Pervy!phainon.. who makes you do his yard work when you’re wearing a short skirt just so the wind blows enough for your panties to flash him.
Pervy!phainon.. who gets rock hard when you’re covered in dirt after your done. actually he doesn’t even mind you noticing, some of his wet fantasies is you watching him get off to you.
Pervy!phainon.. who uses the advantage of him being a great farm boy in your small village so your parents trust him enough for you to stay with him.. he does this for one reason. to get into your house and steal your clothes.
Pervy!phainon.. who steals the underwear you were wearing the day before and keeps them in his small pocket.
Pervy!phainon.. who has no shame at all when you’re around, he’ll purposely take off his shirt to make you notice his muscular body. he loves it when you give him compliments on his body. he gets so hard that he starts to whimper a bit after you fond over him
Pervy!phainon.. who walks you home after a long day of work. why? so he can stay outside for a bit and watch you change obviously! he sits behind a couple of hay barrels and watches you carefully take off your clothes.
Pervy!phainon.. who plams his erection once you start caressing your body. he watches your hands slowly dip down to go underneath your underwear, he sees you let out a a small breath which ultimately makes him even harder.
Pervy!phainon.. who jerks off into the spare underwear he stole once you start pleasing yourself. sloppy thrusting into it as he watches you squirm while touching yourself. he whimpers out your name softly.
Pervy!phainon who edges himself once you stopped pleasing yourself for a bit. he cannot finish without you finishing youself! he watches and realizes you physically can’t let yourself finish.
Pervy!phainon.. who now desperately wants to hear your loud cunnie’s noises! so he becomes bold and gets closer just to hear your delightful moans.
Pervy!phainon.. who drools over your gorgeous moans and noises. he practically cums on the spot!
Pervy!phainon.. who matches you pace and cums at the same time as you.. who knew you guys were so alike!
Pervy!phainon.. who cums all over the ground and on the underwear. just to leave it outside and near your room. so then the next day you’ll spot a weird wet spot on the ground.
"Please…” Puppy Phainon whines against your neck, his voice low and desperate, like he's been holding those words in for too long.
You're bent over the edge of the couch, your palms flat on the cushions, and he's pressed right up behind you. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the soft skin there, holding you steady. You can feel his cock—hard, thick, twitching against your slick folds—as he lines himself up.
He doesn't ask. He just pushes in, slow and deep, stretching you open inch by inch until his hips are flush against your ass. A low groan rumbles from his chest, and you feel his breath hot on your ear.
“Fuck… so tight for me,” he mutters, starting to move. His thrusts are steady at first, deliberate, but it doesn't take long for that control to slip. His rhythm turns rougher, hungrier, each snap of his hips driving him deeper.
You can hear the wet sounds of him fucking into you, can feel the way your body clenches around him every time he pulls back. His hands slide up from your hips to your waist, then one palm presses flat between your shoulder blades, pushing you down further into the cushions.
“Good girl,” he breaths, “take it. Take all of it.”
His pace quickens. His balls slap against your wet skin with every thrust. The couch creaks beneath you both, and you grip the fabric, knuckles white, as he fucks you harder. His breath comes in ragged gasps against your back, and you feel him starting to lose it—his rhythm getting sloppy, his hips stuttering.
Then you feel it. A brush of something soft and warm against the inside of your thigh. His tail. It's wagging fast, thumping against your leg as he pounds into you.
“Gonna cum,” he chokes out, voice wrecked. "Gonna fill you up so good, puppy Phainon loves to breed you… loves to pump his seed deep inside your little cunt— ”
His hips slam forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and he comes. Hot, thick ropes of cum pulse into you, flooding your insides, and his tail goes wild—whipping back and forth against your skin, tapping against your ass, wagging so hard you can feel the motion through his whole body.
He stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His tail keeps wagging, slower now, but still going, like he's too happy to stop.
“Stay,” he whispers, his hand moving down to press against your lower tummy. “Let it take. Let it sink in.”
And he doesn't pull out. Just holds you close, tail still thumping happily against your thigh, while his cum starts to leak out around him.
yearner!phainon is over the moon when he hears auditions for a boyfriend position are open! (*≧ω≦)ﾉ
cw: very!!!! suggestive and creepy, feminine fem!reader, popular!reader, downbad!phainon, like.. loser-level down bad but its kinda hidden cuz he's super gentlemanly and stuff, pervert!phainon, like.. this got creepy kind of fast tbh so yandere!phainon just to be safe, kinda forced intoxication, my attempt at an unreliable narrator phainon, college au, written with chubby reader in mind, inspired by the song: 'boyfriend' by big time rush cuz i'll never ever get over that song it's still 2011 ok? ok
also heavily inspired by @diz-eaze and their countless phainon aus. i love every single non they've got.
when phainon overheard your friends tease you about your lack of luck in love, it was like the stairway to heaven appeared in front of him. and when he heard you admit you really, really wanted a boyfriend, he got hard so quick he got dizzy. he had to lean against the wall, breathing heavily. a few people, including his best friend mydei, gave him weird looks, but he didn't care.
he had an opportunity to finally do something about his pathetic 'pining'.
it all started when he dropped his pen, and being the angel you are, you picked it up and gave it back to him. the seed was planted instantly upon your eyes meeting. your radiant smile, your soft: 'there you go', and the brush of your fingers against his..
