lone-trailblazer

[lone-trailblazer]

🥲🥲🥲

collection of myphais

[lone-trailblazer]

I need him carnally omfg

kitty

[lone-trailblazer]

Comfort ☀️🍷

[lone-trailblazer]

Brother I'm gnawing on my couch THIS IS SO FUCKING SWEET

— cleanup on aisle three ⟢

phainon’s late-night grocery runs are a masterclass in chaos: strange ingredients, fish-shaped lighters, and recipes that could either save the world or end it. and you, a cynical store clerk who just wants to end your shifts quietly, find yourself caught in the storm of his culinary madness.

★ featuring; phainon x gender-neutral!reader

★ word count; 8.3k words

★ tags; friends to lovers, the grand chrysos au (from the april fool's chef pv lol), fluff, idiots in love, several food mentions

★ notes; kaientai tumblr reinstation starts NYEOW! if you follow me on ao3, you've probably already seen this, but i thought it would be a nice idea to crosspost on tumblr since i have a fairly decent following here as well :")

★ now comes with fanart by dear @/sumiscribes here! T T

It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.

You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.

You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.

You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.

Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.

You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service. 

You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.

He starts unloading his haul without a word.

A 2 liter bottle of cola.

Repackaged chicken feet.

A pint of heavy cream.

A family-size bag of marshmallows.

Three lemons.

Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).

A tray of century eggs.

A novelty fish-shaped lighter.

You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.

“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”

He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.

“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”

“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”

“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”

You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”

“I like to leave my options open.”

He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.

“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.

“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”

You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.

The guy takes one look and laughs.

“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?” 

“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”

He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”

You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.

He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.

“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”

You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”

He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”

And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.

You didn’t really expect to see him again.

Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”

But then, a few nights later, he’s back.

Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.

He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.

The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.

“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.

“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.

You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”

“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”

You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”

He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”

“You’ll need more butane for that.”

You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.

“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.

He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”

You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”

“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”

“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”

“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”

As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.

You push it across the counter with his bag.

Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.

“You know, these are actually... really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean it. You’re talented.”

You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”

He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.

“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”

You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.

“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”

He doesn’t have a comeback for that.

You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.

On his way out, he glances back once.

“The soup pot’s got good linework.”

You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.

Except you do.

It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.

Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.

You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.

Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.

Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”

You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.

You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.

You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.

“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”

You don’t answer.

He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”

You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”

He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.

“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”

You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:

“That sucks.”

It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You glance up—he’s in dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.

“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”

You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.

“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”

You blink. “What?”

“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”

You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”

It’s stupid.

It’s really stupid.

But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.

You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.

“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.

A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”

You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”

Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”

“Only if it’s expired.”

He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.

When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.

“I’m Phainon, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”

You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right. 

You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”

“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”

“Points for subtlety.”

“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.

He bumps back.

And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.

You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.

You’re halfway through a bag of chips and a sip of flat soda when you see Phainon walking into the break room like he’s just stormed out of an interdimensional kitchen hell.

His chef’s coat’s still half-buttoned, a tiny smear of what could be mustard or burnt caramel streaking down his arm, and he’s holding a tupperware container like it contains either the cure for all your problems—or the worst food poisoning of your life.

He spots you, and the chaos continues in his wake, like some sort of culinary tornado.

“Hey,” he greets you, looking way too pleased with himself. “You free to eat something…experimental?”

You raise an eyebrow, slowly lowering the chips. “I don’t know, chef. Last time I checked, I wasn’t signing up for a cooking class. And who the hell let you in here?”

“You’re not signing up for anything,” he says, ignoring your inquiry as he drops the container on the table with a grin. “I’m just trying something out. The ‘No Food Left Behind’ policy. You’re gonna be a test subject.”

You stare at the tupperware, unsure if you should be excited or worried. The lid pops off, and you brace yourself for the smell of burnt desperation and raw ambition.

But instead, it’s surprisingly…pleasant?

“What is that?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Whatever it is,” Phainon shrugs, “it’s better than the version I made for myself this morning. I was going for ‘vibrant acidity,’ ended up with ‘distilled regret.’” He gestures to the container like it's a grand masterpiece. “So, eat up.”

You give him a skeptical look, but you’ve seen enough of his food disasters by now to know that he probably isn’t trying to kill you with poorly executed gastronomy. At least, based on what he checks out in his carts and baskets after his midnight grocery runs. Slowly, you take a forkful. And damn.

It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that leaves you almost suspicious.

The flavors somehow work together in this mess of ingredients—something salty, something tangy, something rich and comforting. It’s like he didn’t just throw things together, but created something from a place of necessity.

You blink, lowering your fork. “Wait. This...actually isn’t bad.”

He grins. “You sure you’re not just hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” you mutter, finishing the bite. “But no, this is weirdly healing.”

Phainon sits across from you, watching you with an almost unreadable expression. For a second, you almost think he’s serious. “Not what I was going for, but glad to know it worked. Should’ve added more cheese, though.”

“More cheese?”

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much cheese fixes everything.” He bobs his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Next time.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something else there—a tiny spark of warmth you weren’t expecting. The food wasn’t just filling a void; it felt like it was filling something deeper. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed it.

You set the tupperware down and glance up at him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice a little quieter than you intended. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

His smile softens, but only a little. “Then I guess this was the right kitchen experiment.”

You really should have known better than to run your mouth around someone like Phainon.

The first time it happens, it’s on Monday night. You’ve just clocked in, half-dazed from an over-caffeinated day, and the last thing you expect is a neatly wrapped bundle sitting in the break room fridge with your name on it.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. You slide it out of the fridge, already bracing yourself for some bizarre culinary experiment. The tupperware looks oddly familiar—like the same one Phainon showed up with last time, only this time there’s a little post-it note slapped on top.

Eat me.

You sigh, but you’re also starving, so you open it.

Inside is some kind of…stew? It’s thick and bubbling in the tupperware, with chunks of something that almost look like meat but might actually be vegetables, and a drizzle of something that looks suspiciously like a spicy aioli.

You’re not sure whether it’s the blend of spices or the odd richness, but it smells warm and inviting. He even prepared a small serving of rice to pair it with. 

You sit at the table, spoon poised, and take a tentative bite. Holy hell, it’s delicious.

You should be angry that he’s invading your break with weirdly good food, but instead, you’re just grateful you don’t have to rely on stale sandwiches anymore.

The next day, it happens again.

And the next.

It’s like a strange, unspoken agreement now. You never see him drop off the food, but there’s always something waiting in the fridge when you clock in.

By the third day, you’ve gotten used to it—the warm, spicy-sweet curry with just the right level of heat, the unexpectedly perfect homemade bao buns, and today, what looks like a bizarrely decadent bowl of ramen with ingredients that should never go together, but somehow do.

You’re standing in the break room, staring at the latest offering like it’s a strange gift you didn’t ask for, when your coworker, Damionis, leans in from behind you, peering into the fridge.

“What is this, another one of Weird Chef Guy’s meals?”

“His name’s Phainon,” you mutter, but even as you say it, you realize you haven’t actually mentioned that part to anyone.

“Right. Phainon,” Damionis mocks, grinning. “Well, whatever his name is, I don’t know whether to be jealous or concerned. You’ve been eating like royalty all week.”

You just shrug, not sure what to say. It’s not like you asked for this. It’s just happening.

Then the weirdest part comes. The food is so consistently good that you can’t even be mad about it anymore. You don’t even ask questions. You just eat.

But then it lasts for over two weeks.

Two whole weeks of unexpected, ridiculously good meals waiting for you in the break room fridge every single shift. You didn’t even need to check the fridge anymore—you just knew there’d be something there. And as much as you’d like to complain about it, the truth is… you couldn’t.

It was all too good. He knew how to cook. Too well.

But this? This had to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the meals. It’s just that you couldn’t shake the nagging guilt that you were being spoiled by someone who barely even knew you. 

And the more you thought about it, the more you felt like you were becoming a passive recipient of his kindness. You weren’t some charity case, and you didn’t want to feel like one.

So, you decide to do something about it.

You arrive at the grocery store at 10 in the morning. The day shift clerk, Arielle, told you this is the time when Phainon usually dropped off his gifts. To your relief, she was more than willing to help you catch the guy red-handed while you lied in wait in the break room. 

And you did. For about twenty minutes. 

Then, almost on cue, you hear a knock on the break room door, and when you open it, there he is. Phainon. Standing in the there with his usual “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine” face.

“You—” You cut yourself off, arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Stop what?” He stares at you, genuinely confused. “The food? Is it bad? Because I can totally—”

“No!” You immediately interject, feeling the pressure of not wanting to sound ungrateful. “No, the food’s amazing. It’s just—” You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding dramatic.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You keep leaving these meals for me, and I feel like I’m just taking and taking and not… giving anything in return. I can’t keep just accepting these like it’s nothing.”

Phainon blinks at you, a slow realization creeping across his face. Then he shrugs. “You’re not a burden. I’ve been doing this because I want to. You’ve been working your ass off, so you deserve to eat something decent. Besides, I like knowing that I’ve made something you’ll actually enjoy.”

You stare at him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. He sounds so genuine, so nonchalant about it all. But still…

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t even—”

“—know each other, I know.” Phainon cuts you off with a soft smile, not an ounce of irritation in his voice. “But that’s the thing. We don’t have to know each other for me to want to do this. I’ve been training at a restaurant for the past few weeks, and it’s been crazy. Honestly, I barely have time to sleep, much less cook for myself. So, I just... grab what I can, throw it together, and leave it for you.”

You stare at him, processing his words. “Wait. You’ve been doing this after working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah. I’ve been coming home late, still on my feet, barely able to keep my eyes open, and I thought: ‘Hey, might as well bring something for them. They're working hard too.’” He gives a small, sheepish shrug. “I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, your mind a little overwhelmed by the layers of his thoughtfulness and how much more he’s been giving than you realized. It’s one thing to show up with a random meal once. It’s another thing entirely to be doing it on the regular, after pulling long shifts himself.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you repeat, quieter this time.

“Then don’t,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t make me stop. You’re eating something decent for once in your life. What’s wrong with that?”

You open your mouth to protest again, but something in the way he looks at you—like he actually believes you deserve the meals, and not just because he’s some guy who’s trying to be nice—makes you pause.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he adds. “And I’m not asking for anything in return. Just… don’t overthink it. It’s food. It’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, you’ve got a weird job, but you’re doing alright.’”

And, damn it, that hits a little harder than you were ready for. The simple sincerity of it. You want to argue, but the honesty in his eyes stops you.

“You’re impossible,” you say finally, shaking your head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I’ll starve without it.”

Phainon grins, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a soup in there that I think might be your new favorite.”

You can’t help but laugh at how easy he makes this all seem. You know this won’t be the last time he’ll show up unannounced, but this time, somehow, it feels a little less like a gift and a little more like the beginning of something worthwhile.

The commission work has been steady. That’s the word you keep using—steady—even though what you really mean is exhausting.

Since you started accepting paid requests, your days have been a blur of grocery store shifts and digital sketchpads. Pet portraits, custom nameplates, grocery signage with smiling cartoon vegetables—nothing too big, nothing too personal. You keep telling yourself it’s fine. It’s money. It’s more than you had before.

But it’s also not what you love. Not really. It feels like turning your art into product. Into labor. Into something with a price tag instead of purpose.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

You think about telling Phainon. You’ve wanted to. After all, this whole thing started because he encouraged you to “do something” with your art. But he doesn’t come around anymore—not during your shifts, anyway. He still leaves meals in the break room fridge, but it's been a while since his last grocery run. You figure he’s probably drowning in work at a restaurant he never told you the name of.

You don’t even have his number. Isn’t that ridiculous?

So you keep your head down. Draw. Clock in. Clock out. Repeat.

And then—

One Thursday night, you’re sweeping up near the produce section, trying to shake off a migraine and mentally calculating how many commissions you’ll need to finish by the weekend, when the automatic doors chime.

You don’t look up right away. It’s late, and most customers at this hour want to be left alone.

But something—some presence—makes you glance up.

And there he is.

Still in his usual chef coat, unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows like always. He looks as if he came straight from the kitchen. But that’s not what catches your attention.

It’s the bruise.

Dark and ugly, blooming along his cheekbone like ink under thin paper.

“Phainon?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey. Long time.”

You’re already striding toward him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I got in the way of a flying sheet pan.”

“Bullshit.”

His smile wobbles a little, but he doesn’t argue.

You grab his wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and drag him toward the back. He doesn’t resist.

“You’re coming with me,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

“Shut up.”

You haul him into the break room, ignoring the lingering gazes from co-workers, and make a beeline for the first-aid kit above the microwave.

He watches you in silence as you wet a paper towel with cool water and start dabbing gently at the edge of the bruise. He winces but stays still.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” you mutter.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost reflexively.

You glance at him, and he tilts his head. “I heard from Damionis. You’ve been doing commissions.”

Your hand stills. “...Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You haven’t exactly been around.”

“Touché.”

You look away, focusing on cleaning the worst of the bruising. “It’s fine. It pays. I don’t love it, but it’s something.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says quietly, “I know that feeling.”

You meet his gaze again, and he looks... tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper. Like the chaos is starting to catch up to him, too.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe neither of you do. But the distance feels smaller now. Quieter.

Then Phainon says, “Next time you want to vent about it, just... wait for me. I might not always show up on time, but I will. Eventually.”

You smirk, just a little. “Big words for someone with a black eye.”

“Battle scars,” he says solemnly. “The kitchen is a warzone.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the tension lifts, just a bit.

There’s still curry powder under his nails and ink smudged on your wrists. Neither of you are sleeping enough or eating right unless the other intervenes.

But in this tiny, overly lit break room, with a half-empty vending machine humming behind you and a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face, it almost feels like something is working.

Almost.

The next weird thing he does for you starts with a folded envelope tucked beneath your lunch in the break room fridge.

This time, there’s no doodle, no cheeky post-it. Just your name, written in slanted pen across thick cardstock. You open it between bites of lukewarm stir-fry, expecting another pun or maybe a strange coupon Phainon made up himself—One Free Existential Breakdown Redeemed at Aisle Four.

But it’s not that.

It’s an invitation.

A literal, printed, serif-fonted invitation on heavy cream paper that reads:

You’re cordially invited to a private tasting at The Grand Chrysos. Come hungry. Come after your shift. P.S. Don’t argue. It’s on the house. —P.

Your first reaction is laughter. Then confusion. Then panic.

The Grand Chrysos is fancy. It’s the kind of place you pass on your way to the train station and try not to breathe near, in case you accidentally lower its property value. One with five-course menus and wine pairings and waiters in black gloves. You thought Phainon was training at some well-off restaurant, but not in a place like that. 

You stare at the invitation like it’s going to burst into flames.

When your shift ends, it’s nearly 1:15 a.m., and you’ve changed into a slightly less wrinkled shirt in the back room just in case. You told yourself a hundred reasons not to go. You’re not dressed for it. You can’t afford to even look at the menu. You’ll stick out like a ketchup stain on linen.

But you go anyway.

You’re greeted at the door by someone who seems unfazed by the fact that you’re arriving well past closing. They just smile, gesture you in, and say, “Chef Phainon’s expecting you.”

The restaurant is quiet, emptied of patrons, lit only by a soft glow from the open kitchen.

Phainon lies in wait, blue eyes glittering with anticipation. Still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, looking exactly like the maniac who leaves elaborate noodle dishes in your fridge and somehow always knows when you’ve had a bad day. There’s a tiredness in his posture, sure—but also a kind of light. The kitchen is his domain. He belongs here.

“You’re still open at this hour?” you ask, hesitating at the edge of the dining space.

