[ "YOU'RE AT THE FRONT PAGE" what?! ] ; talking jellyfish found ashore, claimed that they forgot how to swim and nearly drowned !! how is that even possible?! let's dive (no pun intended) into the identity of this mysterious sea creature, shall we?
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premiseā he had never known the extent of his affection, of his adoration, until he had looked for you everywhere he went, searching for a semblance of you in a crowd. an unfortunate thing, however, as everyone knows that he likes you, except you.Ā
content tags & warnings ā pairing: phainon x gn!reader | one-sided pining (somehow), fluff, v3.0 trailblaze mission mentioned and used, lovesick phainon i advocate, reader is a normal citizen, phainon worries about reader, not proofread | wc: 1.4k | tagging: @felibrary
"jellyfish" ā i hit my shin against the edge of the table while i was writing this and i nearly died
Not a single person is unaware of the affections a certain Chrysos Heir holds towards you.
The three children who bear different smiles were the first to noticeāsubtle, fleeting glimpses that betrayed PHAINON's carefully composed facade. They see the gleam in his eyes, talkingāor gossipingāit among themselves even as he stands right there, lips pressed into a thin line, unable to protest without confirming their suspicions. The heat creeping up his neck is answer enough.
He canāt say anything against it, but only asking them to not tell anyone about it, albeit they tease him further. However, nothing can escape the golden threads of a certain demigod as the man found himself conversing in a topic about the weight of his feelings and the weight of his responsibility.
Then guess what happens after? Yes, news travels fastālike wildfire carried by the idle breezeāreaching Mydei because how come he also has something to say?
And of course; āLord Phainon, your ears are red.ā The lady, adorned with flowers, would say as they walked away from your store after the man himself insisted that he had to check on something, on you. Phainon brushes it off, muttering something about the weather being unusually warm. Albeit his deflection is as transparent as glass and the only thing helping him is the fact that he's a step ahead and Castorice couldnāt see the red that dusts his cheek.
He knows he adores you, and perhaps it is a terrible thing that he loves you more than he loves himself, because your name itself reverberates through the hollow chambers of a heart that beats only for you, his thoughts composing a fine melody that yearns for you to feel the same. And when the Titan of Strife had come to strike the city, the tremble of his fingers and the falter of his composure disturbed the calm waters of his gaze.Ā
āThe city is under attack!ā
The sound of rubble crashing down, a cloud of dust and thick smoke consuming the place, chaos and screams everywhere filling all of his senses. His eyes flick over from one place to another, his feet never stopping as he runs, brandishing his blade against titankins who stand in his way. His gaze searched for you amidst the fire and debris but you were nowhere to be found; he had asked citizens for any sights of you and got nothing at the same.
Fear seeps into his skin, violently clawing and numbing him, an icy grip tightening around his chest. But before he could let the feeling consume him, a fragile, desperate voice pierces through the haze of destruction.
āPhainon!ā His head whips around so quickly you fear it could have snapped in half. A blur of smoke and shattered concrete, and then, youāre there. Relief washed over him like a violent wave and he nearly dropped his claymore at once; the heavy weight that dragged his footsteps against pavement became light, his legs moving before his mind could catch up, and before you could even comprehend it, youāre pulled in a tight embrace.
āYouāre alright.ā He says, low and breathless, his voice trembling as words stumble out, scratched with exhaustion and raw relief. You feel him relax as you pat his back, comforting him as the warmth of his own spill into yours.Ā
Phainon releases you moments after, his hands lingering as he checks up on you for any wounds you might have. His expression doesnāt relent and you have to reassure him that youāre fineābut he doesnāt believe you, not until heās certain with his own eyes. However, his fingers brush against a spot on your arm, and before you can stifle it, a wince slips past your lips.
Thus, he sees itāa gash that begins from your forearm, extending to near your elbow, and his face tightens with a grimace. You jerk your arm away instinctively, turning from him to hide the wound, and the gesture cuts deeper than you intend. His lips part, trembling slightly, trying to find the words to say.
His hand tries to reach for you but it simply hangs in the air, hesitation lingering in his bones, and it falls away to his side.
āPhainon,ā You say firmly, your gaze stilling on him, laced with conviction as if nothing he will say will move you. ā Iām okay, but there are others who are not.ā
āButāā
āYou must go.ā
He is reminded of his responsibility once more, of the constant voice of his duty whispering against his ear, of the weight of the prophecy and his titleāit draws a blatant line between you and him, making him fearful to cross it.
A bitter smile crosses your lips when you see his reluctance, your voice taking on a gentler tone when you speak: āItās alright, Iāll be fine, so donāt worry about me.ā Your words don't scour the tension on his shoulders but it managed to carve away the sharp edges of his worry. Not entirely, but enough. He exhales a slow, weary sighāa quiet surrenderāand steps closer.Ā
Without a word, Phainon tears a strip of fabric from his cape, the sound of ripping cloth sharp against the quiet between you. The chaos, the sound of destruction around you seem to have faded into nothing as the world holds its breath for the two of you.Ā
His hands move with practiced care, fingers steady despite the storm lingering behind his eyes. He wraps the makeshift bandage around your wound, his touch feather-light, as if afraid you might shatter under the weight of it. His brows furrowed with concentration, but thereās a softness there too, woven into the way he avoids pressing too hard, the way his thumb brushes over your skin like an apology he canāt speak aloud. All the while, you watch him, listening as he tells you to look for the High Priest, Tribios, for safety.
You donāt say a word, instead, you just nod, because itās easier than admitting the fear clawing at your ribs. His hand hovers near yours, as if he wants to say more, do moreābut instead, he steps back, leaving a hollow space where his warmth had just been.
And he leaves.
But you, the recipient of these affections, however, is oblivious. The very person who mistakes every small gesture, every stolen glance, every carefully chosen word, as nothing more than the courtesy of a Chrysos Heir fulfilling his duty. You dismiss his offers of assistance with casual gratitude, his thoughtful gifts as tokens of mere friendship. You brush off the moments when his gaze lingers too long, the way his voice softens when itās your name on his lips.
āYouāre a great friend, Phainon.ā Youāve told him once. Friend. Friend. The word itself echoes, clinging to the corners of his mind, a bittersweet anthem that both comforts and torments. He wears the title with a quiet resignation, even as his soul yearns for more.
But who was he to expect more? After all, heās not pursuing you with grand gestures or bold confessions, the way love stories are. Yet, itās the small things that betray himāthe quiet, unnoticed acts that slip through the cracks of his careful restraint.Ā Like how he willingly takes the longest routes, detours woven into his path with the fragile hope of glimpsing you by chance. Like how his hands seem to find trinkets and gifts that remind him of you, delicate offerings tucked into his pockets until he can gather the courage to present them, just to see that fleeting smile bloom on your lips.
And it is never for the hope of you liking him back. But surely, surely you should notice.
Maybe itās the way his voice falters slightly when he says your name, or how his gaze softens in a crowd when he finds you, like a lighthouse catching sight of home. Maybe itās the silence between his words, filled with everything he wishes he could say but can't because his feelings are messy, irrational thingsāand yet, here he is, drowning in them.
Maybe itās the way he stands a little too close, but not close enough, like the distance is both a comfort and a curse.Ā
But you donāt notice. And perhaps you never will.
Yet, even if his words remain unheard, even if his gestures remain unseen, even if youāll never know, he finds solace in being able to adore you from afar. The fire consumes him quietly, burning bright and unseen, tucked beneath the layers of his being. And he carries it quietly, like a secret melody only he can hearāserene, enduring, and his alone, etched not in words, but in the spaces between.
