lazy-ahh

[lazy-ahh]

TANGLED IN DEVOTION

pairing phainon x gender neutral reader

phainon knows he shouldn't sneak into your room at night, watching you sleep with his heart in his throat. but how could he resist when you look so peaceful? over time, his touches grow bolder—brushing your hair, tracing your lips, memorizing every detail like a man obsessed. he's prepared to love you from the shadows forever... until the night you grab his wrist and yank him close. turns out, you've known all along. and as your fingers card gently through his hair, whispering "took you long enough," he realizes something terrifyingly wonderful—you've been just as obsessed with him this whole time.

at first, phainon didn’t think much of you—just another face in the crowd, someone loud and brash, always quick with a sharp remark or a cocky grin. you were reckless, too, charging into fights without hesitation, throwing yourself into danger like you had something to prove.

it annoyed him, if he was being honest. who did you think you were, acting so damn fearless all the time? but then… he started noticing things. the way you never backed down, even when the odds were against you.

the way you’d scoff at anyone who tried to baby you, like you didn’t need saving (even when you totally did). the way your rough edges hid something softer, something you’d only show when you thought no one was looking.

and damn it, that’s when it happened—when he realized he was watching you a little too much, memorizing the way you laughed when you won a battle, the way your nose scrunched up when someone pissed you off.

he didn’t fall in love at first sight. no, it crept up on him, slow and stubborn, until one day he just knew. you weren’t just some reckless hothead. you were his reckless hothead. and he’d fight the whole damn universe to keep you.

phainon didn’t expect to fall for someone like you—all sharp edges and sharper tongue, the kind of person who’d flip off danger just for looking at you wrong. phainon had always been the friendly type—quick with a charming smile, effortlessly drawing people in with his easygoing nature.

when he first met you, he'd flashed that signature grin of his and said, "hey there, newbie! try not to die on your first day, yeah?" in that playful, warm tone that made everyone feel at ease.

you'd just scoffed, rolling your shoulders as you cracked your knuckles. "i can handle myself, pretty boy."

at first, he found you amusing—your brash attitude, the way you'd charge into battle without hesitation, that cocky smirk always playing on your lips.

he'd laugh and make lighthearted jokes as you fought side by side, "careful now, wouldn't want to mess up that pretty face of yours!" you'd always shoot back something vulgar but good-natured, and that was that.

but then the missions got tougher. the enemies grew stronger. and phainon started noticing how you'd push yourself past your limits, taking hit after hit without complaint. his usual cheerful demeanor began to crack each time you stumbled back to your feet, blood dripping from fresh wounds.

"that's enough," he'd say, voice losing its usual melodic lilt, "we should fall back." you'd just spit out blood and grin. "since when did you become such a mother hen?"

the breaking point came when you took a direct hit meant for him. before he could stop himself, phainon's hand shot out, gripping your wrist hard enough to bruise as he yanked you behind cover.

"what the hell is wrong with you?" his voice was raw, stripped of all its usual charm. "you could've died!" you blinked at him, surprised by the intensity in his normally warm eyes. then that familiar smirk returned, though weaker this time. "aw, you do care."

he’d rolled his eyes, but something about the way you laughed—like you didn’t care if the whole world burned as long as the fight was good—stuck with him.

then came the moments that unraveled him. the way you’d go from snarling at an enemy to gently ruffling a lost kid’s hair when you thought no one saw. the time he caught you fixing a broken music box for some old merchant, muttering "stupid piece of junk" under your breath—only to light up like the damn sun when it finally played a tune.

phainon’s chest had gone tight, his pulse erratic. what the hell? this was the same person who’d headbutted a titankin last week without blinking. how could you swing between "i’ll kill you where you stand" and "hey, you okay?" like it was nothing?

the final nail in his coffin was when you turned that rare, unguarded smile on him after he patched up your wounds one night. "guess having you around isn’t so bad," you’d said, voice rough but eyes softer than he’d ever seen.

phainon’s hands froze mid-bandage. oh. oh no. because now he knew—beneath the sarcasm and the swinging fists, you were loyal. the kind of person who’d curse the whole way through saving someone, but still do it. and that—that was worse than any blade to the gut.

he was so, so screwed.

phainon didn't realize when his playful teasing had shifted into something warmer, something dangerously close to affection. it started with casual touches that lingered a second too long—a hand on your shoulder after missions that slid down to squeeze your bicep, fingers brushing when passing you supplies with a wink and some dumb joke like "try not to break this one, partner."

at first you'd just rolled your eyes and shoved him away with a gruff "get off me, idiot," but he noticed how you stopped actually pushing him away after a while.

then came the nicknames, each one more embarrassingly sweet than the last—"sunshine" came out when you were being particularly bullheaded, that stubborn set to your jaw as you refused to back down from a challenge. "trouble" always followed one of your reckless stunts, his lopsided grin barely hiding the way his heart raced watching you nearly get yourself killed again.

but "dawnlight"? that was reserved for those rare moments when you'd let your guard down—when the morning sun caught your face just right after an all-night mission, or when you'd laugh at one of his stupid jokes with your whole body, bright and unrestrained. most days he'd play it safe with "partner" or "comrade," professional enough to keep his traitorous heart in check.

until the day you growled "stop with the damn pet names already," only to immediately turn around and call him "pretty boy" once more with that sharp grin of yours. phainon's brain short-circuited so hard he forgot how to speak for a solid minute—and when he finally recovered, all that came out was a breathless "whatever you say, dawnlight." the way your scowl softened just for a second before you punched his shoulder told him everything he needed to know.

the real turning point came when you started giving it back to him. suddenly it was you leaning into his space after battles, all sweaty and bloodied but grinning like a wolf as you wiped grime off his cheek with your thumb—"look at you, all messy. someone's gotta take care of you, i guess."

