robinabi

[robinabi]

same but different — ft. phainon

phainon is always changing. he’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. and he’s changing. but he’s still your phainon and you still love him

word count. ❤︎ 10.4k words — girl (gn) what ze hell

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; childhood friends to lovers ; modern/non canon au ; reader saves him from a bully when they’re young ; reader has a bad date (with someone else) ; very tame violence (phainon fights some assholes for her) ; love confessions ; loss of virginity ; awkward first times ; car sex/semi public sex (it’s dark) ; use of condoms (be safe!) ; finger sucking ; vaginal fingering ; slight hand jobs ; vaginal sex ; proposals (you say yes!) ; phainon is a bit of a crybaby (affectionate) ; not proof read pls tell me if there’s errors

commentary. ❤︎ THAT ART IN THE HEADER SENT ME INTO A SPIRAL BRO . so here’s the result ig

You meet Phainon when he’s twelve. 

You’re new to the neighborhood, and so is he, starting over at school at the same time and learning the halls and classrooms in the same way—he seems to take being the new kid well. The teachers like him, and he’s friendly and easy to get along with, and most other boys like having him on their teams for sports because he’s agile and decent at catching a ball. You? Well…you don’t adjust as well.

You move not far from your old home, but far enough that everything feels different. He moves from some small town that no one has ever heard of, and all in the matter of a few weeks, he worms his way into your life and doesn’t let you know a single ounce of peace. You’re still eleven at the time, but he’s only two months, one week, and four days older than you, and you’ll be the same age soon enough. 

But it doesn’t really matter that he’s older, anyway, because he cries like a god damn baby. 

The older kids can be mean. Especially when twelve-year-old boys who still haven’t hit that growth spurt that most teenage boys seem to hit, like Phainon, are right there. Despite being quick on his feet, he’s especially small and scrawny for his age, shorter than you by a couple of inches—which is a little pathetic, you think. He’s supposed to be older. 

It happens on a Monday—the start of you and Phainon. Phainon and you. Something weird possesses you on a random Monday before you turn twelve, and you step between him and a taller, broader, acne-painted older boy after school, and before thinking, you glare as you hiss out, “Leave him alone, weirdo.”

The boy doesn’t look too happy—and if you had an ounce of common sense, you’d take that as your cue to leave. But you don’t. You stare him good and hard in the eye as he grits out, “Mind your business.”

Phainon is still on the concrete, flat on his ass in a pathetic sort of way as tears coat his pale, soft cheeks and glisten in his eyes. They’re blue. Very blue. You glance at them for a quick second and realize too late that looking into them was an awful mistake. He looks like a kicked puppy, and something stirs in you and makes you turn abruptly, drawing your hand back before it snaps, and a loud, hard clap rings through the air. 

You freeze, processing what you’ve done. Phainon’s breath hitches. The boy—some asshole whose name you never learn—turns his head, slow and stunned, the side of his cheek where your palm landed blooming red.

This is it, you think. This is how you die. This is where your body will be found face down in the dirt behind your new school that you didn’t even want to come to, and your parents will find you lifeless and limp. They’ll mourn you, like any parents would, and they’ll wonder why it has to be this way—why they have to bury their daughter and not the other way around. You’ll be dead in a few moments, and your poor, unsuspecting parents will have no choice but to blame stupid, annoying, crybaby Phainon for getting you killed in the first place. All because he’s too weak to fight his own fights and stick up for himself. 

Except…nothing happens.

The boy just glares, rubbing his cheek, and grits out, “Lucky you’re just a brat and not like that little punk. I don’t hit girls.”

And just like that, he storms off. Heavy, angry stomps trailing behind him as he leaves you to let out a shaky breath of relief and marvel at your luck—you don’t typically run into people with standards when it comes to who they pick on. But, all things considered, you survived, and your parents won’t have to pay for your tombstone. You count your blessings and thank whoever’s looking over you. 

And then you glance down at Phainon. He’s still sitting there, looking at you like you just parted the sea. 

“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.

“You’re pretty cool,” he says in awe. 

“You should learn how to throw a punch or two.”

He grins, tears long forgotten as he stands up, brushes his hands on the front of his pants, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. You wrinkle your own nose at the snot stain he leaves behind. 

“That’s okay,” he beams, “you can always just slap the bullies across the face like that for me, right?”

“No,” you gape, “I’m not your baby sitter—”

“I’m Phainon!” he holds a hand out to you. You look at it with a raised eyebrow before curling your lips in disgust. 

“And I’m going home,” you say flatly. 

You turn on your heel and start walking home promptly. You don’t want to make friends with the other new kid—especially not since he seems so much more well-adjusted to his new environment than you. (It’s a sort of bitterness only someone so young would feel. Being eleven and just on the cusp of twelve isn’t the age where rationality and logic are factored in with most decisions. Maybe, if you were older, you’d realize your bitterness has nothing to do with Phainon and everything to do with your inability to let go of your homesickness from moving.)

But Phainon is hard to shake off. He jogs after you and falls into step beside you as he pipes up, “You live down the street. I saw your moving trucks. My mom said I should be friends with you because you’re new too!”

“I don’t want to make friends,” you grumble out.

“Why not?” he looks bewildered, “being new and friendless is no fun.”

“Because I’m not staying here for long,” you snap, “I’m gonna save up and move back as soon as I get the chance. I don’t need to make friends somewhere that I’m not staying for long.”

He looks skeptical. It only makes you angrier as you throw him a sharp glare for having the audacity to not take you seriously, and he at least has the sense to quickly put his hands up in surrender as he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I believe you. But we can still be friends until you leave, right?”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. He walks you home. You feel a little less lonely on the way back.

(In the end, you never move away like you said. He never stops being your friend. You can’t say you hate it even if you never admit it out loud.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

Phainon is sixteen when you first realize he is no longer that puny, bite-sized little runt that got bullied by the older kids for being new. He doesn’t need saving anymore. 

(He still cries as easily, though—it just happens with a little more dignity. He cries during movies and when he’s stressed from school and maybe after a bad day, but he doesn’t do it so easily in front of other people anymore. 

Still, he always does in front of you. 

Pathetic, you always call him. So mean, he always pouts. And then you hug him and he hugs you back and you remember the little boy you grew up alongside for the last four years. The one who’s two months, one week, and four days older than you, even though it doesn’t feel like it.)

It happens on a Friday night.

You go on a date. It’s your first one ever, in fact. Your father isn’t too happy, but your mother is ecstatic, and after a couple of convincing words from her, he reluctantly allows it to happen as long as you know your curfew and keep your location on at all times. You’re excited. 

Until you’re not. 

You think the date is going rather well. Really well. You like the boy, and he’s handsome and funny, and he listens to you when you ramble about the things you like. It’s a good date. Your mother bought you a new dress, and it’s your favorite color, and you even do your makeup a little nicer than you usually do. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s going how it should, and some naive part of you starts to dream about a high school romance that blossoms into something serious. Maybe at the wedding, you’ll speak about this date. How your father was against it, but your mother was thrilled. How you tried on seven dresses before this one, and had started to get antsy until you tried it on and knew it was the one. How you watched a YouTube video or two to learn how to do your eyeshadow properly, because you’re not used to doing it the fancy ways that older girls seem to do. 

It’s all going well. Until your date politely goes to the bathroom and you wait for five minutes, which turns to ten, which turns to fifteen, and then at twenty minutes, your waiter comes and holds an apologetic look on his face as he informs you that the bathroom is empty after you insist for the third time that your date is just taking a while in there. 

It guts you. 

You don’t even know how or when he managed to slip out and leave you alone and stupidly waiting, but he does. Long gone are your dreams of a sweet high school romance and a big, happy wedding where you smile and remember the silly old days when you’d get dropped off to your dates by your mother ten minutes early as you anxiously check your makeup in the mirror. (And yes, maybe later you’d look back and laugh at how naive you were to think one silly date would snowball into all of that, but you’re sixteen. And at sixteen, your world feels like it’s the only thing that exists, and your problems feel like they’re bigger than they are.)

In the end, the only thing you can think of doing is calling Phainon. He comes in ten minutes flat, waiting outside in his father’s car that he’s allowed to use on weekends only and nothing more. (He’s sixteen and you’re still fifteen, so he’s licensed and you’re not. He likes to brag. You don’t typically find it as amusing as he does. Right now, though, you’re grateful. )

You get in the passenger seat, and before he can even ask, you burst into tears. He makes a face that you can’t quite discern. But he’s not happy—you know that much as easily as you know Phainon. 

“What happened?” he asks softly, “It didn’t go well?”

“It was,” you sob, “I-I th-thought it was! We were talking, a-and laughing, and…and he asked me things and then…h-he went to the bathroom and he just disappeared for like…like half an hour! And the waiter checked the bathroom a-and he wasn’t there…and it was so embarrassing!”

He’s silent. For a long time, Phainon is quiet and he doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him. He never lets the silence go on for long before he fills it with something. Whether it’s stupid or sweet or funny or annoying, Phainon always has something to say to you. He never runs out of things to talk about. It’s always been like that. He’s never had a problem talking your ear off and keeping you company and following you around and filling the silence with his voice. You never realized how deep it had gotten over the years until you watched some old videos back. The first time he was gone for a whole summer, you didn’t realize how quiet the world was until the only way you could talk to him was over text. 

But he’s quiet now, and he just lets you cry. Softly, he reaches out and brushes tears from your cheeks gently as he murmurs, “Your makeup is pretty tonight. You shouldn’t ruin it, you know.”

“There’s no point,” you sniffle, “it’s not like anyone is gonna see it now, anyway.”

“I’m seeing it,” he insists, “just because some weird asshole doesn’t appreciate a nice smokey eye doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”

“Whatever it is,” he shrugs, “it looks good. You’re pretty.”

He says it easily, like it’s not weird or awkward or makes him shy to point it out. He says it so plainly, it’s like some passing observation he makes and doesn’t have to think too hard on. You’re pretty. Even when you cry your makeup off, he thinks that. 

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper, “my mom is gonna be sad and my dad will get angry when he knows what happened to me, and I just…don’t feel like dealing with that mess.”

“Then don’t,” he offers.

You raise a brow, sniffling as you reach into the compartment and grab the tissues that you know are there, and blow your nose. He stifles a smile at the way it’s loud. “What am I supposed to do then, just sit in here?” you ask blandly.

“Why not? We can drive for a while. In fact, we can get milkshakes.”

“Are you buying?” you perk up.

He snorts, looking at you in amusement as he mumbles, “Don’t I always have to?”

You beam at that. It’s true—he does always buy.

He takes you to a drive-thru and buys you a milkshake like he always does when he drives you somewhere. You add in a side of fries and he lets you, paying without a complaint and handing you your order as it comes through the window. It’s nice. It feels like it always does when it’s you and Phainon, and you forget the shallow asshole who broke your heart on your first date not even an hour ago. He parks in the parking lot and you sit and share your fries, and when he dips his in ketchup, you wrinkle your nose—and when you dip yours in your milkshake, he wrinkles his. 

“I’m never going on a date again,” you mumble.

“Don’t say that,” he says softly, “you might miss out on a super handsome and nice guy some day who’s waiting for you.”

“That sounds like something my mom would say,” you snort.

He cracks a grin, chuckling as he offers, “Well, that’s probably why I’m so smart. You should listen to me more.”

“I don’t know about that one,” you tease, “you’re still the same crybaby from middle school.”

“I’m not a crybaby!” He gasps, “Quit saying that! Being emotionally intelligent and being a crybaby are not the same thing, you jerk!”

“Is that what you like to call it?” You laugh, throwing your head back against your seat. He stares. For a good, long moment, he stares as you laugh, and you never catch it. (He wonders sometimes if you will. If some day he’ll stare and you’ll finally notice that he only ever looks at you.)

“Yes,” he grumbles, “I am, in fact, emotionally intelligent. And women are really into men who are smart about their feelings.”

“I’m sure they are,” you give him a sarcastic nod. “And I bet they—”

“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.

You pause as he interrupts your sentence, and before you can even blink, his door is opened and then closed, and Phainon is gone. He’s left the car and he’s walking over to some group of boys who leave the fast food place you’re parked outside of, and you can’t figure out what on Earth would make him leave so abruptly to go over and—oh. 

Your eyes widen as you realize. 

Oh.

Something in your heart sinks deep into the bottom of your stomach as you realize your date is standing there among the group of boys with a bag of food in his hands and a drink. Something else in you gets a lick of anger that starts to burn in the pit of your stomach as you think about how he left you to pay for his meal while he’s here buying himself a whole new one after ditching you. And then your eyes widen when in a quick second, Phainon has swug his arm and landed a solid punch right in the jaw and knocked the guy onto his ass as he towers over him. You blink once, then twice, and then you quickly take your seatbelt off and climb out of the car as you rush over. 

There’s a chorus of deep, angry voices back and forth and you can’t make out more than a few words at a time as everyone speaks over each other—Phainon, your asshole date, and his asshole (by association) friends.

“Yo, what the fuck—”

“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)

“Who the hell are you—”

“What’s your fucking problem man—”

“You get off on being an asshole, or something?” (Also Phainon.)

Maybe if you weren’t so worried, you would think about why Phainon’s voice is the only one you can make out so easily in a mess of all these other voices. Maybe if you weren’t worried about a group of boys outnumbering him as they approach him and try to beat him to a pulp, you might think more about the implications of that and what that means. 

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you have to go and save him, just like the day you met him, from boys who are stronger than him and can knock him to the ground easily. 

Except he doesn’t need you to save him. Phainon…holds his own against three boys who come swinging at him, and…he does surprisingly well. He shrugs off each guy one by one and lands a punch when he needs to, and soon enough, when they realize that he’s a little too strong for any of them to properly take on, they call him a few names and leave a few empty threats before they leave. You stand a short distance away and watch, blinking as you process the whole exchange. 

Finally, with a shaky breath, he turns to face you with a guilty look on his face. 

“Sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done—”

“When did you get strong?” you interrupt, flabbergasted. “You can fight?”

He looks almost a little offended. “What do you mean? Why do you have to say that like I can’t be strong?”

“I used to save you from the older boys all the time,” you gape, “and all you ever did was cry! Since when do you know how to throw a punch?”

“I was twelve!” He sputters, looking at you in equal parts disbelief and equal parts embarrassment. “I’m way bigger now! I’m taller than you!” (He is.)

“You’re still a crybaby!”

“Am not!”

“You fought four guys and won,” you breathe out, like the concept is something you still can’t quite wrap your head around. (You can’t.)

