CAN U FUCKING BOTS STOP POSTING FUCKING LINKS W THE IMAGE BEING A FUCKING GIRL FLASHING ME WHENEVER I

PLEASE JUST PLEASE 🙏 ANGTS

? Invisible .✾. Kazuha

"You don't even know it, I can't ever win"

SYNOPSIS:

You are someone who loves art. You draw with emotion and freedom. But despite your artistic self, you are someone with no luck of gaining even a grain of attention or popularity. Most times people forget you exist, and the only people who know your existence are your friends and family.

While you were rushing through the hallways to get to your class, you bump into a popular boy named Kaedehara Kazuha. The most kindest, outgoing, and refreshing boy ever known in the school. And thats the first moment your heart beat fast for a boy.

Sadly for you, there was no way for Kazuha to notice you. And in the end, you might aswell live the remaining years of your highschool with a love thats one-sided.

INSPIRED BY ➫ KiMi Ni TODOKE ➫ From me to you

FOLLOW MY MAIN ➫ @lostzeron

Painter!reader ↣ Fem!reader

Status? IDK IF ILL START TO DISCARD 💀

Update schedule? None

SMAU ───── HIGHSCHOOL AU

SLOWBURN STORY.

HEADS UP! Angst, fluff, comdey and fill-in characters (OC's) included

For? @mokiverse

M A S T E R L I S T

─────

Introducing... Who? ↣ The art kids + Venti ↣Mr/Ms Popular's

─────

00. Prolouge

01. Even the teachers forgot me 💀

02. The feeling of being bullied

03. Venti pulling up

04. Late for art club?!

05. Oh shoot!

06. Kaedehara Kazuha

07. Nothing happend. Yeah.

08. Another meeting

09. Heart goes boom boom

10. Literally save me

11. Can't help it

12. Denial

13. Acceptance

14. Hitting reality check

ACT 2

15. When Scaramouche cleans (KAZUHA POV)

16. DID YOU STEP ON MY CANVAS?! (Filler)

17. That sweet smile

18. Wait, he remembers me?

19. Denial strucks again

20. Can't help falling inlove

21. Let's yoga our worries away - Venti

22. He won't notice you

23. Im trying, Im trying

24. Another girl

25. Let's just give up.

26. Xiao's genius plan

27. Venti pulls up again (with a rocket booster)

28. The exchange of numbers

29. HE WANTS TO HANGOUT?!

30. A date (clickbait)

31. When he walked you home

32. Don't get your hopes up

ACT 3

33. Actually lets get our hopes up

34. Wrong idea💀

35. Heart=broken

36. Xiaos genius plans strikes

37. The OG ways of cupid

38. When he wipes your tears away

39. Me, You, and painting

40. The other woman?

41. Bullied.

42. Nurse Kazuha

43. Tension (Scaramouche ruins it)

44. Another hangout

45. "I've always noticed you"

46. Wait. Are we gonna kiss?

47. Oh

48. Just friends

49. Venti rages

50. Should've stayed on the low.

─────

➫ Camera's off!

══════════════════════

A NEW ENDING ?

══════════════════════

Title: “Unlike Fiction” Chapter: 1/1? Pairing: Sampo x Reader, Gepard x Reader Reader: Gender Neutral / Illegal Underworlder living in Overworld Relationship Level: Sampo - Ex-Beau / Gepard - Current Beau   Trust: Sampo - Low / Gepard - Moderate Summary: You decide to show up for Gepard’s celebration for becoming Captain of the Silvermane guard at Serval’s request. However, things don’t go as expected… Warning!: Cursing, Thoughts of Self-Harm (No harm though!)

Glimmering glass chandeliers, bubbling champagne, and a cast of incredibly wealthy persons that all seem to know one another only skin deep… 

This scenery is straight out of any romance novel conveying star-crossed lovers of opposing social classes. Though you had to admit, the authors really nailed it. You always thought that at least some of it had to be a little embellished. Yet just as they say, even the ceiling of this immense manor is painted with glorious recounts of Belobog’s long history with awe-inspiring detail. 

Your fingers squeeze around the stem of your champagne glass.  

The nobles that have gathered are all dressed to the nines. Some even go so far as to wear flowers that are worth at least six years of your own pay. You gulp when you catch sight of a few of the noble ladies standing off to the side in a huddled corner with handheld fans up, covering the lower part of their faces. Quickly, you avert your gaze.  

You already know they’re talking about you. Not that it matters. Gossip is a game for the small-minded and weak-willed. 

Though you can’t help a certain thought that keeps besieging your mind. 

Should you really be here?

“There you are!” Serval calls excitedly with no bother to maintain the rules of decorum as she hurries over to you.

Thank Qlipoth… 

Her outfit fits the atmosphere but you feel a sense of pride to see that she never took out her punk rock highlights. It gives you a sense of solidarity as there were a few things in your own look that you refused to change just for a single event. 

She definitely gets a few irksome looks, for the mere sin of existing. But like the magnificent storm queen that she is, she doesn’t even care. Immediately, you feel like you’ve found refuge the second she hooks her arm around yours. 

“Ugh, thank goodness that you’re here. I was about to lose my head just a moment ago,” she huffs lightly before leaning into you with a relieved smile, “Seriously. I’m really glad you came. I know this isn’t what you’re used to… but if I know Geppie, he’s going to love it that you're here.”

“You really think so?” you ask, still feeling a bit apprehensive. 

“Of course! Oh god. You should see how he lights up whenever he mentions you. I swear, you’re like his favorite subject to talk about these days. He barely mentions work anymore. Thank you, by the way. That subject was getting a bit tiresome, but I never really knew how to break it to him, you know? I’m just still sore after the whole… Well… You know.” 

Her cerulean eyes drift downwards. 

Serval’s sudden termination from the Architects was definitely a huge blow. It was still fresh in her mind despite it happening over a few months ago. Even so, you could still see the cracks it left in her. 

It was a miracle that she didn’t give up hope on everything entirely… 

You squeeze her arm a little to bring her back to the present before she can drown herself in the past. 

“Hey, let’s just enjoy ourselves then. We’ve been through hell. It’s the least we can do, right? We can even see this as, I dunno, reparations for stupid bullshit?” 

“Reparations for Stupid Bullshit. RSB. I like it,” Serval laughs with a delighted nod, gladly going with the flow, “Yeah. Let’s do that.” 

She squeezes you back. An appreciative thank you. 

The two of you end up tearing up the tables filled with fancy cocktails and hors d'oeuvres while chatting about everything and nothing. By the time the great big announcement comes around, both you and Serval are incredibly - and happily - drunk. Restraint isn’t exactly a strong suit for either of you. It’s probably why you get along so well.

When Gepard is announced as the next Captain of the Guard, you both end up hooting and hollering like fools. You get a few glances from those surrounding you and even Gepard breaches the usual protocol to peek. 

But he doesn’t smile when he sees you. 

Instead, his eyes widen, brows flying up. Then he turns to face front and center like the soldier he’s trained to be. 

“...” 

A sudden sick, sinking feel forms in your chest. 

What was that? 

It doesn’t help that you’re intoxicated. The wall that usually keeps the worst thoughts out suddenly isn’t there anymore. Worries flood you without hindrance. 

The dam of reason isn’t there to protect you. 

“The hell was that?” Serval says, only escalating your worries, “He saw us, right?” 

You purse your lips tightly, unable to reply. 

Gepard receives praise from both of his parents as well as a few renowned dignitaries. It takes everything you have to keep Serval from breaking into tears at the sight of Cocolia. Serval ends up holding your hand with such a tight grip that her fingernails dig into your skin. But you let it happen. You know how deep those emotional wounds have cut… 

She’s barely holding herself together. 

“Serval…” 

“Don’t tell me we should go. I-I deserve to be here too,” she insists shakily which is remarkably perceptive for own so heavily inebriated, “If anything… she’s the one that doesn’t belong here… This is my home. My home.”  

The pain in her voice pulls at every heartstring inside of you. But you have to be the least drunk between you. …Since sobriety is long, long gone. 

“I… need to use the bathroom,” you say. 

It’s not a lie entirely. Besides, she won’t question it. You don’t know your way around this place like she does. 