phainon had nearly choked on air, his usual smooth-talking charm failing him completely as you walked off like you hadn't just short-circuited his brain for the umpteenth time today. after that, you both just... escalated.

playful shoves turned into wrestling matches that lasted a little too long, sarcastic comments layered with something warmer underneath. when he called you "sweetheart" one day as a joke, you didn't punch him like he expected—you smirked and shot back "yeah, yours," like it was nothing, like you didn't just light his entire nervous system on fire.

phainon told himself it started innocently enough—just wanting to know you better, that’s all. but then he noticed the way you always scrunched your nose at bitter drinks, how you’d pick the carrots out of your food when you thought no one was looking, the exact way the features on your face turn to when someone complimented you.

soon, he was keeping track of everything—your patrol routes, the times you lingered in the training hall, even the way you’d hum under your breath when you were focused.

he’d never admit it, but he had a little notebook tucked away, filled with scribbled observations like "loves spicy food but pretends it doesn’t burn their tongue" and "hates the cold, always wears an extra layer when it’s windy."

it wasn’t creepy, he swore—it was just… preparation. so he could surprise you with your favourite beverage after a long mission, or "accidentally" bump into you with a spare coat when the air got chilly.

he’d memorize the exact way you liked your hot chocolate (extra dark, two sugars, stirred exactly six times) and have it ready before you even asked. when you muttered about wanting something sweet after a fight, he’d magically produce your favourite candy from his pocket like some kind of devoted, overeager puppy.

and if sometimes he lingered outside your door during your time of rest, listening to the steady rhythm of your breathing, or if his fingers twitched with the need to reach out and tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear—well, that was just him being attentive. completely normal. totally fine.

…right?

૮ฅ・ﻌ・აฅ

the ever-present glow of the sky bathed your room in its twilight, casting shifting patterns of amber and violet across your sleeping form. phainon stood motionless in the doorway—this was the third time this week he'd found himself drawn here, pulled by something deeper than reason.

the hours meant nothing to him anymore; he'd memorized your rest periods down to the minute, knew exactly when you'd be vulnerable like this—soft and unguarded, defenses lowered.

his breath hitched as he watched the steady rhythm of your breathing, the way your fingers twitched occasionally like you were still dreaming of battle. the room's quiet hum should have covered the sound of his approach, but he moved silently anyway, barely daring to blink as he stepped closer. he knew he shouldn't—knew this crossed every line—but the compulsion was stronger than any sense of propriety.

over the weeks, his visits had become more frequent, more daring. at first, he'd just watch from the doorway, convincing himself he was merely checking on your well-being. then he'd started lingering at your bedside, counting each of your eyelashes like they were constellations he needed to memorize.

last time you had slept, he'd nearly given himself away when he couldn't resist brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his fingers trembling at the contact.

the room's ambient lighting shifted slightly, painting your face in new hues of cerulean, and phainon's throat went dry. you stirred just enough to mumble something unintelligible—probably some battle-ready curse even in your sleep—before settling again. his chest ached with something terrifyingly tender.

he shouldn't be here.

he'd leave soon.

just... five more minutes.

with careful steps, he approaches, his boots barely making a sound against the floor. his heart hammers in his chest, a wild, desperate thing, as he reaches out. trembling fingers brush against your hair first, so light it’s almost not there. but it’s enough—enough to send a rush of warmth through him, enough to make his throat tighten with something possessive and sweet.

"so beautiful," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. his fingers trail down, tracing the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw. he lingers there, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, imagining what it would be like to steal a kiss while you’re unaware. the thought makes his pulse spike, guilt and desire warring inside him.

but he can’t help himself. he never can, not when it comes to you.

his touch grows bolder, fingers skimming down your neck, over the dip of your collarbone. he maps every inch of you in the dark, committing the feel of you to memory. his other hand finds yours, fingers slipping between yours, intertwining like they were made to fit. he squeezes gently, imagining you squeezing back—imagining you awake, wanting him just as fiercely.

a quiet, desperate sound escapes him. "mine," he breathes, the word a prayer, a plea. "all mine."

he doesn’t know how long he stays like that, holding your hand, watching you sleep. but eventually, reluctantly, he pulls away. he can’t risk you waking up, can’t risk you seeing him like this—so twisted up in his need for you that he can’t think straight.

just as he turns to leave, a grip tightens around his wrist.

phainon freezes.

your eyes are open, dark and knowing, a smirk playing at your lips. "leaving so soon?" you murmur, voice thick with sleep but laced with something else—something sharp, something hungry.

his breath catches.

your grip tightens, yanking him forward until he stumbles, knees hitting the edge of the bed. you sit up, crowding into his space, your free hand coming up to cup his face—not with the strength he expected, but with a tenderness that makes his breath catch. your thumb brushes over his cheekbone, mirroring his earlier touch, but where his hands had trembled, yours are steady. certain.

"you’ve been visiting me every night," you murmur, leaning in until your lips nearly brush his ear. your breath is warm against his skin as you add, voice dripping with amusement, "you’re not as sneaky as you think, pretty boy."

phainon’s pulse roars in his ears. you knew. you knew, and you—

your laugh is soft, almost fond, sending a shiver down his spine. "i let you touch me," you continue, fingers sliding into his hair—not to pull, but to card through the strands gently, like you’re savoring the feeling, gripping just enough to make him gasp. "figured if i waited long enough, you’d finally work up the nerve to do this properly." you pull back just enough to meet his gaze, and the look in your eyes—affectionate, possessive, hungry—makes his chest ache. "guess i gotta take the lead, huh?" you tease, your voice dropping to a whisper. "my sweet, stupid phainon."

and oh, oh—his heart might actually give out. because you’re looking at him like he’s something precious, like you’ve been waiting just as long as he has, and the realization hits him like a dromas at full speed: you’re just as gone as he is.

and suddenly, the game changes.

the moment your lips crash against his, something in phainon snaps—all those times of careful restraint evaporating in the searing heat of your mouth. he melts for exactly three seconds before surging forward, flipping your positions with a growl that vibrates against your lips.

the bed creaks as he pins you beneath him, but his hands—those traitorously gentle hands—cradle your face like you’re something sacred even as his hips press down with deliberate friction.

