#honkai fluff

His friends are SICK of him! YOU! are sick of him! But it's hard to stay mad when he lights up at the sight of you and starts rambling abouthowhemissedyousomuchdontleavehimforsolongeventhoughtechnicallyitwasonlyafewminutesiloveyoumuahmuah and suddenly you're confused enough to forget about why you were mad in the first place.

He texts you all the time – always telling you about what he did, what he didnt, what he wants to do with you, what he doesn't want you to do and leave it to him, kicking his feet and giggling like a schoolgirl when you finally text him back, constantly sending you selfies with whatever excuse like he's putting out cheese in a rattrap trying to lure you in...

[Phainon]: i had some apple juice and chips

[You]: aw

[Phainon]: i stolf them

[You]: ok

[Phainon sent an attachment image!] ×2

It makes you a little sick sometimes, its worse when you're actually sick. You're in the grossest state alive and all your boyfriend wants to do is kiss you all over your face to make you feel better!

"Phainon, get off! Youre going to get sick!"

"Nuh-uh"

Gosh, he really can't help it. It's like he's got a crush on you 10× over ever since you two started dating. All he wants is to be around you, even if its a little creepy. He likes your smell, loves your hands, your expressions, the way you look at him. It could be pouring, he could be having the worst day ever, his clothes could constantly get stuck on door handles but one blow of a kiss from you across the room and he's suddenly all charged up!

He annoys you in the most affectionate way possible. Whenever he's over he does the dumbest shit – he walks in, throws a few cringe pickup lines at you, and depending on your reaction he walks away, changes into a different shirt and asks you if "that guy was bothering you" before he walks back out to fix up a plate of snacks just so he can bedrot with you, and then trap you in his arms for an extended cuddle session. He loves doing the most mundane stuff with you – he'll gladly help you fold your laundry, get the groceries, he'll even help you brush your teeth if your arms feel too lazy! You feel bad when you smack him away because he gives you those god damn puppy eyes, but it gets to a point when he's bemoaning at the door of your bathroom when you're trying to take a shit!

Everytime you respond a little later to his texts he gets weird. At first he just sends you the shitty obviously fake guilt trip messages like ":( im sooooo lonely..... if only someone was here to pull my ear and tell me im an idiot" with a selfie of his pecs, and then it gets weirder, he starts writing to you like a victorian man that's bitterly ignored by his lover. His friends sometimes send you a behind-the-scenes videos and photos of him with his tongue sticking out as he deeply concentrates and thinks up an immaculate message to 'seduce back the love of his life'.

His friends are happy for him, really they are! But it's so annoying when he starts going on about how much he misses his partner, his lover, the music of his life, the lighthouse of his universe, and you get the idea. They practically have a protocol to never mention how quiet he is when he actually does go quiet – it's like lighting a matchstick in a room full of gasoline; he'll light up, and immediately start pouring about you to everyone who's unfortunate enough to listen. Thus, whenever someone hangs out with Phainon, they quickly learn to always distract him with something or the other when he goes quiet, never mentioning 'the q-word'.

Dr. Ratio has a cupboard dedicated to all kinds of plushies, ranging from rubber ducks to merchandise of even Owlbert. Obviously, his most favourite and cherishable one is a handcrafted plush made from the softest is of...yours.

General Jing Yuan has a coat made from a lions mane. White hue akin the moonlight. He whispered to you "It is my most prized possession and...a very memorable one. Keep it for me in my stead"

Robin is actually a metal fan in case you didn't know. She has a series of dvds of Metallica, Black Sabbath, Linkin Park and many more. Oh and don't forget those gothic clothes that she is only willing to show to you.

Kafka composes pieces for you during the days she is feeling down or angry. This is just the way she pours her heart out. Perhaps you'd be willing to listen to her masterpieces.

Dan Heng has an album made up of all the moments spent in different regions, silly pictured of the whole Astral Express family, landscape photography, and yours in a certain corner solely for him and only him.

Blade being the girl dad he is, he always sends a portion of his allowances to Silver Wolf, Firefly and you. You all know it but you guys would rather keep it down. "We got more money for our next party night !!"

Sunday enjoys homecooked foods more than those of the fancy restaurants. The way you cook the steak has easily made its way to one of his all-time favourites. He enjoys cooking with you and for you.

Boothill has a tattered wallet about a few years old with torn leather and patches that he clumsily patched himself. Inside are two pictures. One of you and one of his late daughter. It had always been his dream to give his daughter another parent whom she'll have the most fun with. But sometimes dreams can stay as dreams.