“Oh shit. Sorry. Yeah, of course. Come on. I’ll take you… woah. Um… Let me hang onto you.” 

It takes a little while to find a washroom. It seems Serval’s mind keeps getting muddled from having seen Cocolia. But you keep your patience. It’s what you’d want from your friend if this ever happened to you… 

By the time you get to a nearby empty washroom, you barely shut the door when you hear Serval breaking into tears. Your heart becomes heavier than you’re used to. Maybe because you’re pretty sure that you’re bound for one more heartbreak today. 

Gepard’s face the moment he saw you in the crowd has yet to leave your mind. 

As much as you’d like to hope… you feel that you already know.

He didn’t tell them… 

You sit there on the closed toilet for barely a moment before breaking out into silent tears. 

This… always… happens. 

You try to keep quiet as best you can. You don’t like expressing your pain to others. Your upbringing discouraged showing weakness of any kind. To those around you at that time… you were an incessant inconvenience. 

Even still, you hear a soft knock on the door. 

Serval sniffles just behind it. 

“Are you crying?” she asks with a genuine sweetness behind it, despite her own anguish, that just makes something inside of you crumble to dust.

A sob escapes despite your damnedest attempts to keep it in. 

You don’t want to be a burden. 

Yet before you know it, she’s already come in and hugs you tightly without reservation. You don’t remember how long the two of you bawl your eyes out, but it’s enough that Serval has to reapply both her and your makeup. 

 Every noble wears makeup and she’ll be damned if she lets one of her few closest friends walk around shabby.  

“Hey, hey. I know you’re worried…” she says while gently applying another coat of foundation on your cheeks, “But I’m telling you, my brother would never ever do that to you. Ugh… He’s nothing like that con man. Ugh… I’m so sorry that I even introduced you to that jerk. He just… He didn’t seem like that, you know?” 

She popped her foundation away back into her hidden dress pocket before pulling out some eyeliner to fix the mess under your eyes. 

“Geppie is different. I swear. I’ve never heard him tell a lie in his whole life.” Her motions slow as she remembers the look he gave both of you during the celebration of his promotion. “I… I’m sure he had his reasons for reacting so weird. Maybe he was just really surprised?” 

You smile weakly despite not believing that. 

“You’re probably right,” you fib. 

Damn. You were already exhibiting bad habits from said someone… 

“Don’t worry. We’ll talk to him soon.” 

And just like that, the two of you return to the party though it’s mostly over and done with. Only a few of the major boozehounds stay for the free alcohol while others try some last minute attempts to schmooze with those of higher standing. 

Eventually, Serval learns where Gepard retreated off to in search of some solace. 

“This’ll be great. I’m sure of it,” she says as she pulls you along. 

But with every step, you feel like you’re nearing an execution. The type that can tear the very soul in half while keeping the physical body intact. 

“Stay here,” she whispers to you, leaving you just outside the doors before dramatically shoving them open, “Little bro!” 

You can hear the shifting of his armor along with his footsteps as he turns to face his older sister. 

“Serval…” 

Gepard's voice sounds heavy. No matter how much you rewind it in your head, there’s no mirth in it. 

“Surprised?” she asks as she hugs him suddenly, “Didn’t think I’d miss your big day, did you?”

“...” 

“Gepard?” she asks before leaning back to eye him better.

“You shouldn’t have brought them…” he murmurs but it’s not low enough that you can’t catch it. 

The ground beneath you becomes like thin ice over a frigid lake. Each word he says produces a fresh crack, branching out to assure your inevitable destruction. 

“What? What do you mean? Aren’t you glad to see them? Gepard, you two are dating. Of course, I’d-” Serval then suddenly stops.

You drop your head as you feel an uncomfortable heat rising along your neck and ears. 

Mortification. 

She takes a step back. 

“You didn’t tell them?” she asks but she’s not really asking.

Her tone sounds utterly appalled.  

“I-I was working on it!” 

“Gepard! You said-!”

“I know what I said!” 

You can’t take anymore. 

Removing your shoes, your footfalls become nearly silent as you make a desperate retreat for the nearest open balcony. The freezing air greets you the moment you step out. With a shudder, you make it to the nearest portable heater, switching it on. With time, it glows a gentle orange that reminds you of the Geomarrow where you’re really from… 

The place that you should feel ashamed of… 

A tear escapes you but you quickly wipe it away, refusing to cry any longer. 

Then… in just that moment…

A crazy thought invades your mind.

This is very high up. 

…Anything could happen.

A despairing croak escapes you as you grip onto yourself tightly. 

No, no, no. Not these thoughts. 

Anything but these thoughts!!

It’s like fighting against the blinding cold winds of the Great Freeze. There’s no escape and before you know it, you’re completely lost within its windchill. 

If only you hadn’t left… Being alone and disturbed with far too much alcohol always makes for a tragedy waiting to happen… 

Please… Someone…  I don’t… I don’t want…

And then the improbable happens.

A light flickering in the distance. 

At first, it seems random until you realize it remarkably seems like the code that-

No bloody way. 

‘Hey there, friend.’ 

That’s what it says. 

Your eyes widen. 

No way, no way, no way. 

Quickly, you pull out the pocket mirror Serval had lent you. Well, given you, but it was way too expensive to keep on your person. You would sneak it back into the untouched mounds within her workshop later. 

For now, you pop it open and use the mirror to reflect the light to message back. 

‘Friend or foe?’

You wait with great anticipation for the next reply. At first, you think it might not come, but it does.

‘Friend?’

A desperate laugh escapes you as you can tell right away who this is. 

‘Idiot.’

He doesn’t miss a beat. 

‘Your idiot.’ 

You frown. 

‘Not mine.’ You correct firmly. 

Then nothing. A part of you gets tense. 

Did you ruin it? If so, then was it for the best? 

But those thoughts vanish when you finally see the light flash again. 

‘Are you okay?’  

Now it was your turn to give pause. Were you okay? 

Your hands trembled around the mirrors as fresh tears fell. This was a pivotal moment. You could feel it. 

The air felt like it had been sealed in an invisible vacuum. Static silently building within…  

You look toward where you came from.

Neither Landau has come for you… 

Too busy bickering, no doubt. 

You lightly bite down on your tongue to try and stop the tears but it’s futile. 

‘Not okay.’

The next response is so quick that you nearly miss it.

‘SOS?’

You tense. 

Your next response will be huge for what happens next… 

‘SOS?’ He asks again. “...” 

No. The pain is too much. You want out. 

‘SOS.’ 

You wait a few minutes there for a response or anything… but there’s nothing. Your shoulders drop with regret at showing even a hint of your vulnerability to an ex of all people. He probably just found your pain entertaining. Maybe he was taking pictures on his phone right now.

Well, might as well give him the best shot. 

You weep quietly from where you lean against the railing… only to feel a sudden rumble from the west side of the manor. It… felt like the kind of shockwaves a bomb gives. 

Did he just-?! 

The clanking of metallic armor stomping down the halls fills your ears as commands are shouted at length. You debate leaving the balcony but now you’re scared. What if you’ve been lured into a trap? What if you’ll be made the scapegoat? What if-

“Hey there.” 

You turn to see the dual dagger-wielding rogue lifting himself with ease over the railing. You were at least three stories high… Had he really just scaled all of that on his own? 

Those enchanting green eyes capture you in an instant as they seem equally mesmerized to see you again. A relieved smile spreads across his face as he tilts his head. 

“Heard you wanted a swift exit?” 

AN: *sipping on Bicardi* Wow. I did not expect to write this… Thank you magic bat. 

For those of you that made it this far, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! 

This could continue but we'll see. Love Triangles are pretty fun though, eh?

they were her people

What is it with Honkai Star Rail fans and being allergic to tagging spoilers

If you can tag your post freaking out about x character in the new update with every fucking hsr tag under the sun, you can type the words “hsr spoilers”. It’s not that hard, and it keeps you from potentially ruining the story experience for someone else.

Jesus Christ, minors have become so fucking cocky and self-centred recently.

It feels like every time I open up a +18 tag or go into an adult fandom space, there's all these actual kids running around, telling people they're minors.

I could be wanting to read a smut fic and I'll see a bunch of posts with the text "minor writing smut, don't like, DNI" or something like that.