āof impermanence and devotion to your sacred withering bonesā ; sunday
premise ā heāll take pieces out of his flesh to mold into your wounds, bandaging you with his skin; he never liked seeing you hurt.
tags ā established relationship, religious themes and metaphors, soft and loving sunday (i advocate), mix of the lovely trio (the fluff, the slight angst, and the comfort), reassurance from him, gender-neutral reader, never proofread, 1.1k ; one-shot
note ā my parents chose thought daughter so now iām writing fanfics on a thursday afternoon.
heāll love you like religion.
needlessly, tirelessly, with bruised knees and bleeding palms, with blood-shot eyes and clasped fingers, worshiping, devoting, yearning, calling to whoever will listenāto you who will listen. it suffocates him yet heāll clench at his chest and utter your name even if thereās no voice in his being and he is left like a pathetic, whimpering dog that was made to be abandoned. heāll dig his own grave with broken nails and wounded hands, a coffin of tender touches, and the earth will fill his lungs and heāll hope for flowers to sprout from his mouth when he plants his confession into the dirt. can you hear him? do you hear him?
āplease take care of yourself more.ā sunday says as he reaches for the bottle of disinfectant, pouring enough of it over the cloth he was holding to drench it before gently dabbing the fabric on the area of your wound. it stings and you hissed, clenching the sheets beneath your fingers as you watch him work.
āi only fell and scraped my knee, i donāt think itās anything that bad.ā you say in defense to your clumsiness. sunday was all gentle and careful in cleaning and treating the wound on your knee as if you were a child and he was the nurse tending to your ābigā wound.
(a god does not bleed but you do.)
he sighs, āit could have been worse.ā and dresses your wound with a gauze, the material pristine white as no blood taints the material.
ābut it wasnāt.ā you rebut quite quickly, your gaze firm at his yet he doesnāt meet yours. he is kneeled in front of you, an open kit by his side and a chair on his otherāand he chooses to be on the cold ground, his clothing slightly wrinkled and its appearance similar to spilled water on the floor beneath him. he never dares let himself appear as indecent with his disordered clothes and unkempt appearance in the form of an unsymmetrical coat and creased pants but here he is, in all his glory and messiness, laid out like the map of a devoteeās heart before you.
(heāll beg even for a moment of your gaze but his cowardice will hold his head down to the groundāhe is never like this, he was never his own when you look at him.)
āwhat could have happened if i wasnāt there to immediately help you? youāre too careless.ā he scolds yet thereās no hint of harshness in his voice, just gentle and sweet worry lacing into his tone. something lies, seemingly dormant, in the still air that embraces you and he finds himself waiting for something to happen.
āsunday, itās just a small wound. you donāt have to worry, iām fine.ā you assure him, hand cupping the side of his cheek and brushing your thumb over his cheekboneāitās soft and slow, you feel warm, he feels warm. he leans into your touch, your hand soothing the tension that lies in his bones and his expression softens. silence settles in the room as he basks in the gentle affection that is bestowed on him. he holds your hand he turns his head to kiss the palm of it; his eyes are close and his lips lingered on your skin, comforting, relishing, soft, you.
āi have a question but before that, can you look at me, please?ā
āi am,ā he whispers, his lips beginning to trace your palm down to your pulse, all the while he keeps his gaze away and shut, āand my love, you never have to beg or plead for anything.ā you know heāll give you everything.
(sometimesāalways, he feels like he is undeserving of the divine grace of your attention, of your affection, of your adoration, and you feel like your love is just a meager offering, unable to fulfill him. can you see him each other?)
finally, he looks at youāgolden eyes born from the sun meets yours. his halo is situated just right on his head, pierced wings behind his ears, and his hair reminds you of the sky above you that you once gazed into when you were a child playing in the fields, before you were deemed as his, and now your gaze is held on the ground right where he is kneeling down. stray strands of your hair fall over your eyes and the way the light kisses your skin makes you look delicate, ethereal.
ādo i love you enough?ā you ask. have you ever been enough? have you done enough? is your mere and bare existence enough for someone like him?
āsince when have you not?ā he answers, filled with gentle affection. his tone is akin of a devout preacher, reassuring like a verse from a scripture.
(sunday never thought of you as lacking, not with the broken and missing pieces of your skin, tainted and muddled by blood and dirt, left to rot in your wake like a sin unrepented.)
āyouāre the wine that overflows my cup,ā he says, each syllable of his words carrying the weight of his utter and suffocating devotion, āand iāll continue to consume you even in death.ā no grave will ever hold his body down.
you cup his cheeks with both of your hands, his lips leaving your skin yet the warmth of his kisses remains. āyouāre too good with your words,ā you say, a small smile drawing on your lips, āperhaps youāre only telling lies to please me.āĀ
āmy dearest,ā he murmurs, lightly grazing his hand against your ear as he pushes your hair aside, āiāll lay down my life for you, but i will never deceive you.ā
(an unyielding faith of a martyr, his commitment is steadfast and his love is a fervent prayer, uttered and spoken only by him. his thoughts are spilled on the carpet, his confession ringing and echoing back to him as he repents like a sinner for loving you too much.)
āiām a burden.ā you whisper, longing for the feeling of his lips on yours. āiām afraid iām too much or too little for you to have.ā
āiām okay with that,ā itās a litany of devotion, his words a sacred vow heāll keep for eternity that will come, āi love you.ā
forever become a burden, become human in a fragile and delicate way as if your heart is made to break, so heāll get to hold you in his hands.
also tagging, the one and only @toorurs !! i am dedicating this to u because u LOVE last day of the week guy A LOT and iām also too lazy to make another section but yeah this is for you my boo, hi beloved youāre the greatest of the greatest, youāre the sweetest of all (i feel like im singing a song wadahell) and i hope you know that youāre very very cool and very very funny and iām not the type to laugh while texting but i always do it when talking to you. i try not to do a backflip when u like and reblog my posts (i cant even do a headstand dafuq) !! i hope you know that youāre not loser, maybe a hater, but definitely not a user and you have me as a friend always no matter what questionable and weird things you say š like okay alpha sigma youāre the boss. this feels like the dedication page on a book or the acknowledgment part in research where you say thank you to whoever you want like damn. iāll do the remaining words for dedication on upcoming works so that youāre always reminded that youāre somewhat involved in my life even if youāre like 1826725276 fucking miles away
showering them with kisses and leaving lipstick stains, because why not? | featuring: phainon and mydei, established relationship, fluff, not proofread | wc: 0.5k
note ā the voices got to me and i wrote this impulsively and i just wanna kiss phainon soo baddd urghhh hes sosososoo
PHAINON, it feels like there are stars in his features, a faint glimmer of light that bleeds on the edges of the rosy smudges painted on his face. delight was an understatement to his current situationāhe is utterly glowing, basking like he would under the everlasting light with all of the attention that you are giving him. he could stay like this forever; your hand cupping his cheeks, your lips, painted in a shade of red, pressing all over. ākeep going,ā he is needy, desperately, and pathetically asking for more despite already showering him with too much, so much that youāre running out of empty spaces for your art; the stains overlapping against one another, darkening in pigment, as you leave a mark on top of the other. you linger in place often, leaving with a faint sound of a smack. the flush of his cheeks hidden by the prints of smudged and fading red, and you start kissing along his jaw, leaving nothing untouched by you. his hands don't know where to place itselves, wandering from your sides to your back, from gripping the front of your shirt to tangling with your hair, until they settle at his sides, clenching and unclenching as it trembles. āi think thatās enough,ā you say when you pull back, admiring the messy and flustered state of your kiss-stained lover, and by the amphoreusā skies, he looks so pretty under this light of pink hues and everything that embodies his being. and while you are enamored by him, he thinks of how you are the testament of the existence of beauty and how you make it utterly divine by the palm of your hands. āno, itās never enough.ā
MYDEI, āarenāt you brash?ā he says right after your lips had left his cheek; you had asked him to let you try on this new shade of lipstick you had bought, expecting that youāll paint the pigment on him outright but was greeted with a kiss instead. however, he doesnāt deny you nor does he even show a hint of detest to the attention he is willingly being given. and so, one kiss turns into two, then turns into three, then turns into the collection that you have left on him. you donāt know how long it has been and when he has pulled you into his lapāhe doesnāt make any further moves, just resting his hands on your waist, stroking your sides as you do your careful, intimate work. and when you try to pull away, he only pulls you back in until the tips of your noses touch. āi donāt recall asking you to stop,ā is what he whispers with an eyebrow raised which earns a chuckle from you, āgreedy,ā a mumble with a smile on your face, pressing forward to kiss the side of his mouth. he urges you to continue, spurring you on with the caress of his fingers on your back. you know his words, the whispers of his thoughts, despite not saying anything, but you know it all, and you know he adores you just as the red adores his skin. you think you see another shade dusting his cheeks, you think you see the waver in his gaze, you think you see the affectionate gleam in his eyes, and you think he doesnāt look as intimidating and scary not when your lipstick is smeared across his face.
