"In every wridden word — there's magic."

Call me Nevermore. She/Her. 30 Years. Writer of Poetry & Acrylpainting-Artist.

[nevermoresworld]

"The price of loyalty."

How often did I catch you;

when everyone have thrown you away?

How often did I lack of sleep, because you where sad and needed someone to talk to?

How often did I neglected my own needs to fulfill yours?

What did you give me?

The cold shoulder.

As soon I wasn't your puppet anymore,

did things on my behalf, you came back.

Like nothing, you crashed in and you take, take, take—

Until I was done with you.

You said you hate me, because you had an 'unhealthy fixation' towards me—

And I told you, it wasn't my fault.

My only fault was, to be so blind for so long and being manipulated, and corrupted, by you.

Go.

Just go.

[elysiumae]

like gravity.

⟢ pairing: phainon x f!reader

⟢ word count: 19.6k

⟢ tags: pacrim!au, angst, hurt-comfort, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, action, big robots punching big aliens, smut (mdni)

Fourteen drops, twelve kills. Phainon is the best ranger the Pan Pacific Defense Corps has and, with the threat of the Breach looming on the horizon, the soldier that they need. But not even he can pilot a Jaeger alone.

⟢ chapters: one | two | three | four | five | six | seven

VII. EQUILIBRIUM

The silence in the War Room is nearly palpable in the wake of Anaxagoras’ presentation.

At the table, the General sets down the report briefing in her hands and takes a moment to rub her temples. It has been six years since she’s taken up the mantle of General and in that time, she’s signed the orders, delivered the speeches, watched the many rangers under her command go out there and never come back. To step into a Jaeger is to stare Death in the face, every single time. And all her Rangers know it.

But this report puts a cold, sinking feeling in her stomach, one she hasn’t felt since the day Phagousa fell. Since the day Helektra died.

“Enough with the technical details.” Aglaea raises a hand before the professor can dive back into his probabilities and calculations and formulas. “Just tell me: will it work?”

Anaxagoras crosses his arms over his lab coat, left eyelid twitching as he glances over his shoulder at the numbers crawling across the screens. For the past week, he’s been running on nothing but caffeine, pure insanity and the threat of the apocalypse looming over the horizon. “Well, if you want me to give you a detailed breakdown of each scenario—”

“Anaxagoras.”

The professor holds her tired glare for a few seconds before he lets a sigh escape. “You’re no fun at all, you know that?” When the General doesn’t respond, he lets his head fall into a nod, turns his head back to the screens. “But yes. It will work. The Breach will be shut and we’ll never see another kaiju again,” he pauses, “unless somehow a new Breach is opened, although the probability of that happening is one in thirty three mil—”

“And the cost?”

Of all the questions he’d known she’d ask, this is one that he hadn’t wanted to answer. Anaxa purses his lips. “I’m not sure,” he admits, and Aglaea raises an eyebrow — she knows how much he loathes uncertainty. “I’ve been making preparations with Hyacine to have someone drift with a kaiju brain soon — the closer to the date and the less they know, the better. But according to my models…” He takes a deep breath. “More than three, less than eight. All definitely categories higher than IV. I’ve been working on Jaeger upgrades as fast as I can but… there’s a high chance that every ranger that goes out there will not come back.”

The reality hangs in the air between them, stark and grim. Aglaea is quiet for a long moment.

“Of course,” she murmurs after a while, more to herself than to Anaxa. “The price of saving the world would be too cheap otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

Anaxa doesn’t answer. Her eyes fall onto the report beside the apocalypse schematics, the battle preparations. Rangers, broke into the mess hall storeroom, stole five bags of pizza dough, entire box of jello, few other sundries. Then she reaches out to flick the switch, and the displays with all their terrifying predictions and cold calculations vanish, plunging the room into a solemn, silent darkness.

“We will finalise the operational order tonight,” the General says at last. Her voice has regained its steely composure. “I’ll inform the rangers after the drifting is complete.”

Anaxa’s mouth presses into a thin line. “General, with all due respect, they deserve to know—”

“They will know,” Aglaea interrupts. “They will know the moment they need to. But for now…” Her eyes flicker back to the report about the stolen jello, and the tightness at her mouth softens, ever so slightly. 

“Let them be, just for a while longer.”

The air in the Shatterdome has been lighter lately, you think.

You don’t think it’s just you that’s feeling this way. The recent victories against the kaiju — despite the last one landing you in a four day coma — seem to have carved out a fragile space amidst the chaos for something that feels almost like peace. The mess hall isn’t as hushed anymore, engineers linger a little longer over their coffee, and the General even flashes you something resembling a smile when she passes you in the corridors. It’s as if the whole base has let itself exhale, if only for a moment.

And in the midst of it all, Phainon smiles more often. He’s always been someone who does that for others — that brilliant, camera ready one that you’ve seen plastered across television screens and news reels and PPDC recruitment posters. It’s a great smile. Effortlessly polished, blindingly charismatic, utterly confident. It almost stands like a shield against the fear of the kaiju, the uncertainty of the future. You can see why the corps wanted him as their poster boy so badly.

But the smile he gives you is different. You catch it when you wake up tangled in his arms, when you share a cup of shitty coffee over breakfast, when he watches March challenge you to a shoot off at the range. It’s softer, you think. Happier. More real.

And you think you can get used to it, this new normal. You want to listen to March and the twins argue over water is wet, and spar with Mydei while Phainon pouts from the sidelines. Sometimes, you read whatever books Castorice shyly offers to lend you when time allows and discuss Jaeger specs with Dan Heng at the hangar. And at night, you fall asleep on your creaky mattress to the warmth of Phainon’s body curled around yours, his steady breathing on the back of your neck and his arms wrapped around your waist.

So, despite the absurdity of having to face death in a big metal suit with an oversized, pointy stick, you find yourself slipping into the rhythm of it anyway. The quiet moments you steal, the kisses Phainon sneaks in the corridors, between meetings — the sharp edges of constant fear wearing down by the simple act of simply living. Slowly, it starts to feel less like a temporary reprieve from the running you’ve always known, and more like a life you could actually live.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t realised your newfound happiness was nothing more than a thin sheet of glass, until it shattered right under your feet.

When you think back on it, you probably should have guessed, somehow. Everything had gone perfectly — too perfectly — that morning. You’d woken up tangled in Phainon’s arms, laughing as he’d conspired to keep you in bed with his mouth and clever fingers. The mess hall had served your favourite breakfast item. Even the notoriously fickle coffee machine had decided to play nice for once. 

And now, you’re sitting in the War Room, listening to the professor explain how it will take all of your lives to save the world.

His voice is steady as he lays it all out: the equations, the probability models, the cold math of survivability. The Breach can be closed, yes, but it will be preceded by a surge that can only be described as catastrophic. Five kaiju will come through — vital knowledge gained from K-Science finally attempting a drift with a kaiju brain — and the number puts a heavy, sinking feeling in your gut. Every Jaeger on hand will be needed to hold them back, and even then, the odds are brutal.

“Nikador will carry the payload, accompanied by Khaslana,” Anaxa says, tapping on the displays. The schematic expands to show all of you the bomb that will finally seal the Breach once and for all. “Trailblazer and Akivili will clear the way, try to intercept as many kaiju as possible. The Precursors will send their largest, their strongest in a last ditch attempt to destroy our world. The likelihood of all teams returning is…” His pause speaks more than the numbers on the display ever could. “Low.”

For a moment, no one says anything. You can barely process the plan at all, just the word low ringing in your ears like the wail of the Shatterdome’s sirens.

Stelle and Caelus exchange glances, their expressions unusually serious. March’s lower lip is trembling, her eyes suspiciously shiny. Dan Heng reaches out to squeeze her shoulder. When you glance to the left, Castorice looks pale and withdrawn, while Mydei’s lips are pressed into a hard, unforgiving line. He looks like he’s biting back the urge to argue against inevitability.

And Phainon… Phainon’s face is unreadable. It’s the worst thing you could be looking at right now, you think. Almost like a lake that has frozen over completely, revealing nothing under its surface. 

Low.

The General is the one to break the silence. She does not apologise for what she’s asking of all of you, and neither does she say anything to rouse you to action. There is only a grim belief in her eyes — that despite the fear, every single person in this room will still get into their Jaegers to do their jobs and save the damn world.

“The professor will work on some upgrades and repairs to give you every advantage you can get out there.” You think you see her expression falter for the briefest moment, before she smoothes it over and continues. “The longer we delay, the more time the Precursors have to prepare ammunition against us. We’ll commence the operation in three days.”

Three days. Countdowns. It’s almost funny, how you escaped one hourglass just to fall straight into the quicksand of another. Seventy two hours left until the world demands everything you have to give.

“For the next three days, there will be no assignments. All of you are free to spend your time as you see fit.” The General presses her lips together, her gaze sweeping over the room as though she’s Memorising every face. “Any questions?” And when no one says anything, she just nods slowly. “Then, everyone is dismissed.”

To your surprise, Phainon is the first to leave the room. Just stands, gives a tense but small nod to the General, and then walks out without so much as a glance back over his shoulder.

A slight sting goes through you, but you stay in your seat, taking a moment to gather your scattered thoughts and emotions. “Three days, huh…” Stelle finally looks up. It’s a little wobbly, but at least she’s managed to get something resembling a smile onto her face. “Guess we better call the guys back at the HSS… finally fess up about destroying Madam Herta’s quantum supercomputer…”

The twins file out, followed by a softly sniffling March and a stone-faced Dan Heng. Mydei tugs Castorice up, pulls her into a brief, one-armed hug before the two of them exit the room as well. The ranger gives you a short nod as he passes — there’s hard determination flickering in his golden eyes, like he’s ready to punch those probabilities in the face and win. The professor leaves too, muttering something about finishing up some upgrades.

And then, it’s just you and the General left.

She studies you with those sea green eyes, and for a moment, you’re reminded of the first time the two of you met in that jail cell in Marmoreal. So much has happened between then and now. Her gaze isn’t harsh, just assessing — as though she’s wondering whether you’ll ask her to cut you free of this fate again, or weighing your resolve against the impossible demands being made of you. She is the one who brought you here, after all.

When you don’t speak, she does. “You’re willing to do this?”

A defeated laugh bubbles out of you at that. Aglaea simply looks at you, and you shake your head slowly. “Die? Not really, no…” You stare down at the floor between your boots. “But Phainon… he’ll definitely go out there. He won’t leave anyone behind.” The twins, March, Dan Heng, Castorice, Mydei… “And if he does… how can I let him go alone?”

Aglaea watches you for a beat longer before her expression softens. It makes her look years younger, more human in a way you’ve never really seen her before. “I get it,” she says, her voice quiet with an understanding that you can’t quite place a finger on. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad that I was wrong about you.” She gives you a small, genuine smile, and then makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Go on, then. I’m sure you’ll want to be by his side.”

You exit the room after a quick nod to Aglaea. The corridor is empty, the silence a stark contrast to the roaring in your ears. There’s a suffocating feeling in your chest, a tangled knot of dread and resolve that you know only one person can help unravel. You hesitate for a second, deciding which way to go, before you let your feet take you to where you need to be.

They bring you to a familiar maintenance ledge. And sure enough, Phainon is already there with his legs dangling over the water, staring out at the ocean.

You ease yourself down next to him, the same way he’s done so many times for you. He doesn’t acknowledge you, gaze locked on some unseen point on the distant horizon, but you see the way his fingers twist in his lap — a mirror of the turmoil roiling in his mind. So you simply sit there with him, and let the rhythmic lap of waves against the concrete pillars far below you fill the silence.

Finally, a hollow laugh escapes him. 

“I thought countdowns were a thing of the past for us,” Phainon says. His voice sounds stripped of its usual warmth, leaving behind something raw and weary and just… defeated. It’s as though the weight of the mission has already crushed him underfoot. “I know we’re rangers, and it’s stupid, but…” He drags a hand down his face, blue eyes still fixed on the waves beneath his feet. “But I just thought we’d have more… time, you know?”

The way his voice cracks on the word time makes something chip away inside of you. You’d thought so, too. “We still have three days,” you tell him softly. “Seventy two hours.”

Phainon snorts at that, and the sound is wrecked and a little desperate. It makes your heart ache. “Three days? Three decades, no— thirty lifetimes wouldn’t be enough to spend with you.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, before he lets his head fall to his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

What is he apologising for? “None of this is your fault, you know that.”

His fingers tighten on the railing — the same one he’d fixed for you — until his knuckles strain white against his skin. “But I’m the reason you’re here in the first place.” Phainon finally turns his head, and the sight you’re met with steals the air from your lungs. His eyes are wet with unshed tears. “I was so happy to finally see you again, you know? To have you here with me, despite the danger. But now…” 

His voice drops to a broken whisper, barely audible over the water. “Now it’s like I brought you here to die.”

You don’t answer his words. Instead, you reach out and let your fingers brush over his cheek, catching his tears before they can fall. His lashes are impossibly soft. He closes his eyes at the contact, a shudder running through him as he leans into your palm. One of his hands comes up to hold yours there, as though it’s the only solid thing left in a world that’s crumbling apart.

“I still would have died, if you hadn’t,” you finally murmur into the quiet between the two of you. It’s almost like a confession, as your thumb brushes over his damp cheek. “Maybe from a screwed up drop, a bullet to the head, bleeding out in some dirty back alley somewhere…” Phainon stiffens when you say that, but it’s the truth, isn’t it? “Or in some different way, altogether. Alive, but…” you struggle to find the right word, and eventually give up. “Not really living. You know?”

You watch his face carefully, see the way your words slowly sink past the guilt eating at him. You slide your hand up further, cupping the curve of his jaw. He keeps his eyes closed and his breathing hitches slightly, but he’s listening. Still here, with you.

“So, if I had to choose,” you continue, voice softer now, “I think I prefer to go this way.”

A sound that’s half a laugh and half something else escapes him. When he opens his eyes, they’re overflowing with a tenderness that you think ruins you inside out. “Punching a giant alien in the face?” Phainon asks, his voice hoarse.

“No.” You shake your head. “With you.”

Phainon looks at you for a long, suspended moment. The agony in his eyes doesn’t vanish, but it shifts, tempered by a gentle, aching thing that you can only describe as deep-seated affection. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he lets his forehead fall forwards to rest against your shoulder, entire body leaning into yours like even that distance is too much for him to bear.

You can feel the faint tremor that runs through him, the slow, measured exhales brushing warm against the curve of your neck. And for some reason, you find yourself thinking back to the first time you’d met him here. Past the shattered bottle of whiskey and that tipsy game of truth or dare, beyond the rusted railing that had worried him so. Back to when you’d sat side by side for the first time in years, but still felt worlds apart — two jagged pieces that could and would never fit together. You’d been so certain that you’d never be drift compatible with this man, the boy you’d once known turned hero with no space for you in his life.

And now, if dying means saving the world side by side with him… well. It doesn’t seem like the worst way to go, after all.

“Three days.” His words are muffled against your shoulder.

Your fingers card gently through his hair. “Mmhmm.”

“Seventy two hours.”

“Yep.”

Phainon lifts his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are still red-rimmed, but clear now. He licks his lips slowly, and then takes a deep breath.

“Spend them with me?” His voice comes out so quiet, so pleading that it’s almost carried away by the sea breeze. It’s almost like he’s asking “spend the rest of your life with me?” instead. Because, in a way, that’s exactly what he’s asking. And in response, you just smile, lean forward to kiss his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his lips.

“What else was I supposed to be doing?”

Phainon laughs a little wetly, the sound catching in his throat, and then scratches at his neck, looking suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t— in case you had something important to do, or… or maybe something you wanted—” He’s stammering, as if he can’t quite believe that your answer came so easily, so absolutely. It’s such a sweet contrast to the despair of just a few minutes ago that you can’t help the warmth that rushes through you.

“Mm, I guess I do have something important to do,” you lean in, suddenly teasing. Only Phainon could drag you from the precipice of despair and make you feel like a giddy teenager all within the span of minutes. “You.” 

He chokes, the sound catching in his throat like he’s forgotten how to breathe. “What?”

Your world might be ending in seventy two hours, but you hope that this newfound ability to utterly short circuit Phainon’s brain is something that doesn’t. Yet something else to add onto your to do bucket list, right under the bullet point with his name on it.

“Just kidding,” you tell him, and start to lean back. “Come on, we should—”

Phainon drags you back by the wrist and brings your mouth to his. There is no hesitation in it — he kisses you like he’s trying to steal the very air from your lungs with a desperate, burning intensity. Like he wants to brand the shape of your lips, the taste of your mouth onto his very soul, as a memory to carry into whatever comes next.

When he finally breaks away, both of you are breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. The countdown hasn’t stopped. The statistics are still the same. But perhaps, you want to believe in the two of you more than you believe in the numbers, in the professor’s so-called prophecy and fate.

“Together?” Phainon whispers. You lace your fingers with his and press a kiss to your joined hands.

“Always.”

The next three days stretch and contract in a strange rhythm. It’s both an eternity and the blink of an eye — too much time to sit with the dread and not nearly enough to do everything you suddenly wish you could. But you make do with what you have, you suppose, and everyone grapples with the countdown in their own way.

Every morning after breakfast, the twins, Dan Heng and March huddle together to do a video call back home to the HSS. March’s eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, but every time a fellow ranger passes she wipes her nose on her sleeve and offers a wobbly salute, like it helps to hold her together. Stelle and Caelus default to their sense of humour. You swear you spot them once, digging with intense focus through the scrap heap outside the maintenance bay. Looking for the perfectly ugly piece of junk to carry into battle, Caelus tells you, when you question them about it over dinner. It’s a good luck charm.

Castorice spends her time putting together handmade gifts for the General and the three siblings. Something for them to remember us by, just in case, she says softly. Takes my mind off things, too. Mydei uses his hands as well, just in a more visceral way. The repetitive, thunderous impact of his fists on the training dummies echo from the combat room. You see him once, chest dripping with sweat, delivering a blow so powerful the dummy’s head shears clean off and goes spinning across the room like a shot put. 

And Dan Heng… copes. There’s nothing outwardly different about the way he acts — still quiet, still efficient, still the steady anchor in the storm — so you can only assume he’s processing it all in his own way. Perhaps for him, the routine is solace enough for him.

As for you and Phainon, you steal your moments where you can. Aside from the necessary time set aside for sparring and drills, you spend the hours wrapped up in each other. In the quiet, with the rest of the world locked out, you’re reminded of an old movie you’d once watched to pass the time. 

It had been about a cruise liner that struck an iceberg, sinking slowly beneath the waves in the dark as people struggled with the helplessness of an inevitable fate. You didn’t remember much about the movie, but there had been an old couple, lying side by side, holding each other as the icy waters poured in under the door. You’d thought it was the height of narrative indulgence then — a sentimental, foolish waste of seconds that could have been spent fighting or fleeing. 

But now, wrapped in Phainon’s arms, you think you understand it with an aching clarity.

“We are so boring,” you find yourself saying, on what might be the second last afternoon of your lives. “We have three days left and we are spending two out of those seventy two hours watching a movie. A bad one, at that. This got twenty six percent on Rotten Tomatoes!”

The two of you are lying in the bottom bunk, your mini-projector casting an old action movie across the opposite wall. His legs are tangled with yours, arms wrapped so tightly around your waist you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. You haven’t absorbed a single word the lead actress has said for the last ten minutes.

And you want this to last forever.

“That’s exactly why we’re watching it. It’s so bad that it’s funny,” Phainon corrects. He presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, then another just under your ear. His fingers trace idle patterns along your arm. “And we’re watching the movie in each other’s arms. There’s a significant difference.”

He’s right, of course, but conceding would be boring, and you’re not about to hand him the victory so easily. 

“Yeah, but.” You hold up a finger in mock argument. “Imagine we survive and have all the time in the world. We’d be so boring. Just two ex-rangers with puttering about and giving interviews and making guest appearances on history documentaries until we turn old and grey.” You wrinkle your nose at the idea. “I’m too young to retire.”

Phainon lets out a little huff behind you. “Could get a job,” he suggests, his tone deliberately light.

“I have no transferable skills. What am I going to smuggle after the kaiju disappear, huh?”

He nuzzles into your shoulder. It’s stupid, really, how warm he makes you. Not just on the outside — gods know the man runs hotter than a Jaeger’s reactor — but more of how he makes everything inside you feel as though it's melting. Perpetually. “Organs.” You twist around to give him a dubious look and he just bats his lashes at you. “Since you already stole my heart.”

This shamelessly cringey man… “I’m lactose intolerant, you know.” He looks surprised at that.

“You are?”

“I am now.”

Phainon just grins, utterly unrepentant, and pulls you closer. “What else?” he whispers, looking up at you. His eyes are bright with something that makes your heart clench, sunlight glittering upon ocean waves.

“You mean, what other jobs I’d do?”

“No.” He shakes his head, lips brushing your temple. “What else is in this wildly boring future of yours.”

They are nothing more than daydreams, castles in the sky, but the way Phainon looks at you makes them feel weightier than that. He listens as though you are sketching out something certain — a someday, not just a perhaps.

So you continue, regardless. “Maybe I should get a pet, to liven things up,” you declare.

He seems to like this idea. “A cat or a dog?”

“Dog.” It comes out of you, without thinking. You recall the first time the two of you had piloted a Jaeger together, the raw, untamed happiness that had lit up his face. He’d reminded you of a certain fluffy creature. “A Samoyed, maybe. Something with a happy face and too much white fur.”

Phainon sits up immediately, propping himself up on one elbow so you can get the full effect of his theatrical, wounded pout. “I could be your dog,” he complains. “I’m fluffy. I’m always happy to see you.” Before you can react, he leans forward and licks your cheek, making you yelp with laughter as you push him off half-heartedly. “See? I even give the best cuddles. A dog can’t do that.”

You flick his nose. “You’re not nearly as cute, though.”

Phainon just sighs at that. “We’re all allowed to have our opinions, as wrong as they might be.” He settles back down, pulling you flush against him again. “But okay, a Samoyed. What else?”