How fucking stupid are you? Genuine question. Are your grades okay? Do you need to talk to the school counselor? Take a common sense test? Because I certainly think so.

Why are you entering and actively taking part in adult spaces and then using the "umm I'm a minor, so if you do or say anything, then I'm the victim and you need to get away from me, you creep" card when you get called out on your bullshit?

These adult spaces are not for you, GET THE FUCK OUT! Go sit in the corner and think about what you've done!

Teens will teen. They'll find adult material one way or another, I am fully aware of that. Hell, I'm guilty of reading smut when I was a teen. But when I did, I never told a soul.

I've had accounts run by minors as young as 13-14 interacting with my NSFW posts. And they're somehow bragging about this. Of course, I block them immediately, but I am shocked at how brazen these kids are, to have the gall to do this and think it's okay because "they're mature enough."

No. You're not. I promise you.

Becoming an adult isn't about reaching some arbitrary number. It's about learning to take responsibility for your actions. So take this advice and GET THE FUCK OUT OF ADULT SPACES! YOU'RE NOT WELCOME!

I don't care how much anon hate you kids send my way to try and get me to kms or deactivate. By all means, give me your best shot. But if you seriously think I am going to just let you do this without realising your actions have consequences, you need to be sent to the psych ward across town.

the psychology of men (a guide to understanding how they work) — ft. phainon

if nice guys didn’t always screw you over, you’d have an easier time trusting that phainon isn’t the good guy full of bullshit. but he’s still nice enough to patiently wait for you to give him one chance, though

❤︎ word count: 10.3k words — in literally one day. ONE

❤︎ before you read: female reader ; college au ; reader has a shitty ex boyfriend and trust issues — she is not perfect but she is human. be nice to her ; strangers to friends with benefits to lovers ; reader has a crush on mydei at first LOL ; mentions of alcohol and drunk sex ; phainon is a YEARNER ; resolved angst, miscommunication, and arguments ; phainon is down bad and reader is simply in denial that she is too ; cunnilingus ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; not proof read

❤︎ commentary: i didn’t care about this dude until today. he possessed me so hard i wrote 10k words in less than 24 hours. white hair and blue eyed freaks will do that to you

LESSON ONE: MEN ARE ALWAYS PLANNING SOMETHING. THE NICER THEY SEEM, THE MORE SINISTER THE SCHEME!

You meet Phainon for the first time while you’re freshly out of a relationship, nursing a broken heart. Your ex-boyfriend pursued you with that heartfelt, fairytale sort of devotion, and you thought you’d be telling people at your wedding one day that you knew he was “the one” early on in your relationship. 

And then he dumped you as quickly as he “fell in love” with you. It wouldn’t be right, he’d said, it just isn’t fair to keep you around when I don’t feel the way I used to. He leaves you with not so much as a tear of sorrow, and you’re left with the aftermath of a devastating heartbreak. 

Not the sad, lingering kind—this one is the sort of heartbreak that makes you hate all men. Especially the nice ones—the ones that manipulate you into thinking they’re the good guys who won’t turn on you, but they do. They always do. The nice guys are the ones with the most potential to turn out dangerous. They aren’t upfront about their assholery. That shitty ex of yours is a prime example, and you refuse to fall victim twice. 

Your first impression of Phainon happens in some boring college class you take just for the elective credit and an easy gpa boost. He’s the sort of guy your attention doesn’t instantly latch onto—he’s sweet, sure, and funny but a little too gentle to be real. Too good to be true. Too much of a green flag to be interesting. Exactly the kind of guy you’re avoiding—exactly the sort of person who can worm his way into your heart slowly and lethally and then bite. Hard. (That sort of mindset is too pessimistic to be any good, of course, but you’re only just barely in your twenties as you navigate your dramatic breakup, and your prefrontal cortex is still developing.)

You find his friend a little more intriguing for the longest time, if you’re honest. The brooding blonde next to him always made your eyes linger for a second too long. 

“Hey,” he whispers, poking your shoulder from behind. You turn, slightly irritated by the fact that some guy is interrupting your dissociation in the middle of class—doesn’t he know you have false scenarios to run through your mind while you pass the time? Professor Anaxagoras has a strict no-phones-in-sight policy if you want to keep your participation points up, so the only thing to entertain you is your own head. Sheepishly, as if sensing your irritation, he murmurs, “Sorry. Can I please use your laptop charger?”

“I’m using it,” you blink. 

“Yeah, but it’s almost fully charged,” he practically pleads. The puppy eyes on him are unreal—you feel almost compelled to cave just at the sight of them alone until you realize it’s your charger, and he’s bargaining with you about why you don’t need it. Absurd. “I can see the green battery sign.”

“Are you serious,” you stare at him blandly, “it’s barely twelve pm. Why is your laptop already dying anyway?”

“I charged it,” he pouts, “but she’s old and on her last legs. It doesn’t last if I take the charger out for too long—I forgot to bring it with me. Please. If it dies in the middle of this assignment, it’ll make me start over! It took me an hour to google all these answers.”

Well. He’s convincing in that pathetic sort of way. Just the perfect mix between nice and genuine but still a tad bit needy that just tickles your gut in the right place to loosen you up. Without a word, you unplug your charger with a roll of your eyes and hand it to him as he smiles gratefully. 

“You’re the best!”

“You’re pathetic,” his friend grunts to him from beside him.

“Don’t be rude, Mydei!” he whispers through a wounded voice. 

They continue to bicker back and forth, but you tune it out—there’s only one thought on your mind for the remainder of your time in that room. 

You spend the rest of class thinking about the deep sound of his friend’s voice to care about anything else. Fuck, you think—you’re almost debating that strict no more men rule you’d set for yourself after your break up, ready to throw it all away for the grumpy looking blonde with red tips behind you. He’s hot. And honestly, he seems a bit rude and crabby, so really, he can’t be that bad—and yeah, everyone would think he’s the red flag, but you know how men go. You’ve figured out their psychology. The ones who are prickly on the exterior are actually very soft inside, and they’re not half as bad as the soft, cuddly type of men who turn around and bite you as soon as you’re close enough. 

This guy could be different. He could be worked into devotion instead of smothering you with it early on, only to have ulterior motives and get bored. What was his name again? Mydei? Sounds decently moanable in bed, you reason. He certainly seems like a keeper. 

It’s not long before the lecture ends, and you walk off with all your thoughts consumed by the grumpy blonde guy who said maybe only three words that you properly heard before he possessed your mind like a fucking demon. So much so that you forget to ask for your charger back, and that clever asshole never gave it back on his own accord like a proper human being. 

So, the next time Phainon walks into class, you’re glaring at him right at the entrance of the room with an outstretched hand and an unimpressed curl of your lips. 

“My charger,” you say blandly, “you took off with it last class. I need it back.”

“Oh!” he flushes, quickly digging into his bag and pulling it out—at least he kept it in very good condition. Men are not to be trusted with things you need because they are irresponsible. Case example: not returning what they borrow. “Sorry,” he says earnestly, “I meant to return it, but I forgot. Which, I was thinking…maybe we should exchange numbers—you know…to contact outside of class if we ever need it.”

You blink, seeing right through him. Why else would you ever need it again? “You walked off with my charger just so you could use it as an opening to ask for my number?”

He flushes a deeper shade of red, creeping up to his ears and down his neck like he didn’t expect you to call him out on his so very blatant scheme. “W-well…did it work?”

You contemplate for a moment before you respond, “No.”

“How about if I throw in some assignment answers?”

“…Okay, fine.” You never pay attention in this class—the tests are open notes, and the weekly assignments are easy enough when you have the internet at your disposal. But still, having someone present the answers to you is a much faster route, and you have other non-elective classes to worry about, so all in all, if a semi-annoying guy messages you here and there, it’s not so bad.

And the better part is that his friend is hot, so you can snag the details on him, too. Men don’t really worry about the concept of loyalty—they don’t stay far away from the people their friends show an interest in for something like friendship. You know how they work. Phainon’s number can lead you to Mydei’s, and Mydei can break you free from your awful, terrible descent to madness from heartbreak, and when you inevitably have a happy, healthy, and loving relationship that lasts, you’ll never think about your bastard ex again.