his obsession, however, was gradual. after that encounter, he started noticing you more and picking your voice out of the noise in the halls.
then, he started paying attention to your wardrobe. your cold weather jacket.. your warm weather jacket and how you're shit at gauging the temperature so you're constantly either too hot or too cold.
he started sitting closer to you in class, eventually ending up behind you. much to his friend's dismay at having to sit somewhere else with each class. he took in your handwriting, tried to imitate it while writing his own name.. the dreamy sighs only got deeper from then.
he started noticing irritation bubbling in him whenever he saw you speaking to other guys. he didn't do anything to them, yet.
phainon doesn't know when he started to dip into the 'creepy' territory. he started feeling the urge to take your paper cup from the cafeteria table after you forgot it. his eyes followed the chewed-up piece of gum as you threw it out.
it's when he saw you talking to one of the male teachers. a, in his eyes, sleazy one who just couldn't wait to ruin his career by sleeping with one of his students.
oh-so coincidentally standing next to the open classroom door, he tried to listen to the conversation. though, he heard the phrase 'extra credit' and alarm bells immediately went off in his head. isn't that how most school-girl porn starts?
he immediately entered the classroom, a polite smile on his face. "hey there, professor! oh? sorry for interrupting, i had no idea you were busy.."
he quickly glances over to you and your clueless expression, of course.. you couldn't tell what that prick was trying to do.. you're too kind to assume that kind of thing.
he then looks back at the professor, and swears he can see a glimmer of irritation passing through. hah, knew the guy was planning something.. it's a good thing i interrupted him.
he follows you home that day, just to be sure. which, unsurprisingly, becomes a habit.
from that point, you started to bleed into every part of his life. like this one, in his bedroom at 2:47AM. sat in his deskchair, scrolling through his usual rotation of porn. through, recently nothing has been hitting like it used to. it started annoying him that none of the girls in the videos looked like you. so he went on a mission to find a pornstar that reminded him, at least a bit, of you.
he finally finds one. there's no face shown, so he's free to imagine yours, but the body.. oh, the body was so similair to yours it sent blood rushing down south immediately.
an addiction starts that night, as he is now unable to go without looking at this one video of the girl laid out on her back, her tits bouncing deliciously as she gets pounded, for more than a few hours at a time. it's simple, it's basic, but it just stirs something in him..
he escalates again. fast.
a week or two after his new porn addiction, the video unfortunately stops sufficing. he needs the real thing. thanking whatever entity is out there that you basically live in short skirts, regardless of weather. bonus points if you wear thigh highs. he adjusts from following you from a distance to walking up the stairs whenever you do to take some upskirt shots. gradually he gets really fucking good at those.
then, his irritation about you speaking to other men turns into a crippling amount of anger, fury, disgust. so, he does what anyone else in this situation would do. he invites the men behind the building to smash their nose in. and maybe get in a threat if he's level-headed enough that day.
he doesn't even notice when he had stopped resisting the urge to just pick stuff up after you and taking it home until a tiny shrine of you forms in his room. doesn't notice the shock in your eyes when every man you speak to comes to campus with a broken nose the next day, either.
back to present day, where he's trying to gather himself while still leaning against the wall. mydei rolls his eyes, grabbing phainon by the shoulder to shake him out of his daze. "idiot, you good? you've got such an obvious tent they're for sure gonna send you home if you don't figure it out. what even happened?"
phainon takes a few deep breaths and stands up straight again, trying to fix himself. his face red, he glances back at you and your group of friends one more time before putting on his signature polite smile, "all good, bro.. just some hormone flare or whatever... don't worry, it'll go down soon."
his friend raises a brow and looks over his shoulder, finding the most probable cause of phainon's.. predicament. "her? again? you do know she has grounds for calling the cops if she knew all you were doing, right?"
not even considering how his friend knew of any of his new habits, phainon just chuckles, throwing an arm around mydei. "what do you mean? haha.. let's just go, okay?"
he galnces back one last time, accidentaly making eye contact with you. you exchange a polite smile before phainon walks off with mydei.
later that night, he started recalling every time you spoke to some guy. what did they say that made you laugh? what was something you didn't like when men did? and most importantly, what kind of men did you speak to most?
he comes to the conclusion that he must be close to your type. sure, he didn't read much.. doesn't play any sport, doesn't like parties.. but he goes to the gym! that counts for something. right?
so, he starts an instagram. goes through every inspo page possible, researches the best angles and ends up posting gym thirst traps. girls like that, no? you must, since he's followed you to the gym a multitude of times. if you go.. then you must be attracted to men who do as well!
he follows you immediately, of course. and the joy he felt when you followed back was immeasurable. finally, you could acknowledge him instead of the burner he usually used.
after a week of basically living at the gym between following you around and posting all those pictures and stories, you respond. you comment on a picture he strategically captioned: boyfriend workout. imagine all this coming home to you.
he almost passed out when he saw your daring comment, a sweet and simple 'i could take him.'
it was basically free from that point. adjusting his clothing style to fit your preferences, a cheeky heart as a response to your more risque pictures and a wink as he 'spotted' you in the hallway. as if he wasn't creeping on you, as usual.
until it finally progresses. mydei's frat is hosting one of its many parties, and hearing you'll be there.. phainon goes all out on everything he has learned about you. what cologne you like on guys, the black compression shirt and his hair messy and partially covering his forehead.
he's waiting anxiously, leaning against a wall with good view of the front- and back door. he pretends to listen to mydei's annoyed grumbling about the mess people are making when he finally spots you. dressed in a tiny miniskirt and even tinier tanktop. shameless little thing.. he smirks.