premiseā he had never known the extent of his affection, of his adoration, until he had looked for you everywhere he went, searching for a semblance of you in a crowd. an unfortunate thing, however, as everyone knows that he likes you, except you.Ā
content tags & warnings ā pairing: phainon x gn!reader | one-sided pining (somehow), fluff, v3.0 trailblaze mission mentioned and used, lovesick phainon i advocate, reader is a normal citizen, phainon worries about reader, not proofread | wc: 1.4k | tagging: @felibrary
"jellyfish" ā i hit my shin against the edge of the table while i was writing this and i nearly died
Not a single person is unaware of the affections a certain Chrysos Heir holds towards you.
The three children who bear different smiles were the first to noticeāsubtle, fleeting glimpses that betrayed PHAINON's carefully composed facade. They see the gleam in his eyes, talkingāor gossipingāit among themselves even as he stands right there, lips pressed into a thin line, unable to protest without confirming their suspicions. The heat creeping up his neck is answer enough.
He canāt say anything against it, but only asking them to not tell anyone about it, albeit they tease him further. However, nothing can escape the golden threads of a certain demigod as the man found himself conversing in a topic about the weight of his feelings and the weight of his responsibility.
Then guess what happens after? Yes, news travels fastālike wildfire carried by the idle breezeāreaching Mydei because how come he also has something to say?
And of course; āLord Phainon, your ears are red.ā The lady, adorned with flowers, would say as they walked away from your store after the man himself insisted that he had to check on something, on you. Phainon brushes it off, muttering something about the weather being unusually warm. Albeit his deflection is as transparent as glass and the only thing helping him is the fact that he's a step ahead and Castorice couldnāt see the red that dusts his cheek.
He knows he adores you, and perhaps it is a terrible thing that he loves you more than he loves himself, because your name itself reverberates through the hollow chambers of a heart that beats only for you, his thoughts composing a fine melody that yearns for you to feel the same. And when the Titan of Strife had come to strike the city, the tremble of his fingers and the falter of his composure disturbed the calm waters of his gaze.Ā
āThe city is under attack!ā
The sound of rubble crashing down, a cloud of dust and thick smoke consuming the place, chaos and screams everywhere filling all of his senses. His eyes flick over from one place to another, his feet never stopping as he runs, brandishing his blade against titankins who stand in his way. His gaze searched for you amidst the fire and debris but you were nowhere to be found; he had asked citizens for any sights of you and got nothing at the same.
Fear seeps into his skin, violently clawing and numbing him, an icy grip tightening around his chest. But before he could let the feeling consume him, a fragile, desperate voice pierces through the haze of destruction.
āPhainon!ā His head whips around so quickly you fear it could have snapped in half. A blur of smoke and shattered concrete, and then, youāre there. Relief washed over him like a violent wave and he nearly dropped his claymore at once; the heavy weight that dragged his footsteps against pavement became light, his legs moving before his mind could catch up, and before you could even comprehend it, youāre pulled in a tight embrace.
āYouāre alright.ā He says, low and breathless, his voice trembling as words stumble out, scratched with exhaustion and raw relief. You feel him relax as you pat his back, comforting him as the warmth of his own spill into yours.Ā
Phainon releases you moments after, his hands lingering as he checks up on you for any wounds you might have. His expression doesnāt relent and you have to reassure him that youāre fineābut he doesnāt believe you, not until heās certain with his own eyes. However, his fingers brush against a spot on your arm, and before you can stifle it, a wince slips past your lips.
Thus, he sees itāa gash that begins from your forearm, extending to near your elbow, and his face tightens with a grimace. You jerk your arm away instinctively, turning from him to hide the wound, and the gesture cuts deeper than you intend. His lips part, trembling slightly, trying to find the words to say.
His hand tries to reach for you but it simply hangs in the air, hesitation lingering in his bones, and it falls away to his side.
āPhainon,ā You say firmly, your gaze stilling on him, laced with conviction as if nothing he will say will move you. ā Iām okay, but there are others who are not.ā
āButāā
āYou must go.ā
He is reminded of his responsibility once more, of the constant voice of his duty whispering against his ear, of the weight of the prophecy and his titleāit draws a blatant line between you and him, making him fearful to cross it.
A bitter smile crosses your lips when you see his reluctance, your voice taking on a gentler tone when you speak: āItās alright, Iāll be fine, so donāt worry about me.ā Your words don't scour the tension on his shoulders but it managed to carve away the sharp edges of his worry. Not entirely, but enough. He exhales a slow, weary sighāa quiet surrenderāand steps closer.Ā
Without a word, Phainon tears a strip of fabric from his cape, the sound of ripping cloth sharp against the quiet between you. The chaos, the sound of destruction around you seem to have faded into nothing as the world holds its breath for the two of you.Ā
His hands move with practiced care, fingers steady despite the storm lingering behind his eyes. He wraps the makeshift bandage around your wound, his touch feather-light, as if afraid you might shatter under the weight of it. His brows furrowed with concentration, but thereās a softness there too, woven into the way he avoids pressing too hard, the way his thumb brushes over your skin like an apology he canāt speak aloud. All the while, you watch him, listening as he tells you to look for the High Priest, Tribios, for safety.
You donāt say a word, instead, you just nod, because itās easier than admitting the fear clawing at your ribs. His hand hovers near yours, as if he wants to say more, do moreābut instead, he steps back, leaving a hollow space where his warmth had just been.
And he leaves.
But you, the recipient of these affections, however, is oblivious. The very person who mistakes every small gesture, every stolen glance, every carefully chosen word, as nothing more than the courtesy of a Chrysos Heir fulfilling his duty. You dismiss his offers of assistance with casual gratitude, his thoughtful gifts as tokens of mere friendship. You brush off the moments when his gaze lingers too long, the way his voice softens when itās your name on his lips.
āYouāre a great friend, Phainon.ā Youāve told him once. Friend. Friend. The word itself echoes, clinging to the corners of his mind, a bittersweet anthem that both comforts and torments. He wears the title with a quiet resignation, even as his soul yearns for more.
But who was he to expect more? After all, heās not pursuing you with grand gestures or bold confessions, the way love stories are. Yet, itās the small things that betray himāthe quiet, unnoticed acts that slip through the cracks of his careful restraint.Ā Like how he willingly takes the longest routes, detours woven into his path with the fragile hope of glimpsing you by chance. Like how his hands seem to find trinkets and gifts that remind him of you, delicate offerings tucked into his pockets until he can gather the courage to present them, just to see that fleeting smile bloom on your lips.
And it is never for the hope of you liking him back. But surely, surely you should notice.
Maybe itās the way his voice falters slightly when he says your name, or how his gaze softens in a crowd when he finds you, like a lighthouse catching sight of home. Maybe itās the silence between his words, filled with everything he wishes he could say but can't because his feelings are messy, irrational thingsāand yet, here he is, drowning in them.
Maybe itās the way he stands a little too close, but not close enough, like the distance is both a comfort and a curse.Ā
But you donāt notice. And perhaps you never will.