He glances up, offers that familiar half-smile. “Nope.”

You frown. “Then what—?”

“I just like to experiment until dawn,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “New menu trials. Flavor pairings. Wasting perfectly good sleep in the name of soup stock.”

You stare at him, suddenly seeing the dark circles under his eyes in a new light. “Is that why you always look like a dying student during finals week?”

He snorts. “Not inaccurate.”

He gestures toward a single candlelit table near the kitchen window, already set. You sit slowly, unsure of what to expect. But he’s already sliding the first course in front of you—delicate, strange, beautiful. Some kind of cold-brewed consommé with herbs you don’t recognize and edible flowers that look like they were plucked from a dream.

“This is real,” you murmur. “You’re—you’re the one making all this?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can see it—how much it matters to him. How proud he is, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Course after course follows. A risotto with saffron foam. A deconstructed katsu curry that tastes like every comfort food memory you’ve ever had. A dessert involving toasted meringue, freeze-dried berries, and some strange, tangy syrup he says he discovered by accident.

You’re halfway through the meal when you finally say it.

“I thought this was your job. But you don’t stop when your shift ends.”

He glances up, caught mid-plate wipe. “You don’t either.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises an eyebrow. “How many commissions did you say you had lined up last week?”

You go quiet.

“You’re always tired,” you murmur.

“So are you,” he says gently. “But we keep showing up anyway.”

It’s not romantic, exactly. But it is intimate. And in some ways, that’s worse. You’re sitting in a temple of haute cuisine, eating the best meal of your life, and the only thing you can think about is how tired you both are—and how neither of you will admit you want someone to say, It’s okay to stop.

But for tonight, neither of you do. For tonight, you eat.

And when dessert’s cleared away and he brings out a thermos of something he calls “chaos tea” (probably caffeinated), you smile.

Because tired as he looks, Phainon seems a little more alive with you sitting across from him.

You still glance at the break room fridge out of habit.

It’s been weeks since anything showed up with your name on it in crooked handwriting. No precariously packed curries or leftover fish terrines that somehow didn’t stink up the room. No chaotic bao buns, no weird jellied things in little jars, no “guess the ingredients” soups that left your tongue buzzing and your heart weirdly warm.

Just your stuff now. Yogurt. A banana you probably won’t eat. A sandwich that’s seen better days. Someone else's soda you’re pretty sure is off-limits.

It’s fine.

You’ve learned how to eat properly since then. You even meal-prep sometimes, if you’ve got enough brain cells left at the end of the night. Your commissions have picked up—just enough to get by, just enough to let you breathe without doing math at the register to figure out if you can afford a single bar of chocolate. And it’s not like you miss Phainon leaving food for you like some culinary cryptid Santa Claus. 

But every now and then, you’ll crack open your tupperware and realize that you still wait for the scent of saffron, or the punch of vinegar, or whatever strange spice he was experimenting with that week.

You’ll look down at your rice and scrambled eggs and sigh, not because it’s bad, but because it’s yours—and maybe, for once, you liked when it wasn’t just on you.

The last time you saw him, he’d looked like death warmed over. Like someone had dug him out from under a pile of cookbooks and deadlines. There was flour in his hair and a pen behind one ear, a band-aid around his thumb and a blister forming on the side of his neck from god-knows-what. His phone had buzzed three times while you were trying to ask him about the new cold brew in stock.

“Dissertation life,” he’d said with a lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m elbows-deep in food chemistry and the historical evolution of fermentation methods. Pray for me.”

You’d rolled your eyes and told him to go touch grass. He’d promised to consider it… after graduation.

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t text him often. You think about it more than you act on it. The last thing you want to be is another notification in a sea of deadlines. But sometimes you’ll send a blurry photo of a weird carrot shaped like a foot, or a doodle on receipt paper of a garlic bulb with tiny arms. Sometimes it’s just a message: Still alive. Hope you’re eating.

He always replies. Short stuff. A thumbs-up. A picture of a burnt omelette with the caption "how the mighty fall." A single “LOL” that somehow makes your day.

You know better than to take it personally—he’s drowning in work. His internship at The Grand Chrysos ended with a bang (and at least one small kitchen fire, according to a very dramatic text), and now all that’s left is the thesis he won’t shut up about.

You sit at the break table with your sandwich, scrolling back through old messages. Your shift’s half over. You’re trying not to look like you’re waiting on a ghost.

The last text from him was three days ago:

Working on my related literature. Might collapse. If I don’t survive, tell the duck confit I loved her.

You smile, even though it catches in your throat a little.

You put your phone down and stare at your sandwich. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

It’s fine. It’s good, even.

But it’s not the same.

You’re almost done with your shift when Arielle insists—insists—that you go take your break. 

“I already had mine,” you argue, arms crossed, the fluorescent lights humming far too loudly above you. You don’t even know why she’s here at this hour. She works the damn day shift. 

“Take. Your. Break,” Arielle says, giving you a look that says don’t make me drag you.

You eye her suspiciously. Damionis is nearby, not even pretending to be subtle. He’s suddenly very invested in facing the peanut butter jars, whistling off-key. Something is up.

Still, you're tired, and your feet hurt, and your brain is half mush from answering customer questions like where’s the cheese that tastes like sadness but costs twelve dollars more?

So, fine. Whatever. You head toward the break room.

When you open the door, you're hit by the scent of vanilla and something warm, like toasted sugar and citrus zest. The lights are dimmed—when did they even install a dimmer switch?—and standing awkwardly by the fridge is Phainon.

He’s holding a cake.

Scratch that—he’s holding a gorgeous cake. It’s layered and glazed, decorated with candied slices of orange, flecks of gold leaf, and delicate piping that reads Happy Birthday! in slightly wobbly cursive.

And on top: several tiny candles. Lit. Flickering.

He’s using the stupid fish lighter you remember from his very first visit.

“Surprise,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… as much as this counts as a surprise. I had help.”

“He sure did,” Arielle pipes up from behind you, suddenly crowding the entrance with Damionis, both grinning like idiots.

“We coordinated,” Damionis says smugly. “Told him your schedule. Arielle did the decorations.”

You look up. There’s a single streamer hanging half-heartedly from the cabinet above the sink. One balloon taped to the fridge. It’s so dumb. So unbelievably sweet.

You stare at the cake again. At Phainon, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to say more or not.

And then your vision blurs.

“Oh no,” you murmur, swiping at your face, furious with yourself. “Nope. We are not doing this. I am not crying over a cake.”

Phainon smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. The same smile from all those nights he showed up with tupperware and herbs you couldn’t pronounce.

“Well, it is a pretty great cake,” he says gently. “And you deserve nice things. Even if it's just once in a while.”

You sniff. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “How did you even know? I don't remember telling you my birthday...”

“Mmm, Arielle might have let it slip a couple weeks ago when I bought some salami.” He points the fish lighter at the culprit herself.

Arielle just rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. You love it anyway, right?” 

Yes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s heartfelt. It’s everything.

You blow out the candles, blinking rapidly, and someone claps—probably Damionis, who’s always a little too eager about celebrating. Phainon cuts the cake and hands you the first slice. It’s lemon poppyseed with honey cream filling. You don’t even like lemon poppyseed.

But still, it’s perfect.

You stand in the crowd, awkward in your semi-wrinkled button-down and scuffed sneakers, feeling a little out of place among the polished shoes and proud parents. You shift from foot to foot, scanning the rows of graduates seated in the middle of Okhema University’s sprawling courtyard.

And then you spot him.

Phainon’s cap is slightly crooked—of course it is—and he’s fidgeting with his gown like it’s some kind of prison uniform. But when his name is called, he straightens up. Walks like he belongs up there. And when he takes the diploma, there’s a flicker of pride that crosses his face before he spots you in the crowd and grins like he just won the lottery.

You wave, cheeks warm, and try not to look too proud yourself. He’s beaming, radiant with accomplishment and relief and maybe just a bit of exhaustion.

Afterward, in the soft afternoon light, he finds you on the steps outside the university.

“You made it,” he says, a little breathless.

“You invited me,” you remind him, but you’re smiling. “I thought those seats were reserved for, you know. Family.”

“They’re too far away to make the trip,” he says simply. “But you were here.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, feeling something a little too big for your chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else you don’t want to name yet.

Before you can figure it out, a shadow falls over you both.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy—blonde, scowling by default—clears his throat.

“Mydei,” Phainon says, surprised. “Hey.”

Mydei nods, stiff. “Just wanted to say… sorry. For, uh. Punching you in the face. You know, months ago.”

Your eyes flick between them. Oh.

The bruise. The one Phainon had that night he stumbled into the break room, looking like he’d lost a bar fight with a pan. You remember treating it with frozen peas and whispered concern.

“You really clocked me,” Phainon says, rubbing the side of his jaw with a wince that’s more nostalgic than bitter.

“Yeah,” Mydei says. “You were being annoying. Still. Sorry.”

They clasp hands, awkward but genuine. You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. Phainon gives Mydei a nod as he walks off, and then it’s just the two of you again.

“So,” he says. “Big graduation moment. I’m finally free. No more dissertation deadlines. No more chefs breathing down my neck.”

“You gonna rest now?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m thinking dinner. Celebration. Something borderline dangerous with a blowtorch involved.”

You roll your eyes, falling into step beside him as you start walking toward the city. The sun’s starting to dip, casting Okhema University’s sandstone buildings in soft gold.

“Actually,” you say, heart thudding. “I have a confession.”

Phainon slows a step, giving you a look. “What, your undying love for me?”

You freeze. “Absolutely not!”

He laughs, smug and bright and utterly unrepentant.

You huff. “I meant—I’ve saved up enough. I’m going back. To school. Art school.”

He stops walking entirely.

“You’re serious?”

You nod. “I sent in my documents last week. Just waiting for confirmation. But yeah. I’m… I’m doing it.”

His whole face lights up like a streetlamp. He lets out a whoop so loud a couple of passing students stare. Even is he's the one who just graduated, Phainon is celebrating you so much louder.

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

You shrug, trying to seem cool, like you haven’t been carrying the weight of this decision in your chest for weeks. “Figured it’s now or never.”

“Come over,” Phainon says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“To my place. Tonight. Let me cook. You’re not getting some lazy congratulations takeout, okay? We’re talking a full meal. Dinner for two. My kitchen, my rules.”

You smile, a little stunned, a little giddy. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be awful if you say no. I’ll be dramatic about it. Maybe cry.”

“Fine,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “But only if you make that weird stew with the spicy aioli again.”

His eyes twinkle. “Deal.”

You keep walking, and for once, the future doesn’t feel so scary. Not when there’s something like this—like him—waiting just ahead.

Phainon’s apartment used to look like nobody actually lived there.

The walls were bare—blank, indifferent, the kind of blankness that says I won’t be here long. His place was functional, stripped down to the basics. Bed, shower, fridge, stovetop. A stack of cookbooks in one corner, post-it notes stuck in like confetti. His kitchen, when he used it, smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. But most nights, he was too tired to even boil water. He came home to sleep, maybe shower, then passed out with his apron still slung over a chair.

That was before you started coming over.

At first, it was convenience. Your new university building was closer to his apartment than your own place, and it saved you forty-five minutes of commuting if you crashed on his couch. Then it became habit. Movie nights. Shared leftovers. Sleeping in until noon on your free days. You never really asked if you could keep staying over—but he never asked you to leave.

Somewhere in between all that, his walls started to change.

He framed one of your failed lino prints first. You didn’t even like it—too messy, too smudged. But he said it “had texture,” and before you could protest, it was up near his bookshelf, angled slightly crooked like he didn’t know how to use a level. Then came a half-finished charcoal sketch of a pigeon. A gouache color study. An ink portrait of a cat you never met. One by one, the misfits from your sketchbooks began populating his walls.

You grumbled. Called it embarrassing. He didn’t care. “You spend half your time here,” he said once, standing in front of the fridge with a container of soup in hand. “Might as well look like you live here.”

It annoyed you—until it didn’t.

Now his apartment feels like something alive. Something shared. His pans still clatter too loud, and his towels are always mismatched, but the walls look warmer. Lived in. Like a space with a history unfolding inside it.

And then, one quiet Tuesday night, he swings by the grocery store again.

It’s nearly midnight, the store is half-asleep, and you’re manning the register with the radio turned low. He buys something ridiculous—a single lemon, a tin of anchovies, and a bottle of hot sauce. You roll your eyes as you ring him up.

On the back of the receipt, you doodle a sleepy cartoon fish holding a sparkler. He grins when you hand it over, folds the paper neatly, and slides it into his wallet.

You catch a glimpse of what’s already tucked inside—half a dozen of your other doodles, dog-eared and soft at the corners. A rabbit with an apron. A stick figure with flaming oven mitts. Even that old moth wearing combat boots with the spurs. All preserved like little relics.

“You keep those?” you ask, surprised.

Phainon shrugs, casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They make my wallet look cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. Your chest feels weirdly full.

Because it’s not just the wallet. It’s the walls of his apartment. It’s the fact that he keeps showing up. The way he lights up when you talk about your latest project, even when you’re rambling. The meals he made for you when he barely had time to sleep. How he’s been quietly holding onto all these tiny pieces of you—and never once made you feel silly for handing them over.

You’re not stupid. You know what this might mean.

And maybe—just maybe—you might just feel the same.

It’s barely past seven when you’re stuffing your sketchbook into your bag with one hand and trying to smooth your hair with the other. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to your first class of the day, and somehow, despite waking up with enough time, you’re still scrambling.

In the kitchen, Phainon is moving with that easy, practiced grace he only ever has when food’s involved. There’s toast browning, eggs cooling, something wrapped in foil that smells suspiciously amazing, and a thermos of warm broth in your favorite flavor. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his chef’s coat is half-buttoned, but he’s focused, like preparing your lunch is his actual job.

“You don’t have to do that every morning,” you mumble as you slip your shoes on.

“I know,” he says, without looking up. “But I like to.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s a given—like of course he’d want to take care of you—that makes your fingers itch. You pull out the little folded doodle you made the night before. It’s stupid. It’s cute. It’s terrifying. Just a rough sketch of the two of you holding hands, hearts doodled above your heads, and the words i like you, idiot scrawled at the bottom.

You wait until he turns around to rinse something at the sink before you slip it into the recipe journal he keeps open on the counter, tucked between a page of messy notes about pickled egg foam and a weird diagram involving chili oil.

Your heart hammers the entire time, but you say nothing. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and shout a “See you!” before you bolt out the door.

Class is a blur. You think your Realism professor says something profound about emotional verisimilitude but you’re too busy trying not to spiral.

It’s only during your break, when you finally unwrap your lunch on a bench just outside the art building, that you find the post-it.

It’s stuck to the inside of the foil, slightly greasy but still legible, written in Phainon’s usual hurried, slanted scrawl.

I’m terrible at feelings but I think I might be in love with you lol. If you’re not horrified, meet me after class?

Your mouth drops open. For a second, you just stare at it, hands frozen around your sandwich, your brain a whir of static.

And then you laugh.

Because of course he responded like this. Of course he had to one-up your confession in the dumbest, most Phainon way possible.

You tuck the note into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, fingers hovering over your messages.

See you at 3 :>

And when 3 o’clock rolls around, Phainon’s already waiting outside your building, hair windswept, journal tucked under one arm. He looks nervous until he sees you walking toward him, and then—then he smiles like the sun finally decided to rise for real.

You grab his hand without saying anything.

He holds on like he’s never letting go.