"hey, pretty girl," he greets, "you look stunning, as you always do."
his sweet smile replaces it immediately and he takes his chance to approach you right away. he's had enough of your little social media back and forth.
he notices you tense slightly, the heat that rushed to your face so strong he could feel it radiate onto him. he coaxes you into a couple drinks, ones he's only pretending to drink himself while he observes you getting more and more tipsy while making small talk.
your guard visibly lowers, and he takes that chance to make a move by placing both his hands on your hips. he leans in, your faces an inch or two apart. his sweet smile on his face as he feigns concern, "oh my, you seem to be quite the lightweight.. you're already swaying. you're hard to hold when you move like that.."
he texts mydei that he's leaving, and guides you to his car, chuckling. "my, my.. are you always this feisty when you're drunk? don't worry, i'll take good care of you."
he leans in to whisper into your ear,
"i'll care for you so good.. you'll never want to leave."
a/n: lots of first attempts in here, so especially now constructive criticism is welcome ♡
in which you prank your sweet puppy boyfriend by telling him that you're leaving early to see how he reacts ♡ inspired by that one tiktok trend hehe~
the two of you weren’t doing much of anything to be honest, but this was how your hangouts usually went. phainon, sitting with his back against the headboard of his bed. you, laying with your head in his lap and aimlessly scrolling on your feed while he wrapped his arms around you, perching his head on your shoulder and providing occasional commentary like a little pet bird.
“that lunchbox looks so cute babe, we should try making it,” he says, grabbing your finger mid-swipe to return to the previous video.
“today?” you ask, glancing at the time on your phone.
“mhm. i have the ingredients for it and everything. can we? can we?” he asks as you turn to face him, his eyes glimmering like an excited puppy.
you pout a little before sitting up and moving off of his lap. “i’m sorry baby, but it’s late... i gotta get home.”
the look of pure despair in phainon’s blue eyes nearly broke your heart. “wait, but you said you were sleeping over…” he held his hands out to you, wordlessly begging for your touch. “come back, ‘wanna keep cuddling..”
you grabbed his hand and squeezed it in a feeble attempt to comfort him. this was so cruel; how much longer could you deceive your sweet, innocent boyfriend like this? “i forgot i have something to do at home, i’m sorryyy,” you whined as you slid off of his bed.
he jumped to his feet with a start, almost moving to block the door. “wait, are you actually leaving? please, i actually planned so much for us to do tonight…” the tiny whimper at the end of his sentence combined with the babyish pout on his pink lips almost had you break right then and there. suddenly, much to your surprise, he literally dropped to his knees in front of you. “please, can it wait like twenty minutes? i just wanna cuddle with you a little more and then i’ll drop you off, i promise.”
you ruffled a hand through his soft blue hair, admiring the way he begged so preciously with his eyes. he clung to the hem of your shirt with such desperation, how could you not give in? “yeah? you want twenty more minutes?” he nodded frantically. you couldn’t help but giggle. “hmm… hehe, i’m just joking, baby. i’m still sleeping over, if you don’t hate me after this.”
his eyes widened with pure ecstasy. “wait, you are?!” he jumped to his feet and lifted you in the air in one swift motion, leaving you squealing in his arms. "tsk, you are such a bully!” he plopped you on the bed and climbed over you, tickling your face with a flurry of kisses.
“i’m gonna make you pay for this, just you watch~”
you’re a mermaid in distress and he’s here to… save you? | featuring: phainon, anaxa, and mydei x mermaid!reader | fluff, alternative universe, bullet-form narration, pirate!mydei, knight!phainon, scholar!anaxa, i mean he somewhat already is, mentions of blood and wounds, fem!pronouns are used for the reader, not proofread | wc: 4.7k
note — today i had a beautiful dream of pirate mydei thus this was born, and gosh it got long my head hurts… (500 words each character, i said, it will be short, i said)
PHAINON; FREEDOM TASTES LIKE BLOOD ON YOUR LIPS
The first time he sees you, you are listless—a ghost of salt and scales drifting in a gilded cage. Your fingers press against the glass, searching for a current that isn’t there. The expression on your face is etched into his mind, haunting him like a madman on his trail. You were clearly uncomfortable, restless, unable to adapt in the new environment you were forced to be in—who would? Your glass tank was nowhere similar to your home. The water reeks of chemicals, not brine; the fake corals are a mockery of the reefs you once knew.
In this place, you were completely vulnerable and exposed to everyone. There was no place for you to hide. The decorations were not big enough to cover you up and the transparent walls allowed anyone to watch your every move—perhaps that was the intention. After all, you were captured and sold to a wealthy nobleman who was fascinated by your species and their ‘exotic beauty’.
The second time was when he was with the master, standing in front of your ‘home’, gawking at you with a grin on his face—all teeth and greed. You were still the same except much worse, lingering on the same spot he had seen you. “Pretty, isn’t she?” The master says, a sparkle in his gaze as he admires your every inch before he turns to look at the swordsman by his side. “You find her amazing, don’t you?” It seems he had mistaken Phainon’s tension for awe, and he hates it; there’s a bitter taste on his tongue and a tight feeling in his chest, especially more so when the brutish man mentions how he can’t have you.