"mine," you’d said, and oh, he’ll worship you for it.

his teeth graze your lower lip, not quite biting, just testing—always testing your limits, seeing how much you’ll let him take—before soothing the spot with his tongue.

when you arch up against him with a breathless curse, he pulls back just enough to murmur, "say it again," voice wrecked and sweetly desperate. his fingers trail down your throat, mapping the flutter of your pulse like he’s memorizing every reaction. "c’mon, dawnlight. wanna hear you say it while i—" his breath hitches as you roll your hips, "fuck—while i ruin you proper."

but even like this, even with his control fraying at the edges, he’s achingly tender—pausing to nuzzle against your jaw when you shiver, whispering praise between kisses ("so good for me, always so good"), hands roaming with possessive hunger but never straying where you haven’t explicitly guided them. it’s maddening. it’s perfect.

two twisted souls, tangled in devotion—one all sharp edges and filthy promises, the other a storm of tenderness barely restrained.

and neither would have it any other way.

a 2.6k word one-shot exploring phainon's quiet obsession—the way he watches, memorizes, aches. this was sitting half-finished in my drafts for a while, caught between "i should really delete this" and "but what if i didn't?" so here we are. there's something about his particular flavor of yearning that stuck with me, and who knows—maybe there will be more of this dynamic someday. (the ideas are there. the execution is... a work in progress.) for now, i hope this piece wraps around you like one of phainon's stolen touches: gentle, lingering, just a little bit dangerous. and yes, i wrote this instead of being responsible and doing my assessments. no regrets.

[lazy-ahh]

thank you amphoreus for the new freak in my collection

[lazy-ahh]

I JUST REALIZED YOU CANT SEND PICS ANONYMOUSLY 💔💔💔💔 i had to create an alt for this 😓 i was so nervous when you said you wanted to see lol

ANYWAYS HERES MY FANART IM SO SORRY IF I DIDNT DO YOUR AU JUSTICE I RLLY AM 🙏 SORRY FOR BEING LAZY WITH IT TOO BUT IT WAS TRULY AN HONOR TO DRAW THIS. um I’ll take criticism and anything (sorry can you tell im super nervous lol 💔) anyways i hope you like the locked in phainon drawing

OH YEAH THE VIEW IS AMAZING ALRIGHT

OMG UR ARTSYLE IS SO PRETTY IM FOAMING AT MY MOUTH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA TYSM FOR THE FANART THIS IS SO GOOODDDDDD

explodes

[lazy-ahh]

pray

[lazy-ahh]

🎸🐔.

Favorite boys

[lazy-ahh]

FROM RIVALS TO REVELRY

pairing phainon x gender neutral reader

phainon and you are all sunshine—except when you're together. then, it's all bickering, teasing, and playful challenges. but somewhere between the rivalry and the reluctant smiles, something shifts. phainon falls first, loud and obvious; you're slower, softer, but just as hopeless. two idiots, one love—neither of you knows how to act normal about it.

phainon doesn’t understand why you get under his skin so easily.

you’re both the type to light up a room—all wide grins and easy laughter, the kind of warmth that makes strangers feel like friends. yet the second your eyes meet, something crackles between you, sharp and restless. you’ll toss out a joke that’s just a little too pointed, or flash that infuriatingly innocent smile after trouncing him in some stupid bet, and suddenly he’s torn between wanting to ruffle your hair and shove you off a balcony.

it’s not even the teasing that gets him—it’s the way you mean every word, yet still manage to sound so damn gentle about it, like you’re handing him a flower instead of a challenge. he doesn’t remember when this started, only that now, every time you’re near, his pulse kicks up like he’s mid-battle—equal parts irritation and something far more dangerous.

"you're such a pain," he huffs, crossing his arms tight over his chest like he's physically holding back the urge to flick your forehead. you just grin wider, all sunshine and mischief, the kind of expression that should come with warning signs—too bright, too warm, too damn hard to look away from. there's a smudge of dirt on your cheek from whatever chaos you'd been cooking up before finding him, but you don't seem to notice or care.

"says the guy who trips over his own feet," you shoot back, laughter bubbling in your voice like it's the easiest thing in the world. your head tilts just slightly, that infuriatingly gentle challenge in your eyes, like you're not mocking him so much as inviting him to play along. it makes his fingers twitch—half to strangle you, half to pull you closer—and he swears through gritted teeth that he'll wipe that smirk off your face one day.

except... he doesn't.

somewhere between your hundredth mock battle and the time you shared a sticky-sweet dessert (after bickering for ten minutes over which flavor to pick), the sharpness between you melts like sugar in sunlight. your teasing jabs still land, but now they come wrapped in something softer—a nudge of your elbow against his ribs, the way you'll dramatically clutch your chest when he fires back like it's the most devastating insult.

his chest does this stupid, fluttery thing when you laugh now, all bright and unguarded, your nose scrunching up in that way he's memorized without meaning to.

he doesn't realize he's scanning every crowded hallway for your familiar silhouette until it's already a habit. doesn't notice how his shoulders relax when he spots your hair or the familiar colours of your usual attire among crowds of people, or how the air feels thinner on days you're not around to fill the silence with your rambling stories and terrible jokes.

it's infuriating. (and maybe, just maybe, a little bit wonderful.)

phainon has never been one to deny his feelings, though. so when it hits him—that he's hopelessly, stupidly in love with you, his rival-turned-something-else, the only person who matches his stubbornness while somehow staying so damn soft—he doesn't hesitate. doesn't even blink.

