Synopsis: Mydei’s favorite café closes, and his search for sweetness twists into obsession. What begins with pastries ends with him proving nothing tastes as good as you.
a/n: btw idk where the header is from since there were no credits on pinterest sobs. took me time to post this one bcz it went thru sm revisions/editing. I had so many longer versions but I was like, I won't be able to write proper smut if I'm gonna keep cringing every dirty talk line so I js sighed and let the smut out
The paper bag crinkled in Mydei’s hands as he dropped it onto the table. A spread of pastries spilled out. It was all fruit tarts, custard buns, a stack of eclairs that already looked suspect.
“That’s the third bakery this week,” you said, eyeing the haul. “You planning to eat every pastry in Amphoreus before your favorite shop reopens?”
He didn’t answer at first, only scowled as he picked up a tart and bit in. His jaw worked once, twice. Then a frown. “Too sweet.”
You snorted, sinking into the chair across from him. “Mydei, they’re supposed to be sweet.”
“Not like this.” He set the tart down like it had offended him, reached for an eclair, and bit off the end. A pause, then another grimace. “The filling’s flat. No depth.”
You raised a brow. “And since when were you a food critic?”
“I’m not,” he said flatly, grabbing a napkin to wipe his fingers. “I just know what I’m looking for. And this isn’t it.”
His tone was casual, but his eyes lingered on the half-eaten eclair in a way that didn’t match his clipped disapproval. Like he wasn’t only talking about pastries.
“Guess we’ll just keep hunting until we find the perfect bun for your impossible standards. Or pilgrimage when The Kafenio finally opens,” you said trying for levity.
Mydei’s gaze flicked to you, brief but sharp, before he reached for another pastry. “I’m not looking for perfect,” he muttered. “Just the right sweetness.”
It had been only two days since The Kafenio closed, but his mood had soured with each sunrise. He wasn’t unbearable, not if you knew how to read the quiet language of his moods—but frustration clung to him like a shadow. The man could command armies, end lives with a swing, yet here he was undone by shuttered doors and a sign promising reopening in four days.
He could bake, you’d seen him before. He had steady hands, precise even in the kitchen. But he didn’t want his own bread. He wanted The Kafenio’s pomegranate tart, pastries made by hands that had nothing to do with war, comfort baked into every bite. Without it, he chased ghosts of sugar through every bakery in town, grimacing with each failed imitation.
You picked up an eclair, more for distraction than hunger, and bit in. Pomegranate cream oozed across your tongue, rich and sticky. “Tastes fine to me.”His gaze sharpened. The kitchen felt smaller, the scattered pastries oppressive under the weight of his focus.
“Wow, you’re… really invested in my dessert choices, huh?” you muttered, trying to laugh it off.
Mydei froze mid bite, chest rising sharply. A clipped sound escaped, it was a half laugh, half groan. His fingers clenched around the pastry, knuckles taut. “I’m not… just…” He swallowed, dragging his eyes from your lips though his shoulders stayed rigid.
He wasn’t dissatisfied with pastries. He was unsettled by watching you eat them. By the sweetness he couldn’t claim.
Your hand brushed another tart. You paused under his stare, then licked the cream from your fingers slow, deliberate. His jaw tightened. A faint exhale. His eyes darkened.
“Not the taste you’re looking for either?” you asked lightly.
His fingers hovered over another pastry, trembling. Almost reluctantly, his gaze lifted to yours. “…No,” he said, voice low, restrained. “It isn’t.”
The pause stretched, electric. The hum of the kitchen faded. His hand slid closer, brushing yours. Just enough to make your skin tingle.
“Not…” he started, husky, swallowing hard. “…Not this way.”
You tilted your head. His jaw flexed.
A shiver ran down your spine as you licked another smear of red cream from your fingers. A brush against his arm sparked through you.
But this time he didn’t move. He just stared. Too long. His jaw worked tight, a tendon in his neck jumping as his throat bobbed around a hard swallow. One hand clenched into a fist against the table, knuckles blanching white against wood, the other hovering midair like he was fighting himself.
The silence dragged, unbearably so, until finally—
He broke. A groan ripped out of him, raw and guttural, and his restraint snapped as he seized your wrist and crushed your sticky fingers against his mouth.
“It tastes…” he murmured, tongue darting to swipe the cream off your skin, “…so fucking sweet, sweeter than anything I’ve ever had—because it’s you.”
Heat pooled low in your stomach. Every motion deliberate, messy, shameless. His golden eyes never left yours. It was dark, hungry,and it was impossibly sharp.
“Mydei…”
His mouth traced the curve of your thumb where the cream clung. The scrape of his teeth, the wet slide of his tongue—it definitely wasn’t gentle. Possessive. A low thrum vibrated against your skin. The air crackled, thick with sugar and something darker. Your other hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white.
“Mydei—!” you breathed again. Not a protest. A gasp.
He pulled back from your hand with a wet, deliberate sound. Lips glistening with cream, eyes unblinking. His hand shifted, sliding down, the calluses scraping your inner palm. Fingers curled inward. His palm pressed flat against your lower belly, just above your waistband. Heat searing through fabric.
“Still too sweet?” you whispered. Voice trembling.
No answer. His palm pressed harder, thumb circling slow, deliberate, dipping lower each rotation. Claiming territory just above your waistband. “There we go.”
“Eek—!” Your hips jerked against the table, seeking friction, achingly desperate. The ghost of his earlier tasting burned on your skin.
His other hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush. You gasped as fingers traced the curve of your hipbone, slipping beneath fabric. Calloused fingertips over sensitive skin sent sparks up your spine. Pausing at the elastic of your underwear, his breath hot against your temple, he pushed past the barrier. Rough, demanding, palming your ass, fingers digging into soft flesh.
“Still think it’s just about pastries?” he murmured, voice gravelly against your ear. His thumb pressed against damp fabric between your legs, slow, maddening circles. Knees buckling, you clutched his shoulders, nails digging in. Sugar, sweat, him filling your lungs.
“Shut it,” you gasped, trying for sass, voice cracking. “You started this with your stupid pastry obsession—”
He didn’t let you finish. Hand slid from hip to grip jaw, forcing gaze. Heat and possession, nothing gentle. “Obsession?” Thumb traced your lower lip, smearing cream. “You think this is just about sugar? You licked your fingers slow, deliberate, like you knew exactly what it’d do to me.” His breath hot on yours. “You wanted this.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
You tried to shake your head, grip tightening. “Didn’t—” Protest died as his other hand pressed harder between your legs, fingers curling deep. Sharp gasp. Hips jerking. Thoughts melting like honey with each deliberate press.
“Liar,” he growled, voice low and dark, vibrating straight through you. His fingers pressed harder, ruthless circles that punished as much as they teased. A sob broke free, raw and strangled, tears pricking until his face blurred above you. Not spilling yet. Not giving him that.
“You wanted this,” he rasped again, voice like gravel tearing in your chest. “Say it.”
“Yes,” you hissed, nails carving crescents into his shoulders. “Yes, damn you.”
His breath stuttered. His grip shifted, loosening just enough to cradle your throat. “Louder,” he demanded.
The heel of his palm ground into you, merciless. You arched with a broken cry, heat snapping through you, rushing up too fast to breathe. His name tore from your lips in a raw, desperate, shattered way.
Then silence. Heavy, suffocating. Your pulse thundered loudly in your ears. His fingers glistened as he lifted them, slow, deliberate, to his mouth. His tongue slid over them, sucking obscene and thorough, a low hum vibrating through his throat like he was savoring more than taste.
“Sweet,” he murmured, thick and reverent. He sucked his middle finger clean, eyes locked on you. “Always so fucking sweet.”
You just stared, brain fried into useless mush, mouth opening and closing without words. Only a shaky exhale dragged past your lips. “Ah…”
He didn’t care. He was already moving, dropping to his knees, the cold stone biting at him, golden eyes blazing as they locked on your trembling thighs. He inhaled like a starving man, nostrils flaring at the mix of arousal and leftover pastry cream clinging to your skin.
Hot breath ghosted over fabric. His hair fell forward, shadowing his face, making the glow of his eyes sharper. “You taste better than dessert,” he said low, almost reverent. His hand hovered, fingers glistening but not yet touching, like he wanted to drag it out—make you beg.
“You—” The words broke as his gaze snapped up your body, sharp, consuming. His voice dropped to a husk. “You shine. Even here. Especially here.”
Then he lunged.
No warning. His mouth sealed against your inner thigh with brutal force. He sucked hard, obscene, pulling a cry from your chest before you could stop it. Your hips jolted, the sting blooming into molten heat that surged higher.
“Oh gods—” you choked, thighs trembling, muscles locking tight. The coil wound vicious inside you, threatening to snap, spill, drown you right there on the kitchen counter. Nails scraped deep grooves into the wood as you tried to hold it back.
Then his teeth sank in. Sharp. Cruel. Fire ripped through the tender flesh, white-hot pain spiking into ecstasy. A startled whimper cracked out of you, voice strangled, and this time the tear finally fell, slipping hot down your cheek.
That asshole—
Mydei froze, just long enough for your pulse to thunder in your ears. His teeth left a faint, red mark, his lips brushing over it, warm and damp. He held you there, golden eyes locking onto yours, watching. His eyes were studying you.
He’s enjoying this way too much. The intensity of his gaze made your chest tighten, your breath hitch violently.
Then, deliberately, he leaned down, lips softening against the bite mark. “There, there.” Gentle. Sweet. The beast who ravaged you was peppering soft kisses along the raw, sensitive skin, as if teasing you with reprieve you didn’t deserve. Each kiss made the ache flare anew, each press of his lips an exquisite torment.
You gasped, hips lifting instinctively, but his hand pressed against your waist, holding you still. He murmured low, teasing words just beneath his breath, a growl vibrating through your core.
And just when your body began to hope he might relent… he bit again.
“Ngh!”
Fang and tongue, sharp and merciless, and the second bite was worse than the first. A shiver tore through you, nails clawing into the wood, breath hitching in a strangled gasp. Heat pooled unbearably, and your thighs quivered as a second tear escaped, burning hot against your cheek.
Gods, he is insane— utterly insane.
He paused again, letting the sting linger, letting the fire you couldn’t control spread. Then his mouth lowered, peppering gentle, deliberate kisses along the trail of your raw skin. Soft. Wet. All those shivering touches that promised more, demanded more.
“Dei…” you breathed, the name trembling in your throat, part gasp, part plea.
“You taste… perfect, better than the tart, better than sugar, better than anything they’ll ever sell me.” he murmured, voice low, thick, predatory.
His lips pressed hard against your skin once more, then lingered, teeth grazing, teasing, just enough to make you shiver violently. “You feel perfect.” Every movement was calculated, every touch meant to claim you, to drive you further into helplessness.
You could feel the burn in your thighs, the ache of want spreading through your core. Your pulse slammed in your ears, breath ragged. Each bite, each kiss, each lingering press of his lips was a declaration: every shiver, every gasp, every tremble was his.
Your fingers dug into the edge of the table, nails clawing wood. I can’t, he’s going to— The thought dissolved into another sharp gasp as his lips dragged lower, teeth grazing, tongue tracing over the marks he’d already left like a dark, possessive signature.
“Wider, don’t make me force you.” His voice was rough, commanding. He didn’t stop, not until your body trembled uncontrollably, hips jerking, breath breaking between moans and gasps. “There. Good.”
Your world had shrunk to him—mouth, teeth, tongue, claiming, tasting, devouring. “So… fucking… good,” he groaned, lips brushing your slickened skin. You sagged into him, every thought gone, only able to whimper and shiver as he consumed you again.
Then he stopped. Abrupt. No teeth, no tongue—just the warmth of his hands cupping your face. Tears streaked down unchecked, and he tilted your chin, kissing them slow, deliberate.
“You’re driving me mad,” he growled, mouth dragging across your wet cheek. Rough hands lifted you onto the counter. Cold marble shocked your thighs, but his grip held you wide, nowhere to run.
“Fall apart. Right here, right now, where I can see every inch of you ruined for me.”
You whimpered, throat raw, words dissolving as he shifted, the blunt press of his dick sudden, it was demanding. The stretch wrenched another cry from your lungs.
He laughed low, cruel. “There it is. That sound, I live for it.” His hands locked on your hips, dragging you down onto him, merciless. “Feel that? That’s not sugar, not some cheap imitation. This,” another brutal thrust, nails clawing at the counter, “—this is me, inside you.”
Tears blurred your vision, your mouth open in a broken moan as your body clenched tight around him.
“Good,” he rasped, voice ragged with hunger. “Messy, shaking, crying— you’re perfect like this. Don’t you dare hold it in. I want every sob, every tear, every sound. Give it to me. Let me fucking hear you.”
Your sob spilled raw, drool slicking your chin as your body buckled under his relentless pace. He leaned close, teeth scraping your jaw, whispering filth against your mouth, “That’s it. Break for me. Show me how maddening you really are.”
Every thrust slammed you against the marble counter, nails scraping useless grooves into the stone. Tears poured hot down your cheeks, your sobs only making his growl deepen.
“Look at you,” Mydei snarled, hips driving mercilessly into yours. “Fucking ruined already, and I’ve barely started.”
You shook, gasping, body clenching around him—then his hand left your hip. For a breath, you thought he’d give mercy. Then came the crinkle of paper, the rustle of the bag.
Your bleary eyes widened. “M-Mydei—”
He pulled the pomegranate tart free. The pastry collapsed like crushed organs in his fist, red spilling hot between his fingers. The filling burst out thick and wet, streaking down his wrist like blood as he dragged it over your trembling chest.
“That bakery filth was nothing. This,” he smeared the tart across your skin, the juice dripping like blood, “—This is what I was starving for.”
“Now,” his voice was ragged, ruined, “you’re sweeter than anything they could ever make.” His mouth latched cruelly onto tart stained flesh, sucking hard as he thrust deeper, harsher.
Your sobs broke into wet, shattered cries. Sugar stuck to your skin, teeth stung deep, and his brutal rhythm inside you dragged you past the edge.
Don’t hide those tears,” he snarled, lifting his head. Red juice smeared his mouth, glistening like blood. “I’ll drink them, every drop. Do you get it now? Pastries mean nothing—this is my feast. You, sobbing, shaking, dripping sweet all over my cock.”
Your vision blurred, your body jerking uncontrollably as his pace only grew rougher. His tongue dragged up your throat, tasting sugar and salt, biting until fresh tears spilled hot.
“Perfect,” he rasped, voice breaking into a growl. “Cry more. Break more. I’ll taste every fucking drop.”
He fucked you harder, faster, the counter rattling with every slam. Juice smeared across your chest, his tongue chasing it, biting, growling—then his thumb caught another tear, dragging it into his mouth mid-thrust.
“Milk. Sugar. You’re mine.”
Your sobs tore raw, your body breaking apart, mouth wet and ruined as he drove into you mercilessly. “Cry harder,” he growled, drinking down every tear, every cry. “Fall to pieces for me. Give me everything.”
And you did. Your scream tore raw from your throat as you shattered, body convulsing around him, tears streaming. He swallowed your sobs, he was still driving into you until he groaned low, teeth sinking into your shoulder, spilling deep.
Silence slammed down, heavy, broken only by your ragged sobs. Your lover’s mouth lingered on your skin, sticky with sugar and milk, whispering against you like a vow:
“Sweetest fucking mess I’ll ever have.”
notes: TBH this isn't 100% of my freak. I js need to get used writing smut again bcz for some reason i immediately cringe like hours when rereading it SOBSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. LOLOPFOMEOGNEJORGN. this is only 40% of my freak i hope it feeds mfs
Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡
I think you repeated yourself in the phainon nsfw fic, right here at the beginning :
"You’d never thought of him as domestic. That was for other couples, other lives. Not yours. You remember that night on the couch—takeout, a half-watched movie, futures brought up and dismissed. You’d laughed that you’d never be the type. He’d nodded, admitting fatherhood felt too heavy. The line had been clear, mutual.
Because you’d talked about this.
You remember the night clearly: the two of you sprawled out on your couch, takeout boxes scattered around, a movie half-watched and forgotten. It had come up naturally, the topic of kids, of futures. You’d laughed it off, saying you’d never be the type. He’d agreed with a quiet nod, eyes soft, admitting he didn’t see himself as a father either because it’s too heavy a responsibility. The conversation had ended there, comfortable, mutual. A line drawn in the sand."
Just one of these two work out, you dont have to repeat yourself
Holyshit I DIDN'T NOTCIE 🥀🥀😭
Tysm I'm gonna edit it later (i alsonmade an editing error like 2 times but I can't fix it in mobile)
Synopsis: When Phainon’s easy tenderness with a baby stirs something you swore you didn’t want, you’re forced to face the ache of impossible futures. What starts as teasing banter turns into raw confessions, filthy promises, and sex that blurs the line between love, longing, and reckless surrender.
Cw. Explicit sexual content (fingering, oral, penetrative sex, creampie), breeding kink and pregnancy talk, edging/orgasm denial, emotional vulnerability about children and intimacy, dirty talk, and playful humor mixed with angst (because when did I evver write anything 100% angst free)
a/n: next up is mydei the fucckckck. THIS S SO SAPPY IT MAKES ME VOMIT. Be grateful this got little angst ARRRR I CAN'T WRITE SMUT FOR MY LIFE SDISNKVJBS. ITS SO ROMANTIC BYE??? I'm NOT GOOD AT SMUT LET ME LIVEE...
“You keep staring at me like that… what are you imagining?”
His words land casually, like a pebble tossed into still water—but the ripples hit too deep. Phainon doesn’t even look at you, eyes fixed on the bundle in his arms. Your baby cousin fits too perfectly in the crook of his elbow, like that space was made for him. His voice is soft, teasing, the kind he only uses when he already knows the answer and wants to watch you squirm. God help you, the way he rocks the baby almost makes your thighs press together.
You blink, caught in the act, pulse jumping as if you’d been discovered doing something far more scandalous than staring. “Not a chance,” you mutter, too quickly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Phainon hums, low and amused, tilting his head slightly. His hair falls into his eyes, and for once, he doesn’t push it back, too focused on the tiny fingers curled against his chest. “Mhm. Then why,” he says softly, “do you look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe?”
The air around you tightens. You grab for the glass on the coffee table, half-empty juice watered down with melted ice, and bring it to your lips if only to have something to do. But the cold doesn’t chase the heat rising along your neck, and the taste is flat against your tongue.
It isn’t fair.
He looks too natural like this—afternoon light gilding his hair, rocking your cousin like he’s done it a hundred times. You can’t stop staring. Domestic wasn’t supposed to be hot. And yet here you are, fighting the urge to fan yourself like some aunt at a church picnic.
Because you’d talked about this.
You remember the night clearly: the two of you sprawled out on your couch, takeout boxes scattered around, a movie half-watched and forgotten. It had come up naturally, the topic of kids, of futures. You’d laughed it off, saying you’d never be the type. He’d agreed with a quiet nod, eyes soft, admitting he didn’t see himself as a father either because it’s too heavy a responsibility. The conversation had ended there, comfortable, mutual. A line drawn in the sand.
And yet—
Here you are. Watching him cradle your baby cousin as if he’d done it a thousand times. Watching him smile when the child shifts and nestles closer, making a tiny sound of contentment. Watching him become something you had both agreed he wasn’t meant to be—for both of you, it wasn’t.
You hate the ache it stirs in your chest.
“You’re imagining things,” you say finally, but your voice lacks its usual bite he’s grown used to.
Phainon chuckles, a low sound that vibrates faintly through the quiet of the living room. The noise from the kitchen with clattering pans, relatives’ laughter, feels miles away. Here, it’s just you, him, and the warm weight of a child between you. Your aunt had entrusted you to take care of the baby as he was off to get cake mix. Unintentionally causing sparks to go off between you and Phainon.
He leans back slightly against the couch, eyes still on your cousin. “Am I? Because to me,” he murmurs, “it looks like you’re torn between taking a picture or running away before I notice.”
Your lips part, ready with a retort, but nothing comes. Instead, you’re caught on the way his thumb brushes ever so carefully over the baby’s small shoulder, the gesture absentminded but impossibly tender. You didn’t think he had that in him. Or maybe you hadn’t let yourself think it. Damn it.
“You’re insufferable,” you whisper, half under your breath.
“Maybe,” Phainon says, glancing up at you at last, eyes alight with mischief, “ but you’re still staring.”
Your stomach twists. You roll your eyes, force yourself to sink deeper into the armchair across from him, as if distance might cool whatever heat has lodged in your veins. But it doesn’t work. The reflection in the window betrays you—the sight of Phainon with a child nestled against him, soft light painting him in a way that makes him look almost unreal.
You think about that conversation again, the one where you’d both said no. You’d believed it then, still believe it now—or at least you thought you did. So why does your heart beat like this? Why does the image of him holding a child make something inside you ache with a longing you don’t want to name?
“You’re thinking too hard,” Phainon says suddenly.
You flinch. “I’m not.”
He raises a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “You are. I can hear it.”
“You can’t hear thoughts,” you snap, too defensive.
“I can hear yours,” he teases, and the way he says it… warm, playful, yet edged with a subtle gravity—makes you falter.
Your baby cousin chooses that moment to stir, tiny fingers curling tightly around the loose fabric of Phainon's shirt collar. He glances down, a soft laugh escaping him, low, intimate, meant only for the child. "Clingy, aren't you?" he murmurs, thumb brushing the baby's knuckles. The tenderness in his voice scrapes raw against your nerves; it looks so effortless, so right, that your chest aches with the forbidden image of him holding your child instead.
For a moment, silence stretches. The baby shifts, a tiny hand uncurling against Phainon’s chest, and he soothes instinctively, rocking with that same steady rhythm. The sight is disarming all over again.
You’re not supposed to want this, you remind yourself. You’re not supposed to picture it. You’d agreed, both of you. No kids. That was the deal.
So why can’t you stop staring?
An hour slips by before you even notice it. The living room slowly empties—relatives drifting into the kitchen, then out into the yard, voices scattering further and further until the noise dulls into background chatter. At some point, your aunt reclaims the baby with quiet thanks, and Phainon hands your cousin over without protest, rolling his shoulders like he’s just realized how long he’d been sitting still.
For the first time all day, it’s just the two of you.
His chuckle rumbles low against your neck, warm and knowing. He lets go of your wrists but doesn’t retreat—his hand remains on your thigh, steady and possessive, thumb drawing absentminded circles through the fabric of your pants.
“Relax,” he murmurs, voice dipped in amusement. “I’m not about to tell your aunt how hard you were eye-fucking me while I held her kid.”
You jerk your leg away, heat flooding your cheeks as you scramble to sit upright. "Eye-fucking? Seriously?" The words come out sharper than intended, a brittle shield against the way your pulse still races where his thumb brushed your skin. You grab your glass again, gulping down the watered-down juice like it's salvation. "Maybe I was just zoning out." The lie tastes sour, but you cling to it, refusing to meet his gaze as distant laughter drifts from the kitchen.
He leans back, stretching his arms above his head with a low groan, shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. "Zoning out," he echoes, amusement softening his voice as he watches you over the rim of his own glass. "Right. Because you usually look like you've been punched in the gut when you're 'zoning out'." He doesn't press further, just lets the silence hang, thick with your denial, as his knowing smile widens, a silent challenge you refuse to accept.
You huff, turning away to stare pointedly at a family photo on the wall and some distant cousin's graduation shot. "Maybe I'm just tired," you deflect, tracing the edge of your glass again.
When you look up, his eyes catch yours, sapphire and gleaming, corners crinkled with that maddeningly smug smile. The sunlight brushes against the faint stubble along his jaw, softening him just enough to make the contrast of boyish charm and quiet confidence almost unbearable.