As if you were some prized possession or doll for ownership. The thought alone angers him, his grip on the hilt of his sword never loosening.
A gem is tossed inside your tank, landing on top of your head, as the master speaks of how your species is particularly fond of such things: “Doesn’t that one make you happy?” The man croons, “So rid that ugly expression on your face. The guests wouldn’t wish to see such a depressing display.” How considerate, truly.
Phainon doesn’t even ease from where he stands, from where he watches, and it frustrates him further that he’s bound to a position where there’s nothing he can do. He hates that he feels useless, that the chains of his responsibility and status tugs tightly on his neck, rendering him unable to reach you.
But surely there should be something, right?
Later that night, unburdened by his duty, he returned to where you were. This is the third time he sees you, and yet, you remain the same. The faint moonlight dimly alights your room, the silver casting its glow right at your display case. To think that they even thought of your display and where the light will hit. You’ll see him, lingering by the doorway, seemingly hesitant but when he catches your gaze, he steels his resolve and steps forward.
Phainon’s greeting to you is returned with a curious tilt of your head—this time, something different from your usual pensiveness flickers in your expression at the sight of a cautious man who bears the wave in his eyes. At least you don’t look too wary or scared in front of him (he’d hate himself if you feared him too). He takes this as a good sign to continue… with whatever his plan is. It’s practically non-existent, he just wanted to come here and see you. At this point, he’s no less different to his master; he can’t help the sigh that escapes him.
You swim toward him—only a bit—and there’s something tentative in the way your fingers press against the glass, like you're waiting to see if he’ll hurt you too. For a few moments, the two of you have this staring contest held in pure silence, until the words come out of his mouth before it gets lost in the crevices of his mind: “Are you lonely?” And you blink; the only answer you could ever give him was a tilt of your head downwards and the faintest nod as if telling the truth was a sin itself, as if admitting to yourself and to someone that you’re lonely was a blasphemy.
And maybe that’s what does it. The softness in your response, the way you fold yourself smaller like you’re trying to disappear, like you’re tired of being seen and never known (and it’s cruel how the nobles, how these terrible humans, had never tried to know your name or see past your scales). It twists something deep in him like a scar being carved open, left bleeding on the edges.
From then on, Phainon returns—always at odd hours, always in secret. He comes with stories: half-truth about the stars, lies dressed up as tales about heroic escapades and adventures, and anecdotes about his beautiful, exceptional horse, who he claims is more honorable than most men. Other times, he just sits. Talks. Mostly about things that don’t matter like how he’s a bad swimmer, how he grew up close to the wheatfields of his hometown, and how he came to be in this state, wielding a sword to protect the very master you detest, who he also detests. There are also poorly-made jokes and horrible-executed magic tricks, but it makes you laugh anyway, bubbles spiraling up around your face, and oh, how lovely it is that he wants to make you do it again.
He brings things: little, inconsequential things he pockets from the outside world—dried seaweed snuck into your tank that he had bribed one of the servants to drop inside after seeing how poor your diet is, a smooth stone that feels like it remembers the tide, a ribbon the same color of his eyes to tie and style your hair with when you are bored. But sometimes, he comes with silence, with a solemn look on his expression, and with blood on his mouth. And in those moments, he will always ask the strangest questions but never seek for answers, only giving you the smallest of smiles.
You never ask him to stay longer, but he always does.
However, it all falls apart on the night of a gathering. Nobles had arrived in finery too expensive for their personalities—loud laughter and strong perfume that reeks in the halls. Their eyes drag over your form like it’s something they own; they found amusement in the scared expression on your face and how you got startled when one of them knocked too hard against the glass. Stationed by the door, lips pressed tight, Phainon’s hand shakes against the hilt of his sword.
The master gestures at you like you’re part of the decor: “She’s a lovely thing, making the whole room feel alive when she’s simply just swimming. Such a shame that’s all she can do.” Like a bowstring taut too far and tight, something inside of him snaps.
When the night has fallen deep and the halls are empty with the absence of people and their mockery, you hear footsteps, heavy, against the eerie quiet. Phainon appears but you can sense that there is something wrong—his boots and clothes are stained with crimson, rust-brown in streaks, and his sword, unsheathed, drips with something of the same color. His eyes, usually calm like an undisturbed lake, are stormed over. The room was still dim, moonlight draped over his surroundings like silk, casting shadows on his already dreary face.
“I couldn’t find the key,” he says, voice trembling. “So, I’m making one.” He tells you to stay back as he raises his sword and with a swing, the glass cracks once. Twice. And finally, on the third strike, it shatters completely. Water comes rushing out in a torrent, spilling like a scream, the sea reborn inside a noble manor. You’re unsure whether this is salvation or something worse, but the man kneels in front of you, wraps you in his cloak, and touches your cheek like you’re made of something holy. “Please hold on to me,” his voice is nothing but gentle and tender,
Your prison fades behind him as he runs through the darkness of the night like something possessed, arms heavy with you, but he never stops. Even if the torchlights appear and blink like the stars above you, even if the shouting grows louder in each second. And when the cliff looms ahead, he doesn’t hesitate to jump, murmuring an apology close to your ear that tangles in the wind’s roar.