It’s not always easy to tell what he’s feeling. Mydei can be hard to read when he’s upset—gruff with his words, sharp with his tone, sometimes acting like he doesn’t want anyone near. But deep down, he’s just tired, frustrated, maybe a little overwhelmed by things he doesn’t know how to fix. And when that happens, he leans into you more. He might not ask for comfort out loud, but the way he kisses your cheek—again and again, like he’s making sure you’re still there—it’s his quiet way of saying, “Please don’t go. I need you right now.”

And you never pull away. Even when he’s at his worst, you know he doesn’t mean to be cold. You can see right through the grumpy act—the way his hands tremble a little when they reach for you, the way he sighs so deeply once he’s tucked against your side. That kiss on your cheek always changes something in him. His shoulders relax, his jaw unclenches, and suddenly the world isn’t as heavy anymore. Just having you close, warm and patient, helps him find his way back to calm.

--Warnings: none (sfw) || gn! reader

ੈ✩‧₊˚Phainon oneshot

.ೃ࿐𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 : ̗̀➛

╰┈➤ PHAINON is a gentle soul who only wants to do what's best for everyone. For you, he'd carry the weight of the universe if it means spending another day with you.

╰┈➤ PHAINON would always put your needs above his own. He'd always shelter you, hold you and ensure you're beside him every second if you're travelling together. His eyes would always be side glancing at you, ensuring you're happy because if you're not, he'll go an extra mile just to see you smile.

╰┈➤ PHAINON is a blusher, he would definitely blush if you randomly kiss his cheek or grasp his hands to drag him along somewhere. Sometimes, he'd even act clumsy when you're around. He can't help himself, you make him weak in the knees and cause his heart to flutter like crazy.

╰┈➤ PHAINON is definitely a clumsy kisser at first, you're his first after all but after a few loads of kisses, he'll eventually be so good at it, it'll cause you to melt even more than you do now.

╰┈➤ PHAINON is also traditional man, so expected to be courted properly with gifts (preferably he'd try and make some himself, even if they're not as perfect as he wants him to be). He's also the type of man who'd want you to stay safe at home rather than join him. He has to make sure you're safe, he wouldn't be able to focus if you were beside him in battle. Losing you is one of his greatest nightmares.

╰┈➤ PHAINON loves being petted on the head by you, he'd even do a closed eye smile and be all goofy about it. He's a sweetheart. And your touches and kisses make him giddy and fluffy inside.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 𝓐𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝓃’ 𝓒𝓇𝒶𝒻𝓉𝓈 ₊ ֗ 𝜗𝜚

౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩 — sunday x f!reader、established relationship、tooth rottin’ fluff !

Sunday had never done such activities before. Even as a kid, his childhood consisted of strict schedules and teachings on a path that was already made long before his existence. Not that it necessarily bothered him because you can’t miss something you never truly had can you? Besides, it was trivial stuff to him, playing with toys, coloring in coloring books or even reading for fun. These were things he mostly watched Robin do and enjoy. He was usually never allowed such simplicities growing up, this was just how it was.

Yet now that he’s seated on the edge of your bed— watching you put together beads on a small string with a smile etched across your face —there’s a sudden longing for these things he’d never experienced. Followed by a desire to do so with you.

You'd once joked that Dr. Ratio probably categorized his emotions in a spreadsheet somewhere—affection in column A, irritation in column B, curiosity spanning several color-coded tabs. He hadn't found it funny then. He does now. He's sitting beside you in the Astral Express library with a dense tome open across his lap. You're pretending to read, but he can tell where your attention lies in the way your eyes drift to him every few seconds, and each time they do, he pretends not to notice.

"Something wrong?" he asks finally, not looking up.

You hum softly, looking at him with stars in your eyes, "Just wondering if you ever take a break."

Ratio exhales, marking his place with one finger before meeting your gaze. His expression is unreadable. The sharpness he uses when dissecting theories, now softened by the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth, "Ignorance doesn't take breaks. Why should I?"

You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself, "Yeah? But you're not ignorance."

"Debatable," he says dryly, "I did choose to spend my evening with someone who believes leisure is productive."

"Maybe it is," you counter, leaning in, "maybe being around me makes you smarter."

He stares for a beat too long, as if analyzing the logic behind that statement. Then he laughs—a sound that makes you freeze because it’s unguarded, something so uncharacteristic of him. "That," he murmurs, "is a hypothesis I wouldn’t mind testing."

He reaches out, almost absently, brushing a loose strand of your hair with his fingers, but his hand lingers a little too long, coming to rest on your cheek like he's considering something he can’t quantify, "I've spent most of my life trying to explain the world. But you—" His eyes soften, and the next words come almost reluctantly, like confessions pried from a locked heart, "You make me want to experience it.. with you."