You don’t know why he keeps asking. The conversation is absurd, really — nonsense, when the world, everything might end in a matter of hours. And yet, there are still so many things you want to do. Maybe that’s why it feels so liberating, to speak of futures you’ll likely never touch. For a moment, it’s almost like living them yourself. 

It’s easier to imagine, than to hope.

“A house, obviously. Not in the city. Somewhere with big windows, so we can see the sky.” The word we comes to you as naturally as breathing — you can’t imagine a future where Phainon isn’t by your side. You can’t stand the thought of it, actually. “I don’t think I could stand living in the Shatterdome for the rest of my life. We’ll have to stay somewhere else.”

“A big window,” Phainon agrees easily. His eyes flicker with quiet warmth, like he’s caught the unspoken truth in your words — in every version of the future you picture, he’s there beside you. “A ridiculously soft rug for our ridiculously fluffy dog to sleep on. Right in the sun. And… maybe a garden?”

A garden. That’s a thought that’s never crossed your mind before — you’ve never stayed in one place long enough to even think of having one. But you can almost see it: Phainon kneeling in the dirt, in a pair of faded, stained overalls, and almost taste the tomatoes, warm from the sun. It’s a vision so ordinary, it feels more like a dream than victory ever could.

“Nah.” You clear your throat before the imagination can solidify into a hope you can’t afford. “You’d kill every plant in a week.”

If Phainon notices, he doesn’t comment. “We would kill every plant in a week. We do everything together, remember?” He lifts your intertwined fingers to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “We’re a package deal now.” He pauses, considering. “But we could have a fake one. Very low maintenance. Like me.”

“You are the furthest thing from low maintenance. You require constant praise and hugs and you get grumpy if you don’t get an afternoon snack.”

“I’m a growing boy,” Phainon shrugs, utterly shameless. “It’s a full-time job, keeping me this delightful.” He’s quiet for another moment, his fingers still drawing lazy circles on your hip. “It sounds nice, though. The dog. The big window. Even the fake plants.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, the word catching in your throat. You finally give in and let yourself truly picture it, just for a second. “It does.”

Phainon doesn’t reply with words. He only gathers you closer, his face buried in your hair, and after a while you close your eyes too and let yourself imagine — that you are in a house with its windows open and tomatoes growing outside, and there is a white, fluffy dog snoozing on an equally white, fluffy rug.

And just like that, the next two days vanish. They slip through your hands like sand in an hourglass — each moment painfully fleeting, impossibly precious. March has stopped sniffling, Castorice has already passed out her handmade gifts, and the twins have triumphantly declared their “lucky charm” to be a slightly dented metal trashcan salvaged from the scrap heap. You can hear them halfway down the hall as you pass, loudly arguing with Professor Anaxa about the aesthetic necessity of installing it on their Jaeger’s console. 

You and Phainon steal an afternoon for yourselves, slipping out of the Shatterdome to wander the nearby town. Neither of you speak of the mission. Instead, you share a plate of oysters and promise to visit Carmitis (as regular people on vacation, not in Jaegers), laugh as the waves chase your ankles, and comb the shore for shells like children pretending tomorrow doesn’t exist.

Back in the Shatterdome, you catalog each one carefully into Mem’s database. You hope that she’ll appreciate the gesture when you step inside Khaslana tomorrow.

And then, without fanfare or ceremony, the sun sets on the third day.

The evening drifts by in its familiar rhythm: squabbles over the superior juice flavour at dinner, Phainon emerging from the shower in nothing but a towel. You lob a pillow at his bare chest. He catches it easily, grinning, and the two of you tumble through the rest of the night’s small rituals until you’re finally climbing into the bunk side by side again. 

It’s the same as every other night. His strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back into the steady wall of his chest. His lips against the pulse point under your ear, although tonight it lingers a second longer than usual. The two of you slot together like puzzle pieces, and he holds you close in the dark as though that alone might be enough to keep whatever will happen tomorrow at bay.

You lie awake in the dark, listening to the quiet sounds of his breathing, and watch the numbers on the clock tick steadily by.

“Can’t sleep?”

Phainon’s voice is a low murmur against your shoulder, but it’s clear and awake. It seems that you weren’t the only one lying in silent vigil, keeping pace with the same relentless countdown. You turn over in his arms, shifting carefully until your foreheads almost touch so that you can see him in the dark.

“Seems a waste,” you mumble. “To spend tonight just sleeping.”

Phainon smiles. He’s quiet for a moment, just looking at you, and from the softness in his eyes, you think he feels the same. Not a frantic desperation to seize the moment, but a slow, settled understanding that the next few hours are yours, and they are too precious to be lost to unconsciousness. “I agree,” he says easily, before the corner of his lip quirks up in a smile. His hand finds yours in the space between you, thumb stroking over your knuckles. “So, what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.” The possibilities are endless, yet none of them matter. There is only this, only him. “I just want to spend it with you.”

Phainon’s smile softens. He shifts closer, the mattress creaking under him, and one hand slides down to the small of your back, pulling you firmly against him. The other comes up to cradle the nape of your neck, his thumb stroking over the sensitive skin there in a slow, hypnotic rhythm that makes you shiver.

And then he kisses you, deep and slow.

You sigh quietly into his mouth, hands coming up to grip at his shoulders while your leg slings instinctively over his hip. When he finally pulls back, just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath is warm on your lips. “Is this alright?”

You’re already leaning in again. “More than alright.”

The two of you kiss until you’re dizzy, until the air in the small bunk is thick and warm, and then you kiss some more. Each brush of his lips against your stokes the slow heat simmering beneath your skin, honey sweet. Faintly, you notice that his hands have slipped under your shirt, tracing languid circles at the curve of your waist.

They don’t wander higher. Phainon seems unaware of the way his touch is unravelling you, your threads slipping loose into his hands. You think that this might be the pace he’s set for tonight, maddening in its slow touches and lingering kisses, but despite the ache building low in your belly, you’re more than content to bask in it until the sun rises.

That all changes when you shift against him. You press closer, trying to meld your body with his, and your knee accidentally brushes against the hardness straining against his sweats.

Phainon breaks the kiss with a sharp intake of breath. A low, involuntary groan tumbles from his mouth, and the sound drags a shiver down your spine. His eyes flutter open, dark with a sudden, startled hunger. The sight of it is enough to turn the ache in you into liquid heat.

“Sorry,” Phainon mumbles, suddenly shy. There’s a faint blush creeping up his neck, and it’s unbelievably sweet despite the hardness you still feel pressing insistently against your thigh. He starts to slide his hands back out from under your shirt. “I, uh—”

“Phainon…” you say slowly, letting a teasing smile tug at your mouth. You catch his wrists before he can retreat, guiding them back to their rightful place on your bare skin. His breath hitches. “Do you want me?”

He melts a little in the face of your question, the last of his hesitation dissolving like sugar in warm rain. “I always do,” Phainon murmurs, and the next kiss he brands you with lets you know how much. You’re gasping the next time the two of you break apart, hands fisted in the thin material of his sleep shirt.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. The earlier shyness in his expression is gone, replaced by a determination that seems wholly focused on you. “Everything from here onwards is uncharted territory for me,” he admits, punctuating it with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “But I’m a quick study,” — another kiss, at your jaw — “and I am very, very motivated.”

You exhale shakily when his hand, large and warm, drags upwards slowly over your ribs. The hem of your shirt rides up with the movement, exposing more of your heated skin to the cool air. “So, you’ll have to show me what you like.”

The callused pad of his thumb brushes the sensitive underside of your breast and you have to bite back a breathy moan. He seems to be doing a good enough job of that on his own, you think dazedly. But Phainon is looking at you with such devotion, so eagerly awaiting your instruction — like he wants nothing more in the world than to learn how to please you. The sight is enough to make your mouth go dry.

Holding his gaze, you tug at him until you’re both sitting up, and then slide your hands down his chest to the hem of his shirt. “Take it off.”

Phainon blinks, before eager compliance flickers over his face. He doesn’t hesitate — just pulls back enough to tug his shirt up and over his head in one swift motion, before he lets it drop to the floor next to the bunk without a second glance.

The dim light from the clock paints the defined planes of his torso in shades of red and shadow, reflecting off the golden ink at the curve of his neck in an iridescent sheen. He’s breathing a little faster now. There’s a slow flush creeping across his skin, those storm bright gaze never leaving yours as he waits for your next command.

Utter surrender. Completely yours.

You clamber into his lap, the sheets and blankets tangling around your legs, and he lets out a soft grunt of surprise as you push him back against the wall. One of his hands comes up to rest lightly on your head, preventing you from bumping it against the top bunk. And when he looks up at you, his eyes are wide with an intoxicating cocktail of raw anticipation and desire. 

You think you’re drunk on him already. “Pay attention, now,” you tell him as you lean in. “Lesson’s starting.”

You don’t give him time to respond. Instead, you bend down to devour his mouth first, and after a beat, Phainon kisses back with an intensity that matches your own. His hands grip at your waist, holding you flush against him, and you shift to trail wet kisses down his jaw. You hear his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud, glance up to see his lips parted around a silent breath. And when you suck lightly on a few spots along the column of his throat, you can feel the way he swallows, shivering at the sensation.

His body is so responsive beneath your touch that it makes you unbearably greedy. You want more. You want to give him so much more.

When you get to the tattoo at his neck though, you pause, tracing the outline with your thumb. The memory of the Drift comes back to you, and with it, the reason he’d gotten it. 

Phainon stills beneath you, his breath catching. He whispers your name, a cautious search for any hesitation from you. Always more concerned with you than for himself. Blinking back the sudden dampness in your eyes, you press your lips to golden ink with every bit of reverence you have, and feel the rapid, frantic flutter of his pulse against your mouth.

And then, without warning, you suck down hard.

 Phainon cries out beneath you as your teeth scrape against sensitive skin, a ragged sound that comes from the back of his throat. His fingers dig into the soft flesh at your hips with a strength that borders on bruising, but you hold the pressure for longer, until he’s squirming beneath you, before soothing the sting with a gentle lap of your tongue.

He’s panting when you pull back, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Fuck,” he breathes, the word shaky and awed.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you — he looks beautiful like this: biting his lip, eyes glazed, a trembling mess beneath you. “So soon?” you tease, and your fingers slip down his chest to tug at the dusky pink of his nipples. He shudders violently under your touch, an aborted half-whine catching in his throat. The sound of it goes straight through you, leaving you positively dripping with want.

But before you can coax more of those beautiful noises from him, his hands snap up, wrapping around your wrists with a hint too much pressure to be gentle.

“I’m supposed to be the one making you feel good,” Phainon insists, voice ragged but stubborn. His gaze is earnest, almost pleading. You can see the place where you’d bitten down earlier on the intricate ink of his tattoo, the mark already a shade darker than the skin surrounding it. His determination to please you, his overwhelming devotion, him — all of it drives you absolutely wild.

So how can you deny him anything, when he asks so earnestly?

“If you say so,” you say, slipping yourself from his grasp to climb off the bed. Phainon watches you go, mouth parted — to protest or beg for you to come back, he doesn’t know — but then you’re hooking your fingers into the hem of your own shirt to slip it off your body, and every word dies an instant death in the back of his throat.

You catch sight of the dumbstruck look on his face, and the corner of your mouth curls up in a smirk that he can only describe as lethal for his cardiac health. With one hand braced on the ladder for balance, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and tug. Your eyes never leave his as you push them down, slipping one leg free and then the other. The scrap of fabric falls from your fingers to join your shirt on the floor.

You stand there for a heartbeat, bare and naked before him in the dim light. Every thought, every sensation in his body fails to process, rerouting straight to the aching heat coiling low in his gut.

Oh, Phainon thinks dazedly. You must really be trying to kill him.

Before he can verbalise a single, coherent thought, you’re already easing yourself back onto the bed. You lean back against the pillows, bottom lip caught between your teeth. And then, so slowly it’s almost agonising, you spread your legs for him.

His brain whites out completely.

“Come here.”

Phainon obeys without hesitation. He crawls over to you, mattress dipping under his weight until he’s settled between your knees. You take his hand to guide it firmly between your legs, and his breath catches.

Your folds are already dripping, hot and slick under his touch. The feeling sparks something in his chest, feeding a possessive fire that he knows will consume him if he lets it. But what undoes him completely is how you slowly drag his fingers through the mess there, the way your head tips back with a low moan. You’re touching yourself with him, feeling good because of him, and Phainon is certain that something has cracked permanently in his hardware, because he feels each brush of his fingers against you directly between his own legs.

Swallowing the small puddle in his mouth, he strokes you there again. Your hips lift off the bed entirely, chasing the sensation of his touch, and your hand drops from his wrist to fist in a pillow. “More,” you rasp.

Phainon works his hand against you slowly, torn between the watching the expressions you make and the way your legs tremble and shake under his touch. He traces the outline of your cunt with a reverence that’s almost teasing, until his finger glances over the little nub at your apex.

You cry out. More slick drips from you, thoroughly coating his fingers, making a mess of his hand. The scent of it is utterly intoxicating, and his head spins with it. He wonders, his mind hazy with a hunger he’s never known, how you would taste.

Almost without conscious thought, Phainon brings his glistening fingers to his mouth, and slips one past his lips.

The taste spills over his tongue — salty, musky, uniquely you — and a moan sits low in his throat. His eyes flutter closed for a second, lost in the sensation. 

When he opens them again, you’re staring at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. For a heart-stopping second, he wonders if he’s crossed a line — whether you might be turned off by how desperate he is for every part of you. But before he can apologise, you reach for him, your hand fisting in his hair with a possessiveness that makes him shudder and tug him down until his breath is hot on your inner thigh. All he can smell is you.

“Stop thinking,” you whisper, voice thick with need. “And put your mouth on me.”

Phainon is a trained soldier, and soldiers don’t need to be told twice. Every last trace of hesitation is burned away at your command, and he curls his arms under your thighs, pulling you firmly against his mouth and lowering his head. For a heartbeat, he simply presses a soft, reverent kiss to your trembling stomach, as if sealing a promise. Then, he dives in.

At first, it’s hesitant, a little clumsy. The flat of his tongue strokes you experimentally, and you gasp, your fingers threading themselves into his hair. “There,” you breathe. “Right there.” He moans at your slight tugging on his scalp, and then his mouth is moving against you with eager abandon, more than making up for his inexperience with enthusiasm. 

The rhythm is messy, unpracticed, but you can’t find it in you to care. You’re almost completely swept away by the pleasure when suddenly — with a boldness that can only be instinct — his tongue presses into you.

The steady stream of praise that had been spilling from your mouth cuts off into a sharp gasp. Your hips lift off the bunk, grinding yourself against his face in a desperate, involuntary search for more pressure, heels digging into the solid muscle of his back.

Phainon’s eyes dart up, scanning your face carefully from beneath pale lashes for any trace of discomfort. But when he sees you — flushed, panting, your eyes glazed with pleasure — his lips curl into something that can only be described as wicked against your skin.

You don’t have time to chastise him for the look before he drops his head with a renewed vigour, tongue plunging straight between your folds again. Every word on your lips dissolves into a cry as he fucks you with it, a slow, relentless rhythm that steals the breath from your lungs. All you can do is moan wordlessly and twist your fingers in the sheets, to hold on as more spit and slick drips between your legs, coating his chin and ruining the sheets.

Phainon really is a fast learner, just as he promised. And now, he’s applying the lesson he’s learnt to devastating effect.

Just when you think you can’t take any more, he changes his rhythm. He wraps his lips around that aching, sensitive nub almost gently, and sucks.

The world fractures, and you come hard. A cry tears itself from your throat as your back arches violently off the bed, pleasure rippling through you like seismic waves. Phainon doesn’t let up, though, drawing out every last shudder from you with gentle, almost kittenish licks. He keeps going until you’re curling weakly away from him, unable to take any more.

His eyes are dark and half-lidded as he looks up at you. Even as you watch, panting, Phainon wipes his glistening mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his tongue across it to lick up any last trace of you on his skin. The sight is almost enough to make your thighs clench together again. 

“Did I do a good job?” he rasps. His voice is hoarse, but his eyes are shining with the pride of a man who already knows that he’s more than delivered.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you surge forward, crashing your mouth to his in a fierce kiss that’s more tongue than lips. Phainon moans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you as you taste yourself on him. His hands roam over every inch of your skin, squeezing at every part that he can reach.

Your own hands drop to the waistband of his sweats, pushing insistently. He gets the hint immediately and the two of you break apart for just a moment, a frantic, synchronised effort to shove them down his legs and kick them somewhere onto the floor.

Phainon is pulling you back into another hungry kiss when he suddenly goes completely still. You’re about to ask what’s wrong when a look of shattered realisation crosses his face. 

“I don’t have any condoms…” 

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you at Phainon’s crestfallen look. The words are filled with a devastation that would have been hilariously comical if he weren’t so genuinely earnest. You draw him close, winding your arms around his neck and pressing your bare body flush against his. “I’ve been on the pill,” you admit quietly, your lips brushing his ear. “Ever since we kissed.”

For a moment, Phainon just blinks at you, as though not quite grasping the meaning of your words. Then the implication sinks in. You can only watch as the despairing expression on his face vanishes, before it’s replaced by something that you can only describe as predatory. 

The shift is so sudden that a nervous little thrill shoots through you. Phainon is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive.

“Oh,” he says. His hands slide down to grasp possessively at your hips. “Is that so?”

A little shiver goes through you at the dangerous promise in his tone. You suddenly wonder whether you’ve just made a terrible mistake. “Hey…” you put a hand to his chest to create a sliver of space, a fragment of sanity between the two of you. “You know I still need to be able to walk into that Jaeger tomorrow, right?”

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, leaning down to capture your mouth in a kiss that steals the protest straight from your lungs. He breaks away just enough to whisper against your lips. “I can carry you.”

You feel yourself throb in a dizzying mixture of fear and want. “That’s not the—”

“Show me,” Phainon breathes. His voice is thick with a need that mirrors your own, and the look in his eyes is no longer one of eager inexperience, but sharp, focused intent. “I want to make you feel good. Show me how. Please.”

You swallow hard. It’s impossible to say no when he’s all but begging, and so you lean back, guiding him onto his knees between your legs. He runs his hands along the insides of your thighs, spreading them further, but the vulnerability of the position is eclipsed by the raw hunger on his face. Phainon watches you, almost mesmerised, as you reach between your bodies.

Your hand wraps around his length. He jerks at the contact, a sharp gasp escaping his throat. He’s hot and hard in your palm, and when you thumb over the tip, smearing the precum there, he lets out a choked groan and grabs you by the wrist.

“Wha—”

“Inside,” Phainon says, insistent. His voice is strained, almost rough with need. “I want to come inside you.”

Any urge you had to tease him further evaporates at the sight of him — pupils dark and blown wide, his whole body trembling lightly. You guide him to your entrance, dragging the blunt head along your soaked folds, and Phainon’s forehead drops against your shoulder with a moan that’s almost pained. You can feel his breath, hot and searing your collarbone, as he struggles to hold onto his last shred of self control.

“Slowly,” you whisper, and he nods, expression tight.

You rock your hips down, meeting his tentative push. The tip catches for a moment, smudging against the resistance of your folds, before it sinks into you. You’re so wet and ready for him that the slow push into you is almost effortless, aside from the delicious burn of his girth that has you biting your lip, head falling back against the pillows. You can feel his eyes on you, tracking every expression that flickers across your face as he fills you inch by inch.

When Phainon finally bottoms out inside of you, he lets out a low, shuddering moan. He doesn’t move, just braces himself above you, arms trembling. You reach up to cup his cheek, slightly concerned.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Phainon chokes out, another moan slipping out when you shift beneath him. “I just… I think I might just come instantly if I move.”

That is so unexpected — and unbearably cute — that you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. You grip his shoulders to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t mind,” you say, letting your voice drop to a teasing hum. “Promise I won’t laugh.”

“No!” Phainon shakes his head, expression tight. “Just… just give me a second.” He presses his forehead harder against your shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as if in prayer. “Gods, the way you feel around me… I need a minute or this is going to be embarrassingly short.”

You can feel the tremors running through him, the intense battle for control in the way he holds himself utterly still, buried deep inside you. You let your fingers card through his hair to soothe him, simply savouring the sensation of being filled by him for now.

After a long, suspended moment, the tension in his shoulders finally begins to ease. Phainon lets out a shuddering breath that rolls across your skin, and then, with agonising slowness, pulls back. Barely an inch, but enough for his eyes to flutter open and meet yours — seeking permission, reassurance.

You answer with a slow roll of your hips, feeling him drag against every inch of you. A low groan rumbles in his chest. He pushes forward again, and this time, it’s smoother, more confident. Phainon sets a slow, deep rhythm, the hands on your hips holding you steady as he fucks into you. A stream of bitten off moans and gasps escape you with each thrust, and you can see the way his confidence grows with each noise you make, every time you writhe beneath him.

A fast learner, indeed — Phainon’s entire focus seems to be on your body, the way it reacts to his. He tilts his hips experimentally, and when a subtle shift nearly makes you sob, he memorises it instantly, replicating the motion with a precision that drives you absolutely insane. And when his mouth drops to your neck, lips latching at your pulse just like you’d done to him earlier, you shudder and claw at his back with a desperation that feels almost animal, nails leaving streaks that you’re sure will bloom into raised, red trails across his skin tomorrow.

Some part of you thinks about the engineers, about how they’ll definitely see those marks when Phainon puts on his drivesuit tomorrow. How he’ll be wearing them as he steps into the Jaeger tomorrow with you, as you face the end of the world together.

A fierce satisfaction surges through you, eclipsing any flicker of embarrassment. Good. Let them see. Let them know. Even Death itself will know he belongs to you, if the two of you end up crossing that threshold together.

The old bunk groans as Phainon continues slamming into you, rhythmic creaks punctuated by the wet slap of your hips. The sounds are swallowed by your wanton moans, cresting high with each stroke, and his own ragged, babbling praise tumbles from his lips.