he drapes himself over your shoulders while you're mid-sentence explaining some wild plan, grinning when you flail and nearly drop your weapon. "warn a person next time!" you yelp, but there's no real heat in it—just that flustered pink creeping up your neck he's grown addicted to.

he steals the last bite of your sandwich just to hear your indignant gasp, then presses a honey-drizzled pastry into your hands as "payment," laughing when you immediately get sticky fingerprints on your sleeves.

and when he tugs you into a spin under the stars, you trip over absolutely nothing (of course you do), sending you both crashing into a pile of laugh-drunk limbs. "you're a menace," you groan, but you're still clinging to his arm, your laughter bubbling up like sunlight given sound.

he brushes a flower petal from your hair—when did that even get there?—and thinks, wildly, that he'd let you set his whole world off-balance if it meant keeping this.

you don't push him away. (you never really could.)

in fact, you melt into his touch like sunlight through leaves, pressing back when he nudges you, firing off half-baked comebacks that make him snort into his drink. when he loops an arm around your waist to drag you somewhere ridiculous—another impromptu race, a detour to pet every stray cat on the street—you go without protest, laughing as you stumble along beside him like this is exactly where you belong. but when he cups your face, thumbs brushing flour from your cheek (when did you even get flour there?), and whispers "god, i love you," your whole face scrunches up in adorable confusion.

"huh?" you say, eyes wide and blinking like he just spoke in riddles. your fingers curl absently in his shirt, clinging even as your brain short-circuits—so painfully earnest it makes his chest ache.

phainon just sighs, all the fondness in the world pooling in his ribs as he presses a kiss to your flour-dusted forehead. "never mind," he murmurs against your skin, smiling when you instinctively tilt into the contact despite your bafflement. "i'll wait for you to catch up."

and he will. patiently, relentlessly, until the day you gasp and tackle-hug him shouting "oh! i love you too!" (probably mid-battle, definitely at maximum volume.) because even if you're both idiots—one loudly smitten, the other obliviously devoted—you're his idiot. always.

hello again!! it's only been about nine days since my last upload, but somehow it's felt much longer... lately, i've found myself craving phainon's particular kind of sunshine, even on days when my mind feels strangely blank, like a notebook with all its pages still waiting to be filled. (was that poetic or was that poetic??) so here's this little piece, soft and small at just 928 words. (is this a one-shot? a drabble? after nearly a decade of writing—since i was just scribbling stories in year 4—you'd think i'd know the difference by now...) regardless, i hope it brings you even a fraction of the warmth phainon always brings me. thank you, as always, for reading <3

[lazy-ahh]

FROM RIVALS TO REVELRY

pairing phainon x gender neutral reader

phainon and you are all sunshine—except when you're together. then, it's all bickering, teasing, and playful challenges. but somewhere between the rivalry and the reluctant smiles, something shifts. phainon falls first, loud and obvious; you're slower, softer, but just as hopeless. two idiots, one love—neither of you knows how to act normal about it.

phainon doesn’t understand why you get under his skin so easily.

you’re both the type to light up a room—all wide grins and easy laughter, the kind of warmth that makes strangers feel like friends. yet the second your eyes meet, something crackles between you, sharp and restless. you’ll toss out a joke that’s just a little too pointed, or flash that infuriatingly innocent smile after trouncing him in some stupid bet, and suddenly he’s torn between wanting to ruffle your hair and shove you off a balcony.

it’s not even the teasing that gets him—it’s the way you mean every word, yet still manage to sound so damn gentle about it, like you’re handing him a flower instead of a challenge. he doesn’t remember when this started, only that now, every time you’re near, his pulse kicks up like he’s mid-battle—equal parts irritation and something far more dangerous.

"you're such a pain," he huffs, crossing his arms tight over his chest like he's physically holding back the urge to flick your forehead. you just grin wider, all sunshine and mischief, the kind of expression that should come with warning signs—too bright, too warm, too damn hard to look away from. there's a smudge of dirt on your cheek from whatever chaos you'd been cooking up before finding him, but you don't seem to notice or care.

"says the guy who trips over his own feet," you shoot back, laughter bubbling in your voice like it's the easiest thing in the world. your head tilts just slightly, that infuriatingly gentle challenge in your eyes, like you're not mocking him so much as inviting him to play along. it makes his fingers twitch—half to strangle you, half to pull you closer—and he swears through gritted teeth that he'll wipe that smirk off your face one day.

except... he doesn't.

somewhere between your hundredth mock battle and the time you shared a sticky-sweet dessert (after bickering for ten minutes over which flavor to pick), the sharpness between you melts like sugar in sunlight. your teasing jabs still land, but now they come wrapped in something softer—a nudge of your elbow against his ribs, the way you'll dramatically clutch your chest when he fires back like it's the most devastating insult.

his chest does this stupid, fluttery thing when you laugh now, all bright and unguarded, your nose scrunching up in that way he's memorized without meaning to.

he doesn't realize he's scanning every crowded hallway for your familiar silhouette until it's already a habit. doesn't notice how his shoulders relax when he spots your hair or the familiar colours of your usual attire among crowds of people, or how the air feels thinner on days you're not around to fill the silence with your rambling stories and terrible jokes.

it's infuriating. (and maybe, just maybe, a little bit wonderful.)

phainon has never been one to deny his feelings, though. so when it hits him—that he's hopelessly, stupidly in love with you, his rival-turned-something-else, the only person who matches his stubbornness while somehow staying so damn soft—he doesn't hesitate. doesn't even blink.

he drapes himself over your shoulders while you're mid-sentence explaining some wild plan, grinning when you flail and nearly drop your weapon. "warn a person next time!" you yelp, but there's no real heat in it—just that flustered pink creeping up your neck he's grown addicted to.

