weirdcoren

[weirdcoren]

Ideas.

[weirdcoren]

From the start. [ Sneak Peek ]

— When you’ve bestied so hard, you end up stuck in a nine-year pining phase. You were sure Phainon would eventually get hitched to Mydei, letting you finally move on with your feelings—but things didn’t go as planned. Now, he’s back to being single, and you’re not about to let this drag into double digits. It’s now or never.

Contains: Modern AU | Failure reader vs boyfailure Phainon | Probably OOC | Phainon x Mydei (not end goal)

Full Fic: [ TBA ] [Masterlist]

My offering to Phainon: a happy ending. I am literally posting this right before I roll, so please come home with your lightcone, and my life is yours.

"Mydei and I broke up."

The words barely have time to settle before you choke—loud, graceless, like you’ve just inhaled the ash from every cigarette butt ever discarded on the streets. It’s ugly. It’s embarrassing. It’s entirely expected.

Phainon, to his credit, is polite enough not to laugh or comment. He doesn’t even give you one of those insufferable, knowing smirks. Instead, he simply slides a cup of water toward you—because, despite everything, he’s a gentleman. You snatch it up, throat burning, lungs spasming in betrayal. Tiny tears prick at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision as you desperately fight to suppress the hacking. You take a slow sip—careful, measured—because the last thing you need right now is to choke again and actually die before you can process what the hell you just heard.

"Sorry, one more time. I think I just had a brief hallucination," you say, blinking rapidly as if that might reset reality itself. Your voice wavers between disbelief and queasiness, your throat still raw from choking. There’s a ringing in your ears as your brain is actively rejecting the information, trying to overwrite it with something that makes more sense. Because seriously—what the fuck did you just hear?

"Mydei and I broke up… yesterday," Phainon repeats, sounding almost sheepish as he drops his gaze back to his food—the same food he’s been absentmindedly poking at for the last few minutes, pushing grains of rice around. Which, in hindsight, should have been a massive red flag. This man, who has raided your fridge at three in the morning as a starving raccoon in the throes of a failed calorie deficit—who has, on more than one occasion, inhaled an entire meal before you even had time to sit down—has been sitting here, not eating.

Yup. You heard that right.

Phainon—the very same Phainon you were pretty sure was going to drop to one knee by the end of the year, who spoke about Mydei like the sun wouldn’t rise without him—is now single.

"I'll kill him. Where did you say he was now? I have a shovel in my trunk," you say, keeping your voice as serious as possible. Because there’s just no way Phainon did anything wrong—this man is the biggest green flag you’ve ever seen in your life. The kind of person who would help an old lady cross the street, return extra change to the cashier, and offer you the last slice of cake without hesitation.

Thankfully, Phainon laughs at your joke.

(It’s not a joke.)

His laughter is bright and full-bodied, the kind that fills the entire room and makes everything feel a little lighter, and the air itself is easier to breathe. He throws his head back, shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling with pure amusement. And, seriously—Mydei. How the hell did you fumble this bag?

"Please don't. I'd be upset if I couldn't see you again," he chuckles, the sound warm and familiar. But the laughter barely has time to settle before his expression dims, like a candle flickering against an unseen draft.

"It's not like that," Phainon says, his voice quieter now, more measured, "We still care a lot about each other, it's just… with me here finishing school and him moving back to Castrum Kremnos to take over his dad's company, the distance is… hard."

His fingers idly trace the rim of his cup, slow and deliberate, as if the motion alone can ground him. But his gaze—fixed somewhere on the table—is distant. Somewhere far away, lost in thoughts he isn’t saying out loud. It’s not just about the breakup. It’s the weight of everything unspoken, the quiet acceptance of something slipping through his fingers, of a future he must have once imagined but now has to let go of.

"Plus," he exhales, shoulders slumping just a fraction, "We barely even get a chance to see each other. So it's… for the best that we end things here before we start—before things reach the point of no return."

His words hang in the air, heavy yet resigned like he's already gone through every possible outcome and settled on the least painful one.

Ah. Healthy communication and putting yourself first. Can't relate.