For all his teasing, Phainon was still Phainon. He was really sweet when it mattered, deliberate in the way he gave you room. He drew back slowly, not severing the moment entirely, but loosening his hold so you could breathe again. Still, the ghost of his touch lingered like a brand, a reminder of how close he’d been. The living room had emptied long ago, leaving only the two of you in the spill of late afternoon quiet.
You swallow, dragging your gaze from his knowing smirk to the window where the light streaks pale gold across the floorboards. “Must be nice,” you mutter, fingers tracing idle shapes into the condensation on your glass. “Getting worshipped just for… existing.”
The sarcasm falls flat, tasting sharp on your tongue. He doesn’t bite back. Instead, he laughs softly, low and indulgent as though your defensiveness is more endearing than it is irritating. Then his voice drops, quiet enough to make your pulse stumble.
“I keep thinking about it,” he admits, lips grazing the line of your collarbone with ghostlike kisses that send shivers racing through you. “What it would be like—” his words trail, heavy with meaning, “if you were mine in every way.”
You tilt your head instinctively, granting him space, though your voice breaks the fragile air between you.
“Didn’t we… already agree? No kids,” you remind him, the words slipping out on a breathy sigh. Yet even as you say it, the warmth of his mouth on your skin pulls another sound from you—soft, unguarded, betraying the way he always managed to unravel you.
“Babies are exhausting.” The excuse sounds flimsy, even to you.
His hands slide to your hips anyway, tugging you closer with quiet insistence, unraveling the space between words and touch.
His breath ghosted your ear. “Would it be that bad—me filling you up?”
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Of course it would. That’s why it’s off the table. Wouldn’t it?
He grinned against your skin, everything about him infuriatingly soft lips, voice, hands—while his grip made it clear you weren’t going anywhere until this conversation finished. “I’m just saying,” he continued, voice gone husky, “you looked… happy.” A hot flush prickled behind your ears, climbing and radiating outward. Was it that obvious? Had you really let yourself imagine it so plainly?
You tilted your head to the side, giving him access to your collarbone as his right hand fumbles with your pants’ zipper, and the brush of his knuckles against your stomach was a different kind of vulnerability. It was certainly rougher, messier, dizzying. You tried to laugh it off, but your voice caught as his teeth grazed the place just below your jaw—never biting, just a warning.
“You’re enjoying this,” you accused, the accusation diluted by the way your hands trembled against his shoulders. He didn’t deny it. Instead, his fingers slipped past the waistband, cold against overheated skin.
“I want to see you like this,” he growled. “Stuffed full. Dripping. Ruined.”
You let your head drop onto his shoulder, breathing in the scent of cologne and something else—something unnameable that made you clutch at the back of his shirt. “You said you never wanted…” The rest trailed off because his palm was warm and steady, spreading low across your belly.
"It’s because you said you didn’t want any, I want to make you comfortable,” he mutters as he raises your shirt to pepper more kisses, “I wouldn’t force you to do anything— to have anything you don’t want.” He was rumpled, hair sticking up like grass after a dog rolled in it, shirt tented where your hands curled into the fabric. He looked like someone who’d woken from a long, bad dream and was stunned to be finding you there, salt-wet and shivering in his lap, arching up to meet the press of his mouth.
The words blurred; you weren’t sure what he meant by “anything”. What you only knew his mouth was at your navel now, and your stomach was clenching into panicked knots as if it were unfamiliar with pleasure, had only ever learned to brace for pain. You realized suddenly that you hadn’t breathed for a full minute, gulped air that tasted like his cologne, sharp with citrus and something warm underneath.
You wanted to say something important, but all you managed was, “I want—” and his hair brushed your ribs as he glanced up, waiting. You tried again. “I want you to.”
Phainon’s face contorted into surprise, “You do?”
“What if I do?”
His voice dropped to a rough whisper as he plucked the condom from his pocket and flicked it aside, eyes locked on yours. “We won’t need that anymore, right?”
The silence between you stretches taut as a wire, heavy with implication. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears as his mouth finds your neck, his lips warm and insistent against your pulse point. He works his way across your skin with open-mouthed kisses that bloom into marks as crimson, flowering into violet, a constellation of possession that makes you gasp and arch against him. "I really, really—" his words fracture against your collarbone, breath hot and uneven, "love, love you." His fingers find the zipper of your pants, trembling slightly despite their certainty, tugging the fabric down your hips with an urgency that makes your stomach flutter.
His hand palms at the wetness pooling between your thighs, “You’re really okay with this?”
You braced yourself with a palm flat on his thigh, squeezing for balance, more for the illusion that you could anchor yourself at all. “Mhm,” you managed, breath hitching, and you barely recognized your own voice. He kissed under your jaw, feather-light, then down your throat, a trail of heat. His hand pushed along the inside of your leg, gentle but determined, and you wanted him to just get on with it or you’d melt on the spot.
He paused, eyes flicking up, searching your face one more time for uncertainty, for some trace of panic, but you only found his irises blown wide in the passenger seat glow. You tried to look unaffected, but you were pretty sure your thighs had started trembling. Maybe even your arms. Maybe you’d spontaneously combust if he didn’t touch you again.
He hooked a fingertip under your underwear, knuckle cool on overheated skin. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
His mouth latched onto your pulse point, then grazed up, catching your earlobe between his teeth. The air in your lungs thinned, pressure building at the base of your spine and bleeding outward. He licked over the sting, apologetic, then released you with a shaky exhale close to your ear. "Okay?"
"Yeah," you heard yourself say, dizzied by your own voice, the literal tremor rippling through it. You weren't sure whether you sounded brave or desperate.
He grinned against your skin and tightened his hold on the edge of your panties. With a slow, practiced motion, he slipped the fabric aside and slid his hand down, two fingers gliding through the heat and wet. You jerked, hips bucking up into his palm, and your thigh banged hard against the table leg. The sound was shockingly loud.
His lip curled like he was fighting a laugh. Instead, he pressed your thigh open with his elbow, casual as if he owned the right to spread you however he wanted. His fingers teased circles over your clit—slow, light, cruel. Never the same twice. Just enough to keep you guessing, keep you panting.
“So jumpy already?” he murmured. “Haven’t even fucked you yet. Imagine if they knew,” his fingers dipped lower, dragging slick back up over your clit, “—how needy you get the second we’re alone.”
Heat seared up your neck. “Phainon—”
He cut you off with a sharp press of his thumb. “Don’t bother pretending. You’d spread yourself open for me right now if I told you to. Wouldn’t you?”
Your hips jerked up, a desperate answer you didn’t want to admit out loud. His grin went sharp.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, circling harder, faster, until your breath broke into choppy gasps. “Already fucking my hand. You’re pathetic, you know that? Letting me wind you up while a baby sleeps in the next room.”
The words made your stomach knot with shame, with want. You tried to hide your face, but he caught your chin, dragging your gaze back to him. His eyes burned—hungry, focused, worshipful in a way that only made the filth sharper.
“No hiding,” he growled softly. “You come for me with your eyes open. Let me see you ruin yourself.”
You were sweating, trembling, every nerve strung too tight. The cracked window might as well have been sealed; the only thing you could feel was the throbbing pulse under his touch.
He watched you like he was memorizing a prayer. His breathing went ragged, syncing with yours, and when tears spilled, he brushed one away. “Look at you,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your wet cheek, “coming apart just from my hand. Greedy little thing.” You tried to turn your face, but he caught your jaw—gentle, insistent. Like he’d rather die than miss the moment you shattered for him.
His fingers shoved in deep, curling sharp against that spot until your vision went white. You clawed at his shirt like an animal, hips grinding up against his palm. His thumb dragged over your clit in relentless circles—too steady, too cruel. Each second stretched hot and unbearable, your body wound so tight you could barely choke out a sound.
When you finally broke, gasping and wet, he didn’t stop. Two fingers slid deep inside, curling until your thighs clamped around his wrist. You choked out a cry, and he just laughed softly, the sound rough but fond.
“Still not enough for you?” His voice dropped, coaxing and cruel all at once. “Greedy thing. You’d take my cock right now if I gave it to you. Let me fuck you open until you’re dripping down the sheets, hm?”
You whimpered, too strung-out to argue, and his grin went wicked. But his thumb stroked your hip, steady, grounding.
“Say it,” he ordered, curling deeper, dragging another cry from your throat. “Tell me you want it. I want to hear you.”
The words tumbled out—broken, helpless—and his expression softened even as hunger burned in his eyes. He pulled his fingers free, slick shining, and licked them clean like he’d been starving.
“God, you taste good,” he murmured, almost reverent. “I could live off you. Bet you’d let me keep you full of me all night if I asked. Wouldn’t even fight it.”
Before you could answer, he kissed your inner thigh, then dropped lower, mouth hot and desperate on you like he meant to worship every filthy word true.
Phainon laughed softly against your throat—not mocking, but thick with wonder. "Shit, you feel perfect," he murmured, lips brushing the frantic pulse beneath your jaw. "Always so fucking perfect." His fingers crooked deeper, finding that spot again, and you cried out, back bowing as pleasure spiked white-hot through your core. He didn’t relent, watching your face unravel with rapt intensity. "I adore you, with or without a big family someday. If things on the frontlines get better, if I could, I'd stay home and be with you."
His thumb circled your clit faster, relentless. "I'd build a life," he gasped, voice breaking as your hips jerked against his hand. "Something real. Something to hold onto." You felt the tremor in his wrist, the raw need in every word. He kissed your temple, rough and tender. "But only if you want it. Only ever if you want it."
"Shut—" Your protest dissolved into a choked sob as his fingers curled deeper, hitting that spot that made your vision go white. Tears blurred the ceiling lights. You couldn't tell if they were from pleasure or the unbearable sweetness carving through your chest. His palm pressed flat against your lower belly, pinning you down as you arched wildly.
"Almost," Phainon murmured, lips grazing your ear. His voice was thick, strained—like he was the one unraveling. His thumb circled your clit faster, slick and perfect. "So close, aren't you?"
You nodded frantically, hips lifting off the armrest, chasing the friction. Every muscle coiled tight, breath sawing in your throat. His fingers crooked inside you, pressing that spot relentlessly. The world narrowed to his touch, the heat pooling low in your belly, the dizzying promise of release—
Then he pulled his fingers out.
The sudden emptiness was jarring, cold air rushing in where he’d been. You gasped, hips jerking upward instinctively, chasing the loss. Your vision swam, tears blurring the overhead lamp into a halo. Before you could even form a curse, a low chuckle vibrated against your neck—dark, satisfied, edged with something wild you’d never heard from him before.
"Phainon," you choked out, voice ragged and thin. "What the hell?"
He didn't move. Not an inch. Just hovered above you, propped on one elbow, his gaze tracing the frantic rise and fall of your chest. That infuriating smile… it was soft, knowing, utterly serene—never left his lips. It was madness. Pure, calculated madness. Your body screamed, every nerve ending raw and pulsing with denied release, trembling violently against the cool leather of the armchair. The wetness between your thighs felt obscene now, a stark contrast to the sudden, agonizing emptiness. “Pfft.”
“Wipe that goddamn smile off your face this instant and get moving.”
"As you say so, love," Phainon murmured, the words velvet-dark and rough at the edges. That impossible grin softened into something tender, almost reverent, as he shifted his weight. His hips settled between your thighs, pressing them wider. You felt the blunt, heated pressure of him against your entrance. All of it solid, immense, a promise that stole your breath. A whimper escaped you, high and thin, as he leaned down to kiss the frantic pulse in your throat.
"Shh," he breathed against your skin. "Let me put it in you. All of me. Every drop.."
He pushed in inch by inch, forcing your body to take him. The stretch burned, a sharp ache that made your thighs shake, but he didn’t stop. His grip on your hips was bruising, holding you down as he stuffed you full. “Take it,” he hissed against your ear. “All of it.”
"That's it... so good for me... taking me so perfectly..." Every pause, every shuddering breath he took, gave you space to adjust, to breathe through the overwhelming fullness. He didn't rush, didn't force; he simply held himself still, buried deep but not fully seated, letting the heat and pressure build until the sharpness melted into a throbbing, insistent need.
Usually, you wouldn't be trembling hard against his touch, you're used to his size. Yet for some reason, tears stain your cheeks, lips trembling, with your back arching just for him. “Oh fuck you…”
“You already are.”
The late afternoon sun slanted through the bay window, painting dust motes gold above the faded floral armchair where you lay pinned beneath him. Sunlight caught the worn edges of the coffee table, the forgotten juice glass sweating a ring onto wood, the family photos smiling benignly from the mantelpiece—a world suspended as Phainon filled you with unbearable slowness. He paused when fully seated, hips flush against yours, breath ragged against your temple.
“Look at us,” he murmured, thumb brushing your tears. “Imagine. You. Me. A baby upstairs with your eyes, drooling on my shirt.” He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating deep within you, making you clench involuntarily around him.
"God, I'd build them a treehouse... teach them constellations... watch you teach them how to be stubborn as hell..." His hips began a shallow, grinding rock, not pulling out yet, just savoring the depth, the heat. "Wouldn't be perfect. There'd be mess... chaos and nights we're exhausted... but fuck, love, seeing you hold our baby earlier?" His voice cracked, rough with longing. "It wrecked me. I want that chaos. Don’t you too?"
You tried to summon the old defiance, the practiced denial. "Shut up," you gasped, digging your nails into his shoulders as he finally withdrew an inch, agonizingly slow. "I can't, I— Stop, stop talking!"
You bucked your hips, trying to force him deeper, faster, to drown out the terrifying sweetness of his words. "Phainon—"
He caught your hips, pinning you firmly against the armchair's leather. "No rushing," he murmured, his voice thick with restraint. He withdrew another inch, the drag deliberate and maddening, before sinking back in with that same unbearable slowness. Each thrust was a controlled glide, deep and grinding, designed to unravel you thread by thread. His eyes stayed locked on yours, watching every flutter of your lashes, every hitched breath. "So tight," he breathed, his thumb brushing your clit in feather light circles that made you whimper. "Always so perfect for me. Taking me like you were made for it."
Your nails dug red crescent moons into his shoulders, but the sting seemed to fuel him. He leaned down, his lips brushing yours, stealing your ragged breaths. "Tell me," he urged against your mouth, his hips rolling in a slow, deep circle that rubbed against something inside you that sparked white behind your eyelids. "Tell me you see it too. Us. A home. Tiny hands grabbing my hair..." His chuckle vibrated through your chest. "...your eyes when you hold them. That look you had earlier? Pure sunshine." He kissed the corner of your trembling mouth as he laughed again. "I'd burn cities down to keep that look on your face."
A choked sob escaped you, tears spilling hotly down your temples, mingling with sweat. It wasn't just the physical intensity; it was the raw vulnerability in his words, the terrifyingly beautiful future he painted while buried deep inside you.
"Stop," you gasped, voice breaking as his thrusts ground deeper. "God, Phainon—you’re filthy and sappy, I’m about to vomit.”
A small ew escaped your lips, he froze mid-stroke, pulling back just enough to stare down at you, genuine surprise widening his eyes. "Ew?" A disbelieving laugh burst from him, rich and warm, shaking his shoulders and vibrating deliciously where you were joined.
"Come on, love. You're crying because it's sappy?" His thumb brushed away another tear, his grin softening into pure affection. "Admit it. You secretly love my sappy shit."
You squeezed your eyes shut, turning your head away, cheeks flaming. "I'd prefer you stay silent," you muttered, voice muffled against the worn armrest leather. "Oh, really?" Phainon breathed, his lips curling against your temple. His hips snapped forward, hard and sudden, burying himself to the hilt.
"We both know you don't." The angle shifted; it was deliberate, devastating, and his next thrust drove directly into that deep, hidden spot inside you. The pleasure ripped through you like fire, brutal and unstoppable. Your back bowed off the chair, a scream tearing loose before you could even think, cunt spasming around him as he pounded through your release.
He didn't slow. Didn't relent. His rhythm became fierce, relentless, each powerful drive of his hips hitting that same perfect place with unerring precision. "I worship you," he growled, the words rough against your sweat-slicked skin, punctuated by the slick slap of flesh. His hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze. “So pretty when you cry for me. That’s mine. All of it.” His thumb found your clit again, pressing hard circles that sent fresh shocks through your overloaded nerves.
"You think I don't see it? The way you look at me after I've disarmed you? That same fucking awe." He leaned down, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. "My sword's always been yours, love. On the training ground... and right here." He punctuated the claim with another brutal thrust that stole your breath. "And you take it so beautifully.”
“Ah, Phainon—!” Release tore through you—raw, unshielded, terrifyingly intimate. The heat of him spilling deep inside branded you, every pulse a claim that left no room for denial. This was raw, primal, terrifyingly intimate. The heat of him filling you, pulsing deep inside, felt like a brand, a claiming that resonated in your bones. You screamed, a raw, ragged sound ripped from your throat, back arching so sharply off the armchair you thought your spine might snap. Your vision whited out, dissolving into pure sensation… the overwhelming fullness, the searing heat radiating from your core, the frantic clenching of muscles around him as wave after wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy crashed over you.
Phainon groaned, a deep, guttural sound torn from his chest as he buried himself impossibly deeper, hips grinding against yours in short, desperate jerks.
“Ah… fuck.” His forehead pressed hard against yours, sweat dripping onto your cheek, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps that mingled with your own choked sobs. He stayed locked deep inside you, trembling violently, riding out the aftershocks that shuddered through both your bodies.
As the aftershocks left you boneless, he lifted his head, eyes still hazy with pleasure but crinkled at the corners. That stupid grin spread across his flushed face.
“Bet our kid gets your eyebrows,” he panted, absurdly cheerful. “The judgy ones.”
A lazy thrust made you whimper, your cunt clenching around him. He chuckled. “Poor Aunt Mildred’s gonna pass out at Sunday lunch.”
You blinked slowly, trying to process the sheer idiocy of his timing. The warmth pooling deep inside you was undeniable, blissful, a thick, languid satisfaction that threatened to pull you under. But the words? They sliced through the haze like a rusty spoon. A choked sound escaped you—half exasperated groan, half disbelieving laugh. Your eyes rolled so hard you saw the back of your skull for a second. Seriously? Right now, buried deep and dripping, he’s worried about eyebrows and Aunt Mildred’s weak constitution? The urge to smack that infuriatingly handsome, grinning face surged hot and fierce.
“Do you,” you rasped, lips trembling, “want to die?”
Phainon blinked. Once. Twice. He only laughed, low and delighted, brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead. "Threats now, love? Right after I've thoroughly worshipped you?" He chuckled again, the sound low and warm against your sweat dampened temple. "A bit late for that."
You shoved weakly at his chest, the movement utterly ineffective against his solid weight. "Get. Off." The words were muffled against the leather armrest where you'd buried your face. Every muscle felt like overcooked noodles, trembling and useless. The cooling mess between your thighs was a sticky, uncomfortable reminder. "Ugh. This is entirely your fault. Disgusting."
Phainon chuckled, a low rumble vibrating against your spine as he obligingly shifted his weight, pulling out slowly. The sudden emptiness was jarring, followed by a fresh wave of sticky warmth trickling down your inner thigh. You groaned, pressing your forehead harder into the leather. "And now I can't even walk. Look at me. Pathetic."
"Pathetic?" His voice was soft, amused. You felt his calloused palms settle gently on your lower back, thumbs pressing into the knots of tension along your spine. His touch was firm, soothing, kneading away the tremors still rippling through your muscles. "You just took me apart, love. Twice. Pretty sure that's the opposite of pathetic." His fingers worked higher, tracing the curve of your shoulder blade. "Besides," he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the nape of your neck, "cleaning up's my job."
You grunted, refusing to lift your face from the cool leather. The scent of sex and sweat hung thick in the air, mingling with the fading sunlight. You heard him shift, the rustle of fabric, then the soft thump of something hitting the floor it was probably his discarded shirt. A damp cloth, blessedly cool, swept gently between your thighs, wiping away the worst of the sticky mess. You sighed despite yourself, the tension leaching out of your shoulders.
"See?" Phainon murmured, his voice low and satisfied. "Told you I'd handle it." His fingers brushed your hipbone as he tossed the cloth aside. Then, you finally turned your head just enough to see him kneeling beside the armchair, utterly bare and looking ridiculously pleased with himself. He leaned in, planting a kiss on your shoulder blade. "Feel better?"
You grunted noncommittally, exhaustion warring with the lingering buzz under your skin. The silence stretched, thick with the scent of sex and the fading gold of the afternoon sun. Then, he shifted, propping his chin on the armrest near your face, his expression softening into something dangerously earnest. "That talk earlier, though..." he began, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. "About... possibilities. Us. Maybe a little chaos running around someday." His thumb traced the curve of your jaw. "Meant every sappy word, sunshine. Even the bit about the eyebrows." He grinned, that stupid, charming grin. "Hope you don't go swallowing any Plan B tomorrow morning. Kinda hoping that took."
“Seriously?”
Your eyes snapped open. You stared at him. Really stared. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of it. Buried deep inside you mere minutes ago, whispering sweet, world-shattering promises, and now? Casually mentioning Plan B? Like he was discussing the weather? After painting that terrifyingly beautiful picture of a shared future?
One glance was all it took. You immediately grabbed a pillow and smacked it on his grinning face. Hard.
NOTES: I'M NOT GOOD AT THIS SHIT. IDK HWO TO WRITE SMUT
Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡
⚠️ Posting might be a little irregular this year (exams + workload are brutal 😭), but everything will get done eventually this October! Thanks for being patient !
Day Prompts & Characters
Day 1 — Phainon · Breeding Kink
Day 2 — Mydei · Dacryphilia (crying kink)
Day 3 — Anaxa · Wax Play
Day 4 — Michael Kaiser · Watersports
Day 5 — Kirinezha · Bondage
Day 6 — Frieren/Himmel · Nipple Play
Day 7 — Choso · Knife Play
Day 8 — Rafayel · Aphrodisiacs
Day 9 — Aventurine · Hair Pulling
Day 10 — Phainon (again 👀) · Just the Tip
Day 11 — Dr. Ratio · Spanking
Day 12 — Jing Yuan · Knotting
Day 13 — Sunday · Exhibitionism
Day 14 — Osamu Dazai · Hate Sex
Day 15 — Ivan/Till · Storage Room Sex
✨ Each fic will be linked here as it’s posted (on Tumblr + Ao3).
(BTW this is my also first time actually participating Kinktober so bear with me! I'm no smut veteran.)
📌 Taglist Info!!
If you’d like to be added to the Kinktober taglist, just drop a comment or DM! I’ll tag you whenever a new fic goes up. 💌
Everything will also be crossposted to AO3 for easier reading + bookmarking.
(banner's from ookami kun wa hanasanai by sakura rico)
ΧΡΟΝΟΣ slips out of your hand. It runs away. Ever-changing, always leaving. ΚΑΙΡΟΣ has those moments, the perfect time. Seize the dime. ΑΙΩΝ aligns as the stars trace lines. As it loops through this infinite divine, when does the thread decline?
𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, the never-ending, always recycling.
CHRONOS. KAIROS. AION.
At rebirth, it was time that brought you back. It was the perfect moment, the start of a new cycle. The new flow. Perfect is not what you will call it, as with just the glance of another, the past and the unseen are revealed. This unwanted power you hold does nothing but upset your dear soul.
But at last! As you met a man, who, for some reason, has been in the past, present, and what is yet to be cast. This is when you seize the time, take hold of it, and bend with mind. CHRONOS, KAIROS, AION, who are you to tamper with my TIME?
PAIRING: PHAINON X READER
WORD COUNT: 15k || 57mins
WARNINGS: 3.4 SPOILERS! , theres greek in the story but there will always be the translation under it! , greek characters indicates that only y/n understands the text. if not, greek transliteration means they all understand it , phainon isnt inroduced in the first 3k words.. sarry.. , hurt/comfort.. kinda..? , self harm , y/n got scary around the end.