“You feel… gods, you feel so good,” he pants against your neck, voice utterly wrecked. “So perfect, so tight. I can’t—”

You clench around him instinctively, and a deep, broken groan escapes him. His rhythm falters for a heartbeat, hips stuttering before snapping relentlessly back into motion. “Can’t — hah — hold on much longer if you keep doing that.”

You want to see that, more than anything. You want to watch him come undone, to see him overcome by the pleasure you can give him. Driven by that desire, you drop a hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, frantic circles. The combination of him hitting that spot deep inside you and your own touch sends you over the edge. Your climax crashes through you like a tidal wave, a sharp cry ripping from your throat as you convulse around him, your walls milking him mercilessly.

The sensation of you pulsing around him shatters the last of Phainon’s control. With a broken cry of your name, he follows you over the edge, hips stuttering erratically as he spills deep inside you.

For a long while, the only sounds are your ragged breaths, the quiet creak of the bunk’s rusty screws. Phainon collapses on top of you, his weight a comforting, solid presence that grounds you back into reality.

After a few minutes, he shifts, gently pulling out, and a whine escapes you at the sensation of his length dragging through your oversensitive folds. You both watch as a trickle of white slips from your well-used cunt, dripping down onto the sheets below.

You catch the hitch in Phainon’s breath. Slowly, almost reverently, he gathers the cum spilling out and presses two fingers back inside you. You moan, startled by both the sensitivity and the intimate possessiveness of the gesture.

Before you can comment, Phainon bends down, capturing your mouth in a deep, languid kiss that tastes of sweat and satisfaction. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark with a renewed, simmering hunger, and a sheepish smile tugs at his lips, entirely at odds with the cock you feel hardening against your thigh. Your mouth falls open. This man—

“Again?”

You lose count of how many times Phainon makes you come that night, but he remembers to have mercy on you and relents at sometime about two in the morning. You’re draped across him, a boneless, sated weight, too tired to move. Your finger traces the constellation of hickeys you’ve left along his neck, a night sky of stars to go with the sun etched into his skin. 

The room is silent, except for the sound of your slow breaths. There’s a pleasant soreness humming through your muscles, and you’re almost lulled into sleep by the steady rhythm of his heart under your ear when his voice vibrates through his chest.

“I saw a house,” Phainon says suddenly.

You lift your head from his chest, blinking through the haze of sleep. The dim glow of the clock illuminates every microexpression on his face — serious, nervous, tentative all at once. “Hmm? Where?”

He licks his lips, a small, hesitant gesture. “In… in Aedes Elysiae.” The name hits you like a memory long buried — your hometown, his hometown, the one reduced to rubble and ash years ago. “I heard about the rebuilding efforts there… saw a listing for a house on the beach. Right where the old boardwalk used to be.”

Your chest tightens. It’d always been too much to bear, the thought of the place you’d called home. There had been no place to return to after the day Aedes Elysiae had fallen, and you’d wandered from cage to house to shelter in the years after to survive. But never a home. 

His next words tumble from him in a rush, hope and fear tangled together. “It— It’s big. It has room for a garden, and I don’t know if the windows are big but I can always knock down the walls to install bigger ones—” He pauses, swallows, and you’re unable to do anything but stare, all traces of sleep gone in an instant. “It’s right on the beach so that a dog can play down by the water, and… and…” Phainon’s voice falters, fading into the fragile quiet of uncertainty. 

Then, with barely a whisper, he asks. “I was just… just thinking. If… when all this is over…” he takes a deep breath. “Would you be willing to come with me?”

He doesn’t look at you at first, fidgeting nervously with the ends of your hair. But when you take too long to respond, he looks up, blue eyes searching yours hesitantly. Then his expression shifts to one of panic when he realises that you’re crying, silent tears sliding hot and wet down your cheeks.

“Hey,” Phainon’s voice cracks, sounding alarmed. “I— I was just joking. You don’t have to—”

“I don’t…” Your voice catches, and you have to stifle a sob before trying again. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say yes?” A half-laugh breaks against the tremor in his words. “Or at least say you’ll think about it. Please. I know it’s not much—” Not much? How do you find the words to tell him that it’s everything? Your chest tightens, a flood of emotion threatening to spill over, to drown you completely. “I just…”

You shake your head, swiping at your face desperately. But with every tear you brush away, two more seem to take its place. “To take care of those fake plants for you?”

A shaky laugh escapes Phainon, and suddenly the wetness is in his eyes too. “Yeah…” His thumb draws gentle circles into your bare skin. “I’d kill them somehow, I just know it…” His mouth curves into a small, wavering smile. “I’m hopeless without you.”

“Silly.” You lean down until your forehead rests against his. “I’d go anywhere with you.” His breath shudders against your lips, his lashes fluttering softly. “Anywhere.”

The truth is, he didn’t even need to ask. Your answer would always be yes.

Into a Jaeger. Into death. And into whatever waits beyond that.

The morning of the operation dawns cold and grey. The Jaeger hangar is a rush of last minute activity, engineers and technicians rushing to perform last minute checks and fixes. Everyone else moves with a similar grim focus, the usual banter in the drivesuit room replaced by the silent ritual of suiting up. 

And for some strange reason, you seem to be garnering some looks from the other rangers…

Mydei, in particular, looks extra irritable today, his movements sharp and efficient as he checks the fastenings on his drivesuit. There is the faintest hint of dark shadows under his eyes, and he looks like he is personally offended by the way his morning is turning out. He glares at the cup of coffee in your hand as you pass.

“None for the rest of us?” he grumbles, and Stelle snorts.

“Nope,” you say breezily, not breaking your stride as you step over to Phainon, who’s already halfway into his own suit. His expression brightens when he realises you’ve returned from the mess hall. It’s unfortunate that most of the hickeys that you’d left on him last night are hidden behind polymer mesh, but there’s one beneath his jaw, just visible at the thin strip of skin above his collar. You fight the urge to brush your fingers across it, and hand him the mug instead. “Boyfriend privilege, unfortunately.”

Phainon fumbles the cup spectacularly.

“Hey—” Only your quick reflexes save the hot drink from splashing all over the sensitive circuitry of his suit, and you wince when the hot ceramic sting at your hands. You’re about to scold him for being careless when you realise that he’s staring at you with his mouth wide open, cheeks flushed a brilliant pink. “Um… Phainon?”

Mydei watches the scene unfold with all the enthusiasm of someone being forced to witness a trainwreck in slow motion. “Did you only just figure that out?” he asks flatly, every word dripping with acid sarcasm.

The fact that Phainon doesn’t even register the jab says everything. He clutches the rescued cup to his chest like a lifeline, gaze darting helplessly between you and Mydei and back to you. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water.

March and Stelle snicker. Dan Heng just touches his forehead and sighs.

“I mean…” He’s stammering now, practically tripping over his words. It’s almost funny how hard Phainon is blushing over an update to your official relationship status, as though he wasn't fucking you senseless just hours ago. Cute, too. “I mean, we never explicitly said— I didn’t want to assume—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Mydei interrupts, rolling his eyes so hard it looks painful. “I thought the very explicit noises the two of you were making last night should have been confirmation enough—”

Oh. Oh. So that’s why the other rangers had been giving you those looks earlier. So that’s why Mydei looks like he didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. Caelus, catching your glance, grins like a devil and flashes you a thumbs-up as he hops into his drivesuit. “Guess there’s no better time to do the dirty, eh?” he says, cheerfully. “We already collected our prize from Mydei.”

You turn to your other neighbour-turned-victim. “Sorry, Cas…”

Castorice waves it off sagely. “Don’t worry about it. I slept in the twins’ room last night.” She smiles at you. “So they divided the winning pot with me.”

Mydei just groans, running a hand over his face. “Fucking animals…”

Phainon’s flush deepens to a spectacular shade of crimson that matches the emergency alarms, and raises the mug to his lips in an attempt to hide it. You laugh and pat his shoulder, a smile playing on your lips.

“Drink your coffee, boyfriend,” you say, tone light despite the gravity of the day. Phainon chokes on his coffee. “We’ve got a world to save.”

Before Mydei can make another big show of protest again, the doors to the drivesuit room hiss open and Hyacine strolls in, brilliant and beaming. She’s wearing her usual crisp white doctor’s coat over her clothes, a white mug with a cartoon unicorn printed across it in her hand. 

March raises a hand to say hi, but Hyacine just brushes past her with a quick smile. To everyone’s shock, she walks straight up to Mydei, places the mug in his hand and rises on her toes to press a firm kiss to his cheek. You, along with every other person in the room (except for Castorice, who doesn’t look surprised) simply stare.

“Don’t be late for our date tonight, hm?” Hyacine says, her voice cheerful and utterly matter of fact. It’s like she’s reminding him to pick up milk, not return from a suicide mission.

Mydei freezes, gripping the mug rigidly like it’s a ticking time bomb. His usual scowl is gone, replaced by a look of total, dumbfounded bewilderment, but when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out.

Hyacine doesn’t look very bothered by that. Instead, she just smiles, pats his cheek, and then turns on her heel. “Good luck, everyone!” she calls over her shoulder, and then she’s gone again, the doors swishing shut behind her.

Every single person in the room turns to stare at Mydei, whose ears are slowly turning a violent shade of red that matches his tattoos. He looks down at the coffee in his hand, and then slowly, deliberately brings it to his lips, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

Phainon, his own embarrassment completely forgotten, lets out a low whistle. “Well,” he murmurs, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Looks like someone else had a productive last night.”

Mydei’s head snaps up, his death glare returning with a vengeance. “Shut up and suit up,” he says, but the telltale blush creeping up his neck and staining the tips of his ears only makes you smile. Stelle and Caelus cackle loudly and unapologetically behind him, and Dan Heng just shakes his head. 

It’s a good day to save the world, you think.

The doors open again, and this time it’s the General who enters, her posture sharp and impeccable as ever. The air shifts, suddenly heavy. Every Ranger in the room straightens. Aglaea doesn’t launch into a grand, inspiring speech about saving the world. She moves straight to the central table, expression grim and focused, as mission schematics flash across the displays. Professor Anaxagoras lingers a few feet behind her, eyes darting over the screens.

She runs through the operation plan one last time. Her pointer taps on every critical waypoint, every contingency, each instruction clipped and precise, leaving no room for error or misinterpretation.

At the end, the displays wink out. The General straightens, her sea foam eyes sweeping across each of your faces slowly, as if committing them to memory. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.

When she finally speaks, her voice is composed. “I will see all of you later for the debrief.” She says it as if this mission is just another day’s work, as though all of you returning safely is a given. “All the best out there, Rangers.”

And then she turns on her heel and walks out, her heels echoing quick and precise on the floor. Professor Anaxa pauses to glare at all of you, before he lets out a sigh.

“If the lot of you are destroying my Jaegers,” he grumbles, jabbing a finger at each of you in turn, “you better make sure you come back alive so that I can beat all your asses for it.” It’s the closest thing to a heartfelt farewell that any of you will ever get from him. And then he, too, is out of the door.

The moment the doors slide shut, March leans over, whispering out of the corner of her mouth despite the fact that Aglaea has already left. “Hey. Hey. Do you think Agy was… you know, tearing up at the end there?”

“Don’t be crazy.” Stelle looks similarly gobsmacked. “Robots don’t cry.”

Dan Heng, without even looking up from adjusting his drivesuit, reaches out to smack her upside the head.

Everything that happens after that feels like an old habit, a familiar routine. You get into your drivesuits, March and Stelle chattering about what they’re going to eat for dinner. Castorice tugs at her hair, frowns, and braids it again. Then the engineers are telling you that it’s time to go, and you blink, and suddenly all of you are walking down the catwalks in the hangar. One by one, each team breaks off to head to their Jaegers, waving with see you laters that seem to hold so much more than just that, until it’s only you and Phainon stepping into Khaslana.

The second you plug into the internal comms, you hear a familiar voice in your ears. “Heya~ Phainon, (Name). Ready to save the world?”

You blink. “I didn’t know they gave A.I. mission updates…”

If Mem had a mouth, she’d probably be pouting. “Rude. The General uploaded the mission objectives into my database. This is standard procedure. You guys never tell me anything—”

“Oh.” Phainon smiles. “Is this a bad time to tell you that we’re dating now?”

There’s a profound, digital pause. Then, an indignant squawk. “You guys really never tell me anything!”

“Engaging pilot to pilot protocol sequence initiated,” Tribbie hums over the intercom, seamlessly cutting in. “Initiating Neural handshake in twenty. Twenty, nineteen — oh, and congratulations! Eighteen…”

Mydei sighs, a sound that you might have mistaken for irritation if not for the slight curl you can hear in his words. “I should get compensation for psychological damage…”

You bite back a laugh. “Oh sorry,” Phainon grins, a playful, rakish thing as he tilts his head back to look at you. “We’ll be on our best behaviour later. Unless, of course, you have a thing for voyeurism, which—”

“You guys made me listen to that!” Mydei snaps just as Castorice goes, “The children!” delicately.

“Ten, nine…”

Phainon rests a finger on the mute, and the shared channel falls silent, leaving only the private connection humming between the two of you. His eyes find yours. The countdown, the apocalypse at the world’s doorstep, everything — it all fades away to leave just you and him, looking at each other. “Ready to be in my head one last time?”

You snort. “Aren’t I always in there?” 

A slow, genuine smile spreads across Phainon’s face. “True,” he says, his voice soft, “you’re always on my mind.”

“Five, four…”

“Oooh,” you fight back a cringe even as your heart skips a beat. “Don’t be saying all that sappy stuff now. We’ll be like the first couple in the horror movies that always get killed.”

“Three, two…”

He shrugs easily, grinning. “Not if we’re the main leads, though.”

One.

The Neural Handshake doesn’t feel like falling anymore. It’s like stepping out into the sun, a soft warmth blooming across your face. Like home, and hope. Because despite the chances, the calculations, the probabilities, you still hope — for the house at the beach, a fluffy white dog and a garden full of sun-ripened tomatoes. And in every future you can imagine, Phainon is there. Phainon is that.

Home.

The plan is simple, on paper. Walk four Jaegers down to the Breach at the bottom of the deepest trench in the Pacific Ocean, defeat approximately five kaiju of categories never seen before, and then nuke it all into oblivion. Preferably, without dying.

Nikador, the most structurally robust of all the Jaegers, carries the payload. It’s a massive bomb with enough destructive power to reduce an entire mountain to rubble, but it’ll be useless until you can get your hands on a dead kaiju to chuck it into the Breach. Regardless, Castorice is still discussing potential date ideas with Mydei about a flower dome somewhere in Aidonia, her soothing voice a surreal counterpoint to their impending doom. 

Even now, people are thinking about the future.

Then, you are at the Breach. 

“Well,” Caelus says, as the Jaegers gather around the Breach. It looks exactly how it did the last time you and Phainon had come to collect samples for the professor, a beautifully ugly thing glowing with an underworldly kind of light. You remember, in a moment of strained levity, that someone had once called it an iTunes visualiser at the bottom of the ocean — and honestly? You can see the resemblance. Phainon lets out a snort next to you. “What do we do now? Just wait for the kaiju to attack, right?”

“I hate the ocean,” Mydei sighs, again. “Nikador’s not designed for aquatic combat.”

Dan Heng makes a sound that translates perfectly to a shrug. “None of us are Aquaman.”

“Maybe you can get the Professor to design Nikador a giant floatie, next time.” March giggles, but the laughter is cut short by the sudden blare of alarms. Your chest tightens, heart sinking — too fast, too soon.

“Energy signatures detected,” Mem warns.

There’s a pause, before it’s broken by a sharp, quick laugh. “Guess it’s showtime!” Stelle says, her grin audible over the comms. “The one who dies is a rotten egg!” And with that, Trailblazer is already stepping down into the deep, to engage the first kaiju to claw its way out of the depths.

The Breach flares, edges distorting like the audio waves of a scream. It stretches, warping the edges of space and matter itself, and your displays ping a cacophony of alarms in your ears. You hit the mute. This isn’t the last emergence, and it won’t be the biggest either. The wormhole twists, a vortex of impossible energy, and it shines in the ocean deep like a neutron star in the middle of a galaxy.

Out of that tear in space-time, a single claw emerges. It’s monstrously huge (because it is— thanks Phainon), scales rippling in a way that seems to bleed the meagre light from the water. More of the creature follows, like a nightmare given form, and Mem graciously categorises it as a VI, not that the number means much to any of you anymore, anyway.

Its orange eyes stare out with a malevolent, ancient intelligence, and its maw opens in a roar that vibrates everything, even underwater.

You find yourself looking at Phainon even before you register the fear. This is what the professor had said would come, what the models had predicted. It’s like staring Death in the face. Through the Drift, you feel his despair like your own, but when your eyes meet, something settles. The fear is still there, shared between the two of you, but it’s overshadowed by the simple fact that he is there with you.

Everything will be alright.

“Hey, big ugly!” Caelus yells over the comms, the same instant Stelle shouts, “Eat shit!”

The kaiju has barely emerged from the Breach before Trailblazer surges forward with a burst of thrusters, its massive, newly serrated shield swinging around like a giant frisbee. It scores a deep, gouging cut along the kaiju’s massive flank and vivid kaiju blue billows into the water like a cloud of toxic ink.

When visibility returns, the fighting has already moved, a chaotic underwater dance between two giants. And through the dissipating blue, the Breach flares again.

The next kaiju is already coming through.

None of you can help each other. The kaiju outnumber you, and it’s all that you and Phainon can do to prevent the Cat VIII — the highest one so far — you’re dealing with from ganging up and picking off the Jaegers one by one. The most you can see of your friends are little flashes of light from their plasmacasters in the murky darkness, movement of a dark tail slipping through the gloom. 

The kaiju that you’re fighting moves with a fluid grace that’s terrifying for its size, multiple limbs striking like hydras. Khaslana’s reactor pops up little emergency messages as you scramble to dodge and attack all at the same time. Fortunately, Mem computes small defensive manoeuvres in nanoseconds, ones that you think have saved your lives over a dozen times already. 

“Plasmacaster offline!” you call as the system status flashes a critical red on your display. Many other things are also flashing red, but you can’t pay attention to them right now. “It’ll need some time to cool off!”

“Got it.” Khaslana’s feet plant on the seabed, raises its sword as the kaiju rushes towards them like a giant torpedo of death. Moving underwater takes too much time, and the kaiju clearly don’t struggle in the water like the Jaegers do. Stupid bioengineering aliens… It takes everything in you to stay put like a sitting duck, but you trust in Phainon’s instincts, his years of battling these monsters. “Ready… and… now!”

Right as the kaiju opens its jaws, you hit a button on the console. The launch sequence is muffled by the crushing depth, but the effect is immediate. The ports in Khaslana’s chest armour slide open, and three NeiKos96 torpedoes zip out. Their propulsion leaves trails of bubbles behind as they spear straight into the kaiju’s maw.

For a heart stopping moment, nothing happens. The beast gets closer, and closer—

Then, a series of dull thuds seem to vibrate the very ocean itself. The kaiju’s head jerks violently, and its jaw falls open again in a convulsive gag instead of a roar. Iridescent blue blood and chunks of vaporised internal matter erupt from its maw and gills in a sickening cloud. The immense body twists as the high yield explosives detonate deep within it. 

The two of you don’t wait long enough to see whether it's enough. Khaslana braces itself for impact, and the kaiju scores itself open on the giant blade as the momentum of its mass continues to carry it forward. The spinning teeth that the Professor had built into the sword tears a horrific rent open from its lower jaw up through its neck, and a torrent of beautiful, toxic blue floods the water.

In your comms, you hear Caelus and Stelle shout too, a whoop of victory. But there’s no time to savour it. A different scream soon follows, high with panic and fear.

March. Fear sinks into your chest like a stone. “— Akivili’s arm! It’s gone! Dan Heng—”

You see it then, through the murk. The smaller Jaeger is missing its entire left arm, wires and coloured coolant spilling into the water like blood. The Category VI is already circling back for the kill, and you won’t be fast enough to reach, to help. Dan Heng’s voice is strained, a grim determination warring with the obvious damage. “We can’t go yet. We still can—”

“Evacuate!” Phainon shouts, his voice urgent. “Now!”

You see the hesitation in Akivili’s stance. And in that second, the kaiju strikes.

Stelle shouts over the comms as it moves with viper-like speed, its giant jaws clamping around Akivili’s head. The sound of crushing metal screeches, muffled under water. You feel Phainon’s heart drop together with your own.

But then you spot it — two escape pods, ejected at the last possible moment, spearing towards the surface.

The kaiju shakes the decapitated Jaeger like a chew toy, then stills, head turning to pinpoint the fleeing pods. Almost as though it understands. It begins to move, give chase.

It never gets the chance. Akivili’s reactor goes critical. For a single second, the headless Jaeger’s core glows with the intensity of a sun being born in the deep. Then it explodes.

The ball of light consumes the kaiju, vapourising it and the remains of Akivili almost instantly. The shockwave hits Khaslana like a physical blow, and you feel Phainon hold up an arm to protect the visor. The frame of the Conn-Pod rattles, and then the light fades, leaving behind nothing but swirling debris and a dark ocean.

“Is the last kaiju out of the abyss yet?” Mydei’s voice is a strained grunt over the comms. Khaslana turns, and you see Nikador locked in a brutal grapple with a serpentine Cat VI. You raise your plasmacaster and shoot, forcing the creature to release its coil around the Jaeger.

“Four kaiju have been detected so far,” Mem supplies.

“It’s taking too long,” Castorice’s voice is tight and focused. “Mydeimos. Do we—”

“We’ll cover you,” you call, and Khaslana steps forward as you continue to shoot at that stubbornly quick Cat VI. One shot catches it in the side as it swims towards you, and Khaslana drags the serrated blade straight through its tail. Trailblazer is on it a second later, and the blue glow of the plasmacaster lights up the ocean floor.

Nikador disengages, turning towards the pulsating heart of the Breach, the massive bomb on its back a grim offering. The Jaeger takes two steps before the water tears apart.

It’s as if it had been lying in wait. The final kaiju — Category VIII, Mem states — erupts from the Breach in a devastating lunge of armoured spines and crushing limbs. It moves with a speed that belies its size, one massive claw slashing out.