"B-But… I mean, yeah, sure, but… maybe just go on a break?" you blurt out, your voice catching on the words as your fingers twist together, the nerves in your chest coiling tighter with every passing second, "I'm sure—no, I'm positive—that the two of you could work it out. I mean, from the sound of things, it’s not as if you’ve completely cut each other off, so…"

Your words spill out in a frantic tumble, desperate, scrambling for something—anything—to hold onto, because this doesn’t make sense. It can’t. Not when you know Phainon, when you’ve seen it all unfold from the very beginning. You were there for the late-night hangouts, for the bleary-eyed conversations stretching into the early hours, for the quiet moments when he thought no one was watching and the messy ones when emotions boiled over.

You were there that night at the bar, sitting across from him as his whole world tilted on its axis—watching in real time as he fell in love with that blonde guitarist, his expression caught somewhere between wonder and panic. You were the one who got blasted with late-night texts, Phainon slipping into full schoolgirl mode, overanalyzing everything—every glance, every word, every infuriatingly cryptic emoji Mydei sent back. He filled your notifications with fire emojis and tongue-sticking-out faces over literally anything Mydei did, as if each moment was proof of something bigger, something just out of reach. You were the one he ran to, sobbing in full-blown hysteria because he thought Mydei had a crush on Castorice, even though everyone knew Castorice was very uninterested. You were the one who sat beside him through the worst of it, suffering through the absolute shittiest action movies just to take his mind off things, pretending not to notice when his eyes stayed glassy long after the credits rolled.

So no, you don’t get it. You can’t get it. Because after everything—after all of that—how is he just letting this go?

"Mmm, perhaps," Phainon says mysteriously, his voice tinged with something you can't quite place, as he finally takes a bite of his food—food that's surely gone cold by now, the steam long gone. God, he looks like a sad puppy, his posture slumped, and the soft, distant look in his eyes makes something tighten in your chest.

"Don't get me wrong," he continues, chewing slowly, his gaze flicking back to the table, avoiding your eyes, "I'm not fine with this. With any of this. But with the way things are going... I don’t think we would have lasted long."

Bullshit, but okay. Go on.

"We have different futures that don't mesh well," Phainon says quietly, his voice thoughtful, "It would be unfair for me to ask him to drop everything, just as it would be unfair if he asked me to drop everything here and move back to Kremnous with him, to stay there for the rest of my life. You know, right person, wrong time. I know, on the outside, we looked fine, but I think I was unsatisfied with the relationship for a while. It wasn't what I was expecting, and even after we got together, things never really changed. Maybe that was for the best..."

Phainon doesn't elaborate on that last point, and though you want to ask, it's not your business, nor is it your place to probe. So, instead, you nod along slowly, trying to make sense of it all.

"Will you… be okay?" you ask tentatively, your voice soft with concern. Phainon looks at you, and for a moment, there’s a painful stillness in his gaze. Then, heartbreakingly, he shakes his head, the movement slow and resigned.

"No," he murmurs quietly, "not for a while."

Silence settles between you, thick and unfamiliar, as you absently fiddle with your utensils. Usually, conversations flow effortlessly between you and Phainon, even when you’re at each other’s throats over the stupidest disagreements. Snark, banter, teasing—it’s always been easy. But this? This is different. This Phainon—the one staring down at his barely touched plate, the one who looks lost in his own thoughts, like he’s carrying something too heavy to bear alone—is not the Phainon you’re used to. And you don’t know how to reach him. Do you pretend everything is fine? Crack a joke to lighten the mood? Leave it alone and hope he talks when he’s ready? Do you just… give him a hug? Would that even help? What are the steps you’re supposed to take here?

"Sorry, I must have brought the mood down. How did your presentation go? Get any of those snobby professors to laugh?" Phainon chuckles, but you can see it for what it is—a mask, stretched thin over something raw. Still, you play along.

You launch into a rant, hands moving animatedly as you recount the sheer terror of nearly blanking out the moment one professor looked at you funny. The kind of look that makes your stomach drop, that makes you feel you’re already failing before you’ve even opened your mouth. And then—just as you stepped into the room—she started writing something down. What did you do wrong? Did you breathe incorrectly? Or worse—did she somehow know about the bruises from when you ate shit on the pavement after tripping over absolutely nothing? Because let’s be real, at this point, it wouldn’t even be surprising. Maybe she had psychic powers. Maybe she could sense your inherent lack of coordination. It’s not your fault that you’re just a citizen. A normal human doomed to battle gravity every damn day.