he steals the last bite of your sandwich just to hear your indignant gasp, then presses a honey-drizzled pastry into your hands as "payment," laughing when you immediately get sticky fingerprints on your sleeves.

and when he tugs you into a spin under the stars, you trip over absolutely nothing (of course you do), sending you both crashing into a pile of laugh-drunk limbs. "you're a menace," you groan, but you're still clinging to his arm, your laughter bubbling up like sunlight given sound.

he brushes a flower petal from your hair—when did that even get there?—and thinks, wildly, that he'd let you set his whole world off-balance if it meant keeping this.

you don't push him away. (you never really could.)

in fact, you melt into his touch like sunlight through leaves, pressing back when he nudges you, firing off half-baked comebacks that make him snort into his drink. when he loops an arm around your waist to drag you somewhere ridiculous—another impromptu race, a detour to pet every stray cat on the street—you go without protest, laughing as you stumble along beside him like this is exactly where you belong. but when he cups your face, thumbs brushing flour from your cheek (when did you even get flour there?), and whispers "god, i love you," your whole face scrunches up in adorable confusion.

"huh?" you say, eyes wide and blinking like he just spoke in riddles. your fingers curl absently in his shirt, clinging even as your brain short-circuits—so painfully earnest it makes his chest ache.

phainon just sighs, all the fondness in the world pooling in his ribs as he presses a kiss to your flour-dusted forehead. "never mind," he murmurs against your skin, smiling when you instinctively tilt into the contact despite your bafflement. "i'll wait for you to catch up."

and he will. patiently, relentlessly, until the day you gasp and tackle-hug him shouting "oh! i love you too!" (probably mid-battle, definitely at maximum volume.) because even if you're both idiots—one loudly smitten, the other obliviously devoted—you're his idiot. always.

hello again!! it's only been about nine days since my last upload, but somehow it's felt much longer... lately, i've found myself craving phainon's particular kind of sunshine, even on days when my mind feels strangely blank, like a notebook with all its pages still waiting to be filled. (was that poetic or was that poetic??) so here's this little piece, soft and small at just 928 words. (is this a one-shot? a drabble? after nearly a decade of writing—since i was just scribbling stories in year 4—you'd think i'd know the difference by now...) regardless, i hope it brings you even a fraction of the warmth phainon always brings me. thank you, as always, for reading <3

[lazy-ahh]

PIECES OF YOUR HEART

pairing phainon x (merchant) gender neutral reader

phainon has grown used to your playful, flirty nature—always teasing, always lingering a little too close. he tells himself it’s just how you are with everyone, so he brushes it off. but when you keep giving him little gifts—things he’s only mentioned in passing, things he never expected you to remember—he starts to wonder. maybe it’s not just friendliness. but you’re not exactly the most trustworthy person, and the rumors about your shady dealings make others keep their distance. phainon doesn’t care, though. not when you’re the one who teaches him about antiques, who laughs at his jokes, who looks at him like he’s worth sticking around for.

phainon isn’t sure what to make of you.

you’re always there, materializing out of nowhere like some mischievous spirit—leaning into his space with a grin too sharp to be innocent, nudging him with your elbow like you’ve shared secrets for years. your words are always laced with playful exaggeration, your tone dripping with charm, as if every conversation is a performance and phainon’s the lucky audience. he’s grown used to it by now, the way you tease and prod, how your laughter lingers in the air like the scent of a deal too good to be true.

he tells himself it’s just how you are. friendly. too friendly, maybe. the kind of person who treats everyone like an old friend, even if you met them five minutes ago—but then again, that’s just good business, isn’t it? a merchant’s gotta be convincing, after all. if you weren’t this smooth, who’d buy what you’re selling? (and you are always selling something, even when it’s just a smile.)

phainon still remembers the day he first met you.

it had been a few months since he'd arrived in okhema, the holy city, and he was taking a rare free day to wander the market streets when he spotted you—lounging against a vendor's cart like you owned the place, holding up some shiny, useless contraption between your fingers with a grin that promised miracles.

"behold, friends! the latest in amphorean innovation!" you'd declared, waving the gadget like it was made of solid gold. "one-of-a-kind, guaranteed to sharpen blades, polish shoes, and brew the perfect cup of coffee—all at the same time! who among you has the vision to see its true worth?"

phainon had stopped in his tracks, one eyebrow creeping up as he leaned against a nearby pillar, arms crossed. he watched, equal parts amused and impressed, as you worked the crowd like a seasoned performer—flashing winks, dropping exaggerated gasps ("only five thousand credits? for this masterpiece? i'm practically robbing myself!"), and somehow, somehow, convincing a particularly eager buyer to bid double.

the moment the credits hit your palm, you vanished like smoke, leaving behind a proud new owner who immediately tried to demonstrate their prize to the onlookers. phainon bit the inside of his cheek as the gadget let out a pathetic click and did absolutely nothing. the crowd groaned. the buyer turned red.

"it—it must need charging!" they stammered.

phainon had to press his face into his sleeve, shoulders shaking, but a tiny snort escaped anyway. the buyer whirled on him with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. suddenly, the pillar he was leaning against became fascinating.

later, as he meandered through the market, he spotted you again—this time at a food stall, happily munching on two skewers (probably funded by your latest victim). you caught him staring, and before he could react, you were sauntering over, holding out the second skewer like an offering.

"hey, handsome. you look like a man who appreciates fine cuisine," you said, grinning like the two of you were already partners-in-crime. "tell you what—this one's on me. call it a... goodwill investment."

phainon should've walked away. but the sheer audacity of you—scamming someone blind and then immediately trying to butter him up—was too entertaining to resist. he took the skewer.

"so," he said, biting into it, "does it also sharpen blades and brew coffee?"

you laughed, loud and unapologetic, and just like that, phainon knew you were trouble.