⟢ end notes: wahoo, you made it to the end! thank you so much for reading qwq it's been a hot minute since i posted on this acc and tumblr in general (i was mostly active on the kpop side of things in 2023), so i'm kinda just posting this to feel out the vibes. if i should crosspost my other stuff here etc etc. i also just started writing for hsr about,, a month ago?? so i've no idea how the fandom is on here JSDHFJSDGFH either way!! i'm just happy to share my stuff anywhere i can :^)

[lone-trailblazer]

He's so hot I'm gonna bust

are you ready, Nanook? I've brought you destruction!

[lone-trailblazer]

Something about getting manhandled by Mydei makes me wanna bounce off the walls grrrr

Just imagine!!!

He's on top of you, kissing you like his life depends on it- and suddenly he's up and drags you with him onto his lap as if you weigh nothing.

Or...

One minute, he's helping you bounce on his cock, and the next you're face down ass up in the sheets, barely registering what just happened.

UGHHHH ONE CHANCE

[lone-trailblazer]

I need him.

phainon nsfw alphabet was so good!! mydei nsfw alphabet too please 🙏

mydei nsfw alphabet. gender neutral, TW // nsfw. original template by the-coldest-goodbye.

z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

it depends on his mood. mydei will either stay up long after, wandering around doing things and being unwilling to sleep, or he'll let himself fall asleep with you. he doesn't really have a preference for either side.

y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

mydei's drive is pretty high, objectively, but he's far too respectful for that. he'll find all means and ways to talk himself out of his more carnal desires, convincing himself that you're probably tired of him wanting you all the time. whatever your drive is, he really isn't roping you into sex as much as he thinks he is.

x = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

we've all seen mydei's body - well-sculpted, almost inhumanly so, yet he's acutely aware of his own strength.

his dick is a little shorter than phainon's, but thick, thicker at the base so you feel him the best when he's sheathed all the way inside of you.

w = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

his hair down there has a gradient similar to the hair on his head, red at the base and yellow at the ends. he smells a bit spicy, a bit musky overall.

v = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

in the beginning, it's a little embarrassing for mydei to be open with the sounds he makes. but eventually he becomes comfortable enough for you to here his grunts, gasps, each shaky breath as you clench tight around him. he's not too loud, but he's not quiet either.

u = unfair (how much they like to tease)

mydei isn’t really in the habit of teasing. but every so often he’ll rub his dick on the outside of your hole, tapping it so you blush from the sounds, or slip just the tip inside and slide out again just to watch you squirm.

t = toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

he’d be happy to have a simple vibrator for you - good to use inside you, or on your nipples, or in your mouth (?) mydei’s a seasoned warrior. he knows how to make a little go a long way.

s = stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

mydei can go for as many or as little rounds as you’d like. he’s good at assessing how long you’ll last today or the next, and match your stamina and how long you’ll last. in that sense it’s kind of difficult to know exactly how long he can last or how many rounds he can go for - and it’s probably not a good idea to test his limits. you don’t want to find out.

r = risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

mydei isn’t against kinks, but he’s not too excited for them either. he’s down to try whatever you like, but he’s very careful to pace you and mind your limits. sometimes you think he knows you better than you know yourself.

q = quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

quickies fulfill him the same way teasing does. mydei doesn't like to do them often, but when he does, he'll hit you fast - and hard. it's like he tries to pack the same amount of pleasure into a shorter amount of time. after a quick session where he wears you out once again, you wonder if it's really worth it when you're so boneless after.

p = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

mydei likes starting off slow. naturally he goes rougher, sheathing himself to the base each time until you swear his tip is kissing your cervix, and he adjusts his pace accordingly. oftentimes he's hitting out a fast rhythm of the headboard against the wall right before he finishes.

o = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

oral isn't strictly his thing - mydei prefers using his fingers or his dick. but if he must, he prefers giving rather than receiving. receiving just looks too uncomfortable for you, trying to fit your jaw around his sizeable cock, not to mention how much you have to move to get his entire length... if he wanted to get his dick wet, he'd just put it in some other hole of yours.

n = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

mydei refuses to slap you. he's tried it once, slapping you lightly on the face. but he felt so terrible when he watched your skin turn red that he had to pause the session, care for you and give you lots of cuddles (never mind that you were fine, he's just a gentleman like that.) before picking up where he left off.

m = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

when you stand up for yourself, or god forbid, for him, mydei finds that a big turn on. he likes seeing the fire in people, more so when the fire gets lit on behalf of someone else. or him! who would ever think of defending him, a chrysos heir who parades around showing off how strong he is? you, apparently. he finds it endlessly endearing.

l = location (favorite places to do the do)

mydei likes doing it in the bath. he'll submerge himself in the hot waters, coax you in with him, and turn the temperature up just a bit too much. slightly dazed and perspiring, that's when he finds that you want to work off the built up heat inside you. fucking you is fun when you're slightly desperate and slightly mad.

k = kink (one or more of their kinks)

i don't think it quite qualifies as a kink, but mydei likes seeing you cum in as few thrusts as possible. if you're oversensitive, it's easy to cum as soon as mydei pushes his tip just inside your tight entrance. then he picks up the pace just to see you cum again in as fast as he can make you.

j = jack off (masturbation headcanon)

it's fun to watch him jack off, if mutual masturbation is something you're into. mydei cums so much and his dick twitches so wildly that you can't help but imagine it doing the same inside of you.

i = intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

he's not really the romantic sort, in the sense where he'll set up the lighting and whisper lots of sweet things to you. but mydei is always very careful to pay attention to your limits, and it's easy to feel loved through that.

h = hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

mydei doesn't groom himself. frankly he doesn't care, but after getting with you, he tries to put in some effort and trims himself. sometimes. not that it really matters to him either way.

g = goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

he's naturally a bit on the serious side, but not in a heavy sense. just don't be expecting mydei to be cracking any jokes while in bed.

f = favourite position (this goes without saying)

mydei likes when he can see your face, first of all. taking you from the back feels far too impersonal for his liking, like he's just using you for pleasure. with your knees to your chest, or you lying on your side, as long as he can hold you close and kiss you is good for him.

e = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

he's vaguely experienced, but it feels like he's more than he is. mydei has a good instinct for how the human body acts, and he's picked up bits and pieces of tricks from conversations he's overheard over the years. he's not dumb, after all. and as long as he takes it slow and gentle, he's able to understand your body in no time.

d = dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

it's sounds pretty gross, but mydei had once jerked off into your bath. a few times. then he'd mixed in some soap so you couldn't tell what was what. he'd never told you and you'd never know, but he was so ashamed afterward that he promised himself he'd never do it again.

(still, there's a small part of him that thinks about it occasionally and misses being that freaky.)

c = cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

mydei cums a lot, and his dick twitches a lot when he's cumming, making you feel better especially when he thrusts after to bring you to your high.

b = body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

mydei likes your playing with your nipples. they're an underrated part on a body, he feels, sensitive and fun to tweak and watch you squirm. he likes it when you play with his too.

a = aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

while you're still lying exhausted, trying to catch your breath, mydei will quickly wipe you down with some warm water and bundle you up into a blanket. he wants you to able to transition to sleep as comfortably as possible, so maybe he'll even dress you in your sleepwear and hold you close.

discord server (18+) if you enjoy my work, reblogs help support me the most!

[lone-trailblazer]

Look at this pretty mofo ughhh

[lone-trailblazer]

Hehe~

[lone-trailblazer]

‎🐶👅

[lone-trailblazer]

RAHHHH

instinct

[lone-trailblazer]

I'm gonna gnaw on that man istg

AFTER MIDNIGHT — MYDEI

⟢ wc: 1.8k words ⟢ warnings: singer + incubus!mydei, this is definitely ooc as hell but we do it for the plot, corruption kink, semi-public sex, blood and violence, smut ⟢ minors do not interact

heavily inspired by the most unholy incubus dei art that @nio-does-artstuff has let me gaze upon and several anon asks feeding into the delusion :///

For all intents and purposes, you are MYDEI’S favorite prospect.

He’s never had favorites. Demons like him, the kind that feed on sex and heat, don’t get the luxury of choice. He always just picks the most eager groupie from the night’s crowd, takes what he needs backstage, then erases every trace of himself from their mind.

It was clean and simple. Exactly how he liked it.

But then you came along.

Tonight, the mic hisses with a faint reverb as Mydei croons into it. His golden eyes gleam under flickering reds and purples, the red-dyed tips of his golden hair gleaming like embers. His shirt hangs loose off one shoulder, showing the intricate lines of the tattoos etched across his torso—marks of an incubus, curling like flame and sin over his ribs.

He doesn’t need to put on much of a show. The energy rolls off him naturally, thick and sweet, seeping into the air like wine. The crowd leans in before they realize they’re doing it. More often than not, girls sidle up to him after the set, drunk on something more than liquor.

Mydei picks one, every night he’s performing without fail.

The tattoos flare and flicker when he’s inside them, burning brighter and spreading like they’re sentient—red lines coiling up their thighs, their stomachs, over the swell of their breasts while they moan beneath him. When he’s finished, he would kiss their temples and wipe them clean.

They never remember. They never come back.

Tonight, however, he catches wind of someone new from the corner of the stage mid-song—someone who doesn’t quite belong in a dingy, no-name bar like this one.

You're dressed like a goddamn porcelain saint. Puffy sleeves, fitted bodice that hugs too tight over your chest, the neckline stretched and struggling to contain the curve of your tits every time you shift in your seat. A velvet ribbon tied sweetly at your throat.

Mydei nearly forgets the next verse.

He watches you through the end of the set, voice curling honey-slow around the lyrics, but his gaze never leaves the girl in the corner. The one with the angel face and the fuck-me body.

He watches your throat work when you swallow. The way your knees press together when someone brushes past your table. How your gaze flicks nervously toward him before it drops just as fast.

Oh. Mydei muses to himself, dragging a tongue over his bottom lip. His tattoos pulse faintly, already awake beneath his skin.

You’ll do just fine.

You’re still sitting at the little corner booth by the time the band’s finished their set. Legs tucked neatly under your dress, hands wrapped around a glass you’ve barely sipped from.

Mydei watches for a beat before heading your way, toweling sweat off the back of his neck as he approaches.

You glance up when his shadow falls over your table.

“Hey there,” he says, low and lazy, voice still hoarse from the mic. “Didn’t expect to see an angel in a place like this.”

“Oh— I, um...” Your hand flutters up to the ribbon at your throat, like you forgot it was there. “I was just… I heard the music from the church dorms and—well, I wasn’t sure what kind of place it was, but it sounded nice, so…”

Church dorms. Mydei’s lip twitches. That explains it.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your night,” you add quickly, flushing as you try to stand. “You probably want to celebrate with your friends, I can—”

He slides into the booth across from you before you can finish. His elbows are propped on the table, chin resting on his hand as he leans in and smiles.

“Don’t go. I’d rather celebrate with you.”

You look flustered—pink in the cheeks, eyes darting anywhere but his chest, which is half-exposed and still glistening faintly with sweat. Your thighs squeeze together under the table.

He notices.

“First time hearing us?” he asks.

You nod. “You’re… really good. Your voice is amazing. I didn’t know local bands could sound like that.”

He hums, pretending modesty, when really, he’s imagining that voice rasping into your ear while he has you bent over in some dark back room. Imagining the way your polite little gasps might break into sobs once his fingers are inside you—once his tattoos start crawling up your thighs and branding your hips.

Would you cry if he made you come too hard?

“I’m Mydei,” he says, offering his hand. “Local singer. Occasional troublemaker.”

You take his hand, and he holds it just a little too long, lets his thumb brush your wrist. He tries not to chuckle when he feels your pulse jump.

Oh, sweetheart. You’re already halfway his.

“And you are?”

“...People call me Dove,” you say shyly.

“That your real name?”

You shake your head. “Just a nickname from the other girls at the church. I… sort of help out with the choir sometimes, and, um… I guess I have a ‘gentle aura,’ or something like that.”

Mydei lets out a low laugh and rubs the back of his neck, golden hair falling into his eyes. It’s almost criminal, how he can act so relaxed while internally picturing you pinned beneath him in that ridiculous little dress—your puffy sleeves pulled down, tits out, mouth trembling as his glowing marks trace along your ribs.

“You look a little flushed, Dove.” He tilts his head. “Is the bar too warm for you?”

You’re beet red now. “I-it’s not that, I just—um—your tattoos, I mean, they’re very… eye-catching.”

They’d look even better on your thighs.

“I can tell you all about them,” Mydei says instead, his tone dropping into something lower. “If you’ve got time.”

“I probably shouldn’t… it’s already late.”

“Late’s when the best stories come out.”

You hesitate.

He leans forward just a little more, and now there’s barely a table between you. His fingers brush yours again. His gaze is golden and molten, thick with something unholy, and your breath hitches like prey about to bolt.

He smiles.

“Tell me, Dove,” he murmurs.

“You ever kissed someone after midnight?”

You taste like powdered sugar.

That’s the first thought that hits him when his tongue slides into your mouth—sweet and shaking, like every part of you is trying so hard to be good even while you’re unknowingly letting a demon shove you up against the railing behind the bar.

Your mouth opens so easily for him. Just like your legs did.

The metal railing bites into your back as he crowds you in, one hand gripping the nape of your neck while the other shoves up your dress without hesitation. The fabric is bunched high over your hips, and he moans into your mouth when his fingers brush the heat between your thighs.

“So fuckin’ wet,” Mydei mutters against your lips, voice low and wrecked. “Didn’t even have to try, huh? You were dripping for me the second I walked off stage.”

You whimper when his fingers slide under your panties, trembling as he finds your slit—hot and soaked. He wastes no time. Not when your thighs are already parting for him, your whole body practically singing for him to fill you.

He sinks two fingers inside you like he owns the right to.

You cry out.

“Fuck,” he hisses, rutting his palm against your clit while his fingers curl deep. “You’re tight... This pussy’s never been touched, has it?”

You shake your head desperately, clutching at his shoulders as your hips rock down onto his hand.

“You’re killing me, Dove,” he growls. “First time and you’re this greedy?”

His tattoos pulse like flame where they’re exposed—glowing faintly down his arms, across his chest—and you don’t even see the way they slither onto your skin. You’re too busy gasping his name, grinding down on his fingers like you’ll die if he stops.

He fucks you open fast, rough, perfect—all wet sounds and breathy moans, your panties shoved aside, your thighs twitching as the first wave of heat coils low in your belly.

“Come on,” he pants, mouthing along your jaw. “Wanna feel you come all over my fingers, pretty girl. Let me see how sweet you get when you fall apart.”

And with his hand pinned between your thighs, his cock straining in his jeans, your slick soaking his palm—

Mydei knows.

You’re already his.

The metal railing is cold beneath your stomach, but the heat radiating off Mydei’s body makes it irrelevant.

He’s everywhere—crowding your back, mouthing at your neck, one hand yanking the neckline of your dress down so your breasts spill out over the rusted bar. His fingers pinch and paw at them shamelessly, kneading soft flesh like he wants bruises there tomorrow.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls. “Tits out and soaked for me—such a good little Dove.”

You whine when he presses his hips flush to yours. His flushed length slides between your thighs, dragging against your slick folds. He doesn’t slide in just yet, but it’s enough to make you squirm, to make you beg.

His marks crawl further up your body in time with your pulse—wrapping your waist, your hips, the inside of your thighs. They glow red as they curl over your chest like binding spells spun from sin.

“You’re gonna take all of it, aren’t you?” he rasps, hand sliding down your belly, right above where he’s about to push in. “This sweet little cunt was made to be fucked by something unholy.”

And just as he lines himself up—cock heavy and ready, the tip catching on your slick, aching entrance—your hand slips downward in a moment’s worth of clarity.

From the leather sheath hidden in your boot, your fingers curl around the hilt of a dagger. The cold bite of consecrated steel thrums in your grip—hungry for flesh, hungry for him.