As you finish your meals and prepare to leave, you find yourself locked in a battle over the bill, but Phainon is an immovable brick wall. Every time you try to grab for it, he skillfully evades—sidestepping, blocking, even flicking your forehead at one point as if you were a pesky little sibling. Before you can make a final desperate attempt, he effortlessly strong-arms you away, pressing his card into the hands of a bemused waitress with the confidence of someone who’s already won. With a satisfied smirk, he turns to you, adjusting his scarf as the wind picks up, threading through his hair and sending stray strands dancing across his forehead. It should be annoying, but of course, it only makes him look effortlessly cool—a true protagonist in a melodramatic film, standing against the backdrop of a crisp evening sky.

"Thanks for listening to me. I really appreciate it, especially since we haven't seen each other in a while," he says, a soft smile tugging at his lips. His voice is quieter now, the usual bravado dimmed just enough to make your chest ache.

You nod—maybe a little too rigorously—because of course. Of course, you’d be there for him. You always have been. And you know, without a doubt, that he’d do the same for you. It’s just who you are to each other. And you’re just… glad. Glad that Phainon, for all his easygoing grins and insufferable teasing, trusts you enough to let his guard down. That he knows he doesn’t have to keep up the act around you. That for once, he can just be—no witty comebacks, no forced smiles, no pretending. Just Phainon. But then, because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, he tilts his head, mischief creeping back into his expression.

"When are you going to get a crush on someone? I've got at least three years of pining and dating woes on you."

He grins like it’s a joke, like it’s just another thing to tease you about, but your stomach twists, because—

Ah, right. That’s the thing, bestie.

I've been in love with you from the start.

---

Alright, I'll be back in 10 minutes on whether or not this man has scammed me. Your full 20k word fic rides on this buddy, don't disappoint me :)

Update: Alright, he gets a part 2. Phainon wanters will be havers.

[weirdcoren]

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

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

End of Beginning

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

the breeze carries it.

softly. like it remembers you.

there's no one else around.

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

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

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

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

because it’s your song.

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

the one you said made you feel like a constellation.

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

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

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

his voice cracks on the second line.

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

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

he smiles... faintly.

"I was. for you."

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

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

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

then he rises, slowly.

gives one last look.

and then he walks away

he'll be back in a month.

and another.

with the another bouquet. same journal, same silence

same devotion.

like an eternal cycle

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

until the remaining fades away.

[weirdcoren]

HAHFBAIDJWBBFKDFOB

[weirdcoren]

outcasts

[weirdcoren]

SUSIEEE

her and some of her awesome outfits from chapter 3 🙏

i might be becoming kinda obsessed lol i love her sm , like get rid of Kris as the middle-man (said in a gender neutral way) cuz i’d gladly hold her hand myself 🤭 /silly

also i drew all of these on separate layers so i might make these intro stickers or smth!! might sell if people are interested :)

[weirdcoren]

kris having to call off the shots when the fight goes on for too long is so funny

[weirdcoren]

Ena stickers from the Joel g store. Pt. 1

[weirdcoren]

[weirdcoren]

an enasquared angst thing that i will never finish so im just gonna post it lol. there was no actual planning for this canvas

the gist of the comic is that bbq ena has no idea how she feels about series ena. envy? revulsion? she questions the gap in their differences and lifestyle and yet theres a sense of commonality and understanding between the two. she does know for a fact that looking at her pisses her off. and a small bit is afraid of her

[weirdcoren]

short little ena dream bbq edit i made

[weirdcoren]

[weirdcoren]

I’ve been working through some feelings lately.

[weirdcoren]

grown ass man

[weirdcoren]

dbbq — ina.

Is mon chou in?

[weirdcoren]

dbbq — enasona (fugi)

flightless bird.

[weirdcoren]

LEONA X READER

Where you start to ask him to use his UM for you

Where Leona, always insecure and determined about the patheticness of his UM, begins to change after meeting you, an artist who creates glass and crystal figures, and asks him to use his UM to transform glass remains into sand

loved this one <3

Leona hated his Unique Magic. Always had.

Sure, people said it was impressive. The ability to dry anything, to strip it down until it crumbled to dust in your palm? Sounded like the kind of magic suited for a king. Ruinous. Untouchable.

But in practice? It was destructive. Useless. Unoriginal. All it ever did was reduce things into sand. Turn lush greenery into withered husks. Sap water from soil, drain warmth from food, crack even the air with its dryness.

He’d never found a good reason to use it unless he wanted something to disappear.