NOTES BEFORE YOU READ!
Y/N HAS THE POWER OF TIME. The three Greek gods are seen as her AEON.
NOT REALLY IMPORTANT, but there are two ways to read the synopsis, using the gods' names(their translation is in the paragraph dw) or just time, because their names literally mean time!
𝐈.
BIRTH is the sign of new life, a new cycle, the beginning of time. At birth, that is when a baby cries for the first time, and the smiles on their parents' faces show the joy as they witness their offspring being welcomed into the world.
Your mother always had health problems. Pregnancy was a risk she faced, and she told herself,"Ei to telos mou engizei, deksomai. All’ to teknion mou dei gennēthēnai. Menein autē dei."
"If my end draws near, I will accept. But my little child, it must be BORN. She must STAY."
For a long time, your mother always went beyond Oronyx, one of the Three Titans of Fate, TIME. She believes that in those constellations she sees, when she has those perfect moments, she feels it as it passes by. She can feel their presence, their gazes; she feels them as time passes by. She feels as if there is more out there. More personifications of TIME.
The family saw it as a disgrace, an act of declining the Titan. Your father, too ashamed of his wife's ways, walked out. Slowly, the family distanced themselves from her, but that did not change her ways or how she felt. She did rituals, passing her hand on worn-out furniture, admiring clocks, and wondering “how will time look like in her way?”. She looks out of the window at times, waiting for the natural signs, the sun rising, a thunder clapping. She drew infinity symbols with her finger out of habit. Everything she did was somehow related to time.
Then the TIME came. Her child’s BIRTH.
The day of birth is supposed to be filled with joy. The silence of anticipation fills the room, then the sounds of the first cries take over. The mother, who was previously screaming her lungs out, tired from all the work, will finally see what she had made. Her baby.
For you, it was different.
No family was waiting outside that room for you. Just you and your mother, together alone. The long, agonising pressure, the screaming, the high anticipation, sadly, it was all for nothing.
Your mother's health problem was that she had a weak heart. Not enough oxygen was being delivered to you. Your mother knew that, maybe all those weird habits she had, the things she believed in, maybe she was looking for a way to bring you into the land. Maybe she could've gone back in time from the day she was born, begged for a more functioning heart so she could provide what you needed in her tummy. The love of a mother who has yet to even touch her child. Hers was so strong that when she did not hear the cries of her child as it left her body. She was ready to sacrifice herself.
"To paídi mou prépei na gennitheí, prépei. AION… parakaló…" She simply muttered. The doctors around just heard her cries as a plea to Oronyx. All they heard were the simple words of:
"My child must be born, she has to. TIME… please…"
Your mother's plea did not go unheard, as for the final TIME, she closed her eyes, once and for all.
And your REBIRTH came.
YOU were brought back into this life. On the midnight of a leap year, your first cries were heard.
O AIΩN SE ANAGENNISE.
Time rebirthed you.
𝐈𝐈.
"You were her last gift." Your father always told you.
News got to him of your mother's passing, so as a result, he was the one who took the responsibility to raise you. He may not show it to his child, but deep down, he regrets being a coward. He can't stand the fact that every time he lays his eyes on you, he sees her face.
As he lays you to bed, watch as you drift off into the resting land, he closes his eyes, remembering the times he had with her. Your mother.
He would often ask himself, "Why did you choose to go beyond time?"
That cycle repeated itself. He watches as his daughter grows for four long years, and he is reminded of the past, and regret and sorrow fill his mind.
Then he started something, something he never thought he would. Though in his eyes, it was acceptable as it was only to the Titan. He never went beyond. He began to ask, to beg.
"Oronyx, Titan of Time, how am I supposed to let go of my past?"
Oh, look at him, turning to TIME for his aid. To get rid of his feelings.
ORONYX can only restore forgotten memories; it is unable to help your father with his wish. The sight is laughable, after the passing of his wife, after leaving her alone, only to beg time, beg the same being that was the cause of his departure.
The sight of your father on the ground, begging at the window, muttering prayers to himself. It, for some reason, made you judge him. Your tiny fingers gripped your dress, for four long years of your life, you had always seen him like this.
You didn't know why, back at four years old, why you always looked at him differently. Maybe it was because it did not listen to your worries, to your requests, to you. All he did was beg TIME. He begged ORONYX.
You've always mentioned your dreams to your father. The frequent ones that very vividly give you the signs that are all connected to each other.
You always had a small fear of closing your eyes when it's time to rest. The small whimpers, the gripping of your sheet, and the knitting of your eyebrows. Sadly, your pleas and cries always went unheard. Your father believed that it was all the product of an imaginary four-year-old mind.
Your eyes always followed your father's figure as he left you alone in your room. Alone with your thoughts, eating away as slowly, the feeling of sleep took over your body, entering the dream state.
Normally, when you fall asleep, you don't typically remember what's happening during your sleep. You only remember falling asleep, then waking up. It's just how the brain is; it's processing and storing your memories during the sleep cycle.
What about you exactly?
There's a lot you can feel; it's as if you're conscious, not as in you can feel yourself in your bed sleeping. It's as if.. you feel TIME moving..
The SECONDS. The MINUTES. The HOURS.
You feel it as it passes by. Physically. As if you're in the sea, floating away. It messed with your rest. Too much for a four-year-old to comprehend. It made you grumpy, confused, and upset. No one would listen to your words.
DREAMING. Your dreams, it always added more to your confusion. There was always an old man with a grey beard. A future of someone you've never met before. The present of a being who was miles away from you. It was as if you were feeling, seeing, dreaming TIME.
PERSONIFICATION OF TIME.
ΧΡΟΝΟΣ. 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐒.
You hated feeling confused. You hated sleeping. It felt as if there was something that you didn't know, slowly growing and making itself known in you. You wanted to forget about it.
Because of it, you tried avoiding your father when it was time to rest. Finally, he took notice of you, but it did not help.
"Child, why are you not asleep?"
He always asked. Glancing at you with zero interest. You were miserable at this point. Your father made you this way, and that sickening feeling whenever you sleep. It all piled up on the poor child.
With the negative aura surrounding you, curled up in your bed, a feeling came over.
IT WAS TIME.
The feeling was strong; it caused you to jerk up, to gasp. The moonlight hit your face, kissing each and every feature. Your eyes slowly made their way towards it, focusing and admiring the stars.
You had the feeling to go outside, feel the moonlight, and get closer to the stars. You knew at around this TIME, your father was asleep.
So you left your bed, made your way out of the house, and finally, for the first time in a while, your feet touched the field of grass. The wind blew through your hair, calming your miserable mind. For the first time, you felt something new; you weren't upset or sad. You were relaxed.
You tilted your head, admiring the stars around you until that same feeling from before took over yet again.
You felt it all around, in your nerves, in the ground below you, in the sky above you. Everything started to feel numb, and all you could do was focus on the stars. Only the stars.. only they stayed in your mind.
Your mind screamed at you, "Find something!" A pattern, a connection.
Without realizing it, your eyes moved on their own, darting around at the different stars, forming a picture in your mind. Your face lit up slightly! You found something! The stars formed a picture!
"Fishes..?" Your soft voice muttered. You tilted your head in thought.
Fishes, twin fishes, locked in a spiral..
Gasp!
"Pisces..!" You giggled out, eyes softening at the sight. You saw the twin fishes, locked in a forever cycle. But that wasn't enough to get this feeling off.
You pout, squinting at the stars, demanding more info. But you were a smart child, you knew a bit more about the stars than the people around you. You muttered out every piece of information you had about Pisces, trying to piece it together.
"Stars.. Planet.."
The sound of Plant rolling off your tongue sparked a lightblub in your mind:
"Neptune!.. Plant of Dreams!'
DREAMING. Your dreams, it always added more to your confusion.
The feeling got stronger, your head pounded, your lungs begged for air, and you were gasping like crazy. What was happening? You need help! You tried moving, but nothing worked. You were stuck. You need help! Your ears rang, you couldn't think straight. What was happening? You want help!
You wanted it all to stop! Go back when you were admiring the stars! TIME needs to stop! Stop messing with your senses!
STOP! GO BACK!
THE ETERNAL
ΑΙΩΝ. 𝐀𝐈𝐎𝐍.
With one last gasp, it all stopped. Everything felt as if it had restarted. Your chest heaved with haste, eyes darting in each direction then you noticed something.
The wind stopped, the crickets stopped. You looked at the grass below and noticed that it was all frozen in ΧΡΟΝΟΣ.
You knitted your eyebrows, looking up at the sky, and saw that the clouds stopped but the stars; they still twinkled. ΑΙΩΝ didn't stop for them.
You tried to make sense of this, tried to make sense of TIME. But when you extended your hand up towards the sky, then muttered something, something that not only you could comprehend right now.
"ORONYX?.. Or more? ΧΡΟΝΟΣ? ΑΙΩΝ?"
"TIME?.. Or more? TIME? TIME?"
As those five words left your mouth, you felt as if someone was looking upon you. From the left, the right, above, and below. Your hand fell, and as for the last time you blinked, you physically dropped to the ground, DREAMING.
Spiritually? You were faced with TIME.
𝐈𝐈𝐈.
As your eyes opened, you looked around and saw stars in each and every direction. You had no idea where you were, feeling a bit lost and confused, but then a booming voice caught your attention.
"Esý, paidí mou, den eísai ópos oi álloi· o chrónos rheí mesa sou."
The words came from above, and then you noticed the large beings looking down at you. One held a scythe and an hourglass, his long, white, thick beard revealing his ancient appearance, while the other looked more youthful and stood within a circle that represented the zodiac.
The words that were spoken finally settled in your mind, comprehending them.
"You, my child, are not like the others; time flows within you."
With a slight look of confusion taking over your face, you pointed at yourself, tilting your head a bit, and simply let out a small "me?"
The beings showed no reaction; they stood their ground, no movement besides their mouths, explaining everything to you. It made you feel little, as if you weren't already..
❛GIA TON ANASA TIS ZOIS SOU, I FONI TIS MITERAS SOU EKALÉSE STON KOSMO MAS.❜
"For the breath of your life, your mother's voice called out to our realm."
❛ME TIN IKESÍA TIS, PROSFÉRAME KAI YFAÍNAME MESA SOU TO NÍMA TOU THEÍOU DÓROU MAS.❜
"In her plea, we offered and wove into you the thread of our divine gift."
❛MIA GNÓSI TON TRION KATASTÁSEON TOU CHRÓNOU, VATHÝTERI KAI ÁPEIRI APO TON ORONYX TON IDIO.❜
"A knowing of the three states of TIME, one deeper and boundless than ORONYX itself."
Everything hit you like speeding light. It was too much to believe at once; being a four-year-old as well doesn't help. But the Gods knew that. They waited for you to digest all that you could and to ask the questions they foresaw, already having an answer prepared.
Meekly, you open your mouth after analyzing the beings in front of you, and a question pops into your head.
"Three states of time? But there are only two of you.."
❛SOU DEN ECHETE AKOMI ANAGNŌRĪSEI TĒN TRITĒN KATASTASĒN TOU CHRONOU,
"You have yet to acknowledge the third state of time,
OMŌS EGŌ, H PROSŌPOPOIĒSĪ TOU CHRONOU, ECHO PROORISEI TĒN ŌRAN HOTE THA TO PRAXETE.
yet I, the personification of time, have forseen the hour when you shall.
KAI EAN KĒTA BRISKETAI LIGA ETĒ MPRŌSTA, ALLA, ŌS OPHILEI KATHE STIGMĒ, PERIMENEI TĒN SEIRA TĒS GIA NA APOTYPŌTHĒ.❜
Though it lies a few years ahead, but as all moments must, it is waiting for its turn to unfold."
You did not respond, but full attention was indeed set on them. The Gods did not want to keep you there for so long, so they ended it with one task for you:
"Prepei na zētēseis to palaiō spīti tēs mētēras sou, kathōs osa apanta pou zēteīs briskontai entos autou."
"You must search for your mother's old house, as for all the answers you seek lies within it."
Your mother, the woman you couldn't meet, couldn't feel, couldn't reach out to.
But as those words left their lips, with one blink, there you were, back in the mortal land, back rested against the grass that was now moving in the wind. You were faced with the stars again, but with a different feeling this time.
One with a little bit of understanding.
𝐈.
It has been thirteen long years ever since your first meeting with TIME.
After that night, your powers were known. You had the idea of it. Your powers were within your consciousness; they manifested at times you didn't want them to. It was as if a faucet was on at all times, always running.
In the results, those years growing up were filled with pain, loneliness, and the feeling of being lost. You alone had seen things nobody could. At every family gathering, just the brush of the fingertips, you saw their past and their future. And most importantly, how they die.
You did not know how to control it, how to turn off this power. So you thought that maybe you could use it to your advantage. If this power gave you the unwanted, the headaches, the pain, maybe something positive can be your outcome.
You first told your father his future, how he was going to die. Of course, he did not believe you; he got angry.
"What nonsense are you spewing, child?"
He forbade you from bringing up that topic. In his words, you were turning into her. Your mother.
"IT'S ONLY TIME I BELIEVE, NOT BEYOND IT. YOU CANNOT SEE MY FUTURE, ONLY TIME CAN."
He only believes in ORONYX.
It was sickening you. His blindness. But not only did you enraged your father, but also TIME.
ΧΡΟΝΟΣ. CHRONOS.
was enraged.
He saw it as you trying to bend time, bend the future, ruin the flow. As a result, he gave you a warning.
"MĒN TOLMĒS NA DIATARAXEIS TĒN RHOĒN TOU CHRONOU"
"DO NOT DARE DISTURB THE FLOW OF TIME."
Those warnings and responses told you something. There was no one here who understood what you were going through. Your family judged you, you were the result of a madden woman. You kept to yourself at all times when headaches grew larger, because of that, they saw you as dead weight.
But there was one person who would understand what you're going through. Her TIME may be up, but there were remnants of her past. Just like TIME told you:
"You must search for your mother's old house, as for all the answers you seek lies within it."
THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT
ΚΑΙΡΟΣ. 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐒.
So you did. That night was the last night you ever saw your family. That was the night your father lost the small piece that his wife had left behind.
You had no clue where her home was located, but your feet just took you along the path. But we all know that TIME has its ways. Days had passed, weeks had formed, but finally, you were greeted with the old, abandoned home.
You were with the small remnants of your mother. When you finally stepped foot inside, it was like a warm hug. Everything that was raging inside of you, the manifested power. It felt as if she covered your ears. You were at peace in this place.
As your eyes scanned the house, you slowly walked around, remembering every crack. TIME obviously took over the house, the broken walls, floors, windows, and the overgrown plants. But TIME did not touch her room, where all her notes were laid out all over, waiting for you.
Your face had lit up when your eyes landed on the papers, millions, scattered all over the room. You were sure to understand what power you hold in this place.
As you went through each paper, mountains and piles of them. You gain an understanding of what you hold in your hand. You have the ability to manipulate the time that flows within everything.
Your mother earned the gaze of all FOUR states of time. She was granted access from ORONYX to go beyond, and beyond she went. But there was a twist in the access ORONYX gave her. Everyone will deem her as an outcast, the weird, the odd one out. As not everyone has the understanding of TIME like SHE does.
But your mother did not care; she already knew what would've happened to her child. She knew that she would not get the chance to hold her child, as she knew that in order for her child to be brought into this world, she had to exchange her breath for yours.
"Ei to telos mou engizei, deksomai. All’ to teknion mou dei gennēthēnai. Menein autē dei."
"If my end draws near, I will accept. But my little child, it must be BORN. She must STAY."
In these papers, you found out that there was a way to control this power, but it was hidden within your mother's actions and your knowledge.
You must spend TIME with yourself, repeat that CYCLE until the perfect MOMENT.
Though the more you stared at those words, the less sense they made. But that only meant that there was more to uncover. So you spent every passing hour looking for more clues, but you slowly realized that it was not here.
If not here, then where? You knew that your mother was the only person to answer your questions. So if she's not here, what can you do?
Wait.
You stopped in your movements, replaying your thoughts. If she's not here now, then you can go back to when she WAS here.. That's not interfering with the current flow of time, is it?
The only way you knew how to use your power was to touch a person, and you got their past, present, and future. But how can you do that if your mother isn't here?
You sighed into your hands, thought long and hard on what to do. What is the closest thing to your mother? Your father left her, and the family walked out. You could not ask them. Right now, it felt as if it were yourself. But how can you connect to her through you? What did she give you that you can use?
Her final breath..
So with that thought in your mind, you did something silly.
Think about it. Think about TIME. Remember the times it manifested when you did not want it to, when it was always in your consciousness.
You closed your eyes, feeling as if time stopped, and held your breath as you rested your palms over your lungs. You saw it.
You must spend TIME with yourself.
You saw the way your family left her, every one of them walking out and turning their backs on her. She was alone. She was with TIME, with HERSELF.
repeat that CYCLE
You saw how she always did those rituals, admiring the works of TIME. She always repeated it. She repeated the CYCLE.
until the perfect MOMENT.
Her perfect moment was your BIRTH.
You then realized that your mother did not had the power to manipulate time. She had an understanding of it. She had the full understanding of what joy it brought, but also the death and ending it carries.
As you opened your eyes, you began to wonder, if her perfect moment was you, what is your perfect moment? You can do the first two, but not the last.
It was always ΚΑΙΡΟΣ to give you the most problems. You sighed, rubbing your temple as a headache was forming. This was too much.
It was too much to take in right now, and as a result, you fainted on the spot, surrounded by the worn-out papers. What you didn't know is that it was TIME taking you again. Not to SPEAK but to SHOW.
Your future. Your PERFECT moment.
𝐈𝐈.
Many suns have passed since that day; today marks the third year since you last saw your family.
You found comfort in your mother's old house, where you removed what time had taken from it and made it yours. It was no longer abandoned, but now this was the home you spent all of your time in.
There wasn't a moment when you weren't alone with time; it was all you ever did, only leaving the house when you needed to restock on your needs to live.
In those three years, your control over your power has strengthened, but you have yet to test its true strength, as you've always been by yourself all the time.
Talking about yourself, you sighed as your eyes scanned the kitchen, not a meal in sight.
It was one of those early mornings where you have to reschedule and replan the day, all because you have to do some timely shopping.
With one last look into the fridge, you finally made your way out of the room and slowly got ready for the day, dreading the day that awaited you.
As the front door opened and your shoes made contact with the ground below it, the sun decided to take over your frame, blinding you and warming up your skin.
Out of instinct, your hand flew up to shield your eyes from the light, groaning out of discomfort and hunger, but to get rid of it, you first need to resume your trip to the market!
It wasn't a long trip; the house was maybe a ten-minute walk from the market, not like you voluntarily counted, it just stuck with you as it was the only thing that entertained you on the walk. Imagining the minutes passing by with each step.
Though maybe you always had time in your mind as you walked, but the scenery always added to your rare moments out of the house. Ohkema's view always made the smile creep up when you didn't ask for one.
As your eyes scanned around, taking in the scene, the market came into your view, causing a sigh to leave your lips.
'Finally..' you thought to yourself as you got to work, filling the bag that you brought with different gifts that agriculture had kindly given us, the people, those around you who are familiar with you. Not in the way you're familiar with others, you've made the reputation of only leaving your place of comfort once in a blue moon. They all know where you come from, and where you go back, that one path they always see you come from.
They don't know when, but it was a rare sight for regulars to see your face outside. Not like anyone interacts with you, all they do is just stare.
They stare at the way you analyze the fruits, how you pack them, or when you actually share a few words with the vendors, asking if they have what you wanted.
It always caused a groan to escape from you. Their stares never got to you, but maybe it will be decent manners for them to not stare all the time.
Looking up from the fruit in your hand, you made eye contact with the vendor in front of you, opening your mouth to ask a question, but failed to do so when you got shoved aside, causing you to fall to the ground.
The impact knocked the air out of you, but not only that, but the strange, overpowering headache took over you as you wailed out in pain.
The sudden noise of discomfort shocked everyone around as concerned looks were passed around and murmurs rose.
The headache felt familiar, back when you couldn't control your powers. You told yourself that you had yet to test them out, to not try it, but the surprising shock was maybe the cause of it activating.
But this time, you had no clue what you were witnessing, you couldn't count how many times you've seen the same future, same past, same present in this person's life. Whoever bumped into you, they had too much for your mind to comprehend as the headache grew louder, fingers gripping your head as your vision blurred with tears. You wanted help, but no one could.
From the people around you, the one who bumped into you panicked as he saw blood slowly dripping down from your nose and ears. He dropped to his knees as his arms gripped your body, pulling it closer to his to check for any injuries.
He did not think one accidental shove had so much impact. He felt as you went limp in his arms, panic rising even more. Thankfully, the people around knew where your home was, and as you were already in his arms, he picked up your bag filled with everything and anything and made his way towards your home, ignoring the stares and his surroundings.
“HO RYSEŌN HESTĒKEN EMPROS THEN SOU. PERIPATEI PROSECHŌS, HOTI HO CHRONOS AUTOU OUPŌ TETELESTAI.”
"THE DELIVERER STANDS BEFORE YOU. TREAD CAREFULLY, FOR HIS TIME IS NOT YET COMPLETED."
As you opened your eyes, you were greeted with the sight of your bedroom. The headache from before had left your mind, and now that filled it was the 33,550,335 cycles you had witnessed in your dream, all looping the same beginning and ending, yet the in between always differed.
You sat up on the bed, touching your face, and found a few pieces of dried-up blood. You sighed, embarrassment taking over as you imagined how odd you looked in front of everyone at the market today.
You got up from your bed and made your way out, wondering who the kind stranger was that brought you back into your home, but soon got the answer as you opened the door and were greeted by the same man from the dream you had.
A gasp left your mouth. You've dreamed of this man once before; it was more vivid than the one you had today. Back when you first learned about your powers in this same house, you dreamed of him.
"It's you.." You muttered to yourself, yet he did not hear it. As in response, you got a million credits worth of excuses.
Your ears picked up on his words, every sorry he offered, how much he wanted to repay you for what he caused. But your eyes watched how his silver-white hair swayed with every movement he made, how his eyebrows knitted, showing the worry he had for you.
You watched as the man named Phainon, The Nameless Hero, The Deliverer, entered and changed your life, for the better, which is what you wanted to claim.
But you knew that somewhere in your future, there would come a time when you would forever change his life. For the better.
Blinking the odd thoughts away, your eyes wandered to his hands, watching as they followed with every troubled move he made. You simply rest yours on top of his, finally silencing him.
"It is okay, I am alright." You told him.
He stared at you, not yet satisfied with the situation.
"Alright? You started to bleed! I shouldn't have bumped into you, I'm really sorry-"
"I am not bleeding now, I am alright. I.. promise."
Phainon stopped talking for a bit, staring back at you and taking you in. He noticed the way you spoke, how simple it was, as if it were your first time conversing with another. It felt as if you didn't know how to speak. Appearance-wise, he hates to admit it, but you did in fact look fine, minus the dried-up blood he did not get to remove from your face.
He saw how you awkwardly removed your hands from his and broke eye contact.
"Can I make it up to you somehow?" He asked.
"I don't know.." You muttered. This was the longest conversation you've had in your full twenty years of living; you had no clue how to deal with this.
Thankfully, as positive as Phainon was, he noticed your confusion and a small smile rested on his face.
"How about I take you out tomorrow just for the day?"
"No can do."
"WHAT?!"
The sudden loud response shocked you as you stared up at him, fear creeping up. You knew what you wanted to say but did not know if you delivered it correctly.
"Sorry, um.. I am really busy every day. I cannot go out." You explained, looking down at the ground, embarrassment causing your cheeks to warm.