Yet, even if his words remain unheard, even if his gestures remain unseen, even if youāll never know, he finds solace in being able to adore you from afar. The fire consumes him quietly, burning bright and unseen, tucked beneath the layers of his being. And he carries it quietly, like a secret melody only he can hearāserene, enduring, and his alone, etched not in words, but in the spaces between.
Ready for a unique connection? Meet your dream AI girlfriend who understands you, shares your interests, and is always there for intimate conversations. No judgment, just pure companionship!
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Personalized girlfriend who adapts to your desires
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showering them with kisses and leaving lipstick stains, because why not? | featuring: phainon and mydei, established relationship, fluff, not proofread | wc: 0.5k
note ā the voices got to me and i wrote this impulsively and i just wanna kiss phainon soo baddd urghhh hes sosososoo
PHAINON, it feels like there are stars in his features, a faint glimmer of light that bleeds on the edges of the rosy smudges painted on his face. delight was an understatement to his current situationāhe is utterly glowing, basking like he would under the everlasting light with all of the attention that you are giving him. he could stay like this forever; your hand cupping his cheeks, your lips, painted in a shade of red, pressing all over. ākeep going,ā he is needy, desperately, and pathetically asking for more despite already showering him with too much, so much that youāre running out of empty spaces for your art; the stains overlapping against one another, darkening in pigment, as you leave a mark on top of the other. you linger in place often, leaving with a faint sound of a smack. the flush of his cheeks hidden by the prints of smudged and fading red, and you start kissing along his jaw, leaving nothing untouched by you. his hands don't know where to place itselves, wandering from your sides to your back, from gripping the front of your shirt to tangling with your hair, until they settle at his sides, clenching and unclenching as it trembles. āi think thatās enough,ā you say when you pull back, admiring the messy and flustered state of your kiss-stained lover, and by the amphoreusā skies, he looks so pretty under this light of pink hues and everything that embodies his being. and while you are enamored by him, he thinks of how you are the testament of the existence of beauty and how you make it utterly divine by the palm of your hands. āno, itās never enough.ā
MYDEI, āarenāt you brash?ā he says right after your lips had left his cheek; you had asked him to let you try on this new shade of lipstick you had bought, expecting that youāll paint the pigment on him outright but was greeted with a kiss instead. however, he doesnāt deny you nor does he even show a hint of detest to the attention he is willingly being given. and so, one kiss turns into two, then turns into three, then turns into the collection that you have left on him. you donāt know how long it has been and when he has pulled you into his lapāhe doesnāt make any further moves, just resting his hands on your waist, stroking your sides as you do your careful, intimate work. and when you try to pull away, he only pulls you back in until the tips of your noses touch. āi donāt recall asking you to stop,ā is what he whispers with an eyebrow raised which earns a chuckle from you, āgreedy,ā a mumble with a smile on your face, pressing forward to kiss the side of his mouth. he urges you to continue, spurring you on with the caress of his fingers on your back. you know his words, the whispers of his thoughts, despite not saying anything, but you know it all, and you know he adores you just as the red adores his skin. you think you see another shade dusting his cheeks, you think you see the waver in his gaze, you think you see the affectionate gleam in his eyes, and you think he doesnāt look as intimidating and scary not when your lipstick is smeared across his face.
showering them with kisses and leaving lipstick stains, because why not? | featuring: phainon and mydei, established relationship, fluff, not proofread | wc: 0.5k
note ā the voices got to me and i wrote this impulsively and i just wanna kiss phainon soo baddd urghhh hes sosososoo
PHAINON, it feels like there are stars in his features, a faint glimmer of light that bleeds on the edges of the rosy smudges painted on his face. delight was an understatement to his current situationāhe is utterly glowing, basking like he would under the everlasting light with all of the attention that you are giving him. he could stay like this forever; your hand cupping his cheeks, your lips, painted in a shade of red, pressing all over. ākeep going,ā he is needy, desperately, and pathetically asking for more despite already showering him with too much, so much that youāre running out of empty spaces for your art; the stains overlapping against one another, darkening in pigment, as you leave a mark on top of the other. you linger in place often, leaving with a faint sound of a smack. the flush of his cheeks hidden by the prints of smudged and fading red, and you start kissing along his jaw, leaving nothing untouched by you. his hands don't know where to place itselves, wandering from your sides to your back, from gripping the front of your shirt to tangling with your hair, until they settle at his sides, clenching and unclenching as it trembles. āi think thatās enough,ā you say when you pull back, admiring the messy and flustered state of your kiss-stained lover, and by the amphoreusā skies, he looks so pretty under this light of pink hues and everything that embodies his being. and while you are enamored by him, he thinks of how you are the testament of the existence of beauty and how you make it utterly divine by the palm of your hands. āno, itās never enough.ā
MYDEI, āarenāt you brash?ā he says right after your lips had left his cheek; you had asked him to let you try on this new shade of lipstick you had bought, expecting that youāll paint the pigment on him outright but was greeted with a kiss instead. however, he doesnāt deny you nor does he even show a hint of detest to the attention he is willingly being given. and so, one kiss turns into two, then turns into three, then turns into the collection that you have left on him. you donāt know how long it has been and when he has pulled you into his lapāhe doesnāt make any further moves, just resting his hands on your waist, stroking your sides as you do your careful, intimate work. and when you try to pull away, he only pulls you back in until the tips of your noses touch. āi donāt recall asking you to stop,ā is what he whispers with an eyebrow raised which earns a chuckle from you, āgreedy,ā a mumble with a smile on your face, pressing forward to kiss the side of his mouth. he urges you to continue, spurring you on with the caress of his fingers on your back. you know his words, the whispers of his thoughts, despite not saying anything, but you know it all, and you know he adores you just as the red adores his skin. you think you see another shade dusting his cheeks, you think you see the waver in his gaze, you think you see the affectionate gleam in his eyes, and you think he doesnāt look as intimidating and scary not when your lipstick is smeared across his face.
premiseā he had never known the extent of his affection, of his adoration, until he had looked for you everywhere he went, searching for a semblance of you in a crowd. an unfortunate thing, however, as everyone knows that he likes you, except you.Ā
content tags & warnings ā pairing: phainon x gn!reader | one-sided pining (somehow), fluff, v3.0 trailblaze mission mentioned and used, lovesick phainon i advocate, reader is a normal citizen, phainon worries about reader, not proofread | wc: 1.4k | tagging: @felibrary
"jellyfish" ā i hit my shin against the edge of the table while i was writing this and i nearly died
Not a single person is unaware of the affections a certain Chrysos Heir holds towards you.
The three children who bear different smiles were the first to noticeāsubtle, fleeting glimpses that betrayed PHAINON's carefully composed facade. They see the gleam in his eyes, talkingāor gossipingāit among themselves even as he stands right there, lips pressed into a thin line, unable to protest without confirming their suspicions. The heat creeping up his neck is answer enough.
He canāt say anything against it, but only asking them to not tell anyone about it, albeit they tease him further. However, nothing can escape the golden threads of a certain demigod as the man found himself conversing in a topic about the weight of his feelings and the weight of his responsibility.
Then guess what happens after? Yes, news travels fastālike wildfire carried by the idle breezeāreaching Mydei because how come he also has something to say?
And of course; āLord Phainon, your ears are red.ā The lady, adorned with flowers, would say as they walked away from your store after the man himself insisted that he had to check on something, on you. Phainon brushes it off, muttering something about the weather being unusually warm. Albeit his deflection is as transparent as glass and the only thing helping him is the fact that he's a step ahead and Castorice couldnāt see the red that dusts his cheek.