You drive it upward in one fluid motion.

It pierces between his ribs with a sickening, fleshy crunch.

Mydei’s entire body seizes.

A strangled breath bursts from him, caught somewhere between a gasp and a growl. He stumbles back a half-step, blood already darkening the edge of your dress where it presses against the wound. The scent of him turns sharp and acrid, as the blade burns through muscle and bone with holy fire.

He stares at you, golden eyes wide and disbelieving. You don’t flinch. You simply grip the blade tighter.

“I should’ve done it sooner,” you whisper. “But I wanted to be sure.”

His mouth opens, blood trickling over his lip. For a moment he looks nothing like the predator who had you bent and dripping seconds ago.

But then he laughs.

“Well, shit,” Mydei rasps, the sound scraping from deep in his chest. “Guess the church choir’s not what it used to be.”

You twist the blade slowly in his ribs, and he groans.

The light from his tattoos flickers before they start to recoil—lines slithering away from your body like spooked serpents, vanishing back beneath his skin. The spell is broken.

But he’s still looking at you.

Still grinning through clenched teeth.

Still hard.

“This isn’t over, Dove,” he murmurs. “You marked me too, you know.”

Then with a hiss of sulfur and smoke, he’s gone—ripped from the night like a page torn from scripture.

You’re left alone with a bloodied blade in hand, your thighs sticky with the remains of everything you swore you wouldn’t let happen.

⟢ end notes: demon x demon hunter my beloved!!! i don't have the energy to expound on this just yet but the idea is very delicious so i had to channel my disgusting need for incubus mydei whose tattoos transfer onto his lovers when he fucks them 🧎🧎🧎

[lone-trailblazer]

New variable

Paring - Phainon x reader

Word count - 8.7k

Warnings - heavy story spoilers about Amphoreus and Phainon (if you haven't finished the quest, this is your warning), fighting (no explicit injuries, one is a friendly spar), reader is described as female with defined traits (eye + hair color, and named after someone worshipped), angst here and there, somewhat sappy at some points in the story, does this count as slow burn?,, smut (oral, praise, some biting, pet names, service top Phainon, some body worship i guess??,, p in v, creampie)

Overview - You were not supposed to be here. You shouldn't exist in the confines of this planet, yet you prevailed. Years gone by, a lone wolf, a wandering healer whose name is not known. They call you The Merciful, word of mouth spreading across the lands. They say you must have been blessed by Phagousa themselves, your golden touch, a remedy for all. They assume you to be a lost Chrysos Heir, given you the name of Panacea, your real one never uttered to a single soul. They shan't know- can't know the truth.

A/N - soo.. my fingers were just itching again, and I decided to come up with a little something. Please know I am no expert on Greek mythology and only researched a little bit for the story's sake. This fic is NOT 100% lore and time accurate, and the characters are probably gonna be slightly ooc. If you find any mistakes... please excuse me, I'm not a native speaker, I'll try to catch them all 👹..... also, I've been trying to be sure reader dearest doesn't seem too OP, so forgive me for the info dump at some point 🧎

—————————————————————————————————

The gravel crunches under your feet, and the wind bites against your face as you wander through the desolated lands of Castrum Kremnos. The once so glorious city of warriors and gladiators, reduced to nothing but a ghost. A shell of its former prestige. You drag your gloved hand along the concrete wall of a home at the outskirts of this desolated ground.

The air tastes like sorrow, death, and despair. Nothing new from wherever you go. You stop and look up at the sky, clouded and gloomy, despite Kephale's ever-persisting sunlight. You fix your hood, covering your face under the worn fabric.

“You do know that it's quite impolite to stalk someone, no?” Your voice breaks the eerie silence. Then, light-footed as ever, your… you don't even know how to address her. Companion? No, too close. Acquaintance. Yes. Your acquaintance makes an appearance.

“Say… Panacea… what are you doing here?” Cipher speaks in her usual, all-knowing tone and steps into view. “Didn't think I'd ever catch you this close to Okhema again.”

A huff, partly amused, partly indifferent. “I need to stock up on some necessities, I fear. Okhema is the closest from this point onward.”

She cracks a sly grin. “Hey, why don't I bring you there just a little faster, then? After all, I still owe you for last time.”

You raise a brow. Is she referring to two months ago, when the Flame Reaver had her on the brink of death?

“No, thank you. I'd rather keep such a big favor for more important things. I've walked greater distances than this.” You decline, though your tone isn't impolite. “However, if you have the valuable time to spare, why don't you accompany me and show me the goods?”

That sly smirk is on her face within milliseconds of you finishing your sentence. “Oh~ Well, I do have a bit of time on my hands at the moment… So why not. Just follow me, mercy. I'll show you the best route.”

You can't help but scoff at her nickname. Mercy. “Are you mocking me, Cifera?”

She can't help but let out a hearty laugh as she marches ahead. “Me, mock you? No, no… It may sound weird coming from me, but I hold you in quite high regards, actually.”

“I know you do, I merely jest.” You offer a soft chuckle in response as you fall into step with her. “Though, the sentiment is mutual. We have a mutually beneficial relationship, dare I say?”

Cipher hums as the two of you make your way towards the holy city of Okhema. “True. We help each other outta trouble. I wouldn't still be here if it weren't for you, after all.”

“But you know I don't ever turn a blind eye to people's pain, so…”

“Yeah, yeah… I knew you were there. That damned prophecy had me on edge for centuries, but now? Now, it's like a burden lifted. So, thanks, I guess.” She snorts.

“It's nothing.”

The first step into Okhema's grounds has you huffing. It hasn't been the same, and yet it also has. Such a weird feeling, coming back after so many years.

“Oi.. is time catching up to you, mercy?” Cipher nudges you with a grin. “C'mon, Marmoreal Market has some real good stuff you gotta try.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you.” You bite back a snort, fixing your gloves and hood as you follow her. Okhema is no stranger to refugees and foreigners at this point, hooded figures and cautious strangers having become more common now than ever with the Black Tide encroaching mercilessly.

“Let's try to avoid the other Chrysos Heirs… they ask too many questions.”

Cipher nods, knowing your aversion to getting involved in any of their affairs. She's not much different, but she has that twisted obligation to step in if needed… you, however, are rid of such bounds. “You know, mercy, sometimes I envy you.”

You turn to look at her, her arms lazily pulled behind her head as she leads you, “Envy me?” You echo back.

“Mm.. you're free of responsibility of the Flame Chase, no sense of obligation to anything or anyone. I often find myself wishing to be in your shoes.”

A hum, low and contemplative, as you lower your head. “It's not that simple, I fear. But for the most part, I'm glad I'm not bound like all of you are.”

Cipher stops in front of a stall that sells fresh bread and fruit.

“Two loaves of your finest bread, and a handful of those fresh berries, please.” You tell the store vendor, keeping your eyes hidden under the hood as you reach for your coin pouch and lay a generous amount out. “Will this suffice?”

The vendor's eyes almost bulge out of his head at the amount of coins. “M- Ma'am, this- this is way too much-” The man hastily fishes the needed amount and pushes the rest back towards you.

“Oh.” You breathe, “Did they lower the prices…?” The coins clink and jingle as you drop them back into your pouch and pocket it again. The vendor hands you your bread and fruits, which you safely store in your bag, before moving on with Cipher by your side.

“Hey.. it's been a good two-hundred years since the prices were that high, mercy.” She nudges your side and snickers. “Been a hot minute since you visited, eh?”

“Suppose that's true… However, I appreciate that man's honesty. I should've left him a tip.” You mutter more to yourself, but Cipher's sharp ears catch it anyway. You know they do.

“Hey, wanna check out the bathhouse? They have small private baths, too. I know you don't like exposing yourself to others.” She suggests, pointing ahead to said location.

You ponder for a moment. “Huh… I guess we should indulge in some good rest for once. Why not?”

“Yes!” Cipher victoriously pumps her fist and grabs your arms to drag you ahead.

“You sure you want to head back? You could at least stay the night, y'know.” Cipher tells you, leaning against a pillar close to Okhema's city borders. “My place isn't too close to the commotion, or we can just check you into one of the rooms-”

“Who's your friend, Miss Cipher?” A male voice suddenly cuts into Cipher's sentence. And she groans.

“Friend? We are merely acquaintances, occasional coworkers at best.” She scoffs and looks at the tall guy. “Why are YOU out so late, Phainon?”

The man, now known as Phainon, chuckles and eyes your hooded figure. “I was taking a stroll when I saw you with company, which is a rare thing in itself, Miss Cipher. So I got curious.”

You momentarily press your lips together. Why him, of all people? “Please excuse me, I have to get going.” You speak curtly, words laced with urgency.

“Wait, mysterious stranger, it's not safe outside the city in these trying times. You should take shelter in one of the inns.” Phainon frowns, taking a step toward.

“I appreciate the hospitality, but I must get going. I cannot afford to linger in places for too long.” You offer a polite bow of your head and turn to walk away.

Too close. Way too close of a call.

“Care to explain?” Phainon looks at Cipher with a confused frown.

She pulls a face and shakes her head. “Nah, not really… not my story to tell, hotshot. See ya!”

And suddenly, he stands alone, watching your retreating figure get smaller and smaller.

Word got out that close to Castrum Kremnos, in a small city-state about two hours west of it, the Black Tide had breached the lines. The people are fighting back, but their defense is barely holding on, and more people are falling by the hour.

So what do you do? Of course, you make your way there. The view that greets you is nothing short of destruction and massacre. Bodies strewn all across the streets, monsters and humans alike. A frown tugs at your lips as you step around the carnage, finding a group of people surrounded by monsters.

With a sigh, you summon your greatsword and hack down the monsters - precise swings of the hefty blade, cutting the monsters clean in two, limiting their companions’ movements with the slowing effects of the element of Imaginary.

Before long, the monsters are defeated, you will away your weapon and step toward the group of battered Kremnoans.

“I can sense you're tainted by the Black Tide..” You mutter as you assess the men. “But don't fret, I can heal you.”

The five men exchange weary glances, clearly worn down and running on nothing but fumes. “Please, Miss… we are all that's left from this city…”

Without another word, you take off your gloves, revealing your golden hands. They don't glow, but they stand out regardless. You begin to heal the men, one after another - from worst to minor injuries until they're all stable, no longer running the risk of turning. Once done, you pull your gloves back on and get back up, the hood still shielding your face from their eyes. “You should go, always head East, and within a day's march, you will reach Okhema. The Black Tide won't reach you there… and now go, time is of the essence.”

“Thank you, thank you, Merciful one!” They call as you leave - heading further into the damage zone of the Black Tide.

It's been two weeks since your little endeavor in that city near Castrum Kremnos, and those very men you had saved spread word wherever they went. 'The faceless traveler with the golden touch and a mighty sword. The Merciful one who stepped out of their way to save the doomed.'

It didn't take long for the news to spread like wildfire, especially in a city like Okhema, where Lady Goldweaver has eyes and ears everywhere.

“This traveler… why haven't we heard of them before?” Mydei's gruff voice is first to break the silence, “If that person has such great abilities, where have they been?”

“Maybe the ones who they had helped before didn't make it back to get the word out..” Phainon ponders, hand on his chin in thought.

“That traveler had saved those Kremnoans without hesitation, took care of their ailments, and sent them on their merry way…” Aglaea says, tone thoughtful. “They also mentioned that they fearlessly continued their journey closer towards the Black Tide's heart. Who knows if they will even emerge again.”

Castorice frowns, her hands neatly folded in front of her. “Lady Aglaea… what do you make of this news?”

“I want to dig deeper… I doubt that such a skilled healer would stay unheard of for no reason.” The Goldweaver responds. “Hyacine, would you do me this favor?”

“Of course, Lady Aglaea. It'd be my honor.” Hyacine nods eagerly. “I will ask around the remaining scholars.”

“Thank you kindly.” Aglaea smiles, before she turns to look at Mydei and Phainon. “Can I trust you two to follow this lead?”

The two men exchange glances, before they both nod. “The Black Tide's got nothing on us, especially not now since I have claimed the Coreflame of Strife.” Mydei huffs and clenches his fist.

“We will surely find that mysterious, miracle traveler and bring them back with us, Lady Aglaea.” Phainon nods sincerely.

“Very well. Trianne will open the century gate for you two to save travel time. Just find her in the garden once you're ready to head out.”

The air seems to stand still, as if frozen in time, as you cross the battered streets of Styxia. The place they assume to be your home. The river of souls has long since claimed the streets; its pull, however, evades you wholly.

“So, you found me.” You stand at the end of a dock, looking ahead - but your senses never betrayed you. You knew you were being tailed. “Why?”

Footsteps approach, halting within ten paces of you. “You match their description down to the T.” Phainon, you remember his voice. “Is it really you? That mysterious, faceless traveler? The person they call The Merciful all across the lands?”

You heave a sigh and turn around, though it does little to reveal much, a mere glimpse of your mouth as you speak. “I have no business with you, Chrysos Heirs…” You trail off, taking in the other person. “Strife..?”

Mydei's gaze hardens. “How do you know, traveler? We have been on your trail for a week, no one gave you this bit of information.” His words are laced with equal parts hostility, as they are caution.

“I can sense it, crown prince of Castrum Kremnos. The unmistakable presence of the lance of fury's coreflame. It must have been a tough battle.”

The two men raise their guards - no idea who or what they are facing. “Please heed our words, traveler. We are not here to start a conflict, we merely came to ask you to come back to Okhema with us.”

A low chuckle slips past your lips, and you shake your head. “I will not be returning to Okhema, I'm afraid. Whatever questions you may have, I will answer three of them here and now honestly before I keep moving.”

Mydei grits his teeth, ready to protest.. but Phainon puts a hand in front of the Kremnoan. “Hold. It's better than nothing.” He mutters to the demi-god of Strife, before he raises his chin and assesses your cloaked figure, “Well, traveler, we suppose that is as generous as it gets, so you have our thanks for cooperating under compromise. Now, three questions… One, what is your motive?”

You hum - he's as quick-witted as you remember. “My motive is merely to travel the lands and lend a hand in trying times to the ailments of the people. No more, no less.”

Mydei scowls, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“Very well… Two, what do you know about the Flame Chase?”

That question makes you scoff, but a slight smirk tugs at your lips regardless. “To sum it up, I am well aware of the prophecies, burdens, and duties you all have to shoulder… However, I do not wish to get tangled in your affairs.”

Phainon frowns, though you certainly aren't the first, nor the last, to say such a thing. “I see… Now, the third and last question… What's your name? I doubt it's ‘The Merciful’, or ‘Faceless Traveler’.”

You pause for a few beats - contemplating. For a moment, you were tempted to lie, give a false name… until you remembered. “Panacea.” It's neither entirely true, nor is it false. But they don't need to know that. “Now, I will return to my devices. I hope we don't run into each other again anytime soon, Chrysos Heirs. Farewell.” You bow, before you turn back around and step forward - right into the river of souls.

“WAIT!” Phainon frantically calls, rushing ahead- but it's too late. “For Titans’ sake- she just-”

Mydei clicks his tongue and grabs Phainon by the shoulder. “Let us return, we got enough.”

Phainon trembles slightly, but ultimately relents and lets himself be led away by the prince.

Mydei casts one last glance to the very spot you fell into the sea - a gnawing feeling of ‘it's not over’ swimming in his mind.

“She jumped into the river of souls?!” Hyacine almost shrieks, and Castorice looks nothing but mortified.

“It's true. She answered our questions, told us she hoped she wouldn't run into us Chrysos Heirs again anytime soon, and then just…” Phainon recounts with a frown, brows drawn together in equal parts confusion and worry. “Castorice, is there any way for other mortals to get out alive?”