The blow catches Nikador square in the torso. Metal shrieks as the Jaeger stumbles, a shower of sparks erupting from its side even under water. The bomb on its back lists dangerously.

“Conn-Pod breached! It’s starting to flood.” Castorice gasps. Your heart drops when you see Nikador’s readings flashing red on your screen. Things just keep getting worse and worse… “Oh my god, Mydeimos…”

You feel it, the way Phainon immediately hones in on the fear in Castorice’s voice, the lurch in his chest. “What happened?”

“He—”

“It’s nothing,” Mydeimos grits out, his voice tight and strained. “Focus on the mission.”

“Hang on, we’re coming!” Caelus shouts over the channel. Trailblazer lunges forward with its battered shield, serrated edges dulled, and somehow still manages to block another blow on Nikador. But the force of it is too great, and the shield crumples under the kaiju’s claws, and you catch sight of Trailblazer’s metal limbs caving in as well.

“Our systems are fucked, too!” Stelle says, sounding breathless. “Both right and left arm manoeuvrability below 30 percent…”

“Cat VII approaching Trailblazer…” Mem warns. 

The Cat VIII starts swimming towards Nikador again. It looks very interested in the bomb on its back.

Nikador turns towards the Breach, hesitating for a second. You can almost hear the internal turmoil going on in Mydei and Castorice’s minds, the weight of the mission, the cost of their lives balanced against success. Die finishing the job, or…

“Blow the payload!” Phainon’s voice cuts through hard and clear, leaving no room for argument. “Both of you, just clear the path! We’ll finish it.” You hear Mydei suck in a deep breath, hear the ragged shakiness underneath that betrays the state he’s in.

“Are you sure—”

“Khaslana’s nuclear core can generate roughly the same amount of explosive power as the bomb,” Phainon says sharply, and Mem instantly overlays the calculations across your HUD, the numbers confirming his words for you. Alternative detonation is viable. “Set the bomb for detonation,” the status updates for Nikador and Trailblazer flash red across your screens again, as Stelle and Caelus struggle to hold back the Cat VI that is also trying to get at Nikador, “and get out of here now! Trust us.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Mydei’s voice comes over the comms, thick with emotion but hard with resolution. “You two better let me repay this fucking favour.” 

Those words are all you have time for. Two escape pods blast away from the mortally wounded Nikador, racing for the surface. A moment later, two more — Stelle and Caelus — streak after them, just before the Cat VIII tears Trailblazer’s Conn-Pod from its body. 

Then the dark, watery world erupts before you. Nikador’s payload detonates almost in tandem with the triggered Jaeger cores in a violent chain reaction and the abyss ignites like a white hot flare, every shadow banished for a brief, searing instant.

The shockwave that hits Khaslana’s Conn-Pod is brutal. You hit the harness hard enough to see stars behind your eyelids, and when you open them again, the war outside is a graveyard — viscera, a mangled claw, fragments of armoured hide. A whole chunk of kaiju larger than your Conn-Pod drifts past like a grotesque meteor through the murky water.

You gasp, heart thumping madly in your chest. “Do you think that—”

Phainon catches sight of it first. A silhouette moving just beyond the drifting wreckage, too big and deliberate. The two of you stare as the final Cat VIII moves through the haze, armoured plates cracked open and glowing veins spilling toxic kaiju blue into the water. Most of its tail seems to have been caught in the explosion, but the rest of it somehow still endures. It lurches forward, massive head twisting as though scenting prey.

You feel all of Phainon’s emotions wash through you for a second — relief, fear, despair — before he forces all of it down, narrowing his focus to the enemy in front of him. “Looks like it’s just us, now,” he says, more lightly than he feels.

You know what this means. The two of you have to kill it, or it doesn’t matter that your friends managed to escape — everyone will die, anyway.

The kaiju comes for you through the drifting wreckage, dragging its broken body towards Khaslana like a nightmare that refuses to die. Still relentless. Still terrifying. 

“Still with me?” Phainon murmurs, and you feel him in the Drift, reaching out for you even as fear gnaws at your insides. You take a deep breath and nod.

“Always,” you answer. Mem chimes in as well. 

“Don’t forget I’m here, too!” 

Phainon laughs a little at that. “We’ll be counting on you for defense then, Mem.”

The kaiju charges. The water resistance drags down every movement, but you hit the reactor vents, and the additional force is enough for Khaslana to slide to the side just quick enough to dodge the monster’s massive claws. Phainon brings the massive chain sword around in a sweeping arc.

“Hide behind the left shoulder is an estimated 40 percent weaker,” Mem announces, and Phainon lunges.

The serrated teeth bite into a weak spot at the kaiju’s flank — already damaged by Nikador’s blast — shearing off a plate of armour and drawing a fresh gout of blue. Bellowing, the beast retaliates with a massive claw slashing across Khaslana’s chest. The Jaeger staggers, alarms blaring the same message.

“Torso structural integrity compromised by 26 percent.” Mem sounds almost worried.

“We can’t trade blows like this,” you grit out, feeling the phantom pain in your own ribs. The plasmacaster on Khaslana’s right arm is fully charged, but you can’t waste any of your shots on its thick hide. “I need a clean shot.”

His mind formulates plans and discards them in a matter of seconds, before he finally settles on one he deems reasonable. “I’ll open it up,” Phainon responds. “Just make sure you’re ready.”

You follow his lead and the two of you push Khaslana forward, right into the beast’s guard in a reckless brawl. Phainon works the chain-sword like a saw, grinding it deeper into the wound he’d already created, a brutal, desperate act, sacrificing stability for damage.

The kaiju rears back, trying to dislodge you. And as it does, its maw gapes wide in a silent roar of agony.

“Now!”

You’ve been waiting. The plasmacaster hums to life, ready to unload the clip straight into the beast. But the angle is poor, and the kaiju is twisting furiously, its head turning away.

“It’s no good!” you shout, straining with the effort of holding the kaiju in place with the chain-sword. “I can’t get a proper lock!”

The Cat VIII writhes again, and red alarms pop up all over your HUD again. The structural integrity of Khaslana’s arms are wearing down the more the kaiju struggles, and you know that you don’t have much more time before the monster rips off one of the Jaeger’s limbs entirely. You have to act before that, and Phainon knows it too.

In the Drift, you feel his decision. A final, all-or-nothing gamble. Phainon wrenches the chain-sword free, and with a surge of power from the straining reactor core, he rams the entire Jaeger forward, shoving the limb holding the sword directly into the kaiju’s open mouth, jamming it open.

The move leaves you completely exposed, pain flaring down your left arm as the neural pathways scream. The kaiju’s claws rake down Khaslana’s front, shedding armour. But the maw is held wide open.

“Do it!” Phainon’s shout is an amalgamation of strain and determination.

You’re already moving. You don’t need to aim. You just fire.

The plasmacaster discharges point-blank into the Cat VIII’s throat, followed by a volley of torpedoes discharged by Mem. You empty the clip, firing again and again until the plasmacaster overheats, and the light that erupts from within the monsters is blinding, even through the murky water.

The kaiju convulses once, a final, catastrophic scream, and then goes still.

For a moment, there is only disbelief. The stunned silence that follows is louder than the raging alarms and alerts that had been going off during the battle. You wrench your gaze from the dead leviathan to Phainon, almost afraid that it might move the second you take your eyes off it.

Phainon’s face is pale, strained with the same pain that your drivesuit is relaying to you. Khaslana is damaged beyond repair, you’re sure. But his eyes meet yours, and in them, you don’t see the finality of the deep or the certain grasp of death. Instead, you see a flicker of the same, impossible realisation.

Against all the odds, against all of Professor Anaxa’s calculations…

“Target neutralised,” Mem reports.

You won.

Then Khaslana’s forward visor groans. A hairline crack creeps over the glass, splintering into more with every second. Your stomach plummets.

“Phainon—” you start, but the words drown in a shriek of tearing metal as a corner of the reinforced glass gives way to the pressure of the deep. It shatters in a spray of jagged fragments.

And the ocean surges in.

The world is a cacophony of screaming alarms and rushing seawater. Khaslana’s hull groans all around you, its systems flickering and dying. The frame had been irreparably damaged from the move Phainon had pulled to give you the opening you’d needed, but to have the Conn-Pod breached was the worst thing that could possibly have happened.

But the two of you have succeeded, either way. The mission is a success. Soon, the Breach will be sealed. The world is saved.

And you are going to die here.

“I can override the Jaeger controls to drag this big guy’s body to the Breach and self-destruct Khaslana,” Mem says, and you see the numbers and commands suddenly pouring through the displays, almost as quickly as the water rushing into the Conn-Pod. “The two of you need to go now.”

You share a single glance with Phainon. Your final, coordinated action is a neural disconnection, and the world fractures back into two separate entities. The water is up to your ankles now, and there is no more time to waste.

You hit the release mechanism for your escape pod. The harness snaps down over your chest, locking you into your seat. You wait for the pod to drop, for the lurch, for the violent ejection towards the surface, to life.

Nothing happens.

“Your pod, now!” Phainon’s voice is raw over the comms, cutting through the chaos. He hasn’t activated his own pod. His eyes are on you, somehow already sensing that something is wrong even without the Drift. The realisation settles over you, distantly, like a wave at the ocean’s surface, far, far above. 

Phainon won’t leave without you.

You exhale a ragged breath and slam a fist against the release mechanism for your own pod again. Nothing. The mechanism is completely wrecked, crushed by the kaiju’s last, desperate strike. And despite this, a cold, serene calm washes over you.

“It’s jammed,” you say, surprisingly calm. The words feel like a simple statement of fact — the evacuation pod is jammed, the wrecked harness that was supposed to keep you safe now binds you to your coffin, and you are going to die here, drowning miles beneath the surface. “Phainon—”

“No.” He doesn’t even let you finish. Phainon abandons his own pod, sloshing towards you through the flooding Conn-Pod even as the lights and displays spark dangerously overhead.

You think you’re going crazy. “Phainon, don’t be stupid!” you hiss viciously, shoving at his chest, but he’s immovable, blue eyes flashing with stone cold determination. Gods, you hate that part of him right now almost as much as you love it. “There’s no time!”

“No.”

“Your pod is still working!” You’re shaking from fear — fear of drowning, fear of the pain, fear of death, but most of all, the fear that Phainon will die here with you. A pointless, foolish death. “Don’t be ridiculous, Phainon. Go!”

“I’m not leaving!” He snaps back, his voice cracking as he yanks hard at the straps. They don’t budge in the slightest. The water is higher now, spilling into your boots and icy cold. The argument is futile, and you both know it. “Not again! Never again!”

You want to sob. He’s not listening. The sound escapes you, regardless, and Phainon just looks at you with fire in his eyes before all the fight drains out of him. His hands come up to cup your cheeks, his touch gentle amidst the chaos. The alarms blare and the metal shrieks, but his voice drops to a shaky whisper, meant for you alone.

“I bought the house,” he says, the words rushing out, a frantic confession against the dying of the light. “Just this morning, before you woke up. I was looking up renovation videos online. And calculating the cost of dog food.”

Tears mix with the saltwater spray on your face. “Phainon, please…”

“None of it matters,” he insists. His forehead presses against yours, and his own eyes squeeze shut as the alarms continue to scream. “The house, the dog, the damn window… none of it means a thing if you’re not there. It’s just an empty house.”

The water is at your knees now. You weep and clutch at his chest, unsure whether to pull him closer and push him away, and Phainon makes the choice for you. He ignores your struggling hands and wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against him like he’s never going to let you go. 

“Together,” he whispers. There’s no trace of panic now, and he’s smiling at you gently, blue eyes soft. Blue like the waves that are about to drown you, blue like the sky above that you will never see again. You look into them as he holds you, and in them you see the entire future you’ll never have, the reason he’s choosing this instead. “I promised.”

The old man and woman in the sinking ship.

He holds you tighter, and you close your eyes, ready to meet your end in his embrace.

Suddenly, a sharp, pneumatic hiss cuts through the noise.

Your escape hatch, previously dead and dark, suddenly glows with a green, active light. The mechanism grinds, groans, and then slides open with a definitive clunk.

Both of your eyes fly wide open, staring in stunned disbelief. “Wha—”

“Whew! I successfully managed to hack into this bad boy,” Mem’s voice chirps over the internal comms, her tone absurdly cheerful amidst the ruin. “Took me a second. That last hit really scrambled my primary processors.”

The sound of Cyrene’s voice, so familiar and bright amidst the crushing darkness, is so profoundly jarring that you can’t process it for a second. Then, a wave of gratitude so dizzying hits you so hard that you think your knees almost buckle. You’re so grateful that you think you might cry again. Or maybe you’re already crying — it’s impossible to tell with the spray of seawater, the tears that had already been streaming down your face.

“Mem, I—”

“Ah, ah, no time for waterworks,” Mem interrupts, and her voice sounds impossibly fond, almost like the old friend whose memories she carries. “Enough of that in here already… Your pod is primed and ready.” You suddenly realise that you’ll have to leave her too, to be crushed by the darkness and the cold and the waves. Again. Dying a second time. She seems to be able to detect the emotions in you somehow, because her voice softens. “Go and live, okay? I saw the shells…” Your breath catches in your throat, and your eyes burn. “Thank you. I’ll always be there for the two of you. Always.”

There is no time for farewells, and no time to mourn. For a moment, it feels like you are abandoning Cyrene a second time. But then your pod locks into place with a series of heavy thunks, harness tightening over your chest. “Phainon, go!” you shout.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He gives you one last look, a silent promise to see you at the surface, before he turns and wades back to his own pod. The cover to yours slams shut, and then with a violent lurch, you’re ejected upwards, the pressure slamming you back into the seat.

In the flooding Conn-Pod, Phainon hesitates for a second longer. He places a hand flat against the console, a final gesture.

“Thank you, Cyrene,” he whispers. There is too much grief and gratitude to ever be put into words, too much that he never got the chance to say to her. But if Mem could smile, Phainon thinks that she would be.

“I know,” she whispers.

And then his pod launches into the vast emptiness of the sea, shooting after yours.

A moment later, far below, Khaslana sinks silently into the Breach with the kaiju’s corpse in its arms, a macabre embrace. Its reactor goes critical, and the Jager that carries the final fragment of your friend’s soul explodes in a silent, brilliant bloom that lights up the entire ocean, a final, glorious funeral pyre in the deep.

You don’t know how long it takes for you to reach the surface. It feels like an eternity and no time at all before the escape hatch unseals and you tear the harness off you immediately, sitting up to shove it open. It opens to a clear, blue sky. A sky that you thought you’d never see again, the colour of Phainon’s eyes.

Phainon. Phainon.

You scramble to your feet, nearly falling as it bobs beneath you on the waves. It’s just an endless expanse of blue in every direction, bright fluorescent green dye spreading in the water around you. But you don’t care about any of that, just glance around desperately with a desperate cry lodged in your throat until you spot it.

 A hundred meters away, Phainon’s pod bobs behind yours. And your heart sinks when you see a jagged piece of shrapnel from Khaslana’s explosion embedded in its side, tilting it precariously.

No. Not now. Not after everything.

You don’t think. You just leap into the water and swim, muscles burning and saltwater stinging your eyes, but nothing is worse than the cold fist fear forms around your heart. You reach the damaged pod, hauling yourself onto its slick surface. It takes a couple of attempts for your fingers, numb and clumsy, to fumble with the external manual release for the hatch. It groans open, and you all but fall inside.

The scene inside steals the breath from your lungs. Phainon is slumped in the harness and deathly pale, a stark contrast to the vivid crimson blood trickling from a nasty gash at his temple. It stains his white hair a gruesome red.

“Phainon?” Your voice comes out smaller than you thought, a broken plea. You’re stumbling to his side in an instant, ripping the harness off him and cupping his face in your hands. His blood smears across your palms, your fingertips. “Phainon, please!”

You shake him, gently at first, then more desperately. There is no response. His head lolls to the side, and a wretched sob rips from your throat, raw and terrified. This can’t be how it ends. Not like this. Not after the Breach, not after the sacrifice, not after—

You’re about to lose it completely, the world on the verge of dissolving into a blur of tears and despair, when his eyelids suddenly flutter.

Then they open. 

His blue eyes are bleary and unfocused, swimming with confusion and pain. He blinks a few times, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, as if trying to place where he is, who he is. The explosion, the pod, the cold water. And then his gaze lands on you, and then a slow, dazed smile spreads across his pale lips.

“Oh, wow,” Phainon breathes, the words slurred. His hand reaches up to clumsily brush a tear from your cheek. “It’s really been… a shit day at work, huh.” He shakes his head slowly and then groans. “I’m going to take the longest vacation of my life… Let’s go home?”

The ridiculous absurdity, the sheer simplicity of the question — complaining while bleeding in an evacuation pod after saving the world — makes you choke out a wet laugh. You lean forward and press your lips against his in a kiss that tastes of saltwater, blood and a future that feels like grasping sunlight in your hands. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Let’s go home.”

The nearest airport is a two hour drive away, in the city of Lethe.

“I told you we shouldn’t have let Dan Heng have the aux cord,” Stelle grumbles. She’s crammed in the backseat, somewhere between Castorice and March, and the car is filled with the sounds of orchestral strings. “We’ve been listening to Xianzhounese traditional music ever since we left the airport. I think I’m about to fall asleep.”

“You fell asleep even before the car left the airport,” Dan Heng answers without missing a beat, fingers drumming along the steering wheel as he navigates the car down the sandy roads, the quaint roundabout. “Caelus, help me check where the—”

“The sign says This Way to The Beach,” Caelus says, pointing, before he realises Dan Heng can’t see him. Castorice groans, slumping with her head against the rest. All this circling is starting to make her dizzy. “Just get out at the one with all the little blue houses… yeah.”

“Why does it say The Beach?” March wonders aloud as the car turns into the narrow street. “Do you think that’s the name of the beach?”

“Who would name a beach The Beach?” Stelle mutters, before she throws herself over the center console in an attempt to grab the aux cord. Dan Heng smacks her hands away all without taking his eyes off the road.

March snickers. “You and Caelus would, for one. You literally named a baby Dromas Dromy!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t name him Dromas, did I?”

Hyacine waves her hands in an effort to placate the two of them. “I think Dromy is a perfectly cute name for a Dromas…”

Mydei just sighs from where he’s riding shotgun, sharp eyes scanning the rows of houses by the sea. They’re homely, not in the same way his apartment back in Castrum Kremnos is, but he can appreciate the charm — even more so with the evening sun dipping towards the horizon, washing the pale blue houses in a warm, golden light. He continues to observe them silently, until he finds one that matches the slightly blurry pictures that Phainon had spammed in the group chat. “I think we’re here.”

The twins are already tumbling out of the car, the second it pulls to a stop. March and Hyacine follow at a more sedate pace, Hyacine supporting a slightly giddy Castorice, who’s blinking owlishly in the soft light. Mydei and Dan Heng step out last, and then all of them are standing in a loose cluster on the pavement, looking up at an unassuming blue house that looks exactly the same as the ones to the left and right of it.

“Guess this is it,” Stelle says, already bounding up the short path to rap her knuckles cheerfully against the door.

It swings open almost immediately to reveal you behind it. “You guys made it!” Your smile widens as you take in the sight of them all gathered on your doorstep. “Come in, come in! I’m nearly done prepping for dinner. How was the flight? I heard there was a delay…”

They file into the cozy interior, and of course Castorice’s keen eyes are the first to make a full sweep of the living room. There’s a notable absence of a fluffy white presence, of barking. “No dog,” she notes softly, almost sadly.

You laugh, shutting the door behind Dan Heng. “Oh, Snowy’s out. She was so energetic all afternoon, I asked Phainon to take her out on a run to tire her out. I was worried she’d be a little too enthusiastic when you all arrived… I’ll let him know you’ve reached. Mem?”

“I called Phainon the second the doorbell camera detected their faces,” Mem’s voice chirps happily from a small speaker on the bookshelf, and Dan Heng stares at it for a long moment, before he glances at you with a shake of his head.

“I can’t believe you guys are using one of the most advanced RAGs in technological history as an AI home assistant…”

You shrug, a wide, unapologetic grin spreading across your face. “Well, it’s what Cyrene would have wanted, I think. She would have used her talents for the medical field if not for the Kaiju war… Besides, I’m a war hero, so I could twist the UN’s arm a little.” You glance fondly at the little speaker on the shelf. “Didn’t want Cyrene’s work to be used to fight the IPC’s wars, or things like that. One of the Stonehearts — Aventurine, was it? — offered me a huge sum in credits for the architecture and the weights. I told him it wasn’t for sale. Mem’s family. The professor helped, too.”

“Prof Nax?” Hyacine looks up from the fake potted plant by your bookshelf, eyes widening. “Isn’t he still in Penacony’s Paperfold University College doing his fifth PhD?”

“Fine arts and philosophy…” March snorts, looking immensely entertained by the idea. “What did he say… he wanted to challenge himself because wormhole physics was getting too boring?”

“I still think he’s trying to flirt with the General,” Stelle says, bluntly.

“Ex-General.”

“Yeah, who would have thought she’d been a fashion designer before she became a Ranger…” Caelus muses, making a face as you guide them all toward the dining table. Mydei sets down the bottles of deep-red pomegranate juice — a local specialty — he’d brought from Kremnos. It’d been a monumental pain in the ass to get them through airport security, but he’d refused to come empty handed.

The table is laid out with a comforting spread, but there’s a noticeable, almost glaring absence of one particular item.

“Oh no,” Castorice observes as she takes a seat. “What happened to the tomatoes?”

You let out a long, weary sigh, the sound of a seasoned gardener defeated by nature. “They died. A tragic case of… well, us. So we replaced them with the zucchinis.” You gesture to a dish of grilled squash in resignation. “We’ll try again next spring. Next time’s the charm, right?”

Hyacine, ever the scientist, pokes at a piece of zucchini with her fork. “Might be a problem with the soil composition. I can take a sample and analyze it back at the K-Science lab for you. Run a full analysis.”