He knows he adores you, and perhaps it is a terrible thing that he loves you more than he loves himself, because your name itself reverberates through the hollow chambers of a heart that beats only for you, his thoughts composing a fine melody that yearns for you to feel the same. And when the Titan of Strife had come to strike the city, the tremble of his fingers and the falter of his composure disturbed the calm waters of his gaze.Ā
āThe city is under attack!ā
The sound of rubble crashing down, a cloud of dust and thick smoke consuming the place, chaos and screams everywhere filling all of his senses. His eyes flick over from one place to another, his feet never stopping as he runs, brandishing his blade against titankins who stand in his way. His gaze searched for you amidst the fire and debris but you were nowhere to be found; he had asked citizens for any sights of you and got nothing at the same.
Fear seeps into his skin, violently clawing and numbing him, an icy grip tightening around his chest. But before he could let the feeling consume him, a fragile, desperate voice pierces through the haze of destruction.
āPhainon!ā His head whips around so quickly you fear it could have snapped in half. A blur of smoke and shattered concrete, and then, youāre there. Relief washed over him like a violent wave and he nearly dropped his claymore at once; the heavy weight that dragged his footsteps against pavement became light, his legs moving before his mind could catch up, and before you could even comprehend it, youāre pulled in a tight embrace.
āYouāre alright.ā He says, low and breathless, his voice trembling as words stumble out, scratched with exhaustion and raw relief. You feel him relax as you pat his back, comforting him as the warmth of his own spill into yours.Ā
Phainon releases you moments after, his hands lingering as he checks up on you for any wounds you might have. His expression doesnāt relent and you have to reassure him that youāre fineābut he doesnāt believe you, not until heās certain with his own eyes. However, his fingers brush against a spot on your arm, and before you can stifle it, a wince slips past your lips.
Thus, he sees itāa gash that begins from your forearm, extending to near your elbow, and his face tightens with a grimace. You jerk your arm away instinctively, turning from him to hide the wound, and the gesture cuts deeper than you intend. His lips part, trembling slightly, trying to find the words to say.
His hand tries to reach for you but it simply hangs in the air, hesitation lingering in his bones, and it falls away to his side.
āPhainon,ā You say firmly, your gaze stilling on him, laced with conviction as if nothing he will say will move you. ā Iām okay, but there are others who are not.ā
āButāā
āYou must go.ā
He is reminded of his responsibility once more, of the constant voice of his duty whispering against his ear, of the weight of the prophecy and his titleāit draws a blatant line between you and him, making him fearful to cross it.
A bitter smile crosses your lips when you see his reluctance, your voice taking on a gentler tone when you speak: āItās alright, Iāll be fine, so donāt worry about me.ā Your words don't scour the tension on his shoulders but it managed to carve away the sharp edges of his worry. Not entirely, but enough. He exhales a slow, weary sighāa quiet surrenderāand steps closer.Ā
Without a word, Phainon tears a strip of fabric from his cape, the sound of ripping cloth sharp against the quiet between you. The chaos, the sound of destruction around you seem to have faded into nothing as the world holds its breath for the two of you.Ā
His hands move with practiced care, fingers steady despite the storm lingering behind his eyes. He wraps the makeshift bandage around your wound, his touch feather-light, as if afraid you might shatter under the weight of it. His brows furrowed with concentration, but thereās a softness there too, woven into the way he avoids pressing too hard, the way his thumb brushes over your skin like an apology he canāt speak aloud. All the while, you watch him, listening as he tells you to look for the High Priest, Tribios, for safety.
You donāt say a word, instead, you just nod, because itās easier than admitting the fear clawing at your ribs. His hand hovers near yours, as if he wants to say more, do moreābut instead, he steps back, leaving a hollow space where his warmth had just been.
And he leaves.
But you, the recipient of these affections, however, is oblivious. The very person who mistakes every small gesture, every stolen glance, every carefully chosen word, as nothing more than the courtesy of a Chrysos Heir fulfilling his duty. You dismiss his offers of assistance with casual gratitude, his thoughtful gifts as tokens of mere friendship. You brush off the moments when his gaze lingers too long, the way his voice softens when itās your name on his lips.
āYouāre a great friend, Phainon.ā Youāve told him once. Friend. Friend. The word itself echoes, clinging to the corners of his mind, a bittersweet anthem that both comforts and torments. He wears the title with a quiet resignation, even as his soul yearns for more.
But who was he to expect more? After all, heās not pursuing you with grand gestures or bold confessions, the way love stories are. Yet, itās the small things that betray himāthe quiet, unnoticed acts that slip through the cracks of his careful restraint.Ā Like how he willingly takes the longest routes, detours woven into his path with the fragile hope of glimpsing you by chance. Like how his hands seem to find trinkets and gifts that remind him of you, delicate offerings tucked into his pockets until he can gather the courage to present them, just to see that fleeting smile bloom on your lips.
And it is never for the hope of you liking him back. But surely, surely you should notice.
Maybe itās the way his voice falters slightly when he says your name, or how his gaze softens in a crowd when he finds you, like a lighthouse catching sight of home. Maybe itās the silence between his words, filled with everything he wishes he could say but can't because his feelings are messy, irrational thingsāand yet, here he is, drowning in them.
Maybe itās the way he stands a little too close, but not close enough, like the distance is both a comfort and a curse.Ā
But you donāt notice. And perhaps you never will.
Yet, even if his words remain unheard, even if his gestures remain unseen, even if youāll never know, he finds solace in being able to adore you from afar. The fire consumes him quietly, burning bright and unseen, tucked beneath the layers of his being. And he carries it quietly, like a secret melody only he can hearāserene, enduring, and his alone, etched not in words, but in the spaces between.
premiseā he had never known the extent of his affection, of his adoration, until he had looked for you everywhere he went, searching for a semblance of you in a crowd. an unfortunate thing, however, as everyone knows that he likes you, except you.Ā
content tags & warnings ā pairing: phainon x gn!reader | one-sided pining (somehow), fluff, v3.0 trailblaze mission mentioned and used, lovesick phainon i advocate, reader is a normal citizen, phainon worries about reader, not proofread | wc: 1.4k | tagging: @felibrary
"jellyfish" ā i hit my shin against the edge of the table while i was writing this and i nearly died
Not a single person is unaware of the affections a certain Chrysos Heir holds towards you.
The three children who bear different smiles were the first to noticeāsubtle, fleeting glimpses that betrayed PHAINON's carefully composed facade. They see the gleam in his eyes, talkingāor gossipingāit among themselves even as he stands right there, lips pressed into a thin line, unable to protest without confirming their suspicions. The heat creeping up his neck is answer enough.
He canāt say anything against it, but only asking them to not tell anyone about it, albeit they tease him further. However, nothing can escape the golden threads of a certain demigod as the man found himself conversing in a topic about the weight of his feelings and the weight of his responsibility.
Then guess what happens after? Yes, news travels fastālike wildfire carried by the idle breezeāreaching Mydei because how come he also has something to say?
And of course; āLord Phainon, your ears are red.ā The lady, adorned with flowers, would say as they walked away from your store after the man himself insisted that he had to check on something, on you. Phainon brushes it off, muttering something about the weather being unusually warm. Albeit his deflection is as transparent as glass and the only thing helping him is the fact that he's a step ahead and Castorice couldnāt see the red that dusts his cheek.
He knows he adores you, and perhaps it is a terrible thing that he loves you more than he loves himself, because your name itself reverberates through the hollow chambers of a heart that beats only for you, his thoughts composing a fine melody that yearns for you to feel the same. And when the Titan of Strife had come to strike the city, the tremble of his fingers and the falter of his composure disturbed the calm waters of his gaze.Ā
āThe city is under attack!ā
The sound of rubble crashing down, a cloud of dust and thick smoke consuming the place, chaos and screams everywhere filling all of his senses. His eyes flick over from one place to another, his feet never stopping as he runs, brandishing his blade against titankins who stand in his way. His gaze searched for you amidst the fire and debris but you were nowhere to be found; he had asked citizens for any sights of you and got nothing at the same.