She briefly looks away, her whole demeanor stiff. “I'm afraid not, Lord Phainon.” The words are uttered quietly, almost cautious.

“Alas… Hyacine, what did you manage to find out?” Aglaea sighs and turns to the healer.

Said girl takes a breath before responding. “The remaining scholars at the grove, as well as Professor Anaxa, couldn't tell me all that much…”

A momentary silence falls upon the group of six. “However, there have been few records over the past half millennium mentioning a wandering healer. The records speak of similar traits as we have managed to gather. Golden hands, no face to put to the person. Back then, the first mention of a name for her was ‘Panacea’. Professor Anaxa helped me with this, as he told me during the era before the one the first records showed up, there was a renowned healer. Many believed that woman to have been intricately blessed by Phagousa, something close to a demi-god, but not quite. That woman has been named Panacea upon birth. Ever since then, said name has been a symbol of mercy, healing, and compassion.”

The Chrysos Heirs all exchange glances upon the things Hyacine managed to dig up. It wasn't a lot, but it wasn't nothing, either.

“So, what Hyacine is telling us…” Tribbie looks at Aglaea, “That this traveler is associated with someone people over half a millennium ago associated with a demi-god?”

“That sounds outright insane.” Mydei huffs, his face pulled into his usual blank expression. “Even if there was a demi-god at one point with such powers, then that wouldn't align with our twelve titans and everything we know of… and besides, wouldn't you know of this then, Aglaea, Tribbie?”

The two demi-gods exchange glances, before nodding.

“You're right, Mydeimos.” Aglaea starts, “We would. Which is precisely why all this is so… puzzling. There are only twelve titans, and while Phagousa is associated with healing properties to some degree, it isn't to this extent. And besides, THEIR coreflame has been lost to THEIR tides long before the first records were made according to Hyacine's research.”

“My head hurts…” Castorice mumbles. “This doesn't make sense at all..”

“It doesn't… which makes us believe that there's only one other possibility.” Tribbie nods, “Maybe that traveler is from beyond the sky.”

The group goes silent - pondering Tribbie's words. That was a possibility they hadn't even considered before.

“Which then again begs the question - is she able to resist the river of souls? What exactly is she, and what ties her to Amphoreus?”

“Getting quite into it, huh?” Cipher lazily comments as she approaches the group. “You're speculating about that healer girl? Take my words of advice and drop it.”

Aglaea frowns and looks at Cipher. “Cifera, what do you mean by this?”

The demi-god of Trickery huffs. “It's not worth the effort. She's not causing any trouble, so why should we play detective?”

The Chrysos Heirs break into something close to arguing amongst each other, until Tribbie loudly clears her throat. “Guys, guys, let's all calm down, shall we?”

Mydei scoffs and crosses his arms, Castorice looks mildly uncomfortable, and Hyacine and Phainon exchange awkward glances.

“Miss Cipher, you sound like you know something we don't. Care to enlighten us?”

Cipher drags a hand down her face. Of course they would say that. “I made a promise to keep my lips sealed. No can do.”

Aglaea raises a brow. “A promise? With that traveler?”

“Nope, nope, not answering. If you want answers, find mercy yourself. Bye!” Cipher quickly uses her coin of whimsy to flee the scene - leaving the other Chrysos Heirs behind with mixed feelings.

You frown. “They're speculating that heavily already?”

“They already suspect you're not from our world. They're even quite sure you didn't die when you jumped into the river of souls.” Cipher rolls her eyes, sitting upon a wall, feet swinging lazily. “I told them to drop it, but I doubt they will.”

“Fuck…” You curse under your breath and look up at the sky, brows creased as you mull over the possibilities. “This isn't good. Cipher.”

She looks at you and blinks, giving you her full, undivided attention. “Mercy?”

“How much do they know about what's beyond the sky of Amphoreus?”

Cifera hums and ponders your question. “Well, Aglaea and Tribbie are well aware that there's more to the universe than just Amphoreus, as well as other worlds. Naturally, the others were also let in on it over time. But that's as far as it goes, I believe.”

You narrow your eyes to the ground. “Do they know about Aeons, too?”

The demi-god of Trickery snorts. “As if. All they know of is our titans. I think little Princess Homebody would crack her skull open trying to grasp the ideals of Aeons.”

“You know so much, yet you're not bothered at all. How come?”

“Well, I know a lot of shit I shouldn't. Just for the record.” She shrugs, “And I think this is also why we work so well together, don't you think, mercy?”

A snort slips past your lips. “Can't deny that. You're too smart for your own good, but you're also the only one I feel I can trust with the whole truth… I owe you that much for keeping my identity protected so well.”

“I knew it.” A third party enters the scene.

You sigh, Cipher scoffs- then disappears in a flash. You don't fault her for it.

“How did you survive the river of souls? I demand answers.”

Phainon stares you down as you turn, your face still hidden by your hood. “We did some digging… Panacea.”

You huff in amusement. “Cute. Did you think it'd shock me that you'd use the name I have been given by the people? The one I willingly told you?”

The man blinks, not having expected that response, or that level of calm. “Who are you?”

“Didn't you do some digging, Chrysos Heir? You disappoint me, truly.”

Phainon clicks his tongue. “If you aren't willing to speak…” He summons his sword, dawnbreaker, and extends the blade your way. “Then let's settle this in a duel. I beat you, you answer any questions I may have. Truthfully.”

“And if I beat you?” You chuckle lowly and summon your greatsword. “What do I get out of it?”

Phainon's confidence falters. “What… What can I offer you in return? Answers, too?”

You hum and throw your greatsword from one hand to the other as you think. “Why not. Word for word. Strike for strike.” You extend your own blade forward. “Give me your worst, Chrysos Heir.”

Phainon's demeanor steels, and he charges.

You don't remember for how long you two have been clashing blades and exchanging blows, but this seems to have no end. He attacks, you block, you counter. He blocks and parries, tries to strike you down, you dodge.

Rinse and repeat.

The only difference, though? He's getting sloppy, you are not.

“How- How are you not exhausted…” Phainon pants roughly as you hit a particularly hard strike at him, his own sword barely blocking the strong hit.

“Because I'm not like you.” Is all you give. “Do you forfeit, or do I need to cut your head off?”

“You-” He almost snarls, and within renewed vigor, he unexpectedly knocks you on your ass with a swing you couldn't properly block.

Before you can get back to your feet, he holds the tip of dawnbreaker to your throat - and finally gets a look at your face, for the fall has knocked your hood off your head. Your hair, your eyes, they're silver like polished steel as your gazes clash.

“Heh…” You crack a crude smirk and slowly raise your hands. “I admit defeat. You beat me fair and square.”

Phainon catches his breath and pulls his sword away from your throat before willing it to disappear. “Now… I want answers.”

You follow his example and make your own weapon disappear and slowly sit up, no longer bothering to hide your face from him now that he has seen it. “Very well. As we agreed on, you ask, and I shall reply with nothing but the truth.”

The Chrysos Heir nods and takes a breath. “Are you really from beyond the sky?”

“Yes.”

“What's your real name? I doubt it's mercy or Panacea. You said yourself, the latter has been given by the people.”

You hum and relent, telling him your real name at last.

He blinks, then nods.

“However, I would prefer you keep it to yourself. To everyone, I am Panacea.”

“I shall respect your wish.” He nods, then continues. “Now, next question… where do your powers really come from? They don't add up to what we know about our Titans at all.”

“Ah… that's going to be tricky, but let me break it down for you as easily comprehensible as possible, Chrysos Heir.” You begin, “Beyond Amphoreus, other worlds are influenced by Aeons. Call them gods, if you will. Might be easier to imagine it that way. They reside over paths, and paths give the people powers.”

Phainon nods, obviously mulling over your words as you speak.

“One of those Aeons is Yaoshi, the Abundance. In short, THEY are a gentle Aeon. All THEY want, is to spread health and long lives. THEY bear no ill will toward anything. Healers usually gain their powers from THEM.” You preface. “Now, those people are what we call Pathstriders. Those people dutifully identify with the Aeons' will and make use of THEIR powers that have been granted… and then, there are Emenators. Emenators used to be regular Pathstriders who have been directly graced by the Aeons gaze, giving them immense powers and to fulfill the Aeons' will.”

Phainon can only blink dumbly at the massive amount of information you have just dropped on him, but then, he slowly nods. “That's… yeah. I… think I understand. So, you're an Emenator of the Abundance? Which makes you so powerful to withstand even the river of souls? And to heal the ailments of the people?”

“Precisely. I have had the honor to have been bestowed with an infinite lifespan and these golden hands of mercy.” You hum and peel off your gloves to let him glimpse the golden skin that wraps around the very tips of your fingers, and all the way about halfway up your lower arms before gradually fading out into your actual skin tone.

“Wow, they… are oddly beautiful.” He mutters, seemingly entranced by the sight of the odd coloring. “Alas… what is your purpose in our world, Miss Panacea?”

You chuckle. “To intercept the Flamechase, I'm afraid. Which is why I have been stranded in your world for the whole of… roughly five centuries.”

His eyes widen, and he sucks in a sharp gasp of air. “You… stand in the way of the Flamechase? Why?”

A momentary silence stretches between the two of you, as you never planned to reveal your purpose to the very person who stands right at the root of it all. But you made a promise to be truthful, so you tell him. “To prevent you from becoming an Emenator yourself.”

Your words punch the air right out of his lungs, and his eyes go wide with shock. “What- What are you talking about…?”

A sigh. “I really shouldn't be telling you all this… but I made a promise, and I keep my word.” You slowly rise to your feet and look up at the Chrysos Heir's bright blue eyes. “There are so many things you have yet to find out and master, and I can't tell you unless you find out or break out of the cycle… which you haven't managed before. So, all I can safely disclose now, is that you can never lose your way or your meaning… because if you do, destruction will swallow you whole.”

Phainon's gaze wavers as he lets your words sink in, and they seem to sink deep. “I- I don't-”

“You don't need to understand right now, Phainon.” You finally utter his name- but that seems to be his undoing.

He suddenly drops to his knees, and his gaze is just… so far away. And everywhere at once.

“Shit- hey!” You quickly crouch in front of him and reach for his face, but before you get the chance to touch him, your wrists are caught in a vice-like grip. “Ah-”

“You.” His words are low, like he carries the fate of a million worlds… and he does. When your eyes meet again, his are just… empty. And they shine like pure gold.

You woke the very thing you swore to prevent.

“No… No, no, no, this wasn't- Chrysos Heir!” You struggle in his grip, desperately trying to get your hands on him, to restart the cycle, to make up for your simple, stupid mistake… but you can't.

He utters your name. Your REAL name, in that awfully gravelly voice, so heavy with burden. And your aloof demeanor crumbles.

“You opened my eyes.” He says, not letting go of your wrists, “I should thank you for your… mercy.”

The word that usually made you feel like you did good things, like you had purpose in this world, suddenly sent a chill down your spine.

“You truly are Amphoreus’ Panacea. The Merciful. Don't feel bad… or sorry. You finally gave it all back to me. All these memories of thirty-three million lifetimes. And while they hurt, and tear me apart from the inside… all these Coreflames inside of me…” He pulls your hands closer towards his chest, “Please, Panacea, do me the favor and let me keep them. Let me keep the pain and the sorrow, and soothe the ache all those cycles put me through. So we can build a new variable. One without the world ending the way it always did.”

You try to fight his pull, try to resist- even with you being an Emenator, your Aeon is a gentle soul, and THEY would never turn a blind eye to the people's suffering… so you relent.

“Forgive me, Merciful Medicus…” You utter under your breath as you let your palms land flat on the Chrysos Heir's chest, letting your powers mend his inner turmoil and calm the pain and sorrow he's been carrying for millions of lifetimes.

Phainon lets out a heavy sigh, like you just lifted a continent off his chest, and he eases up more and more as you mend his battered soul.

Once there's nothing more for you to fix, his grip loosens, and you let your hands fall to your sides, your gaze finding him once again… and he looks content.

“Thank you, mercy.” He mutters and reaches out to touch your face - and it's so gentle. “I remember it all. The moment you entered the cycles. The way you had your eye on us all, intercepted when it got dire. But no one ever recognized it at all. You've been a shadow I couldn't put a finger to, but now… you're here. Again. With me.”

Your face burns at the recognition in his words. It's almost embarrassing for you to think about it, how embarrassingly fast you took a liking to him when you entered this world.

But how could you not? He's always been so bright-eyed, tender, and welcoming. Never once has he doubted you in any of the past cycles- or at least, in the beginning, when you still actively messed with them, anyway.

After a hundred-thousand and some, you stopped trying to meddle. Stuck to the shadows, avoided the Chrysos Heirs, tried to let Phainon handle it himself… but it always ended the same.

He killed them all, but not once during those thirty-three million, five-hundred-thousand something cycles, did he lose the love for his friends.

Not once did he grow cold and apathetic to their deaths. No matter how many times he cut them down and tried to fight the new era.

Until now.

This cycle is different, because this time, despite the others having claimed their coreflames, nobody died.

Sure, Castorice returned to the Nether Realm, but she's still there.

Mydei didn't lose against the Flame Reaver.

Hyacine didn't have to become one with the sky to aid her friends.

Aglaea never had to end her life.

Anaxa's soul had been fixed, his body strengthened.

Trianne never had to face the Flame Reaver's blade, either.

And Cipher? You pulled her back from the brink of death.

And this time, you were the part that brought Phainon's consciousness back all at once.

You, uttering his name, was the end of the endless cycles.

“You are salvation, Panacea.” He says quietly as the two of you crouch between the ruins you were conversing in with Cipher hours ago. “You broke the system, you're the antidote to this wicked program.”

“I- No, this- YOU were supposed to break through on your own! It wasn't my place to-”

He grabs the back of your neck, efficiently shushing you.

“You meddled from the very start… and that was our mercy. YOU are mercy. Our redemption. Without you, this likely wouldn't have ended anytime soon.”

“Phainon…”

He chuckles, then utters your name in return. “You were the very variable Lygus couldn't comprehend. The one thing that shouldn't exist here, and that was our saving grace.”

The look you give him is full of emotions you haven't allowed yourself to feel in centuries. “I just… wanted all of you to be happy. To not have to fear your prophecies bestowed upon you the moment you were born. All I ever wanted to do was to ease the burden, and guide you. Silently.”

“But I'm glad you broke your silence, Panacea.” Phainon smiles, but then it drops. “But you changed… When you first came here, you were so… bright. So expressive and open. And now, for the past- what, three centuries? You closed yourself off. You retreated, more and more. Further into the shadows, less and less in the spotlight, never directly involved. Denied us your guidance, denied ME what we had…”

His words hit like a punch to your gut. Because they're true. When you first arrived, you knew Amphoreus was just… wrong. So you actively took part in their Flamechase journey, wanting to see them succeed and rise.

But you never thought their fates were doomed from the beginning until you encountered the first few cycles. Brutal deaths, world collapse, carnage.

And you couldn't bear it.

“I'm sorry, Phainon…” You whisper, afraid your voice might break should you speak any louder, “But unlike you, I never forgot anything. No reset of the cycles, no less of the pain when the world ended. I died with your companions, and I remember every single death.”

He looks like he's just seen the Aeon of Nihility, so spooked, and so, so hollow all at once.

Then, he looks at you with so much sorrow and whispers your name. “No, please… I- I never knew you died with them… You never acted the part… you never-”

“I never spoke of it, I just pulled back more and more.” You finish his sentence.