You heard a sigh and then followed with a chuckle.
"You really don't know how to navigate with your words, huh?"
With that, you saw as his boots left your eye sight, making you look up and found him making his way towards your front door.
He took one last look at you and with a smile he told you:
"I'll come by tomorrow and we can have breakfast together, that way you'll have time to yourself!"
Then he left, leaving you no say in anything. Not only that, but a weird feeling in your chest grew; you wanted more.
You want this feeling you have no knowledge of to stay, but it soon disappears as you realize that Phainon is gone and not entering back into your safe space.
But then his words sank in and the feeling exploded.
He's coming back! You can talk to him again and maybe find new feelings or maybe ask him about the one you're feeling currently.
A smile crept up, for the first time, it's not because of Ohkema's scenery, but from excitement.
And with this excitement in mind, you thought of his cycles and how it reminded you of something you got familiar with as you were alone with time.
With the world you both currently live in. Amphoreus.
It wasn't a topic you focused on but that dream you had concerning Phainon, some things in it felt as if you can connect it to the small knowledge you have on this land.
Maybe tonight you can learn more on Amphoreus, try connecting them to what odd dream you've had, why did Phainon had so many past, present and future?
You sighed, the feeling dying down, but it was still present. But now you've had a new goal in mind, and it all circled around and came back to him.
With the smile still present, you made your way into the kitchen, food on your mind, along with curiosity.
The morning was now in the past, as it had been hours since then. You spent most of the day with yourself and time, counting it as you waited for night to fall.
At last, it had arrived, and you were now in the norm, sitting on your bed, by yourself in peace, taking in time as it flowed through you. You imagine it rewinding, going back in time from beyond your rebirth.
As you blinked, you were in darkness. You looked around, trying to find something familiar, something that would give you a clue or hint to where you are currently.
Suddenly, the scent of smoke entered your senses, and then soon a war was vividly seen. "A war..?" You muttered. You looked around more, taking in the scene you were greeted with, and then it finally hit you when you saw a familiar figure.
For the past three years, with the focus on time, you've also learnt about the history of this galaxy you live in.
So when your eyes landed on one of the known members of the Genius Society, Rubert I, the war you were seeing right now makes sense.
It was the first Mechanical Emperor's War, as you witnessed the assembled army of intelligent robots, spreading the Anti-Organic Equation throughout the universe with the goal in mind of eradicating organic life.
You mentally changed time, thinking of the second Mechanical Emperor's War, initiated by Rubert II, the human who is said to have inherited the memories of the computer, Rubert I.
After solving the Anti-Organic Equation, Rubert II aimed to finish what Rubert I started. Eradicate all organic life from the cosmos.
You watched how these two wars led to the creation of a supercomputer called δ-me13 (delta me13). The name sparked a lightbulb in your mind.
This supercomputer was originally designed to mimic NOUS, the Aeon of Erudition. But as it wasn't in your field of interest, you did not focus on this supercomputer in your lone moments with time, yet it is here, an open opportunity to learn more about this computer, did it truly mimic NOUS?
Sadly, as you watched the series of events play out in front of you, your question was answered as you witnessed the first member of the Genius Society tamper with it.
Your confusion from the action grew. Why did he do that? You knew that the first member of the Genius Society was the creator of NOUS, so why did he tamper with the computer?
You watched as Zandar One Kuwabara— no..
You stared more at the figure, he looked.. robot-like? He changed the core from Erudition to Destruction. But this figure sparked your interest. Who is this?
According to TIME, it is the first member of the Genius Society, but Zandar One Kuwabara is not the person you're seeing.
But as a wielder of time, you used it to your advantage and focused more on Zandar. That was when you realized that Zandar, when his organic life neared its ending, digitized his consciousness and spread it over nine bodies. One of those bodies was the robot-like being you saw, bearing the name Lygus.
You also learnt that Zandar had a belief that no life form in this universe should be bound to a future predetermined by the Aeons. His creation was so perfect, he felt the need to stop THEM.
LYGUS continued ZANDAR'S will, which is why you saw the tampering.
A gasp left your mouth as your eyes rested upon THE AEON OF DESTRUCTION, Nanook. Your eyes then grew in size as you witnessed how δ-me13 (delta me13) earned THEIR gaze, ascending this supercomputer into a lord ravenger, now called IRONTOMB.
With the change, Irontomb goal is to now prove how all living things, NO MATTER how it begins, WILL ALWAYS end in DESTRUCTION, thus creating your homeland you know and love,
AMPHOREUS.
"What..?" You muttered, eyebrows creasing in confusion. You couldn't believe what you were seeing, what your pure eyes had witnessed.
A supercomputer, tampered with, ascended, purpose linked with destruction, made YOUR home? You were.. confused, and your head began to pound, signals that your limit was nearing.
You wanted more, to learn more about this new knowledge you've unlocked, but your signs grew as the pain became unbearable, and soon your vision blurred, time changed, and the last think you made out was the familiar walls of your room as you passed out on your bed, dreaming and creating theories about what you've learnt. Not only that, but the familiar flow of time passing through you calmed your emotions.
Soon, with your knowledge of the time, morning had near, along with your breakfast with Phainon.
And so, as the next time you opened your eyes, the sun was the first thing to have greeted you. You rose from your bed, holding your head as the thoughts never left. But one thing you remembered, the feeling from yesterday all became known as you realized that it was around the time Phainon would visit! With that thought in mind, you got out of your bed and got ready for the day waiting ahead.
Your feet got comfortable with the cold flooring as you made your way around the house. bathing, brushing your teeth, then finally entering the kitchen, wondering what you should make.
The train of thought was then stopped as the sound of knocking was heard, causing you to react by turning your head in the direction of the sound. Out of the window near you, your eyes made out quite a familiar figure.
'He's here already?'
You made your way towards the front door and were greeted with that bright smile of his. You scanned him, taking in his frame and the bag he held in his hand.
"What is that?" You asked, causing him to chuckle in response.
With the bag in hand, he moved it up and began to explain.
"It's some items I bought, I wanna help with breakfast," he smiled.
You tilted your head in confusion. You vaguely remembered your family coming over to help cook only on special days when you were younger. Why is he offering if it's a normal morning?
"Why? Is there a special reason for your actions?"
"No? I made the plan, so I want to help, y'know, normal act of kindness."
He awkwardly shifted as he noticed you were still slowly processing his words. He sighed as he realized you have yet to learn the simplicity of like.. life in general. His mind then wanders, thinking about how you were raised.
But that was then cut short when he heard the movements of your body moving inside, inviting him in.
"Alright then, come in and we can get started."
With your invitation, Phainon gladly made his way into your home and found his way into your kitchen, you slowly following behind. You watched him as he placed the bags on your counter, and with a big smile, he turned to face you, catching you off guard.
"What is it?" You asked, stopping in your tracks.
"I remembered what you bought yesterday, so I will gladly share the meal I have in mind." He explained, stealing his last glance before his hands entered the bag, taking out the items.
"And that meal is?" You asked, walking up beside him.
You watched as he pulled out Greek yogurt, a few nuts, and some berries. He then rolled out some oranges and turned to face you.
"Do you have any flour?"
In response, you shook your head no, which made him frown. You watched as he sighed, then asked for permission to go through your fridge.
You did not like how sad he looked, so you thought of a solution.
"I have wheat growing in the back, and a wheat grinder.." You muttered.
You heard a gasp, and with force, he turned and faced you with a bright smile.
"Let's go! I've never manually made flour before. How long will it take?" He spoke all while making his way out of the house, through the front door.
"Phai..non, it is this way." With that, it was followed by a chuckle from the man as he followed you out from the back door.
"Converting wheat to flour doesn't take that long, I can show you-"
"Yeah, then I'll do all the work!"
His positivity confuses you; you are just a mere stranger he accidentally bumped into yesterday, yet he's here like a ball of sunshine.
But you don't really hate it, as the feeling came back.
You stole a glance at him, looking back, and were only able to catch his bright smile as he followed you closely.
Finally, you both made it to the small patch of wheat near a table with a wheat grinder.
Before you got a word in, you noticed movements behind you and witnessed the 6'4ft man begin to undress.
"What are you doing..?" You muttered, accidentally stumbling in your words as confusion took over.
All he gave was an innocent smile as he took off his coat and placed it on the wooden chair nearby. There he stood in a black top, hands on his hips as he simply said:
"It would've gotten in the way, so I took off!"
"Okay.." You muttered as you felt your cheeks burn up, witnessing his body in all its glory.
He walked up towards the wheat and then turned to face you, waiting for your guidance.
His eyes followed you as you made your way towards the table and picked up a bag that rested on it, then walked towards him.
As your hand made its way onto the head of the wheat, you gave him one instruction.
"Don't pull it from the base, just get the grains." And with that being said, he watched you pick the grains from the head of the wheat and place them in the bag.
With a nod, he followed your actions but instead gave you the grains as you placed them in the bag.
"Why not pull them out?" He asked.
"Because it's a small batch.."
He stopped for a bit, but you visibly saw the light bulb going off in his head.
"That's smart!" He exclaimed, causing you to nod at his words.
Soon, you both had enough grains, and you were now making your way towards the wheat grinder.
"Wait! Can I do this one? Please?" He begged, tilting his head as he stared at you with puppy eyes.
It caught you off guard, so with an awkward shift in your emotion, you shyly gave him the bag as he gladly took it and dumped the grains into the grinder.
"Do I just turn this wheel?"
"Yes."
And as you closely stood by him, you both were in the process of making flour.
"I hope this won't take much longer than I anticipated." He muttered, glancing at you.
"Why?" You asked as you frowned upon his words. You didn't want him to leave, not yet.
But your frown surprised him.
"You said you're busy, so I don't want to take too much of your time."
Oh, you did in fact say that..
You looked away, slightly embarrassed by your forgetfulness, so caught up in this new feeling, you failed to forget your main purpose.
"It is okay if this takes longer than you anticipated. I do not mind."
Your words made his shoulders sink as a calming smile formed.
"That's comforting, let's take our time, maybe get to know each other. Like our names! Yours?"
"You.. don't know my name?"
"I don't recall us exchanging them! But you did call out to me earlier.. so maybe we did.." Slowly, his words got quieter the longer he spoke.
The only reason you knew his name was from his cycles, hearing his friends call out to him; you knew almost everything about the man standing in front of you. The first one you've ever spoken to on your own.
You forgot the common stages of human introduction.
With a small, innocent smile, you told him a small lie.
"I heard it yesterday before I passed out."
He shared a look with you, innocence masking both of you; he knew you were lying, as no one called out to him, but you continued.
"You're a Crysos Heir, are you not?"
"Oh, I am, you got me there," he chuckled.
He focused back on the grains as silence took over, that is, until you introduced yourself.
"My name is Y/N, by the way. I live alone and I don't really leave the house. Sorry if I've been weird."
The last sentence caught his attention, giving you a frown.
"You're not weird! Just interesting. You're doing just fine, Y/N."
Your eyes grow in size as you hear the way your name sounded rolling off his tongue. You really wanted him to say it just again, one more time..
The moment soon passed by as the last bit of grain was ground, and you took the bowl and made your way inside, him following behind.
"I will finish up with the flour. What are we going to make?" You started.
"Well, normally I make Greek yogurt with some nuts and berries, but I decided that we should bake some bread and add some kind of protein with it." He explained, causing you to nod.
"There are some eggs and meat in the fridge; you have my permission to use the stove."
And with that, you turned away, finishing up with the flour, and got the extra ingredients to make the dough for the bread.
As you both diligently work, Phainon stole glances. He did not lie when he said he found you interesting. When you confessed that you don't leave the house, it confirmed his thoughts, followed by your speech style. He found it a bit laughable that you don't interact with others. Not laughable as in making fun, but in a way that pulled him in. He wanted to learn more, see how you will slowly learn the norms.
He was currently cutting the nuts and some fruits you bought yesterday, then took a long-lasting look at you, finally wondering and asking himself, Why?
Why did you stay in? He watched how you made the dough with haste; it made sense. You had to fend for yourself if you were always alone.
He then went back to the fruits, placing them in a plate, and got two bowls, finally working on the yogurt.
The rest of the cooking was filled with a comforting silence. When it was time to bake the bread, Phainon was happily there, helping. Then, when it was time to take it out, there he stood, making sure you did not burn yourself.
Finally, all that was needed to be done was to juice the oranges, then dig in!
You set the table, placing the meals down as Phainon brought the jug of juice and two glasses.
Now the only thing left to do was to eat.
Phainon sat on the other side of the table, directly in front of you. He poured out the juice in your glass, sliding it to you, then finally placed the piece of bread in his mouth.
His face lit up as soon as the food made contact with his taste buds.
"It's really yummy! You should start eating!" He exclaimed, mouth filled with breakfast.
You nodded, copying him by filling your mouth with breakfast, satisfying the hunger that was bubbling inside you.
This was the first time in forever having breakfast with someone, it made your chest tingle, a feeling still new to you.
You were so in the zone of eating, the sudden noise of his voice caught you off guard.
"What are you going to do after this?" He asked.
You blinked at his words. You can't really tell him you're going to have lone moments with time now, can you..?
"..Meditate."
"Meditate?"
You nodded. Now it was his turn to blink at your words. You did not like the staring, so you thought of switching the attention to him.
"You?" You asked.
"Oh, I have a mission, but it's later in the day. I'll probably meet up with Mydei first.." He muttered the last part, yet you still heard.
"Mydei..?" You asked softly.
"Yep, he's one of my friends, he's quite stubborn though!"
He continued to ramble about Mydei, but it all blurred in your mind. You didn't know how warm it feels to always be out and about, with people, living life.
You glanced down at your plate, realizing that this would be the last time you would feel this feeling you have deep down.
You frown, eyebrows furrowed as you told yourself, your job is to control your powers, find the final piece. You have no time for this feeling.
You tried to shove it away, but the way he called out to you, saying your name, broke you out of your moment; his eyes filled with worry as he apologized for getting off track.
That feeling came back as his blue eyes softened, giving you a reassuring look, and he offered those magical words.
"Next time, why don't we plan an outing when you're not busy?"
You gripped the table, feeling your heart quicken and the smile growing. Without you knowing, you had already answered.
"We can, please.."
.
.
.
You were again left with your thoughts, with time, as Phainon had already left a few minutes ago. Breakfast had continued in small talk, he offered to help with the dishes, leaving you with no words as you sat by the table, watching his back as he cleaned the kitchen, watching how he got his coat and made his way towards the front door, watching how his mouth moved, saying your name one last time.
"See you next time, Y/N!"
That feeling came back when he left. The feeling of emptiness. You sighed, getting up from the table, accepting the returning silence in the house, and made your way back into your bedroom. Back to the norm.
"Please.."
It played in his mind over and over ever since he left your home. It bugged him the whole day, it messed him up during his mission, Mydei saved him a few times, and he was then given his classic words of criticism.
But as night fell, he was yet to head to bed. He was up thinking, planning ahead for the future, the multiple days he would show up at your home. So he won't have to hear you beg like that again. He didn't like it; it made his chest hurt.
If he had to take away some of your personal time, so be it. He will be there to cheer you up, make you open up, and make you earn your first friend.
.
.
.
AMPHOREUS WAS DESIGNED TO MIMIC REAL LIFE.
The Titans acted as stand-ins for Aeons.
The Chrysos Heirs were the HEROS.
Heroes that were given special, powerful items that go by the name "Coreflames".
In this simulation, you are required to collect these Coreflames in order for IRONTOMB to advance. These simulations have a reason for repeating themselves from the beginning, only with slight changes, to see if there was any way, any version of life that could avoid destruction. Sadly, it all ended in one result: failure. Every simulation, every cycle had all ended in destruction.
It aided in IRONTOMB's goal, helping it move closer to its ultimate objective, the final answer it seeks.
But if IRONTOMB reaches its goal, not only will the planet go down, but the rules of reality, corrupting the logic that holds the universe. In all of this, two names came up. The two who knew what was going on in their world, how it was all a trap, a simulation that feeds into IRONTOMB's goal.
PHAINON and ██████
.
.
.
It has been a few days since you last saw Phainon. In those few days, your mind did not stop running, solely thinking about him and what you've learnt.
He knows about everything, what you are slowly learning. But there was another name, one you are not aware of. There was a feeling inside of you, eating away. You wanted to share this knowledge, get closer to him, but won't he deem you weird?
You always ended up in self-doubt whenever you thought of him, and today, you didn't feel like eating the normal breakfast you always eat. You wanted that same warm filling meal you made with him, to get that warm feeling in your chest, the one that comforted you without you knowing.
So with a deep breath and bag in hand, you left the house to go buy what you needed: Greek yogurt, berries, and nuts.
The walk was calming; it always had been. Yet a new feeling deep down started to grow, the feeling of bumping into him. Bumping into Phainon by accident.
Instead, you were greeted with a few drops of rain as soon as you set foot into the market. Slowly acknowledging it, the downpour came, soaking everyone in it.
Complaints were heard in every direction as they all ran for shelter. You sighed, thinking about how much easier it would've been if you had just stayed home to avoid all this.
But a gentle hand on your shoulder caught your attention, causing you to look back and make eye contact with a wet Phainon.
"It's very rare to see you out and about, isn't it?" He joked.
Your eyes lit up as soon as you saw him. He noticed how your mood shifted, how your face lit up with happiness.
Something felt different in you, the way you were hoping for his arrival, without your knowledge, he came. You watched how his silver-white hair stuck to his face, how much you had to tilt your head up to fully view him. The way his chest moved with every breath he took.
He singled you out in the crowd, which brought a genuine smile to your face. One he first handily witnessed. It brought one to his face as his hand slid down your shoulder, falling into yours.
"Why are you out? Didn't you already do your shopping?" He asked, dragging you to some place dry. Not that it mattered to you, that feeling you wanted, it was back.
You muttered to him, telling him how much you liked the breakfast you both worked so hard on. You heard him chuckle, talking about how much he loved it as well, been planning on visiting you and much more.
But as his words entered one ear, they left the other as your focus was targeted on his arm, intertwined with his, leading you.
It may have been cold from the rain, but you felt warm. His hand felt warm in yours.
"Your door is unlocked?"
"Huh?"
You realized that he had walked you both back to your house. Your eyes landed on his hand, holding the door open, then looked up at him as he gave you a confused look.
"I probably forgot.." You mumbled.
He sighed.
"Don't tell me I have to check up on you daily.." He joked.
"You will?"
Your question caused him to stop in his tracks, glancing at you for a bit.
"I won't mind."
He simply said as he walked in, dragging you along.
As you both made it inside, the floor underneath began to get covered in water.
"Oh oops-"
"It's alright, I will get us some towels." You said as you let go of his hand and walked in more, stopping in your tracks to face him.
"You can get comfortable, or warm.. I won't take long."
And with that, you left. You left him with one thought.
You're opening up to him. He smiled at it.
"Even her speech is improving." He muttered, removing his boots and coat, leaving them in the wet pile near the front door, and made his way into your kitchen, finding some ingredients to make something hot to warm you both up.
You, on the other hand, made your way into your laundry room, collecting clean towels for both of you, until your eyes landed on some old pictures that were there before you moved in.
You assumed it was your mother's, as she had sketches all over, faces you only found in the future. The only explanation you had was that those were the faces she saw when she foresaw the future, maybe important faces she wanted to keep around.
Your eyes analyzed the paper in front of you. There was a young boy next to a girl. It seemed familiar to you, like you knew one of them, maybe heard their names.
You picked up the paper and noticed that there was writing on the back. It made your heart race, causing you to drop the towels.
"Phainon and Cyrene.
Cyrene sacrificed herself so that the simulation resets just before IRONTOMB can finish their calculations.
Phainon relives these cycles, but I can't make an estimated guess. It's too much to count."
She knew about Phainon? All those you saw, were Phainon reliving his life?
Your head hurt, your powers activated without thought. You saw it. Your breath quickens, and your hand flew to your head, gripping it in pain.
You saw Phainon absorbing these Coreflames, hoping to face NANOOK. The tears fell as you witnessed him absorb all 402,604,032 Coreflames, all that rage, anger, what you saw didn't even look like the Phainon you have right now, all to just scratch the Aeon. It was indeed inhuman; he did the unthinkable. He, a mere human being, harvested enough power to scratch an Aeon.
A sob left your mouth as you saw that it all went in vain, as Phainon fell and got absorbed into IRONTOMB, pulling it closer to his final answer.
99.81% COMPLETED.
Your head screamed at you as the familiar words from your mother came back:
"Ei to telos mou engizei, deksomai. All’ to teknion mou dei gennēthēnai. Menein autē dei."
"If my end draws near, I will accept. But my little child, it must be BORN. She must STAY."
You have to do something, she knew that's why she gave everything to you, right?
She saw all of this; she must have.
But what is there to do? The pain grew loud as a whimper came out, tears overflowing. Everything around you grew louder.
The future that awaits Phainon it was now affecting you as well.
As your ears rang, the darkness took over, a hand grabbed you, and what filled your ears was his voice.
"Y/N?? Are you okay?!"
Your eyes landed on his worried own as you realized you were curled up on the ground, him stooping beside you.
His eyes scanned you as your scared own looked back at him, chest rising in with speed.
His arm snaked around your shoulder, resting your head in his chest.
"Copy my rhythm, calm down."
You did, your pace slowed as you followed his, you took a last peek at his face, watching as he stared down at you in worry. The last thing you saw was his smile as you slowly closed your eyes.
One last thought stayed with you; you did not wish to lose this man. You wanted more with him, to feel and experience these warm moments you have with him. You were certain that Phainon enjoyed these moments the same way you did.
He gave you what you never felt before: warmth from normal human interactions. Your father rarely gave you attention; all your memories of him were just his grief, his begging for the return of your mother. Your family saw you just the same as her. They did not want anything to do with you. At least your powers gave you the reason to leave. You left them behind, and after three years, found Phainon, the one who’s giving you what you didn’t know you wanted.
The warmth of concern, happiness, and love. The concern and love of a friend, the happiness you both share.
And so, there was a reason you were gifted with this knowledge and power.
TO SAVE A██HO██US.
TO SAVE PHAINON.
You felt the need to thank them, your father, your family, for opening your eyes.
𝐈𝐈𝐈.
That day was a blur of time as it had been two months since. You learnt that the feeling you had every time Phainon was around was more than a mixture of happiness and love of a friend. Friend wasn't enough to label this feeling. You had no clue what to call it.
Phainon stuck to his word. Every day, he paid you a visit in the morning, greeting you with that smile you always wanted to see.
Every day he came, he saw how much brighter you got.
But every day he came by, it reminded you of the visions you saw. What he will turn into. That manifested version of him.
The FLAMEREAVER.
.
.
.
"Do you wanna go out today?" Phainon asked, standing in front of your door.
"Where to?" You asked, making way for him to enter, but instead, he pulled you by the hand, forcing you out.
"It's a surprise! Cmon, we have to go now!" He exclaimed as he picked you up, closed the door, and simply ran.
It caught you off guard, yet it didn't shock you. Phainon filled your life with enough surprises; just this one left you with no shoes and your sleepwear.
You wrapped your arm around his neck as you held on tightly, head resting in his chest. The warmth radiating off his body is enough to lull you back to sleep, but you stayed awake to see what he has in store for you.
You watched how the scenery shifted to a field, seeing how his steps lessened, you realized that you'd reached the surprise.
It wasn't a big field, honestly; it felt as if he carried you to your backyard.
"It doesn't look as much, but this area reminds me of my homeland, Aedes Elysiae."
As you heard his words, your bare foot made contact with the grass, feeling as it brushed past your shoulders the more you walked in, length almost swallowing you whole.
You turned back at Phainon, breeze blowing as your hair flew in your face. You smiled as the words left your mouth.
