a little, he looks far too smug.

He picks up a slice of peach and holds it to your lips.

Mydeimos, soft. teasing. "open." you stare up

"you're feeding me like a baby bird."

he leans closer, his abdomen closer to your face as he softly poking the peach through your lips.

"I could always drag you back to bed and feed you something else."

your mouth immediately opens.

"good girl." he pushes the peach through your lips.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ ·

HEHE made me and my feet giggle thinking about it. would you like a part 2, my dear readers?