“Yeah.” He breathes. “And now that I remember it all… I miss your presence in every past thirty-three million lifetimes. You may have healed the pain and sorrow of having killed my friends over and over, but you couldn't heal my heart - the way it kept longing for you, despite me not remembering. It always felt like some piece of me was missing, like some part of my soul got ripped out of my chest and locked away for me to know it's out there, but never within arms’ reach.”

“Phainon-” You suck in a breath. “If I had known all it took to break your pain was to speak your name, I would've done it ages ago…”

“Please, tell me you're still mine…” His voice is small, his gaze so vulnerable as he hesitantly looks at you and he grabs your golden hands between his. “My anchor, my salvation, my relief- my mercy… please don't shut me out again, I can't bear to be without you for another second…”

You blink away the sudden onslaught of tears in your eyes, and before you even know it, you're giving an almost imperceptible nod. “Yeah, I- I never wanted it to be like this… Phainon… I hope you can forgive me some day-”

He just pulls you closer, one of his hands on the back of your head, and then he's kissing you. Slow, gentle, and heartfelt. All the pain, sorrow, longing, and love pour into it as the world around you both seems to mute and fade into white noise.

The two of you stay like this for a long moment - as if that one kiss would make up for all the time spent apart, all the suffering you went through… but somehow, right now, nothing matters.

Just that he's here, with you. Phainon.

Your Phainon.

Your light in the dark, your new dawn on the horizon, the sun breaking the clouds after a heavy storm as the gentle rays soothe your cold skin.

When you two part, he touches his forehead to yours, and both of you keep your eyes closed, relishing this quiet moment of reunion after literal lifetimes apart.

“You're my reprieve, Phainon… and I deprived myself of you for way too long. It hurt so bad to stay away from you, to observe from afar and play the aloof, alleged antagonist…”

“Come back with me.” He mutters, pulling away just a little to meet your eyes properly, gold clashing silver. “We'll explain it all to the others. No more Era Nova. Just us all, battling the Black tide.”

Your gaze is a mixture of uncertainty and reluctance. “Phainon… What if they don't get it? If they don't agree with our means?”

He says your name, snapping you out of it. “Relax… You know them. Even if it's from past cycles, they never really changed. They're still the people you used to know.”

A shaky sigh slips past your lips before you relent. “...okay.”

The Chrysos Heir grins in response and quickly kisses you again. “We will rebuild our fate, and that of the world.”

“That's… a lot.” Aglaea comments after the two of you had explained everything to the other Chrysos Heirs. From start to finish; the cycles, your presence in Amphoreus, who and what you are. “While I can barely grasp the concept of it all, at the same time, it still oddly makes a lot of sense.”

“I'm sorry we threw you all into the cold water like this… but the second Phainon regained his memories, it was a done deal. No more secrets, no more hiding.” You tell the others. “My Aeon is gentle. THEY could never turn their back on other's suffering, and neither could I.”

Hyacine smiles at you, then steps forward and gently grasps your golden hands. “Miss Panacea, I am truly honored to be able to work alongside such a skilled healer like yourself.”

You smile in response. “You're quite extraordinary yourself, Hyacinthia. But don't fret now, for you no longer have to bear your burdens alone. I will take on those who are too close to Thanatos’ grasp. No more unnecessary deaths caused by the Black tide.”

Mydei stands, arms crossed, and eyes you. No longer with hostility or caution, now that all the facts were laid bare. “I heard that you're a skilled fighter as well. Would you care to indulge me in a spar?”

You lock eyes with the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, and blink. “A duel with the demi-god of Strife himself?”

Phainon chuckles and places a warm hand on your shoulder. “It's his way of being nice. Exchanging blows is how Kremnoans make friends.”

“Huh.” You chuckle, “I accept, then. I already know that you Kremnoans pride yourself in extraordinary stamina and strength. It's been centuries since I've gone blade to blade with one of your people.”

Mydei smirks. “I'll be sure to leave your limbs intact, little healer.”

At his statement, you laugh heartily. “No matter what you do, it won't destroy me. No need to pull your punches.”

A low hum sounds from his throat, and his smirk widens into a grin. “A great opponent at last. I'm looking forward to it.”

“Why don't we head out right away? Phainon can be the judge. I think we should let the others digest all we dumped on them in the meantime.” You say and look at Aglaea, Tribbie, Hyacine, and even Anaxa.

They all nod without hesitation, so Mydei, Phainon, and you all trudge away to the outskirts of Okhema, big enough for a comfortable spar.

“Rules?” You ask the crown prince and summon your greatsword.

“We strike to incapacitate, not decapitate.” Is all he says, before charging at you.

.

.

.

How long you battle? You don't know. Only that Mydei had managed to land hits quite often, but you also managed to score a few here and there.

You're both panting, but not spent, and he's got that feral glint in his eyes. “You're better than I could have imagined!” He almost barks the words as he strikes again, and you block just in time, then swiftly throw him back by slamming the flat of your greatsword's blade against his torso.

The area of effect, added with the momentum, sends him flying back several paces before he lands on his feet with a grunt and digs his hands into the ground to slow himself to a halt.

“Not bad.” He growls and straightens back up. The blunt side of your blade left a broad bruise along his torso, but it's already mending itself. “It's time to announce the final victor!”

Your eyes widen when a sudden onrush of blood-red crystals shoots towards you and ultimately cages you in place - unable to move.

“Ha… Kept your best move for the grand finale, eh?” You chuckle from your little prison. “I accept defeat, Prince Mydeimos. You fought extraordinarily.”

Phainon has been watching the entire exchange with awe - he barely remembers you ever fighting when you first entered Amphoreus, and even when he fought you not too long ago, it was merely the element of surprise that managed to land him the upper hand in combat.

“You're gaping!” Mydei mocks with a loud laugh and destroys your crystal prison, then catches you by your shoulders to prevent you sacking down from the sudden loss of support and plants you firmly back to your feet. “And you, Panacea, fought like a true warrior. It's almost a shame you're a healer instead of a knight, you'd be a force to be reckoned with.”

You chuckle and quietly thank him once you regain your footing, then look up at him. “I only see fighting as a very last resort, you see? I prefer solving conflicts peacefully, without bloodshed, when I can.”

“To be expected of an Emenator of the Abundance. From your explanation, I can see why.” The demi-god of Strife nods. “It never hurts to have another set of healing hands when the Black tide crawls too close to the city, anyway.”

“Well, have I passed your unspoken trial then, Lord Mydeimos?” You grin.

The prince scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Don't call me that… and yes, you did. With flying colors.”

Hours later, you find yourself back at Phainon's place, standing in the entryway as you look around in awe. “This place really has your name written all over it…” You mutter as you smooth a hand across the surface of a dresser. “It's… warm. And cozy. It's so welcoming.. Just like you.”

When your attention returns to the man in front of you, he's smiling softly, his cheeks dusted pink. “You spoil me.”

You laugh and step closer, your cloak long forgotten by the door. With Phainon, you don't need to hide… not anymore.

Without hesitation, like magnets, his hands naturally gravitate to your face to cup gently, and he smooths both thumbs along the peaks of your cheekbones. “How I missed you, my salvation…”

Your own hands find purchase on his stomach, softly bracing. “I won't abandon you ever again. Not when I finally managed to make this all right.”

“Let's just be… normal. Even if just tonight. No duties, no calls to heed, just you and me.” He mutters, his gentle, blue eyes meeting your silver ones - a blade striking the light of the sky. “Just two lovers. Even if just for a little while.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, and you lean into his touch. “Yeah… that sounds lovely, Phainon.”

He smiles a little wider, then slides one hand to your nape and the other tugs you closer by the waist as he kisses you. Gently at first, you reciprocate with equal passion. Your lips move in perfect harmony as he guides you.

“My beautiful sweetheart…” He hums against your lips and slightly pulls back to nuzzle against your neck. “I couldn't wait to have some privacy with you finally… especially after your little spar with Mydei…” Phainon presses a kiss to your neck- and another. “You looked so good holding your own against him out there..”

You huff out a gentle laugh, hands on his shoulders. “Phainon, did that really… turn you on?”

He huffs against your neck and trails his lips along your pulse. “Maybe it did… is that an issue, sweetheart?”

“No.. Not at all..” You hum and bare more of your neck for him, feeling the way he peppers it with not-so-innocent kisses. “I really missed you, too, Phainon..”

Your lover wordlessly hoists you up into his arms, holding you up by your thighs, as he heads for his bedroom. “I remember so much and yet so little at all… we should refresh our memories, no?”

A quiet chuckle escapes you, arms around his shoulders, as you nod in agreement. “How could I ever deny you, my love?”

When he reaches his bed, he gently sets you down on it, still standing between your legs still wrapped loosely around his middle. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart.” Phainon hums and cups your cheek.

You look up at him, all doe-eyed, and he can't help but sigh.

“You're too pretty for your own good.”

That coaxes a shy chuckle out of you, “So much flattery…”

Phainon hums and pushes you onto your back, hovering above you and kisses you again - a little more urgent this time. His hands are on you, touching, sliding, fumbling with your clothes.

Soon, he's stripped you out of it all, piece by piece, until you're bared fully to him. “So beautiful, my sweetheart..” Phainon mutters and leans in again to trail kisses from your mouth, to your chin, down your neck, and your chest. He pays extra attention to your nipples for a few moments, making you suck in a breath and clutch his shoulders.

“Phainon-” You gasp, cheeks flushing.

“Shh… I got you..” He mutters and presses another kiss to your sternum before he moves lower and lower… until he's on his knees in front of the bed, facing your core - and he groans, low and guttural. “Fuck… so wet for me, aren't you, sweetheart?”

You release an embarrassed huff. “Please, don't be mean..”

He chuckles and leans closer to press a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then bites down into the soft meat of it. Your leg jerks with a gasp. “Phai-”

“Shh..” He shushes you once again before he grabs your thigh and places it on his shoulder, baring more of you. “Let me spoil you a little, my love..”

You can only whine and throw your head back onto his bed as he leans in closer to your soaked cunt. Your choked out moan is all he needs to really get going as he starts lapping at you like a man starved. Phainon keeps your leg hoisted securely on his shoulder as he sucks and licks at your pussy, indulging himself in your wet heat.

And he's messy. Your slick coats his lips and chin as he shoves his tongue into your weeping hole, then alternating to close his lips around your clit and suckle on it.

You don't know what to do- your body wants to get away, but also closer at the same time as you reach down to bury a hand in his soft, white hair as he drinks you in like he hasn't had anything in weeks. And you can't stay quiet.

Every time you moan, whine, or squeal, he only goes harder with a crude smirk against your pussy.

“Oh- Phainon, I-” You tremble, so close.

“Yes, sweetheart, go ahead. Be good for me and cum.” He groans into your cunt and focuses fully on your clit, sucking and flicking his tongue across it- before it throws you right over the edge, and your body locks up.

Your jaw goes slack in a silent scream as he licks you through it, keeping your legs open and pressing your hips down as he doesn't stop his assault on your increasingly sensitive nub. You're panting, chest heaving and teary-eyed from the stimulation. “Phai- Phainon! Fuck!”

He finally pulls back and gently sets your leg back down on the bed and licks his lips. “Did so good for me, baby…”

You look at him as he slowly rises back to his feet and starts to undress as well. “Think you can give me another?”

A sharp gasp sounds from you when he's finally bared, too. “By the Aeons…” You mutter to yourself, the sheer size of him making you nervous.

“Don't look so nervous, sweetheart, you can take it.” Phainon chuckles and slowly crawls on top of you and leans down to kiss you again - giving you a taste of yourself. You whine and wrap your arms and legs around him, feeling the tip of him nudging your still sensitive cunt.

“Y- Yeah…” You breathe out, “Trust you..”

Phainon smiles sweetly and kisses you again, and you feel him shift as he slowly pushes his thick cock into you - bit by bit, not rushing at all and giving you the time you need to adjust.

As soon as he's fully sheathed, he lets out a shaky groan and rests his forehead on yours. “You feel amazing, baby…” He mutters, barely able to stay still.

You're panting again, trying to accommodate the stretch. “Aeons, Phainon… you feel like you're up in my guts-”

“Don't say that.” He almost snaps, and when you look into his eyes again, they're gold. “It's already hard not to pound you senseless, so don't say stuff like that when I'm trying so hard to keep it together.”

Your breath hitches. “Love… Please-”

He slowly pulls back, and then snaps his hips against yours. Hard.

The motion punches a mixture of a yelp and a moan out of you, legs locking tight around his middle and nails clawing at his shoulders. “Phainon!”

He groans and keeps thrusting; pulling out and slamming back in, like he's got a point to prove. “That's right… Scream my name, baby… Gonna make you feel so good…”

A whimper tears through your throat when he momentarily pauses to shift your position - unhooking one of your legs from his middle to instead bend it toward your torso and trapping you under him like that. “So deep-”

“That's right, beautiful. You feel that? I'm gonna make sure your body remembers the shape of me long after we're done.” Phainon almost growls as he resumes his relentless thrusts, hitting you in all the right places, and you can't stay quiet, even if you wanted to. “C'mon baby… give me another… let me feel you squeeze around me..”

“Oh fuck! Phai-” You squeal when you feel his thumb rubbing at your clit, driving you over the edge a second time. You clamp up, squeezing his cock tight, barely giving him room to move as you gush all over him.

“Hah… shit..” He groans and ruts into your tight cunt until he presses impossibly close and spills. The warmth of it has you twitching and whining. “All mine… my beautiful sweetheart…” Phainon mutters and leans in to cover your face in sweet kisses. “We'll never be apart again…”

You catch your breath and tighten your arms around his shoulders to kiss him. “Never again. We broke your cycles, and I'll aid you in every way possible… My new dawn.”

[lone-trailblazer]

Painful snippet anyone?

Cw main story HEAVILY referenced

“Yeah.” He breathes. “And now that I remember it all… I miss your presence in every past thirty-three million lifetimes. You may have healed the pain and sorrow of having killed my friends over and over, but you couldn't heal my heart - the way it kept longing for you, despite me not remembering. It always felt like some piece of me was missing, like some part of my soul got ripped out of my chest and locked away for me to know it's out there, but never within arms’ reach.”

[lone-trailblazer]

We are 4.8k words in and shit is lore heavy 🧎

And holy shit, my friends are eating it up man LOL

Guys I'm so hyped to post that fic you dont even know

[lone-trailblazer]

I need Mydei to put me in a headlock and spit in my mouth too, holy shit

☆. TELLING HIM THAT HE’S “SMALL” !

paring: phainon, mydei, aventurine, dr. ratio, jingyuan x fem!reader

tws : nsfw / smut, creampie (vaginal & anal), breeding kink, reverse cowgirl, mate pressing, spanking, multiple of rounds, darcyphilia, virginity loss, blow-job, face sitting (?), fingering, tummy bulge, making it fit, sloppy sêx, aftercare (?), rough sêx, dubcon elements (?), dumbifiction, headlocks and petnames.

sum : You told him he was small. He showed you otherwise. Suddenly, you didn’t mind taking every inch. MDNI 18+ ONLY.

note : not proof-read as usual.

★ PHAINON :

You thought teasing him would be fun. A quiet little smirk and that sweet whisper —

“Bet you’re not even that big.”

God, the way he looked at you. Not angry. Not offended. Just… amused. Like a priest staring down a blasphemer before the altar.

Now?

Now your legs are trembling, pushed wide open, and you’re struggling to even blink. Phainon’s fingers are deep inside you — slow, deliberate, two of them hooked just right, pressing into the spot that’s got your mouth open and your brain melting.

“Small?” he murmurs, voice like velvet-wrapped gold. “And yet… you’re drooling all over my fingers. Can’t even hold yourself up.”

You want to talk. You can’t.