(the kind of trouble he didn't mind sticking around for.)

at first, it was difficult to have you stay for longer than 10 minutes.

you were always in motion—a whirlwind of deals and schemes, already halfway out the door before phainon could even ask where you were rushing off to. every conversation was the same dance: a flashy greeting, a dramatic sales pitch, and that infuriatingly charming grin as you leaned in like you were sharing a secret.

"for you, kind mister," you'd say, pulling some bizarre gadget from your coat, "half price. no—sixty percent off! a steal, really. i’m practically losing money here, but how could i say no to that face?"

and for some reason phainon still couldn’t explain, he’d always cave. even when the trinket was clearly useless. even when his soldier’s wages were already stretched thin. ("it’s a limited edition," you’d whisper, as if that justified anything.)

now, a whole shelf in his quarters was dedicated to your "merchandise"—a growing collection of odds and ends, half of them broken, all of them overpriced. (except for the ones you’d given him later, free of charge. those, somehow, felt heavier.)

slowly, though, something shifted. the nicknames started first—"dear customer" melting into "dear hero," spoken with a lilt that made his ears warm. then came the pauses, the way you’d linger just a heartbeat longer than before, as if phainon’s doorway was a place worth staying in. as if he was a deal you wanted to take your time with, but not for the profit. never for the profit.

time softened you, sanded down the sharp edges of your performative charm. you were still all grins and grand gestures, still spinning tales taller than the buildings of okhema—but there was something quieter now, in the way your laughter settled, in the way your hands hesitated before brushing his arm.

like you were trying to impress him without tipping your hand. like you were afraid, just a little, of what might happen if he saw too much.

and at the same time, phainon noticed the shift—

your usual stock of questionable gadgets and flashy trinkets had slowly been replaced by things that made his breath catch. no more "self-stirring spoons" or "everlasting glow stones" that died after two days.

instead, you'd appear with a weathered but well-crafted dagger perfectly balanced for his grip, or a set of engraved bracers that wouldn't interfere with his sword arm. once, you'd even produced an antique compass—the kind veteran soldiers swore by, its brass edges worn smooth by decades of use.

"found this beauty tucked away in some forgotten corner," you'd said, flipping it open with a showman's flourish before pressing it into his hands. "practically screamed your name. look at that needle—steady as a heartbeat. none of that cheap wobble the new ones get."

phainon had turned it over, thumb brushing the intricate scrollwork along its edge, and realized with a start that it was exactly the sort of thing he'd been eyeing in shops but could never justify buying.

and then there were the smaller things—a cloak pin shaped like a prowling fox (his favorite animal, though he couldn't remember telling you), leather straps dyed the deep blue of his uniform's accents, even a whetstone that fit perfectly in his field kit.

each item was practical, yes, but carried a weight beyond function. like you'd studied the way he moved, the way his eyes lingered on certain displays in the market, and pieced together a map of his preferences without him ever saying a word. the most unsettling part? you never even hinted at upcharging him for the effort.

(he kept them all. wore them too. and if the compass never left his pocket, well—that was just good sense, wasn't it?)

but this wasn’t fair at all.

now that you’d stopped trying to scam him—now that your silver tongue had softened into genuine advice when he needed it, now that you’d appeared out of nowhere to back him up in fights he never asked you to join, now that you’d somehow carved out a space in his life like you’d always belonged there—phainon felt like he owed you something.

not in the way of debts or transactions, but in the quiet, stubborn way he’d always operated: if you gave him kindness, he’d return it tenfold.

so he did.

he started buying extra portions of your favourite street food, pretending he "wasn’t that hungry" when he pushed the skewers toward you. when you showed up at his doorstep late at night, shrugging with that too-casual grin about how your "temporary arrangements fell through again," he’d sigh and step aside, letting you trail in behind him like a stray chimera that refused to be shooed away.

(and when, after weeks of your clothes piling up on his chair and your trinkets colonizing his shelves, you stopped mentioning finding another place altogether—well. phainon didn’t bring it up either.)

he even learned to cook, clumsy at first, burning more meals than he cared to admit, but persistent. because you’d eat anything he put in front of you with exaggerated delight, declaring it "gourmet" even when it was barely edible, and—titans help him—he wanted to earn that praise. wanted to see your eyes light up for real when he set down a dish you genuinely liked.

and if sometimes, when you were half-asleep on his couch after a long day, he draped a blanket over your shoulders or nudged a cup of hot chocolate into your hands—if he let his fingers linger a second too long when passing you things, if he memorized the way you took your coffee (sweet, with a ridiculous amount of cream)—well. that was just fairness, wasn’t it?

(you’d given him so much without asking. the least he could do was love you back.)

phainon isn’t stupid. he knows what this looks like—the way your shoulder brushes his when you lean in too close, how your laughter lingers a beat longer when it’s just the two of you. he knows what it could mean.

but he’s also heard the whispers—the way merchants and citizens alike clutch their purses tighter when you pass, how aglaea had pulled him aside just last week, her voice hushed but concerned.

"that one’s trouble, phainon," she’d warned, fingers firm around his wrist. "the council lost half of their funds dealing with them. some people have even said that they’d trade their own family member for the right price."

phainon had just shrugged them off, stubborn as always. "they’ve never lied to me."

(not anymore, at least. not in ways that mattered.)

phainon knows exactly why you do this. you'd told him one night, half-drunk on cheap wine and the quiet safety of his dimly lit apartment, your voice softer than he'd ever heard it before.

"it's just how the world works, hero," you'd said, twirling a coin across your knuckles with practiced ease. "you take what you can get before someone takes it from you first." the way you'd smiled then—sharp at the edges but tired underneath—had made his chest ache.

he understands. titans help him, he understands even when he shouldn't. knows the scams are wrong, knows he should probably care more when tribbie sighs about your latest scheme or when mydei glares at you across the marketplace with weariness.

but the thing is—you'd trusted him with the truth. you, who spun lies like silk, had given him something real. and phainon, sweet, stubborn phainon, would sooner cut off his own arm than make you regret that.

so what if you fleeced half the city blind? you brought him stupid little trinkets just because they made you think of him. you remembered how he took his coffee (too sweet, just like you teased). you'd learned to pick locks just to break into his apartment and leave warm pastries on his counter when he was having a bad day.