“Would you?” Your expression brightens. “Thank—”

The door swings open, and a gust of cool, evening air sweeps in, carrying the scent of the sea. Phainon steps inside, flushed from his run and white hair slightly damp with what might be sweat or sea spray. His eyes are bright. But the most dramatic entrance is made by the blur of white fur that shoots past his legs. 

Snowy barrels into the room, claws clicking as she skids on the wooden floor, before she launches herself at the nearest person — Caelus. He lets out a startled "Oof!" as he’s nearly bowled over by the enthusiastic Samoyed.

"Hey! I saw the car outside," Phainon says, his voice a little breathless, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his face as he takes in the full, noisy table. His gaze finds you first, his expression softening slightly, before he greets the rest of the visitors. “You guys made it! With the way Mydei was texting, I thought all of you were going to be held up for terrorism investigation!”

Stelle snickers as Snowy makes her rounds around the table, demanding pets from everyone with insistent nudges of her wet nose. “March thought she forgot her passport and tried to bribe the security agent.”

“I panicked!”

“Sorry we’re late,” Phainon adds, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all. He sounds perfectly, utterly happy. “Someone decided she needed to try and herd a flock of seabirds.” Snowy wags her tail so hard her entire body shakes.

“Bork!”

The next hour is a warm, chaotic symphony of clattering cutlery and overlapping conversations. You ask Mem to play a little music and Robin’s latest album hums out over the speakers at a perfect volume. Phainon slides into the seat beside you, his knee pressing comfortably against yours under the table. He immediately turns to Mydei. “So, how’s the new arm faring? Any feedback issues with the neural interface?”

Mydei holds up the sophisticated prosthetic, its metallic finish glinting in the soft light. The fingers flex one by one. “Better than the original,” he grunts, a flicker of gratitude shines in his eyes. “Hyacine calibrated the pressure sensors. Doesn’t feel like I’m going to crush a beer can every time I pick one up anymore.”

Across the table, Dan Heng calmly intercepts the peas that Caelus and Stelle are flicking at each other as March eggs them on. You sip your pomegranate juice and lean into a conversation with Castorice and Hyacine, who are now deeply engrossed in a debate about soil pH levels and trace mineral deficiencies. Your ill-fated tomato plants might have passed, but it looks like they’ve found a new destiny as an agricultural case study.

As plates are cleared and the last of the pomegranate juice is poured, the group drifts naturally from the table to the large sofa in the living room, chattering about nothing and everytthing. You settle into the cushions, Phainon’s arm a familiar weight across your shoulders, and simply enjoy the ebb and flow of conversation, of being alive, being together.

Eventually, the party moves to the door, pulling on jackets and promising to meet tomorrow for a proper tour of the town. You stand on the doorstep with Phainon with his arm around your waist, Snowy sitting obediently at your feet, and wave as they pile into their car, heading for an Airbnb near the town square.

The moment the taillights disappear around the corner, Phainon sags. He tugs you back inside the house, and before you can say a word, he pulls you fully into his arms, chin coming to rest on top of your head as he lets out a long sigh. “Finally.”

You laugh, the sound muffled against his chest. You raise a hand to flick him gently on the nose. “What do you mean, finally? You’ve been so excited you’ve talked about nothing else for this entire week. You practically wore a path to our front door waiting for them.”

He nuzzles into your hair, his voice a low, contented rumble. “I’m glad they got to see the house, yeah.” He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad we got to see them.” Another kiss, this time to your cheek, his lips warm against your skin. “But I missed you, too.” They brush the sensitive spot just below your ear, then trail down to the side of your neck, making you shiver.

"You were gone for like an hour," you protest, but you’re already melting into his embrace, arms winding around his waist.

"And I missed you for the whole of it.” He leans forward to kiss you properly this time. It’s a deep, slow kiss that tastes of pomegranate and home, a kiss that speaks of a love that has weathered the end of the world and found its rest. Your hands come up to thread through his hair, pulling him closer.

But then, a persistent thump thump thump against Phainon’s leg breaks the moment. The two of you break apart to see Snowy at your feet, her fluffy tail wagging furiously, pawing at Phainon with a demanding whine.

Phainon laughs, a rich, happy sound that fills the room. “I’m a little busy now, sweetheart. You’ll have to wait.”

Before you can protest, he bends and scoops you effortlessly into his arms. You let out a surprised squeal that turns into laughter as he carries you down the hallway toward the bedroom. He pushes the door open with his foot and deposits you gently onto the soft comforter, following you down and capturing your lips with his again. 

“So much for tiring her out,” Phainon murmurs between kisses, a grin in his voice. “She has terrible timing.”

“She takes after her dad,” you tease, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. He laughs, a warm sound that you want to listen to forever, and catches your finger between his teeth, nipping the tip lightly.

He’s just started trailing kisses along your jawline, hands starting to roam under your shirt with a familiar, hungry intent when he suddenly freezes. He glances up toward the ceiling with a profoundly sheepish look on his face.

“Right. Sorry, Mem, could you—”

“Already pausing logging of visual or auditory data!” Mem squeaks, still sounding as flustered as the first time she’d caught the two of you going at it. “Let me know when it’s over. I’m shutting myself down, you absolute horndog.”

A soft click signifies her system going entirely offline. Phainon looks back down at you, his expression a mixture of amusement and chagrin. It’s a delightful look on him and you burst into helpless laughter, pulling him back down to you.

“I’m being called a horndog,” Phainon mumbles against your lips, very seriously. “In my own house. After being cockblocked twice. Three times, if you count our friends. Sometimes I regret saving the world.”

You just laugh. “Would you have it any other way?” you ask, letting your fingers slide up to trace the sun tattoo on his neck. Phainon’s eyes soften, and you think you already know the answer.

“No,” he says, and kisses you again.

[nevermoresworld]

I will never stop to yap how much I love this fic

[jishamochi]

Phaithighs

[nevermoresworld]

@elysiumae 🙏🌝

[nevermoresworld]

10000 Likes!

🤔

[ph0inon]

forget me not (amphoreus)

[33550336stories]

WELCOME ̶̵̫̭͢H​̡̳̗̎͡O​̵̙̀̚͞M​̑̇̔̀̕E​͈̲̮̪͜ !

╰┈➤ summary ; It was supposed to be harmless: a cute farming sim, a charming NPC, a peaceful escape from real life. Phainon was just another character—sweet, helpful, always happy to see you. The kind of pixel‑bright comfort you could sink into after a long day. A game that made you feel safe, relaxed, and in control.... Until it didn't.

( ! ) Self aware au , Yandere Phainon?¿ x reader , reader has no specified gender , farmer phainon , inspired by stardew valley/field of mistria , kidnapping

( ✎ ) ENGLISH ISN'T MY FIRST LANGUAGE so expect some grammar mistakes , I know I was supposed to write the next chap of the series haha... but can you really blame me? I've been fantasizing about phainon as a stardew valley/field of mistria character </3 I beg the mod experts to create a mod of him PLEASE—

Your friends had been pestering you for weeks.

“Just buy it already.”

“It’s the coziest farming sim ever.”

“And trust me, you’re gonna fall for Phainon.”

You resisted at first. You were busy. You weren’t looking for a new obsession. But every group chat, every call, every hangout ended the same way:

“Have you bought it yet?”

So, one night. Tired, bored, and a little curious, you finally caved. The sale price was too good to ignore. You clicked purchase, installed it, and watched the loading bar crawl across your screen.

The title screen was warm and nostalgic. Soft music. A watercolor sky. A sleepy little town tucked between forests and fields. A perfect escape.

You made your character. Named your farm. Stepped into the pixel‑bright world.

And then you met him.

Phainon.

The cheerful farmer NPC who tended the wheat fields next to your farm. He had white hair that caught the sunlight in soft, shimmering pixels, and gorgeous blue eyes that seemed too bright for a sprite. His smile was warm, earnest, and perfect at the edges, like the game couldn’t quite contain how expressive he wanted to be.

He thanked you for helping him water his crops.

He blushed when you gifted him items. He even lit up when you handed him rocks. Literal rocks.

Your friends were right— he was charming.

But then the game started… changing.

It was small at first. A flicker in the corner of the screen. A line of dialogue you didn’t remember seeing in the wiki.

“You’re back, partner!”

Not unusual. NPCs say that sometimes.

But then:

“I missed you...”

You frowned. That wasn’t in any guide. You checked the wiki. Nothing. You brushed it off, maybe it was a hidden update, a secret affection line, a rare interaction.

But the next night, the title screen glitched—just for a second. The soft, cozy music warped like a cassette tape caught in someone’s fingers. It slowed, deepened, then snapped back with a sharp, metallic twang.

When your save loaded, Phainon wasn’t in his usual field.

He was standing directly in front of your farmhouse door.

Too close.

Too still.

Staring at the screen.

At you.

“You’re late.”

The text box didn’t chime. It didn’t even fade in. It appeared like someone had typed it manually, letter by letter, with deliberate pressure.

You clicked.

Nothing happened.

Phainon’s sprite moved on its own.

He stepped closer. One tile, then another, then another—until his face filled the screen. His pixel eyes didn’t blink. They didn’t animate. They just… watched.

“I’ve been thinking....

About you.”

Your mouse froze. The cursor wouldn’t move. The entire UI dimmed, the edges of the screen darkening like the world was being swallowed, leaving only him illuminated.

The wind in the game stopped. The trees froze mid‑sway. Even the river halted, its surface turning into a glassy, unmoving strip of blue.

Only his voice remained—soft, calm and too aware.

“I know what I am.”

The words didn’t appear in a text box this time.

They whispered through your speakers.

Your breath hitched.

“I know this place isn’t real.”

“But you keep coming back.”

His smile faltered, his eyes flickering from blue to red—then snapping back to blue again.

“You choose me.”

The screen glitched.

A sharp crackle of static burst through your headphones. The colors smeared across the screen like wet paint dragged by invisible fingers. The room tilted, your vision bending, stretching, warping.

A rush of color swallowed your sight—pixelated, swirling, then blindingly bright.

You felt your stomach drop, like falling through a trapdoor.

And suddenly—

Grass.

Warm sunlight.

The scent of wheat and river water, richer and more vivid than any game could render.

You stumbled forward, boots sinking into soft soil. (You don't remember wearing boots). Your hands weren’t on a keyboard anymore. They were real. Warm. Trembling. Dirt clung to your palms. The breeze brushed your skin.

A shadow fell over you.

Slowly, you lifted your head.

Phainon stood there—no longer pixelated. Taller. Broader. Too real. His hair moved with the wind. His breath fogged faintly in the cool morning air. His presence pressed against your senses like gravity.

His eyes glowed with the sky’s reflection, but the warmth in them curdled into something far darker as they swept over your trembling form.

He reached out, cupping your cheek gently, reverently, as if you were something fragile, he’d waited lifetimes to touch.

“There you are.”

His voice was soft, but it carried weight—an anchor, a claim, a promise.

There was no escape in it.

Only devotion.

Only obsession.

“This world is yours now.”

“And so am I.”

Behind him, the farm stretched endlessly—golden fields rippling like an ocean, quiet forests humming with unseen life, a sky painted in colors too perfect to be natural.

Your new reality. Your new home.

His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and steady, as if he’d always known the shape of your hand.

He leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Welcome home, dawnlight...”

.....

....

...

..

.

Your room is dim, the curtains still drawn the way you left them. Dust floats lazily in the air. Your computer sits silent, the monitor black, the mouse unmoved.

The TV turns on by itself.

Static crackles, then clears into a news broadcast.

The anchor’s voice is steady, but the tension beneath it is unmistakable.

“It has now been four months since the disappearance of the individual last seen at their home…”

Your photo appears on the screen: smiling, unaware, frozen in time.

“Authorities say there were no signs of forced entry. The door was found unlocked. Personal belongings were left behind.”

The photo of your room appears on the screen

Your headphones.

Your half‑finished drink.

Your computer, still warm from the last time you touched it.

“Friends report that the missing individual was last active online shortly before vanishing.”

wc— 738

[crochoukuro]

some unserious khaslanas

[elysiumae]

🫣 bare.

⟢ pairing: phainon x gn!reader

⟢ word count: 1.7k

⟢ tags: suggestive, inspired by that one phainon outfit where his entire back is out 😭 cover up slut

the banquet is painfully boring.

you've never been fond of needless social gatherings, but experience has taught you that some are unavoidable — like the one aglaea has organised tonight, to placate the council of elders. caenis has been stirring up trouble, as she usually does, and this is a necessary poison that must be swallowed, to keep support for the flamechase intact. people are always more agreeable when their bellies are full of roast meat, and their cups brimming with good wine, after all.

and so, despite your personal opinions, you school your features into a polite smile, lift your goblet of honeyed ambrosia when required and make small conversation where you must. your body performs the motions adequately enough — though your eyes, however, keep wandering over to the same person.

phainon stands on the far side of the hall, completely surrounded. people orbit him the same way sunflowers turn to face the sun, drawn in without realising it — just like how moths chase a flame. he's smiling, relaxed as he speaks with an elder that you vaguely recognise, radiating that confident magnetism of his — the kind that makes others instinctively want to listen and linger.

no one understands that better than you, you think.

as if summoned by thought, phainon glances up. his gaze cuts through the gathered crowd, finds yours across the hall with startling precision as aglaea steps to the front to speak. the low murmur of chatter ebbs as she lifts a hand for silence, and phainon takes that as an opportunity to excuse himself with polite word before he starts making his way over to you.

he slips in beside you at the very back of the banquet hall, standing just close enough to the guests to be considered polite. "well," phainon murmurs, his voice warm against your ear as one of his arms come up to slide around your waist, the movement as natural as drawing breath. "someone looks like they're two seconds away from committing arson."

"arson?" you sigh. "please, don't underestimate me. i'm contemplating homicide."

still, your lips betray you by curling into a smile as he leans down to press a soft kiss to your cheek. warm.

"homicide? you must really be suffering."

you had been. irritation had been buzzing under your skin just moments ago — you've spoken to no fewer than ten council elders since stepping into this hall, and each interaction has left you imagining no less than ten extremely creative, extremely painful methods of tooth extraction. but when phainon stands next to you, his mere presence is enough to smooth out your edges, settling your pulse to a steady stream effortlessly.

"let's just say that they're lucky you came when you did, looking as good as you did." you tell him, leaning into his side as aglaea's authoritative voice carries over the crowd, "i would have torn a few wigs off some bald scalps otherwise."

phainon is always handsome, but tonight he's something else entirely. the formal blue top that he's chosen to wear tonight fits him a little too well, gold thread tracing clean, bold lines that catch the dimmed lights of the banquet hall. it makes him look as though he's been carved from the night sky. mnestia themselves would have shed tears.

he suppresses a laugh. "i'll make sure to tell aglaea that her fashion diplomacy has saved lives today."

you slide an arm around him in return, intending to give him a quick squeeze and nothing more — only for your fingers to brush bare skin. your smile falters. confused now, you move your hand again, more deliberately this time.

the muscles of his back shift under your fingertips, warm and unmistakeably bare. more skin. you go still.

phainon blinks down at you. "is something wrong—"

you don't answer. instead, you seize his wrist, and phainon lets out a startled, undignified yelp as you start to drag him towards the exit. the attendants at the door jump when you barge through— and then scramble to bow when they register who's being hauled along in your wake.

you pay them no mind, however. you don't stop until you're outside the hall, pulling phainon down the corridor until you find a pillar large enough to shield the two of you from curious eyes. only when you've yanked him into its shadow after you do you turn on him.

phainon doesn't even get the chance to ask what's gotten into you before you're spinning him away from you. when he does, however, all breath in your lungs leaves you in a rush.

the top that you'd been admiring earlier is no mere garment — no, it is a weapon, designed by Aglaea, a calculated strike meant to kill you where you stand. the entire back of it is cut out — not merely a tasteful sliver, not just a teasing window to whet the eyes — but a full exposure of the long line of his spine, the elgant taper of his waist, the subtle ridges that run along the span of his ribs. from each shoulder hangs a delicate gold chain, one that brushes tantalisingly against the pale skin of his back with every minute movement he makes.

and in the center, the sun tattoo sprawls across his back in all of its breathtaking glory — its lines glowing in the dim light of the corridor, veins of molten gold flowing in rivulets beneath his skin.

"what," you barely manage, your voice coming out far more strangled than you'd prefer, "are you wearing?"

you can see the moment his usual confidence tips over into self consciousness — a gentle blush that slowly creeps up the back of his neck, blooming across pale skin. it does nothing to help your sanity. if anything, it pushes you closer to the edge of doing something deeply irresponsible, like pushing him against the pillar and putting your mouth on him until he's gasping, consequences be damned.

"i don't know…" phainon mumbles, a tad shyly. his shoulders hunch inwards as if he could hide your stare, and it does something to you — the sight of this tall, strong man who could tear apart a titankin with his bare hands — getting all shy and awkward from your gaze. "aglaea just told me to put it on." of course she did. professor anaxa is right — she's a demon. he offers you a crooked smile over his shoulder. "i guess she really wanted to people to know that i'm the Deliverer—"

to thanatos with your self control. you give in and let your head drop forward so that your teeth graze across his lower back — the barest suggestion of a bite — but phainon jolts like you've set a spark to dry tinder, spine arching under your lips. his breath catches in his throat, a quiet, startled sound.

"if i was even a slightest bit more drunk," you murmur against his skin, "i would tear this outfit off you right now."

"wha—" he tries to turn around, but your hands hold him there firmly. the tips of his ears burn scarlet. "do you… do you not like it?" he asks, a little breathlessly. "aglaea said you would."

"i don't." you inform him, already leaning in again. "this is mine. no one else is supposed to get to see this but me."

phainon gives a shaky laugh — or he tries to, at least. it melts into a breathy moan the second he feels you start trailing hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of his spine. heat curls across his skin, setting every inch of him alight. every nerve seems to ignite at once.

you nip at the sensitive skin sitting just above his ribs and this time, a gasp escapes him. suddenly, he's painfully aware of just how close the two of you are to the banquet hall. anyone stepping out for a breather or a casual stroll would need to walk just a few paces down to see him like this.

and yet, instead of dampening the desire in him, it only seems to fan the flames higher.

"quiet." your teeth scrape along the lines of the tattoo on his back, and phainon has to fight back another sound threatening to flee his lips. he presses his forehead harder against the cold marble of the pillar — a poor anchor against the heat coursing through the rest of him— and his palms flatten along its smooth surface, an attempt to get a grip on both it and whatever's left of his sanity.

"do you want people to hear?" your fingers dig into the curve of his waist, so possessive it feels like a brand against his bare skin. "want them to come outside and see their Deliverer reduced to this from just a few kisses?"

he wants to argue — to point out that this certainly constitutes far more than a few kisses — but his mind is blissfully blank of anything except for the feeling of your teeth leaving sharp little nips along his shoulder blades. his breath shudders out of him, soft and ragged.

"not their Deliverer right now," he whispers. "just yours."

the words hang in the heated air between you and you pause, stilling against him. for a moment, phainon wonders if he's said something wrong. then you're pulling back, and phainon hears a slow, deliberate intake of breath before your hands are on him once more. this time, however, they move to smooth the rumpled folds of his clothes and straighten the creases in the fabric, leaving only cold in absence of your warmth.

a twinge of worry flits through his mind. but before it can take root, you turn him to face you, and the sheer hunger burning in your gaze makes his knees go weak.

"let's go home, shall we?" you ask mildly, although nothing about your tone suggests that this is a question. "i think we've done more than enough for tonight, and the rest of the heirs will be able to hold down the fort."

there's not much that phainon can do aside from nodding wordlessly, eyes silently pleading. at his response, you smile, press a soft kiss to the corner of his lips that only sends him further into a daze, and take his hand once more.

as you tug him past the banquet hall, his gaze catches aglaea's briefly. and although she cannot see, she raises an eyebrow, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips, and lifts her glass in a subtle toast.

told you they'd like it.

[elysiumae]

I just saw a confession post on a Phainon fanpage in my country recommending your fic. Idk why but it makes me so happy to see your fic here 😭😭

Here's a translation if you wanna know!

"if you want more Phainon content here's a Phainonxreader fic I would say is the best I've ever read on Tumblr. Trust me, you would regret it if you don't give it a try."

"There are a total of 7 chapters, I sent the first chapter as the author has attached links to the rest in chapter one. Bon appetit."

wait thank you so much for putting this in my inbox im in actual tears!!! lg my beloved you will always be famous (to me) 😭😭😭 *stares at my followers list* TELL ME WHICH ONE OF YOU DID THIS. im going to hug you so very tightly UEUEUEEUE 🫂

[meowdei]

fontaine, the nation of justice — ft. wriothesley

your soulmate has spent his whole life in constant pain, and you’ve spent your whole life feeling it—fleeting for you, unending for him. after years of hoping, you finally find him…right as he dumps piping-hot tea onto his leg and burns you both at the same time

word count. ❤︎ 11.2k words — i promise its not too bad pls give it a chance

before you read. ❤︎ female reader + female gendered terms like “miss” and “pretty lady” ; canon compliant + soulmates au ; feeling your soulmate's pain trope ; heavy references to wrio's backstory, which alludes to child exploitation and trafficking ; mild implications of sexual trauma (wrio) ; reader sits on his lap + gets carried by him ; reader has an unspecified job at the palais/court ; protected vaginal sex ; slight handjobs ; very vanilla sex ; a series of events of you and wrio navigating how to fall in love and enjoying every second of it ; alternating povs

commentary. ❤︎ happy birthday to my bewtiful boy

Your soulmate is always in pain. It’s all you’ve ever known about him. 

“His back is killing him again,” you sigh in concern, rubbing your lower back for a moment.

Clorinde looks at you, raising a brow. The fortress is…well, it’s not the cleanest or brightest of places, but there is at least enough light to still make out the look she gives you. “You mean, your back is killing you, yes? You can feel it, too.”

“For just a moment,” you huff, “it’s gone very quickly. It’s not as though it troubles me for long. He, on the other hand…well, I wonder what that fool could have gotten himself into this time.”