He shoots you a glare and grumbles, “I am grown now, okay? You don’t have to keep acting like I’m the scrawny kid you saved in middle school.”

“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.

“Am not! Look, I’ve been working out!” He flexes his arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulge of muscle forming at his bicep, and it makes you stare in disbelief as you take in the way Phainon has really changed. You never notice it because he’s with you every day, and every single day has started to leave its mark on him, but you’re too caught up in knowing him the way he is to think about knowing him the way he isn’t anymore. 

But he’s stronger now. His voice is deeper, and he’s taller, and he has some muscle to him. You look at him properly for a moment, and it occurs to you for the first time that the chubbiness of his round face and baby cheeks are gone and they’re replaced with a strong, sharp set of cheekbones that carve his face perfectly. His hair is longer, too—and you think it suits him better this way. He parts his hair in a way that looks less childlike and more mature. 

But his eyes are still the same. Same shade of blue. Same puppy look as he stares at you, mildly offended. Same soft, delicate orbs that look you in the eye, always, and never look away. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter, “what is happening to you? This is freaky.”

He cracks a smug grin before he teases, “I’m growing up. Try not to fall in love with me—pretty soon, I’ll be a heartthrob.”

You bite back a grin and give him a scoff. “I doubt that. You’re about as interesting as cardboard.”

(You lie. In the end, you go against your own words, and you do fall in love with him. It’s hard not to. It’s hard not to fall in love with him, the more time passes every day. You never admit it, but you notice every little thing about him that changes from then on.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re eighteen when Phainon and you don’t just kiss, but share your first time. It’s on your birthday. There’s something there between the two of you that you both know is there. It’s impossible not to notice it. 

You leave for college in two months, and he might not be going to the same one as you, but it's close enough that you can see him whenever you want. (Whenever you want—it’s what he had said when he first told you he wasn’t picking the same college as you. The look on your face was enough to voice your devastation without actually using any words, but he only laughed and murmured, I’ll be close by. You can still see me whenever you want, yeah?)

It happens in his car. It’s no longer his dad’s old one that he had to ask for permission to use only when his father wasn’t using it. This one is his, and he can drive it whenever he wants and wherever he pleases. Because you’re both old enough for that now—driving around and going places without needing to worry about curfews and school nights and your parents’ angry texts about being home soon. 

“I’m officially an adult,” you tell him in his car, drinking the last of your milkshake that, as always, he’s paid for. (It’s your birthday, though, so you think it's especially fair that he pays because no one should expect the birthday person to pay for their milkshake.)

“Congrats,” he hums, “they grow up so fast,” he adds with a soft, dramatic sniffle.

“You’re not old enough to act like there’s a difference,” you roll your eyes, “I doubt in two months you’ve learned things like how mortgages and property taxes work.”

“Well, it’s actually two months, one week, and four days,” he corrects with a pointed look, as if it really makes all the difference, “and I’ll probably still learn all that shit before you do because I’m older.”

“Yeah, but you’ll also probably die first since you’re older,” you point out cheekily.

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he huffs.

“You always decide how things work when it’s convenient for you, you prick,” you accuse, shoving him away as he chuckles and steals a french fry from your share. 

He’s stopped laughing when his eyes meet yours, and something about the way he looks at you feels a little out of the ordinary. The wrappers are crumpled, the milkshakes are almost gone, and you’re both sitting in the same parking lot you have for years in the middle of the night, nothing but just the light over your heads in his car illuminating him just enough that you can still make out that soft blue of his eyes. 

Everything is the same. The parking lot, the milkshakes, the way you drain his wallet, and he lets it happen, the way it’s you and him and no one else. Nothing has changed. Nothing but you and Phainon. You’re both different—something about you and him is different. 

“What?” you ask.

Phainon shrugs, smiling to himself. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess you just look old.”

You scowl as he throws you a lopsided grin. (You think, regretfully, that it’s quite handsome.) “And you look geriatric,” you hiss back.

His smile becomes a little softer, and something in it flickers—sad, maybe. You can’t tell exactly what it is, but you do know it makes something in your heart ache. Something like longing fills you up to the brim—it’s funny, you think. Even when Phainon is right next to you, all you can do is long for him anymore. You wonder when that started. Maybe it was the day you noticed he was bigger and taller. Maybe it was the day you noticed he paid with a credit card and not cash anymore, like a proper grown man. Maybe it was the day you realized his front teeth were no longer crooked and his smile was as bright as those perfectly blue eyes of his. 

“I’m gonna miss this,” he admits quietly.

You don’t ask what he means. You already know. 

It’s not the milkshakes, or the shared fries, or the way he always pays, no matter how much you can easily afford it on your own by now. It’s the way he’s home for you. The way you moved when you didn’t want to, and you didn’t get a say because you were only eleven and your parents made those kinds of decisions for you—when you left behind everything you loved, and Phainon took on the burden of becoming everything you’ll relearn to care about. When you promised to move away the first chance you got, he made you want to stay without trying. Now it’s not the same—now you move, and so does he, and you both make those decisions on your own because you're older now. 

You’ll miss it. The quiet nights in his car and the long, stupid, pointless, aimless conversations that always meant the most when you babbled about nothing. The easy, familiar way you’ve always fit together—ever since he was twelve and you were eleven, all the way until now, after you both grew and grew and the days added up until they totaled to you both being eighteen-year-old adults. You’ll miss the way you’ll open your door, and you’ll see him waving down the street as he opens his. You’ll miss the way he can crawl to your window and sneak in to play card games, and your mother isn’t surprised as she makes him breakfast when you both accidentally fall asleep before he can leave. You’ll miss the way the world felt small, and all you knew was this. Here. Phainon and you and the town that becomes home, even when you didn’t want it to be, all because of him. 

“You don’t have to miss it,” you say, trying to convince yourself it’s true. “We’re not going far.”

“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But it won’t be like this. Not exactly.”

It won’t.

It won’t ever be like the way you guys are now, how you were over the years. When he sat on the ground and cried after being picked on and you saved him. When he came over and met your mother for the first time, and she looked relieved at the fact that you finally made some friends. When you let him borrow your favorite book, and he gave it back with the pages dog-eared and you had your first argument over your ruined book. When he rescued you after your awful first date and spent the night with you so you’d go home happy. When you rear-ended the car in front of you, and he was sitting passenger as he tried to warn you that you weren’t hitting the brakes soon enough.

“Is it a bad thing, do you think?” you murmur hesitantly, “if things change?”

“Maybe not,” he says, leaning closer as he looks at you better.

And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. What matters is that you’re kissing each other. It’s been a long time coming—your parents have teased you about him, and your friends have always been too nosy about just how close you really are, and your teachers have always meddled with seating arrangements to make sure you’re close by each other because they’re certain something is going on. 

He smiles into the kiss. It’s giddy and sweet and a touch clumsy as he presses into you closer, leaning over the center console of his car to get closer to you. You giggle. A soft, delicate little sound that makes his breath hitch before he moves again to swallow it up, drinking in the small, precious little sounds of joy you make against his mouth as his hand cups your cheek and your arms swing lazily over his shoulders. 

“I think things are already changing,” you breathe as soon as you pull away, “so it can’t be so bad.”

“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.

“Are you still gonna miss it?” you ask softly. 

“Hm,” he pretends to think, “let me try this again and see what I like better just to be sure.”

You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you, pecking your lips once, twice, a third time before he’s back to pressing his against you with a lingering pressure. Some part of you knew this was going to happen. You didn’t know when or how, but you think this is a good way to let it happen. You knew that day he came to your defense in that parking lot—when he didn’t have to, but he did because he cared enough to. When he showed you he was bigger than you remember and growing more than you realized, and could take care of you just like you took care of him. (Maybe he’s been taking care of you all this time, and you just didn’t realize it. Maybe when you stopped being lonely and finally felt like you made a home on the street that he came at the same time as you, he was looking out for you all along.)

“I think change is an inevitable part of life,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t avoid it.”

“Hm, that’s very grown-up of you to say,” you tease. 

“Thank you,” he grins—stupidly handsome, and annoyingly cheeky. And you love him for it. “I am older, you know. By two months, one—”

“—One week and four days, yes, I know,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

He does. He shuts up only to press his lips against yours again and kiss you like he’s been waiting years to do it. (He has. He’s waited many, many years to do this. More than he thinks you might even realize—he doesn’t think you understand how much he’s changed until rather recently, but that’s okay. He could wait. He did. He waited and he waited and he’d always have waited if it was for you.)

“Do…” he pauses, nervously taking in a shaky breath as he mumbles, “do you…want to like…w-well, we don’t have to do anything…but if you want—”

“At least this much hasn’t changed,” you snort, interrupting him, “and maybe it won’t—you’re still lame.”

He scowls at that, and as if he has something to prove, he climbs (and fumbles a little) into the back seat before his hand grabs your wrist and tugs you to follow. And when you fumble your way onto his lap with a squeak, flustered as your chest is pressed right up against his own (rather sturdy one), he murmurs, “Yeah? Is that what you think?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, looking into his eyes for a short second before quickly looking away, “it is.”

“Guess I’ll just have to change that,” he hums.

Suddenly, your lips are once more coated with the heat of his, and you close your eyes and fall apart in his arms. You press more of your weight onto him, letting him slump back against the backseat of his car while your hands weave into his hair and tug. He groans deeply. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him—ever. 

His hands bring you closer, and as your body is pressed against his with even less space, you feel it—something hard that pokes against your leg that you’re certain you know what it is. But, just to be sure, you pull away to look at him. 

“What’s that?” you hum, grinning smugly as you move your thighs to brush over the hardness once more, “is that—”

“You know exactly what it is,” he huffs, flushing a soft pink that you can just barely make out in the dark, “now quit talking so much.”

“You don’t like me when I’m chatty?” you pout.

“I like you always,” he says bluntly, lips forming a small pout as he adds, “but I like you a little less than other times right now for being rude.”

“I’m not being rude! I’m simply making an observation—mmph!”

He cuts you off with another hard, impatient kiss before he pulls away and lets his thumb brush over your lip, smearing your already messy lip gloss some more as he murmurs, “I always wondered how that tasted. Seen you apply it so many times.”

“It’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” you wink cheekily, “strawberry flavored.”

With that, you wrap your lips around his thumb and slowly roll your tongue around the digit, swallowing around it as you suck. It’s probably the filthiest thing you’ve done—which is not a lot. The filthiest thing you’ve done prior was sitting on a boy’s lap and feeling his hard-on against your thigh as you kissed him. There are a lot of firsts it seems he’s hell bent on taking from you tonight. Luckily, there’s not a lot of firsts you’re unwilling to give. 

He groans at the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue making him stare at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes before he pulls his hand away from your lips, hoisting you up enough so he can reach under your skirt and pull your panties down. They’re drenched. He takes a second to stare at them through the darkness of the backseat of his car while it’s your turn to feel heat spread across your cheeks and up to your ears. 

“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.

He gives you a not very apologetic grin. “Sorry,” he lies through his perfect, pearly whites, “guess that’s not very chivalrous of me, huh?”

You snort as you murmur, “You had your finger in my mouth a second ago.”

“And who put that there?” he teases. You feel your cheeks burn again—but he spares you the embarrassment a second time as he pulls your underwear down your thighs enough to leave your aching cunt exposed before he murmurs, “Do it again one more time for me, baby.”

You open without thinking as he presses his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, letting your tongue roll around them, too. You coat them well, the wetness of your mouth covering his fingers as his thumb strokes your cheek. His cheeks are flushed pink from the sight alone. Your throat bobbing from every swallow around his digits has him imagining much more lewd fantasies, and you can tell that from just the way his pupils lose focus, dilating at the image of you. You moan around him, and his breath hitches as he feels the vibrations from the sound. 

It’s dirty, the way he’s thinking about you. Almost as dirty as the way you look as you suck on his fingers—and when he pulls them out and uses his fingers to press into your cunt, it feels dirty to be worked open with your own spit as the lubricant that helps him slip inside easily. Well…you suppose the way your core is dripping is also part of the reason why it’s so easy, but you don’t focus on that. 

Instead, the only thing you can focus on is the way he curls into you as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are longer than yours. The only thing that’s ever been inside of you are your own digits when it’s late and night and you force yourself to stay quiet in your room—but Phainon’s fingers reach deeper and there’s no one here you have to be quiet for, so you whimper loudly as he presses into your walls and finds some spot deep in there that you’ve never felt before.

“Well,” he chuckles, “that was easy. I found it,” he gives you a cheeky grin.

“Sh-shut up,” you hiss, the sound tapering off into a moan as the heel of his palm glides over your clit while he angles his hand in and out of you. 

He’s never done this before—it’s good, and it feels better than anything you’ve ever felt yourself, but he’s still never done this before, and it shows. He doesn’t get the rhythm quite right as he goes faster than you like, and when your hand gently grabs his wrist, he pauses and looks at you in alarm. 

“W-what’s wrong? You want to stop? I-I’m sorry, I…I got carried away, I didn’t think—here,” he goes to pull his fingers and you hiss, tightening your grip and keeping him in place as he pauses and looks at you, bewildered.

“Just…just go slower,” you breathe, panting softly, “that’s all.”

“O-oh…” he nods slowly at first, then again with more confidence. “Okay.”

It’s better this time. He paces it better and watches your face for your reactions as he slows the timing of his fingers pressing into you, applying pressure with every thrust against a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had. It makes your head feel light and your ears hear things all muffled. You can hear his labored breaths as he watches you, and you can hear your own (almost embarrassing) noises as he works you higher, higher, higher to some invisible height that you can feel yourself slowly become closer and closer to plummeting off of. 

“K-kiss,” you gasp, pleading as you lean closer, and he chuckles before he indulges you.

“Anything you want,” he murmurs, and then that familiar warm pressure of his soft, yet chapped lips is the final push you need to fall off the edge. You whine into his mouth, and he drinks in every sound like he’s parched, swallowing down your noises as your walls flutter around his fingers. 

He works you through it. It feels better when it’s someone else—he’s not distracted by the feeling of being overwhelmed to falter in rhythm or pace. In fact, he’s extra careful as he watches you, rolling his palm over your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers in and out of you as your walls erratically clamp around him. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, gasping as a particularly harsh wave of your orgasm crashes over you, “Ph-phainon, fuck.”

“Feel good?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as your mouth parts with a soft, delicate moan. It’s endearing. He’s not even smug anymore—all you do is fill him up with affection as he watches you. 

“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”

“Good,” he hums. 