(It was as if he had planned this from the very start, the route carved and drawn deep in the corners of his mind, waiting for the right moment.)
The sea swallows you whole and Phainon nearly drowns. You had to drag him to the shore, the knight—once bore glory and status, reduced to a man in drenched clothing and tarnished honor—gasped and coughs, half-conscious, bleeding from his knuckles and some parts of his skin. But he grins at you as if he had finally lost everything—except the one thing that he truly cares for. “Told you,” he rasps in broken breaths, “Protector. Occasional entertainer and magician. Bad swimmer.”
You laugh, the same one you’ve shown him, except it’s clearer and livelier compared to when you were inside your glass cage, and he feels like a little boy seeing the sun after a long time. And perhaps, it was the rising dawn on the horizon and the tide’s sweet hum, but you kiss him—like freedom on your tongue, a wind that gently caresses you, and the sea on your lips. It’s soft like a prayer; an affection that the skies would never understand.
And when you part: “Thank you,” you whisper in the language only the deep remembers and though he may not understand, he knows, and he smiles, patting your head. However, you must go now, even if it pains you to leave and forget the warmth of his skin because it is not safe here and it will never be.
This was fine, it was fine.
You’ve made a promise that you’ll come back to him, after all.
ANAXAGORAS, ALL ABOUT MERFOLK 101
Anaxa—or Anaxagoras—is a man of passion and knowledge, that is definite.
He stumbles upon you by chance, or perhaps by fate despite never believing in it, injured and unconscious by a cove he frequents during his night walks. Moonlight had fractured its surface, silvered shards dancing over your scales—each one a fleeting star in the dark. He wades in, dragging you a little deeper (you were heavy that’s for sure), so that no one else will spot you.
His fingers, ink-stained and calloused, hover above the gash in your tail, hesitant as if touching a relic. Armed with some information on basic medicine and of your species (sourced from rather not-so credible books and papers), he manages to tend to your wounds enough that it looks… somewhat acceptable-looking in a way that it will really help you heal. Though his bandaging is precise, it is inelegant—too tight here, too loose there—and he simply settles with that despite his frown suggesting otherwise. He was not a healer nor a medical student.
Not long after, you rouse from your sleep. Your vision swims as the searing pain overwhelms you. You first see a ceiling of jagged rock, the scent of salt and crushed herbs thick in the air. Then, a shadow moves from right beside you—a man, human, and you immediately panic though useless when the stranger spoke: "Do not thrash." The command is sharp, but the voice is wrong: guttural, clumsy in all its parts. "You are... safe. Ish."
Mer-tongue, but a butchered version of it as if he was chewing rocks. You’re not sure whether to be insulted with how poorly they are spoken or amazed because it’s a human speaking it.
You blink up at him—tall, seemingly gaunt like he could be blown away with a wind’s kiss (an exaggeration, but he really does look like it), and one eye hidden behind an intricately-designed patch. The other glints like a blade in the moonlight. He kneels before you, a hand held out not to touch but to display as he introduced himself: "Anaxagoras," he says, tapping his chest. Then, slower: "Ahn-ax-ah-gor-as." Like you’re the one struggling with language. You say it, syllables much clearer, flowing smoothly than his. He does not take this as an offense, but rather, he’s amused that he’s able to converse with you.
He tells you of how he simply stumbled upon you and treated your wounds, and it seems to have worked seeing that you’re not dead. “You will not die. Probably.” You wheeze—a weak laugh or a protest, even you’re not sure. Although he mistakes it for something else, a mermaid’s dying breath or whatever that made him command you: “Breathe.” It’s sharp but concern clings to it. "I do not want your corpse." Then, switching to his native tongue when Mer-words fail: "You are valuable. Alive."
You flinch and he does not notice the fear that strikes your face. His eyes narrow and he sighs, softening his words this time: “You have something that I want.” Of course. Humans always want something. Typical; you had to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes, but you did raise your eyebrow at him. “What could I possibly—”
“Information.” He cuts you off, taking out the journal he had kept hidden underneath his clothes. "Your people’s creation myths, the moment your kind first understood mortality, your understanding of time. Anything—” His voice falters and grits his teeth, as if forcing out the next words: “—to disprove the idiotic texts claiming mermaids simply weave moonlight into their songs.”
He was no linguist nor doctor, but he sure was a scholar in a mad pursuit of answers to his questions, and to disprove the narrative and lies falsely weaved into your species. You tilt your head at him, "Do humans think we’re just fish with pretty voices?" He does not entertain your question, waiting for your answer to his somewhat one-sided proposal, and you sigh. “Fine. But you bring me land-food tomorrow. The red fruit with seeds.”
And that’s where it begins—fate playing its cruel game of tangling the souls of yours and his.
You’ve established the cove as your meeting spot. It’s become some sort of your ritual—every day before the sun sets you resurface from the waters only to see him already waiting for you, idly sitting or writing down something in the same journal he uses to record everything with. You’ve joked of stealing it and dumping it into the waters once, but the look you got from him immediately shot the idea down and sealed your mouth shut.
