Kissing Habits ft. Phainon
Sitting at the farthest corner of the couch in Phainon's presence, is a declaration of war.
And no, you cannot counter this accusation with the fact that you're merely copying his own habit. Endeavoring to win a verbal spar with him is futile to begin with.
“Oh,” he tends to begin with a long, dragged out sigh. “How empty my lap is...” next, he builds his act by letting his head fall back against the couch, allowing his usual composure to macerate with a slump.
“If only one such callipygian form of my beloved would soothe this harrowing vacancy...!”
It is a task to keep a serious face against his tactics, especially since your smile tends to be his target. If he isn't using his charming word-smithing to get you closer, the alternative will be a full on tackle.
But there's one pacifier to his anxious antics: if you let yourself lean back against the arm of this (un)fortunate couch and rested your legs on his titular harrowingly vacant lap.
At this point, you must pay attention to whether the golden flecks in his eyes have softened, or began to twinkle under the lights. If it's the former, one of his hands would find its home around one of your ankles and began a slow massage up and down the length of your calves — all without breaking that tender eye-contact.
But if it's the latter, he'll rest the heel of your leg on the crater of his palm and lift the dorsum of your foot to his lips ; the first kiss on that patch of skin will slide to your ankle, from where his lips will glide up the length of your calf, slow and steadily. He'll pause at the jut of your knee, and press the softest kiss there yet.
At this point, if you aren't flushed, breathless and dizzy from his teases, you could attempt one thing to get him to finish the rest of his journey — closing your legs right at his face.
Playing coy will only allow you temporary wins, for Phainon knows how to enact revenge at the least expected turns. But this one is successful in igniting that competitive blaze in his gut, and your momentary upper hand will cease as soon as he's pulled apart the gates to his destination with that clingy, firm hand.
Not that you'd resist, you can't. And nothing tells Phainon louder than the jolt that ripples through you when he angles his head up to press his lips to your hip-bone, that you don't want to fight this guest at all.
Yes, not even the subsequent hitched breath upon his nip at your inner thigh, which he will not soothe with his tongue this time, but let his teeth further inscribe the next page of this voyage.
Tenderness and power are weapons in his hands. With which he'll twist, press, intenerate and mould your form to obey his direction, and carve you into the you of his desires.
—
Phainon is less calm and methodical with your hands.
In general, he has a dear relationship with them. Holding hands, linking arms, warming your hands by stuffing them in his pockets during cold weathers, letting his thumb trace constellations upon them even in absence of attention.
But when his heart spills with joy at nothing in particular, or over one specific connection of your thoughts with his and words fail to capture the warmth of his glee? He'll take your hands and press a series of frantic kisses, from the tips of your fingers all the way to your shoulders.
The depth of his feelings is most apparent in these moments, that what a shame it is that he can't kiss every inch of your body at once — even if he could, he admits that it wouldn't be enough.
But he tries, he has no other choice but to try. Because if he doesn't let these waves wash over you through moments like these, they'll drown him instead.
—
Phainon's apologies carry with them a very particular pattern of mannerisms.
He'll first cautiously seek out your shoulders, withdraw like he's been burned when you shake his grip off and then let his hands hover over them for a moment. He'll try to burrow into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, distract you from your ire by pressing his lips behind your ear, and he'll murmur his stream of ‘sorry’s into that kiss as well. It is sure to have your heart skip a beat.
But since you are no less a prideful individual, you'll huff and cross your arms tighter, but you won't be pushing him off this time. And that is the leeway Phainon will utilize.
He'll let his hands slide down the length of your arms, before winding around your midriff, and his lips will draw a necklace of kisses over the expanse of your shoulder. When his arms have banded together right beneath your crossed arms and your back has pressed intimately close to his chest, he'll offer his encomium to the pulse point of your neck.
And if you're still insistent in your anger when he kisses stars on your cheeks and the side of your head, well, the truly good part is just up ahead.
—
It is no news that Phainon loves to use your lap as his very personal pillow.
Nothing soothes his soul more than getting to lay his head on your thighs, while wrapping his arms around your waist after a long day. His knees will most likely suffer later on in his life from the sheer duration of these prostrations, but for now, they're his own slices of heaven.