His forehead presses against yours as you finish, letting you calm down and take heaving breaths while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and rubs the small of your back with his other hand. You clutch onto his shirt, fingers grasping onto the fabric to ground yourself while he admires the glow of your sweaty, damp skin.

“When did things change for you?” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Between…between us?”

“Hm…” he hums softly, “Don’t know. I think…I think they never really had to change. I always knew I wanted you.”

“Oh,” you mumble, still nervously toying with the fabric of his shirt. You don’t know what to say, so you say it again. “That…oh.”

He laughs softly, like the idea of things not being the same for you doesn’t bother him. (It doesn’t. He got you, he thinks. As long as it’s that outcome, he could have always waited longer.) 

“When did they change for you?”

“When we were sixteen,” you barely force out, “when you…when you took on those guys. In the parking lot.”

“On your first date that broke my heart?” He gasps, “I owe your heartbreak to swing things in my favor? That feels a little wrong,” he says dramatically, “I almost feel like I’ve manipulated you!”

“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes, breaking into a small grin. 

He laughs. It’s sweet. He’s always had that charm about him, even when it didn’t make you want him badly. “I think I told you not to fall in love with me, too. Seems like my words had the opposite effect,” he wiggles his brows.

You snort, shoving him lightly as you whisper, “It just felt nice to know you care. Like my feelings were yours, too.”

His eyes soften, and Phainon, you realize, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. So blue, you could mistake them for the ocean and get called over like a siren luring you in, drowning you until your lungs are heavy and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe. 

“I always cared,” he hums, “still do. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you bite your lip as you fight back a wide, giddy grin. “Yeah, I do.”

And you kiss him. This time, you know it’s you who does it first because he stiffens for a moment with a hitch of his breath before he melts into it. You’ve kissed so many times tonight, you don’t know why the feeling keeps shocking you, but it does. It’s new every time, but never unfamiliar. You know him—you know him like the back of your hand, and you’d know him with your eyes closed. But you’re still learning him. The way he parts his lips and the pattern of how he nips yours. The way he tugs you closer when he’s overwhelmed, so he can squeeze your hips and ground himself. The way he lets out a soft, barely-there whine when you tug at his hair without realizing it. 

“I want you,” he breathes, “i-is that…is that okay?”

“Yes,” you practically beg, “yes—please.”

He clumsily undoes his belt and unzips his pants with shaky hands. You try not to watch and make it awkward. (It is, just a little. But it’s not bad. Nothing ever is with him.) You try to keep your expression neutral as his aching cock is finally freed from its confinements, springing up with a hard, leaky tip as pre cum collects in a small bead. It’s big—it curves a little to the side and the vein is thick along the bottom, and a part of you itches to wrap your hand around it and feel its weight in your grasp. 

He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily. 

“Can…can I…” You hesitate before gesturing at it. 

He nearly passes out from shame when he nods too quickly, forcing himself to slow down and throw on a faux sense of nonchalance as he stutters out, “Y-yeah, yeah that…that’s cool. With me. If you want, that is.”

You nod. Slowly, hesitantly, your thumb smears the leaking pre cum at the tip along the head of his cock before you wrap your hand around him and squeeze slightly. He chokes, gripping your hips tightly as his jaw clenches and his eyes shut tightly while he tries to keep his breathing steady. 

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

“More than okay,” he says, voice strained. 

“Okay,” you nod, and, a little more confidently, you stroke along his length, watching as he melts and the tension leaves his shoulders, his face slackening while he lets out a soft moan. It feels good—you can tell that much as his head falls back and he lets out a soft, throaty sound when you squeeze a little at the tip before stroking down again. 

It doesn’t last long, but you like it, you decide. You like making Phainon feel good. You like the way he looks when you touch him, and you like the feeling you get when you take care of him and give him something without taking anything back. But he stops you before long, and you pause as you raise a brow in confusion. 

“J-just…I don’t think I’ll last if we keep…” 

He’s red in the face when your eyes widen—you can tell even if it's dark. “Right,” you smile softly, “okay. Do you have…”

“Y-yeah,” he nods, “right…right, yeah.” He fishes out a condom from his pocket, and it takes everything in you not to ask the question in the back of your head of why he keeps one. 

(A spark of jealousy clouds your mind for a moment, of whether or not this is something he’s done before with someone other than you to need one, but then you realize that you know Phainon. Better than anyone else, you know him, and you know he’d at least tell you if he’d ever done something like this before. 

Because it’s you—you’ve known for a while now that there isn’t anyone else other than you. 

The jealousy dies down, and all that’s left is endearment—you’ll tease him later about carrying a condom around like he’s preparing. For now, though, you’re grateful.) 

It takes a tense moment of fumbling around with opening and rolling it over his length, trying not to let your hands visibly shake as he makes soft, breathy sound at your touch before gently, you raise your hips, hand still wrapped around his length while you guide him to your folds, the tip brushing along the slick, warm entrance of your cunt and making you both shiver. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as he guides you down, inch by slow inch taken one by one until he’s as deep as he’ll go and you’re sat on his cock, panting and quivering on his lap.

“T-tell me when it’s okay to m-move,” he grits.

“Okay,” you whisper shakily, trying to accommodate his size. It’s a stretch—it burns slightly, but you welcome it wholly. You’ve never taken anything as big as Phainon, and faintly, you hope you’ll never have to compare the size with anything else because you think this is it. This is perfect and what you were made to take. He’s perfect and what you were made to take. You fit like he was tailor-made to fit in you, and you don’t think anyone else will ever replace this. 

This feeling. Him. What he means to you. Everything about Phainon is perfect to you—perfect for you. You don’t think it’ll ever be anyone but him. 

“Okay,” you plead, “you…you can move now.”

With that, he guides your hips up, almost pulling you off of him completely before he brings you down, helping you slam down on him while thrusting his hips up and meeting you halfway. He’s thick, too, girth-wise—stretches you in a way that adds to the pleasure apart from just pressing against a spot your fingers used to never reach. You thought it was good before when he was just using his hand, but the real thing is even better. Everything around you stops. All you know is Phainon. All you ever want to know is Phainon. 

“F-fuck,” he pants, and you barely register his voice cracking as he shoves his face into your neck, “y-you…feel incredible. I’ve always wanted you. You have no idea how fucking bad.”

Something wet hits your neck. You suck in a sharp breath as his hand pulls you down, helping you rock your hips onto him and slam down harder on his cock, taking him deeper inside of you and practically cling to him while he maneuvers your body the way he needs. The way you need. 

“A-are you…seriously crying?” you gasp, “Now?”

“No,” he huffs. As if to distract you, he reaches between your bodies and finds your clit with his thumb and rolls harsh, fast circles while a strong, muscled arm wraps around your waist and guides you along a rhythm that has him nudging the tip of his cock hard and blunt against the back of your walls. 

“You are,” you accuse. “Do you ever quit being a cry—” you moan and cut yourself off when his tip practically bruises the spot it presses against hard and fast, angling to meet exactly where you fall apart.

“Not a crybaby,” he argues, and his pace gets sloppy as he ruts his hips up into you. You can feel it, too—the beginnings of your second high of the night approaching you as you try to snap your hips and bounce along his length to match his pace. 

It’s going to hit you harder this time. You can tell—you can practically feel it as it comes slowly but surely, creeping up on you in a way that makes you anticipate it blindly. 

“M’close,” you pant, “m’so so close, Phai…Phainon.”

“Yeah? You are? M-me too, baby,” he groans. You clench around him at the pet name, and he has the audacity to chuckle about it, murmuring a low, “like being called that, huh? You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby—y’know that?”

“Fuck,” you whine, and with one last roll of your hips that he meets with his own thrust upwards, you fall apart while his thumb rubs its circles along your clit. 

Your orgasm comes harder than you expect it to—it’s different when he’s that deep and stretches you out so well. It’s different when he rolls his hips to continue to fuck into you to work you through your high. It’s not like other times you’ve cum on your own, and it’s not like the time he made you cum on his fingers. This is entirely different. You can feel the twitching of his cock as the thickess bullies into you, splitting you open while you fall apart on him.

He follows not long after you, the tightening of your walls around him in spasms pulling him into his own release. It’s warm—you can make out the feeling of his release through the thin barrier of plastic as he fills it with thick ropes of cum. He pants your name through a soft, breathless voice, and you slump against his chest and lay your cheek on his shoulder as you ride through the final few waves of your peak. 

When he finishes, he slumps back against the seat, chest rising and falling beneath you as he tries to catch his breath. His arms are still wrapped around you, loose and warm, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.

“How was it?” he asks, voice tentative, almost shy.

“Good,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “I-it was… really good.”

“Me too,” he says with a quiet smile. You can hear it in his words. “It was really good for me, too.”

You snort. “Is that why you cried?”

He groans, burying his face against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you in protest. “No,” he grumbles, muffled. “I just… got…”

“Emotional?” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching up.

“Yes,” he huffs, clearly flustered. “The way I feel about you…” He trails off for a second, like he’s waiting for the right words to show up. “It’s just… a lot,” he says finally, soft and vulnerable. “You make me feel a lot.”

“I know,” you say, muffled by his shirt, “I…I feel it, too.”

“Yeah?” he beams.

“Yeah,” you grin. 

(You want to tell him that night—that you love him. That you have for a while. That you know you always will. You don’t have the courage to, though, but you never bring yourself to regret it. Maybe because it almost feels like he’s always known.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re twenty-three when Phainon proposes. It…doesn’t go how he wants. 

He plans it out—it’s meticulous, and sweet, and it was going to be perfect and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he knows you wanted, too. He takes you on a nice, fancy trip, and you’re by the beach where you can feel the sun kiss your skin along with the warm breeze. On the last day, he can sit and admire you as you enjoy the beach one last time happily, and when the sun gets close to setting, he’ll drag you for a walk along the shore where the tides will come and wash away your footprints as they come. And when the sky is pink and purple and orange and every other color of the sunset that reflects in your eyes, he’ll get on one knee and ask you to be his wife.

And then it rains. 

It rains hard.

You both gather your things as quickly as you can and run for the car—a fancy rental that he spent quite a pretty penny on to get for this trip, because it’s the kind you’ve always wanted to have and you’re still just barely out of college to have enough saved for it. 

You climb into the car, drenched and panting from running, and still beautiful. And he feels his world crumble all at once as he sees that dazzling smile on your face while your hand brushes your forehead and wipes away droplets of water. 

He notices your finger. Ringless. His heart bleeds, and everything around him feels like it's caving in on him, and he can’t breathe.

“My goodness,” you giggle, “who’d have thought the rain had it out for us on our last day, huh?”

He swallows thickly at that. And he tries—he tries so hard to keep on that brave face and act like it’s okay. It’s fine. He can wait and plan something else. He has time to make it better, more perfect for you. That’s what you deserve, anyway. He’ll make you smile bigger, make you want to say yes even harder. 

This is okay. He still has you. He knows you. He knows you’ll say yes. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or a little later—he still has you. 

And yet, when his face crumples and the dryness of his throat is something he realizes he’s not able to control, he understands why you’ve always called him a crybaby. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s going to cry, and you’re going to be worried, and he’s going to have to explain why he’s upset and ruin your surprise and the most perfect moment of your life. 

“Phainon?” You freeze, noticing the beginning of tears collecting in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink away. He swallows thickly, and your hand instantly moves to cup his wet face. “Baby, what’s happened? Did you leave something? We can go back and look—it’s just some rain, I don’t mind.”

“No,” he croaks, “no, it’s not that. It’s…it’s nothing,” he forces out. 

“It’s not nothing,” you frown, “c’mon, you know I know you better than that. Acting like I don’t is almost insulting,” you nudge his ribs gently. It’s supposed to be good-natured. It’s supposed to be light-hearted and sweet, so he feels safe enough to let down his walls and tell you what’s on his mind because you love him. You do. You love him more than anything, and you make everything better, so he should just tell you.

But the thought of the words coming out feels like he’s a failure. Like he’s taken every ounce of your careful love and not given you what you deserved, even a little. But, as he’s starting to realize after years of arguing with you on it, Phainon is indeed a crybaby. And the tears tell on him faster than the words can, and he knows there’s no hiding anything from you.

So shakily, he grabs something small from his pocket, making you frown as you try to figure out what it is. He brings it closer, and your eyes widen, breath hitching. 

You know what that is. You’d be a fool not to. You’re speechless as he sniffles and looks miserably down at the velvet box that’s tiny in his large hand. 

“I…it was going to be perfect—th-the sun was supposed to set, a-and we’d go on a walk, and then when the sky was pretty I’d ask, and…and…and…” he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes in defeat. “It was going to be perfect. For you. I had everything planned,” he croaks. 

You soften. It’s quiet. For a moment, he thinks maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you weren’t going to say yes, and all the marriage talks of the future lately were just talks and nothing more. Maybe it was too early for all this, and those were just talks of something for the distant future. Something he’d have to wait a bit longer for. And that’s fine—he would. He’d wait for you because he always has. He’s always loved you, and all he’s always waited, and it’s always been okay. In the end, he’s always had you, and that’s all he’s ever needed. 

Somehow, no matter how many years pass, Phainon stays loving you. At first, he thought it was a crush and that it would be just a phase, but it never went away. It’s just how he is, ingrained into him since he was young—he loves you, and he can’t stop. Somehow, every year, he grows and grows, and all it does is make more room for his love in that stubborn heart of his. He’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. Every year he’s older and he changes, yet somehow, every year, it’s still always you. Even when you’re not there, it’s always your laugh he hears in the wind as it grazes his cheeks and leaves him with the ghost of you. 

Loving you comes as easily as breathing. When the air finally settles in his lungs and lets him breathe, he starts to love you even more.

It’s that simple. It always was. 

He lets out a shuddering breath and mumbles, “I-it’s okay. It was probably a bad time anyway—I got carried away. J-just forget I said anything, please. I…we can just forget—”

“Oh Phainon,” you sigh, soft and breathless, “you never change, do you, you big crybaby?”

He pouts. There are still tears clinging to his cheeks, and it only proves your point further. Still, you have enough grace not to point it out as you reach and cup his cheek to wipe away a tear gently. 

“I am not a crybaby,” he denies half-heartedly, “I was just emotional, okay? Being emotionally intelligent is important!”

You smile. It’s warm and bright, and it’s the same smile he’s known for over a decade, but it’s different, too. Every year it changes a little. The days leave their small footprints along your features and carve their paths as you age, and sometimes, he sees it all at once. How much you’ve changed. How your features are a little sharper now that you’ve grown into them. How small, barely-there lines are etching into your skin where you smile the most and by your eyes where they crinkle. You’re older. You’re still you. 