"Thank you for sharing this with me, Phainon."
You found it so heart-warming that he shared a piece of himself, a taste of his childhood. It warmed his heart as well, witnessing you in it. It warmed his cheeks, left him in awe.
Slowly, he made it into the field, gradually getting closer to you. As the grass was almost your height, for him it was enough for him to fully view everything.
He smirked at you as he began to tease.
"Do you need help breathing?"
You looked up at him, pushing the grass out of your face.
"I'm fine, but thanks anyway.." You muttered.
He laughed at your response but disobeyed them.
He snaked his arms around your body, resting above your hips, causing a gasp to leave you. He sneaked his face into the crook of your neck, taking in your natural scent.
Slowly, he lifted you, which caused you to react by placing your arms on his shoulder.
"What are you doing?!" You said in shock.
Yet he said nothing.
It wasn't you alone who had that feeling eating away inside. Ever since that day you begged him to stay, how you slowly opened up, and improved in the way you spoke.
He felt a little bit happier when he woke up, got ready, and left to find you at your house.
He enjoyed seeing how, with each passing day, you felt different, the aura around the house became lighter, brighter even.
Phainon felt proud that he had made a change in someone's life. He wanted more.
He kept replaying that first morning, how you felt confused about what he was doing. The simple actions of kindness, and compares it to the present.
How much has changed since then, because of him. He knew he made a big impact on your life, and he wanted to show it.
As he leaned you towards him, bringing your face closer towards each other. You didn't want to get your hopes up, but before you could process what was about to happen, Phainon finished it for you.
With a small peck on your lips, and a surprised sound from both of you as he fell from leaning back too much, laughter entered each other's ears.
"It didn't play out how I imagined it, but that's the surprise.." he muttered, keeping his arms on your body.
You looked up from his chest, staring down at him. With your left hand, you brushed the hair out of his face as for the second time, you leaned down and locked lips with his.
It was slow, fuzzy, and filled with love. His lips moved in sync with yours as his hand made it in your hair, deepening it.
You moved your hand, craddling his face, to softly pinch his soft cheeks you loved so much.
In the field of grass, both your lives have changed. For the better. That's what you wanted to say.
Finally, you broke the kiss, his hand playing in your hair as his smile beamed at you.
"Can I have more?"
His question made you giggle.
One last time, the view crossed your mind. That view of the Flamereaver.
How could you let this innocent man be corrupted by his own negative thoughts? You won't let him hurt himself. If he does that, whose cheeks would you caress? Whose hair will you brush from their face, who would you peck one last time in the field before you both rose from the ground?
You have to change his future. You don't want him to go.
You don't want Phainon to go, to sacrifice everything. To sacrifice you.
You cannot live without him. If he goes, so does that warm feeling. So does happiness and love.
"Why are you staring at me like I'm your world or something? Look away, please!" he joked as he sat up and squished your cheeks, removing the dreamy expression you had.
Your world? Maybe he is.
"Who's this fella?"
Your ears perked up at the voice, eyes landed on the owner, and your face softened at the sight.
Currently, you were out, with no given reason, and met a puppy wandering alone.
Ever since you got closer to Phainon, you left your house more often as he wanted you to. He wanted you to enjoy the fresh air that nature gifted, but in reality, he just really wanted to see you as he passed by on his missions.
"I don't know, I just saw him on my way back home." You explained, picking the puppy up from the ground as he barks at you both.
Your eyes travel to the man in front of you as he holds out a flower towards you.
"Got this for you," Phainon said, with a big grin growing on his face.
Your hand got closer, touching his as you took the flower, staring up at him.
"Thank you. Is there any reason why you got me this?" You joked, staring down at the gift.
As Phainon bent down a bit to pick up the puppy, playing with it, he just casually muttered a small,
"Because I love you, duh.."
The words that left his mouth hit you differently. Your eyes lingered on him, watching as he played with the fluffball in his hand, laughing as the breeze blew the hair out of his face.
Slowly, you felt time slowing as the thought of pausing it crossed your mind. You wanted times like this to last forever, to loop, to never end.
Then it stopped.
You had no knowledge of activating your powers. Was it you this time or the Gods?
You sighed, realizing that you can't resume time, looking around to check your surroundings, watching how everything has paused.
You knew that you couldn't hide anything, not from them. Especially from ΧΡΟΝΟΣ.
As you stared more at Phainon, how perfectly he paused in time, admiring his smile, how contagious it is, then lastly at the flower in your hand.
You must be a fool if you think you would want this to end.
You glared up at the sky, almost as if you were about to challenge the Gods themselves.
“Ananeó̱ste tḕn roḗ tou chrónou. Oúchi to theîon kathíkon sas eínai na merimnáṯe ópōs pántote trechei?”
“Resume the flow of time. Is it not your divine duty to ensure it always runs?”
As those words left your mouth, slowly the wind made contact with your frame, and the sound came loud. The sound of his laughter.
One thought stayed on your mind, clenching the flower.
The Gods knew what you were planning.
.
.
.
The sun set, and you both were now inside your house.
You invited him over for a sleepover; who was he to decline? He was over the moon as soon as those words left your mouth.
As he got comfortable, removing his boots and coat then made his way into your room, you had made your way into the kitchen.
You gently rested the flower on top of your counter as you grabbed a vase and walked up to the sink, turning it on as the water filled it up.
When it was up to your liking, you turned off the tap and made it back to the counter, plopping the flower in.
You stared at it for a bit until you made your way into your room, vase in hand.
"Took you a while.."
"Huh?"
As you entered your room, you found Phainon on your bed, looking through some sketches.
Confusion grew as you had no recollection of placing any sketches near your bed.
You placed the vase on your dresser as you got into bed, and you got closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder as you stared at the sketch in his hand.
It was a sketch of yourself when you were younger.
"I assume this is you, right? You looked so cute. Though I don't understand this text.." he muttered, turning it over.
"Lemme see.." You said as he offered the paper to you.
Your eyes darken as it all makes sense to you, where this paper came from.
"ΜΗΝ ΤΟΛΜΗΣ ΝΑ ΔΙΑΤΑΡΑΞΕΙΣ ΤΗΝ ΡΟΗΝ ΤΟΥ ΧΡΟΝΟΥ"
These familiar words, paired with the you who were warned by TIME.
“Do not dare to disturb the flow of time.”
Clearly, it was a warning from above.
You sighed as you crumpled the paper, surprising Phainon.
"What was that for?"
"No reason, I just find it useless." You simply said as you got up and made your way out, goal in mind to throw the paper away.
Phainon followed behind with a small frown.
"But you looked cute in it.." He whined as he got closer from behind, resting his chin at the crown of your head, snaking his arms around your frame.
It caught you off guard, as the paper fell out of your hand and right into the bin in front of you.
"It's gone now."
A sigh was heard from behind as you felt his cheek rubbing into your head.
"What a waste."
"I'm sure there's more." You reasoned with him, placing your hand on top of his as you loosened his grip, turning to face him.
You saw his frown in full view, which reminded you of the puppy from before. It made you giggle.
Before you could get a word out, Phainon shoved his face into the crook of your neck, breath tickling you.
"Ugh- What a big baby.. Cmon, let's go back inside the room."
"But it's comfortable here.."
His grip tightens, leaving you helpless. Seems like you both will be here for a while.. That is, until the window suddenly opens with force.
It caught you both off guard, breaking the moment.
"Is something wrong with your window?" Phainon asked as he let go to investigate, you peaking from behind.
The window didn't steal your attention, but the constellations did.
Your eyebrows knitted, annoyance taking over.
Phainon's concerns blurred out in your mind as your eyes connected the stars, creating the connection that symbolizes the sea goat. Capricorn, the sign with traits such as ambition, practicality, and discipline.
A sign from the stars, a sign from ΑΙΩΝ.
Blinking away from the stars, you shifted your attention to the man who was still checking the window.
You tugged at his sleeve, telling him that the window is fine and that you both should really be heading back to the room.
At least this time he listened.
.
.
Finally, you both were back in the room and comfortably tucked into your bed.
His finger ran through your hair, lulling you to sleep as his other hand kept you close to his chest, close to his heart.
You rested your cheek on his chest, fingers gripping his shirt as your eyes were closed.
But you were awake.
"Phainon."
"Hm?"
.
"Will we stay together forever?"
"And ever.. and ever, and ever and-"
You cut him off with a giggle bubbling up. It made the smile on his face grow.
This will last forever.
.
.
.
The Flamereaver was born out of Phainon's rage that he couldn't hold in any longer. It was the result of carrying unbearable pain for many, many cycles, watching his friends die millions of times, some even from his own hands, all to collect these Coreflames. He painted his hand in gold, in their blood.
With all that power Phainon consumes, he loses his humanity, which manifests in two versions of himself.
The one you know and love, the hero.
The other, full of his rage and hatred.
The Flamereaver wishes to fulfill what Phainon and Cyrene wished for; the only difference is that the Flamereaver can do it without any hesitation, slaying anything and anyone in his way. Free of the pain of murdering his friends over and over, free of doubt.
There was a certain cycle the Flamereaver followed, a loop.
Kill Cyrene, trigger the restart of the world. Collect the coreflames, acquire the power. Be killed by the new Phaino, pass on the accumulated memories and powers.
Then the cycle repeats.
That was not what you wanted.
There will be no Flamereaver, no killing, no repeats of pain and suffering.
But you knew that somewhere in your future, there would come a time when you would forever change his life. For the better.
In the foreseeable future, you notice a person who goes by the title "Trailblazer".
You saw how this Trailblazer will save Amphoreus. Figure out what is happening, and try to stop it all.
But in the end, Phainon still goes through all this pain and hurt, does he not?
The feeling of entering a time frame you don't belong to is a feeling you can't describe. It was as if you were left behind while everyone else moved on.
Ever since the first night you've met Phainon, you studied his cycles, every one of them. Planned your actions, how you wanted it all to play out.
So as you opened your eyes, you weren't in your bed, snuggled next to Phainon, but in his 33,550,336th cycle. You've entered his future cycle, the one where you will forbid him from repeating that pain again.
Your eyes scanned your surroundings. You stood in what looked like a Colosseum, but was instead covered in the works of time. Broken pillars here and there, nature in some, and the floor was decorated with dead bodies. In front of you stood him.
Not Phainon, but Khaslana.
He did not face you. He faced his friend, Mydeimos.
You remembered hearing Phainon mention this Mydeimos. May it be from a mission or from daily activities. He may complain, but it always ended with that warming smile on his face. It shows how much Phainon cares for his friends, how much he loves them. Yet it's the same ones he must murder.
With his back facing you, you couldn't see his pained look, but you heard it in his words, how draining he sounded, how, after all this time, he still couldn't go on with it so easily.
"After that one and only time we walked side by side, every time since, it always ends up like this."
Your ears perked up at the sound of his voice as he continued to speak to Mydeimous. You've heard him say these words before. Always, as you studied his cycles like a textbook.
"Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.-"
"-That's your weak spot and only way to kill you." He started as you muttered the rest.
You stood there, waiting for Mydeimos' words, his reply but..
It never came. You were confused. You couldn't move. They didn't move.
TIME stopped you.
ΑΙΩΝ stopped you.
You ignored the stars. You ignored the warnings ΑΙΩΝ gave you. Now, you may bear the burden.
Suddenly, you felt the pain of your powers. You felt the emotions of the Gods. As the pain grew, you felt their anger grow as well. The connection was always there, since day one of these pains. They were always with you. They did not like you foreseeing anything, with that negative thought in mind. For your own selfish desires.
In your head, your thoughts, they were the only access you had, the only path of communication you had with ΑΙΩΝ.
"If Amphoreus is a simulation, why treat it as if it's real?"
"MENEI EN TŌ AIŌNIŌ RHEUMATI. HĒ HODOS PALAI TEKTAINOMENĒ."
"IT REMAINS WITHIN THE ETERNAL FLOW. THE PATH LONG CRAFTED."
SY TETRAPEPSAIS TO EN AIŌNIŌ RHEUMATI, TĒN HODON, TŌN KYKLON AMETALLOUTON. DIA TUTO, ANTIPREPEI NA ANTIMETŌPISEIS TIN SYMPERIFORAN.
"YOU HAVE TAMPERED WITH THE ETERNAL FLOW, THE PATH, THE CYCLE UNBROKEN. FOR THIS, YOU SHALL FACE THE CONSEQUENCE."
The consequence of being stuck in your own loop. Before you could get to your answer.
.
.
.
"After that one and only time we walked side by side, every time since, it always ends up like this."
Your ears perked up at the sound of his voice as he continued to speak to Mydeimous. You've heard him say these words before. Always as you studied his cycles like a textbook.
"Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.-"
"-That's your weak spot and only way to kill you." He started as you muttered the rest.
You stood there, waiting for Mydeimos' words, his reply but..
It never came. You were confused. You couldn't move. They didn't move.
TIME stopped you.
ΑΙΩΝ stopped you.
.
CYCLE 1
.
.
"After that one and only time we walked side by side, every time since, it always ends up like this."
Is this what Phainon felt like?
Your ears perked up at the sound of his voice as he continued to speak to Mydeimous. You've heard him say these words before. Always as you studied his cycles like a textbook.
How did he manage to go through this for so long?
"Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.-"
"-That's your weak spot and only way to kill you." He started as you muttered the rest.
It was like you couldn't control yourself.
You stood there, waiting for Mydeimos' words, his reply but..
It never came. You were confused. You couldn't move. They didn't move.
TIME stopped you.
ΑΙΩΝ stopped you.
.
CYCLE 11,183,446
.
.
Your mind slowly got back control. You could almost think freely.
"After that one and only time we walked side by side, every time since, it always ends up like this."
But it still drove you slowly to the end.
"Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.-"
"-That's your weak spot and only way to kill you." He started as you muttered the rest.
Hearing his broken voice, on this broken record.
You stood there, waiting for Mydeimos' words, his reply but..
No wonder his hate grew so strong; the Flamereaver manifested.
It never came. You were confused. You couldn't move. They didn't move.
TIME stopped you.
ΑΙΩΝ stopped you.
.
CYCLE 22,366,891
.
.
"After that one and only time we walked side by side, every time since, it always ends up like this."
It hurt so much. You don't even know if you were real.
"Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.-"
"-That's your weak spot and only way to kill you." He started as you muttered the rest.
Were you a fake? From the past?
You stood there, waiting for Mydeimos' words, his reply but..
From the future? What is time anymore? Where were you?
It never came. You were confused. You couldn't move. They didn't move.
TIME stopped you.
ΑΙΩΝ stopped you.
.
CYCLE 33,550,335
.
.
It drove you insane. To the edge. Being conscious of this. All 671,006,700 seconds of it all drove you to the end. You wanted it to end.
"After that one and only time we walked side by side, every time since, it always ends up like this."
You used the consciousness of your mind to move your body at will. You ran straight to the blade.
"Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.-
Dawnmaker will stab you through your tenth thoracic vertebra.
-That's your weak spot and only way to kill you."
That's the one spot you only remembered after all these cycles.
You drove Khaslana's blade through your body. This was not a part of the eternal flow. The path that was set.
As the blood leaked out, coughing up from your mouth, you felt the eyes of them all.
KHASLANA, MYDEIMOS, ΧΡΟΝΟ
This was not meant to happen in either the simulated world or the path that was set, created by the Gods.
You fell to the floor, blade still deep inside of you. Weakly, you looked up, locking eye contact with him.
You saw how dull his blue eyes got; they always brightened when they landed on you. But here? He stared at you as if you were nothing. Just another blockage in the road. That familiar look he gave to the Crysos Heirs. His loved ones.
Then, you heard the voice of CHRONOS.
SY TETRAPEPSAIS TO EN AIŌNIŌ RHEUMATI, TĒN HODON, TŌN KYKLON AMETALLOUTON. DIA TUTO, ANTIPREPEI NA ANTIMETŌPISEIS TIN SYMPERIFORAN.
"YOU HAVE TAMPERED WITH THE ETERNAL FLOW, THE PATH, THE CYCLE UNBROKEN. FOR THIS, YOU SHALL FACE THE CONSEQUENCE."
The consequence of being lost in time. You were now in the past, the future, and the unknown.
With both punishments, you were now counted as immortal. Lost forever in time. Unknown to it all.
Two Gods have now punished you. With that stunt you pulled off, you broke the cycle, but now you have no sense of the future, the past. Where do you go from here?
THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT
ΚΑΙΡΟΣ. 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐒.
But, with this consciousness you have. That feeling of awareness, of everything around you, it was as if you were in your room, with yourself. With TIME.
With ΚΑΙΡΟΣ.
The same way you could change time in your mind, manifest yourself into that period. What says you can't do it here?
Phainon told you about his childhood, his home village. Aedes Elysiae.
You've studied all his cycles. With this two knowledge combined, what makes you think you can't just start from the beginning?
To the first cycle.
.
.
.
Everything changed: the atmosphere, the scenery, the stares.
Now, it all looked so warm. Breeze blowing through your hair, the orange of the sun splattered everywhere.
You felt the brushes of the tall blades touch you as they swayed with the wind. It all gave you that feeling he did.
You stood in the field of grass, beside a young boy who lay in it. His eyes were closed; it seemed as if he were taking a nap.
"So that's how you looked when you were young. You were cute."
At least this will be the first thing you will see after every one of them.
After every one of the 33,550,335 cycles, you will go through. With the consciousness of being from the future, you will get to see the beginning of your story, all the way up to that last meeting you had with time. All until you get back to the present cycle you love, to change things up, for a different outcome.
You were conscious of it all, counting each one as it all repeated. All from the number 1.
.
CYCLE 1
.
.
CYCLE 11,183,446
.
.
CYCLE 22,366,891
.
.
CYCLE 33,550,335
.
.
Finally, you both were back in the room and comfortably tucked into your bed.
His finger ran through your hair, lulling you to sleep as his other hand kept you close to his chest, close to his heart.
You rested your cheek on his chest, fingers gripping his shirt as your eyes were closed.
But you were awake.
"Phainon."
"Hm?"
.
"Will we stay together forever?"
"And ever.. and ever, and ever and-"
You cut him off with a giggle bubbling up. It made the smile on his face grow.
This will last forever.
.
.
.
It was in the middle of the night when you rose up from the bed. Phainon was still fast asleep in your bed. You smiled down at him and caressed his face.
You finally made it back to the present. You finally completed your goal.
There were a few blockages in the road, which ended up with you killing yourself to partly break out of your first punishment, but you were stuck with the second one, no biggie. It doesn't matter if you could live forever or not.
Slowly, you made your way out of the bed, carefully to not wake him up, and sat on the floor.
You were currently a living form of two consequences. They can't punish you again if you were already punished, right?
To begin, you closed your eyes.
PERSONIFICATION OF TIME.
ΧΡΟΝΟΣ. 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐒.
It was the first TIME you acknowledged. It was the basic understanding of time. It was everywhere.
It will be the first piece of the puzzle. The first piece of the goal.
THE ETERNAL
ΑΙΩΝ. 𝐀𝐈𝐎𝐍.
It was the second TIME you acknowledged. It was the eternal time. Cycles were their play. The stars, the zodiacs.
It will be the second piece of the puzzle. The second piece of the goal.
With the basic understanding of time and the cycles. You created your own.
THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT
ΚΑΙΡΟΣ. 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐒.
It was the third TIME you acknowledged. It was the perfect time. Take it when you can.
And that you did, when it was right in front of your face, dangling, you took it.
It will be the third piece of the puzzle. The third piece of the goal.
"There will be no perfect moments to break this cycle."
.
.
.
Birds were chirping, telling you that the sun had risen. You felt the bed shift. Your eyes slowly opened to find Phainon awake, staring down at you.
"Look who's up." His raspy, morning voice muttered, fingers already through your hair.
In response, you groaned at the light slowly seeping into the room and shoved your face into his chest, causing him to chuckle.
The feeling of it from his chest bubbling up made your smile grow, cheesing in his shirt.
"What are you smiling for?"
Oh, it seems to have caught his attention. You peeked out from his chest, staring up at him as he stared back down.
"What do you wanna do this morning? Stay in bed or make some breakfast?"
It was time to test the waters. Did it work?
"What kind of breakfast do you think we should have?" You muttered.
"Hm.. Maybe some Greek yogurt with berries and nuts.. Some protein.. like eggs, and some kind of meat.. Is there any flour to bake some bread?" He muttered in thought.
You smiled at the response.
"I think we can do that, might have to make some flour though. There's wheat in the back."
"Then we should start early. Cmon, out of bed we go!" He said as he rose from the bed, pulling you up with him.
"But I'm sleepy.."
He kissed you on your nose.
"Too bad, I'm hungry."
You giggle softly at him.
"Fine.." You muttered.
After all the banter, you both left the room and made your way into the kitchen.
You made it clear through your actions that you were heading straight to the back, that is, until large arms snaked around you.
"What's wrong?" You asked, tilting your head up.
"You."
"Huh?"
He picked you up, causing a gasp to leave your mouth as he walked you up to the counter, placing you on top of it.
"That's my job. Why are you going to steal it from me?" He joked.
"Do you know how to use the Grinder?" You asked back.
"I have an idea. As if you taught me before."
You hummed at his words. Then you continued.
"Should I do the eggs and meat? Yogurt and berries?"
"Nah, I will. You can do the bread when I'm back with the flour."
"Alright, have fun. Okay?"
"Of course." He ended, giving you a squeeze on your hips as his hands left you and made his towards the back.
Your eyes lingered on him as he walked away. There were some changes, but the same outcome. Your smile grew at the thought.
Everything else was the same: you both made breakfast, he poured out the juice for you, and you both ate facing each other.
During the day, the sound of rain made it into your ears. You both had just finished in the shower, all cleaned up.
"We can't go out, bummer." He muttered, fixing his shirt.
You, beside him, looked up to face him.
"It's okay, we can have a day in. If it rains until night, maybe we can have a sleepover."
His face lit up at the idea. Smiling as he made his way back into your room. Leaving you with your thoughts.
Obviously, you took out the negative times you had with Phainon. The headaches, the passing out. You only kept the moments you loved. Bummer you couldn't go beyond your safe space, this home. If you could, you would've included the time you both were in the field, the time you found that dog. Bummer, isn't it?
.
.
.
The sun was finally leaving as the stars and the moon made their way. You peeked into the room and found Phainon on the bed, admiring a sketch.
"What's that?" You asked, as you made your way into the bedroom, placing the vase on your dress, and made it onto the bed, resting your head on his shoulder.
"A picture, I assume it's you when you were younger? You were cute." He answered.
You waited for the rest, smiled when you didn't hear it.
"Can I see it?" You asked. He nodded and gave you the paper.
You turned it around, looking for those words, but found nothing. You let out a sigh of relief as you turned it back over and placed it in his hand.
"I'm sure you were cuter when you were younger."
"I don't think so!"
The bantering made you smile. You certainly won't miss this.
"What do you wanna do now?" You asked him, causing him to shrug. He lay back on the bed, staring up at with with a small smile.
"Nothing comes to mind, I'm just sleepy," he muttered.
You followed his movements, instead, lying on top of him. You rested your arms, folded, on his chest as you stared down at him.
"Then let's get ready for bed."
.
You both were tucked away in the bed, tucked away in each other's arms. Your head rested on his chest as he rested his chin on top of yours. You both were comfortable here. Happy. Together.
His finger ran through your hair, lulling you to sleep as his other hand kept you close to his chest, close to his heart.
You rested your cheek on his chest, fingers gripping his shirt as your eyes were closed.
But you were awake.
"Phainon."
"Hm?"
.
"Will we stay together forever?"
"And ever.. and ever, and ever and-"
You cut him off with a giggle bubbling up. It made the smile on his face grow.
This will last forever.
.
.
.