"you're ridiculous," he'd told you once, tone way too fond and exasperated, watching you dramatically clutch your chest as if wounded when he caught you red-handed.

"but you love it," you'd shot back, grinning, and—

well.

he did.

(he really, really did.)

૮ฅ・ﻌ・აฅ

now, standing beside you on the balcony as the city lights blink awake below, he lets your voice wash over him like something precious.

"you know," you say, elbows propped on the railing, "if you really want to learn appraising, start with the small stuff. the details people overlook." the glow from in front of you catches the curve of your smile, turning it golden.

phainon tilts his head. "you’d teach me?"

"who better?" you bump your shoulder against his, grinning like you’ve already won. "i am the best, after all."

he huffs a laugh, but he listens. he always listens. because despite the warnings, despite the rumors that cling to you like shadows—you’ve never steered him wrong. not where it counts.

(and if the others can’t see what he sees? well. that’s their loss.)

phainon remembers those first few meetings vividly—how you'd slid up to him with that razor-sharp grin, pushing some "ancient relic" into his hands while spinning tales so elaborate they'd make a bard blush.

the first time, it had been a "cursed amulet" that was clearly just tarnished brass. the second, a "dragon's scale" that flaked paint when he rubbed it. each time, he'd fixed you with that patient, knowing look until your performance cracked into laughter, bright and unrepentant.

"ah, you got me again!" you'd crowed, wiping imaginary tears as the crowd around you dispersed. "what's your secret, dear hero? x-ray vision?"

after the third attempt, the scams mysteriously stopped—at least when it came to him. you still fleeced others with that silver tongue of yours, but for phainon?

suddenly your wares were genuine. suddenly you were pointing out flaws in antiques he might've bought, warning him about dealers who'd take advantage. it was... confusing.

what's more confusing is the way your mask slips when you think no one's watching. how your shoulders slump ever so slightly when merchants suddenly remember urgent business as you approach.

how children are pulled away by their parents when you flash them that practiced, charming smile. phainon's seen the way your hands curl into fists when you turn corners, how quickly you school your expression back to careless amusement.

it makes something in his chest ache.

so he does the only thing he knows—he becomes the exception. lets you drape yourself over his back when you're bored, humours your terrible bartering attempts at the market ("three hundred for this? my dear hero, for you, i'll suffer the loss of two-fifty!"), doesn't pull away when your fingers linger while passing him tea.

and when you show up at his door with some new treasure—a book he'd mentioned once, gloves lined with fur for expeditions to cold places, a ridiculous novelty spoon because "it made me think of you"—he takes them all with the same careful reverence, even the joke gifts.

(especially the joke gifts.)

the warmth that blooms under his ribs when you're near? the way his pulse stutters when you lean in close, your breath tickling his ear as you whisper some ridiculous joke or outrageous claim? he'll ignore it. for now.

just like he ignores how your eyes soften when you think he isn't looking, how your voice drops to something quiet and vulnerable in those rare moments between midnight and dawn when the masks finally come off.

but what he can't ignore are the gifts. each one a puzzle piece of you pressed into his hands—a battered copy of "the art of war" with handwritten notes crammed in the margins (your handwriting, messy and eager), a hand-stitched pouch for his coins because "a hero shouldn't be digging through his pockets like some common pickpocket", even that stupidly soft scarf in his favorite shade of blue that you swear you "just happened to find" (though the uneven stitches at the hem suggest otherwise).

every trinket, every little thing you press upon him with that careless grin is another piece of your heart you're trusting him with—and phainon, sweet, devoted phainon, treasures them all.

he wears the scarf even when the weather doesn't call for it, uses that pouch until the fabric wears thin, keeps your annotated book on his nightstand like scripture.

and in return? he learns to brew your favorite hot chocolate just right, stays up late listening to your schemes even when he's exhausted, becomes the steady presence you lean against when the world gets too heavy.

(he doesn't say it, but his actions are a language all their own—i see you. i keep what you give me. you are safe here.)

there's time. there's always time.

(and when the day comes that he finally stops ignoring the way his heart races when you're near? well. you've already given him yours, piece by piece. it's only fair he returns the favor.)

a double upload today!! though mostly because i couldn’t resist writing more for phainon. this 2.7k one-shot came together while i was (distractedly) playing valorant with friends—yes, valorant, the game i swore i was done with until my friends collectively decided we all needed to suffer through ranked again. somehow, between the chaos of competitive matches, this one-shot happened. probably because i was trying to cope from my skill-issue... perhaps i shouldn't have taken that one year break from val, i've legit fallen off. i had so many ideas for this at first, but as time went on, my brain decided to go suspiciously blank. there were scenes i wanted to expand, little moments i wanted to flesh out more, but sometimes the words just... don’t cooperate. still, i hope you enjoyed it regardless! i’m really fond of this dynamic—phainon and a merchant reader who’s equal parts charming and morally questionable—so there’s a good chance i’ll revisit it someday. i’d just need to figure out how to make the next one even more engaging. maybe more banter? more soft moments? who knows :]

[lazy-ahh]

FROM RIVALS TO REVELRY

pairing phainon x gender neutral reader

phainon and you are all sunshine—except when you're together. then, it's all bickering, teasing, and playful challenges. but somewhere between the rivalry and the reluctant smiles, something shifts. phainon falls first, loud and obvious; you're slower, softer, but just as hopeless. two idiots, one love—neither of you knows how to act normal about it.

phainon doesn’t understand why you get under his skin so easily.

you’re both the type to light up a room—all wide grins and easy laughter, the kind of warmth that makes strangers feel like friends. yet the second your eyes meet, something crackles between you, sharp and restless. you’ll toss out a joke that’s just a little too pointed, or flash that infuriatingly innocent smile after trouncing him in some stupid bet, and suddenly he’s torn between wanting to ruffle your hair and shove you off a balcony.

it’s not even the teasing that gets him—it’s the way you mean every word, yet still manage to sound so damn gentle about it, like you’re handing him a flower instead of a challenge. he doesn’t remember when this started, only that now, every time you’re near, his pulse kicks up like he’s mid-battle—equal parts irritation and something far more dangerous.