You smile, and it’s like he’s twelve again and nothing has changed, even if he’s twenty-three. 

“Ask me,” you whisper, “I’ll say yes no matter where you ask me. So quit crying and ask, you big baby.”

“What?” he gapes, still sniffling a little. 

“Ask me,” you huff, giving him a soft, impatient shove. Something about you is giddy. It’s raining outside, he’s crying yet again like he always does, while you have to deal with it, your beach day has been cut short, your surprise is ruined, and you’re drenched in the rental car that he’ll have to return tomorrow before you board your flight and go home. But still, you’re giddy. 

And Phainon is in love. It’s nothing new, but it’s different. It’s better. It’s always you. 

“Will you marry me?” he murmurs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be my friend that day, and I was a tiny bit of a crybaby only that day,” he gives you a pointed look as you roll your eyes, “and I know you said you’d move away and never come back and you didn’t need me to be your friend but we were friends anyway. And I was always happy being friends, but changing and being more was probably the best thing ever, so maybe we should just change one more time and be husband and wife, right? We’re not on the beach or under the sun, and we’re soaking wet, but will you marry me, anyway? So I don’t live up to the crybaby allegations?”

You laugh. The sun isn’t there anymore, but light still finds a way to break over your face as you laugh, and you cry, too. You cry with him, tears collecting in your own eyes as you nod frantically and whisper, “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you, of course I will. Is that even a question?”

“You’re crying,” he blinks back his own tears, “who’s the crybaby now?”

“Still you,” you snort. 

He grabs your hand and just like he envisioned to leave this trip, there’s a pretty little ring on your pretty little finger that catches the light and makes you look a little more different than he remembers you, but a little better than before. He didn’t meet you with a ring on your finger, but he knows you that way now. And it’s different. It’s different and it’s good.

“I love you,” he murmurs, “even though you always lie and call me a crybaby.”

“I love you, too,” you sigh exasperatedly, “even though you lie about being the damn crybaby that you are.”

(He kisses you after. Kisses you hard over the center console of the car as your fiance just like the first time he kissed you over the center console of a car as your best friend. As Phainon. As that stupid, annoying, crybaby boy you came across when he was twelve and you were still eleven and younger by only two months, one week, and four days.)

well . i don’t rly wanna talk about it so there you have it folks. do not look at me

[robinabi]

﹙❤︎﹚ 𝓝𝐎𝐓 𝓠𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝓓𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄, 𝓝𝐎𝐓 𝓠𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝓜𝐈𝐍𝐄.

characters : cipher, mydei & aglaea [ separate ]

links : masterlist. rules. ao3 version. part 2.

they speak in stardust and glances, all golden silence and too-long stares. something ancient stirs beneath your skin. what are you to them—mortal or myth?

ⓘ 3.1k wc 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 no gender specified, mutual pining, semi-character studies, high school! au, mydei ft. phainon, subtle/non-existent spoilers, anxious!reader in cipher’s ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

all works are a property of ꒰ @kurogira ꒱ do not copy, translate, redistribute or feed my works into ai. this is an original work.

Did you find yourself entranced by Aglaea, the student council president? The one appearing bathed in gold, with a beauty that could rival even the divine themselves . . . you wouldn’t be the first. Aglaea was a prized jewel among her peers, always composed and in command—the kind of leader only spoken of in fairy tales. But behind that golden grace was someone who watched the world with quiet longing—someone who glanced your way a little too often, who lingered by the window just a little too long. Perhaps the goddess on the pedestal was more human than she let on. And perhaps she was waiting for someone to see that.

Those who adored her only ever sought her approval, through rose-tinted glasses and overly enthusiastic compliments. She waved them off with practiced poise, drowning in admiration, in gifts and applause wherever she went. Today was no different—Aglaea was, as always, a sight for sore eyes. But you didn’t bring her flowers. You didn’t stumble over your words, or ask for her attention like a wish. You just saw her—and in that rare moment, Aglaea didn’t feel like a goddess adored. She felt like a girl, standing under the weight of gold she never asked for.

(The weight that often felt too much for her to bear, the slender fingers of those who expected the best performance crawling up her spine—shoving her forward.)

She was built like a monument—polished, proud, and impossibly untouchable. People expected her to have every answer, to solve every conflict—to be a prize-worthy role model for those who could only dream of being as successful as she is. Aglaea was pushed into perfection before she even knew who she wanted to be. As a ballerina, she was expected to hide every cramp with a smile—to twirl as if it were the last move she’d ever make. As an athlete, she was expected to make it to every practice regardless of the obstacle. Sickness was an indicator of weakness, an excuse to retreat into the shadows of her bedroom—an escape her parents loathed deeply.

As an actress, she was expected to carry the weight of perfection on her bare shoulders—bruised and broken. A fractured bone, one she was meant to hold with pride.

“Don’t you ever get tired?” you questioned one morning, catching her completely off-guard. If someone were to compare you to her, you were the soil and she the gardener who raised the watering can—showering you in divine springs to help raise you. To guide the sunlight to your roots, expanding your potential to become something even greater.

You disagreed, heavily. You were never soil—never something waiting to be shaped. You had your own roots. You were tired of being someone else’s bloom.

“Tired? Of what?” she asked quietly. The drop in her gaze told you your question had struck something real.

“Perfection.” That was all you said—yet the word itself was Aglaea’s entire world, summarized in a single line. She felt a piece of it crumble beneath her feet.

“Perfection, you say? What gave you the impression that I’m tired of such a thing?” she inquired, the lift of her eyebrows betraying the humanity others believed she never possessed. If anything, she was more machine than human. More doll than girl—something crafted, not grown. Something beautiful, but empty of permission to feel.

“Your eyes.” you muttered, scoffing before turning your head in the other direction. Blue-green eyes that held such guilt, so much uncertainty swirling in their depths—it had been so long since anyone had really looked. “I expect you to act like a regular teenager, not a statue for everyone to polish and praise.”

“So that’s your impression of me.” she placed a hand under her chin, her lips twitching into a small smile. What was it that had changed? Her expression was unlike one you’ve ever seen before. Was it the taste of respite from the world she’d been suffocated in? Was it relief?

“It could’ve been worse, Miss Golden Girl.”

She hummed, arms crossing as she shifted her posture—less perfect now, more casual.

A dramatic gasp escaped your lips. “So you do know how to relax.”

“You’re quite the character, aren’t you?” she sighed, shaking her head with a trace of amusement.

“Enlighten me then. What is it you want from me?”

“For you to relax a little.”

“And what does that mean?”

You let out a mischievous giggle before pulling out a pen and a notepad from your bag, she tilted her head slightly out of curiosity for what you were doing. When you finished scribbling, you tore out the page you had written in and handed it to her. “It means I want to take you somewhere. And by you, I mean the Aglaea this school doesn’t know about. Sound fair?”

She froze. Fingers twitching—almost yearning. As if some hidden part of her ached to reach out.

You were offering freedom. Just like that.

When she’d been taught it had to be earned—through sacrifice, perfection, pain.

(Is it really this easy? No, it shouldn’t be.)

“What’s the catch?”

Her fist clenched tight against the black fabric of her skirt, hiding how cold her hands had become—how they trembled under pressure. Her palms were damp.

“There isn’t one. Go out with me, it’ll be fun.” You gently took her hand, unfurling her fingers and slipping the note into her palm. “Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t mean it that way.”

She pressed her lips together, eyes lingering on the folded paper. Then she looked up—just in time to catch you walking away with a grin that was far too proud to be casual.

She lifted the paper you had given her, finding a string of numbers that resembled a phone number.

“How troublesome..”

You never told them you were watching. That those stolen glances from the bleachers weren’t just passing observations—they were habits. You weren’t sure how it started. Maybe it was the way his shadow stretched longer than it should in the golden hour, or the way he never looked back. But Mydei had rooted himself into your daily routine like something quiet and inevitable.

The bleachers had become your favorite study place. As for how, you couldn’t quite say—constantly looking down at your notebook full of algebraic equations couldn’t possibly be good for your back. You made peace with that fact, somehow. And the view wasn’t half-bad either.

The sky, you mean.

Right?

It definitely didn’t have to do with the track star who entered the school building with sweat dripping down his face. The thought seemed almost offensive.

He ran not to win, but to forget—each footfall an echo of something he could never name, something that felt older than him, older than time. You didn’t understand how he did it, all of that running seemed pointless in your eyes. But you found yourself thinking about it more often. Thinking about him more often. You preferred fresh air and the scent of wet grass to the overly floral perfume sprayed by preppy girls who lived lives that never touched your own.

The only person you ever saw Mydei linger around was Phainon. And while Phainon wasn’t on the track team, the two of them were in more competitions with each other than Olympic champions. Their banter became your source of noise and entertainment, background music to long equations and longer glances.

“Mydei, ready for our next race?” Phainon asked, theatrical as always. You found it quite endearing though, comparing him to Mydei would end in a cycle of differences with minimal similarities—at least at first glance.

Mydei crossed his arms and furrowed his brows, staring right into Phainon’s fiery gaze. “Are you prepared to lose once again?”

“Lose? I won that last one, actually.” Phainon huffed, rolling his eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Only you knew the truth. Because your eyes followed Mydei wherever he went—with intrigue that softened your gaze whenever he was near. Mydei had won that race. Barely. And if you ever brought it up, you weren’t sure either of them would ever agree on a conclusion that would satisfy them both. You giggled at the thought.

Then one afternoon, he stopped. Right there on the track.

“Mydei!” Phainon tossed him a water bottle. “What would you do without me?”

“Hydrate less,” Mydei muttered—but he wasn’t looking at Phainon.

He was looking at you.

Just for a moment. Just long enough.

“Bleachers today,” he said. His voice was low—quiet like something meant for only you. “What’s the occasion?”

You blinked, heart thudding once, sharply. “Sky’s nice.”

He tilted his head. “It usually is.”

Then he was gone, jogged back to the starting line like nothing happened. You let out a breath you weren’t aware you were holding in.

(How embarrassing.)

You sighed before grabbing your pen once again.

But your pen didn’t touch paper again for the rest of the hour. Not once.

Something ancient stirred beneath your skin—familiar, electric, inexplicable. And you weren’t sure if it came from the stars above you . . . or the boy running circles just below.

-

The boys developed a habit of coming to you after every early morning race, ignoring your yawns and instead choosing to argue about who won. It ended in ties, or both of them barely outrunning each other on the field.

“Mydei won this time,” you spoke mid-yawn, placing your hand on your chin. “And no, I’m not picking favorites—Phainon.”

“There’s no way he won, my dear friend . . . won’t you speak the truth you hold so close to your chest?” Phainon pleaded, tossing his hands in dramatic despair. “You wound me. Deeply.”

“I call it how I see it,” you replied, eyeing his exaggerated performance with amusement.

Mydei stood off to the side, towel around his neck, chest rising and falling with the ease of someone used to the weight of the world on his lungs. He said nothing, but the barest smile tugged at the edge of his lips.

“Oh, he’s smirking. Great. The silent victory,” Phainon muttered, shooting his friend a glare before nudging you with his elbow. “Next time you’re the judge, try blinking. I think you missed when I passed him at the turn.”

“I didn’t blink,” you said. “But you definitely did. Right when he crossed the line.”

Phainon gasped.

“You’re both hopeless,” you sighed, flipping a page in your notebook you hadn’t written anything on. “If I had a coin, I’d start flipping it just to settle your arguments.”

“That would be fate,” Mydei said, voice low, like he rarely used it.

“Exactly. It’d be out of your hands.” You raised a brow at them both. “Which, frankly, sounds like the only way either of you will ever take a loss.”

Phainon groaned.

Mydei just looked at you. Eyes steady, unreadable. As if you’d said something more profound than you realized.

It lingered—the silence between the three of you, golden and stretched. The sky was just beginning to shift from pale dawn to warm amber, and the field smelled of dew and late spring.

You glanced at him again. Mydei. You wondered what else he’d let the world decide for him, and what he still tried to outrun.

-

The next morning, Mydei came to the field alone—but he didn’t charge straight toward the track as he usually did. Instead, he came to you—leaning a bit too close for comfort.

“You dropped this yesterday,” he said, holding out a worn purple notebook. His fingers brushed yours as you took it.

You blinked, surprised. “Oh, really? So that’s where I left it. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

You glanced toward the track. “Not gonna run today?”

He sat beside you instead, one leg crossed over the other, elbows resting on his knees. “No . . . not today.”

Silence settled between you like morning fog, heavy but not unwelcome.

You tried not to stare, but he wasn’t looking at you—he was watching the sky, as if the clouds might spell something out for him.

“No Phainon today either?” you asked, flipping through your notebook absentmindedly, even though you weren’t reading the pages.

(You weren’t sure why you were worried, Mydei usually had everything under control—didn’t he?)

“No,” he said. “He talks too much in the morning.”

You laughed under your breath. “He talks too much in the afternoon too.”

That earned you a rare smile, small and fleeting.

You hesitated before asking, “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat with it. Mydei never rushed his words.

Eventually, he opened his mouth to speak. “Why do you come to the bleachers anyway?”

Whether the question was out of curiosity or concern, you answered with a small grin. “It gets too overwhelming inside of the school building, do you know how many people roam those halls in the morning?”

“Too many?”

“Too many.”

“I don’t understand how seeing me run across the field before classes start is any better, though.” he mumbled quietly, causing your smile to widen just a little more.

“You’re not overwhelming to be around.”

“I’m not?”

“No, you’re not.” you reassured him, rummaging through your bag for a handkerchief before gently dabbing the fabric onto his forehead. “You sweat a lot, by the way.”

He scoffed, “Do I now?”

“You do, but that’s okay too. Just sit still for a second.”

“Sure thing.”

Cipher always made it seem like fun. Like skipping class was the beginning of some great adventure, and not a panic attack waiting to happen. “No one’s gonna notice,” she’d whisper as you tiptoed down the hall behind her, heart pounding like a drum. “They’re all too busy pretending to care.”

And you’d want to believe her—because she said it like a promise, not a lie.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Cipher glanced back, her eyes softer than they ever looked in the daylight. “You okay?”

“I—yeah. I just…”

“Too much?”

“A little.”

She hummed thoughtfully, chewing her bottom lip before taking your hand. Her fingers were warm. Steady. “Then we’ll just go somewhere quiet. I know a place.”

You blinked. “You do?”