Day one. He brought you the promised pomegranate but you ended up making a mess out of it. In your own defense, the skin of it was hard and tough, nothing like you expected. On that same day, you taught him the word for ‘sweet’. Day seven. He brings you some oranges in exchange for your beliefs, if any exists. You tell him of the moon, and scorn him for bringing you such a sour fruit. He had to bring you mangoes the next day to appease you. Day twenty-one. He brought you books, one that brings stories and illustrations. Fascinated, you sing him a song that praises the sun. And the days go on and on, until it turns into weeks, until it turns into months, and eventually a year.
Although there are some days where he ‘forgets’ his journal and spends it watching you draw on sand, listening to your voice. At those times, his inquiries are more often directed to you rather than about you.
Over the thread of time, you cannot really deny that the two of you had gotten close; from what were awkward, somewhat one-sided conversations of just him giving you something and immediately asking for knowledge in return, to this—softness laced into your banter, lingering too close to one another, the tide whispering against the rocks as if keeping your secrets, his fingers no longer hesitating before brushing against your wrist, your laughter no longer guarded but bright and unburdened, the space between your world and his shrinking with every shared moment.
“Say it, scholar.” You grin, sharp. “Or do you not know the word for ‘please’?” He clicks his tongue at you, the sound as dry as parchment. "I know many words for 'please' in dead languages. Your dialect's inflection is confusing and inconsistent."
You laugh, the sound bubbling up like seawater over stones. "Truly arrogant. For someone who still says 'hello' like he's choking on a shell, you ask such big questions, don’t you?” and you don’t fail to notice how Anaxa's jaw clenches. "This is a fair exchange. I've brought you"—he gestures to the collection on the rocks—"texts of all kinds, fruits that don't grow beneath the waves, and the coordinates of three freshwater springs that you have insisted on knowing.”
"But you’re lonely.” You say and the realization comes suddenly, but feels obvious now. "All these questions... you just want someone to talk to." I mean, what kind of man would spend nearly half of their day trying to trade knowledge, bargain about trivial things, and yaps about whatever he could think about as if you were some kind of diary, and think it’s nothing but a desire for company?
While he is studying you, learning new things about you, you, too, are doing the same.
For a moment, the only sound is the tide pulling at the shore before he scoffs at the idea you have brought to him. “Ridiculous. You must know that a claim such as yours should—” But before he even gets through halfway of his sentence, you interrupt him (and you know he hates it when he gets interrupted, but you still do anyway). “Then, do you like me?”
“That is irrelevant.” He quickly answers and you laugh: “So, you don’t deny it?”
“You’re delusional,” he says in your language, but the red that faintly dusts his ears tells otherwise. “You’ve butchered it again, geez.” And though he frowns, there's something almost pleasing in the way he scrawls your correction in the margins. Anaxa finds it that you’re the type to command rather than ask, just like right now: “Stay until the sun sets.”
He had told himself many times that it’s just curiosity—the way his pulse stutters when you mimic his laughter and teases the way he pronounces his words that it bleeds into another meaning. Not fondness. Never fondness. But he stayed even when the sun had bled red and sunk into the horizon, even when you had tugged him into the waves, even when you had dragged him deep into the depths, his lips sealed with yours.
And so the bargain continues—not as scholar and subject, but as something far simpler than the gods could ever comprehend. It endures like the silence during dawn and in how your laughter now lingers in the hollows of his ribs like a second heart.
Two souls trading whispers where the sea meets the shore, while the tides keep count of all they cannot name—the weight of his gaze when he thinks you're not looking, the way your fingers brush against one another, the unspoken promise that tomorrow, and every tomorrow after, he'll still be waiting when you surface.
MYDEIMOS; LINGER IN THE SILENCE OF FOREVER AND NOTHINGS
In the pursuit of gold, or dinner, he found a mermaid.
You were caught by mistake, getting trapped in the nets was thrown into the waters after spotting a shadowy mass beneath the waves. You thrashed in it, tangled in the ropes like a stray minnow amid the day’s pitiful haul of flounder. Above you, the crew of pirates gawked, their faces slack with disbelief.
What was thought to be something valuable—maybe a kraken (delusional), a shipwreck’s spoils (optimistic), or at least a tuna large enough to feed more than a dozen hungry pirates (desperate)—turned out to be something completely and utterly different.
One man pokes your tail with a rusty hook, yelping when you snap your teeth at him. A scrawny deckhand with a missing front tooth whistles: “We got a big catch today, boss!” He says, poking your tailfin with the toe of his boot. “Fetch a pretty price in port, eh?”
You’re trapped. You’ve got nowhere to run (literally). In their eyes, you’re practically a diamond waiting to be mined, a jewel in grubby hands.
You shouldn’t have gotten close to the water’s surface, you shouldn’t have been too curious, you should have stayed away, you begin berating yourself at the realization that you will most likely end up as a trophy or worse, soup.
“You’re scaring her.” A voice,gravel wrapped in velvet, came from behind them. The crew parted like tidewater before the moon, revealing who possibly is their captain: Mydei—you learned his name from one of the humans’ whispers—, a storm given a human shape. His presence is a brooding shadow, appearing before you clad in a mix of red, dark maroon, and gold, and his chest covered in crimson tattoos. He crouches, eye level with your trembling form.