Every curl of his fingers pulls a moan from you like a prayer. He’s whispering again, lips brushing your ear.

“Nothing to say now? Hm? So quiet. So wet. Should I keep going until you forget your name?”

You’re nodding before you even realize it.

Your hips are grinding up against his palm now, chasing that edge he keeps pulling away from. Every time it builds, he slows down. Holds you there. Makes you feel it. The ache, the pressure, the bliss that never quite breaks. It’s maddening.

“You’re just being prepared,” he says gently, almost reverent, like this is sacred.

“Can’t ruin you in the first round, sweet thing. But by the time I do put it in, you’ll be so far gone you won’t even remember calling me small.”

“Can’t ruin you in the first round, sweet thing,” he purrs again, brushing his fingers from your soaked hole to the base of his cock. It’s heavy, flushed, leaking against your thigh now. Thick. Long. You didn’t even look at it properly—too far gone to notice while he was playing you open like a divine instrument.

“But now?” His hand wraps around the base, stroking once, slow. You see it now. And oh—he’s huge. It’s veiny, flushed deep pink at the tip, curved just enough to hit everything he was already teasing with his fingers. “Now you’re ready.”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a soft gasp and a nod that feels more like begging.

He moves between your legs, pushing them wider—wider—until you feel stretched out and helpless under him, like an offering. And he leans forward, pressing his cockhead against your entrance. It doesn’t even go in at first. He just grinds there. Spreads you open with slow circles, letting you feel the weight of it, the heat, the stretch that’s coming.

You choke on a sound. “Pha—Phainon—”

“Shhh,” he whispers, and he smiles. Soft. Like he’s about to baptize you in holy fire. “It’ll fit.”

He pushes in slow. Painfully slow. Not because he’s teasing, but because you physically can’t take it all at once. Your cunt clenches around the thick head, already trembling as he sinks in inch by inch, pulling a broken moan out of you each time your walls stretch around him.

You try to breathe. You can’t. His hand comes to your stomach—

—and when he’s halfway in, you see it.

“Look,” he breathes, pressing gently to the bulge forming just below your bellybutton. “That’s me.”

Your eyes roll back. “T-too big—”

“It fits,” he says again, firm this time. “You’re mine. I will fit.”

And with a slow, final push, he bottoms out.

You scream.

The stretch, the pressure, the feeling of him filling you completely—it’s too much. Too perfect. Your body tightens around him like it’s never going to let go. Like you were meant to take this cock. To take his.

He doesn’t move right away. Just stays there, buried inside you, cock twitching, eyes fixed on your face and the outline in your stomach.

“Good,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so good for me. You’re going to take all of it. Again. And again. Until I’m sure it takes.”

And then he moves.

Slow at first—long, deep strokes that drag against every sweet, ruined part of you. You’re already sensitive, overfucked from his fingers, but now? Now it’s bliss. Sacred. Your hips jerk every time he bottoms out. The bulge grows and disappears, over and over, with every thrust.

“Feel that?” he whispers, dragging his lips over your jaw. “That’s what happens when you insult something divine. Now you’re going to feel it in your stomach every time you breathe.”

Your legs are shaking. You’re moaning without meaning to, drooling, tears slipping down your cheeks—not from pain. From how good it is. How full.

He starts moving faster, his rhythm breaking, and his hand goes to your thigh, holding you down as your body tries to pull away from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Where are you going?” he growls, low and possessive now. “You asked for this.”

And then it hits. He slams in deep, grinds, and your vision whites out—back arching as you cum hard, squeezing around him, sobbing from the force of it. But he doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets rougher. Harsher. His breath ragged, his grip bruising.

He’s close.

And you know it.

“I’m going to fill you,” he grits out. “So full you’ll feel it dripping for days. You’ll smell like me.”

You whimper something incoherent, but your hips rock up to meet his thrusts. You want it. You need it. The sacred burn of him claiming every inch.

“I’ll breed you until your body forgets every cock before me. Until it only remembers mine.”

The moment it happens, he growls your name, slams in deep one last time—and stays there.

You feel the heat first. Then the stretch. Then the rush of cum flooding you.

He doesn’t pull out.

Not even a little.

He just groans, low and broken, pressing his forehead to yours as he pumps every last drop inside.

And your stomach swells just slightly more with the warmth.

You don’t know how long it’s been.

The room feels warm. Your body? Weak, trembling, leaking. You’re still stretched open around him, thighs twitching, mouth parted with soft gasps. His cum is still inside you—hot, heavy, pooling deep in your cunt, trickling down your inner thighs with every shift of your hips.

You should be done.

Any normal man would’ve pulled out, cleaned you up, let you come down from the high.

But Phainon? He never even left your body.

He’s still there.

Still inside.

Still hard.

And he’s watching you—blue eyes narrowing, one palm gently resting on the bulge in your stomach.

“You’re full,” he murmurs, brushing your sticky hair off your forehead. “But you’re not bred yet.”

You try to speak. You can’t. Your jaw slackens as he pulls back just slightly, just enough for your raw, fluttering walls to feel the drag of him.

And then—

He thrusts back in.

Hard.

You scream.

It’s not pain. It’s not even pleasure. It’s too much. Your body jerks, overwhelmed, the thick mess of cum inside you squelching as he slams back into your already-spoiled cunt. You cry out again, eyes wide and watery.

“Pha—Phainon, I—can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice is calm, but low. Tight with restraint. “You’re made for this. I just have to remind you.”

His hips roll again, slow at first, but deeper. Hungrier. Every stroke pushes against that oversensitive spot inside, and with the way you’re already so full—so stretched—it feels like he’s everywhere at once. Your body tries to squirm away, but he pins your hips down with one hand and holds your thigh up with the other.

“You can take it,” he breathes. “You will take it. You said I was small, remember?”

His cock slams deep, knocking the air from your lungs. He starts rutting now—thrusts rhythmic, brutal, divine—every inch pounding up into your heat like a promise. The bulge in your stomach pulses with every push, getting more visible. He presses it as he fucks into you, and you sob.

“Look at this,” he whispers. “Look what I’m doing to you. That’s my cock inside your womb, my girl. Claiming every inch. You feel it?”

You nod. You don’t even mean to, but you’re nodding like a broken thing, tears down your cheeks, gasping his name over and over like a prayer.

Phainon groans—finally slipping. His breath hitches, rhythm growing faster, more desperate.

“I’ll fuck you stupid,” he growls. “Fill you until it’s leaking down your thighs for days. Until your stomach stays round even when I pull out.”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He ravages you now. Your pussy is fluttering, clenching, spasming around him, soaking his cock with slick and leftover cum—and he fucks you through it. Like he’s not just fucking you, but teaching your body a lesson.

You cum again. You don’t even realize it until your vision goes white, and your body locks up, and your voice breaks into moans that don’t even sound human anymore. You’re shaking, body arching, drool on your lip—and he still doesn’t stop.

“You love it,” he says into your skin, his lips hot against your temple. “You love being ruined like this. You’ll remember this every time you try to walk.”

You’re crying. Whimpering. Nodding.

And then—his thrusts get sloppier.

You feel him swell.

You know it’s coming.

And he grips your hips and slams in—deep, to the hilt—and holds you there as he spills inside again.

This time? It’s worse.

There’s so much. You can feel it—thick, hot, and endless, rushing in and filling you again like your body was empty. Your belly feels heavier. Rounder. The bulge pulses with warmth as he unloads for the second time.

You can’t even make a sound. Just wide eyes and soft, shattered moans.

He stays there, cock buried inside, twitching, body trembling.

You’re limp. Your thighs are soaked. Your belly’s full. His seed’s dripping down your ass in thick, creamy strings—but he’s still there. Still holding you like something sacred and fragile.

And he leans down, kisses your lips gently, and whispers:

“Still think I’m small?”

You’re too ruined to answer.

But the mess between your legs answers for you.

★ MYDEIMOS :

“You’re small.”

You say it soft. Real soft. Barely a whisper in his ear while you lie under him, half-smirking. You think you’re being cute. Teasing. Stirring that man into a scoff.

But what you get isn’t a scoff or a groan

It’s silence.

Mydei just looks at you—no expression, just heat—and the next second?

He’s on you.

You’re grabbed, flipped, thrown down, and spread open in seconds—legs pinned back to your chest, his thick arms caging you in. You barely get a breath before he’s lining his cock up to your dripping pussy and slams it in.

No warning. No build-up. Just the wet, brutal sound of your cunt getting split open around cock that doesn’t fit but forces its way in anyway.

You scream.

It’s not pain—it’s your pussy trying to figure out how to swallow something that fucking thick. Your lips stretch wide, your walls clench down like they’re confused, stuffed past their limit, already leaking and sucking him in like they know who’s boss now.

He leans in close—chest pressed flat to yours, his full body on you. You can’t move. Can’t breathe. You’re folded up under him like you’re nothing but a fleshlight with a heartbeat, pinned so tight your legs tremble and twitch beside his ribs.

His cock’s balls deep inside.

His stomach presses down on yours.

You look down and see the shape of it—see the thick bulge of his cock pushing up against your belly like he’s trying to break through it.

“Small?” he finally grunts, voice rough in your ear. “You feel that, baby? That’s my dick rearranging your insides.”

And then he starts thrusting into your already wet cunt.

The sound of skin smacking skin gets wetter every second, your pussy making those filthy, squelching noises with every bounce of his hips, juices spilling out everywhere, dripping off your ass and soaking the sheets.

You’re gasping. Whining. Eyes rolling back. You try to say something, maybe beg, maybe moan—but he just grabs your throat and slams in deeper.

You can’t move. You’re folded. Flattened under him. His thick body covers you, keeps you down, presses his weight into you like he’s trying to leave a permanent mark inside your guts.

He spits in your mouth.

“You wanna say that again?” he growls, snapping his hips. “Call me small now.”

You can’t. You’re just moaning, mouth open, drooling on yourself while your pussy flutters and twitches around his cock, slick and swollen from the constant stretch.

“God, you sound stupid,” he groans. “You are stupid now, huh? Just a dumb little hole to fuck. Nothin’ goin’ on in that brain except how deep this cock is.”

And it’s true.

You’re quiet. Brain blank. All you know is the drag and shove of that thick cock inside you, bruising your cunt, flattening your womb. You’re leaking all over his balls, slick sticking to his thighs, his dick punching your guts over and over.

He sits back—brings you with him—doesn’t pull out.

Now you’re in his lap, straddling him, but still bent back, your pussy still spread open, still stuffed with cock. He’s bouncing you now—your ass smacking down on his thighs, tits bouncing, cunt slapping messy around him with every brutal thrust.

You’re just moaning.

“My fuckin’ girl,” he pants. “You were made for this. Made to take all this cock. Gonna breed you right. Knock the last of your thoughts out with my load.”

Your tummy bulges again as he lifts you and slams you down harder.

He wraps one thick arm around your neck—tight headlock—and fucks you through it.

“Say it again,” he hisses in your ear. “Say I’m small while your pussy’s creaming on me like a bitch in heat.”

But you can’t speak. You’re gone.

You’re drooling, eyes crossed, pussy fluttering tight around his dick, holding him in like you’re scared he’ll pull out. You’re gushing—cum and slick squirting out around his cock, dripping mess all over the floor.

He moans. And he breaks.

He grabs your hips, slams you down to the base, and stays there—deep, buried, locked in place.

You feel his cock twitch.

Thick. Heavy. Flooding your cunt, stretching you with cum. You feel it pump into you in hot, heavy spurts, overflowing inside, leaking down your thighs. Your belly gets heavier with it. You swear your pussy’s too full to take more but he doesn’t stop—he keeps grinding.

You’re folded in his lap now, cock still buried so deep it feels like it’s in your throat, cum dripping down between your cheeks in fat, warm globs—and Mydei leans down and brushes your hair from your face like he didn’t just fuck you stupid.

He smirks, nuzzles your flushed cheek.

“Well?” he murmurs, hips slowly rolling again, so slow, just enough to make you feel every inch of him dragging against your raw, sensitive walls. “Still think I’m small?”

You whimper.

That’s all you can manage. Your voice is gone, fucked out of your throat. Your legs won’t stop shaking. Your pussy’s twitching around him like it’s begging for more even though it’s so overstretched, puffy and red from being used.

He hums.

“Didn’t think so.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Deep. One hand cupping the back of your head while his tongue lazily rolls against yours. His cock stays buried inside—warm, pulsing—but he’s not fucking you now. Not yet. He’s just holding you there, like he’s soaking in the mess he made.

You blink at him slowly, dazed, drooling, skin slick with sweat.

“Mydei…” you whine.

That’s it. Just his name. Barely even that.

He smiles.

Kisses you again. Starts rocking his hips in that gentle, sweet rhythm—like he’s in love with the way your pussy squeezes him, like he could spend all night just watching you fall apart again under him, all flushed and sore and needy.

“You want more, don’t you?” he murmurs against your lips. “Can feel this little hole begging for it. She’s so greedy, baby.”

You nod. Eyes glassy.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

He shifts—pulls out halfway, then slides back in slow, cock thick and veiny and still leaking cum. You moan. Loud. Body arching, hips rolling up to meet him like your pussy’s chasing him.

He watches your face. Watches your expression twist and tremble while he fucks you slow—tender, now, but deep. Deep enough to make your stomach bulge again. Deep enough to make your toes curl.

You look down and whine.

“Look at her,” he growls softly. “Still stretched open. Still dripping for me. You’re so fucking full, baby…”

He slides his hand down between your bodies—presses gently on your lower belly.

You squeal.

Because you feel it—his cock pressing from the inside, bulging your stomach, thick and firm. His thumb rubs circles there while his hips start rolling deeper again, gentle but intentional, grinding into the soft spot inside you like he knows exactly where to touch.

And of course he does.

He’s Mydei.

Your big, mean man. Who just turned into your soft, obsessed husband the second he dumped a load in you.

“Still got room in there,” he murmurs. “Don’t lie, I can feel it. Gonna fill you up again, sweetheart. Gonna make you mine again and again ‘til it’s dripping out of your belly button.”

You’re babbling now.

Begging. Sobbing.

Tears well up as the overstimulation kicks in—but it’s good. It’s so good. He’s so sweet with it, kissing your face, stroking your sides, murmuring filth right into your ear like it’s a love confession.

“You’re everything,” he says. “You hear me? . My pretty girl. I’d fuck you every hour of every day if I could. You were made to take this cock.”

You clench.

He groans.

He cums again.

Slower this time, but hotter somehow—he moans into your mouth, deep and low, hips locked against you as his cock throbs and spills another load inside you, thick and lazy and so much. You feel it pushing everything else out, dripping down your thighs again.

He doesn’t move. Just holds you there, cock deep, cum inside, lips on yours.

“Still small?” he whispers again.

You shake your head, dazed and full.

“No…”

His smirk is feral.

“Didn’t think so.”

★ AVENTURINE :

You’re smirking. Shouldn’t be, but you are.

He’s got you cornered, back against the sleek marble wall of your suite, his tie undone and sleeves rolled, chest warm against yours. One hand rests on the small of your back, the other gripping your chin, keeping your gaze locked with his like you’ve just handed him a challenge on a silver platter.

“Repeat it,” he says softly. Too softly. That smile on his face isn’t a smile , it’s a loaded weapon.

You raise your brows like you’re innocent. You’re not. You know exactly what you said.

“I said,” you purr, playing with the buttons on his shirt like you don’t feel your heartbeat slamming in your chest, “you’re a bit… small.”

There it is. That twitch in his jaw. That flash in his violet eyes like you just poked a sleeping god awake.

He laughs, low and rich, like you just handed him a glass of vintage wine and dared him to break it over your head.

“Small,” he echoes, tilting your face up further. “Interesting.”