“Mhm. Been hiding there since I was, like, twelve. It has snacks.” She said it like that was the main draw—but the way she adjusted her pace for you, let your hand go when she felt it tremble, glanced your way every few steps just to make sure you were still breathing right . . . it was more than snacks.

Cipher was sneaky, sure. But never with you. With you, she was honest in the ways that mattered most.

A smooth-talker, she was. The one with every solution in the book hidden inside of her mind, the one who chooses to carry the responsibility of your fragility on her shoulders—it didn’t make it any better that you reminded her of her old self. The stray cat who would hide in corners, scavenging for a speckle of glimmer within the pile of dull. “Stay calm, won’t you? You’ll be fine as long as you’re with me, remember? Plus, you’re more anxious in the classroom than out of it.”

You couldn’t disagree there, the stress that came with the environment was something you never got used to. You weren’t sure if you ever would. That weight of expectations casted upon you like a pile of dumbbells on your back—you felt sick just imagining it.

Cipher was your complete opposite, that you were certain of. She faced the world with a mischievous smirk and a scheme in the midst. She never faltered either, and she was the kind of person most feared due to her seemingly lax personality.

You’d once asked her if she was ever scared. It slipped out one afternoon, hidden between breaths as you ducked beneath the stairwell she called “home base.” Cipher just laughed, that low, amused kind of sound that felt like it echoed in your bones.

(You loved the sound of her laughter, it reminded you that regardless of what happened—that she would never allow you to collapse into the hole of fear and dread.)

“Scared?” she repeated, like the word was foreign. Then she leaned in, eyes sharp and unreadable. “I don’t have time to be scared. Someone’s gotta steer the ship when everyone else is frozen at the wheel.”

She made survival sound effortless. But even then, you caught it—the way her fingers twitched when she thought you weren’t looking. The way she always kept the exit in sight. She was fully prepared to leave like an alert cat readying its paws to charge out of the scene.

Cipher didn’t flinch when trouble came. She smiled at it, twirled it around her finger, and dared it to try her. And maybe that’s what made her so easy to follow—because with Cipher, you weren’t running away. You were running with her. Side by side, hand in hand—with a pounding heart and quickened breath—you followed her wherever she went and tried not to regret it.

-

“You remind me of how I used to be,” she said one day, flicking a pebble into a puddle with the grace of someone pretending not to care. “Scared. Small. Always asking for permission.”

You opened your mouth to apologize—though you weren’t sure for what.

“But look at you now.” She tilted her head, and for once, her smirk gave way to something gentler. “Still scared. But you’re out here anyway. That’s brave as hell.”

“I like you, you’re pretty cool~!”

You felt your heart skip a beat at the sound of her alluring tone, the way she sung your praises even if just barely—it made your chest ache a little.

“I don’t think so, doing this is still terrifying to me. I’m still really anxious about it all.”

“Then why are you here?”

(Why were you here? Did the sound of her voice lure you in too deep? Were you blindly putting your faith in a known troublemaker? A girl hiding behind several masks, known to lie, known to be deceitful?)

(Were you simply aching for a bit of solace in a place where you knew nothing about? A gamble that you took knowing the possible consequences?)

“I don’t . . . want to be like this forever. I want to be more like you, Cifera!”

That detail surprised her a bit. Why would you ever want to turn into someone like her? A topic of gossip for the teenagers roaming the halls to spread word about? At first glance, perhaps she would’ve thought of you as foolish and naive. But she knew the aching need to escape, to throw all responsibilities out of the window—to take a risk in exchange for your head to be out of water.

“Like me, huh? If that’s what you want . . . you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

“Huh?” you blinked, noticing your phone had suddenly disappeared into thin air. Your lips formed a pout before you reached out towards her. “Give it back, Cifera!”

“Nuh uh, catch me if you can—dear student~!”

taglist [ 🔔 ] : @chlosology @seelestia @saeun @aellesira @spr9ng @florinoir @riniaras @milk-violet @kazuinvocation @tragedy-of-commons @fxngtasy

[robinabi]

why r talented editors following me on tiktok stooop my edits are so ahh i feel so pressured 😭😭 but honored at the same time idk

[robinabi]

my twt got FAWKING SUSPENDED

[robinabi]

snapshoot!

when march 7th takes photos, she notices something unusual about dan heng—he's never looking at the camera!

(why? because he's looking at you.)

dan heng ♡ gn!reader

warnings: dan heng may be ooc (he's smitten), march is a little delusional (but she's right), reader is not trailblazer (but is a trailblazer)

notes: guys i simultaneously peaked and flopped whilst writing this

when march 7th takes photos, she sees moments that people miss.

"say cheese!"

like the way only one side of welt's lips turn when he forces a smile, or the way himeko has to rest her hands on pom-pom to keep them from facing the wrong direction.

she sees a lot of things, from the way stelle holds her arm up to flex, to the way you tilt your head a little, smiling at her camera with your eyes, a peace sign coming up to the side of your face.

click!

when march 7th takes photos, she sees the way dan heng smiles a little, the way his usually sharp gaze becomes soft, his furrowed brows beginning to relax. it's odd, though, because he never seems to be looking at the camera; so she follows the direction of his gaze, gasping once it lands on you.

oho! march thinks. now, this is something!

dan heng is a man of aloofness, of tenderness masked with apathy, but when he looks at you—oh, when he looks at you—he can't help but adore the way you smile, your grin reaching your eyes. when you hold bunny ears over stelle's fallen form (she flexed too hard), dan heng can't help but stare at you for a couple seconds longer, observing the crinkle of your eyes to the curl of your lips, your lashes fluttering as you wait expectantly for the familiar click!

if he were march, he would keep this moment in particular. he'd zoom in on your face—vividly beautiful, vividly radiant—and he'd take a photo then. he'd make sure to capture the way your eyes glimmer under the train's light, the way you glow and glow, bringing space to a standstill, putting the brightest sun to shame.

your existence makes a lover of him. because dan heng never really noticed the way people smile, or the way they stare anxiously, trying to keep their eyes open for long enough before the camera goes off. dan heng never really noticed the way people fidget anxiously from side to side, as if the countdown mattered more than the moment itself.

but when it comes to you, dan heng can't help but notice everything. he notices the way you bite back a laugh when stelle stumbles, the way your smile widens when pom-pom impatiently stomps their feet, complaining about how long the camera is taking. dan heng notices a lot about you—everything about you, maybe—and he can't help but smile a little too.

your existence etches itself onto his face. it's in the way his lips curl into the slightest of smiles, mimicking but a fraction of your grandeur, the way he stares at you, drinking in your features and letting them permeate into his organs, his tissues.

your existence is so prominent that it's evident in the way dan heng tilts his head a little too, the way he acts so unlike himself, it's only possible because it's you.

(it's only ever possible because it's you.)

click!

before he knows it, however, the camera flashes and dan heng has missed his cue. he stiffens a little, averting his eyes from your figure a second too late.

oh, is all he thinks, noticing the way march giggles deviously to herself from behind the camera.

"stelle!" you suddenly exclaim, "why'd you fall down earlier?" your words are interrupted briefly by giggles, your grin growing larger.

"i dunno... i totally lost aura points, though."

everyone laughs, and dan heng can't help but crack a smile. when he smiles, however, he isn't looking at stelle, or pom-pom, or anyone else for that matter, he is looking wholly at you.

(it's only ever possible because it's you.)

in your presence, dan heng wields wings made of wax. to him, it doesn't matter if you are brighter than the grandest sun, because you've made a lover of him, and this lover will reach for your light, he will fly and fly, just to bask in your warmth and to fall soon after.

it's common sense to not approach the sun with wax wings. but for once, all sense of rationale and logic evades him, because dan heng has found something greater than logic, greater than sense. he has found you, and although his skin burns, and his wax wings deteriorate, he reaches out.

(it's only ever possible because it's you.)

in your presence, dan heng becomes unlike himself. his expression becomes softer, and his shoulders begin to relax. in your presence, dan heng becomes a lover, his gaze belonging entirely to you, his existence—from the moment this life begun, to the moment it ends—following hopelessly after yours.

your existence overshadows the world, your presence beaming with incomparable radiance. when you smile, dan heng feels his heart throb.

he feels his chest ache, and his mind goes blank. because when you smile, dan heng wants to memorize the sight, he wants to breathe you in and keep you safely within himself, to be carried onto every incarnation, to be remembered by every atom and cell he has.

this love of his transcends time itself. it transcends lifetimes, because although dan heng would like to leave his previous identities behind, and he'd like to start anew with every rebirth, you are the only thing that's keeping him here.

because closer to him than his very bones, you are there. you are here, in this lifetime and the next.

you are his identity. you are his lifetime. you are everything and anything in this vast, great galaxy.

first and foremost, however, you are you, and that might just be the grandest thing of them all.

when march 7th takes photos, she sees the way dan heng looks at you. his gaze always seems to instinctively drift over you before reaching the lens, his icy turquoise eyes melting soon afterwards.

dan heng is smitten! march thinks, giggling at the photo she just printed out. whereas everyone is occupied with stelle's bodybuilding journey, she's fixated on dan heng's expression in the photo.

his irises hold your reflection, a sliver of his soul slipping past his pupils and worshipping your existence. if march squints a little, she can see dan heng's subconscious taking shape in his eyes—its form resembles you, you, you.

when he looks at you, dan heng becomes someone new. his gaze is so gentle, so adoring, march has to rub her eyes in order to confirm whether or not what she's seeing is true.

you emanate from his eyes, from his existence.

a photo later, you smile, and so does dan heng. the edges of his lip curl up, eyes still belonging to you, whilst you remain completely oblivious. you don't seem to notice dan heng's adoring look, his newfound identity as he offers to you his irises, his pupils, his soul.

across all the photos, dan heng hardly looks at the camera. maybe for one or two, but immediately in the next, he returns to you, staring.

march grins, examining each photograph. she takes the time to dig beyond her recent photos, traveling all the way back to belobog, when stelle was first introduced to the team.

even then, dan heng's attention was yours. in almost every photo she saw, he was always looking at you, his eyes crinkling, ever so slightly, at the corners.

but his love goes beyond the mere crinkle his eyes, because march notices the way he would remain an arms-length away from you, as if he were afraid to close in the distance and stand fully by your side. yet at the same time, it seemed as though he was afraid to let that distance grow—as if you'd slip away from him, drifting beyond the atmosphere. his atmosphere.

his eyes, however, manage to close that distance. whenever he can't be near you, dan heng's gaze would make up for his heart's loss, filling in what couldn't be tangible. so, he stares. on and on.

but march doesn't want that; she wants this to become real, for dan heng to break through the barrier of fantasy and finally, finally love! she wants his love to become palpable, for you to notice his gaze, his adoration.

she wants your eyes to meet his, for his longing to be returned. after all, it's no fun pining all the time!

i've got to take the reins! march thinks with the snap of her fingers, grinning mischievously once she notices dan heng trying to sneak off to the comfort of his room.

little does he know, march is an expert in love, and she's not going to let this case remain unresolved!

now that she thinks about it, you might have some feelings for dan heng too. sometimes, she would come into your room and it'd be empty, only for her to realize that you were in dan heng's, reading some math textbooks (written by doctor veritas ratio himself).

even though you hate math.

suspicious, march thinks, not-so-discreetly lurking behind a corner. very, very suspicious.

"i know you're there," dan heng states blandly, standing with his arms crossed.

march opts to remain silent. dan heng sighs.

"what you're thinking is wrong," dan heng tries to explain, his tone unamused. march steps out from behind the corner, a frown etched onto her face.

"how do you know what i'm thinking, huh?"

"it's written all over your face."

"well, i know what i'm thinking is right. you like [name]!" she points at him as if she were prosecuting him in court, only to wince once she hears her voice echo throughout the train's hallway.

oops. march's hand falls to her side, her eyes growing wide as she glances away from dan heng.

"ahaha... i mean, who wouldn't, though?" march tries to add, rubbing the back of her head anxiously. "right, dan heng?"

"they're not here right now," dan heng mutters, as if that were reassuring. despite his "kind" words, however, march can still feel his piercing glare. she shivers a little, but justice always comes first.

once more, march points at dan heng accusingly.

"now, how would you know that? i knew it! you're always watching them—you can't fool me, dan heng!"

"as the guard of the astral express, i need to know where everyone is at all times," dan heng states, his voice monotone.

march isn't easily defeated. "well, where's stelle?!"

"lobby."

"welt?!"

"lobby."

"himeko?!"

"lobby."

"is everyone at the lobby to you?" march asks, exasperated. dan heng shakes his head.

"the conductor is at the helm."

"well, obviously! where's [name], then?!"

"the buffet car."

"aha! notice how [name]'s location is the only one that's different?! that's 'cause you're keeping tabs on them, dan heng!"

"the conductor is at the helm."

"that's because the conductor is the conductor! and conductors have to conduct in the helm!"

dan heng deadpans, watching the way march mentally congratulates herself for such an intelligent line of reasoning. he uses this moment of weakness to slip away from her line of sight and lock himself in his room, free from march's madness.

"hey! don't run away!"

i already did, though? is all dan heng thinks, feigning ignorance to march's fists pounding against his door.

"fine! i was gonna be benevolent and consult you before [name], but since you're acting like this, i'm just gonna tell them right now!"

march stomps away from dan heng's room, making sure her steps are extra loud. a couple seconds pass, and dan heng's door slides open.

"heh, i knew it," she remarks triumphantly. dan heng sighs.

"don't tell them."

"why not?" march asks, genuinely confused. she notices the way dan heng glances away briefly (when usually, he maintains eye contact without a problem), and the way his fingers play nervously with the cuffs of his coat.

the concept of you is enough to make dan heng reincarnate anew. he becomes something else, shedding his previous apathetic identity in exchange for something lighter, something lovelier.

he's nervous, march realizes. that's a first!

at the mere thought of you, he shifts awkwardly from side to side, unsure of what to say. he loses his words, his throat closes up, and his heart—oh, his heart—aches.

"it'd be a burden," dan heng mutters, "i think it's best if things just stayed as is."

something tells march that dan heng has thought about this before; that he's spent many sleepless nights mulling this over, whatever this is. something tells march that dan heng has wanted to break the barrier of fantasy, that out of everyone in the world, the universe, he's wanted to do that the most. where else would he use this love of his?

"but what if they like you too?" march asks, suddenly sympathetic. dan heng shakes his head, a solemn expression on his face—it's unlike himself, to be so doubtful, but the sincerity of his frown makes march realize that this is real.

he really thinks he has no chance, she thinks. poor guy!