"you're such a pain," he huffs, crossing his arms tight over his chest like he's physically holding back the urge to flick your forehead. you just grin wider, all sunshine and mischief, the kind of expression that should come with warning signs—too bright, too warm, too damn hard to look away from. there's a smudge of dirt on your cheek from whatever chaos you'd been cooking up before finding him, but you don't seem to notice or care.

"says the guy who trips over his own feet," you shoot back, laughter bubbling in your voice like it's the easiest thing in the world. your head tilts just slightly, that infuriatingly gentle challenge in your eyes, like you're not mocking him so much as inviting him to play along. it makes his fingers twitch—half to strangle you, half to pull you closer—and he swears through gritted teeth that he'll wipe that smirk off your face one day.

except... he doesn't.

somewhere between your hundredth mock battle and the time you shared a sticky-sweet dessert (after bickering for ten minutes over which flavor to pick), the sharpness between you melts like sugar in sunlight. your teasing jabs still land, but now they come wrapped in something softer—a nudge of your elbow against his ribs, the way you'll dramatically clutch your chest when he fires back like it's the most devastating insult.

his chest does this stupid, fluttery thing when you laugh now, all bright and unguarded, your nose scrunching up in that way he's memorized without meaning to.

he doesn't realize he's scanning every crowded hallway for your familiar silhouette until it's already a habit. doesn't notice how his shoulders relax when he spots your hair or the familiar colours of your usual attire among crowds of people, or how the air feels thinner on days you're not around to fill the silence with your rambling stories and terrible jokes.

it's infuriating. (and maybe, just maybe, a little bit wonderful.)

phainon has never been one to deny his feelings, though. so when it hits him—that he's hopelessly, stupidly in love with you, his rival-turned-something-else, the only person who matches his stubbornness while somehow staying so damn soft—he doesn't hesitate. doesn't even blink.

he drapes himself over your shoulders while you're mid-sentence explaining some wild plan, grinning when you flail and nearly drop your weapon. "warn a person next time!" you yelp, but there's no real heat in it—just that flustered pink creeping up your neck he's grown addicted to.

he steals the last bite of your sandwich just to hear your indignant gasp, then presses a honey-drizzled pastry into your hands as "payment," laughing when you immediately get sticky fingerprints on your sleeves.

and when he tugs you into a spin under the stars, you trip over absolutely nothing (of course you do), sending you both crashing into a pile of laugh-drunk limbs. "you're a menace," you groan, but you're still clinging to his arm, your laughter bubbling up like sunlight given sound.

he brushes a flower petal from your hair—when did that even get there?—and thinks, wildly, that he'd let you set his whole world off-balance if it meant keeping this.

you don't push him away. (you never really could.)

in fact, you melt into his touch like sunlight through leaves, pressing back when he nudges you, firing off half-baked comebacks that make him snort into his drink. when he loops an arm around your waist to drag you somewhere ridiculous—another impromptu race, a detour to pet every stray cat on the street—you go without protest, laughing as you stumble along beside him like this is exactly where you belong. but when he cups your face, thumbs brushing flour from your cheek (when did you even get flour there?), and whispers "god, i love you," your whole face scrunches up in adorable confusion.

"huh?" you say, eyes wide and blinking like he just spoke in riddles. your fingers curl absently in his shirt, clinging even as your brain short-circuits—so painfully earnest it makes his chest ache.

phainon just sighs, all the fondness in the world pooling in his ribs as he presses a kiss to your flour-dusted forehead. "never mind," he murmurs against your skin, smiling when you instinctively tilt into the contact despite your bafflement. "i'll wait for you to catch up."

and he will. patiently, relentlessly, until the day you gasp and tackle-hug him shouting "oh! i love you too!" (probably mid-battle, definitely at maximum volume.) because even if you're both idiots—one loudly smitten, the other obliviously devoted—you're his idiot. always.

hello again!! it's only been about nine days since my last upload, but somehow it's felt much longer... lately, i've found myself craving phainon's particular kind of sunshine, even on days when my mind feels strangely blank, like a notebook with all its pages still waiting to be filled. (was that poetic or was that poetic??) so here's this little piece, soft and small at just 928 words. (is this a one-shot? a drabble? after nearly a decade of writing—since i was just scribbling stories in year 4—you'd think i'd know the difference by now...) regardless, i hope it brings you even a fraction of the warmth phainon always brings me. thank you, as always, for reading <3

[lazy-ahh]

sleeping beauty

[lazy-ahh]

prep for my sam character sheet bc im mentally ill (kidding hjauehe)

[lazy-ahh]

i had an itch i needed to scratch

i don't know how his headphones wouldn't fall off... clearly sam just defies gravity naturally if his hair has anything to say about it

[lazy-ahh]

UGGGGHHHHHH TAKE IT

TAKE IT ALL 💵💵💵😭😭🫴💝💝💝

phainon practice

i know nobody looking at it but i messed up the bracelet lightning LOL

[lazy-ahh]

lovestruck 💗

birthday art for my twin yeaasss

ib: alien stage official art

[lazy-ahh]

his true love, pizza

[lazy-ahh]

hypnotizes you into liking sam...

[lazy-ahh]

A sinner’s curse