For a moment, you expected a knife at your throat. You’ve braced for it even. But instead, he sliced the net open with a flick of his dagger. “Idiots,” he muttered under his breath as he worked on peeling the rope from your scaled hips, as he untangled you out of this mess. You’re confused, but still scared, and the group surrounding you appears to be dumbfounded. “Since when does the captain play nursemaid?” The comment does not fly past your ears and neither does for Mydei, but he ignores the gossiping lot.
This is when you see how the net’s ropes had bitten into your skin, leaving angry red lines. His touch was clinical, careful, but his thumb brushed your wrist where the fibers had bitten deepest, and you hiss.
He’ll utter an apology and the word sounds foreign in his mouth. “You’re wounded.” And that was true. Blood had streaked your scales and your tail seemed to be limp, muscles protesting at even the thought of movement. When he has asked you if you can understand what he’s saying, you nod your head and he exhales through his nose, relieved, then jerks his chin toward the horizon.
“Good. This stretch of sea is crawling with hunters. Pirates. Idiots who’d sell your teeth for a mere drink and with your state right now, you’re an easy catch for them.” His voice is low, matter-of-fact, but the truth of it coils cold in your stomach. Your kin had warned you of humans, of their dangers and how they had brought ruin to your fellowmen. “You’ll stay aboard. Until you’re not useless anymore.”
But no one had ever mentioned the ones who wear cruelty as if it were armor, only to reveal gentle hands beneath—they never spoke of storms with quiet eyes, of tempests that shelter and protect rather than bring destruction.
He lifted you—careful, slowly—into his arms, water dripping down his boots, blood staining the fabric of his clothes. The crew’s protests die mid-breath when Mydei levels them with a simple look. You were then hauled to a hastily emptied storage room, lining up a tub that was dumped with buckets of water inside. It’s cramped. Claustrophobic. A far cry from the endless blue you call home, but you bite your tongue. When the alternative is bleeding out on a pirate’s deck, you’ll take the tub.
Against your very expectations, however, the days that you have spent on this ship were not the least uncomfortable, if you put aside your cramped space. The crew members who had scared you at first were actually a bunch of nice people who often perform tricks to entertain you and make you laugh. Although you had bitten one of them when they called you ‘the captain’s pet’.
They bother you nearly every day, either barging into the room to chatter and ramble while they sit on the floor, whether drunk or not, or carrying your tub with you still in it to somewhere else in case you’re sick of seeing the empty wooden walls—so you won’t forget the sun.
They carve chess pieces of terrible forms that it’s hard to discern the rook from a pawn so you can play (you cheat; Mydei catches you and flicks your forehead). One brings a stolen mirror, fragile-looking and probably would shatter in pieces with a small drop if you’re not careful enough, to “fix your boredom, milady”—until Mydei confiscates it: “She’ll hurt herself with the damn thing”. Albeit he’ll return it to you soon after when he sees the pleading look on your face. And that’s not all as the youngest cabin boy sneaks in at dawn to whisper gossip, but flees when Mydei’s shadow darkens the doorway. “Out, it’s too early in the morning to bother her.”
It’s not hard to fall into their routine, especially that they seem to have adopted you like a stray cat.
Your moments with Mydei and him alone were never meaningless, too. And over the course of time you have spent with him as he always has, and I mean always, visit you every night, you’ve learned three things: 1.) He enjoys pomegranate juice, 2.) He knows how to braid and style hair, 3.) He’s a gentle person.
Words between you and him were scarce. Though you can understand his language, you couldn’t speak it; he couldn’t decipher your words either. But the silence between you wasn’t empty—it was full, like measuring one’s words and gestures before they’re lost to the harsh waves. When he braided your hair, his hands would often linger. When you hummed old lullabies, his shoulders relaxed. The both of you were at peace just being near each other.
But the day will fall and the night will come, and this too, must come to an end—you must return to the waters. “Go home,” Mydei had said while he watched you move your already-healed tail up and down, though struggling a little in the tight space. As an act of rebellion, you decided to sink deep into the tub, but: “You know you can’t drown, right?”
Well, he earned a glare from you when you resurfaced. “This is not your home, fishy.” You know that. You’re not stupid, especially when the evidence is in front of you, covered in scales and glistening in iridescent hues. He can sense your hesitance, sighing: “You surely are more trouble than you’re worth.”
Eventually, after much water-splashing and stubbornness, you’re now being lowered overboard with a jolly boat. The crew lingers on deck, their usual raucous chatter muted—even the deckhand you bit sniffles into his sleeve. Salt spray stings your eyes, or maybe it’s something else. The ocean stretches before you, vast and familiar, but your tail feels leaden.
Mydei sits across you and helps you return into the gentle waves that yearn for your caress. The ocean embraces you like a long-lost limb, but for some reason, regret and something heavier weighs in your chest. But Mydei, ever so attentive, sees the grimness of your expression: “This is not goodbye.” He flicks water at you—something that you often do to him. “Those idiots will miss you.” He jerks his chin toward the ship, where the crew waves exaggeratedly. “So don’t be a stranger.”
He will, too, but you don’t need to know that. And with one last look, you leave and disappear into the darkness. Mydei lingers a little longer on his spot, watching, waiting, and seemingly wanting to see you once more, but he doesn’t, and so, he finally turns away, resigned to the very fate he is forced to take from the stars.