You try to act bored. You’re so full of shit.

“Not small small,” you add with a shrug. “Just… not as big as you pretend to be.”

Silence.

Then his lips press against yours — hard. His tongue slides past your lips like he owns them, teeth catching your bottom lip in a cruel, teasing bite before he pulls back just enough to speak again.

“You’re gonna eat those words,” he murmurs, hot against your mouth. “Every single one.”

He takes his time getting you on the bed. Doesn’t throw you down—no, that’d be too easy. He leads you there, fingers on your chin, your throat, your wrist. Every step is deliberate. He pulls you into his lap, clothes still half-on, thighs spread, cock already hard under the slacks he hasn’t even taken off.

“Come on then,” he says, loosening his belt. “Climb on. Since you’re so confident.”

You crawl into his lap like the brat you are — like you’re still in control — grinding slow against the thick outline of his cock as you straddle him, smug smirk still on your face.

“Gonna prove me wrong, little man?” you whisper, voice sugar-sweet.

That earns you a slap.

Not on your face—no, Aventurine’s too elegant for that—but on your ass. Hard. Your body jerks forward, chest colliding with his, a sharp gasp punched from your throat.

“Wrong?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. “Oh darling. I’m gonna ruin you so thoroughly, you’ll beg me to be smaller.”

He grabs your waist and flips you around, pulling you back into his lap so you’re facing away from him now, knees spread, his cock sliding free from his slacks and standing proud between your thighs.

You glance down and blink. …Oh. Okay. Maybe he’s not small. Maybe he’s the opposite of small. Maybe you’re very stupid.

Before you can recover, he spits into his palm and strokes himself once—twice— then presses the head against your entrance, one hand gripping your waist and the other trailing slowly, so slowly, down your front.

“Go on,” he whispers against your neck. “Show me how small it feels.”

You sink down.

Your mouth falls open. No words. Just a gasp—long, high, desperate, as his cock stretches you open, thick and hot, filling every inch with a pressure that borders on unbearable.

“Mm?” he purrs, hands gripping your hips as you struggle to take him. “Not speaking now? I thought you were feeling brave tonight.”

You whimper. He laughs.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, sliding in deeper until your thighs are shaking. “This is barely halfway.”

You try to lift yourself off—you try—but he yanks you right back down with a smack to your ass, his cock punching so deep inside you your belly bulges just slightly, perfect and obscene.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over the spot. “That little bump? That’s me. That’s how ‘small’ I am, hm?”

You’re shaking now. Gasping, drooling, grinding down on him with needy little movements you can’t even pretend are confident anymore.

He drags his lips along your shoulder, bites lightly at your neck, and then thrusts upward. Just once. Deep. Hard.

You sob.

“What was that?” he says sweetly. “Sounded like you were gonna apologize.”

You try—you try so hard—but all that comes out is a pathetic, broken moan.

“Oh, honey,” he breathes, voice full of velvet cruelty. “You don’t get to apologize yet.”

He grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging your head back so you’re arching beautifully in his lap, cock still snug and deep inside you. His other hand? Slipping down your front, fingers rubbing right over where you’re throbbing, making you jolt.

“You don’t apologize,” he hisses, “until your knees give out. Until you’re sobbing on my cock.”

You whimper again.

He slaps your thigh—once, twice—then grips your hips and starts fucking up into you, slow and deliberate at first, then faster. Harder. The wet slap of skin against skin fills the room, mixed with your messy, choked cries and his deep, smug groans.

“You said I was small,” he pants, cock ramming into that spot that makes your eyes roll back. “Say it again.”

“N-no—”

“Say it.”

You try, you do—but all you can say is his name, over and over, like a prayer, like a surrender.

He laughs. Moans. Slaps your ass again and watches the ripple with admiration.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” he says against your neck. “But don’t worry. You’ll get your words back.”

He pulls out, flips you around, and shoves you down to your knees.

His cock is flushed, slick and throbbing, still twitching from the tight heat of your cunt, and he grips it at the base with one hand while guiding your face forward with the other.

“Put that smart little mouth to work,” he growls. “Since you seem to like talking shit.”

You suck him in with shaking hands, lips stretched wide, eyes glassy. He watches you —loves watching you—as you gag and drool around him, your body still trembling from the wreckage he left in his wake.

“Mm, that’s it,” he groans, thrusting slow into your mouth. “Choke on it, baby. Just like you choked on your pride.”

You blink up at him—ruined, teary-eyed, mascara smudged, thighs shaking from being fucked half senseless—and he smiles down at you like the devil himself.

“Still think I’m small?” he whispers.

You shake your head.

“Mmm. Thought so.”

★ DR. RATIO :

You really thought you were funny.

Laid back against the library table, your skirt barely hiding the subtle shift of your thighs, you looked at him with that smug, syrupy smile. With a little shrug, you said it clearly,

“You don’t seem like much, Doctor. Bet you’d barely reach.”

The air went suddenly colder.

He didn’t even blink. Instead, he stared at you like you’d just insulted his entire intellect or knocked over his carefully brewed tea. His fingers twitched near his belt, then the sharp clack of his book closing echoed like a gunshot. He stood up.

“Is that so?” His voice was low, dry, and uninterested. That dangerous, mean little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — not amused, not flirtatious, just a condescending twist that made your stomach knot.

“Well. Let’s test your hypothesis, shall we?”

You should have run. But no. You bit your lip and smirked like the brat you were.

That was your first mistake.

He didn’t say a word as he reached out and flipped you over the desk like you weighed nothing, settling you down flat.

“Still think I’m small?” he gritted, voice low and sharp as his hips ground down hard against you. Your mouth fell open, no witty comeback ready — just the sharp, helpless squeal that escaped when you felt every inch of him.

He was not small. Far from it. He was massive, pressing into you relentlessly, while piles of research scattered beneath you like forgotten papers.

Your cheek stuck to parchment. One hand pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you still, while the other landed on your ass with a resounding smack that made the desk creak beneath you.

“Use your words, test subject.” His voice was laced with sarcasm, irritated and turned on. “You wanted a measurement, didn’t you? Want me to push deeper?”

You whimpered, your legs trembling. That wasn’t enough for him. His hand smacked your ass again, harder this time, then grabbed and spread you wider without shame. He watched you — how your body folded and shivered under his weight — your belly visibly bulging each time he thrust deep, as if your insides were made just for him.

“You’ll take it. That’s what happens when you provoke a man smarter than you.”

It was filthy. Your legs shook uncontrollably, thighs wobbling under the pressure, but he didn’t relent. His body was big, lean but solid — every breath sharp, every growl low and frustrated in your ear. He was not romantic. He was not gentle. He was merciless.

“You’re so full it’s pathetic,” he hissed, grinding his hips harder. “Still think I’m small? Look down. Look at what I’m doing to that belly.”

You did.

You shouldn’t have.

A big, round lump pushed out against your stomach, his cock deep enough to mark you completely.

“You’re drooling,” he sneered. “Still think I’m small?”

You couldn’t answer. You were gasping, nails scraping at the wood as he locked his arms tight around your waist — not letting you escape, not letting you think — mate pressing you until your toes curled and your moans came ragged and raw.

“Say you’re sorry.”

You didn’t.

So he spanked you again, harder this time, then slammed into you deeper until the wet squelching of your cunt echoed through the silent study.

You choked out something broken and breathless. He didn’t care.

“I’ll breed the arrogance out of you,” Ratio muttered under his breath, like your whining was just another tedious experiment. “Let’s see if a few loads fix your attitude.”

He gripped your waist tighter, his breath hot against your ear as his hips pressed deep and unrelenting. Every thrust carved into you, making that heavy bulge in your belly push out more, like you were stretched perfectly around him—no chance to hide it, no mercy given.

His hand found your ass again, slapping it hard, fingers kneading and holding you in place. “You think you’re so clever, talking shit. But look at you now—mine. All wrapped around me, dripping and desperate.”

Your breath hitched, body trembling as he kept pounding into you, the sound of your slick wetness mixing with the harsh smacks filling the quiet room.

“Say it,” he growled, voice low and rough. “Say you’re mine.”

Your voice broke, trembling out, “I’m yours.”

His grin was cruel and satisfied as he pulled you flush against him, mate pressing with all his weight, making sure you couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. The fullness inside you stretched tighter, and he whispered, “You’re so full. Can’t get enough of me, can you?”

You whimpered, head thrown back, utterly undone.

With a sharp slap to your ass, he pulled out just enough so you could feel the thick length twitching, then slammed back inside, his pace rougher, more demanding.

“I’m gonna breed that stubbornness right out of you,” he breathed, voice dark and possessed. “You’ll remember this every damn time you think you can test me.”

Your walls clenched hard around him, moans slipping free as he kept driving you into the desk, holding you down like you were his prize.

“Beg for it,” he said, dragging his hand up to grip your hair, tilting your face so you had no choice but to look at him.

You whimpered, “Please… don’t stop.”

His laugh was low and satisfied. “That’s my good girl.”

He pressed forward, hips snapping, every movement pounding deeper, stretching you full and making your belly roll with the pressure.

Your breath caught as he tensed, voice rough, “Say it. Say I’m the only one.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, trembling and undone.

With a final, heavy thrust, he claimed you fully, breath hitching as he spilled inside, filling you with everything he had.

He held you pressed tight as you trembled beneath him, hips still rolling lazily, possessive and relentless.

“I told you,” he whispered against your skin, “I’m never small.”

★ JING YUAN :

You really shouldn’t have said it.

You really shouldn’t have looked the General of the Cloud Knights in the eye—shirt tugged up, thighs bare and your panties already wet—and had the audacity to say:

“Tch. With all that confidence, your cock’s probably small anyway.”

The room went quiet for a second.

The kind of quiet where even the crickets were like oh no she didn’t.

Jing Yuan blinked.

Smiled.

Then laughed—that slow, deep, maddening chuckle that slithered straight down your spine like warm honey.

“Small, huh?” he repeated, stretching his arms behind his head like he wasn’t already rock hard in his robes. “Ah… You poor little thing.”

You weren’t prepared for how fast he moved.

One second you’re smug.

Next second your back hits the mattress with a soft thud, legs spread open like he owned them, your panties tugged to the side and his thumb lazily brushing over your soaked folds.

“Say that again.” His voice was low, a little breathy. He hadn’t even taken his robes off. “Let’s see how long you keep that mouth running.”

You gasped when he pulled it out.

Holy—

He knew. Oh, he knew exactly what kind of look crossed your face. The shock. The panic. The twitch of your thighs like they were second-guessing their own bravery.

“I think someone owes me an apology,” he murmured, rubbing the head of his cock against your clit like he was just casually testing the weather. “Or should I make you eat those words?”

Smug bastard. That slow, lazy smile. That thick, achingly hard cock.

You didn’t even have time to beg.

He grabbed you by the back of your head, tilted your jaw open, and fed it to you.

Slow. Deep. Sloppy.

“Mm— look at you now.” His hips rolled like he was half-asleep, voice curling with pure sin. “Choking on the small one, are we?”

You clawed at his thighs when he held you down, cock pressing heavy on your tongue, mocking your every breath. He groaned every time you gagged around him, every time you tried to glare up at him through teary eyes.

“Can’t talk back with your mouth full, hm?” Jing Yuan chuckled, cupping your cheek. “Maybe I’ll keep you like this for a while. Let that attitude melt off your tongue.”

When he finally let you breathe, you were wrecked.

Mascara smeared. Drool dripping down your chin. Knees trembling.

“Aw,” he cooed, petting your hair. “What happened to all that big talk?”

And then—he flipped you over.

One smooth motion, you were face-down, ass up, and his cock already nudging at your entrance.

“This might stretch a little,” he murmured, completely fake sweetness in his tone.

Liar.

You screamed when he pushed in. Inch by thick, punishing inch. Your pussy clenched like it was trying to reject him, but it only made him groan, hands gripping your hips like he was claiming them.

“Fuck, you feel that?” he growled into your ear, voice deeper now, panting against your neck. “Say it again. Say it’s small while it’s splitting you open.”

You tried.

You couldn’t.

Not when he started moving.

Lazy, powerful thrusts that made the bed shake and your legs wobble. He stayed buried deep, hips grinding in slow circles like he had all the time in the world. His hand slipped between your thighs, rubbing your clit like he was spoiling you—just to drive you even crazier.

“Tell me how small I am while you’re dripping like this,” he teased, pinching your clit until you squealed. “Come on, sweetheart. Be brave again.”

All you could do was cry his name.

Over and over.

When you finally came, it was messy. Shaky. So tight around him he groaned into your skin, fucking you through it until your body gave up.

You collapsed, twitching.

And he?

He stayed inside you. Still hard. Still smug.

Leaning down, lips brushing your ear, he whispered:

“…Want to try that again?”

You don’t remember how you got here.

Well, actually—you do. It started with a smug smirk, your bratty mouth, and one too many giggles tossed at the general’s expense.

“With how lazy you are, your cock’s probably soft and small too.”

And now?

Now you’re stuffed full.

Flat on your back, legs trembling, and that massive cock buried so deep your belly’s showing a bulge.

You don’t even have the words anymore. Just little hiccuping moans, drool sliding from the corner of your mouth, and your fingers pressed against your lower belly in pure awe.

“Look at that.” Jing Yuan leans over you, lazy eyes glinting as he lays his palm right on the bulge in your tummy. He presses.

You squeal. Your legs twitch.

“You were running your mouth earlier,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing soft, slow circles over the swollen outline of his cock in your gut. “And now you’re just whining and taking it.”

He rolls his hips, and your back arches. Your soaked pussy clenches again like it can’t help it.

“Can feel me here, can’t you?” he purrs. “Might be small… but it’s so deep, baby.”

You try to speak—really—but all that comes out is a whimper, a little breathless sob of “Yuan—too much, I-I can’t—”

He smirks.

“Yes, you can.”

Then he pulls out—slow, dripping wet, your folds clinging to him—and slams right back in, thick and deep enough you swear you see stars.

You scream.

Your body jerks. Your brain just shorts out.

And he leans down, whispering filth into your ear:

“You don’t need to think. Just keep your legs open and take your stuffing like a good little pillow princess.”

You moan, dumb and needy. All that snark from earlier? Gone. Replaced with sniffles, tears, and broken hiccups as he pounds into you—slow, lazy, and endlessly smug.

“Fuck, gonna breed you,” Jing Yuan growls, fucking you deeper, slapping your thigh. “Gonna fill you so good you’ll be dripping my cum for days. Want that, huh? Want to get knocked up on a small cock?”

You nod.

You sob.

He groans when you clench down again, cock pulsing, hips slamming into your thighs as he spills inside you. Thick, messy ropes that flood your womb and drip out around his base—but he doesn’t stop.

“Stay still,” he pants, pinning you down. “You’re gonna take another one.”

And you do.

And another.

You don’t even realize he’s lying down beneath you until you’re shoved onto his face.

Your thighs shake. His tongue slides right up your slit and licks his own cum from your pussy.

Your moans are broken, hands digging into his messy blond hair as you grind down, riding his face like it’s the only way you remember how to breathe.

“That’s it,” he hums against your folds, voice muffled by your soaked pussy. “Sit on me. Get dumb on this tongue too.”

You do.

You lose your mind.

You cum. Again. And again. So messy, so overstimmed, your voice cracking into little sobs.

When you collapse off his face, ruined and twitching, he kisses your thigh.

And whispers—

“Still think it’s small?”

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[lone-trailblazer]

....why am I not surprised LMFAO

Alright, Phainon it will be

Planning a little longer fic..... who are we feeling? Not giving much details for this, but it MIGHT include smut (depends how the flow feels)