Foolproof.

“Great!” Phainon beams. He hands you his phone, and you type your number in.

And that starts it all. 

────────────────────────

LESSON TWO: SEX DOES NOT EQUAL INTIMACY. WHEN THEY SAY IT’S JUST PHYSICAL, THAT’S TOTALLY FINE. BUT IF YOU SAY IT, YOU’RE OUT OF LINE!

Exchanging phone numbers with Phainon was supposed to be a simple way to have at least one contact for a class—a very important measure you should take for every class you’re in—and perhaps, if you’re lucky, you could also somehow get closer to that hot blonde friend he has named Mydei. 

It was never supposed to become a real friendship.

But, well…shit happens, and things don’t go according to plan. It also doesn’t help that Phainon is a consistent texter—almost to a fault. What sort of man doesn’t text sporadically and with a tone as dry as concrete? Phainon, apparently—which is not like any sort of man you’ve ever known. 

You even start sitting with him in class instead of in front of him—that’s a terribly unplanned development. The bright side of it, however, is that you quickly get over his friend. Mydei is nice, but he’s a little too bored. Or maybe he just isn’t interested in you; you’re not so sure. No amount of flirty comments gets a flush out of him, not a smirk, not even a smart retort back. He is just…bored. (Or maybe he’s secretly just one of those good friends who doesn’t flirt with the girl that his friend is actively trying to pursue, but that option does not align with your very complex understanding of men, so you shove it aside. He’s probably just bored, and that’s just truly unfortunate. He was hot.)

But you grow fond of Phainon. As a friend. Sure, he’s clearly been interested in you since day one, but he’s not pushy, and a hint here and there that you’re still bitter about your previous relationship makes him keep a respectful distance. But he’s definitely smitten—and you? Well, you’re lonely. And he’s a good guy. A good guy who keeps you good company as a good friend and nothing more. He knows that, and you don’t think you’re stringing him along if he’s aware that you’re nothing more than friendly. 

And sometimes, friends go to parties together. And sometimes, they also drink together. And sometimes, they also end up staying at the other’s apartment afterward because it’s closer and safer than trying to get back home alone. And…sometimes, although not a lot of times—but sometimes, they wake up in bed together, nude with no recollection of the previous night and love bites scattered on their necks as proof that something very, very physical happened between them.

It’s not always a common occurrence, but it’s certainly not a rare one. Does it complicate things? For certain—but you think that you and Phainon are good enough friends and mature enough people to know that sex does not equate to intimacy. Most men are super clear about that, anyway—it’s almost ingrained in their nature to say “no strings attached” before they fuck your brains out in every position they can think to try. This should not be a foreign concept to him. 

But it doesn’t make the morning any less awkward. 

“Oh my god,” you say in disbelief, pulling the sheets over your bare chest as you stare at Phainon like he’s grown two heads. He stares back at you like you’re some figment of his imagination—unsure if you’re real but painfully hopeful that you are. And then you take a quick glimpse around his room and realize he’s a space nerd—there’s a poster about Saturn on his wall. “I didn’t think you were into space. You seem a little too air-headed for that.”

“Hey!” he pouts, “you don’t know me! I can be very smart!”

You snort, eyeing him in amusement. Except staring at him for too long means that you are forced to look at the hickey you left on his neck, almost like you were a raging, horny teenager last night and not an adult. You would be more embarrassed if one glimpse down at your chest didn’t tell you that he was even worse. 

“So…” you start awkwardly. 

“So…” he echoes. 

You don’t know where to take it from there. There’s a beat of silence before you say, “We’re good, right Phai?”

He softens, looking at you with those large, round eyes that house every shade of the sky and her beauty before he nods and murmurs, “Yeah. We’re always good.”

“Good,” you breathe, “I’m glad. I want us to be good.”

“Well,” he rubs his neck, “we are, in fact, good. So…yeah.”

In the end, you sheepishly turn around so he can get out of bed, find his scattered clothes and put them on, and leave, and you—once you’re certain he’s far enough in the kitchen and the faucet is running—scream into his pillow before slipping out of bed and putting on your own. You’re pleasantly surprised he doesn’t have only one pillow. But his sheets are navy blue, so you dock a few points for that. Not a good look.

He makes you breakfast before you leave. Something about sitting and sharing pancakes while he has tousled hair feels so natural you almost feel sick at the thought of leaving. But you tell yourself that he’s an easy friend to have and feel comfortable with, and force yourself up and to the door when the time inevitably comes. 

He sees you out with a soft, “See you later?”

“Yeah,” you hum, “later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

—————

You wish so badly that you could be an ideal individual, but you are as flawed as the rest of the humans you share planet Earth with.

You and Phainon fuck again. Sober, this time. Still as friends. Not by accident, or through the influence of alcohol, or by forced proximity, or by anything that you can use to excuse it. You can’t excuse it. It’s entirely an act of free will that you consented to—because he does take consent very seriously, you learn—and it starts to become abundantly clear that sex is beginning to get a little too frequent in your time together.

The first time it happened after the initial accidental night, he was over at your apartment helping you build your new desk. The old one was too small, and you needed an upgraded space badly. He spends the evening hammering and drilling pieces away and fitting them together, and like some cliche joke from the universe, when you slip on the instruction manual on the floor, he catches you as your face hovers dangerously close to his. A kiss later, and suddenly he’s fitting into you and drilling you instead of the wood. 

And then it starts to happen everywhere. 

Sometimes in the back of his car before he drops you off at home after class. Sometimes on your kitchen counter when you’re supposed to be washing dishes after he’s over for dinner to study. Sometimes after he’s got a bad exam grade to blow off some steam. Sometimes when you’re particularly stressed over a busy week with too many assignments due on the same day and too many hours of your part-time job to work. 

Every time it happens, you go back to acting like you always do afterward. Like it never even happened. Never mentioned, or questioned, or brought up. He never questions if something is shifting in your relationship, and you never bring it up. Sometimes, two people can have a physical relationship and still be friends and nothing more. It’s not impossible, and it’s not bad.

If anything, it makes you closer friends. You start to understand each other better. You talk more—really talk. No silly banter, or heated debate, or stressed-out vents. Just you, Phainon, the sheets that cover your bodies and a quiet room that lingers with the scent of sex.

He tells you about how much he misses his hometown. How small it is, and how everyone knows everyone. How leaving home and his young triplet sisters was the hardest thing he did, but a good degree and stable job is even harder to come by where he’s from. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

And you tell him about your ex. About how sweet and nice he was. How badly he wanted you. How good he was at doing things right and reading you for what you craved. How to love you like you always wished. How to spend time with you without burning you out and depleting your social battery. How to know your ticks and know when he’s pushing your buttons too far and when a joke doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. How to make you feel seen. 

No man has ever loved you like that. None have cared to, either. Learning you is a lot of work—you have years and years of life and stories and feelings and fears and everything’s to share. Teaching them is a lot. Learning them is even more. 

You liked to think that boy from your past was a ticket to something good. Some better life for yourself where it’s not just you and yourself, and that’s it—a life where you were you and someone else cared to see it. Have it. Cherish it. Keep it. 

You don’t know how someone could pour in so much time, do everything first, want things all on their own, and still walk away and tell you that they just don’t feel the same anymore.

You think it’s just a man thing. Men bore easily. 

Phainon snorts at that. 

“They do have short attention spans,” he tells you. 

You smile tightly, humming as you blink back tears. “Or maybe I’m just boring.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he gasps dramatically, reaching over to swipe the tears like it’s always been his job to—it feels so natural when he does it. “You’re not boring! You’re at least a step up from boring because boring is Professor Anaxa, and god knows what he drones on about.” 

“Gee,” you huff, but the tears are easier to subside when it’s him. They’re gone quickly like a fleeting reminder that sorrow exists but shooed away like they’re unwelcome when he’s around. He’s around more and more these days. “Thanks. I’m glad to be just a step up from boring. Maybe in a year or so, I’ll be two steps up from boring.”

“Nothing is ever impossible,” he winks. “Some day, with enough hard work and determination, you might even be three steps up.”

“You suck,” you giggle. 

He laughs, and the sound of his voice is enough to lull you to sleep. You sleep good next to him—always do.