Weeks later, with a whimsical quest for treasure and drunken bet of finding one on a rumored place, the ship will find a chest of gold, gems, and everything that screams of value precisely where there should be nothing. Along with cheers was a chorus of “See, I told you so!” and “I was right!”, but Mydei knows only one person capable of this—you, now seen perched on a rock, grinning. A ruby, the size of his fist, is thrown at him to which he catches, a smile flickering on his lips. “Show-off.”
. . . the sun sets another day, but your love prevails through the night.
WARNINGS ── fem!reader 、established relationship 、(it’s their wedding night) 、phainon whimpers & whines 、literally nothing else i wrote this off vibes 、MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
SUPERNOTE ── finals are taking me out and i just. Phainon i wish u were real to fuck my brains out. i’m so tired of thinking. (nonsense drabble just to feed the dash - might delete/private later)
WORD COUNT ── 948
BACK ARCHED INTO THE curve of a sinking sun, limbs taut like soaring stars, mouth hooting a broken chorus of pleased oh’s: the fruits of a steep, uphill battle laboring sweetly around your peak, promising the kiss of release so divinely, you weep beneath its embrace. At the behest of a scarred challenger, your pleasure is pieced like a puzzle, with analytical precision pushing you to the sweet, sunny peak — he’s been climbing, and climbing, and climbing, his hands now finally finding purchase on pebbled bosoms, exalting him to his divine right at the summit of chronicled games.
And it is he, only he, who can enjoy those fruits to their fullest potential. Pulling the skin from the flesh with a guttural groan, head sinking back on his shoulders, eyes rolling shakily. The taste of Heaven lingers over his tongue as he spits it unto you: tangy with sweat, sweet with ardor, heavy with passion. A mix of flavors only Phainon, the master climber, can achieve.
The moon pulls to cast over you, a lunar chill running over you in place of his solar warmth. Your bed, carved in pure, Kremnoan gold, roped in tendrils of leafy vines, creaks and rocks under you. Its squeals mirror yours, fleeting yet persistent, music to wake the night.
Phainon, the divine ruler of the heavens and hells, and all the mountains in between, trembles above you. He needs not say a word to tell you the truth, that crystalline glare has the words written in it. You push at the back of his neck, urging him closer, just to hug him, to feel the quakes in his muscles and the beat of his heart. Feeling it just to know that it’s because of you, and giving him the confirmation that it’s settled deep within you, too.
Those knitted brows and agape mouth are the only things you can make out through teary, starry eyes. It tells you why he’s stopped thrusting and just grinds on top of you, rutting deeply, roughly against you. Why it feels like your stomach is full of fireworks and their fuses are slowly kindling, and the smoke is slowly snuffing out your breath. You can't breathe, only gasp, clutching so tightly that your nails are rehoming in his shoulders.
You're speechless. Your eyes are blank; you can only see on the blacks of your heavy eyes. Fleeting glimpses of your day, of the last few years of your life, of what waits to come flicker in your head. You're grinning, so sickly and sloppily. There's nowhere else you'd rather be.
The two of you hold each other so closely, so tightly. There must be bits of your skin that are fusing by your sweat. Everything sticky, warm, wet, like a rebirth clogging your lungs and slithering through and out of you. You press your foreheads together, exhale and inhale each other so close.
Phainon’s voice cracks the second he tries to speak. “I'm so in love with you—” he squeaks, “I want to love you forever..”
You hold him tighter. Your legs are jelly around his waist but they keep him flush to you. Friction rubs at your clit, just the slightest tingling that births lightning bolts under your skin.
Your throat is so dry and tight but you huff anyway, “Don’t stop, Phai,” all groggily and hoarse.
He holds you down as his hips just grind against you. The movements are stuttery and slow, in tandem with the long drawn groan that surfs out. It decrescendoes into a feeble whine, and he buries his head into the crook of your neck, murmuring and whimpering against your damp skin. His messy head of hair rubs against your chin, like a dog nuzzling into you.
His sounds dance around in your stomach; your walls contract to the beat. “Oh, fuck,” he whines, muffled, “I'm gonna cum—my love, fuck—”
He seizes in your arms, his cock twitching inside of you. He breathes so gruffly and heavily against you as his arms jelly and he just lies on top of you, sandwiching you between him and the mattress. He's so heavy—you can feel the air pressing out of you.
Your eyes roll and your mouth hangs open. Your hips jump and your limbs vibrate. It feels like death is taking you; this must be Heaven.
You orgasm seconds after Phainon, a wisp of bated breath separating you. He hisses and winces and whimpers all at once, all directly to your core, all a show of vulnerability and transparency. A man so precious—sculpted like a god yet pliable like putty—is all yours, until death do you part, and then some.
Even as your brains slither out of your head and you're too far on cloud nine to think, he whispers to you. The vows you heard only a few hours ago; the promises to split the sky and pull the stars down for you, to carry your troubles for you and shoulder the weight of the world, just to keep you smiling forever. And if there ever came a time where you couldn't stand him, he'd do what he must, because your pain hurts him more than your absence.
How lucky he is to have a wife, who only looks better and better as the seconds pass, who cares for him at his rawest. You died and came back to life in your pleasure; he would kill and resurrect you again and again if you kept looking at him like that.
If he could be the center of your universe, and you his, you’d birth a new world together, where love is the only language spoken. He's fluent in you.