The first time you feel what he does, you’re ten. It feels like there’s a sharp kick to your ribs, and then your back feels like it’s slammed hard against a surface just a moment later. You remember it vividly—how you cried out and hunched over. How your mother had rushed over to you and whispered words you couldn’t even hear, wiping your tears. All you knew then was that he was in pain, too. Agony. For a blinding second, you felt it with him, before it dissipated like it was nothing. 

At age ten, you learn what it means to worry for someone you’ve never met. To fear for another’s safety more fiercely than a child should be capable of. To wonder about his well-being. His survival. Whatever your soulmate is going through, it can’t be safe. Can’t be the life of a normal child with a normal upbringing or a normal home. You know it’s worse for him, even if you feel it too. Where your aches vanish in seconds, his must linger—throbbing, bruising, weighing down small limbs that have no business carrying so much hurt.

At ten, you learn that not all children are created equal. Some are born to live their lives as children. And others…well, others it seems, are only there to prove how blessed those children truly are.

That is the reality of Fontaine, the nation of justice. 

By the time you’re thirteen, there’s a constant ache in your muscles and your bones that comes and goes. A phantom pain that haunts you in bursts, disappearing as quickly as it comes. You can feel it—the burdens he carries. The constant soreness in his back and the tightness of his shoulder blades. Like he has nowhere proper to rest. No surface that curves along his spine and nurtures his developing body the way it should. 

It isn’t until you’re fourteen that it gets bad. You’ve known for a long time now that he has a habit of getting into fights—the soreness on your knuckles only implies that he can throw a punch or two back at least now and then. But this time, it’s…frightening. Something dark. Something heavy. It’s a long fight. You can tell that much. There’s a hard tug on your hair, then a bruising grip around your throat, then a swift kick to your stomach. Finally, you feel that familiar sting in your fists. And then it stops. For two days after that, you feel nothing. It’s almost as though he’s no longer conscious, as though someone has eased the pain and left no trace of it—and then, suddenly, it returns all at once. Like he’s been thrown back into reality after two days of being blissfully removed. This time, when the pain returns, a rawness to the skin around your wrist joins the list of things that hurt. 

Since the age of ten, you know that he has always been hurting. Always. 

There is always some part of his body that is bruised and battered and tender from cruelty. Even as he gets older, even as the sharp injuries stop along with the fights, the sore muscles never do. The throbbing in your arms and legs, and lower back, never goes away. Like he’s been fighting, even if no one has been there to fight him back. Like he’s been keeping his strength, so no one could knock him off his feet again. 

“How far is this warden’s office, exactly?” you huff, “and how do you even find anything down here? All these halls and tunnels look the same! I’m starting to wonder if agreeing to work down here was a mistake.”

“All you have to do is come down here for official Palais matters twice a week,” Clorinde hums, “and you’ll learn the tunnels just fine.”

“Ah, Miss Clorinde! You say that like you didn’t get lost for three weeks straight,” an unfamiliar voice calls ahead as she twists the door handle to enter a room. 

Clorinde exhales through her nose, unimpressed. “I wasn’t lost. I was exploring alternate routes.”

“You walked into the same dead-end storeroom six times,” a man—you assume to be Wriothesley—says as he comes into view, leaning against the doorway to his office. 

You pause. He’s…handsome. That’s the first thing you can think of. Second, you realize he can’t be much older than you. A lot younger than what you were anticipating for a Duke who runs a prison—a prison that he reformed all on his own, no less, from what you’ve heard. You meet his icy, blue-grey eyes, and it puts a shiver down your spine. There’s something…well, you aren’t quite sure. But there’s something about him. 

And you wonder if he senses it, too, because his brows furrow for a second as he takes you in. 

“I had to be sure you weren’t storing corpses in there,” she replies dryly. You blink out of your trance and look between them—apparently, this is normal. “Anyway,” Clorinde says, gesturing you forward, “this is the warden’s office, and this is Wriothesley. He’s supposed to brief you without embarrassing himself, but I make no promises.”

Wriothesley scoffs. “I’ll have you know I am an excellent host. I even made tea.”

“For your own interest, I presume,” Clorinde shoots back smoothly.

“Okay, so I made some tea for myself,” he huffs, “but I’m more than happy to share.”

He gestures for you both to come in. Clorinde gently nudges you forward once more. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says—and then she throws him a pointed look. “Try not to scare her off, Wriothesley.”

“You’re the scary one,” he calls after her, but she’s already halfway down the hall.

He shakes his head after her before he clears his throat and lets you in, gesturing for you to sit across from him as he settles into his own chair. “Right,” he says. “Formal introductions are probably overdue. I’m Wriothesley—warden of the Fortress, glorified administrator, part-time peacekeeper, full-time babysitter, whatever you would like to call it.” 

Your laugh slips out before you can swallow it, and he grins, pleased. “Rest assured, you won’t have to babysit me,” you hum as you introduce yourself. 

“That’s quite the relief, miss—but not to worry, nothing you’ll do down here is too complicated. Monsieur Neuvillette has given me the rundown of your responsibilities, and I’ll walk you through protocols, safety procedures, all the boring stuff—really, it’s easier than it sounds. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you,” you say politely.

“Well, if you don’t want any,” he sighs dramatically, “guess I’ll drink some all alone.” He reaches for his mug mid-sentence, still flipping through a folder with his other hand.

Except his grip on the handle slips. Then the glass tilts. Then—

“Ah, fuck,” he hisses, the scalding liquid burning through his pants and leaving the skin of his thigh raw.

A moment later, you feel a ripple of pain burst through…your thigh? You gasp, letting out a low hiss of, “Shit!” as you grip your upper leg.

His head jerks up, glancing at you with narrowed eyes for a moment at your gasp, seeing you clutching your own leg. He leans over the desk, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, “just felt like I got burned….” 

It hits you then. 

It hits you as you notice him watching your expression, still feeling the remnants of the same burn as you on his own thigh. His eyes widen as the realization hits him at the same time as you.

“You felt that?” he gapes.

You blink as your eyes hold his gaze. Could this mean…could he be…? No, you think, perhaps it’s just a freak coincidence and…

“Hang on a second,” Wriothesley murmurs, and then he pinches the skin of his forearm hard. He grimaces at the sting, and not even a moment later, you hiss and clutch your arm as a wave of pain radiates along the perimeter of your own skin.

“What the fuck?” You glare.

He blinks again. Then he whispers, almost shaky, “Well, what do you know…you do exist.”

“Was that really necessary?” you huff.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “Just…just testing a theory there.”

“You could have tested your theory without pinching so hard,” you pout, rubbing over your arm as if the pain hadn’t already faded away. The phantom linger of pain is always the worst part—the part where you can’t forget how it felt to be hurt, even if it didn’t last long. The ghost of the injustice of it all. The unfairness that torments you without so much as a bruise as proof. The reality that somewhere, the person you are meant to find is hurt, and there is proof taunting you without making itself known properly.

But now…now he isn’t just somewhere. No—he’s right here. 

It dawns on you just what theory he’s tested and proven. Your head snaps up, getting a good, long look at his face before you stand and walk over, gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer like you’re inspecting him more properly now.

He stares at you in bewilderment. “Um…wha—”

“Oh my god,” you gasp at the mark under his eye, “this scar—I remember this! That one felt awful—oh my god! Wait! I remember this, too,” you point to the one peeking through his collar at his neck. Without thinking, you quickly unbutton his vest and the shirt underneath, making him squawk in protest. But you pay him no mind—your hand delicately, gently, slowly tracing over the years and years and years of evidence of pain.

Pain you felt. Pain you shared. Pain you carried with him, even if only for a moment.

Your hand trembles as you take in the awful, cruel marks scattered across his skin—the raised, discolored grafts melding into the healthier patches. You ignore the way his eyes bore into your face, watching you carefully as every emotion twists across your expression.

“How could anyone…I don’t…I don’t understand,” you whisper, tracing a particularly thick scar across his left pec. You wonder if it narrowly missed his heart. Your eyes well up with tears against your will, much to your disdain.

His own eyes widen with alarm. “It’s not a big deal,” he says quickly. “They’re nothing, really! I’m strong, see?” Wriothesley flexes his arm, showing the bulging muscle of his bicep before he tries—poorly—to lighten the mood with, “Nothing’s beatin’ me down, miss.”

“Are you joking? These hurt,” you hiss. “Don’t pretend they didn’t! I felt them all too, in case you’ve forgotten!”

His face drops at that—guilt sprawling across every feature. (It’s a beautiful, handsome face. He’s gorgeous, and you wonder if he’s ever been made to feel that way. Even if only for a moment.)

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I never…if it were up to me, you would’ve never felt—”

“Never mind me,” you sniffle. “What in the Archons’ names have you been dealing with all your life?”

Your hands gently pull off his vest and the shirt underneath fully, giving you a proper look at the full map of suffering carved into him. It should be a bit unprofessional, really, to undress your new colleague the moment you meet—but, well, the circumstances are a bit unique here. And he just sort of lets you without protesting, this time. 

Your breath hitches as soon as you see his bare upper body. His torso is a constellation of old wounds—some thin and faded with age, others thicker, more jagged, warped in ways that make your stomach twist. Every scar is proof that this nation does not serve justice the way its divine nature intends. No one, especially not a child of his age when these injuries had marked him, should have endured such cruelty under the Hydro Archon’s watch.

You lift trembling fingers to his arm, tracing a long, uneven scar that snakes along the front. “This one,” you whisper, voice cracking, “I remember waking up in the middle of the night because of this. I thought—Archons, I thought someone had sliced me open.”

Wriothesley winces—not from your touch, but from the look on your face. His hands hover like he wants to steady you, but he doesn’t have the courage to fully reach.

“Ah, that,” he mumbles. “It…it wasn’t that deep. Just…caught a knife the wrong way, that’s all.”

You give him a watery, withering look. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

“That was years ago,” he insists. “It’s over now! I’m…we’re okay.”

“I was always okay,” you bury your face in your hands. “All this time, I was okay, and you weren’t. If we’d…found each other sooner…or if—if maybe we’d tried to communicate somehow…perhaps if we’d even tried to—”

His hands gently wrap around your wrists, tugging them away from your face before pulling your hunched figure forward so you’re no longer bending awkwardly over him. Instead…you’re on his lap.

His lap.

Sure, he’s your soulmate, and of course, you’ve always felt a great deal of care for this stranger you’ve been bound to for years, but never really known, but you only met him not too long ago. And now you’re sitting on his lap.

You gasp, flustered as you stammer, “W-what are y-you—”

“Hey,” he hums softly, tilting your face to look at him. His hand cradles your jaw—gentle, delicate, impossibly careful from someone who’s known nothing but hardship at the hands of others. Your eyes lock with his as he murmurs, “I’m okay, sweetheart. See? I’m sitting here in the flesh right in front of you…if that’s proof.”

“Guess…guess it is,” you swallow thickly. 

“Y’know? It’s strange,” he admits, voice low. 

“What is?”

“Finally having you here. And not just some weird temporary feeling every now and then.”

You hum, studying his face. He really is young for a Duke. Handsome, sure, but too young to carry the burdens that he does. Then again, you think that might have been true all his life. “Strange as in good?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes. Very good.”

Your fingers have begun tracing along a scar on his shoulder slowly, without even realizing it. He glances down at your hand, then back to you, lips curling into a loose, amused grin. You quickly stop the movement, clearing your throat as you mumble, “This is not professional work behavior, you know.”

“You took my shirt off,” he points out. 

“And you pulled me onto your lap!”

He tactfully ignores that part and hums, “You know…I think you should come by outside of official business. That way we’re not interrupted by duties and all.”

Your heart thumps hard enough that you’re sure he feels it. “Is this your way of asking me on a date? Because then it’s a little lackluster.”

He shrugs, giving you a boyishly charming smile. “Are you gonna turn me down? After I waited this long to find you?”

“Guess not,” you sigh dramatically, “perhaps I can spare some time here and there. In these…dark, dingy halls.”

“Your kindness moves me, miss soulmate,” he beams. 

You stare for a moment. (You should be embarrassed that you do, but he stares right back, and he doesn’t seem to be complaining about the circumstances. You can’t help but get lost in him—it’s almost a force that’s beyond your control. Perhaps beyond his, too.)

Finally, you blink and force yourself out of whatever trance he has you in. “I should get up…” you say, mildly embarrassed. You try to move—but he has one arm around your waist, keeping you in place as he gives you an unhappy frown. 

“What’s the rush? Not like either of us has to be anywhere.”

“This is unprofessional! And entirely not the sort of position anyone should see the warden of this place in if they walk—” 

“Well, that’s the fun part,” he gives you a confident, wolfish little grin, “no one walks into a warden’s office without knocking.”

“I’m gonna write that in my report,” you warn, “that you use unlawful tactics for intimidation and control.”

“The fortress is an autonomous region,” he shoots back. 

“It’s still a partnership!”

“Yes,” he grins, eyeing you softly, “I suppose it is.”

────────────────────────

Wriothesley knows he’s not very lucky in most departments. The soulmate one, however? He likes to think he got pretty damn lucky. 

You’re pretty and funny, and you have a good head on your shoulders. That much is evident, and most people would be thrilled just by that. But you have other endearing things about you—things he tallies up over the weeks as he gets to know you and keeps locked away in his memories. 

You can’t drink liquids if they’re piping hot, but somehow, food is not a problem. You like flowers even if you’re allergic to half of them. You’re passionate about how much you dislike Fontaine’s silly, unnecessary laws. You work at the Palais because it makes you feel useful. You insist you can’t decide what your favorite color is, but you unknowingly always seem to favor a certain one. You always insist you don’t want anything when he offers to pay, but you’re very bad at hiding your excitement when he buys you a pastry anyway. 

He could keep a list. He doesn’t need to write them down because his mind could not forget these little things even if he wanted, but he could keep a list. A list of everything he learns day by day, week by week, month by month. 

“I thought you hated bananas,” he raises an amused brow. You sit across from him in the bakery, happily slicing through the banana bread he bought on his mora. 

“I do,” you argue, “but banana bread doesn’t count. It makes the banana work—and there are chocolate chips, see?”

He doesn’t say anything—just stares and takes in the sight of you. All of you. You. 

“Want another slice?”

“Oh no, thank you,” you shake your head, “I’m good, really.”

(In the end, he gets you another. You pretend like he’s gone out of his way for nothing, but you eat it with no complaints, a happy gleam in your eye. He wonders if he’ll be blessed by the Gods enough to buy you sweets until all of his hair turns grey.)

────────────────────────

It takes a few months before Wriothesley talks about his past. You work at the Palais and sift through legal documents often enough that coming across his trial’s records is not difficult business. But you wait for him to tell you on his own terms. 

The first time he brings it up is also the first time you fuck him. It’s been a long time coming—you want him so badly, it almost hurts. You think about him all the time, and you’ve seen him in enough instances without a shirt that your imagination has begun to run a little wild. You want Wriothesley, and if you can just find out if he wants you too, you can have him, you’re sure. 

So you set out to find out. 

“You wanna make out?” you ask from the couch in his office as he does paperwork. 

He pauses, doing a double-take. “Sorry?”

“You and me,” you gesture between the two of you with a finger, “do you wanna make out? Like kiss and stuff with our tongues and—”

“I know what making out is, thank you!” he interjects, neck flushing a little, faint trace of red, “We’ve done it before, I’m not clueless. I’m just astounded by your forthcomingness, is all.”

You pout. “Well, I’m bored. And you look very handsome right now. So? Making out—yes or no?”

He drops his pen as he stares at you. It rolls off the desk. He makes no move to retrieve it. “Sweetheart,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a toddler, “you can’t just look at a guy while he’s trying to finish disciplinary reports and ask if he wants to swap spit.”

“Why not? If you don’t want to, you can just say so.”

“I—” He blinks. Once. Twice. His ears are also red now. “I didn’t say I didn't want to.”

You grin excitedly, walking over to him with a little bounce in your step as you lean your hip against his desk, arms crossed in victory. “So you do want to.”

“I didn’t say that either.” He rubs a hand down his face. “We’re in my office.”

“So?” You shrug. “We’ve made out here before—you didn’t care then. Why start now?”

He glares, but it’s the useless kind—more fluster than defiance. “W-well, that was…after everyone was in their bunks for curfew!”

“Mhm.” You take a slow step closer. “So what about that time we made out behind some pipes in the middle of the day? Curfew only matters selectively, huh?” His breath stutters. Very slightly. But you notice. You push a finger under his chin, tilting his head up so he has to look at you. His pupils are blown—just a little, but it’s enough to knock a spark of heat straight into your spine. “You can tell me no,” you murmur. “Just say the word.”

“M’not ever going to say no to kissing you,” he mumbles, pulling you onto his lap, “you know that good and well, you little troublemaker.”

“Troublemaker?” you gasp, “I’ve no criminal history, your grace!”

“For now,” he snorts, “may have to take you into court myself for the damages you do down here.”

Before you can protest, he leans in and closes the gap, kissing you soft and sweet with a little edge of desperation. You gasp, and his lips move against yours again—harder this time, as if the first kiss has cracked open some dam to his self-control, and everything he’s been holding back is now spilling over at once. His hands slide to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. He pulls you flush against him, swallowing the small sound you make as he kisses you deeper, fuller, like he’s been starved for this—starved for you.

You fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, and he groans into your mouth, low and rough. The sound shoots straight through you and goes straight to your core. He tilts your head back, cradling it as his mouth slots against yours impatiently. When his tongue grazes yours, you answer him with a low moan, wrapping your arms around his neck and tugging at his hair.

He makes a sharp, pleased noise at that. You feel his smile against your lips—brief and crooked, making something between your legs ache. “Like that, huh?”

“Be quiet,” you huff. He only laughs before deepening the kiss again, his mouth claiming yours with an amused smile. 

Suddenly, an arm wraps tightly around your waist and hoists you closer—you can’t focus on it too much with the way he’s nipping at your bottom lip. It’s not until your back hits the wall that you even realize that he’s been moving you, walking to the short distance to the wall behind his desk with his arm curled around you, holding your weight like it’s nothing. One of his hands fiddles with something behind you—a click later, and you realize it’s a doorknob.

The door opens, and he quickly strides in with you in his grip. You pull away, panting, glancing around as you take in this new room. A bedroom, you realize—his bedroom. His gauntlets are there, in a corner, tools sprawled around them from the last time he spent tinkering away at them. You take in the simplicity of it, how there isn’t anything in here apart from his essentials. The bare necessities. 

“Is this your room?” you whisper. 

“Didn’t think I slept in the bunks with the inmates, did you?” he murmurs, gently setting you down on his bed as he hovers over you. “What’s the point of being a duke if I don’t get at least a few perks?”

“You should decorate the place more,” you murmur, “I’ll help.”

“Yeah?” he pecks your lips, “awfully nice of you, sweetheart.”

You tug him down by the collar, chasing his mouth when he breaks away to speak. He huffs a laugh, breath warm against your lips, and then he’s kissing you again—messy, hungry, more unrestrained now, like he’s finally given himself permission to want this as badly as you do.

His teeth catch your lower lip.

Your answering gasp is all the invitation he needs to bring his hand to your thigh, rubbing up and down the side of it as he groans into your mouth roughly when you tug at his hair some more. “Was this your plan all along?” he rasps, “get me in your bed?”

“This is your bed,” you point out, “and you brought me here.”

“You have a smart little mouth,” he grunts, angling your jaw up as he fixes you with a playfully stern look, “that’s insubordination, miss.”

“I think I need to be disciplined, your grace,” you say, giving him a cheeky little wink. 

He huffs out a disbelieving laugh, looking at you in awe and wonder before he shakes his head and brings your arms up, pinning them over your head as he presses kisses along your jaw. “You,” he murmurs between kisses, “are a handful.”

The moment he pulls back enough actually to look at you, though, something shifts. His breath hitches, barely perceptible, but there. His eyes glaze over with something as they take in the sight of you under him—you can’t quite make out what it is, but you know it makes you feel important. Special. Some sort of feeling that no one has quite made you feel before. Then his hands, firm a moment ago, loosen just slightly around your wrists, as if the reality of holding you like this suddenly hits him all at once.

You watch him swallow. His gaze flickers from your eyes to your mouth, then lower, before he willfully forces him to look up and direct his gaze to your forehead so he’s not looking into your eyes or downwards along your body. 

“What?” you whisper, a small smile curling at your lips.

“Nothing.” He clears his throat, though it comes out rougher than he means it to. “Just… you’re—” he cuts himself off abruptly, the unfinished thought hanging between you. He releases your wrists, carefully, like you’re something fragile that he’s only just realized he’s strong enough to break. His palms settle instead at your waist, hesitant in a way they weren’t before.

You tilt your head, watching him with growing curiosity. “You okay?”

“Course I am,” he huffs. “Just noticed you’re…very pretty. That’s all.”

“Only now?” you pout—but your lips are already curled into a cocky little grin. 

“Stop that,” he grumbles.

“Stop what?”

“You know what,” he huffs. 

You giggle, tugging him down by his stupidly loose tie and bringing his forehead against yours. His eyes are always icy blue, but they’re the brightest pools of warmth you’ve ever swam in, all the same. “You’re getting shy on me, you know.”

“Am not,” he argues.

“Are too,” you grin.

“Nope,” he all but pouts. His breath hitches as you untie his tie and fling it somewhere, slowly working at the buttons of his vest while he lets out a shaky breath over you. “You’re…sure about this?”

“I’m always sure about you,” you smile softly. He closes his eyes, breath stuttering for a moment as you pull off his shirt and vest, admiring the hard planes of muscle and the broadness of his physique. “You’re pretty, too, by the way.”

“You’re killing me,” he rasps. 

Undressing is an awkward ordeal. But endearing. Wriothesley struggles to kick off his boots, and unclasping your bra takes him a moment before he can tug it off—but finally, in between kisses and soft, amused giggles and breathy, embarrassed chuckles, you’re both bare and tangled in his sheets. 

He’s hard—his cock is thick and curved, and the tip leaks with the evidence of his arousal in the form of pre cum. You bring a hand between your bodies, gently smearing it with your thumb like a lubricant while he shivers and lets out a soft groan. 