—————

One thing you count on is that it’s always easy when it’s you and Phainon. Phainon and you. 

Just two people who exist with each other, and nothing else really needs to be thought out. You don’t worry about what you wear around him or how you look. He doesn’t care too much about what you’re doing or where you’re going. As long as it’s you and him, him and you, and nothing else—it’s okay. He’s good. He treats you good and makes you feel good, too. Inside and out. Physically and mentally. 

He might even be your best friend. You don’t know if you should tell him that—men get weird about definite titles like that. But then again, maybe not Phainon. He’s like an anomaly of sorts, sometimes. 

But you forget sometimes that Phainon was never hoping to just be friends. And you suppose letting him feel you come undone for him more than once is like dangling his desires right in front of his face because it all blows up on you very fast. 

Perfect one second, like the calm before the storm, and a disaster zone the next, leaving you no time to evacuate before the tornado has hit and done its damage. 

“Mydei wants to come with us to try that new cafe you mentioned,” Phainon hums, watching in sheepish amusement as you sigh and mutter under your breath while picking up his dirty socks from the couch and tossing them across the room. (Men are all the same, aren’t they?) “He said something about there being a pomegranate beverage he wants to try.”

“Fine by me,” you shrug, slumping onto his couch, “if he doesn’t find it awkward, then I don’t either.”

“Why would he find it awkward?” he looks at you in bewilderment.

“I think he’d have to be oblivious to miss the way I was flirting with him,” you huff out a snort, “I don’t think most men jump at the opportunity to hang out with a girl they ignored advances of, but maybe he’s just too passionate about pomegranate to care.”

Everything feels like it pauses as soon as the words come out. You thought he’d known this whole time—you could have sworn he’d known. How would Mydei have never mentioned it to him? Aren’t they best friends? Don’t men at least tell their friends when a girl is hitting on them regularly in passing? Is Mydei really that bad at giving life updates, or is he more clueless than you gave him credit for when it comes to romantic interaction? 

Nothing makes sense, and you’re not entirely sure about anything. The only thing you are sure about is that Phainon is staring at you like you’ve been disloyal to the worst degree. 

“You liked Mydei?” he asks in hurt, staring at you with those god-awful puppy eyes. You feel like you kicked one, too, with the way he stares at you. 

“W-well, no,” you stutter, “I mean, yes—but like…not really, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” he shakes his head, “you’re not making any sense.”

“I liked him for a very short time,” you say quickly, “like…like a small crush, you know? He was attractive, and I am not immune to an attractive man, so it just…b-but it never lasted for long!”

“Did you still like him when we got together?” he asks quietly. Got together—you physically have to stop yourself from flinching at those words. Some part of you feels a little bit bad that he sounds so wounded, but the other part of you feels like this is all so absurd. That he’s starting to get worked up over nothing. He has to know you were never together—you never did anything that implies two people that are…together. It’s always been a good fuck here and there, and that’s what you kept it as strictly. 

(Distantly, your mind gnaws at you and screams that two people who just fuck and nothing else do not do the things that you and Phainon do. Sure, you were friends first, but two people who draw the line at sex don’t seek each other to FaceTime until three am, and they don’t bring each other soup when they’re sick, and they don’t hold each other when they cry, and they don’t, under any circumstances, tell each other about their deepest insecurities that they’ve never voiced before about shoddy exes who ruined their ability to trust and feel loved. You can’t be the closest people in your lives and just have sex—but your mind has never been your number one supporter, so you shove the voice down.)

“No,” you admit, and for a second, his shoulders sag in relief. Like he doesn’t care or feel threatened that you liked his friend as long as it didn’t bleed into your time together—and that’s when you start to wonder if Phainon is too good for you. Too kind and genuine in a way that is not dangerous. Too sweet in a way that doesn’t slowly kill you like poison but just gives you something to look forward to. Maybe he’s a good one—a good guy who is just good and nothing else. Still, you kill his heart anyway with a harsh blow to his chest as you add, “I didn’t like anyone when we started getting physical. And I still don’t, Phainon.”

Getting physical. Whatever that means. You say it like it puts some distance between the sex you have and intimacy. You say it like it rationalizes everything you do with him—you get physical, which is only human nature, and in the mix, if you develop a good, long-standing friendship, then there is nothing wrong with that. 

But are you really okay with just friends? Yes. You are. Are you sure about that? Absolutely. You don’t seem so convinced. This is a positive, for sure, one hundred percent true reality. Phainon is just a friend. You’re shooting yourself in the foot. 

You force yourself to stop arguing with yourself when you notice the way his eyes flash at the words: still don’t. He processes the words that you still don’t like anyone, and the look in his eyes is devastating. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. Anger. Something else that you don’t quite understand, but it makes you filled dreadfully to the brim with unease. 

“Every time we’ve been together has just been physical to you?” he asks quietly, croaking out the words as if they’re acrid on his tongue and taste awful. “You’re lying.”

“I thought I made it very clear we were just friends, and I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” you furrow your brows, “you can’t act like I’ve been stringing you along—”

“Before we started, fucking, sure! But I thought it was pretty mutually clear we were slowly turning romantic when you willingly took my dick down your throat every now and then.”

“We’ve never had a ‘hey, what are we?’ discussion,” you cry exasperatedly, throwing your hands up as though this is all…so, so, so absurd—and for a second, you feel like it is. You made it clear that you weren’t trying to date. Not him, not anybody. Sure, that silly blonde friend of his clouded your judgment for a bit, but that was never more than a phase. “Don’t you think it was a red flag to never discuss what we are or what we’re doing if we were getting romantic?”

He falters. Something in his face makes him look so unrecognizable. So fragile and knocked down a peg that you’ve never seen from him. And something about the way he looks at you makes you almost feel like he doesn't recognize you. 

“I thought you were avoiding the conversation on purpose,” he whispers, voice cracking just as he says: you. “I thought…I thought you were just nervous about labels after everything from your last…” he clears his throat, like even mentioning the word relationship kills him, “and…and that I was just waiting for you to be more comfortable…”

You don’t know what to say. And frankly, nothing seems like it’ll make him feel better. He’s fighting the trembling of his lips and blinking back the moisture in his eyes like all he has left in his control is to not shed tears in front of you. 

You extend him that much grace. (Men don’t like being vulnerable, you reason. They hate showing emotions.)

“Phainon, I think I should go,” you murmur softly.

“You want to leave?” he asks, gutted. It’s got two meanings—you know that. You know exactly what he’s asking.

Everything feels wrong when you say, “Yes,” through a soft whisper, “I do.” But you still don’t take it back.

And nothing feels right when he lets out a watery chuckle and lets the first few tears slip. “Well, you know where the door is,” he spits.

He doesn’t walk you out. You’re not sure why that feels so heavy—it’s not because you’re guilty. You know that. It’s something else, and you can’t quite understand it. 

────────────────────────

LESSON THREE: NOT ALL MEN. SURE, MOST HAVE A VERY BAD STREAK, BUT NEVER THE WHITE-HAIRED AND BLUE-EYED FREAK!

You barely last two weeks before you call Phainon. 

At first, you thought being without who is maybe your closest friend at the moment was just eating away at you, and that’s why you missed him. You threw yourself into your social circles, making plans left and right to fill that gaping hole of his presence. It didn’t work. 

And then it slowly starts to click in place. 

Your friends send you a picture of your ex’s new fling, calling him an asshole and how she’s too pretty to be his next victim. You don’t feel even the slightest bit jealous or hollow. In fact, you’re bored by the news—you have more pressing matters. 

Then, you start to see what feels like fucking propaganda for romance everywhere. Every social media timeline is filled with some stupid, cheesy, cringe trend that rubs in your face how painfully in love two people are. You get ads for fucking wedding rings. Your friends are all magically starting to get out of the talking phases and actually have something exclusive and official. Your old high school friends are getting engaged, and invitations are coming in. You’ve RSVP’d one in spring and two in fall already. 

Everywhere you look, it’s something that feels like the universe is promoting a relationship in your face as if it’s a poorly disguised paid sponsorship by some celebrity online, and all you want to do is throw a rock at the sky and hope it lands on whatever divine being is playing tricks on you straight in the face. 