You often tease that he's the living embodiment of a puppy, and the way he rubs his face all over your thighs and belly during these sessions, really don't help dispel his canine allegations.
If he's feeling particularly under the weather that day, he'll dare to allow himself to wander further up and trace every one of your ribs with his lips, until he's face to to face with that ultimate evidence of your existence.
He both worships and envies your heart. How lucky it is, to get to occupy that cavern he can only dream of curling up in.
“Is taking up my mind not enough?” you'd asked back once facetiously.
He hadn't replied. But the way he allowed his fingers to dig in to dips of your waist, the blaze that'd ignited in his gaze when he pressed a kiss right over the beat of your heart, answered you loud and clear that it would never be enough.
—
You think ‘surprise’ could be one of the candidates for Phainon's middle name.
The man has always been unpredictable, despite posing as a rather simple person most of the time. His mind is a tortuous labyrinth, full of contradictions and qualities that shouldn't be able to coexist, but in the being known as Khaslana, they do.
Being in his presence can never be boring, and it isn't even stiflingly so. Because somehow, he weaves normalcy into every one of his quirks.
But sometimes, sometimes, you really wished that he'd give you a warning at least.
“Moonbeam, try this!”
Now, when one offers a food item to taste to another, the proper thing to do would be to hold out said item to the person. Not to slant one's mouth over theirs, not to hold them by gripping their jaw and certainly not prying open their lips with one's tongue to push the food article in question.
Phainon does exactly that.
He holds the impromptu kiss for five whole seconds and your lungs completely forget their duty during that timeframe. Spices ignite fireworks on your tongue at the touch of his, your eyes squeeze shut on instinct when he angles your face slightly left to let the last drop of the tangy sauce fall into the cavern of your mouth, the callouses of his thumb scrapes against the edge of your jaw.
You feel as though you've survived a fatal drop when he finally pulls back, your joined gasps create faint smog in the air between your faces.
“Good, right?” Phainon loosens his grasp, but doesn't let go completely and when you find the willpower to glance up at him, his eyes are shining with excitement. Like he'd retrieved a thrown ball for you instead of shoving his tongue down your throat in the middle of a restaurant.
When apparitions of fluttering canine ears wave in front of your eyes, you think he's fed you wine instead of a dumpling (and, really, who can blame you?).
You would've done something equally stupid (which does not include kissing him senseless right back) if his attention wasn't immediately captured by another item on the table.
“Oh! Oh! And this!”
Your lover has superhuman speed, and you're not surprised at that, you just didn't expect to discover that by the way his mouth found its way back to yours before you could've even finished blinking.
In hindsight, it's your fault for not bracing yourself when you'd vaguely noticed the fact that he hadn't let go of his grip on your jaw. But still, could he not have been so absurdly abrupt and spared you the embarrassment of letting out a startled squeak, which he muffled with a firmer press of his lips?
Apparently not.
Because he didn't quit gambling with the prospect of making a public scene there, no no. When he was done thoroughly squashing your feeble protests by robbing you off the right of breathing, he dived right back with another sample of ‘food’.
Again.
And again.
And again.
When you found yourself in the pitches of vertigo from the whiplashes of different flavors on your tongue and the very risky tasting ritual your lover was enacting in broad daylight, did he pull back for real.
But this time, when you could find it in yourself to observe his state over the near obscene slide of his tongue retreating from yours and the heat of your mingled breaths, you saw his eyes not shining like before, but mimicking the daze in your own.
But that's still not enough evidence to prove your suspicions, and luck strikes right there, in the stretch of saliva pulled taut between the widening gap between you two and in the twitching corner of his lips at the way you swallow when the string snaps.
“Sweet... isn't it?” the twinkle in his eyes makes him look like the devil incarnate.
You don't know, and frankly you don't care. For this man has poisoned your interest in the food and made what was supposed to be an innocent lunch date utterly unappetizing in favor of something else.
But still, devil that he is, he swivels back to the food like nothing has occured. Like he didn't throw you off your axis and yanked you straight to his.
Leaving you to wonder dumbly as he resumes his babbles on roasted chicken and something else you couldn't care less about, what just happened?