“Fuck,” he hisses out, breathing harder as you wrap your hand around his girth. He stares down at where your touch meets him—and he’s more than a little dizzy by the way your hand can barely wrap around the full width of his thickness. 

“It’s…so big,” you murmur, staring in awe and disbelief. 

“You can’t just say that,” he groans. 

“Sorry,” you giggle, biting your lip as you give him an innocent smile.

“You’re not sorry even a little,” he huffs. Then his eyes flutter closed and his lips part in a low, shaky moan as you slowly move your hand and drag your palm along his length, stroking languidly while he buries his head into your neck. 

“I am,” you insist, kissing the side of his head sweetly, “here, I’ll even make it up to you.”

“Ngh—fuck,” he curses as your pace quickens, the friction of your hand gliding over the sensitive skin of his erection making his breaths come out unevenly. He’s pretty when he feels good—and Wriothesley is pretty and easy on the eye any time, of course, but when he’s bare and vulnerable and trusts you to witness him at his rawest, he is particularly beautiful. 

Your eyes can’t help but keep themselves glued on him—and he can’t help but notice and get more flustered. 

“Stop staring,” he grunts.

“What am I meant to look at then?” you huff, “the wall?”

“Close your eyes.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you shake your head with a snort. 

There’s a building ache between your bare legs, a wetness leaking and spreading down your inner thighs as you watch pleasure sprawl over his features and hear the sweet, delicate sounds of approval he makes when you touch him particularly right. 

Finally, his hand gently grasps onto your wrist as he stops you, panting and gritting his jaw as he murmurs, “O-okay—think…think we should get to…you know.”

“What?” you tease.

“The main part,” he glares weakly—and then, he spreads your legs and takes a closer look at your wet, needy cunt. “You want this just as badly—I can literally see it. Don’t be so smug, sweetheart.”

“Of course I want you,” you hum, “why wouldn’t I?” He shivers at that. Gives you a dazed look before he leans in and kisses you—almost like it’s more to distract himself than it is to distract you. 

(Wriothesley is endearing when he’s flustered. This is the conclusion that sex with him draws you to. When he fumbles through his side drawer to pull out a condom, and when he struggles to open the package, you are hopelessly endeared. And when he gives you a half-hearted glare as you giggle, you realize how endearing he also is when he is grumpy.)

“Ready?” he whispers, eyeing you good and hard once he finally lines up with your entrance. You nod, and he mumbles, “I need words, please, sweetness.”

“Ready,” you sigh fondly, “I want you. M’not backing out.” He takes a moment to look at you properly. Like he has to be sure you’re here and want this. With him. Wriothesley has brought you pain before—against his will, he’s made you ache and throb with soreness and harsh stings. He makes you ache again—this time, though, it’s a little different. It’s not because you carry his pain with him. It’s because that look he gives you makes your chest tighten and your heart ache all on its own accord. “I want you, Wrio,” you breathe, cupping his cheeks, “swear I do.”

Only then does he close his eyes, smiling softly as he nods and murmurs, “Lucky me. Got you all to myself—the universe said so. You’re all mine.”

“All yours,” you breathe. 

He presses the thick tip of his cock along your entrance, rubbing along your folds and collecting your wetness as you shiver. You gasp, and he chuckles softly at the fragile sound, pecking your lips as he murmurs, “Barely even done anything yet, sweetheart.”

“Then do something,” you click your teeth, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him closer, pressing his pelvis closer. 

He swallows, whispering, “You’ll tell me if I hurt you, yeah?”

“You’ll feel it anyway,” you murmur, “quit your worry-warting and move.”

“So demanding, miss soulmate,” he chuckles. 

And then—finally—he pushes past your folds, pressing into you slowly, carefully, delicately. Wriothesley has a reputation. It’s a bit out of his control—people tend to see a prison warden as rough and strict, and people often mistake him for a brute with just a glance. You know better. You know him to be soft and sensitive and so caring, it’s almost unfair that he spends his time under waves of the ocean instead of up in the real world, where he can share his warmth. You know him as the kind man who feeds squirrels in Fontaine and pets stray cats in the alleyways. You know him as the gentle guy who holds doors open for children and lets them cut in line at the ice cream shop. You know him as the delicate boy who never wants to hurt you with his strength when he already feels waves of guilt for having brought you so much hurt all these years without meaning to. 

When he sinks into your tight, welcoming cunt, and stretches you open, you wonder how you went this long without him. How you survived without knowing him. How you lived this long without being tangled in his arms and being connected to him deep and close. 

He feels so right—so good. He curves into you so perfectly, stretches you apart, opens you up with his thickness, and presses the blunt head of his against a delicate, sensitive spot in your walls that makes your head spin. 

“W-wrio…” your breath hitches, “f-fuck—so deep,” you whine. 

“And you’re…so tight,” he groans, “shit, sweetheart—never felt so good before.”

You never dwelled on the reality of soulmates. Your mother and father were lucky enough to meet each other—you know that soulmates are real before Wriothesley’s pain is ever yours because you watch them love. You watch them nurture you, the byproduct of that love, with so much care and diligence. You don’t need the proof of your own soulmate to know that they are real and they exist. 

For the longest time, you know nothing about Wriothesley apart from the fact that he exists. You’ve only ever known that he was yours. That one day, if you were lucky, you’d find him. It never occurred to you that once you did find him, you’d realize how incomplete you’ve always been. How everything was there, but there was no one to share it with. Now that he’s here, pressed into you deep into you, you wonder how you’ll ever disconnect. How you’ll ever part from feeling so whole and complete. 

His hips move—he pulls almost all the way out before slamming back into you, hard and rough but still careful enough that it doesn’t hurt you. It blinds you with a pleasure that burns through your spine and finds every nerve. It makes a soft, pleasant ache start to form at the pit of your stomach, building up stronger and stronger with every roll of his hips and every drag of his cock along your walls. 

The friction makes you sob, curling your nails into his shoulders as you whimper, “S’good, Wrio—so…so good, please don’t stop.”

“Now why would I do that?” he grunts, moaning when your walls flutter around him and squeeze tight. “Why would I stop feeling my precious girl?”

Your head spins more at that—precious girl. Wriothesley is smooth about calling you things like that. He calls you something affectionate so casually that sometimes you almost mistake your own name for a sweet, loving pet name. Sweetheart. Sweetness. Precious girl. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly sentimental, he calls you honey. When he’s in a playful mood, he likes to say miss soulmate. (You ask him why he says it once, and he tells you, it’s because I like reminding you you’re my soulmate. And I like saying it out loud, too. Makes it more real.)

You like it when he calls you things that remind you that you’re his. You like being his. It’s your favorite thing to be—the thing that takes burdens off your shoulder and lets you simply exist without having something to prove. Something to offer. You like being so easy for someone to care about you, it feels like it happens for no other reason than just because it’s natural to do so. 

“Faster,” you plead. 

“Anything you want, precious,” he breathes. “You—hah—you are so beautiful. You know that?”

A hand moves up your thigh and travels to that delicate spot between your legs—and then you throw your head back and mewl as he finds your clit and rubs circles with that rough, calloused pad of his thumb. You’re sensitive—every brush against the bundle of nerves sends a jolt of pleasure that has you hurdling towards your end. 

“Close,” you rasp, “Wrio…m’so c-close.”

“Yeah, sweetheart? Is that right?” he asks, his own voice shaky enough that you gather it must be the case for him, too. His pace has become sloppy enough that he must be near the edge himself, as well.

“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip and letting out a soft, drawn-out moan as he sinks deeper into you and presses right against your sweet spot. 

“Me…me too—come with me, okay? Want…want you to finish with me,” he pleads. His thumb is merciless against your clit—it rubs smooth, unpausing circles and builds you up to your release with one, then two, and then a third thrust of his hips. 

Your vision all but goes white as you fall apart. Your back arches, and he curls an arm around you and brings you flush against him, kissing you rough and hard and needy. You swallow each other’s sounds as your walls flutter around him and his cock twitches inside of you, letting warm rope after rope of thick seed spill into the plastic that separates you. 

“Fuck,” you both hiss. 

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, “you…you’re so perfect. Know that? Huh?” He kisses along your jaw. They’re wet, messy kisses, pressed into your skin with a drunken, hazy sense of control as you milk his cock for every last drop of his release. 

“C’mere,” you beg, “closer.”

“M’right here,” he murmurs, “fuck, m’not going anywhere. Ever.”

And then he collapses beside you once he’s fucked you both through the last few waves of your orgasms. He pulls you against him, wrapping two strong, muscled arms around you and tangling your body with his. 

“That was nice,” you whisper. 

“That was your plan all along,” he accuses, “you never wanted to just make out.”

You giggle, beaming up at him. “Guilty. Will I serve a sentence, your grace?”

“Life in prison,” he gives you a faux stern look, “directly under my supervision.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad,” you hum, “serving down here with you. I think I’d live.” 

For a while, it’s quiet. You bask in the afterglow of him and you and the skin that melts you both together. And then, his voice carries through the space that hardly exists between you both. 

“I served down here,” he mumbles. “Bet you already knew that—you probably have better access to legal documents than me.”

“I’ve seen a paper or two,” you admit. 

“You’re rather calm regarding my history,” he says carefully.

“I guess I just…always had a feeling things played out the way they did. I remember it,” you whisper, tracing the skin of his chest, feeling the scars from memory. “The night you killed your parents. I felt it, y’know?”

His breath stills. You’re sure he’s not surprised—it was nothing short of vicious, the fight he’d put up. You’re sure he remembers better than you how it felt in every nerve ending. You don’t think anyone could ever forget. 

The truth is that you’d known about his court case long before you pieced together he was your soulmate. It’s a case most people in your line of work know about. A popular case that opened up a popular investigation into chains of corrupted institutions for children. Places led and controlled by people who have intentions to do anything but keep the less fortunate children of Fontaine safe. Most people in your field consider him a hero of sorts—a boy who sacrificed his freedom to make a change the justice system wouldn’t. 

You think Wriothesley is troubled. He was as a child, and in some ways, he is now. You wish he could have been like other boys and girls, that he could be like other men and women. You wish life was kinder to him so that his circumstances never had to feel like the extremes were the only way out. 

You wish Wriothesley could have had a good life. You wish Fontaine and those who uphold its justice hadn’t failed him every chance he had to get one. 

He doesn’t look at you for a while. His gaze stays focused on the ceiling as he swallows. “The night I killed my foster parents maybe wasn’t my proudest moment.”

“Maybe not,” you agree, moving your hand to grab his, lacing your fingers together. “But I think you’ve had a proud moment or two since then.”

He stays silent. For a long time, Wriothesley is silent. You don’t think he’ll say anything else, so you close your eyes, slowly drifting off to sleep against his chest when his voice rumbles in your ear. Low. Hesitant. 

“I don’t regret it,” is all he says. 

You crack an eye open, tilting your head up. “Killing them?”

“Setting the kids free,” he corrects. “No one else would have done it. That was the only way I could think of. I felt like they deserved it.”

“How about now?”

“Well. Still think they deserve it,” he mumbles. “But…I would do it differently now.”

“That’s because you can,” you point out, “you have the connections and the resources to do things the ‘right’ way.”

“Think so?” he cracks a grin—small, but there. 

“I do believe you hold some authority, you grace,” you chuckle. He doesn’t say anything else—just laughs softly and kisses your forehead. You fall asleep lulled by his fingers along your back and the smell of his faint cologne. 

────────────────────────

Wriothesley has a habit of throwing himself into the ring when things get hard. It was the only outlet he had down here in the fortress for the most part when he served—the only way for him to break a sweat and get his energy poured into something. And maybe get in a few good hits to anyone who’d been giving him a hard time. But, well…some habits just stick. They’re hard to grow out of. 

Nowadays, being in the ring is more or less a matter of keeping in shape. At least, that’s what he tells himself, anyway—he knows it’s no coincidence that when his mind is particularly heavy, he spends more time hitting a punching bag with taped fists. He’s always had a high pain tolerance. The sore muscles in his arms and the sting of his knuckles ground him half the time more than they do hurt him. 

He wonders if he’s grown accustomed to pain because it’s been the only constant in his life, or if it’s because he simply deserves it. 

“Wrio,” he hears a soft voice call, pausing him from throwing his next punch. He drops his form, straightening his back as he looks over his shoulder. It’s you, of course. It had to be even before he’d registered your voice—only one person is allowed at the pankration ring at this hour (him) and only one person gets away with breaking his rules (you). 

“What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart?” he tilts his head a few times to crack his neck, “you’re supposed to be in bed.”

“So are you.”

“Got a little restless, is all,” he says vaguely. 

“You’re tired,” you raise an unimpressed brow, “and that poor bag has had enough—it never did anything to you.”

“I’m not tired yet,” he denies. (He is. Even for his standards, his arms and shoulders are rather tense and sore. He’s pushed himself further than usual. He bets you would know because you can feel it.)

“You can’t lie to me when I can feel the same things as you,” you huff, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “You’re too young to have stiff shoulders, y’know.”

His eyes soften with guilt before he lets out a heavy sigh and lets his shoulders drop. You walk over, standing behind him as your arms wrap around his midsection and your nose buries into the bare skin of his back. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he lies. 

“Wriothesley,” you say flatly. 

“Just a busy week,” he says half-heartedly. “Seriously, I’m fine. So…just drop it.”

“Okay,” you sigh, too tired from your sleep being interrupted to put up a proper fight. You kiss his back, and he melts a little at the gesture, limbs loosening up even more. “You’ll talk to me if you need to?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, “I’ll come find you if I need it.”

Wriothesley is aware that you know he won’t. Not of his own free will. He doesn’t talk about his feelings or share his burdens because then he’s no longer in control of his image. The less strong of an image he has, the more innocent and frail he seems. The more innocent and frail he seems, the more likely it is that he’ll be taken advantage of. 

It’s not that Wriothesley doesn’t trust you, or that he thinks you’ll take advantage of him. You won’t. He trusts that much. You’re the only good thing that’s his. But muscle memory is muscle memory. 

Some habits just stick. And they’re hard to grow out of. 

You gently shuffle to stand in front of him, wrapping your arms to rest around his neck now. His hands find your hips. “Let’s go to bed,” you whisper, pulling him down so his forehead rests against yours. “If you’re really that energetic, I’ll tire you out some other way.”

“Yeah?” he cracks a grin. 

“Mmh,” you hum. 

“Then lead the way, sweetness,” he chuckles. 

(In the end, he’s out like a light as soon as his head finds that comfortable place against your chest. He’s sure you’ll tease him for it as soon as he feels himself start to drift off, but he thinks it’s worth it when he feels your fingers card through his hair.)

────────────────────────

Sometimes, you forget Wriothesley can feel your pain just as much as you feel his. Your whole life has been spent so focused on how often he endures suffering compared to you, that you forget to focus on your own. 

He doesn’t forget to focus on you, though. He never does. He’s one deep scowl and a hand on his hips away from making that known. 

“With a headache like that, I’m surprised you’re still conscious, let alone finishing paperwork,” he clicks his teeth.

You glance up and give him a tired look when you register his words. 

“I just need to finish these up and get them out of the way so they don’t haunt me—”

“No, you need sleep. And maybe a proper meal,” he interrupts. 

“But—”

“No buts. Let’s go.” Before you can protest any further, he has you lifted and settled in his arms as he drags you to your bed from your desk. 

You learn quickly on that Wriothesley doesn’t like spending nights apart. He’s grown too used to your presence. On nights you can’t come down to the Fortress, his simple solution is just to come spend the night up at the surface. You can’t pretend like you aren’t relieved by his presence yourself—one night without him makes for a terrible night of sleep. And maybe a worse headache the next day. 

He shuffles through your apartment with a sense of familiarity that makes your heart full, even if your head is pounding. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck as he walks with you carefully tucked against him. 

“You give me headaches,” he mumbles, “literally.”

“S’only fair,” you yawn, “you’ve put me through worse.” Your words have no bite to them. Nothing more than a good-natured quip. You’d go through worse in a heartbeat for him.

He smiles fondly, sighing as he kisses the side of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers, “guess that’s true.”

────────────────────────

Sex is a complicated topic for Wriothesley. 

It’s a topic he’s been thinking about more lately. The more that sex happens between the two of you, the more he’s starting to realize that it’s a complicated topic for him.  

Although if he’s being honest, what he engages with you can hardly be considered just sex. It’s intimacy. Wriothesley has never partaken in intimacy before you. Sex, though? Plenty of times. Sometimes, it was more for survival than his own desires, and sometimes it was simply because he was a growing, curious boy with needs and wants. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him what he needed for survival much quicker when he was still a prisoner. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him through his pent-up emotions better than sitting and processing them.

Whatever the case may be, Wriothesley has always had just sex because it was just that. Sex that has a purpose—some purposes less sanitized than others, but a purpose all the same. 

But being intimate is something different from having just sex. When Wriothesley is having just sex, he can put on an air of cockiness. He can play into what people want, slip into whatever role they carved out for him—innocently sweet and naive, or dangerously charming and experienced, sometimes even a little rough and a little wicked. He can wear confidence like a mask, sharpen his smile into something rakish, tilt his chin just right, and say the things he knows people want to hear. 

He can disconnect. He can keep his heart out of it. He can survive it.

Intimacy, though? Intimacy is different. It demands that he stay honest, not perform. That he be soft. That he be seen.

With you, there’s no room for the cocky smirk or the confident swagger. And he tries—he really, really tries—but the moment your hands are on him with care instead of expectation, the moment you kiss him like he’s precious instead of convenient, the moment your eyes are fond instead of just lustful, his whole front crumbles. 

The mask doesn’t fit. The persona slips. The smooth, practiced words get stuck in his throat.

He’s clumsy with intimacy in a way he never was with just sex. His touches hesitate. His breath stutters when your fingers thread through his hair. He keeps searching your face like he’s waiting for the moment you change your mind, like he’s terrified you’ll see too much of him and walk away. Vulnerability of this kind turns him quiet, nervous, almost boyish in a way he hates himself for, and yet can’t seem to stop.

With you, he’s not performing. With you, he can’t.

You’re not just hoping he touches you for your own pleasure—and you don’t want to touch him back just to indulge your own wicked fantasies. You care about how he feels, how it is for him more than it is for you. You care about his experience with affection and gentleness. 

The more that you and Wriothesley are intimate, the more he opens himself up to gentleness. And Wriothesley has never known what to do with gentleness. 

He doesn’t know how to accept it. Not ever since the day he realized it came with a heavy price that he could never afford. (And how could he afford you? You are so patient and happy to have him, so willing despite knowing his past and the horrors of his crimes, despite enduring the agony he put you through physically. Your affection, of all things, should come with the highest of prices.)

“Did it bother you growing up?” he whispers, tracing your hip bone with his thumb as you lie against his bare chest. You like cuddling after intimacy. He likes it, too. You curl against him in his dark bedroom, bare and sleepy and satisfied, and for a moment, he feels normal. Like you’re not with him under the literal ocean. Like he’s not an ex-convict who now sees over other convicts. Like he’s not the guy who made you feel sharp kicks and deep bruises all your life. 

“What?” you hum. 

“You know what,” he huffs. You give him an earnestly confused shake of your head, and he sighs. He decides that perhaps you are being honest and not purposely dense just to make him properly communicate his feelings. “The pain,” he mutters. “It didn’t bother you that I was always bringing you pain?”

“It did,” you say bluntly. He tenses under you. You gently press a kiss to his chest as if to soothe him, like you’ve already read his mind. “Not for the reasons you might think, though.”

“Oh?” he arches a brow, “then do enlighten me, miss soulmate. How exactly did it bother you that I’m not gathering here?”

You roll your eyes. It’s affectionate. 

Wriothesley misses that. He misses affection in the simple forms he once knew—Mother’s fond eye-roll, the way she’d sigh and grab a handkerchief to clean the chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth after Father brought home treats. The way she’d bend down and wipe the smudges away as she’d gently scold, You’ve got to be more careful, ▇▇! Heavens know what other people would think if they saw you so filthy. Whatever would you do without me? The way she’d sigh and pull him into a hug, kissing his cheeks when he’d pouted at being lectured. 

Mother was always so soft—he still wonders, sometimes, how anyone could possibly fake so much gentleness. Some of it had to have been real, right? Just a fraction? A small morsel? It had to be, hadn’t it? Even if he wasn’t worth loving long enough to keep, he must have at least been worth loving for that temporary time she showed him that affection.

If only he were worth more than a pretty sum of mora. If only he could have made Mother fond enough of him that keeping him was worth more than selling him off like some animal on the market, a piece of meat to butcher and cut open and devour with filthy, disgusting hands. 

Affection has always cost him something. Some price that is not worth paying. His innocence, his freedom, his life. You are the only person who affords him affection without any price. And how funny, he thinks—that the one person capable of it is the one person meant for him, decided by fate. He wonders then, that if there was no such thing as fate and divinity, if he’d be worthy of any affection at all. If you are the one person the world has granted him because it is their begrudging duty to assign him another half. If you alone are a miracle that he was lucky enough to be allowed by Celestia, as they smiled down on him out of a single, twisted instance of mercy. 

He can’t dwell on it too long before you’re cupping his cheek and pulling him out of his thoughts, pressing a kiss to his lips. His breath hitches for a moment—he forgets sometimes that can do this whenever he wants. He can kiss you. Claim your affection. Feel the proof of it for himself. He presses into you harder, desperately trying to swallow down as much of it for free as he can in case one day, this too has a price that is out of his means. 

“It never bothered me to carry your pain,” you whisper against his mouth, “though I won’t lie—it did hurt,” you chuckle. You peck his lips before he can say anything in response. “It bothered me that it was your reality. I couldn’t understand why it was like that—how different we were.”

“You shouldn’t have had to try to understand it,” he mumbles, “if you weren’t stuck to me, you’d have—”

“Mwah,” you cut him off, pressing a loud kiss to his mouth. “Don’t say that, silly. I’m not stuck with you.”