But it slowly becomes clearer and clearer why it unsettles you so much. Why it all makes you bitter and annoyed and tired and…and sad. You’re sad. And it’s because you miss Phainon, and every couple reminds you of the hurt you caused him and why it’s your fault he’s still not in your life. Because you wanted your cake and to eat it, too. Even if it meant taking advantage of his feelings and the heart he didn’t even bother wearing on his sleeve. He just pinned it to yours and let you wear it. 

So you call him. When that doesn’t work, and you get sent to voicemail, you go straight to his apartment. You knock on his door incessantly for two minutes straight (you know he’s home—his car is there) before he opens the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes despite it being three in the afternoon. 

“Mydei, can you at least come bother me to eat a little later in the da—oh.”

He notices you and quickly straightens up, smoothing out his wrinkled t-shirt as best as he can and fixing his ruffled hair (that doesn’t do much but ruffle more) as he looks at you with what is his best attempt at a nonchalant look and clears his throat. “Yes?”

“Hi,” you say nervously, “how are you?” (What else do you say? You’re at a loss.)

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs casually, “nursing a broken heart and trying to integrate back into society as a functioning member. The usual. How about you?”

You flinch at his tone, at the way it’s so clipped yet so emotional at the same time. 

“I called earlier—”

“I know. I ignored that, by the way, if that wasn’t clear,” he says as if being petty and angry is the only thing he has left. (It might just be, and you certainly won’t blame him for it.)

“I know,” you whisper, “but I still wanted to talk. And see you. Which I know I don’t deserve, but I guess I’m clearly not perfect, huh?” you shrug softly, giving him a sad smile. 

“Well,” he says flatly, “you came all this way, and I’ve already opened the door. Might as well say the groundbreaking thing you came to say.”

When Phainon is hurt is the only time he does not know how to be kind. He spends so much time not hurting others, not letting them feel the pain of their feelings being overlooked, that he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. How to stomach that, yes, there are hurt people in this world, and, yes, they do the hurting, too. And he might fall victim to it. And he might even be the cause of someone else’s hurt, too, intentional or not. 

He’s not good at processing pain. He’s too good of a guy to ever have to dwell on how badly his actions have impacted someone. Not because he’s perfect but because he’s gentle enough by nature to avoid the necessity of it while he can. 

“I’m sorry,” you say earnestly. Because you are. You are. “I knew you were interested early on, and having sex as often as we did was leading you on whether I meant to or not, and you got hurt because of it, so I’m sor—”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. 

You blanch. “What?” you ask, mildly frustrated. He doesn’t have to forgive you, but it’s certainly an honest apology. “You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to. But I just felt it was right to tell you that I—”

“I’m not upset because you don’t like me or you that led me on,” he interrupts, making you blink in confusion. He looks at you for a moment—really looks at you, and before you can say anything, he lets out another disbelieving chuckle. “You still don’t get it, do you? Do you even understand it yourself—why you’re even here?”

“To apologize, of course—”

“No.” 

He says it so seriously. 

Phainon is hardly ever so serious. It’s what you always liked about him, even if you hated to admit it. He’s good at taking serious matters and making them feel like they’re not so serious. Not in a bad way—he’s just good at making them feel less soul-crushing with that carefree smile and those light-hearted words. He comforts you without ever letting you feel the shame of needing comfort. It’s nice.

You forget that even he is capable of being solemn. 

“No one apologizes for breaking someone’s heart unless it breaks theirs too—do you see that? Do you see that you care? I’m not upset that you don’t care about me or that you don’t feel the same. That would be easy to move on from. It kills me because you do—you care, and you feel exactly the way I do, and you just won’t admit it—do you know how much that sucks?”

You swallow thickly. It’s getting to that dangerous territory. That fragile, vulnerable place in your mind that you don’t like because then you have to admit that, yes, maybe you fucking fell hard and crashed onto the ground for Phainon. Asphalt and rocks still digging into your arms with raw and bleeding skin. Yes, maybe he’s that nice, kind, genuine guy who you fell for and who has no other motives than to spend his time being nice and genuine to you. And maybe, if you’d met him sooner and not later, you could have loved him and not some other asshole in disguise, pretending to parade around like a good man, like some wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Maybe that would have saved you the constant fear of it inevitably going all wrong—of giving and giving and giving, and one day, even that’s not enough, and someone doesn’t even want to take from you anymore. That one day, someone doesn’t even find you worth taking advantage of. 

That stings.

It’s this twisted sort of rejection you can’t handle. This sickening sort of feeling makes you think it’s better to be needed for selfish reasons than to be discarded like a useless, meaningless waste of time. And Phainon wouldn’t take advantage of you, right? He’s too nice of a guy—he’d reel you in, make you think he wants you so, so badly, and then when he doesn’t, he’ll play that nice guy trick again and make you think he’s doing you a favor by letting you go. Letting you go so you’re not being used by making it known you’re unwanted and not enough. 

As if he didn’t spend so much time making you want him. Condition you into thinking being loved by him was such a treasure. Convince you into needing the devotion he hands so easily for free. 

But you’re wrong, aren’t you? Maybe he’s not like that at all—maybe he’s just a nice guy because he really is good. Maybe he’s not nice because he needs to be to get what he wants. Maybe he’s nice because he wants to be, and it earns him what he wants the honorable way. Maybe you’ve fallen for Phainon, and maybe you were wrong about that being a bad thing. And maybe you just really fucking hate to admit when you’re wrong. (Your prefrontal cortex is still developing, after all. The men of your past are not very helpful to that slow development.)

“I don’t know how I feel anymore,” you whisper, tears littering your eyes. And god, you feel like a witch—using those sad, doe eyes with the wet, teary gaze that you know will soften him up like butter. Because he does. Even if you don’t do it on purpose, it makes sure he softens right up in front of your face because he hates the sight of your sadness being so tangible that he can feel it on the pad of his thumb in the form of a wet, warm rivulet. 

Like clockwork, he wipes the tears and sighs, and you let out a shaky breath. 

“I don’t know how I feel about anything because every time I think my feelings are right, they’re fucking wrong,” you sob, “I am always wrong, and I don’t know how to stop being wrong.”

His arms wrap around you and pull you close, pressing your body flush against that sturdy chest that feels like a brick wall—strong enough to keep you away from all the harm and cruelty of the world around you as long as he stands in front of you. Sometimes, you think that’s all it takes. Just Phainon standing there, and that’s it. That’s it to be okay. 

“You can only stop being wrong once you’re right,” he hums, giving you a sad, innocent little smile, “isn’t that the whole point of it all? To find the person who’s right? There’s gotta be a few wrong answers here and there, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to keep crying over the wrong answers,” you sniffle, “it’s dehydrating me.”

He laughs. It sounds good. It feels good, too, with the way his chest rumbles against you. He always does. Everything about him is just good. The way he smells, and feels, and sounds, and just is. Phainon is just good. You like just good—no catches, no curveballs, no fine print. Just good. 

“Hey,” he tilts your face up and presses his forehead to yours, wiping your tears valiantly still, even as they keep coming. And he’s hurt. You did that—you hurt him. But he seems more focused on the fact that your heart is crumbling than his own. “I can’t promise you won’t ever cry because of me—I’m not always the brightest, okay? But I can promise that I’m going to stay and wipe every last tear if I mess up. And then I’m going to keep staying. I will always stay so I can wipe the next round of tears and hydrate you again for your troubles. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. It doesn’t have to be perfect, yeah?”

“You don’t want it to be?” you snivel, “you seem like the type to hopelessly daydream about perfect romances with not much luck.”

“I’m going to let that dig slide because you are emotional right now, and we all say things we don’t mean when we’re emotional,” he rubs your back, rocking you slowly from side to side. 

And…well, you think you’re wrong. About him. About Phainon and now he’s nice in a way that’s too nice and too good to be true. You’re wrong because he’s just nice, and it’s just nice enough that it’s good, not devious—and for once, just this once, you don’t mind being wrong.

Not if it’s for him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “for being confused and scared and unable to realize I care about you. I will get some help or something to be a functioning member of society.”

“Well, when you find help, hook me up,” he snorts, “because I need it, too. You’ve done a number on me.”