Fear seeps into his skin, violently clawing and numbing him, an icy grip tightening around his chest. But before he could let the feeling consume him, a fragile, desperate voice pierces through the haze of destruction.
āPhainon!ā His head whips around so quickly you fear it could have snapped in half. A blur of smoke and shattered concrete, and then, youāre there. Relief washed over him like a violent wave and he nearly dropped his claymore at once; the heavy weight that dragged his footsteps against pavement became light, his legs moving before his mind could catch up, and before you could even comprehend it, youāre pulled in a tight embrace.
āYouāre alright.ā He says, low and breathless, his voice trembling as words stumble out, scratched with exhaustion and raw relief. You feel him relax as you pat his back, comforting him as the warmth of his own spill into yours.Ā
Phainon releases you moments after, his hands lingering as he checks up on you for any wounds you might have. His expression doesnāt relent and you have to reassure him that youāre fineābut he doesnāt believe you, not until heās certain with his own eyes. However, his fingers brush against a spot on your arm, and before you can stifle it, a wince slips past your lips.
Thus, he sees itāa gash that begins from your forearm, extending to near your elbow, and his face tightens with a grimace. You jerk your arm away instinctively, turning from him to hide the wound, and the gesture cuts deeper than you intend. His lips part, trembling slightly, trying to find the words to say.
His hand tries to reach for you but it simply hangs in the air, hesitation lingering in his bones, and it falls away to his side.
āPhainon,ā You say firmly, your gaze stilling on him, laced with conviction as if nothing he will say will move you. ā Iām okay, but there are others who are not.ā
āButāā
āYou must go.ā
He is reminded of his responsibility once more, of the constant voice of his duty whispering against his ear, of the weight of the prophecy and his titleāit draws a blatant line between you and him, making him fearful to cross it.
A bitter smile crosses your lips when you see his reluctance, your voice taking on a gentler tone when you speak: āItās alright, Iāll be fine, so donāt worry about me.ā Your words don't scour the tension on his shoulders but it managed to carve away the sharp edges of his worry. Not entirely, but enough. He exhales a slow, weary sighāa quiet surrenderāand steps closer.Ā
Without a word, Phainon tears a strip of fabric from his cape, the sound of ripping cloth sharp against the quiet between you. The chaos, the sound of destruction around you seem to have faded into nothing as the world holds its breath for the two of you.Ā
His hands move with practiced care, fingers steady despite the storm lingering behind his eyes. He wraps the makeshift bandage around your wound, his touch feather-light, as if afraid you might shatter under the weight of it. His brows furrowed with concentration, but thereās a softness there too, woven into the way he avoids pressing too hard, the way his thumb brushes over your skin like an apology he canāt speak aloud. All the while, you watch him, listening as he tells you to look for the High Priest, Tribios, for safety.
You donāt say a word, instead, you just nod, because itās easier than admitting the fear clawing at your ribs. His hand hovers near yours, as if he wants to say more, do moreābut instead, he steps back, leaving a hollow space where his warmth had just been.
And he leaves.
But you, the recipient of these affections, however, is oblivious. The very person who mistakes every small gesture, every stolen glance, every carefully chosen word, as nothing more than the courtesy of a Chrysos Heir fulfilling his duty. You dismiss his offers of assistance with casual gratitude, his thoughtful gifts as tokens of mere friendship. You brush off the moments when his gaze lingers too long, the way his voice softens when itās your name on his lips.
āYouāre a great friend, Phainon.ā Youāve told him once. Friend. Friend. The word itself echoes, clinging to the corners of his mind, a bittersweet anthem that both comforts and torments. He wears the title with a quiet resignation, even as his soul yearns for more.
But who was he to expect more? After all, heās not pursuing you with grand gestures or bold confessions, the way love stories are. Yet, itās the small things that betray himāthe quiet, unnoticed acts that slip through the cracks of his careful restraint.Ā Like how he willingly takes the longest routes, detours woven into his path with the fragile hope of glimpsing you by chance. Like how his hands seem to find trinkets and gifts that remind him of you, delicate offerings tucked into his pockets until he can gather the courage to present them, just to see that fleeting smile bloom on your lips.
And it is never for the hope of you liking him back. But surely, surely you should notice.
Maybe itās the way his voice falters slightly when he says your name, or how his gaze softens in a crowd when he finds you, like a lighthouse catching sight of home. Maybe itās the silence between his words, filled with everything he wishes he could say but can't because his feelings are messy, irrational thingsāand yet, here he is, drowning in them.
Maybe itās the way he stands a little too close, but not close enough, like the distance is both a comfort and a curse.Ā
But you donāt notice. And perhaps you never will.
Yet, even if his words remain unheard, even if his gestures remain unseen, even if youāll never know, he finds solace in being able to adore you from afar. The fire consumes him quietly, burning bright and unseen, tucked beneath the layers of his being. And he carries it quietly, like a secret melody only he can hearāserene, enduring, and his alone, etched not in words, but in the spaces between.
showering them with kisses and leaving lipstick stains, because why not? | featuring: phainon and mydei, established relationship, fluff, not proofread | wc: 0.5k
note ā the voices got to me and i wrote this impulsively and i just wanna kiss phainon soo baddd urghhh hes sosososoo
PHAINON, it feels like there are stars in his features, a faint glimmer of light that bleeds on the edges of the rosy smudges painted on his face. delight was an understatement to his current situationāhe is utterly glowing, basking like he would under the everlasting light with all of the attention that you are giving him. he could stay like this forever; your hand cupping his cheeks, your lips, painted in a shade of red, pressing all over. ākeep going,ā he is needy, desperately, and pathetically asking for more despite already showering him with too much, so much that youāre running out of empty spaces for your art; the stains overlapping against one another, darkening in pigment, as you leave a mark on top of the other. you linger in place often, leaving with a faint sound of a smack. the flush of his cheeks hidden by the prints of smudged and fading red, and you start kissing along his jaw, leaving nothing untouched by you. his hands don't know where to place itselves, wandering from your sides to your back, from gripping the front of your shirt to tangling with your hair, until they settle at his sides, clenching and unclenching as it trembles. āi think thatās enough,ā you say when you pull back, admiring the messy and flustered state of your kiss-stained lover, and by the amphoreusā skies, he looks so pretty under this light of pink hues and everything that embodies his being. and while you are enamored by him, he thinks of how you are the testament of the existence of beauty and how you make it utterly divine by the palm of your hands. āno, itās never enough.ā
MYDEI, āarenāt you brash?ā he says right after your lips had left his cheek; you had asked him to let you try on this new shade of lipstick you had bought, expecting that youāll paint the pigment on him outright but was greeted with a kiss instead. however, he doesnāt deny you nor does he even show a hint of detest to the attention he is willingly being given. and so, one kiss turns into two, then turns into three, then turns into the collection that you have left on him. you donāt know how long it has been and when he has pulled you into his lapāhe doesnāt make any further moves, just resting his hands on your waist, stroking your sides as you do your careful, intimate work. and when you try to pull away, he only pulls you back in until the tips of your noses touch. āi donāt recall asking you to stop,ā is what he whispers with an eyebrow raised which earns a chuckle from you, āgreedy,ā a mumble with a smile on your face, pressing forward to kiss the side of his mouth. he urges you to continue, spurring you on with the caress of his fingers on your back. you know his words, the whispers of his thoughts, despite not saying anything, but you know it all, and you know he adores you just as the red adores his skin. you think you see another shade dusting his cheeks, you think you see the waver in his gaze, you think you see the affectionate gleam in his eyes, and you think he doesnāt look as intimidating and scary not when your lipstick is smeared across his face.