You beat the Gods. You used their own powers against them and punished yourself for your happiness. You outsmarted TIME for your own selfish desires, and it came true. You weren't disappointed.
"There will be no perfect moments to break this cycle."
You smiled more as you heard your words in your head.
"Because this is my perfect moment."
Your future. Your PERFECT moment.
Your KAIROS moment.
💫𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: Phainon/Lord Khaslana x Female reader
💫𝒮𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You always hated being one of the wives of Lord Khaslana, living the rest of your life in the misery of a never-ending cycle. Until you were given a beautiful watch keeper, named Phainon was when your feelings about life began to change.
💫𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: Spoiler? Age Gap between the reader and Phainon/Khaslana, Alternate Universe, wrong lore? (I just looked at wiki tbh), Angst? Lord Khaslana has two other wives (not seen as romantic by him, though), Unfinished, not sure of anything else? Not good writing. Spelling Mistakes
💫𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: I've had this in my drafts for such a long time, after being inspired by another (CANT FIND IT ANYMORE THOUGH..) I loved it and took inspiration, even though I'm not a lore player and am just yapping. NOT FINISHED THOUGH! I just wanted to post what I had. Part 2, if anyone wants it.
You were an unruly woman—an outrighteous saint, a title given to you.
No one in the temple dared to say it to your face—except the High Priest, with his sugar-coated words. After all, they must be thinking: how could one of the so-called wives of Lord Khaslana, the world-bearing god who carried so much for the people of Okhema—whether their physical or internal battles—be anything less than devoted? (even though the title was a backhanded compliment, but you're insane for thinking that way)
You wouldn’t think of yourself as his wife, more like a trophy that lives in his temple rent-free. The man never shows up or even tries to talk to you, yet somehow, you still have to pray to him every day.
Not that you are well acquainted with the verses that even children know. You only remember them when they are sung, unable to repeat them if asked. Sometimes, during prayer, you go off on random rants—mostly to yourself—or your thoughts wander to unrelated things that pull you off task.
It’s not like you ever really listened. There was a reason you were given the title of “outrighteous”—for having an attitude and opinions on most things in the temple. You never exactly followed the rules. Yes, you were “punished” only by the High Priest—nothing from your husband, no real reprimand to change your behaviour. But who could blame you for being lonely? You were rowdy, loud, and impulsive, and now you feel like a leashed animal trapped in a temple full of people with whom you cannot hold an interesting conversation.
Even with your personal maid.
Every day spent in your room was boring—nothing to do except needlework, read prayers, and whatever else there was. You genuinely just rot in your bed all day.
The faces in the temple begin to blur together. You start to forget who’s who.
Especially the two other wives he has—Daphne and Phoebe.
They are very beautiful, too. Everyone seems to think so. Even though the three of you live in separate wings (but still meet for meal times), you hear the maids and guards rave about the other two.
You don’t really talk to either of them—they’re devoted followers in your stead. It’s like a duo in a trio situation.
“I feel Lord Khaslana has given me a sign today. When the sun was burning bright in the sky, I prayed for something to calm this heat—and it started raining,”
the short, blonde-haired Daphne said with a bright smile, her blue eyes wide as if they might pop from their sockets.
“Congratulations!” Phoebe replied, tossing her long brunette hair behind her shoulder to avoid getting food on it—the same copy-and-paste smile fixed on her face.
To have the three of you together like this, with the High Priest at the other end of the table, was like going to a family friend’s house without knowing who they were.
You felt a heat rise in your stomach, one that made your blood boil.
Taking bites of your food while the other two laughed and smiled across from each other, you sat at the end of the table, simply hoping to finish dinner quickly and be done with it.
“What about you, (name)? How was your day?”
The two wives, Daphne and Phoebe, stopped talking and glanced awkwardly at you from the corners of their eyes.
You slowly lifted your head from your plate and looked at him with the most intense, narrowed eyes you could muster—filled with utter annoyance to the brim. Just a simple question.
“Fine. It was fine. Thank you.”
Your anger felt like it might burst at any second, like a ticking bomb ready to explode.
His smile did not falter.
The High Priest sat at the end of the long polished table, hands delicately folded over his plate, chin resting slightly forward as if genuinely interested—not poking a beast in a cage for the entertainment of favored pets.
You knew this game.
“Wonderful,” he said smoothly. “May Lord Khaslana continue to grace your days with peace and purpose.”
Your (rightful) wenchful attitude began to show more and more in the days that followed. You didn’t even bother trying to hide it anymore—especially the way you looked at people.
That gaze didn’t change, not even when you were assigned a new, watchful keeper to be by your side at all times. You cursed yourself for falling into this predicament because of your venom-filled words.
Still, your gaze didn’t waver—not even when that caretaker, Phainon, a man with beautiful white hair and even finer eyes, knelt down and held your hand with such grace and softness.
“I will do my best to serve you, My Lady.”
Even you had to admit—you could see why the maids gushed upon first laying eyes on him. He was utterly beautiful, like a blessing from Lord Khaslana himself. A face handcrafted by the god, dressed in white silks like a present.
You thought him just another obedient servant, another pair of watchful eyes sent to tame your unruly behavior at your ‘husband’s’ request. But the way his fingers lingered when he handed you your tea, the way his voice dipped low when he murmured, “Careful, My Lady, the High Priest is watching,”—it was all too deliberate.
“You have quite the pretty face,” you said dreamily as the two of you sat in a field of flowers. It had been a long time since you’d been out like this, relaxed. You were even allowed to go without guards now, thanks to Phainon’s presence.
He perked up at your words, still seamlessly cutting the apple in his hand.
“Are you perhaps married?” you asked shamelessly—he was still a man, after all—but social awareness had flown out the window a long time ago.
Phainon’s knife paused mid-slice, just briefly, the silver edge catching the sunlight. He looked a bit stunned—not offended, not flustered, just… surprised. He looked like a dog!
Then he gave the smallest smile, the corners of his mouth curling like the first bloom of spring.
“No, My Lady. I’m not married.”
You perked up immediately, leaning in a little with a cheeky grin. “Not even promised?”
“Not even promised,” he chuckled.
“Ugh, you're lucky you're not stuck like me,” you sighed, feeling a little jealous of his situation.
He simply put an apple slice to your lips, then motioned to your mouth, which you leaned in toward.
“You don’t like your marriage, My Lady?” he asked—such a silly question, considering everyone already knew the answer.
“Of course not,” you replied almost immediately. “Lord Khaslana has two other wives. I doubt he even thinks I’m beautiful. Or that I exist.”
You said it matter-of-factly, with the same tone you’d use to comment on the weather, like it didn’t bother you.
You took another apple slice from Phainon’s hand and popped it into your mouth.
When you looked back at him, he had a sad expression on his face—like you’d just kicked him.
It almost felt like you’d kicked a puppy and now it was whining at your feet…
He must have been one of those people.
The kind who cared quite a lot about Lord Khaslana.
“But I’m grateful to him for taking me in,” you sighed softly.
And yet, even as the two of you walked back, that strange undertone of sadness—or was it guilt?—never quite left his expression.
I'M LEGIT GOING INSANE WITH THE AMOUNT OF RESPONSIBILTIIES I HAVE SA SCHOOL.
GEBVBVA
I STILL HAVE 2 FICS TO DO AND IM WRITING MORE CHAPTERS FOR ANAXA FIC
FVNVSNVSFD
WORK IMMERSION?? ENTRANCE EXAM?????? DOCUMENTARY FEST AT SCHOOL??????? DOCUMENTARY FEST OUTSIDE OF SCHOOL??????????????????????????? VARIETY SHOW?????????????????? PORTOFLIO MAKING ????????!!!!
KILL ME I JUST WANNA MAKE FANFICS AND CONTENT ON YT WTF IS WRONG WITH THIS LIFE. Please pray for my soul, I can't die yet, I have FANFICS TO WRITE
𐙚 SUMMARY:In this lifetime, he is no hero. He is no god. He does not bear the weight of the world—only the quiet, ordinary weight of responsibility. A life too mundane, yet a life full of warm memories. Phainon learns how to raise his daughter while caring for you, the love of his life. Through six grounded steps, Phainon does not save the world. He learns to hold it gently, one bottle, one memory, and one bedstory at a time.
𐙚 A/N: im on fire im so obsessed with phainon I didn't go to school today to write two fics......... BUT IN MY DEFENSE I WAS ILL AND IT DIDNT STOP RAINING TIILL IT WAS 10 AM SO I HAVE AN ACTUAL EXCUSE TO NOT GO. butttttttttttttttttttttt..... didn't do assignments. idgaf atp sit back and enjoy
𐙚 W.C: 3.7k
How did Phainon become the best dad in the world? He only followed six steps—just six!
Step One: Learn how to hold her
1. Cradle gently. Always support the neck. Your daughter calla was born in late autumn, when the air outside was dry and restless and the light came in gold through the window blinds. Phainon’s hands trembled the first time he touched her—slow, careful, as if her bones might scatter like powdered glass. You watched him tuck her into the crook of his arm with the reverence of someone handling something sacred.
Calla curled her tiny fist around his pinky like it was already hers. He looked stunned. Breath hitched. He was a man not used to being speechless, learning how fast silence can mean love.
2. Get used to watching. Phainon didn’t sleep that first night. Your husband sat next to the bassinet and watched her chest rise and fall. Every few minutes, he leaned forward, fingers barely above her stomach, just to be sure. You woke to find him still sitting there, blanket draped over his shoulders, whispering her name under his breath like it was a spell he needed to learn by heart.
3. Write it down, even if it’s messy.
By day two, he had started keeping a tiny notebook in his pocket. It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t poetic. It was mostly timestamps: 2:41 AM: hiccup. 3:27 AM: sneezed 3x. 6:00 AM: got trapped in the blanket. You teased him at first. But he didn’t stop. Later, you caught him drawing a tiny sketch of her face next to the word ‘miracle.’
You found him again the next morning, curled awkwardly in the rocking chair with Calla asleep on his chest. His hair was a mess. One sock was missing. The notebook was open on the floor, scrawled halfway through a sentence. But he looked... peaceful.
“She fell asleep on me,” he said, as if apologizing.
You smiled, leaning in to pick up the fallen notebook. “You drooled on page four.”
“I was exhausted,” he muttered.
“She still looks okay with you.”
“I’m getting better at it,” he said softly. His eyes dropped to her. “I think she knows.”
He brushed his thumb lightly over her cheek. You sat beside them, close enough to hear the slow breath shared between them.
It was new. It was exhausting. It was terrifying. But Phainon wasn’t flinching anymore.
She stirred. He adjusted. You leaned on his arm.
Step two: Keep the house running
1. Wake up first. Check her breathing. Reheat the milk. Phainon started setting alarms five minutes before the goblin usually stirred. So it didn’t matter that he hated mornings. It didn’t matter that his left arm still tingled from where she slept on it. He makes sure to roll out of bed quietly, check her chest for those soft, steady breaths, then shuffle into the kitchen. Warm bottle. And then two scoops, not three. Shake, test on wrist. He got it wrong the first week—too hot, too cold, too foamy. But he learned.
2. Take over what you forget. Don’t comment on it. He started checking the stove behind you. Rewriting the grocery list when you skipped ingredients. Moving your shoes from the hallway before you tripped again. It wasn’t a conversation. He didn’t tease, didn’t hover, didn’t ask are you okay?. He just did it. When you left a laundry basket outside for three days, it was suddenly folded on the couch, the onesies rolled up like tiny burritos. You didn’t even notice until you smelled the softener.
3. Keep the tone soft. Laugh when she laughs. Let the silence stretch.
Sometimes you forgot mid sentence what you were saying. Sometimes you’d trail off with a wooden spoon still in your hand, blinking at nothing. Phainon never rushed you. He’d pick up where you left off if you remembered, or shift the conversation gently away if you didn’t. He learned to fill the quiet with humming. Calla always giggled at that—especially when he hummed off key.
The kettle clicked. Phainon didn’t turn it off immediately. He waited in the hallway, listening.
Calla was shrieking—happy shrieking, the kind only infants made when they discovered their own voice. You were trying to distract her with a plushie, but she was more interested in your hair, which she’d somehow managed to grab in both fists.
“Ow,” you murmured, smiling despite yourself. “She’s stronger today.”
“Can't believe you're losing to a kid.” Phainon chuckled from the doorway.
You snorted. “Help me.”
He walked over, hands raised like he was approaching a crime scene. “Alright, Commander Calla. Hands off the hostage.”
She laughed. He untangled your strands with surprising gentleness.
You sat back against the crib wall. “I was going to do the laundry.”
“I already did.”
“The dishes?”
“Already drying.”
Your brows furrowed, “I swear I washed the dishes…”
Phainon sighed, “No, love. I did, just five minutes ago.”
“Huh?”
When your eyes darted to the sink, it was squeaky clean without a plate greasy with soy sauce.
“Huh,” You bit your lip as Calla grabbed your finger through the crib, “Weird.”
Step Three: Pay attention without taking control (important!)
1. Notice patterns, not incidents.
It’s good Phainon didn’t panic the first time it happened. Normally, people forget things. He’d forgotten Calla’s pediatrician’s name three times (the doc was an asshole anyways). So when you blinked down at the laptop on your lap and couldn’t name them for five seconds, he waited. Watched. Didn’t draw attention to it. But he made a note.
2. Don’t jump in, you wait until they ask. When you blanked on the bottle’s formula ratio, he didn’t correct you. He watched you count one scoop, hesitate, then say “Is it two?” and laugh. “I’m sleep-deprived,” you said. “Or getting old.” He nodded, smiled, and passed you the second scoop.
3. Learn the difference between being careful and being afraid. Phainon began building quiet systems. Tiny labels on things. He made color coded reminders on the fridge. There’s a highlighted bookmark with a sticky note saying, “You stopped on page 211.” He pretended calla needed them. Said it was for her when she got older. You played along.
The next day, you forgot the word for “scissors.”
You had them in your hand. You were trying to say something, something about trimming calla’s little pink paper crown—and the word just slipped out of your brain like water through a crack. You paused, staring at your fingers.
“It’s fine,” you muttered a moment later. “I meant scissors.”
Phainon glanced up from the floor, where he was helping Calla stick stars onto a paper sky. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “Yeah. Just a brain fart.”
He didn’t push. Just handed you a new glue stick.
Later that evening, he watched you go quiet during a show—when a side character appeared and you squinted, confused. You said, “Wait, who’s she again?” then laughed. “Sleep deprived,” you said. “My brain’s pudding lately.”
He smiled. But he wrote it down in his notebook that night. Quietly. Just one word: Pudding.
The next day, he added new labels to the kitchen: milk, kettle, sugar, rice. Phainon drew tiny doodles next to each one so it wouldn’t look like pity. There’s even a crooked smiley face on the coffee jar.
When you saw it, you rolled your eyes. “You’re labeling the house like a preschool.”
“For Calla,” he said.
“Sure it’s not for me?”
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “I just don’t want her to think sugar goes in soup.”
You stuck your tongue out at him, and he grinned like that was all the confirmation he needed.
But later that night, when he heard you whispering the formula ratio to yourself under your breath—twice, then three times—his chest ached.
You weren’t laughing that time.
Step Four: Stay gentle when it gets hard
1. Don’t correct, you guide. When you forgot the bottle in the microwave, Phainon didn’t scold you. He simply took it out before it overheated, swirled it twice, and handed it to you with a smile. “Still warm,” he said. “Just in time.”
2. Build backups. Not large fences.
He started preparing a second set of bottles every morning, “just in case.” He left sticky notes not just for you (they’re yellow this time), but from Calla, signed in crayon: 'Mommy, remember my blanket!' It made you laugh.
3. Laugh when it’s safe. Hold still when it’s not. When you called Calla “Clara” by mistake, then immediately corrected yourself with a forced grin, Phainon made a joke about time travel. “She’s been secretly switching dimensions,” he said, ruffling her hair. But when you didn’t laugh, just stared down at your hands… he didn’t say anything else. He just sat closer. Let the silence be soft.
It was late afternoon when you paused mid-sentence and blinked at the refrigerator like it had spoken.
Phainon looked up from the kitchen. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you mumbled, biting your cheek. “Just… trying to remember if I fed her lunch.”
“She had applesauce at twelve. And that weird beet thing.”
You breathed out. “Right.”
He didn’t say you forgot again. He just pulled out a tupperware and handed you the leftovers. “Want to try some? She spit it out dramatically, so obviously it’s gourmet.”
You chuckled. “Then that’s gourmet beet disaster.”
Calla, now big enough to sit up with a little wobble, banged her spoon on her tray and shrieked with laughter.
You smiled.
But that night, when you tried to read her a bedtime story and stumbled on the first line—Once upon a... and then nothing, your throat closed.
You stared at the page like it had betrayed you. Like the words were in a language you used to know.
Phainon sat beside you and turned the page for you.
“...dragon,” he murmured softly, like it was just part of the story. “There was a dragon who blew out pink fire, protecting the castle from evil thieves.”
Your fingers gripped the edges of the book.
He didn’t touch you, he just kept reading. Slowly. Softly. One line at a time.
By the third page, you joined in again.
You didn’t say thank you.
But you leaned your head on his shoulder and whispered, “You’d make a good narrator, a damn good one.”
And he whispered back, “Only because you taught me the stories.”
Step Five: Stay when the sun sets early
1. Learn the new rhythm, even when it doesn't make sense To him, calla was easier to soothe than you, these days. She was growing. Her legs are longer, her voice louder, and her questions sharper. You were slipping. Quietly. Slowly. At first, it was just phrases. Then it was faces. Then the rhythm of whole days. The world tilted when you spoke sometimes. A phrase misaligned. A sentence cut short. But Phainon never corrected you. He followed your tempo. He matched your stride. So when you asked the same question three times, he answered it three times, each time with the same tone, the same patience, like it was brand new.
2. Design a map for the days they forget where they are (another important one)
He rearranged the house without saying anything. Labels in your handwriting, carefully traced over by his. A laminated list on the fridge: Breakfast, pills, water. Calla’s bath. Lemon tea. More crooked doodles next to each (all in either pink, blue, yellow, or violet). Calla helped color them. She liked the part where the sun had a sleepy face beside “bedtime.”
You once sat on the kitchen floor staring at it, tears brimming, and whispered, “It’s a cheat sheet.”
Phainon knelt beside you and touched the corner of the list. “No. It’s a map. For when you get lost.”
You cried harder.
3. Let the silence say what words can’t There were days you didn’t speak at all. He’d see you just sit by the window, tracing invisible shapes on your thigh, eyes half-focused on the garden you used to care about. Phainon was the one taking care of the garden, you keep forgetting to. Calla would waddle over, hand you her scribbled pictures, then climb into your lap like nothing was wrong. Phainon watched from the hall. So sometimes he’d take a photo. Not to remember you fading, but to prove that, even on the worst days, love still gathered quietly around you like dust catching sunlight.
It was raining when it got bad.
Calla was crying in the next room. Not loud, she was just the confused, sleepy whimper of a child waking too soon. You had gone to get her.
You didn’t come back.
Phainon found you in the hallway, barefoot, clutching a pillow against your chest like a lifeline. Your eyes were wide. Not scared. Not teary. Just… blank.
“She was crying,” you whispered.
“She’s okay,” he said softly. “You already held her. You sang to her.”
You looked down at the pillow like it might transform and grow a pair of eyes. “Is this her?”
You just sagged into his chest, and the pillow slipped from your fingers.
Later, when you were asleep on the couch, wrapped in a blanket you didn’t remember owning, Calla clambered onto his lap and asked, “Is mama sick forever?”
Phainon didn’t answer right away. He held her close. Buried his nose in her hair.
Then, quietly he said, “She’s still here. That’s what matters.”
Phainon had decorated the house quietly. Streamers in yellow and pink. A paper crown. Her name on the wall.
She ran to you holding her little cake plate. “Mama, look! Six candles! I’m six!”
You blinked down at her, confused. “Is it…?”
Your voice faded.
Phainon stepped in before she noticed.
“Time for a dance party,” he said, scooping her up. “Go on, show us your best moves.”
You smiled, stiff. Shaky.
Later, in the quiet of the bathroom, you pressed your hand against the sink to steady yourself.
“I forgot.”
Phainon knelt down and rested his head against your hip, eyes closed.
“Only for a second.”
“A second’s enough.”
“No,” he whispered. “It’s not. Not when I still have you.”
You didn’t say anything.
You just turned off the lights, curled into his chest, and cried so quietly it barely echoed.
He started humming to you more after that.
Songs you’d made up for calla. The little nonsense melodies that just looped. He played them while he cooked, while he brushed your hair, while you napped beside the laundry basket.
He kept all your old voice recordings, the ones where you were giggling in the middle of telling a bedtime story or teasing him about his loud snoring. Sometimes he played them in the kitchen while he washed dishes, pretending not to be crying into the soap bubbles.
Sometimes, when you heard your own voice, you’d smile.
Sometimes, you didn’t recognize it.
One night, you asked him if the stars were always this bright.
Phainon looked up. “They haven’t changed.”
“Oh.” You paused. “Maybe it’s me.”
He didn’t correct you.
He just took your hand and held it like it was the only thing anchoring the sky.
Step Six: He lets you keep living, even if it’s different now
It didn’t get better in the way people hoped. There wasn’t some magic pill, no reversal, no dramatic recovery where you suddenly remembered the date or brewed tea with perfect timing. Obviously, the ttruth was quieter than that. It’s just that some memories never came back. Some sentences still trailed off. You forgot words in the middle of them. Once, you asked Phainon where your daughter was while she was holding your hand.
But the worst of it passed.
You still got bad days, yes. Mornings when the fog didn’t lift until noon. Evenings when you cried for no reason you could name. But you weren’t vanishing. You were still here. And Calla was growing.
So Phainon adjusted. Again.
1. Never wait for the old normal to return. Make new ones, every single day. Mornings became slower. Softer. Phainon would prep breakfast before either of you woke—toast sliced in neat triangles, a post-it beside your cup reminding you: Add honey, not salt. (You did that once.) He’d kiss your temple and ask how you slept. Most days, you smiled. Some days, you asked, “Did we already talk?” And he’d smile back and say, “Not yet. But we are now.”
Calla, now four, understood more than she let on.
She started calling them “loop days.” When you seemed quieter. Tired. When your words got looser.
“Papa, is it a loop day?”
“Maybe,” he’d say. “Let’s make it a good one anyway.”
2. Tell her the truth, even when it's hard (and especially when it's hard!!)
He didn’t lie to Calla. Not once. Not when she asked why her mom stared at walls sometimes. Not when she asked why you forgot that she liked pink and not purple.
“She’s still your mama,” he’d say, tucking her in. “Her brain just gets really sleepy sometimes. That doesn’t mean her heart forgets you.”
Calla would think for a bit, then nod. “She still loves me sleepy.”
“Exactly,” he’d say, brushing back her curls. “Exactly that.”
3. Let you help, let you love, and even if it’s not perfect. Calla started drawing more. Pictures of the three of you holding hands, but sometimes she made your face with a blue swirly cloud instead of a mouth. When Phainon asked why, she said, “That’s for when mama’s words are hiding!”
You cried a little when you saw it.
Not loudly. Just quietly. Hands to your mouth, staring at the paper like it had rewritten the world for you.
4. Keep telling her stories of who you were, and who you still are. Phainon started keeping a journal. It’s not just for himself. For you. For Calla. A collection of your favorite things: the recipes you used to recite by heart, the way you used to hum when watering plants, your childhood dream of becoming an astronaut. He read parts of it aloud sometimes. On the porch, while you napped. While Calla scribbled in her own tiny glitter notebook beside him.
“This is the story of the bravest girl I ever met,” he would say.
Sometimes your eyes fluttered open. And sometimes you said, “Tell me again.”