"they... have feelings for someone else." dan heng's voice drops, barely above a whisper. again, dan heng acts so unlike himself—it's in the way his gaze casts downwards, the way his expression loses his signature self-assuredness.

of all the things in this world, the only thing that can make dan heng doubt himself is you.

(it's only ever possible because it's you.)

so, the reason why he's only ever stared at [name] is because he thinks they like someone else? dan heng fills the grief of his heart through his eyes. when he looks at you, his irises can hold you because his hands cannot. when he looks at you, he can cherish your existence from afar, making up for the distance in between.

of all the things in the world, the only thing that can make dan heng suffer is you. because he's forced to orbit around you, because he's incapable of coming any closer—because dan heng's wax wings aren't strong enough for your incomparable light, your incomparable presence.

dan heng's wax wings aren't strong enough for anything but observing you from a distance: staring, staring.

"now, what makes you think that?" march queries, trying her best to comfort her friend. "if anything, i think [name] does like you!"

"they're always making stops at the luofu,"—at this point, dan heng doesn't even care if he reveals how much he knows about your whereabouts—"and they have regular meetings with the general."

subconsciously, dan heng's hand comes to reach for his hair, feeling the spot where horns used to sprout from his previous incarnation. if he were a life earlier, would you love him then?

march frowns before asking: "so, i guess you have your slow moments too, huh?"

dan heng blinks.

"[name] is going to the luofu so often because of you! they want to learn more about the vidyadhara! and guess who's a vidyadhara?"

dan heng blinks.

"that's what i thought!" march declares, finally basking in her long-awaited glory with outstretched arms. "once again, detective march prevails!"

"anyway, now that we've gotten over that hurdle, it's time we begin planning how you're going to confess to [name]! see, i had this idea, we should lay all of these pictures across their room—"

"that's creepy," dan heng states.

"only now are you choosing to be self-aware?" march retorts, offended. "fine! do you have any better ideas, then?"

silence. just as i thought, march thinks, crossing her arms. before she can say anything else, dan heng quickly turns around, his limbs becoming stiff as footsteps approach from down the hall.

march notices the way the tips of dan heng's ears begin to redden.

"oh, dan heng!" a familiar voice exclaims. "fancy seeing you here!"

"i live here," dan heng replies.

"you sure have a lot of attitude for someone who's turning into a tomato..." march mutters, loud enough for only dan heng to hear. he says nothing—too fixated on you, obviously.

"and march, too! hey!" you wave, and march returns the gesture with even more excitement. she rushes to take your hands in hers before bidding farewell to the bodyguard, intent on dragging you down the parlor car to her room.

but dan heng is quicker to react, because he positions himself in between the two of you and march's room, an unreadable expression on his face. the only telltale sign of his affection is the color of his ears—impossibly red, impossibly loved.

"what's going on?" you ask, genuinely confused. "are you beefing? i'm placing my bets on march, by the way."

dan heng sighs, but it's a different kind of sigh. it's a little lovesick, a little endearing, because although dan heng doesn't particularly care about silly comments, when you're the one saying it, it suddenly becomes acceptable.

(it's only ever possible because it's you.)

"yeah, we're beefing!" march interjects, ignoring the way dan heng glares at her with the might of a thousand suns.

you can't hurt me! march thinks, grinning. dan heng seems to catch on, because his brows begin to furrow and his slightly upturned lips—a result of your presence—thin into a line.

"huh? beefing?" stelle suddenly appears out of nowhere, wanting to join in on the action. "about what?"

"about dan heng's feelings!" march adds, feeling the way dan heng emits murderous intent.

"dan heng has feelings?" stelle asks.

"yes, yes! and guess who they're for?"

"pause," you interject. "dan heng has feelings for someone?"

aha! march thinks, tugging your hand towards herself. "does that make you feel any way, [name]? jealous, perhaps? murderous?!"

someone, at this very moment, is feeling very murderous.

"oh, i know, i know!" stelle pulls out a detective cap and a monocle, a toothy grin forming on her face. "[name] feels jealous!"

your mouth hangs slightly agape, whereas dan heng's murderous intent dissipates into utter nothingness. the parlor car falls silent, and if march really listens in, she can hear crickets despite there being no insects in outer space.

"now, why would [name] feel jealous, stelle?!" march lets go of your hands in exchange for stelle's, reveling in the joy of being understood by a fellow partner.

"because..." stelle trails off dramatically, tugging her detective cap down to mask her eyes. "[name] likes—"

dan heng slams the blunt end of his spear against the floor (where did he even get that from? march wonders), the powerful thump! reverberating throughout the hall. instinctively, he glances over at you.

but you return his gaze (and dan heng ignores the way his heart stutters) and you smile at him (and dan heng ignores the way his heart leaps), before stating, "well, this wasn't really how i envisioned it to go."

you spare stelle a glance, and she instantly grabs march's wrist before rushing off. although it seems like they're leaving you and dan heng alone, it's more likely that they're just hiding behind a corner to eavesdrop.

but you don't care. after all, the cat's out of the bag anyway. might as well just confess, right?

you open your mouth to speak, but dan heng beats you to it.

"i have feelings for you," he states. when he stares at you—and when you return his gaze—dan heng's heart trembles. he's not used to being perceived by you, he's not used to having his stares reciprocated, much less his feelings.

"i do, too," you reply, nervous. dan heng can tell you're nervous; it's in the way your fingers come to fiddle with each other, the way your voice is a little shaky, your lips pursed.

you smile, and so does dan heng.

he reaches for the sun.

click!

[robinabi]

₊ ⊹ SO HIGH SCHOOL

you know how to ball, i know aristotle !

cc — dr ratio, blade, dan heng x f!reader (sp.) modern highschool au. ik that a figure skater doesn't exactly fit here but its cool ok ☹️. not proofread.

athelete gf & student leader bf ᡣ𐭩

VERITAS, the diligent student council president of his school. academics responsibilities and such has taken over his time. like, a lot. as he was committed when it came to his tasks, which left very little room for extracurricular interests. sports, in particular, never crossed his mind. maybe once or twice during those events that he manages. in contrast to his academic oriented focus, his girlfriend was a dedicated student athlete who poured his time and energy into volleyball. but despite your different passions, your support for each other was firm. for every time he gave speeches for school events, you were there, cheering him on and appreciating his eloquence and ability to captivate an audience. whenever he achieved something, you were the first to commend him, regardless of whether it was a small accomplishment or a noteworthy triumph.

"i give my gratitude to those who helped arrange this event, and i do hope you enjoy yourselves tonight. thank you." he left the stage, relinquishing the microphone back to the principal as his official duties came to an end for the evening.

as his eyes scanned the crowd, they locked onto you standing near the stage. the sight of you in your stunning dress overwhelmed him with affection all over again. the way the fabric hugged your figure flawlessly, the gentle glow of the lights illuminating your features—it was a vision that always left him awestruck.

his heart swelled with love as he approached you, his gaze filled with admiration. "heeeyy! you look soooo good. i'm so proud of you." you said as you lifted yourself up on your tiptoes to plant a gentle kiss on his cheek, he couldn't help but let out a lighthearted chuckle at your gesture.

his eyes crinkled with affection as he looked down at you, the smile on his lips widening. in return, he bent down to place a tender kiss on your forehead, before uttering, "i could say the same for you, pretty." a soft blush colored your cheeks, and he leaned down slightly closer to brush another quick kiss on your nose.

oh how he adored the way your eyes lit up with joy every time he compliments you.

in return, he made sure to attend your practices every once in a while. during crucial games, he was always in the stands, cheering you on and offering silent encouragement. as long as you were satisfied with your pursuits and happy with the path you walked, he vowed to always be by your side.

as you rushed towards him after the victory celebration with your teammates, your wide grin shone even more brightly, a testament to all the effort and dedication you poured into the game.

he carefully dabbed a towel against your forehead to wipe away the beads of sweat, then handed you the familiar tumbler of water that he brought to your practices. "you did good." he murmured. "how 'bout i get you ice cream, yeah?" he offered, caressing your hand.

he watched as you ran back to the locker room to gr your stuff and once everything was wrapped up, he led you to the ice cream shop downtown to reward yourself after the hard-earned victory.

basketball player bf & writer/poet gf ᡣ𐭩

by the looks of it, you already knew that BLADE was going to be the part time hot student athlete and full time campus crush. he was the captain of the school's basketball team, obviously! girls would frequently stop by during their training sessions just to gawk at him. but you weren't bothered by it. you knew damn well that he was immune to their charms because he was completely enthralled by you. during his games, you were always present on the bleachers, enthusiastically cheering him on. whenever he glanced at you, adorned in his jersey, a proud smirk would grace his lips. it wasn't uncommon for others to feel envious of your relationship since he was the epitome of perfection—the complete package.

as he took a break from his training and moved towards you on the bleachers, a chorus of squeals rang out from a group of girls on your right, but his focus was solely on you.

blade settled down beside you, and with a gentle smile, he allowed you to tenderly dab away the sweat from the side of his face. turning his head to look at you, he asked, "so, how about that restaurant you've been talking about earlier? does tonight sound good?"

"heyy, you remembered! and yeah, tonight sounds nice." you questioned. When he saw the delighted smile on your face, it only magnified his happiness. he adored the fact that even the smallest gestures like remembering your favorite restaurant could bring such joy to your features.

blade reached out and gave your hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "what about your plans?" he cocked a brow as he brushed a strand of hair away from your face, "no worries, i cleared my plans for the week."

with your hand still tingling from the warm, comforting touch of his, he gave it one last squeeze, a gentle reassuring gesture. finally, he reluctantly let go and turned back to his friends, who were waiting for him with smirks plastered on their faces.

you, on the other hand, had a talent for writing poetry, a way with words that made even the shortest verses hold significant meaning. whenever you shared your creations with him, it was like hearing the voice of an angel reciting beautiful thoughts. your skill in crafting such exquisite narratives fascinated him. once, you casually revealed that you had written a whole novel 'just for fun'. that night, he stayed up all night, reading your story and unable to put it down. in the morning, he discussed his thoughts and feelings about your novel.

"sooo, what do you think? do you like it?" you finished reading your poem, which was one of the best ones he had ever heard, and awaited his response while spinning gracefully on your chair.

he took a moment to absorb the beauty of your words, letting the impact of your poem sink in. he had no idea how you managed to come up with them in less than thirty minutes.

finally, he broke the silence with a slight look of awe on his face. "mhm. one of your best ones, it's nice." blade truly tried to sound invested, because he was. but you knew about how hard it was for him to express his emotions through words, and he tried, so best believe that you his efforts.

"glad you liked it ! wrote this last night when you practically passed out last night." as you giggled, your laughter filled the room with a joyful sound. blade couldn't help but show a subtle smile at the sound of your laughter, he watched as you turned back to your computer, your focus returning to the screen.

figure skater gf & valedictorian bf ᡣ𐭩

as for DAN HENG, he chose a prestigious school for his senior year, aiming to excel in his studies and embark on a promising future. you, on the other hand, had a different path in mind. you were a young figure skater with a growing career. your school choice was not a mere decision, but rather a necessity. you attended a different school that was located closer to your homeland, as it was crucial for your skating career to have access to the resources and facilities necessary for training and competitions. meaning you and dan heng are currently in a long distance relationship. despite being miles apart, you consistently made an effort to maintain your relationship through regular video calls every night to catch up about the events of the day. moreover, you sent each other frequent updates throughout the day, ensuring that the bond between you remained unbroken.

after two years filled with hard work and dedication, the day of graduation finally arrived. and as expected, your boyfriend earned the prestigious title of valedictorian. little did he know that you had planned a surprise up your sleeve.

the car ride was long a—two-hour drive—but it didn't deter you. you made your way to his school, determined to witness his big day and give him the ultimate surprise.

as you entered the gates and hurried towards the venue, your eyes scanned the bustling crowd till you found yourself a seat in the very back. there, you impatiently waited for his moment to shine, your heart swelling with anticipation for his speech. patiently, they announced each graduate, one by one, and finally, after what felt like an eternity, your boyfriend made his way onto the stage.

with a confident stride, he stepped up to the podium table and gently grabbed the microphone, taking a deep breath to gather his thoughts. the auditorium fell into a hushed silence, all eyes fixated on him as he prepared to address the audience.

"good afternoon to all guests, parents, teachers, faculty members and especially my fellow graduates, class of 2023. before i begin, i would like to give a shout out to the love of my life because if it werent for her, i wouldnt be standing here. y/n, who has given me her unconditional love and support despite how far our distance is, i'll never forget how you practically held my head high during the times when i felt like giving it all up. she may not be here right now, but she deserves every word of gratitude for what she has given me. you've played such a big role in my life." as he proudly spoke your name, a wave of emotions washed over you, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes.

if only he knew you were there, sitting in the back of the auditorium, watching him with pride, love, and bittersweet nostalgia swelling in your chest. his speech went on for minutes 'til he finally ended it with "from the bottom of my heart, i hereby give my thanks to the class of 2023 now before we enter another beginning of our lives, thank you and good luck."

the congratulatory chatter filled the air when he stepped down from the podium, his friends shaking his hand and patting him on the back. just as he began to turn, expecting to see one of them, he felt your weight on his back, knocking him off balance for a split second. but then he saw your face—and everything else faded into the background. his initial confusion was quickly replaced by awe and disbelief as he wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off the ground and into his embrace. "congrats baaabyyy!"

after what felt like an eternity of being close to him again, he finally pulled away, his eyes glistening with joy and disbelief. his hands remained on your shoulders as he looked deeply into your eyes with pure love. a slight smile formed on his face, and before he spoke, he leaned in and kissed your forehead. "you're here." he whispered, his voice filled with astonishment. "when did you get here?"

"just before the ceremony started. ugh, i missed you and i couldn't miss your big moment." with a swift motion, he pulled you back into his arms, pressing your body close to his. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent that he had missed for so long.

after your graduation that followed his, he got into the same college you applied into. which was a great opportunity that he immediately took for the same of being with you. and also to support your career. he felt the need to be there for you after years of separation. weeks into college, he often accompanied you to the rink to observe you during your training with your coach.

he stood outside the rink, watching you glide effortlessly on the ice, your focus stedied as you practiced your routine. a small proud smile was etched on his face.

tearing his gaze away from the rink, he turned his head to look at you as you skated towards him after finishing your routine. "coach isn't gonna be here today.."

"then why did we come here?"

"perhaps i wanted to teach you.. hehe." a sly grin formed on your lips. "no."