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premiseā he had never known the extent of his affection, of his adoration, until he had looked for you everywhere he went, searching for a semblance of you in a crowd. an unfortunate thing, however, as everyone knows that he likes you, except you.Ā
content tags & warnings ā pairing: phainon x gn!reader | one-sided pining (somehow), fluff, v3.0 trailblaze mission mentioned and used, lovesick phainon i advocate, reader is a normal citizen, phainon worries about reader, not proofread | wc: 1.4k | tagging: @felibrary
"jellyfish" ā i hit my shin against the edge of the table while i was writing this and i nearly died
Not a single person is unaware of the affections a certain Chrysos Heir holds towards you.
The three children who bear different smiles were the first to noticeāsubtle, fleeting glimpses that betrayed PHAINON's carefully composed facade. They see the gleam in his eyes, talkingāor gossipingāit among themselves even as he stands right there, lips pressed into a thin line, unable to protest without confirming their suspicions. The heat creeping up his neck is answer enough.
He canāt say anything against it, but only asking them to not tell anyone about it, albeit they tease him further. However, nothing can escape the golden threads of a certain demigod as the man found himself conversing in a topic about the weight of his feelings and the weight of his responsibility.
Then guess what happens after? Yes, news travels fastālike wildfire carried by the idle breezeāreaching Mydei because how come he also has something to say?
And of course; āLord Phainon, your ears are red.ā The lady, adorned with flowers, would say as they walked away from your store after the man himself insisted that he had to check on something, on you. Phainon brushes it off, muttering something about the weather being unusually warm. Albeit his deflection is as transparent as glass and the only thing helping him is the fact that he's a step ahead and Castorice couldnāt see the red that dusts his cheek.
He knows he adores you, and perhaps it is a terrible thing that he loves you more than he loves himself, because your name itself reverberates through the hollow chambers of a heart that beats only for you, his thoughts composing a fine melody that yearns for you to feel the same. And when the Titan of Strife had come to strike the city, the tremble of his fingers and the falter of his composure disturbed the calm waters of his gaze.Ā
āThe city is under attack!ā
The sound of rubble crashing down, a cloud of dust and thick smoke consuming the place, chaos and screams everywhere filling all of his senses. His eyes flick over from one place to another, his feet never stopping as he runs, brandishing his blade against titankins who stand in his way. His gaze searched for you amidst the fire and debris but you were nowhere to be found; he had asked citizens for any sights of you and got nothing at the same.
Fear seeps into his skin, violently clawing and numbing him, an icy grip tightening around his chest. But before he could let the feeling consume him, a fragile, desperate voice pierces through the haze of destruction.
āPhainon!ā His head whips around so quickly you fear it could have snapped in half. A blur of smoke and shattered concrete, and then, youāre there. Relief washed over him like a violent wave and he nearly dropped his claymore at once; the heavy weight that dragged his footsteps against pavement became light, his legs moving before his mind could catch up, and before you could even comprehend it, youāre pulled in a tight embrace.
āYouāre alright.ā He says, low and breathless, his voice trembling as words stumble out, scratched with exhaustion and raw relief. You feel him relax as you pat his back, comforting him as the warmth of his own spill into yours.Ā
Phainon releases you moments after, his hands lingering as he checks up on you for any wounds you might have. His expression doesnāt relent and you have to reassure him that youāre fineābut he doesnāt believe you, not until heās certain with his own eyes. However, his fingers brush against a spot on your arm, and before you can stifle it, a wince slips past your lips.
Thus, he sees itāa gash that begins from your forearm, extending to near your elbow, and his face tightens with a grimace. You jerk your arm away instinctively, turning from him to hide the wound, and the gesture cuts deeper than you intend. His lips part, trembling slightly, trying to find the words to say.
His hand tries to reach for you but it simply hangs in the air, hesitation lingering in his bones, and it falls away to his side.
āPhainon,ā You say firmly, your gaze stilling on him, laced with conviction as if nothing he will say will move you. ā Iām okay, but there are others who are not.ā
āButāā
āYou must go.ā
He is reminded of his responsibility once more, of the constant voice of his duty whispering against his ear, of the weight of the prophecy and his titleāit draws a blatant line between you and him, making him fearful to cross it.
A bitter smile crosses your lips when you see his reluctance, your voice taking on a gentler tone when you speak: āItās alright, Iāll be fine, so donāt worry about me.ā Your words don't scour the tension on his shoulders but it managed to carve away the sharp edges of his worry. Not entirely, but enough. He exhales a slow, weary sighāa quiet surrenderāand steps closer.Ā
Without a word, Phainon tears a strip of fabric from his cape, the sound of ripping cloth sharp against the quiet between you. The chaos, the sound of destruction around you seem to have faded into nothing as the world holds its breath for the two of you.Ā
His hands move with practiced care, fingers steady despite the storm lingering behind his eyes. He wraps the makeshift bandage around your wound, his touch feather-light, as if afraid you might shatter under the weight of it. His brows furrowed with concentration, but thereās a softness there too, woven into the way he avoids pressing too hard, the way his thumb brushes over your skin like an apology he canāt speak aloud. All the while, you watch him, listening as he tells you to look for the High Priest, Tribios, for safety.
You donāt say a word, instead, you just nod, because itās easier than admitting the fear clawing at your ribs. His hand hovers near yours, as if he wants to say more, do moreābut instead, he steps back, leaving a hollow space where his warmth had just been.
And he leaves.
But you, the recipient of these affections, however, is oblivious. The very person who mistakes every small gesture, every stolen glance, every carefully chosen word, as nothing more than the courtesy of a Chrysos Heir fulfilling his duty. You dismiss his offers of assistance with casual gratitude, his thoughtful gifts as tokens of mere friendship. You brush off the moments when his gaze lingers too long, the way his voice softens when itās your name on his lips.
āYouāre a great friend, Phainon.ā Youāve told him once. Friend. Friend. The word itself echoes, clinging to the corners of his mind, a bittersweet anthem that both comforts and torments. He wears the title with a quiet resignation, even as his soul yearns for more.
But who was he to expect more? After all, heās not pursuing you with grand gestures or bold confessions, the way love stories are. Yet, itās the small things that betray himāthe quiet, unnoticed acts that slip through the cracks of his careful restraint.Ā Like how he willingly takes the longest routes, detours woven into his path with the fragile hope of glimpsing you by chance. Like how his hands seem to find trinkets and gifts that remind him of you, delicate offerings tucked into his pockets until he can gather the courage to present them, just to see that fleeting smile bloom on your lips.
And it is never for the hope of you liking him back. But surely, surely you should notice.
Maybe itās the way his voice falters slightly when he says your name, or how his gaze softens in a crowd when he finds you, like a lighthouse catching sight of home. Maybe itās the silence between his words, filled with everything he wishes he could say but can't because his feelings are messy, irrational thingsāand yet, here he is, drowning in them.
Maybe itās the way he stands a little too close, but not close enough, like the distance is both a comfort and a curse.Ā
But you donāt notice. And perhaps you never will.