So he did.
Every time.
One winter morning, the heater broke.
You’d both forgotten to get it checked.
Calla came into the living room in double socks and her favorite dragon hoodie, rubbing her eyes. “Papa, it’s cold.”
“I know, bug. We’re working on it.”
You were curled up on the couch, staring at the window like it was made of stars. Your hair was tied unevenly, your slippers on the wrong feet (one is blue, the other is green), but you looked peaceful.
“Do you remember the name of that soup you made last winter?” Phainon asked gently, kneeling by the coffee table. “The one with garlic and those weird glass noodles?”
You blinked. “Hmm. The broth was light… I remember the steam, it made me sneeze.”
“That’s good. That’s something.”
“...And… I added lemon last, didn’t I?”
Phainon smiled. “You did.”
That night, you made it together. You forgot the salt. Calla added too much parsley. But it was warm. And everyone had second servings. And afterward, Calla dozed off with a noodle stuck to her cheek, and you laughed so hard you cried.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.
And then one spring evening arrived, Calla came home from school holding a glitter covered project.
It was a poster. Neon purple, slightly crooked, full of stickers. At the center: a drawing of your little house. Crayoned faces. Her wavy hair. Your loose sweater. Phainon’s brows.
At the top, big letters:
“The best dad in the world!”
He blinked at it. “This is for me?”
She nodded proudly. “We had to draw our hero.”
Phainon knelt down, folding her into a hug.
“But I didn’t do anything big,” he said, half joking. “I didn’t fight dragons. I didn’t build spaceships.”
“You helped mama not disappear,” she whispered into his chest.
That was the moment he finally cried. Not quiet tears this time. Full ones. His shoulders shook. You reached across the couch and gripped his hand.
You still forgot things. But not everything. You remembered Calla’s laugh. The way she tapped her fork twice before eating. You remembered Phainon’s hand, always steady on your back when you faltered. You remembered how you loved him. Still loved him.
Even when words were hard.
Even when days blurred.
That part never faded.
The next weekend, you three took a walk.
A short one. Just down the street. Calla skipped ahead with a stick she found, waving it like a wand. You held onto Phainon’s arm. The wind felt nice on your skin. You didn’t remember where the old bakery used to be, but you remembered the taste of lemon tea, and how he always ordered one for you without asking.
You leaned your head on his shoulder.
“Thanks,” you whispered.
He looked down. “For what?”
“For holding everything. When I couldn’t.”
He shook his head.
“You’re still here,” he said. “You’re still holding me.”
So, how did Phainon become the best dad in the world?
He only followed six steps, just six.
And none of them were ever grand. None of them fixed what couldn’t be fixed.
But they built something gentler. Something enduring, something warm and soft.
A home that reshaped itself around grief without breaking.
A daughter who never stopped feeling loved.
And a partner, who forgot more things with each passing season, but never once forgot what safety felt like when held in his arms.
In the end, Phainon never needed the world to call him a hero.
He just needed Calla to smile when he tucked her in at night.
And you—to reach for his hand, even if you forgot why.
Notes: This was easy, i alr started writing since 6 am. Fanfic writing has become a full time job atp. But idrgaf. I need to train my writing skills for a portfolio anddddddddddd yeah. I promised my friends
Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡
whatcha want
phainon, mydei, anaxa (headcanons+fic): they try to woo u, they fail
phainon intimate fanfic and him asking for consent all the time (longer)
𐙚 SUMMARY: In a modern AU, a reserved, math-obsessed student (you) prepares for the prestigious Nationals math competition, slowly forming a quiet, unexpected bond with the ever-cheerful yet enigmatic Phainon. And while your world revolves around formulas and precision, Phainon watches you from the sidelines—curious, drawn in, and gradually learning to understand you through the language of numbers. As the competition nears, tension builds. You begin to ease your strict routines, letting Phainon into your life, unaware of how much he’s learning—not just math, but you.
𐙚 A/N: Hi!! I'm so fucked. I crammed this so bad................. I onl wrote this as an offering for Phainon. Idk man. Goodluck to me. WE WILL ALL GET PHAINON AD HIS LC!!!!!!!!!! MANIFEST MANIFEST!!!
𐙚 W.C: 8.5k
Anaxa didn’t even glance up from the monitor when he announced it.
“Top rank. Regional champion. You,” he said, sharp and almost lazy. “Congratulations. Nationals is in two weeks. Don’t embarrass us.”
There was a scattered beat of applause from the others—half-hearted, short-lived. Not because they didn’t respect you. They did. But you’d won too many times already. You didn’t smile. You never did. Just gave a small nod and turned your eyes back to the problem set you’d brought with you, already thinking ahead. Everyone else looked relieved that it wasn’t them expected to carry the weight of Nationals.
Phainon clapped a little longer than everyone else, even if he did it mostly out of instinct. Maybe also to see if you’d look up. You didn’t. You just adjusted the mechanical pencil between your fingers and started writing. No celebration. No smugness. Just a clean transition from victory to preparation, like your mind had already sprinted two weeks ahead without you.
He waited until the others filtered out of the room before sliding into the seat next to yours. Your notes were out, as usual—lined graph paper, faint sketches of triangle spirals in the corners, a few barely readable side equations that looked like your personal shorthand. You were midway through a set of recursive relations, flipping your pencil over and shading tiny regions of an imaginary shape you hadn’t finished sketching.
"You’re incredible, you know that?" he said, keeping his voice soft. Friendly. That usual tone that never quite gave away how hard his heart hit the inside of his ribs when you were this close.
You didn’t glance over. Just mumbled, “There’s still nationals.”
“That’s not a denial.”
You pressed the side of your pencil against your temple. “I didn’t study to impress people.”
“Good,” he said. “Because then I’d be very, very out of my league.”
That got him a brief exhale—almost a laugh, maybe. He smiled quietly to himself. It was always like this with you. No dramatic sparks, no confessions in the hallway, no big rom com moments. Just subtle shifts. Only barely there smiles. There's this slight change in your voice when you explained something and thought he was actually paying attention
He was. He really was.
"You’re still doing number theory this week?" he asked, nodding to your notes.
“Number theory, and complex optimization. The nationals committee has a history of using constraint based problems in the first round. And… including linear programming with edge cases. I’m trying to account for unusual variables.”
“You make that sound fun.”
“It is.”
There was something gentle in the way you said it, even if your tone didn’t change much. He liked hearing you talk about math more than he liked math itself—maybe that was the problem. You were fluent in this language. You thought in it, breathed it. And he didn’t. He was still stuck in the shallow end, watching you swim through vectors and primes like it was nothing. In his eyes, you were something else entirely.
But he was trying. You didn’t know that. Maybe it was better that way.
Later that night, in his room, he stared at the scanned copy of one of your old solution sets. You’d let it slip into his notes by accident. Maybe on purpose. He didn’t know. The paper had your name scribbled in the corner in small block letters, and the answer space had margins filled with diagrams no professor would ever require: loops within loops, a staircase of ratios descending inwards. Not just working out the solution—mapping it emotionally, too.
There was something about the way you thought that felt like art. You once solved an entire probability challenge backward just to demonstrate a flaw in its framing. He didn’t even understand the flaw. But he remembered how calm your voice was as you explained it to the class, as if you weren’t constantly carrying the pressure of being everyone’s expectation.
He wasn’t sure when it happened. When the fascination turned into something heavier. When your quiet concentration became something he’d seek out in every room. When your silence started feeling warmer than most people’s words.
Phainon didn’t tell Mydei about it. Not really. But Mydei knew something, of course—he always did. Once, when they were walking back from the library together, Phainon had grumbled something about being “math fucked” and “losing brain cells over logic gates.” Mydei had just looked at him, unreadable, then muttered, “You don’t like math. You like them.”
Phainon hadn’t denied it. Just kicked a pebble on the sidewalk and said, “What’s the difference if I’m learning for the right reason?”
Right now, the right reason was sprawled in the library’s farthest corner, buried under mock test printouts and three different pens. You were tracing something across the page—he couldn’t tell what from this angle. He hesitated by the doorway before walking over.
“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice light.
You didn’t startle. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Says who?”
“You’re not even in the nationals roster.”
“I’m studying vicariously,” he offered, flashing a grin.
You gave a small sigh, but didn’t ask him to leave.
He sat across from you, watching as you marked a value in red. Constraint minimization, he realized—probably some kind of modified simplex method. You liked visual cues, always highlighted in different shades. Red was for discardable outcomes. Blue for fixed values. Green for hypotheses. He’d memorized the palette without trying.
“You know you don’t have to do this,” you murmured, still focused on your work.
“Do what?”
“Follow me around. Pretend this is your thing.”
He hesitated. The grin faded a little.
“I’m not pretending,” he said finally.
You stopped writing. Not looked at him yet, but still.
“I don’t care about the numbers the way you do,” he admitted. “But I care about why they matter to you. And... that’s worth trying to understand.”
That got your attention. You looked up slowly, not angry, not even surprised. Just quiet. Tired, maybe. Tired of people trying to get something from you. Tired of always being the brain, the standard, the benchmark to beat.
He wished he could explain it better. That he wasn’t trying to win anything. He wasn’t chasing your answers. He just wanted to be near the questions that made you come alive.
“...I used to think people only noticed me when I solved things fast,” you said, almost too low to hear. “Like I didn’t matter outside of that.”
“You do.”
You blinked at him.
“I notice you even when you’re not solving anything,” he added, a little softer.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, pen still between your fingers, like you weren’t sure how to factor this variable in. Like you hadn’t expected honesty to be part of the equation.
You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t have to. You just turned back to your notes and pushed a blank page toward him. Handed him a pen.
“Try this one,” you said. “I’ll walk you through it.”
And you did. Quietly. Carefully. Like you actually wanted him to stay.
He didn’t solve it perfectly. Not even close. But you didn’t correct him harshly. You just crossed out one step, rewrote it, and said, “Closer.”
Closer. He could live with that
Twelve days before the competition, you stopped staying for lunch.
Phainon noticed it gradually—first the empty seat, then the unfinished water bottle left behind, then the absence of your voice during roll call. You were always quiet, but you were never gone. Now, you disappeared between periods, emerging only for tests and drills, vanishing again like a scheduled ghost.
He caught sight of you once in the third-floor study room. You were sitting with your hoodie drawn halfway over your head, glasses fogged slightly, hair pushed back in a way that looked unintentional. There were seven books stacked beside you, two calculators, three different notebooks open to wildly different problems. Your eyes didn’t even blink between lines. You were writing in loops, as if time itself bent into circles around your wrist.
He stood by the door for maybe thirty seconds before turning away. He hadn’t meant to interrupt. Hadn’t meant to hover. But you were so deep into it—into your world of vectors and bounds and proofs with ugly constants—that he didn’t dare step inside.
That evening, Mydei said, “They’re going to burn out.”
Phainon looked up from the practice sheet he’d half-filled with mistakes. He hadn’t realized Mydei was paying attention. Then again, Mydei always paid attention to things no one else bothered to watch.
“I know,” Phainon muttered. “I just don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything.”
“You’re not,” Mydei said, and went back to his own book.
Still, he couldn’t shake the image of you hunched over the desk, barely moving except to flip pages or change pens. It was the kind of focus that was a little frightening. Not because it was obsessive, but because it was clearly the only thing keeping you anchored. You didn’t trust the world, not entirely. But you trusted a good equation.
The next day, he brought a small coffee to the study room and left it by the door. Nothing fancy. Just the kind you always ordered—plain, warm, no sugar. He didn’t write his name on it. You probably knew it was from him, but if you didn’t, that was okay too. He left it anyway.
You didn’t acknowledge it when you passed him in the hallway two hours later, but you also didn’t throw it away.
That counted.
By the tenth day, you looked like you were made out of pencil lead and fraying patience. Your eyes were slightly red from staying up too long. You had a cough. Your posture had changed—slouched inward, like your spine had curled into itself to conserve energy. When you walked past the windows, you didn’t even glance up at the light. Your hands were always busy, twitching slightly when you solved problems mid-step, mouthing integers like incantations.
Phainon watched you from across the room during study hall. He wasn’t subtle, but you weren’t paying attention. He always saw when you were working through something—something with matrices, maybe, or Lagrangian optimization. You crossed out two full lines, rewrote them, circled a variable twice, then pressed the heel of your palm into your eyes like the numbers were starting to hum behind them.
It was as if he wanted to say something. Not something dramatic. Not some big motivational monologue. Just—you can breathe, you know. You don’t have to prove it all the time. But even that felt like too much.
Instead, he passed by your table on his way out and dropped a small eraser beside your book. You always borrowed one. Always forgot it. This one had a tiny sun drawn on it with a blue pen. You didn’t say anything, but you moved it closer to your notes and kept using it.
The next few days, he kept studying on his own. He didn’t bother pretending he liked it anymore—he’d moved past that phase. He liked understanding parts of it. Not the math itself, maybe, but the logic. The way you treated problems like puzzles, always finding the most efficient path from question to solution. He kept a folder now, filled with problems you’d solved in front of him. Sometimes he redid them with your steps beside his, trying to see where his mind wandered and yours didn’t.
He also started noticing your habits. You tapped your pencil three times before starting a proof. You wrote every square root without simplifying, unless explicitly told. You skipped the final boxed answer until you double-checked the sign of every constant. When you got stuck, you tilted your head to the left—not right, never right—and frowned as if disappointment were just part of the process.
He wondered if you even knew how many systems you carried in your head at once. How many variables you managed, even outside math. You rarely spoke unless asked. You never sought help. You moved through school like someone who knew how fragile time was and didn’t want to waste a second pretending to be someone else.
Eight days left. Phainon joined your review session by accident—or maybe it wasn’t an accident, but he pretended it was. Anaxa raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, which was either mercy or mild curiosity. You were already there, surrounded by open binders and highlighted theorems.
He asked one question. You corrected him quietly, barely glancing up. But then you passed him a page with an easier version of the same problem. No comment. Just... passed it to him like it wasn’t a big deal.
He kept that page.
Six days before the nationals, it rained. He found you sitting near the vending machine, hair damp, hoodie too thin for the wind. You had a small bag of crackers beside you and your notebook flipped open to a new page. This time, no spirals. Just equations. Dense ones. Partial differentials and strange notation. The kind that hurt his head if he looked too long.
“You’re going to get sick,” he said, handing you a dry napkin.
You took it. “Didn’t bring an umbrella.”
“You okay?”
“I have to finish the integration methods tonight. That’s the only thing I keep slipping on.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
You didn’t answer, but your jaw tightened slightly. The crackers stayed untouched. Your hand shook a little when you wrote something—he couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or from exhaustion.
“Can I sit?”
You shrugged.
He didn’t say anything after that. Just sat with you while the rain hit the windows and the world outside got blurred into noise. You solved two problems. He solved one and a half, badly. But you didn’t mock him. You just corrected a sign with your red pen, circled a line, and nodded.
“Closer,” you said.
He felt warmer after that.
Not because of the math. Not because of the rain.
You sneezed. Quiet, quivk, like you were trying not to draw attention to it. Your pencil paused mid equation, fingers curling tighter around it. Then another sneeze followed, this time a little sharper, less contained. You didn’t say anything, but your shoulders tensed slightly, and your hand brushed under your nose before you kept writing like nothing happened.
Phainon watched you from the corner of his eye. You didn’t look sick, not exactly, but you were definitely running warm. Your hoodie was bunched at the sleeves, collar loose, and there was a slight pink flush at the tips of your ears that hadn’t been there yesterday. It wasn’t dramatic—just off. And that was enough.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, voice light.
“I’m fine,” you said, and that would’ve been the end of it, if you hadn’t swayed a little when you leaned back to check your notes. Just a blink’s worth of hesitation. Your hand moved to steady your balance, fingers briefly flattening against the desk before you continued writing like nothing had happened.
“You’ve sneezed three times,” he added. “Statistically, that’s a pattern.”
You rolled your eyes, but didn’t argue. Another sniffle. You finally lowered your pencil and pinched the bridge of your nose like it was starting to hurt.
“I don’t have time to get sick,” you mumbled.
Phainon leaned his chin into his hand. “Pretty sure your immune system doesn’t care about your schedule.”
He saw it—the falter. The hesitation in your lips before you pressed them together. You were tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that caffeine doesn’t touch and focus can’t compensate for. Your notebook was filled with clean solutions, but the eraser marks had gotten more chaotic lately. Your last proof had a correction line that ran through four variables like a frustrated scrawl.
You looked like you were trying to hold the world together by sheer force of will. Phainon had no idea how you hadn’t collapsed already.
“Let’s go out,” he said suddenly.
You blinked at him. “What?”
“Come on. Just for a bit. Stretch your legs, walk, grab a snack. There’s a convenience store two blocks down.”
“I have to review,” you said automatically, already glancing back at your notes.
“You’ve been reviewing for seven straight hours.”
“Exactly.”
Phainon tilted his head. “You’re burning out. Your handwriting looks drunk. You just sneezed into your own shoulder. I am—scientifically—concerned.”
You stared at him. Not offended, not irritated—just confused, like you didn’t understand what he was trying to get out of this. And maybe you didn’t. Most people left you alone. Phainon hadn’t.
You rubbed your eye with the heel of your palm. “I’m not in the mood to hang out.”
“It’s not hanging out. It’s tactical energy recovery.”
You raised a brow.
“I’ll buy you a snack,” he offered. “Any one.”
That made you pause. Not because of the snack, probably. Maybe because it sounded easy. Normal. Like something someone who wasn’t constantly calculating would say.
“I’m not changing out of this,” you said, gesturing to your hoodie.
“Didn’t ask you to.”
You stared at him another few seconds. Then, finally, with a long, quiet sigh, you capped your pen and closed the notebook. You stood without a word. Phainon followed.
The wind had gotten colder since earlier. You pulled your sleeves down and kept your hands in your pocket, head ducked slightly. Your steps weren’t fast, but they were steady. Still, your shoulders moved a bit more than usual, like you were trying not to shiver.
“Your nose is pink,” he said gently.
“So is yours,” you shot back.
That made him laugh, surprised. “Wow. You do have a bite.”
You sniffled again. Didn’t reply. But you didn’t walk away either.
The convenience store’s lights buzzed softly when you stepped in. It smelled like microwaved curry and floor wax, comfortingly familiar. You wandered first, gravitating toward the drinks aisle with a slow shuffle, while Phainon trailed behind, hands in his coat pockets.
“You like those jelly cups, right?” he asked, nodding toward the bottom shelf.
You didn’t answer right away, just crouched slightly and picked one up. Held it in your hand like you were deciding whether it was worth it.
“Get two,” he said. “You can pretend I earned it.”
You looked at him then. Really looked at him. Your eyes were dull from the fatigue, but there was something flickering just under the surface—confusion, maybe, or something softer. He wasn’t sure.
“I feel kind of hot,” you muttered, half to yourself.
“You’ve probably got a mild fever,” he said. “Here.”
He stepped closer. Not too close, just enough to reach out, hand slow and open. You flinched, barely, but didn’t move away. His palm touched your forehead, fingers brushing against your temple. He expected to feel awkward. He didn’t. Just warm. Human.
You were, indeed, running warm.
He let the contact linger for a second longer, then lowered his hand.
You looked off to the side. “I should be reviewing.”
“You can review tomorrow.”
You shook your head, but it was weak. Your fingers squeezed the jelly cup just slightly.
He walked toward the checkout. You didn’t stop him.
He paid for both snacks, plus a bottle of ion water, and handed them to you outside. You took them, slowly. The sky had gone from pale blue to soft orange—late afternoon bleeding into early dusk. Your breath fogged a little when you exhaled.
“Just one night,” he said. “Don’t solve anything tonight. Don’t even open a notebook. Just... recharge.”
You looked down at the bottle in your hand. Read the label. Then, with no ceremony, you opened it and took a long drink.
“You act like you’re not smart,” you said.
He blinked. “Sorry?”
“You figure me out fast,” you added, quieter. “That’s not easy.”
He smiled. Not widely. Just enough. “I study you more than math.”
You exhaled through your nose, a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. But the tension in your shoulders loosened slightly. You walked beside him all the way back without pulling away, even when your sleeve brushed against his.
He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t ruin it.
You didn’t either.
That night, when you got back to the study room, you didn’t open your notebook. You just sat there, hood over your head, sipping your drink slowly. Phainon leaned back in his chair and let the quiet settle.
One night off.
The table’s surface was warm from the overhead light. Your arm pressed against it as you leaned forward, eyes locked on the scratchpad. The problem had three variables and an error margin no greater than ±0.05. So this was the kind of equation meant to eat hours: a balance model with variable-bound inequalities.
You’d written that down ten minutes ago and hadn’t spoken since.
Phainon shifted beside you, eyeing the margin of your notebook. There were no doodles this time. No arrows or metaphors or messy little tangents. Just the problem. Just you.
You’d stopped talking much three days ago. You still showed up, still reviewed, still scribbled on his printouts without asking. But your answers came slower. Less confident. Less sharp.
He didn't say anything about it. Not yet.
You pressed your palm to your forehead and muttered something under your breath. The pencil in your right hand twitched.
“You want to test boundary values?” he asked.
You didn’t look up. “What’s the point? It’s unstable no matter where x₁ lands.”
“It stabilizes at x₁ = 10,” he said. “If x₂ = 18 and x₃ = 15, the equation balances at—”
You were already writing it.
10 + 0.6(18) + 1.4(15)
= 10 + 10.8 + 21.0
= 41.8
He saw your jaw twitch.
“Too low,” you muttered. “It needs 42 exactly.”
“Try rounding x₂ up to 20.”
You scribbled again.
x₁ = 10, x₂ = 20, x₃ = 17
→ 10 + 12 + 23.8 = 45.8
“Too high.”
You exhaled sharply and sat back. The chair creaked beneath you.
Phainon didn’t speak for a moment. He watched you crack your knuckles, flex your neck to the side. You were tired again—he could tell. Not the kind of tired that could be fixed with a snack or a nap. The kind that settled under the skin. The kind that had you burning out in silence.
He looked back at the numbers. “Hm… Try interpolating? Let’s find x₂ that fits given x₁ fixed at 11, I think.”
You hesitated.
He nudged the pencil toward you. You didn’t take it.
“What’s the point if I’m just guessing?” you muttered.
He sat straighter.
“Hey,” he said, more level now. “You don’t guess. That’s not what you do.”
“I used to not guess,” you said. “Now I’m just throwing numbers until it fits. That’s not solving, that’s flailing.”
You didn’t raise your voice, but it was the most emotion you’d shown all week. And it settled between you like heat.
Phainon tilted his head, frowning faintly. “You’re still solving. You just don’t trust yourself when it’s slower.”
“I don’t have time to be slow.”
That silence again. The kind that dared someone to argue.
He didn’t. Not directly.
Instead, he pulled the notebook toward himself and began testing values. Small, controlled substitutions. Not to prove you wrong—but to try what you wouldn’t let yourself do. Try without crumbling.
Phainon leaned closer. “That’s within the error margin.”
“±0.05,” you echoed, eyes narrowing. “That’s close enough.”
The tension in your jaw didn’t release. Not right away. You just kept staring at the page, calculating again. Double-checking. Reducing. Making sure you weren’t wrong.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “That was a good solve.”
You exhaled, still not smiling. But your grip on the pencil eased.
Phainon didn’t push the moment further. He didn’t say anything reassuring. He just leaned back in his chair and looked at you—not expectantly, not with pity. Just... looked.
He’d watched you shift like this for days. From sharp precision to burning out. From holding yourself too tightly to finally slipping. Not in a way that made you fragile—just quieter. And he hadn’t realized, until now, how carefully he’d started tracking it. The rise and fall of your moods. The way your sleeves drooped past your wrists when you hadn’t slept. The way your eyes moved faster when your confidence returned.