"come onnn! i borrowed extra skates for this!" after some convincing, he finally succumbed to your offer of teaching him how to skate. he walked to your locker, retrieving the skates you had kept in there and began to put them on.

his movements slow and somewhat clumsy, mirroring the reluctance he felt. he finished lacing up the skates, and there was a hint of skepticism in his eyes as he looked up at you. "if i fall, im dragging you down with me." he threatened, earning a giggle from you.

from xumi : i love my concept on dan heng STOPP 😭

[robinabi]

hello, could I request a model! Dan Heng x fashion designer! Reader? Here’s some keywords if they might help, tiredness, praise, warmth, try-on. The timestamp is 17:57, thank you so much!

as always i had too much fun with this... i love the idea of model dan heng but i still made him an awkward wet rag in this one (because i love him) THANK YOU FOR THE REQUEST!!!

my 1k event!

—°+..｡ﾟ｡ﾟ+.*.｡.—

You greet Dan Heng with your usual warm smile and a “hey, love” that never fails to fluster him. He’s heard it from you a handful of times now, visiting your studio a few times a week at your request for fittings and some brainstorming sessions. He thinks that the frequency and timing of his visits is definitely unnecessary from a professional standpoint, but he’s not planning on bringing that up any time soon. Not when your hands are so kind, light on his shoulders as you guide him through your studio. 

“I started on the pieces that I showed you the sketches for, um, last week, was it? I’m kind of losing track of time.” Dan Heng wouldn’t tell you out loud, but he can tell. There’s a huge table in the center of the room, and he can barely see its surface beneath all the cut fabric and tracing paper and tangled thread from your serger. For someone working under deadline after deadline, you’re handling yourself better than he would, but he still can’t help the heat of concern flickering in the crease of his brow. 

This is your debut show, he knows as much. So he won’t meddle with your workflow. Only hope that you can somehow pick up the signals that he’s sending you to please sit down and maybe drink water? 

“I need you to try them on,” you tell him, a gentle command as you hand him a hanger draped in silky fabrics and delicate laces. “There’s pants and a lace shirt. I’ll turn around while you change, but you need to be wearing pretty much nothing underneath these, if that’s okay. And then I’ll hem your pants—let me get you some shoes…” you’re trailing off, passing the clothes to him before turning around in a rush to find him a pair of heeled boots. 

The fabric is— it’s nice. The pants are some kind of silky, lustrous material, dark blue and cool on his skin, and the shirt is embarrassingly sheer but you’ve seen him in and out of clothes in the last month often enough that he can’t really be too sheepish about it now. What does make him flush, however, is the look on your face as you turn around to stare at him, black heeled shoes forgotten in your hands as your eyes flit across Dan Heng’s form. 

He can hear the soft breaths that you take, no more labored than usual, but it feels so intimate and so quiet that his palms grow damp. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he waits for you to— say something, anything, tell him to take it off and go home or maybe stay, instead. The back of his neck feels itchy and he’s pretty sure you haven’t blinked yet. 

“The, um. It looks…” you’re trailing off, again, but you’re also walking towards him until you’re so close he can hear your breathing even more distinctly than before, along with the rustling of your own clothes as you lift up a hand to play with the ornamented collar of his shirt. “The color is nice on you. It’s different from the other pieces I’ve made you try, right?” 

Dan Heng only has enough strength to nod in response, the rest of his energy taken away by the feeling of your finger tips on the soft, pliant skin beneath his jaw. He’s sweating— so much, it must be gross, but he can see you chewing the inside of your cheek as you drag your fingers to the seam on the shoulder. 

“I was thinking a sash around the waist, but I don’t think it suits this outfit. Maybe I can add something like that to the pieces from last week, though.” And you’re back to your usual self, much to his dismay. Your rambling is endearing and tender, but your previously weighted gaze has now lightened, focused on the waist of his pants and the hand-sewn hook-and-bar closure, and Dan Heng misses having it trained on him. You’ve never been this close, this warm, this focused on him in particular, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to fight the urge to take your hands between his own. 

“Dan Heng,” you say his name, breaking him out of his anxious reverie with a quiet call. “You have a lot on your plate for this show. You have three outfit changes, which can be a lot, but I know you’re capable. Do you know you’re capable?” 

He wants to say this is silly, that you’re the last person who should be telling anybody else that they have a lot on their plate, considering that you’re sewing more than a dozen garments all on your own, with no assistants besides your in-and-out mentors who rarely find time to help. He says none of that, though, because your gaze is trained on his again and he’s busy hoping you don’t notice all the little involuntary twitches in his face. 

“Yeah, I’m— I know.” 

You smile, again, something saccharine and addictive and he wants to chase it, over and over and over. “Good. You’re my favorite model, you know. It’s important that you’re ready.” 

Dan Heng could say a million things. He could say this is unprofessional, or joke and say that he’s currently one of your only models, or tell you that he’s always ready as long as he’s wearing something put together by you and your hands alone. Instead, he nods like a fool, stumbling over a weak “okay” and trying to ignore the way his stomach twists when you laugh a little. 

“I’ll be doing your makeup for the show, too. I hope you don’t mind that. I just wanted to do something specific for you,” and it’s hit after hit with you, and his throat squeezes again because you’re still smiling and talking all about him like he’s your prized gift, and he really really doesn’t hate it. “You trust me with an eyeliner pen, right?” 

His mouth is dry, but he forces himself to joke back before you kick him out for being so awkward. “I trust you with a needle more than I trust you with a makeup brush.” And you laugh, and his stomach still hurts but the tightness of his mouth loosens up into a diffident smile. It’s just a joke, really, because he wouldn’t mind you handling a brush against his face, or the gentle press of your fingers on his cheeks and on top of his eyelids, or the awestruck look you give him every time he tries something on, or the weight of your hands on his shoulders when you drag him around your studio.

—°+..｡ﾟ｡ﾟ+.*.｡.—

gen taglist: @tragedy-of-commons @lasiancunin @hanyi-writes

fill out my event taglist (pinned) or general taglist (navi) to be tagged in upcoming works!

[robinabi]

Greetings! Would it be okay if I request bodyguard!Dan Heng x celebrity!Reader with a 19:58 timestamp? I hope it's okay, thanks in advance.

i think my dan heng favoritism is showing because this is the longest drabble i've written for this event so far,,, i love dan hen hsr,,, THANK U FOR UR REQUEST :**

my 1k event!

—°+..｡ﾟ｡ﾟ+.*.｡.—

The airport is much too bright for Dan Heng’s taste. The reflectiveness of the linoleum floor tiles and the beaming LED lights make him squint as he guides you towards the baggage terminal. 

“That was fun!” your enthusiasm is almost painful compared to how exhausted Dan Heng feels. There’s no hint of a drag in your steps or a lull in your words as you head towards the carousels, on the lookout for a sky blue and neon green striped suitcase—courtesy of you, of course. You asked Dan Heng for his opinion when you were first buying it, claiming that it would be easy to recognize among the sea of plain, typical suitcases. Truthfully, it was an eyesore, but you looked so happy about it, so he just nodded along. 

“Fun? You’re not tired?” he asks. Your atrocity of a suitcase is, in fact, easily spotted, and Dan Heng goes to pick it up for you. Luckily, his is on the same carousel, and he takes up both in his hands before turning back to you. “It was a long flight. You’ll be jet-lagged for a bit.”

“Oh, I’m definitely tired,” you admit, engaging in a wordless struggle with Dan Heng as he fights against your attempt to take your own suitcase from him. He has yet to engage in an actual fight as a bodyguard (or do much at all, really), so he might as well help out by being your glorified bag-carrier. It makes him feel less guilty about the paycheck he gets every two weeks. “But being in first-class was so exciting! You didn't think so?” 

Exciting is certainly a way to describe it. For most of the ten-hour flight, Dan Heng was trying to not puke in a paper bag in front of you in fear that he’d embarrass himself, and then get fired. He hadn’t been on a flight in years, and sitting through one that’s that long was not the best way to ease back into it. It would be embarrassing to admit out loud, but you have a way of reading through him, so he divulges as much of the truth as he can stomach.

“There was… it was shakier than I thought. But it wasn’t loud, which was good.” 

“I meant, like, the food and stuff! And the hot towels that they gave us.” 

Of course you’d be excited over something like a hot towel. He tries not to look down at the (objectively) ugly suitcase that he’s successfully torn from your hands, but it’s all very you and he can’t help but be reminded of every single one of your habits. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks, instead of talking more about the plane, because he’ll seriously be sick if he keeps replaying the turbulence in his head. “The portions were small on the plane. We can check into the hotel first and then find somewhere to eat.” 

A sigh escapes you, lighthearted as you swat Dan Heng’s arm with your hand. You both walk through the confusing maze of the airport and eventually find the exit, stepping into fresh air for the first time in a while. “I’ll get you dramamine on the flight back, Dan Heng. Maybe then you’ll be clear-headed enough to understand how nice the hot towels were.” 

You’ve clocked him, saw right through him and pried your incessant way in and offered him a motion sickness pill while you were at it. He tries to ignore the flush of his cheeks as he watches you smile from his peripheral, but it’s hard to ignore when it’s all that he can feel right now. 

“The— food,” he stutters, because he’s a fool and would like to lay down already. “What would you like to get? It’s a little late, but you should get some dinner.” 

“Whatever you want, Dan Heng,” and he looks to his side to see you smiling at him, so warm and familiar and he’s really, really trying not to puke on the sidewalk right now for a variety of reasons. He ignores you again, because that’s his best way to cope, and hails a taxi before cramming in both your suitcases in a flustered haste. 

In the backseat of the car, you lean against Dan Heng’s side and open up Google Maps, scrolling through all the restaurants near your hotel. The line of your arm presses into Dan Heng’s, and his attention is flitting between that feeling and the bright icons on your screen, different foreign names and descriptions of food popping up. 

“I don’t feel like sitting down for a full dinner,” you admit, mercilessly skipping any restaurant that has things like tablecloths and candles and small plates. “Something to take back to the hotel would be nice. Oh—” you bring your phone closer to his face as if he can’t already see it crystal clear, “—the menu for this looks good! They have some of your favorites.” 

Dan Heng skims through it and finds that they do, in fact, have a suspicious amount of his favorites. There’s a prideful look on your face, hiding the fact that you likely spent an hour researching local restaurants to find something Dan Heng likes. It embarrasses him and makes him have hopes, like a fool. You treat him less like a bodyguard, more like a close assistant—a position that you’ve never actually had filled, which makes his suspicions (and hopes) grow day by day. Really, it’s more like a close friend, a partner, and he likes that thought more than he’s comfortable admitting. 

He mumbles something like okay, looks good, and the grin on your face only grows brighter and cheesier. He’s forced to look away from you and stare out the car window instead, watching the passing city lights against the dark background of the autumn night, in a country that he covertly learned the language of, so that he could guide you around a little better—in a country that you spent an hour looking up restaurants in, so that Dan Heng would have something to eat.

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

gen taglist: @tragedy-of-commons @lasiancunin

fill out my event taglist (pinned) or general taglist (navi) to be tagged in upcoming works!

[robinabi]

alam mo ba gurl? 🫵🫣 pagka wala ka dito, promise ako, concern 😎🤧 'di ka nagre-reply, 'di mo pa 'ko ma-confirm 😔💔 ayaw mo ba sa'kin porke wala 'kong skrt skrt 😠🫵 o ayaw mo sa'kin kasi ikaw mas older 🤷😕

[robinabi]

sour grapes. try again

“i’m still mad at you.”

“i know.”

the rays of the silver moon’s faint glow shines a cast amongst the concrete pavement; with the starry black sky painting in a choir of constellations that are accompanied by the airy dreamlike clouds. you and dan heng resided on the nearby benches of the isolated park, surrounded by a field of ethereal flowers ranging from many different types and colours in an intricate pattern.

it was after a moment in the arcade when dan heng insisted on buying you a drink from the cafe. and due to his further persistence, he bought you a comforting cup of hot chocolate instead of the cold drink that you wanted — due to his concerns about your throat in this bitterly chilly night.

while there was a silence blanketing the both of you, it was a type of silence that was comfortable and you would not mind spending with someone dear to you. despite doing nothing and just sitting on the bench as the breeze sways by, it was peaceful.

“come on [name], it’s getting late. we should get going.”

dan heng was the first one to stand up from the bench. he turned to you, his sapphire-like eyes gazing at you tenderly as he reached a hand out for you to hold, offering to help you stand up.

“ugh, and it’s too early for me.” you complained, leaning back and resting your head on the bench. “kafka is probably awake and i don’t think i’m in the mood to deal with her antics this time.”

your ears were met with a soft yet deep melody-like voice as dan heng chuckled at your remark. there was also a small part of him that lit up with contentment in which you would rather be with him than your own roommate.

as dan heng continued to stare at you, the way you were comfortably leaning your head and back on the bench, it was as if another spark ignited in him. and an idea appeared in his mind. if you were not up for kafka’s antics, how about what dan heng has hidden up his mind in order to catch you off guard?

with your eyes closed and your body relaxed, your eyes started to flutter open when the evening breeze whistles around you once more. this was now dan heng’s chance.

stepping closer in front of you, dan heng suddenly leaned towards to your body, his tall stature hovering over yours casting a dark shadow. before you could even protest and stand up, he rested his hand right beside your head in close proximity, preventing you from moving and almost trapping you in place. you could catch the amused and almost cunning smirk that tugged from the corner of his lips, feeling satisfied by his own actions.

“are you not feeling tired yet, [name]?”

dan heng’s husky and calming voice only further put you into an unresponsive trance. his actions were so sudden yet teasing and playful, like he was trying to taunt and get a reaction from you.

surprised crossed your face as you noted his half-lidded eyes that gazed lovingly at you. your lips were ever so slightly agape, as if you wanted to say something but even your voice got stuck in your throat. you felt confined in his intense yet affirming stare, and it did not take long for warmth to rush into your face.

carefully observing your star-stricken reaction, dan heng lightly laughed to himself once more, feeling amused by your reaction, before he finally leaned back and removed his hand from the bench. he was starting to act as if he did not do anything, and that he was innocent for such a crime.

“still, being inside in the warm with your roommate is much preferable then being outside in the cold—”

“unbelievable!— you!”

before dan heng could even respond, you interrupted his words as you swiftly stood up from the bench in a frantic. dan heng could easily sense the shakiness in your voice, a clear indicator of your flustered state that he had always found so adorable and endearing. this moment between the two of you, it was as if you had never broken up in the first place.

everything felt natural.

however, it did not take long for you to begin storming away from dan heng in a hurry to not deal with anymore of his antics and tricks. it was obvious to dan heng though, he knew that you were not mad, and it made him fall in love with you again for who-knows how many times it had been already.