You blink, caught off guard, a warm glow swelling where your heart should be, "That's… unusually sentimental of you."

"Empirical observation," he replies, gaze steady, "you make me irrational. Statistically speaking, I should find that bothersome."

"And yet?"

He smiles, devastatingly human. "And yet."

Who wakes before the sun, when the world still sleeps and the stars refuse to fade, his first thought already your name.

He ties his apron with a yawn, with gentle fingers that memorized each contour of your face more vividly than any creation he’s ever shaped.

Before the ovens hum, before the city exhales its first sigh of morning, he stands by the counter, flour already dusting his forearms, and starts his day by making a little treat for you.

The locals call him a master of his craft.

They don’t see the way his hands tremble when the door chime rings after your step, how he looks up from the counter and forgets the time. How every delicious scent in the air pales in comparison to your perfume.

He greets you with a smile that belongs to no one else, the kind that melts faster than chocolate on a warm plate.

He keeps a corner of the bakery just for you:

a small table by the window,

a vase that always holds a single flower,

and a cup he fills with a freshly brewed drink before anyone else is served.

It’s where he sits across from you, elbows on the table, eyes soft, watching you take that first sip like it’s the sunrise he wakes for.

 “Too sweet?” he’ll ask.

You shake your head, and he exhales, quietly relieved, as though your approval redeems the whole morning.

He smells like vanilla and burnt sugar, like the warmth of something made with patience.

You tease him for never wearing cologne, but later that night, when he wraps his arms around you, you already know he doesn’t need to.

He already carries the scent of comfort, of home.

He hides love notes where you’ll least expect them, 

beneath napkins, written on parchment paper, tucked in the box of croissants you take to work.

Ink smudged from flour-dusted fingers, words simple but sure: Come home soon dear, I miss your laugh in the kitchen.

When you do, he’s always waiting. Sometimes with dinner, sometimes with pie.

Always with that same look in his eyes.

Like you are his masterpiece, and he’s still trying to understand how something so perfect came to him.

At closing, when the bell jingles its last farewell and the ovens dim, he cleans the counters in silence, humming softly.

You stay, sweeping the last crumbs into your hand, and he glances over, smile crooked.

“Careful,” he murmurs, “you’ll sweep away the sweetness.”

But he’s not talking about the crumbs.

At home, he’d rub your back absentmindedly, hands remembering a kneading motion even in conversation.

You smile at the fact and rest your head against his shoulder, and he laughs when you mention that you’re not, in fact, a pastry.

He’d also bake for you when you’re upset.

Not to distract you, but to speak.

He doesn’t think just words are sufficient of your burden.

So he goes to what he does best, and folds his apologies into danish layers, his devotion into crusts that flake at the gentlest touch.

He’d slide a tray across the counter with a quiet, “Try this one.”

You taste it and light up, and he finally breathes again.

Sometimes, before bed, he reaches for your hand, rough palms brushing soft skin. 

He whispers, “I made too much bread again. Guess we’ll have to share it in the morning.”

You both know he made extra for you, and the lucky birds outside you like to share with.

His love language is warmth, and it’s always rising.

He keeps a small jar in the pantry labeled Her Favorites.

Inside are scraps of recipes written in your handwriting, faded with time, smudged with cinnamon and honey.

And when you once asked, half-asleep, “Would you still bake if you didn’t have the shop?”

 He’d exhale slowly against your hair.

“I’d still bake,” he’d muse, “because I’d still have you to feed.”

Later that night, the moonlight catches a colder glow to his skin. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, eyes gentle, voice like the quiet after a storm.

“You were the reason I made something out of this silly hobby.” he murmurs.

You realize with adoration, that his inspiration reflects in the quality of his work.

It’s been in every delicate detail, every tender touch, every dawn he’s risen for you.

Devotion shown in every loaf, slow, patient, and warm enough to last a lifetime.

Kazuha, Aether, Ayato, Kaveh, Kinich, Thoma, Zhongli, Lyney, Your Faves!!

SHE = PASSING, ATE = NOTES !!

premise — you're the best seatmate they could ever ask for; alternative, you pass notes with them during one boring period (hsr version). characters — moze and sunday content tags — modern!au, established relationship, fluff, nothing written just photos of notes, please pardon my handwriting, reader attempts to make sunday laugh, moze sucks at drawing hearts ; headcanons

notes from a jellyfish — i'm running out of titles !?@?

... !! GO TO ✩°｡⋆⸜ passing notes with wanderer/scara and kinich

moze (pink: you, purple: him)

sunday (pink: you, blue: him)