He hadn’t meant to notice so much.
But he had.
And now, with the answer in front of you and your hands stilled, he didn’t know how to look away.
You finally broke the silence. “I haven’t studied properly in days.”
He nodded once. “I know.”
You stared at the solution again.
“You going to tell me I’m screwing up?” you asked.
He thought about it. Then: “No. You already know when you are.”
You looked at him. And for once, didn’t look away.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t kind, either. It just was.
Eventually, you stood. Packed your things slowly. Left the notebook open on the table. Phainon didn’t move, didn’t speak. He waited.
As you reached the door, you paused.
Then you left.
And he watched the half-solved page for a long time after, hand twitching once over the final line of the equation you’d both earned.
The day before nationals, you were staring at problem seventeen.
The question wasn't hard. Just dense. It was a nested inequality, no diagrams, three lines of conditions, and you’d already seen the structure before—maybe two sets ago, maybe last year’s regional finals. But your hands weren’t moving.
Your eyes dragged across the page. Back. Then again.
Nothing stuck.
Not the phrasing, not the shape of the functions, not even the constants. Every time you tried to scan it, it broke apart into noise—like reading with cotton in your ears. Like thinking through static.
The solution was probably two steps. Three, at most.
You couldn’t even start.
Someone knocked.
You didn’t look.
The knock came again—softer this time, a kind of hesitation behind it. Then the door clicked, and you heard it open anyway.
You didn’t have to turn around.
“Don’t,” you said, not even loud.
There was a pause.
“I’m just—”
“I said don’t.”
A beat.
Then footsteps.
Not retreating.
He stepped into the room anyway. Phainon, silent. Probably still in that same hoodie he wore when he didn’t want to draw attention. You didn’t turn your head. You just stared harder at the paper, as if concentration could be forced by spite.
“What do you want?” you asked flatly.
He didn’t answer.
The silence stretched too long. You hated it.
“You think showing up is helpful right now?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Your pencil scratched a line across the page, but it was aimless. More like a heartbeat line than math. You flipped to the next page.
Blank. Just grid lines.
You tapped the pencil three times, then pressed it to the paper again. No questions. No prompt. You just drew a symbol. Something meaningless. A circle with a line through it.
Your jaw locked.
“Go home, Phainon.”
Still nothing.
“You think being here does something? That it makes me feel less like I'm falling apart?” You laughed, hollow. “If you’re waiting for some last-minute wisdom to come out of this, don’t bother.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what?”
Nothing.
He just stood there, behind your shoulder.
You grabbed your binder and closed it, too fast. The snap echoed.
“Look, I don’t want to talk. I don’t want eye contact. I don’t want you sitting there acting like your presence is comforting. It isn’t.”
“I know.”
Your throat tightened.
“You think I didn’t notice?” you said, still not looking. “How everything slowed down the past two weeks? How I stopped keeping up with my logs, stopped doing three sets a day, stopped treating this like it mattered?”
“That wasn’t—”
“I let myself breathe, and now I can’t focus. I’m sitting here and I can’t even move past a two-line problem. Nationals is in the morning, and all I want is silence.”
Your voice was low. Sharper than you intended. But honest.
And you meant it.
Phainon shifted. A quiet inhale. Then nothing.
For a second, you thought he might say something. Some vague, clipped version of comfort dressed up as logic. Something he could pass off as neutral.
But he didn’t.
Because you’d made it clear you wouldn’t hear it.
You stood, moved to the far side of the room, pulled open your bag with fingers that wouldn’t stop twitching. You took out another mock set. Unopened. Pages pristine.
You didn’t sit. Just held it like it would matter.
Phainon hadn’t left yet.
You said, with your back turned, “I’ll delete your messages if you send any tonight.”
Silence.
And finally—finally—you heard him step back.
Then the door clicked shut behind him.
No goodbyes. No dramatics.
Just quiet.
Too quiet.
You didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. There wasn’t time for that. You sat down and opened the mock test like nothing happened. Like you weren’t seconds from snapping. Like tomorrow wasn’t the only thing waiting for you, bare-fanged and watching.
The first question blurred. You blinked. Read it again.
Then started solving.
Because that’s all you had left.
The bus ride was too quiet.
You’d brought your binder. Everyone did. Open sets, annotated diagrams, clipped formula guides taped to the back of laminated ID cards. You used to do the same. You used to flip pages just to feel sharp, to stay in rhythm. But today you just held it in your lap. Your thumb brushed the edge of the cover, but you didn’t open it.
Someone laughed two rows down. Probably a teammate. The coach said something about breathing and pacing yourself and trusting what you already know.
You didn’t hear most of it. Your ears buzzed. Your head was full, but not of numbers.
You blinked and the venue arrived. High ceiling, clean rows of chairs, dry ass ac that immediately made your eyes sting red. In the room, they had labeled placards on the desks and printed IDs with barcodes. Everything looked exactly like it had last year.
You were in the front row this time.
Not that it mattered much.
You sat, hands on your lap, knees stiff. Your legs wouldn’t stop bouncing. Your pen was already uncapped. You kept uncapping it, then recapping it again. Five times. Six. You didn’t notice until someone tapped your desk to hand you the test envelope.
You said “thank you” without making eye contact.
Then it started.
Booklet flipped. Timer started. You read question one.
And felt nothing.
It was combinatorics—one of your favorite categories. The kind of problem you used to eat for warm-up. The first half was trivial: inclusion-exclusion, pigeonhole principle, standard case count. But your brain tripped on the wording.
You read the same paragraph twice.
Then a third time.
The logic was familiar. The numbers weren’t. You tried sketching something, but your pencil felt heavy. The lead snapped halfway through your first diagram. You paused to sharpen it, fingers tight, breathing shallow.
You looked at the clock.
You’d spent nine minutes on the first item.
You flipped to number two. Then three.
Then back again.
The room was silent—pages turning, pens scribbling, the occasional cough.
Your pen hovered above the paper. You wrote half a line of working for problem one. Then scratched it out.
It wasn’t even wrong.
You just couldn’t focus.
Your stomach churned.
By the time you finished the first page, it had been twenty minutes. Your hand hurt. You weren’t writing fluidly anymore. You weren’t even calculating. Just stumbling between guesses and second-guessing every instinct you used to trust.
Problem four was geometry.
It was clean. Symmetrical. The kind of shape you’d usually smirk at.
Now it made your head throb.
Midway through the proof construction, you forgot why you were solving it. You blinked and realized you'd written a congruence that didn’t apply. Your triangle labeling was inconsistent. You had to rewrite half the setup.
Thirty-five minutes gone.
Only two questions answered—poorly.
You wiped your palms against your pants. They were damp. You hadn’t noticed.
You looked around.
Everyone else was working. Focused. Calm.
You stared back down at your paper and told yourself to just breathe.
One step.
You just had to think.
Just had to trust your training.
Just had to—
Your vision blurred for half a second. Not from tears. From sheer cognitive fatigue.
You closed your eyes.
This isn’t me.
That voice sounded distant. Like it belonged to a version of you that hadn’t already spiraled.
You used to feel alive during competitions. You used to get high off the logic. Used to finish before the timer. You’d lean back and double-check the whole thing just for fun. You used to walk out of the room with a grin.
Now you couldn’t even lift your head.
You wanted to quit.
Not the competition—just the moment. Just stop existing here. Just vanish from the desk and leave the half-scratched paper behind. You wanted to crawl out of your own body and sleep for a week.
You looked back at the clock.
Fifty-eight minutes left.
You hadn't solved more than two problems.
Your hands shook.
You flipped to the next page anyway. You didn’t want to—your body just moved on instinct. A functional equation. Weird domain restriction. You could see what it wanted you to do. Transform. Isolate. But the working wouldn’t come.
You wrote a line. Crossed it out.
Wrote a second. Scratched over it.
You felt your chest tighten.
This is a joke.
You stared at the ceiling, not blinking, not breathing. Then you looked down and forced yourself to pick up the pen again.
It didn’t matter how slow.
You weren’t going to leave it blank.
Even if everything felt like it was slipping sideways, even if you knew—knew—you’d fumble this set, you couldn’t walk out knowing you hadn’t tried.
So you solved.
Not well.
Not fast.
And then, the announcement came four hours later.
They posted the results on the auditorium wall, in clean rows under the school banners. It took less than a minute for the cluster of students to gather. Someone whooped when they saw their name. Another dropped to the floor in disbelief, grinning at their teammates
You didn’t move.
You stood farther off, half in the shadow of the hallway, arms crossed too tightly across your chest.
You already knew.
The one with the modular constraint and inverse evaluation. The one that was practically made for you. You'd caught the structure immediately—cyclic groups, reduced residues, classic residue pairing. It was clean. Direct. Elegant.
You’d known before they even collected your paper.
You knew the second you circled back to problem nine.
But you hadn’t notated your base step.
You skipped it.
You proved the process but didn’t state the root value.
No mark.
You lost five points for that.
Five points.
You walked up to the sheet anyway. Just to see it.
The margin between first and second place?
Five.
Your name was there. Clear as day.
National rank: 2nd Place Total: 91 / 100
People were already murmuring. A few were surprised. A few weren’t. Some were still talking about how you "looked out of it" during the morning set, how you’d "sat still for too long" during the first page.
First place had 96.
Third had 89.
You didn’t respond.
You’d never placed second before.
You read the number again.
Ninety-one.
Not once.
Not since the beginning.
You weren’t angry. You weren’t even crying.
You just stood there, tired. Your legs ached. Your hands felt like they weren’t fully yours.
You heard someone approach behind you. The footsteps were familiar. Lighter than Mydei’s. Too careful to be Anaxa. You didn’t turn.
Phainon stopped beside you.
He didn’t say anything.
You didn’t either.
For a moment, the results just... existed between you.
It should’ve been perfect.
That one line.
That one symbol.
That one stupid omission.
The logic was right. The reasoning was solid. It was the kind of solution they’d print in post-competition reviews. But it was incomplete. Technically correct, formally flawed. The judges hadn’t been harsh. Just consistent.
You exhaled, slow.
“You already knew?” Phainon asked, voice low.
You nodded.
“I left it blank.”
“You didn’t leave it blank.”
“I left it unanchored.”
Silence.
You didn’t want consolation. Not even from him.
Because this wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a failure.
It was worse.
It was that knife’s edge between greatness and flaw. The kind of mistake you can’t even be mad at. Just live with. Just swallow. Just remember when you look at your own name in second place next year and wonder how much tighter your grip has to be.
Someone asked to take a photo with the medalists.
You didn’t move.
Your hand twitched slightly when your name was called, but you stayed behind until the crowd thinned.
Phainon stayed with you.
Still silent.
It wasn’t a terrible ending.
You still placed.
You still qualified.
But when you finally walked outside—medal in your pocket, sweat dried cold on your back—the world felt too loud. The cars too sharp. The sunlight too white.
You’d done almost everything right.
Except the part that counted.
You didn’t wait for the team photo.
You stepped down from the auditorium steps, medal still boxed in your pocket, shoes hitting the concrete too hard. The sun was brutal. The wind made the sweat on your neck feel sticky. You crossed the street with no destination—just motion. Just away.
Someone called your name. You didn’t turn.
You heard the footsteps speeding up behind you. Rubber soles scraping pavement.
“Wait—” Phainon’s voice, breath catching.
You didn’t.
You kept walking until your throat started burning from how tight it was clenched. Until your fists were hot from how hard you were holding onto nothing.
He caught up anyway.
Of course he did.
“Can you—can you just stop for a second?”
You did.
But not for him.
You stopped because your legs were shaking.
You spun around.
“What.”
His mouth opened. Then closed.
You didn’t wait.
“No, really. What do you want, Phainon?” you snapped. “To say it’s okay? That I still did great? That I should be proud of second place?”
His expression shifted. “I wasn’t going to—”
“Because I don’t want to hear it.”
You stepped closer.
“I don’t want your version of understanding. I don’t want your... your weird quiet ‘I’m here’ look like that does anything for me. You know what I want?”
He didn’t move. Just stared.
“I want to go back two hours and slap myself for being so goddamn stupid.”
Your hands were shaking. “I missed one notation. One. You know how easy that base statement is? It’s mechanical. It’s an instinct. And I missed it because I was so fucking fogged I forgot how to write.”
Phainon said nothing.
You hated that.
You hated that he still wouldn’t argue.
“You knew,” you accused, voice low. “You saw me falling apart this week and you said nothing.”
“I tried—”
“You watched me. You followed me. You sat in that room and you knew I wasn’t in the right state, and you still didn’t stop me from spiraling.”
“I wasn’t going to control you.”
“Maybe you should have!”
It echoed off the buildings.
You took a shaky breath, but your lungs wouldn’t fill right. You swore your heart was in your throat.
“I don’t lose,” you whispered. “I don’t.”
Phainon’s brows knit. “It’s one mistake.”
“To you.”
“Not just to me.”
“Well, I’m not you!” you snapped, voice cracking.
Pedestrians crossed the street behind you. None of them looked your way.
“Do you know what they’ll say?” you asked bitterly. “That I choked. That I got distracted. That I got lazy. That the math kid finally cracked because they stopped grinding and started... I don’t know. Socializing.”
Phainon flinched. Barely.
Your breath caught.
And then, softer: “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
You stepped back, blinking hard, jaw locked.
“I was supposed to win. Cleanly. Not because I’m gifted, not because I’m smart—because I fucking worked for it.”
Phainon’s voice came quiet.
“You still did.”
“Don’t,” you warned.
You weren’t ready to hear anything from him. Not validation. Not warmth. Not that irritating, careful silence he kept bringing like it was supposed to help.
You didn’t want him to understand.
You wanted him gone.
So you said the one thing you knew would stick:
“I can’t stand being around you right now.”
He froze.
You didn’t take it back.
You turned.
You walked.
And this time, he didn’t follow.
It had been a week. Maybe longer.
You didn’t care. You didn’t count anymore. The calendar with Nationals circled in red was still on the wall, but you hadn’t looked at it since the results. You kept the lights dim. Didn’t open the window. Didn’t answer your messages. You couldn’t. Every ping made your skin crawl. The medal was still in its case, unopened. Your fingers had touched it once, briefly, by accident when reaching for a pen, and your body recoiled like it was hot iron.
You didn’t deserve to hold it.
You sat hunched over your desk again, notebook open to the same damned problem—the same sequence from that day. That warm-up with Phainon. The one you couldn’t solve cleanly. The one you laughed about, once.
You hated that memory now.
You ran through it again.
You hated how close you’d been.
You hated that it showed up again. You hated that you froze. You hated that you had been the one to say “it needs 42 exactly” out loud—and still blanked.
But you didn’t. You just kept tapping the lead of your pencil to the desk. Over and over. Like that would make the numbers change. Like if you rewrote them enough, your score would shift backwards in time and undo the second place.
Your door creaked.
You didn’t look.
You already knew who it was. He kept doing this now—once a day, maybe twice. Quiet steps, paper bag rustling, some drink left on the corner of your desk. He didn’t say anything. You liked that. No words meant you didn’t have to scream.
But this time was different.
Phainon didn’t leave.
He sat beside you.
Not at a distance. Not lingering behind you. He sat—right there—on the edge of the desk like he belonged, like you weren’t halfway to a breakdown, like he wasn’t the last person you wanted to see right now.
You didn’t tell him to go.
You just snapped.
“I fucking had it.”
Your voice cracked on the first word. You didn’t care.
“I solved this. Two weeks ago. I said the answer out loud. I knew the spread. I knew the constraint.”
He didn’t speak.
“I said 42. I said it needs 42 exactly. I even adjusted the values with you. We got 41.96 and laughed because we were close, remember?”
You stared at the paper.
“You know what I got in Nationals?” You didn’t wait. “A time warning. I blanked. I hyperfocused. I optimized the wrong case, and then—then I panicked, Phainon. I panicked.”
Your throat clenched.
“I missed five points. Five points I could’ve solved in my sleep.”
The pencil snapped in your hand.
You stared at the broken lead, then the paper, then your own shaky fingers.
“I don’t get second place. I don’t choke. I don’t choke. I was the kind of person who didn’t choke. Who wrote the neatest notation. Who finished with five minutes to spare. Who got asked to coach others, because I was always sharp, always clean.”
You bit your lip.
“And I blew it. Over one question I’d already seen.”
The silence pressed against your ears.
“I ruined it.”
Still no reply. Just breathing. Just presence.
Your fingers curled, trying to keep steady.
“I hate this. I hate being this person. The person who peaked early. The person who was promising and then lost.”
Your voice dropped.
“I hate that it’s me.”
You felt your chest cave in a little—like air was too much to take in.
“And I can’t stop going over it. I can’t stop. My brain won’t shut up. I wake up thinking of equations. I stare at the ceiling and count backwards. I solve this problem again and again and it never changes.”
You let the pencil fall.
“I lost. I lost. And I can’t even scream because I don’t want anyone to hear how broken I sound.”
The tears came hot. You didn’t wipe them.
You closed your eyes. “I don’t know who I am if I’m not winning anymore.”
Then—
Warmth.
Not words. Not footsteps. Just arms around your shoulders, sudden and too human, too solid.
Phainon pulled you in.
No announcement. No breathy confession. No stupid I’m here for you monologue.
Just a silent, firm hug like the air had decided you’d had enough and finally let you collapse.
Your fists clenched weakly against his sleeves.
You wanted to scream again.
You didn’t.
You just stayed there, held in a silence you didn’t know how to break, shoulders trembling, breath stuttering, eyes blurry, voice too small when it came again:
“…I’m still solving it.”
And he said nothing.
Just held you tighter.
You stared at it for so long you forgot to breathe.
You’d seen the variables before. The shape of the function, the weighted coefficients, the margins for error. You’d memorized every possible spread that week before Nationals. Burned it into your skull, dreamed of the numbers like they were prophecy. You knew the bounds. You knew the behavior. You knew what was optimal.
Exactly what you needed. Balanced. Minimal error. Clean notation.
You swallowed.
This was what it looked like when someone else solved your problem.
Not the kind of problem written in a book.
The kind of problem that defined your life.
You didn’t say anything at first. What was there to say?
That he used your notation?
That he probably went through your old scratch paper?
That he even wrote like you now—left margin wide, decimals aligned, iterations clearly marked?
That the one thing you hadn’t gotten right, the one thing that shattered your momentum and your pride and everything you thought made you worth something—he solved it in your language?
You pressed your palm to your face.
The tears didn’t come this time. Just heat. The kind that made your eyes sting and your ears burn.
You weren’t angry at him.
You were angry that it still mattered this much.
He said nothing.
You finally spoke.
“…You used my margin system.”
A pause.
Then, low and hoarse: “It made the most sense.”
Your hand trembled as it dropped to the desk.
“I gave up on this.” You stared at the page like it was some kind of curse. “And you didn’t.”
“I didn’t have to perform in front of a panel,” he said.
You bit your lip.
“I still blanked. Even though I knew the spread. Even though I had this. I still choked.”
Silence.
“I don’t choke,” you muttered again, voice smaller.
Phainon didn’t argue. He just sat beside you, fingers loosely laced in his lap, expression unreadable.
You hated how quiet he was being.
You hated that he wasn't trying to fix you.
You hated how real it made everything feel.
“I thought I could… I don’t know. Rebuild it,” you muttered, eyes flicking across the page again. “Like if I solved this, just this one… if I got it cleanly, then maybe I could forgive myself.”
He glanced down.
“I didn’t solve it for that,” he said quietly. “I just… kept seeing you staring at it.”
You laughed under your breath. Not amused. Not even bitter. Just tired.
“It’s so stupid.”
“It’s not.”
Your voice cracked. “It is. It’s one number. A decimal shift. And it’s been clawing at me like—like the loss means I’m less. Like if I didn’t get it, I don’t deserve anything I had before.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
“Everyone says I’m gifted. That I was made for this. That I was ‘born for precision.’ But what kind of genius blanks on a number they said out loud two weeks before the exam?”
He turned his head, just slightly.
“You.”
You froze.
Phainon’s voice didn’t waver. “You did. You blanked. You panicked. You lost.”
You didn’t move.
He continued, gently:
“And you’re still you.”
That pierced deeper than any sympathy would’ve.
Because it wasn’t comfort.
It was truth.
You looked at him for the first time.
He didn’t look triumphant.
He looked exhausted.
Like he’d carried the weight of that number for days—not because it was hard, but because you were.
Because watching you disappear into yourself was worse than not knowing the answer.
You didn’t realize how tight your grip had gotten until the edge of the paper started to crumple in your hand.
You set it down.
“I still lost,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“I hate it.”
“I know.”
The tears stung again.
“I hate that I care so much.”
He didn’t respond this time. Just leaned back slightly, letting the air between you return. Not out of cruelty. Just space. Like he knew you needed it.
You glanced down at the scratch again.
There it was. Your ghost of a victory. Written in handwriting that wasn’t yours. Solved by someone who wasn’t onstage. Who wasn’t panicking. Who hadn’t been trained for this the way you had.
“I was supposed to be better,” you muttered. “Than them. Than this.”
Phainon tilted his head. “Than me?”
You looked away.
“No,” you admitted. “Than myself.”
The words fell flat, bare, real.
You stared at the final boxed answer. The clean, round 42.04.
“That’s the score I needed.”
“It is,” he said softly.
You ran a hand through your hair, trying to gather something like breath.
Your chest still felt tight.
But not crushed.
You weren’t okay. Not even close. But your hands had stopped shaking.
And for the first time in over a week, you weren’t reciting the question in your head. You weren’t counting factors on your fingers. You weren’t spiraling through iterations.
You were just sitting. Still. Quiet.
Beside someone who had gotten there, when you couldn’t.
Beside someone who didn’t offer forgiveness, because they knew you weren’t asking for it.
Phainon shifted, about to speak—
—but didn’t.
You reached forward.
Picked up the paper.
Folded it once.
Then tucked it into the corner of your notebook like a scar.
A reminder.
A truth.
The perfect notation you forgot, and someone else remembered.
a/N: BEFORE YALL COME AT ME YES THIS IS LINEAR WEIGHTED OPTIMIZATION. THE IDEA AROSE WHEN I REMEMBEERED THE GUY I LIKED AND I WANTED TO LEARN MATH BS HE MADE IT SOUND FUN:((. This ENTIRE formula was something I did wayyy back. Idek remember the process but when I dug my old notes, I saw my tiny comments step by step. If the math is wrong.......... feel free to tell me. pls bro I based this off an old scratch paper GIVE ME A BREAK. WE ARE ALL GETTTING PHAINON. I'm so sorry if this was rushed dawgggggggggggggg
Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡
Would anyone want a phainon fanfic of him with a math nerd reader and him trying his best ot learn it js to impress u
If I did write one..... Is anyone interested??.#.2.2?; im actually writing it rn and it's due like the same day he's released
🤷🏼🤷🏼🤷🏼🤷🏼
Plot is it's like modern au and angst a bit bec reader has always been closed off and alone but phainon rlly interested in reader. Mf wins competitions and doodles alot and Phainon js wants to understand you more so he learns thru you thru mathematical equations, your favorite formulas, your way of finding shortcuts, etc etc.
Phainon hides his inner turmoil behind smiles, you hide yours behind numbers. The more he understands math the more he begins to understand you. He wants u to open up but he hasn't shown you the real him
He sees u as daedalus—brilliant but trapped in ur own labrinth. He bcomes Icarus, flying too close, too fast. Angst: can hr teach you without destroying himself? Can you let someone in w/o collapsing?
MAJOR EVENT: you lose a major competition which is ur girst failure so u spiral. Phainon learns something you NEVER WANTED anyone to know— maybe a deeply personal notation. He uses it maybe accidentally trying to cheer u up and u lash out