You’re both laughing. And then, at some point, you’re both kissing. His lips are on yours, and yours are on his, and it’s just a mix of each other that feels less like it’s right and more like nothing about it was ever wrong in the first place. Sometimes, it doesn’t have to be right as long as it’s just not wrong. Sometimes, that’s enough to keep things going. Sometimes, they become right along the way, all on their own. 

You cup his cheeks, making him pause his assault on your lips against his will as he lets out a soft noise of protest deep in his throat. You’ll fall hopelessly harder for him because of that later—first, you have more pressing matters. 

“I’m serious,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I do care about you—so much that it scares me. I care about you and I promise this time I’m going to stay and keep caring. So be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he smiles, all wobbly lips and a shaky voice and trembling fingertips. They dig into your hips as his head buries into your neck, and you hold him—latch onto him and clutch his shirt because feeling him is all that ever felt good, and you don’t think you can stomach letting it go a second time. “I am so ready to be the only thing you care about.”

“Maybe not the only thing—”

“Did you hear that? That weird crack sound? That’s the sound of my heart breaking a second time. Any more, and I’ll be collecting shards off the floor.”

“C’mere loser,” you laugh, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him into a hard, deliberate kiss that knocks the wind out of both of you. It makes your stomach twist and form knots and there’s this weird tickle in your chest that feels like you’re about to implode. Phainon is so good at that—at making you feel so, so unwell but well at the same time. You’re sick and nauseous from how badly you want him, but nothing else feels right until you have him. 

So you wrap your arms around him, pressing nearer, closer, harder up against him and kissing him until both of you are gasping for breath in between every press of your mouths together. Your hands find his hair, carding through it wildly and pulling on the strands when he nips at your lips, and when he groans into your mouth at a particularly harsh tug, you know it’s starting to become a scene that should not be happening at his front door where anyone can pass by.  

“Inside?” he pants, pulling away for just long enough to say the word.

You kiss him hard once more, making him groan again before you decide that, yes, it probably needs to move indoors. “Inside,” you breathe, labored and unsteady, “now—now, please.”

“Whatever you want,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to beg. You always get what you want—don’t I always give it to you?”

“Then quit talking and give it to me.”

That shuts him up really fast. With a dark glint in his eyes, he pulls you in, closing the door swiftly and pressing you against it. You’re caged—nothing but him, you, and the throbbing ache between your legs that seems to be a common denominator between the two of you. 

“I want you so bad,” he groans, kissing your neck, inhaling your scent along your sweet, delicate skin, “want you so bad I never want you gone. Don’t ever leave.”

“I won’t,” you gasp as he bites—and it’s a little hard. A little mean almost, but he kisses it better with a soft peck afterward that you forgive him on the spot and melt. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he hums, nose trailing along the column of your neck before he drags it along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth before he murmurs, “but I’ll make it hard to walk away this time just for safe measures.”

It feels like a literal and metaphorical promise. Before you can even respond to his cheekiness, he has your mouth hostage again—kissing and groaning into it enough that you have no choice but to soften and become pliant under him. You swallow up his sounds as the bulge in his pants presses against your own heat, the slow, desperate pressure of him grinding against you, making you shiver against the door. 

Good—he always feels so good. Everything about Phainon is always so damn good. 

“Feel that?” he croons, gasping as you roll your hips in tandem with his own movements, “feel how hard I am for you? You’re telling me anyone else will want you this bad? No one. I’m it for you. I’m not giving you up. Ever.”

His voice is a low, almost dangerous promise—and if you weren’t dripping at your core from the sound of him alone, you’d be less than inclined to admit that you like the sound of that. But you do, don’t you? You want him to want you so badly, so desperately, that the thought of letting you go makes him his own worst enemy. And he does, doesn’t he? He wants you so badly that you’re almost scared. 

But you like it. Love it, even. You fucking love that he needs you, and you want him to need you so badly he might just die without you. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to his shoulders. He lets go just long enough to pull his arms up and let you take it off of him, tossing it to the ground before your fingers run your nails along the hard plane of his abs. He shivers, letting out a soft, barely-there sound at the feeling. “Don’t let me go. Ever.”

“Whatever you want, princess,” he grins. Phainon leans in again, kissing you impatiently like being away from you for that short period of time was enough to have him on edge. Maybe it does because he only melts and relaxes when his lips are against yours again. His fingers trail to the edge of your pants, toying with the waistband as you quiver at the feeling of his rough fingertips rubbing against the skin of your belly. 

“Need you,” you whine.

“You got me,” he reassures, “just wanna take my time, yeah? You can handle that, can’t you? Let me have a little fun with you so I cheer up before I fuck you right against this door?”

You whimper. He’s mean sometimes, too. He’s so, so nice, but sometimes, it’s like a switch flips, and he’s mean. Not cruel—just teasingly mean to keep you on your toes and have you falling apart for him. It’s so mean, but it’s so careful and thoughtful and meant just for you—like he thinks only about you. 

“Just hold onto me, okay, baby?” he asks gently, pecking your lips, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Before you can even ask what that means, he drops down to his knees, spreading yours and pulling your pants and underwear down in one go, helping them off your legs as they get thrown somewhere in the back along with his shirt. You realize exactly why you need to hold on as soon as a finger prods your entrance, splitting your folds open as he peers into them and hums at the way you’re wet and slick. You gasp, grabbing onto the nearest thing—which happens to be his hair as he chuckles. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “I hardly did anything yet. But don’t worry, you can pull if you need—I don’t mind.”

Just like that, his mouth is between the apex of your thighs, tongue tracing your sweet, precious little clit before he licks a stripe along your folds, humming against your cunt and sending vibrations as you mewl at the feeling. 

“Ph-Painon…fuck—”

He hooks a leg over his shoulder, letting you half sit on him as he props you up and devours you. Devours you like you were the only thing on his mind. Like he was starved and dying in this apartment, and the only thing to sustain him is you. His tongue dips past your folds and fucks into you before pulling away just as quickly and flicking over your clit. Two fingers gently prod at your entrance this time—only they don’t tease you. No, instead, they fill you up and slip into you as far as they go, curling into a sweet, sweet spot in your walls that has your knees wobbling. 

You think you will fall for a moment. You think holding onto his hair and tugging him so harshly is not going to keep you steady, and the weight he takes as he props you up on a shoulder, is not going to hold you.

But he makes good on his promise. He doesn’t let you fall or slip for even a fraction, even as your legs get weaker and your orgasm draws nearer. 

“‘M close, Phai—s-so close,” you whimper. 

He pulls away. With a smug, stupid little grin, he looks up at you as you stare down in disbelief. “Say you care about me.”

“What is wrong with you—”

“Ah ah, that’s not what the magic words are!”

“Phainon—”

“That’s not a bad guess, but still not the right answer!”

“Fucking hell,” you hiss, “I care about you, asshole.”

“A little more aggressive than necessary, but I will accept it,” he hums, rewarding you with a soft kiss to your clit. “Now tell me you know I care about you. That I want you, and I want to stay.” 

“Phainon,” you plead, “please, can’t we do this later?”

“No,” he says firmly, “because then it’s just getting physical, and I am not getting physical. I am getting intimate. Tell me what I want to hear so there’s no mistaking things.”

He’s throwing your words right back at your face. And the only way you’re going to get what you want is if you own up to them, even if it’s against your will. So you do. With an exasperated sigh, you tell him what he wants to hear.

“I know you care about me,” you say impatiently, “I know you care, and you want me, and you want to stay, and god knows you’re not good at leaving me alone, so I guess I will just have to get used to you.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, giving your clit one more kiss before he’s back to lapping at your cunt like he’s parched. Your slick coats his chin and makes his skin glisten as he traces your clit with his tongue, curling his fingers just right into your heat. They brush against that spot again—he has it perfectly memorized, and just like that, you fall apart, gushing around his fingers and coating his lips with even more of your essence. 

“Fuck,” you sob, grinding against his face as you ride out the shockwaves of pleasure, feeling him groan against you right where you need him. 

He lets you stay like that for just a moment, resting half your weight on his shoulder and half your weight on one leg before he abruptly stands and grabs your waist, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around his hips. You’ve done this before—at that point, you’d considered it just any other step to getting physical with someone. 