“good night, dan heng!”

“[name], don’t just rush off! we literally live in the same building..”

🍇 SOUR GRAPES 〈 30 try again

━━ MASTERLIST. ╱ PREV. ╱ NEXT.

╰► SYNOPSIS. after being in the same tight-knit friend group for over a few months now, suspicions begin to rise when march, seele and bronya start to notice the awkward tensions between you and dan heng. little did they know, you and dan heng were once high-school sweethearts who shared a romantic and fairytale-like past where the pages only lasted for a year. this heartbreak led you to meet another unfortunate victim of cupid but that chapter flew away as quick as stardust. yet, it appears that you two were also destined to cross paths once more.

╰► [ a/n ] : and with that, act three has officially started WOOOO !! so close yet so far to the finishing line ~

━━ TAGLIST (closed) @lauvwar-r @sunsethw4 @shizu-c @amyena @zephestia @loudeggbananaranch @lunavixia @twistedrxses @shinjuuz @danhenglovebot @flos-veritatis @sammy-hammy @kiwidoves @aeongiies @heartswonder @lilactaro @lunnaeclipse @bladesdarling @hansel-the-pierrot @astro-pioneer @aquatikk @obervation-subject-753 @vellichxrr6782 @rubberduckieyourtheone @viovya @stayriki @ceylestia @starryeyedkoko @theflameofyoursoul @kalims @liminalimmortal

[robinabi]

sour grapes. deja vu

you and blade decided to call it a day in the library earlier than usual. this was mainly due to how you might have passed out in the library if you stayed in that situation for even just a few minutes longer but, you couldn’t tell him that obviously.

originally, you were going to stop by the cafe and get yourself a refreshing cold drink to accompany you on your walk to try help calm your racing mind. however, that plan was ripped out the book when you managed to somehow encounter dan heng during your walk (or at least, he hadn’t noticed you yet).

there was dan heng, inside the familiar arcade with his full concentration on the claw machine to even notice you. uncharacteristically, he seemed to be struggling with the claw machine. given how dan heng was usually the one giving you the prizes from the claw machine back when you were dating, this was quite a surprise even for you.

“you’re not focusing.” you sighed, walking towards him.

“[name]?”

dan heng could only stare at you with raised eyebrows as he was caught off-guard by your sudden appearance, especially considering what happened last night which resulted in you ignoring both dan heng and blade.

this scene looked all too familiar: the way your warm hands slightly brushed over his cold ones to take over the controls, the way dan heng stood back to give you space but was still close enough to peak over your shoulder and the loud music booming from the claw machine.

as if you two were recreating a page from your storybook, the claw just barely picked up the plushie only for it to dramatically fall down in slow motion and roughly land back onto the machine. while you looked disappointed, you could hear dan heng holding back a soft chuckle behind you.

“it seems you’re not focused either, [name].”

“shut up, dan heng.” you sighed, leaning back from the machine. now that you thought about it, why did you even approach him in the first place when you meant to be ignoring him?

while you were silently contemplating, you were suddenly interrupted when a pair of arms gently snaked past your waist from behind and held your hands. you were frozen on the spot like a crafted sculpture but that didn’t matter, not when dan heng was carefully holding your hands in such a delicate manner as if your hands were a precious form of glass that he didn’t want to break.

“dan heng—!”

“trust me, [name].”

his voice when he spoke to you, it was hypnotising yet soothing; it was enough to drive your mind into spirals upon spirals of conflicting emotions. those two words: “trust me” were enough for you to stop resisting and melt in his embrace, just like old times. this feeling was nostalgic yet bittersweet, you craved more of it but you still wanted to be mad at him for what he did to you.

it was then you felt dan heng guiding your hands onto the controls of the claw machine, his hands were wrapped around yours softly as he focused on the plushie. it was hard to pay attention to what was happening around you: not with the blaring music, or the way dan heng was holding your hands or even the way you could feel his face so close to yours, with his warm breath just barely brushing past your cheeks.

everything went by in a blur and before you knew it, you heard the sounds of the plushie falling into the chute. dan heng successfully won the plushie. much to your dismay, dan heng let go of your hands and left a strange cold empty feeling in your chest.

“there we go.” he gave a small smile as he turned towards you, he couldn’t help but to feel satisfied by your flustered state. but, his smile slightly dropped when he noticed your silence.

“[name]?”

“dan heng, i’m still confused.. about everything.” you let out a heavy sigh, your mind and heart were running towards many different paths and not coming together that it only made you feel even more lost.

as if something switched inside him, dan heng took a step towards you and held your hand once more returning that same tender warmth. his heart ached at the sight of you like this, especially when he kept blaming himself for making you feel such a way.

“[name], i’m sorry that i’ve been hurting you.” dan heng’s voice was deep as he gazed intensely into your eyes like he was afraid you’d disappear if he broke eye contact for even a second. “even when we broke up and until now, you never left my mind once.”

“you can ignore me, hit me or even stop speaking to me but..” his grasp on your hand tightened, not enough to hurt you but enough to reassure you. “i don’t want you to hate me, [name].”

“if you’re confused about everything then...” dan heng paused. he was hesitating for a moment and even broke eye contact for a split second just to quickly look back at you again, as if you were the only person in this world.

time had seemingly slowed down before dan heng slowly brought your hand to his lips and affectionately kissed the back of your hand. if this scene was from a fairytale book, then dan heng would accurately portray the prince who had been waiting his whole life to get together with his fated other.

from the way he held you, spoke to you and now placed a soft kiss on the back of your hand as if he had been waiting for this moment, everything felt so cold that it sent you shivers. but, that didn’t stop the warmth that travelled to your face, or stop the way your knees might give up on you or halt your racing heart driving at dangerous speeds to the point where you felt dizzy.

he opened his eyes and observed your reaction, still keeping your hand close to his lips. dan heng tilted his head with a subtle and innocent smile, almost looking at you playfully.

“let my feelings for you answer your worries, [name].”

🍇 SOUR GRAPES 〈 29 deja vu

━━ MASTERLIST. ╱ PREV. ╱ NEXT.

╰► SYNOPSIS. after being in the same tight-knit friend group for over a few months now, suspicions begin to rise when march, seele and bronya start to notice the awkward tensions between you and dan heng. little did they know, you and dan heng were once high-school sweethearts who shared a romantic and fairytale-like past where the pages only lasted for a year. this heartbreak led you to meet another unfortunate victim of cupid but that chapter flew away as quick as stardust. yet, it appears that you two were also destined to cross paths once more.

╰► [ a/n ] : WRITING THIS ALSO HAD ME SCREAMING AND CLAWING MY WALLS BUT WOAH LAST CHAPTER FOR ACT TWO 🫣 act three will be the last act and i can’t believe we’re already nearing near the end of this series fhdhdhdjsjs i’m so thankful that you all stuck by until now :) thank you for supporting me and my works for so long <33

━━ TAGLIST (closed) @lauvwar-r @sunsethw4 @shizu-c @amyena @zephestia @loudeggbananaranch @lunavixia @twistedrxses @shinjuuz @danhenglovebot @flos-veritatis @sammy-hammy @kiwidoves @aeongiies @heartswonder @lilactaro @lunnaeclipse @bladesdarling @hansel-the-pierrot @astro-pioneer @aquatikk @obervation-subject-753 @vellichxrr6782 @rubberduckieyourtheone @viovya @stayriki @ceylestia @starryeyedkoko @theflameofyoursoul @kalims @liminalimmortal

[robinabi]

4.2 spoilers but it's interesting how Scaramouche and Furina were both made as replacements. But while Ei saw Scara's humanity as a flaw, Focalors thought that's what made Furina perfect.

I need the two of them to interact

[robinabi]

𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒; if you could just say them, she thinks she may lose herself in the blinding eclipse of the moon.

Whether or not you intended to instill these emotions in her heart, you’ve done so at a moment right as she’s found herself in the spotlight again. But when you stand there, bouquet of roses in your arms that were tied and arranged just for her, she can’t help the familiar sense of aching longing that chained her down for five hundred years.

“I love your voice,” you tell her kindly, and she freezes in her stance when the first three words run from your mouth. There is an unwelcome disappointment that settles in her chest once the rest of your sentence registers, and she can’t help but feel disgusted in herself, as if she’s exploiting your kindness towards her. It’s in such light she feels like the most terrible friend in the world, one who still craved for more even after you did the the nicest for her: from giving flowers after her shows, to complimenting her more genuinely than anyone has before.

“Thank you.” Perhaps it wasn’t fair to you—the small, forced smile she attempted to give. She was more than sure you could see the drought in her eyes, a stifled sadness that ringed her irises like the surface of the ocean. So long did the waters crave the reflection of the moon; And, so long did her heart crave the sound of merely three words once spoken upon your lips.

But her heart stops when you lean in to gift her the flowers, eyelashes fluttering shut as she feels a fleeting kiss to the skin of her cheek. And that’s when she nearly crumbles from her knees, body leaning forward so instinctively to chase you as you lean away. There’s a smile in your eyes that leaves her starstruck whilst you bid your farewells—and the stammers of her heart almost curse you for leaving her like this.

She couldn’t control the squeal-turned-into-a-yell that left her throat once you shut the door.

y’all can yew hear that it’s the sound of my brainrot yelling “BRR ELY YOURE INSANE STOP THINKING AB FURINA”

[robinabi]

SUBURBAN LEGENDS - furina

❝ i am standing in a 1950s gymnasium and i can still see you now. ❞

summary: your relationship with the hydro archon would be warning to the audience that the divine and mortals don’t mix, that was if you had taken legends seriously

warnings: reader is gn, fontaine archon quest spoilers

notes: day 20, the second last day of the event! i wanted to write something furina related so i tried my hand at this one.

taglist: @staretes , @rynnlvrs , @sentifua , @i-probably-sleep-too-much , @reilly34 , @qqingque , @akutasoda , @mhiieee , @starryshinyskies , @kazemiya , @pix-stuff , @inscaraithrust

furina de fontaine had people who worshipped, idolised her and send her letters anonymously in your peripheral vision. but you let it slide like a hose on a slipper plastic summer and forgave her quickly for it.

it was tough being an archon you knew and to be the lover of the god of justice was an honor. she was so magnetic, it was almost obnoxious. flushed with the currency of cool that she exuded, wowing her audience all the time that you were always turning out your empty pockets when it came to her.

you didn’t come there to make friends after all, you both were born to be suburban legends. your romance was one that captured the essence of the nation’s love for drama and theatre, a beautiful and entrancing tragedy waiting to play out.

when she held you up, spinning and leading you into a quick jive under the shining spotlight, it was like she was holding you together. the way that she would kiss you in a way that it would mess you up forever, erase the potential love interests in the story of your life for she would be the only one for you.

you had the fantasy that maybe your mismatched star signs would wow the whole crowd. that different authority and standing in the society wouldn’t deter you two from being together. love conquered all, crossed boundaries and transcended time and space. it would do the same for you.

when you ended up back on stage playing the role of the archon’s lover, you reveled in their shock. walking in with your head high for the first time and furina’s hand in yours. she would be more than a chapter in your story that would have its pages ripped out. she would have a whole section dedicated to her. you’d have a grand finale and a heartwarming epilogue with her.

but you were now standing in the crowd of fontanians, hidden in plain sight as she entertained them with a grin and twirled like a ballerina on stage without any care of you. you knew that she’d still remember that you were both born to be national treasures, fontaine’s picture perfect couple. when she would one day tell you that you’d get back together or so you thought before disaster struck and she was revealed to be a hoax.

tick-tock on the clock, and now you paced down the block of her new apartment in the aftermath of the flood. did she pretend to be in love with you, in an attempt to fool the crowd into thinking that she was truly the hydro archon? that playing with your heartstrings would distract them from whatever her real agenda was? in fact you didn’t want to meet her, it was neuvillette who had given you her address and suggested you reconcile and give her a second chance.

furina couldn’t deny that part of your relationship was for show either but it was real, at least to her. she had been so accustomed to being the center of attention she had forgotten what it was like to live without it, to live normally without a care of what other would say. what you had was real, a small speck of light in the darkness she had suffocated in for five hundred years but you were too close to foiling her plans.

you had gotten too close to her, you knew she was hiding something that was eating her up. that it wasn’t the fame that came with being an archon, no matter how hard she tried to pass that lie off. another one more step and a whole plan devised for centuries would come crashing down so she pushed you away under the guise of finding you boring. she broke her own heart because you were too polite to do it for her.

you missed her, waves crashing on the shore that you go surfing at during her downtime, dashing to the door whenever you heard the familiar click-click of her heels and her laughter. but she didn’t knock anymore and your whole life was ruined.

she missed you too, the comfort you’d bring in the chaos and weight pushing her head under the waves of the relentless sea. she had broken her heart, passed it off as a mere falling out or that you two were too different to ever understand each other.

“she was a god, you were a mortal,” she had said dismissively and it broke her own heart to say those words knowing that they weren’t true. she knew you paced down her block, watch your figure from the window with a hopeful heart. but you didn’t knock anymore and she always knew it.

you both were born to be nothing more than a story, a legend, a warning to the audience. a mess behind the scenes but captivating the media and world into thinking you had a picture perfect relationship.

now both your lives were ruined, all because of some prophecy and a part she played in a musical much greater than the one depicting your romance.

that was until she heard soft knocking on her door one day that made her dash to the door and drop the box of uncooked macaroni in her hand.

you had learned from the botched script you both read from and now things would be different because you’d do a retake of this whole relationship, cut the bloopers out and try again.

<- prev masterpost next->

© MEIDNIGHTRAIN 2023. DO NOT COPY, REPOST, SHARE, TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD MY WORKS ONTO ANY OTHER SITE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION

[robinabi]

Reblog and put in a tags an object you own that you really like/a comfort item/an item that holds high meaning/value to you (if you have one)

[robinabi]

i swear i have powers or some shit cuz tell me why the moment i open tumblr for the day im 2 minutes early to a new chapter of one of my fav smaus

[robinabi]

SHES GONE 🥹🥹🥹 CHANELLE AND JIHYUN IM GONNA THROW UP

hi guys since 1 pick votings are taking place i have to promote my girl on here ..

vote for choi jihyun on weverse !!!! 😞🫶