And Leona Kingscholar didn’t like being reminded that he was good at getting rid of things.

So when you first approached him about it, out of the blue and way too bold for someone who barely knew him, he looked up from the grass in the greenhouse with a deep, annoyed grunt.

“You want me to what, herbivore?”

You stood over him in that stupid art-stained apron you always wore, holding a cracked chunk of smoky, burnt glass in your gloved hands.

“I’m not asking you to blow anything up, geez,” you said lightly. “I just… need some sand.”

He squinted at you, ears twitching slightly. “What, the beach too far for you?”

You smiled. “Yeah, and your sand is better.”

He blinked. “Come again?”

“The sand you make. From your UM.”

You lifted the shard to show him its jagged edge.

“See, this one’s ruined. The shape’s off, and it’s scorched. But if I grind it down, melt it again, I could maybe salvage it. But if you could just—turn it back into sand, I could get a cleaner rebatch.”

Leona sat up slowly.

“You want me to use my Unique Magic… on your garbage?”

You didn’t flinch at the edge in his tone.

“I want to try turning it into something new.”

Leona almost told you to piss off. Almost.

But you looked at that broken glass with such purpose in your eyes, like you believed something beautiful was still hiding in it.

And for some reason—maybe the sun was too hot, or he was too tired—he flicked his hand lazily and muttered under his breath.

King’s Roar.

The shard crumbled instantly, dissolving into a fine, pale gold powder. Clean. Almost sparkling in the sunlight.

You crouched to scoop it into a container with a small, satisfied hum.

“That’s perfect,” you said, like you’d just watched a flower bloom.

He raised a brow. “It’s just sand.”

“No, it’s potential.”

Something shifted in his chest at that. Uncomfortable. Hot.

You came back the next day. And the day after that.

Always with cracked glass or ruined sculptures.

Always asking, softly but with certainty, “Can I borrow your magic again?” And Leona always acted annoyed, always rolled his eyes like he was being inconvenienced, but he never said no.

And eventually, you started bringing things back to show him.

Bowls blown in spirals of color, where specks of sand were like desert stars.

Sculptures that caught sunlight just right, making tiny rainbows on the greenhouse walls.

Or delicate little trinkets—a lion’s paw, a flower blooming in a dish—that you swore were just “practice,” but he caught you smiling when he lingered on them too long.

“Couldn’t’ve done this without you,” you said once, holding a jar filled with a swirling, amber-hued hourglass.

“Your sand’s smoother than anything I could get from crushing it myself. It melts cleaner. Glows brighter.”

Leona grunted. “You’re the one doing all the work. I’m just breaking things.”

“You’re not breaking anything,” you said. “You’re giving me a chance to start over.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

Because no one had ever said that before. Not to him.

Weeks passed like that. And slowly, Leona started to wait for you. Subtly. Not that he’d admit it.

He’d lie on the grass and tilt one ear toward the greenhouse entrance, pretending to nap while secretly hoping for your footsteps.

He found himself pocketing little broken pebbles on walks, wondering if you could use them. Once, he even caught himself thinking about what kind of glass he would be, if you ever sculpted him.

(Probably dark. Sharp. A piece that refused to be molded.)

One afternoon, you showed up carrying a bundle in cloth.

“This one’s for you,” you said, unwrapping it.

“I made it from the first batch of sand you gave me.”

It was a glass lion—small enough to fit in his palm, all sweeping mane and proud curve. Not flashy, but warm, like the sun on stone.

Leona stared. His mouth went dry.

“…Why?”

You tilted your head.

“Because I wanted to. Because I thought you deserved something that stayed, instead of just slipping through your fingers.”

That—hit something. Deep and buried. Something fragile.

He closed his hand around the glass lion slowly.

“…You’re weird, you know that?”

You smiled. “You’ve mentioned it.”

But when you turned to leave, he spoke again, quietly.

“Hey… next time you’ve got something to ruin, come find me.”

You paused, a little smile blooming on your face. “Yeah?”

He shrugged, looking away. “Might as well make some use outta this busted magic, huh?”

Your voice was soft. “It’s not busted, Leona. It just needed the right hands to show what it could become.”

His tail flicked.

For the first time in years, Leona Kingscholar didn’t think of his magic as something to be ashamed of.

He thought of sand in your hands. And glass glowing gold.

And he felt—maybe—for once—

Useful.