Now, you realize you were beyond oblivious to how much you needed it to only be him you were doing all these motions with. It almost feels silly. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he grins.

“What?”

“I don’t want you against the door anymore. I want you on the bed—my bed. And you’re staying there, and you’re going to like it.”

You laugh, breaking into a fit of giggles as he jogs over to his room with you in his arms. And when he drops you unceremoniously only to the bed, flopping on top of you and attacking your neck with kisses, you can’t help but break into another fit of giggles, feeling his playful nibbles and licks against your skin. It feels so easy. So natural. Only with Phainon, you realize. Only ever with Phainon. 

“Hi,” you breathe when his forehead presses to yours. 

He gives you a bright, toothy grin, murmuring, “Hi, yourself, pretty.”

And then he's kissing you again. His lips are soft and slow this time around. Pressing against your mouth, slotting into the space like it’s his to fit into—and it is. It’s always been his, whether you were willing to admit it or not. His tongue glides against yours languidly, no rush or impatience or desperation like usual. This time, he kisses you like you’re his and always have been—like he knows what you taste and feel like, and he knows it’s always been his and always will be. He kisses you like he’s reminding you of it, one painstakingly slow second at a time. 

“You broke my fucking heart,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice raw and vulnerable but never not soft, “you know that? You broke my fucking heart.”

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the erratic beating of it under your palm as you whisper, “Seems like it’s working perfectly well to me.”

He chuckles at that. Lets out another toothy grin before he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s cute and precious and so fucking sweet—he sounds just like what he is. Tooth rotting sweet.

“You’re always so smart with your words,” he drawls, pressing wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

One hand slowly pulls your shirt up, inch by inch, before you slowly help him take it off of you. The bra comes off next, and you’re bare—under him as nothing else but his. Nothing else that covers or keeps what’s his away from him. 

And when you eye his pants with a petulant, pouty look, he chuckles before throwing you an amused look as he takes them off slowly, not taking his eyes off of you.

You and Phainon have fucked. But you’ve never been intimate—not by the real standards, at least. The proper kind where you take the time to really take in each other’s bodies, commit each dip and curve to memory, know it inside out and like the back of your hand. Where that scar starts and ends from his childhood shenanigans, where your little moles scatter along your body in hidden crevices. And when he slowly frees his cock, and you can really stare without having to tell yourself you shouldn't, you take a good look. 

You take a good look at the flush of his pretty cock—pretty, just like the rest of him. A nice, soft, muted pink at the tip that oozes with the beginnings of pre cum, and it’s sensitive as it twitches under your delicate thumb when you smear the dribbling essence along the head of his cock. 

“Mmh,” he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, fluttering his eyes closed and panting as you touch him. Feel him. Want him. 

You finally want him, and it’s almost enough to make him spill into your hand alone. But he forces himself to composure, grabbing your hand and pinning it over your head—and then goes the other. He holds them in place with one large hand, watching as you squirm under him impatiently. 

“No touching,” he whispers, “first, I’m gonna teach you not to take me for granted. Then you’ll never want to take your hands off of me.”

“If you just ask me nicely, I’ll never take my hands off of you,” you offer. 

He laughs, boyish and charming and so fucking smooth, you feel something flutter at the base of your stomach. Something stirring in your guts and twisting them inside out in anticipation. “Persuasive,” he hums, “but I still have to teach you not to take me for granted.”

When the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, your wrists struggle against his hands to break free. You need to feel him—to know he’s there against you and real. To feel his hair and tug and hear him groan in response. To scratch along his back and feel his warm, damp skin, the way he shivers under the pain and likes it. To pull him closer and feel him practically melt against you at the gesture. 

You want to feel him. Because you need to know he’s yours. And you never, ever want to take for granted Phainon again. Your Phainon. The nice, sweet, gentle boy who stole your charger for a day to get your number. Who knew before you knew, long before you were ever willing to know, that he would love you. Even when you didn’t want to, he did it from a distance. And when he thought you finally would, that you’d finally let it happen, he still did it quietly, stripped of labels and titles even though he wanted to announce it to the world. 

For you. Everything was always for you. 

“Please, Phai,” you plead, “please, please, please—let me touch you.”

“Yeah? You want that, huh?” he grins, pretending to think for a moment before he hums, “tell me why.”

“So I can feel you and know you’re mine,” you lean up and breathe against his ear, “don’t you want to be mine?”

It’s a silly question. It’s all he’s ever wanted, so he gives it to you easily. Lets your hands go and lets them wander over his sculpted body as he sinks deeper into you—no more taking his sweet time to draw out the teasing. He’s impatient now—just as impatient as you. Maybe even more. He’s been waiting longer than you have to make this happen. To take you and make you his and have you admit that he’s yours, too. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he sinks the final few inches of this thick, girthy length, “fuck you’re so fucking tight. You feel that? Feel me? How deep I am?”

“Yes,” you mewl, “yes—so deep. F-feel so full. You feel so good.”

He groans at that, pulling out almost completely before slamming his hips into yours, cock burying deep into you and burying to the hilt. The tip of his sensitive length kisses against that sweet, delicate spot against your walls—your spot that he knows and memorizes so easily. 

He knows you. Knows your body. He’s felt it so many times under him and made it react for him the way he wants, but finally—fucking finally, it reacts to him and only him. He knows it’s him and only him. Only ever will be if he has anything to say about it. 

“God, you drive me insane. So insane, you know that?” he grunts, rolling his hips hard and fast and drilling into you like he has something to prove. Every slam of his hips and every brush of his cock along your sensitive folds makes you pull him closer, kissing him hungrily—desperately. So needy. 

You need him. You’ve always needed this—someone to want you and need you and find you worth it to stay. How could you think Phainon didn’t want to stay when he was so clearly happy with just pieces of you because you didn’t want to give the full of you? When he stayed and stayed and stayed and happily took the little shards you dropped, even if they were sharp, and cut his fingers because they were pieces of you. When he was just happy to have you whichever way you let him because it was you. 

All he wanted was you. You get that now. You’re not going to forget. 

“‘M close,” you pant, breathing against his mouth, “g-gonna cum. With me…with me, please.”

“Yeah? Whatever you want, princess,” he groans. 

His hand moves to find your clit, rubbing quick circles as his own pace quickens, and you can feel the telltale signs that both of you are not going to last much longer. He lets out a particularly deep, sharp thrust—and you’re gone. 

Plummeting off the edge in a hazy fall. You mewl his name, chanting it over and over and over as your walls constrict around him tightly. Spasm around him uncontrollably. And your fall coaxes him into his own. He falls into his release with a soft, drawn-out moan of your name, hot, thick seed filling you up through quick ropes of cum. His cock twitches with each rope, painting your insides white with him. 

“You feel so good,” he rasps, “so fucking good—you were made for me. Only me. Knew…knew you were perfect for me since the first day.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him as close as he can get without physically merging into your bones. His head tucks into your neck, and you both ride out the aftershocks of your highs. You feel him breathe, and he listens to your soft breaths, and it’s just you and Phainon. Phainon and you.

It always has been.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles tiredly after a while, sleepy words said through a petulant warning. 

You chuckle, kissing his sweaty forehead as you promise, “I won’t.”

“Good. Won’t let you.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Your own eyes start to grow heavy with exhaustion, slowly fluttering closed until—

“Who’s that?” you look at him in confusion as you hear an incessant knocking on the door. 

He chuckles sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “Ah,” he sighs, “right. That’s…that’s just Mydei. He’s coming to make sure I eat instead of starving to death from sadness.”

You blink, and then you throw your head back, laughing loudly. He watches you for a moment, smiling softly at the sound of you flooding his space. “You’re hopeless, Phainon.”

“Am not!”

“Go tell Mydei to leave and that you’re alive.”

“...Okay.”

Idk what this is. It’s 10k words of pure babbling and hardly a single coherent thought. I’m sorry dfksksjr this isn’t my best work but . I needed to get him out of my system

I also think writing a reader that is younger than me and navigates life and its challenges through a less mature and experienced lens was a fun project. She is not perfect but she is certainly a human who is trying her best and wants to be loved and I think that’s endearing

Cat

Made some Scarameow doodles based off some random cat memes lol, pick your fighter

HES SOOO

imbibitors your lunae