Yet, even if his words remain unheard, even if his gestures remain unseen, even if youāll never know, he finds solace in being able to adore you from afar. The fire consumes him quietly, burning bright and unseen, tucked beneath the layers of his being. And he carries it quietly, like a secret melody only he can hearāserene, enduring, and his alone, etched not in words, but in the spaces between.
i'm in tears. do you know how beautiful this subversion of expectations irt death is to me. do you even understand how important it is. she's all warmth and love, always surrounded by vibrant displays of life - rather than the expected wither and decay. because death is not the antithesis to life: it is life. they are a part of each other. saying goodbye is always hard, but you have to let everything go, eventually. it's okay, it's not a punishment, it's not scary, it's not lonely - it's one last well-earned rest. releasing your borrowed energy back unto the universe so it can feed a new budding life, starting the cycle anew. and she's here to hold and cradle you until you're ready to go. you lived well. you were loved. sweet dreams, okay?
showering them with kisses and leaving lipstick stains, because why not? | featuring: phainon and mydei, established relationship, fluff, not proofread | wc: 0.5k
note ā the voices got to me and i wrote this impulsively and i just wanna kiss phainon soo baddd urghhh hes sosososoo
PHAINON, it feels like there are stars in his features, a faint glimmer of light that bleeds on the edges of the rosy smudges painted on his face. delight was an understatement to his current situationāhe is utterly glowing, basking like he would under the everlasting light with all of the attention that you are giving him. he could stay like this forever; your hand cupping his cheeks, your lips, painted in a shade of red, pressing all over. ākeep going,ā he is needy, desperately, and pathetically asking for more despite already showering him with too much, so much that youāre running out of empty spaces for your art; the stains overlapping against one another, darkening in pigment, as you leave a mark on top of the other. you linger in place often, leaving with a faint sound of a smack. the flush of his cheeks hidden by the prints of smudged and fading red, and you start kissing along his jaw, leaving nothing untouched by you. his hands don't know where to place itselves, wandering from your sides to your back, from gripping the front of your shirt to tangling with your hair, until they settle at his sides, clenching and unclenching as it trembles. āi think thatās enough,ā you say when you pull back, admiring the messy and flustered state of your kiss-stained lover, and by the amphoreusā skies, he looks so pretty under this light of pink hues and everything that embodies his being. and while you are enamored by him, he thinks of how you are the testament of the existence of beauty and how you make it utterly divine by the palm of your hands. āno, itās never enough.ā
MYDEI, āarenāt you brash?ā he says right after your lips had left his cheek; you had asked him to let you try on this new shade of lipstick you had bought, expecting that youāll paint the pigment on him outright but was greeted with a kiss instead. however, he doesnāt deny you nor does he even show a hint of detest to the attention he is willingly being given. and so, one kiss turns into two, then turns into three, then turns into the collection that you have left on him. you donāt know how long it has been and when he has pulled you into his lapāhe doesnāt make any further moves, just resting his hands on your waist, stroking your sides as you do your careful, intimate work. and when you try to pull away, he only pulls you back in until the tips of your noses touch. āi donāt recall asking you to stop,ā is what he whispers with an eyebrow raised which earns a chuckle from you, āgreedy,ā a mumble with a smile on your face, pressing forward to kiss the side of his mouth. he urges you to continue, spurring you on with the caress of his fingers on your back. you know his words, the whispers of his thoughts, despite not saying anything, but you know it all, and you know he adores you just as the red adores his skin. you think you see another shade dusting his cheeks, you think you see the waver in his gaze, you think you see the affectionate gleam in his eyes, and you think he doesnāt look as intimidating and scary not when your lipstick is smeared across his face.
showering them with kisses and leaving lipstick stains, because why not? | featuring: phainon and mydei, established relationship, fluff, not proofread | wc: 0.5k
note ā the voices got to me and i wrote this impulsively and i just wanna kiss phainon soo baddd urghhh hes sosososoo
PHAINON, it feels like there are stars in his features, a faint glimmer of light that bleeds on the edges of the rosy smudges painted on his face. delight was an understatement to his current situationāhe is utterly glowing, basking like he would under the everlasting light with all of the attention that you are giving him. he could stay like this forever; your hand cupping his cheeks, your lips, painted in a shade of red, pressing all over. ākeep going,ā he is needy, desperately, and pathetically asking for more despite already showering him with too much, so much that youāre running out of empty spaces for your art; the stains overlapping against one another, darkening in pigment, as you leave a mark on top of the other. you linger in place often, leaving with a faint sound of a smack. the flush of his cheeks hidden by the prints of smudged and fading red, and you start kissing along his jaw, leaving nothing untouched by you. his hands don't know where to place itselves, wandering from your sides to your back, from gripping the front of your shirt to tangling with your hair, until they settle at his sides, clenching and unclenching as it trembles. āi think thatās enough,ā you say when you pull back, admiring the messy and flustered state of your kiss-stained lover, and by the amphoreusā skies, he looks so pretty under this light of pink hues and everything that embodies his being. and while you are enamored by him, he thinks of how you are the testament of the existence of beauty and how you make it utterly divine by the palm of your hands. āno, itās never enough.ā
MYDEI, āarenāt you brash?ā he says right after your lips had left his cheek; you had asked him to let you try on this new shade of lipstick you had bought, expecting that youāll paint the pigment on him outright but was greeted with a kiss instead. however, he doesnāt deny you nor does he even show a hint of detest to the attention he is willingly being given. and so, one kiss turns into two, then turns into three, then turns into the collection that you have left on him. you donāt know how long it has been and when he has pulled you into his lapāhe doesnāt make any further moves, just resting his hands on your waist, stroking your sides as you do your careful, intimate work. and when you try to pull away, he only pulls you back in until the tips of your noses touch. āi donāt recall asking you to stop,ā is what he whispers with an eyebrow raised which earns a chuckle from you, āgreedy,ā a mumble with a smile on your face, pressing forward to kiss the side of his mouth. he urges you to continue, spurring you on with the caress of his fingers on your back. you know his words, the whispers of his thoughts, despite not saying anything, but you know it all, and you know he adores you just as the red adores his skin. you think you see another shade dusting his cheeks, you think you see the waver in his gaze, you think you see the affectionate gleam in his eyes, and you think he doesnāt look as intimidating and scary not when your lipstick is smeared across his face.
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showering them with kisses and leaving lipstick stains, because why not? | featuring: phainon and mydei, established relationship, fluff, not proofread | wc: 0.5k
note ā the voices got to me and i wrote this impulsively and i just wanna kiss phainon soo baddd urghhh hes sosososoo
PHAINON, it feels like there are stars in his features, a faint glimmer of light that bleeds on the edges of the rosy smudges painted on his face. delight was an understatement to his current situationāhe is utterly glowing, basking like he would under the everlasting light with all of the attention that you are giving him. he could stay like this forever; your hand cupping his cheeks, your lips, painted in a shade of red, pressing all over. ākeep going,ā he is needy, desperately, and pathetically asking for more despite already showering him with too much, so much that youāre running out of empty spaces for your art; the stains overlapping against one another, darkening in pigment, as you leave a mark on top of the other. you linger in place often, leaving with a faint sound of a smack. the flush of his cheeks hidden by the prints of smudged and fading red, and you start kissing along his jaw, leaving nothing untouched by you. his hands don't know where to place itselves, wandering from your sides to your back, from gripping the front of your shirt to tangling with your hair, until they settle at his sides, clenching and unclenching as it trembles. āi think thatās enough,ā you say when you pull back, admiring the messy and flustered state of your kiss-stained lover, and by the amphoreusā skies, he looks so pretty under this light of pink hues and everything that embodies his being. and while you are enamored by him, he thinks of how you are the testament of the existence of beauty and how you make it utterly divine by the palm of your hands. āno, itās never enough.ā
MYDEI, āarenāt you brash?ā he says right after your lips had left his cheek; you had asked him to let you try on this new shade of lipstick you had bought, expecting that youāll paint the pigment on him outright but was greeted with a kiss instead. however, he doesnāt deny you nor does he even show a hint of detest to the attention he is willingly being given. and so, one kiss turns into two, then turns into three, then turns into the collection that you have left on him. you donāt know how long it has been and when he has pulled you into his lapāhe doesnāt make any further moves, just resting his hands on your waist, stroking your sides as you do your careful, intimate work. and when you try to pull away, he only pulls you back in until the tips of your noses touch. āi donāt recall asking you to stop,ā is what he whispers with an eyebrow raised which earns a chuckle from you, āgreedy,ā a mumble with a smile on your face, pressing forward to kiss the side of his mouth. he urges you to continue, spurring you on with the caress of his fingers on your back. you know his words, the whispers of his thoughts, despite not saying anything, but you know it all, and you know he adores you just as the red adores his skin. you think you see another shade dusting his cheeks, you think you see the waver in his gaze, you think you see the affectionate gleam in his eyes, and you think he doesnāt look as intimidating and scary not when your lipstick is smeared across his face.