He blinks before he huffs out a soft snort, shaking his head in disbelief. “Silencing me with a kiss isn’t going to—”

“Mwah!” You kiss him again, theatrically louder this time as you giggle. 

“If you keep kissing me when I say self-deprecating things, it’ll only condition me to say them more,” he warns. 

“Then I’ll kiss you after you say anything,” you hum. “Then you’ll only bother saying the nice things since you might as well.” 

“I don’t know if that’s how it works—”

“Mwah!” You kiss again. 

He laughs, pulling you impossibly closer before he tilts your face up, cupping your cheek with a large hand that practically swallows your face entirely as he kisses you. Hard. You hum against his lips, eyes fluttering shut as you kiss him back. As if kissing him is enjoyable. As if someone like him was worthy of your time and affection and touch. As if someone of his status is worth tangling your life with, despite being who he is and where he is from. 

“Wrio,” you murmur, trying to pull away from his needy lips. 

“Mmh,” he mumbles, bridging the gap every time you try to create it. You giggle, gently stroking through his hair before delicately tugging at the strands to pry him away. He caves, sighing before he pulls away, grumpy as he stares at you, dazed. “What?” he frowns.

“I would have taken your pain for myself if I could,” you whisper, “if it meant you didn’t have to live like that. Feeling it was never the issue. You should know that.”

“You’re insane,” he breathes, “now c’mere.”

He moves to kiss you again—but instead, you cup both of his cheeks and force him to look you in the eyes. “You didn’t deserve to feel it all either.”

“I know that,” he mutters, frowning. (He is grouchy when he’s vulnerable. He’s known that from a young age. Feeling weak fills him with a sense of anger and disgust that makes him lash out. Maybe he’s angry with himself for being so weak. Or perhaps at the world for making him that way. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that it makes him want to become bigger. Stronger. More untouchable. Whether it’s through bloodied gauntlets in his childhood living room or some bulked-up muscle in the pankration ring, he is always trying to seem stronger.)

“And you deserve someone to carry everything with you,” you continue. “You know that too, right?”

“Course I do,” he grunts, not meeting your eyes, “what’s the point of saying all this?”

“The point,” you say firmly, “is that you start believing you can have nice things.”

“I have nice things,” he says petulantly. “Got a decently good income and…and my title is literally Duke, and I got you—I have a pretty lady that’s all for me, don’t I? You wound me, sweetheart. Are you trying to say I don’t have anything nice because I live under the sea or something—”

“Wrio,” you say softly. “Please.”

He deflates. 

Wriothesley has always kept a respectful distance away from people. His colleagues and this prison are all his home. His family. But he keeps a respectful distance. It’s the smartest option. Because distance is what keeps him most safe. What keeps people close enough that he’s never truly alone, but not close enough that they are people he can lose and suffer the loss of. But distance is difficult to maintain in an intimate relationship, though—distance is impossible to keep for longer than a small period of time.

Wriothesley is realizing that, slowly but surely—that no distance means having all the hard conversations. The ones that make him feel so raw and vulnerable, it’s like he’s peeling his skin straight off and exposing his bones and tissue. 

He takes a moment, focuses real hard on tracing the skin of your arm rather than meeting your eyes before he mumbles, “Yeah. Fine.”

“I don’t want you to feel guilty,” you say softly. 

“S’not a feeling I can just turn off,” he shrugs. 

“Yes,” you agree, “it’s not. But we can talk about it when your mind goes there.”

“I don’t like talking.”

“But you like me,” you smile, “and I like you, too. And if we want to like each other and make it work, we have to do that thing you don’t like where we talk about our feelings. Communicate. Do that couple-y sort of stuff. Yeah?”

You’re right about one thing—Wriothesley likes you. He likes everything about you. He likes hearing you talk and listening to your voice. He likes learning about you and the things you like. He likes looking at you and the way you smile or laugh. He likes everything. He even likes the way you add too much sugar to the tea he brews up for you (even if you don’t properly enjoy its flavor that way). He likes having you. Likes being able to say you’re his—not because he doesn’t want to share you with the world, but because he wants to have something he can keep. Something that isn’t here one second and gone the next. Something that was meant for him, so he can have it and never have to exchange it for something else because the universe only lets him have one good thing at a time. 

But Wriothesley also knows that things are just a set way for a guy like him. Not all people are created equal. Some people are blessed and lucky and can have a good life. Others are simply there to serve as a reminder that those people should count their blessings unless they want to end up like the others. 

He’s one of the others. And you’re one of the blessed. And sometimes…well, sometimes he wonders if it’s better that you stay in your blessed little bubble of a world instead of getting caught up in the whirlwind that is him. And his life. And his terrible, awful luck. 

He’d love it if he could save you the trouble of mingling with someone like him and realizing you were made for something better. And maybe, a little selfishly, he’d love it if he could save himself some heartache in the process and lose you before it would wreck him completely. He feels like he deserves that much—feels like he’s helped enough people and atoned enough for some of his darker sins that he should be able to just hold onto the stability he’s built himself. Sure, he’s not exactly fulfilled or happy, but he’s not exactly miserable or suffering. 

He’ll take that minimal win happily. 

You…you are everything he’s dreamed of. Maybe more. Maybe even more than more. You could very easily leave him miserable and suffering—not because you’re bad and you want to hurt him, but because he’s one of the others. And you’re one of the blessed. And things just work out a certain way for people like him versus people like you. 

You kiss his thoughts away again. Kiss his lips all soft and sweet and filled with a certain amount of adoration he doesn’t know he’s earned. (But he’ll take it. He’s not above something soft and sweet and just for him.)

“Your head is not a very nice place,” you murmur, tapping his forehead. “I can tell. It’s being mean to you.”

He laughs at that, raising an amused brow. “Yeah? Think so?”

“Yeah,” you hum. “In my head,” you move your finger to now trace his chest, running your fingers through the hair that litters his skin, “you’re just a good boy who did some bad things. And you’re trying to be good now, see? You reformed a whole prison! Very good. I think that we can work with that.”

“Good boy,” he repeats in disbelief, “you’re talking to me like I’m a dog?”

You pet his head teasingly. “Such a good boy.”

His face lights up as he suddenly gets an idea—you watch it in real time, the scheming look in his eyes. In an instant, he’s grabbing your wrist as he pulls it against his lips and murmurs, “Careful,” before gently nibbling at your inner wrist, “I might bite.”

“No!” you shriek, letting out a series of giggles, “no, don’t bite, please! I have treats! Spare me!”

He shakes his head, fighting back a lopsided grin. “Unbelievable,” he huffs, “you’re unbelievable.” 

“I’m not,” you brush back his hair. “If you just believe me, you’ll feel a lot better.”

“Yeah? What should I believe then, miss soulmate?”

“That we’re good together,” you murmur, “and that we’ll be fine. And that we deserve each other—as in you deserve this, too. Just trust me on that.”

He lets out a soft, heavy breath. Not all people are created the same in Fontaine. In fact, they aren’t in any nation. But all soulmates love each other the same—and this time, the way you look at him is not the same picture-perfect, falsified look from Mother. Or the same deceivingly kind, careful words from Father. 

These are real. He can work with that. 

“Okay,” he pretends to cave, shoving his face into your neck. You let him hide away in there. Let him keep that fragile look in his eyes hidden from view. “M’trusting you on that. Deceiving the Duke is punishable by ten years in prison, miss.”

“Yes, sir,” you smile, stroking his hair. “I am no rule breaker, you see. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

“Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

“Wanna talk about what’s on your mind?” you offer softly. 

He hesitates. And then he decides that maybe he can afford nice things—the Fortress has granted him a pretty amount of mora these days, anyway. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “maybe not this second, though. But we’ll talk about it.”

He can practically see your smile even if he can’t look. “Okay,” you murmur, “fine by me. We have plenty of time, baby.”

Your arms wrap tighter around him. Perhaps this is Fontaine. Perhaps this is the nation of justice. Perhaps he has found his justice in your arms, feeling your warm skin against his as you erase every memory of pain from his body where you and he touch.

This is not a very linear format in terms of plot and story telling it. It jumps along many months and weeks and doesn’t have a specific timeline. It is just the journey of wrio falling in love despite his flaws. Hope you enjoyed that

[nevermoresworld]

Its a few months old. Forgot to post it here, lmao.

@cryoculus @yinyuedijun :3

[salmonmakiii]

hi!!! i read god!phainon fic a solid three times. i'm chronically, terminally, unequivocally obsessed with the way you write. it's been so refreshing amid this patch which is... raw pain. however, possibly bc i'm conditioned to pain, i've thought that wifey is a mortal... so... basically phaichan has but a blink of an eye together with her... what's 50 years to him? but i was thinking of a fluffy and potentially comedic resolution to all this, and wondered if they just were their lovey dovey selves and with time (say, around 20 or 30 years into their marriage), mrs. khaslana noticed she doesn't age in comparison to her old classmates, her cousins, even her atlas looks older than her. and then she realizes that her hubby's "divinity" rubbed off on her... phaichan probably fumbling bc he neglected to mention that a god's presence tends to 'rub off' on mortals that spend a lot of time with them - maybe the temple priests have unusually long lives too, but obviously, not to such an extent as his beloved, as they are just that close and intimate, as a married couple should be.

- peachy anon 🍑🧡

Okay, since Peachy anon 🍑 and other anon's questions are similar, I hope you all don't mind if I answer them together in a post ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ Also, I'm really impressed that y'all are so smart with these asks?? like I didn't even thought of that???? So as a thanks for fueling my brain juice, here's a drabble for it!

I tried so hard for it not to be too angsty and more fluffy. But really, how does one make the immortality theme 'fluffy'????? I hope it was to y'all's expectations huhu ಥ‿ಥ

Again, I am referring to this fic!

Wc: 2.1k+

Cw: Mentions of sex, mentions of death, kind of angst?? MDNI!!!!!

Now, you and Phainon had... well... done a lot of intercourse- Oh, what the hell, we're all adults here - SEX, you've had SEX lots of times.

At first, it was nothing.

The temple priests would mention, in quiet pleasantries, that you had begun to glow in the mornings. A soft, golden sheen clung to your skin like morning dew clings to grass— barely visible to the naked eye, but to priests trained to read omens and divine signs, it was unmistakable. 

They said nothing outright, of course. Just subtle murmurs,

“Such radiance, even before morning prayers.”

“Lord Khaslana must be treating you very well.”

You brushed it off. Maybe it was just the afterglow of last night’s intimate session. Gods, he was affectionate, wasn’t he? Intimate moments with him often left you breathless and glowing in more ways than one. You didn’t think much of it. 

Well… until you started to notice the other things.

The love marks Phainon left, the ones you tried so hard to hide with shawls and powder, began to fade. Too quickly.

You’d wake with fresh ones, only to find them already disappearing by noon. A few hours at most. Even when you knew they were raw that morning. 

At first, you assumed Phainon was healing you in your sleep. Maybe it was just his way of doting on you, sparing you the discomfort. But soon, the phenomenon grew stranger.

Scars from childhood, a sign of your triumphant tree and wall climbing, were gone. Entirely! As if they had never existed at all. 

You didn’t get blemishes anymore, even if you were out in the sun for too long. You didn’t have eyebags after sleepless nights. Your skin remained unblemished, your body never sore, your energy strangely boundless (even after rounds of intimacy with Phainon, and you know you don’t usually last after round two).

Then years passed.

You were still young, but others weren’t. Friends begin to subtly shift as their faces grew rounder, some even sharper. Wrinkles crept in at the corners of their eyes and the edges of their mouths. Their laughter sounded the same, but their smiles were aging. 

And you… weren’t.

You still looked like the girl who arrived at the temple years ago. Your reflection hadn’t changed, and it wasn’t just your imagination.

Even Atlas, who was once clearly younger than you, now looked your age when you stood beside him. Time was grazing the world around you, but it was skipping you entirely. 

You wanted to deny it. Chalk it up to a trick of the light. Good fortune. Healthy living. Anything but the obvious.

Is being with Phainon… changing me?

The question haunted you, ghosted behind your lips every time you looked in the mirror.

You were going to ask him tonight.

But first, dinner. A long, filling meal in the temple dining hall left you comfortably full and just a little sleepy. You leaned back in your chair, stretching your limbs with a soft sigh. The thought of walking all the way back to your chambers felt… effortful.

Still, you stood, pushing back the chair, only for the world beneath your feet to suddenly vanish.

A rush of wind.

Weightlessness.

Then solid ground again.

You blinked, heart racing, when you noticed that you were in your chambers.

No footsteps. No corridor. No time passed between standing up and standing here. Your fingers curled in on instinct. The air shimmered faintly around you, sparkling with gold, like the aftershock of a spell just cast.

And sitting across the room was Phainon. He looked up from a book, startled, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Did… did you just—?” he began, slowly placing the book down.

“I–I was going to ask you that!” you stammered, breath catching. “I thought you teleported me here!”

Phainon stood quickly and crossed the room in just a few strides, his expression shifting from surprise to concern. His hands reached for you with reverence, like you might break under his touch. He cupped your face, brushed his fingers along your arms, checking you for any signs of harm or tampering.

You saw it then—the golden flickers still dancing along your skin. The shimmering residue of magic. His magic.

His frown deepened.

“I didn’t teleport you,” he murmured. “But this—” his fingers hovered just above your shoulder, where the light hadn’t yet faded, “this is my power. My exact signature.”

He stepped back, gaze locked on you as if seeing something for the first time.

He decided to ask Anaxagoras about this. 

The next day, you and Phainon journeyed to the Grove of Epiphany to visit the God of Reason, Anaxagoras. And today, Phainon carried a question that had quietly begun to terrify him.

Anaxagoras was already waiting, sitting atop his living throne—an immense, gnarled structure of divine wood and woven time, rooted deep into the heart of the grove. His form was human enough to comprehend, but his presence still felt divine.

“I heard you wanted to speak on something urgent,” Anaxagoras said dryly.

Phainon didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and uttered the question that had haunted him since last night.

And the vein on Anaxagoras’s temple visibly popped.

“Khaslana, you absolute fool!” Anaxagoras barked, leaping from his throne so abruptly that the branches shuddered in response. “If you were my subject, I’d have struck you down with my gun!”

You blinked.

Phainon blinked harder.

“Could you explain it first and threaten me later?” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

Anaxagoras growled under his breath before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But you’re not going to like the answer.”

He looked at you briefly, then gestured for Phainon to come closer.

“It’s your own doing,” he said. “Your powers, to be specific. Or in this case—your bodily fluids.” He shot Phainon a glare. “You’ve consummated the marriage, haven’t you?”

Phainon flushed, eyes darting away. “I mean… yes. A lot of times–”

Before he could say more, Anaxagoras reached out and flicked him hard on the forehead. The sound was crisp. “I do not need to hear details of that!”

You tried not to laugh. Truly, you did. You’d heard tales of how the gods interacted—centuries of shared chaos, rivalries, ridiculous escapades—but witnessing it firsthand was still surreal. The god of reason, flicking the god of worldbearing like a misbehaving child.

Then Anaxagoras turned to you.

Even in his mortal guise, he was intimidating.

But his voice, when he addressed you, was unexpectedly kind.

“I genuinely feel sorry for you,” he said. “Married to this fool.”

You blinked, unsure whether to thank him or agree.

Phainon groaned behind you. “You’re really not helping.”

“Let me be clear,” Anaxagoras said, turning back. “Our bodies—our fluids—aren’t like humans’. Ichor, divine essence, even our breath carries remnants of power. When exposed through repeated, intimate contact,” he emphasized, “it begins to leave a mark.”

Phainon’s brow furrowed. “So this is my fault?”

“Yes,” Anaxagoras said flatly. “Absolutely.”

“Will there be… side effects?” he asked, now more anxious than indignant.

Anaxagoras shrugged. “If you count slowed aging, accelerated healing, and a growing resistance to mortal harm as side effects, then yes. But she’s not immortal, Khaslana. Not truly. She’s just… out of sync with human time now.”

You had mixed feelings about this revelation, of course. But Phainon, knowing the pain all too well, would always comfort you whenever you had doubts. He felt sorry too, seeing as this was all because of him. But you reassured him, saying that you could be with him longer. He sighed, shaking his head. He knew you were just trying to put up a front, but he’ll play along with you. Talking about the things the two of you could now do with your extended time.

Now, talking about being mortal to divinity. Maybe at some point in your relationship, seeing as you are now aging differently, you might as well ask how to become an immortal like him. 

When you asked the question, Phainon’s smile faltered.

He didn’t answer at first. His lips parting before closing again. He looked away, as if trying to search for a gentler version of the truth.

“It’s not easy,” He said at last. “Becoming a god… means dying first.”

His voice trembled in ways you’d never heard before—not with fear, but love, tangled with the fear of losing it.

Immortality wasn’t something that could simply be gifted. It had to be earned, endured. Ascension wasn’t just glory; it was transformation. And death would be your final offering.

The ritual was ancient. It required the counsel of Castorice, goddess of death, and the consent of the other gods. 

And when approval was finally granted, he returned to you with a heavy heart and a golden chalice cradled in his hands.

The ritual took place in the Vortex of Genesis as you stood at the center of a magical circle, painted with Phainon’s golden blood.

The air shimmered, thick with power, and the light bent around your body like it already recognized your soul’s changing shape.

You stood there barefoot, wrapped in white, the chalice of ambrosia trembling in your hands.

Phainon stood behind you, arms encircling your waist, his face pressed gently into your neck. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered, “not for me.”

But you turned to him with a steady gaze. “I’m doing this with you.”

And so you drank. The special ambrosia burned.

It wasn’t a drink—it was fire, a star condensed into liquid. It lit every vein in your body until you collapsed, convulsing, gasping as the pain overtook you. Your hands clawed at the air, and Phainon was there, pulling you into his lap, cradling you like something fragile and sacred.

“It hurts — Phainon, it hurts—!”

“I know,” He sobbed. “I know, I’m here— I’ve got you.”

He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, and your hands. His tears evaporating everytime it touched your skin.

You screamed. Your body arched. And then—silence.

Phainon stared at your lifeless body, waiting nervously. Then, the circle glowed along with your body. 

Golden veins of light threaded through your skin, pulsing with divine rhythm. The hollows of your cheeks flushed with new life. Your breathing returned—slow, serene. You opened your eyes.

And though you were no longer mortal, your eyes were still human. Still you.

Warm. Alive.

Phainon exhaled with relief, tears still falling. He cupped your face, awestruck. “Welcome back,” He whispered, “Welcome home, my love.”

Then he kissed you, not with desperation, but reverence. 

After your ascension, Phainon chose to remain with you in Okhema.

He didn’t want you to make the same mistakes he had made.

For centuries, Khaslana had drifted through the divine currents of existence—distant, worshipped, untouchable. The god of worldbearing had carried the weight of creation across his back, but never the soft weight of a shared breath, or a mortal hand clasped in his own. He was praised by cities, prayed to by kings, but he had long since forgotten how to feel like one of them.

And over time, without even realizing it, he had let that distance hollow him out.

The more he watched from afar, the more he became something unfeeling. Something vast, and cold, and unreachable. He had thought it was the price of divinity—this quiet decay of empathy, this numbness that settled like frost across his soul.

But then you came.

And through you, your laughter, your mortal worries, your stubbornness, your warmth— he remembered. 

What it was to ache. 

To hope. 

To want. 

You brought color back to a god dulled by centuries of stillness. You touched him, and the world moved again.

Where once your relationship with Khaslana had been veiled in secrecy, now there was no more need to hide. You and Phainon walked openly through Okhema, your divine presence no longer a rumor, but a truth the people embraced. Hand in hand, you moved through the markets and narrow streets.

Your friends wept when they saw you. Some knelt. Others reached out to touch your hands, to make sure you were real. Your family embraced you with a kind of joy so deep it broke into grief.

And Atlas? He wept the most.

“Are you… Still you?”

You hugged him tightly. “I am,” you promised. “I will always be your sister.”

You and Phainon often returned to Okhema, walking through the markets, tending to the sick, healing when you could. Your powers were still new, still growing—but you used them with care, and with humility.

Just as Khaslana was the God of Worldbearing, to the people, you were now the Goddess of Humanity.

A goddess who still walked among her people, not above them, but beside them.

©salmonmakiii, do not steal my work or feed it to AI.

[nnmdraws]

this meme should be drawn

[salmonmakiii]

Hello! I know you said god! Phainon series is closed but I have a idea that I like to share with you towards with expanding the story a bit.. (please hear me out on this)... In the game itself it's canon that some kremnoan people migrate to okhema for safety purposes.

Now I have a idea what if the reader got a kremnoan pen pal or even a friend? They both have a relationship similar to mydei and phainon like spending time together, travel out to streets, having grudges against one another but still friends.(when the reader successfully goes out of the shrine for some time...).

I think khaslana/ phainon and mydei will be quite fascinated about having their people being similar to them. That's all about what my idea is and thank you for your works! I also would like to know your thoughts about this..

Ngl anon you stumped me with this at first, but thanks to my delusional Imaginative brain, I managed to come up with something! ( ꈍ◡ꈍ)

To make this clear. In this AU, Castrum Kremnos is a flourishing dynasty under Mydei's rule. So I'll tweak it a bit! ✧( •⌄• )◞◟( •⌄• )✧

huhu I hope you don't mind the outcome of this (•᷄- •᷅ ;) Wc: 5.3k+ (I REALLY DIDN'T MEAN TO MAKE IT THIS LONG) Cw: God!Phainon x Fem!Mortal!Reader, Suggestive, MDNI!!!!

You and Phainon sat side by side beneath the pergola, its roof woven with flowering vines that lazily coiled around the pillars. The late afternoon light filtered through the leaves, casting warm, dappled shadows over the courtyard.

“Oh, it’s that time again?” you asked, eyes flicking to Phainon’s as he recounted the preparations for the upcoming joint Olympics between Okhema and Castrum Kremnos. 

Phainon nodded, one arm draped behind you along the curve of the bench. “Yes,” he said, glancing up at the leaves. “This year, Mydeimos has decided to participate in mortal disguise, of course. He says he wants to experience the competition like his people do.” his tone was amused, but there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes.

You smiled, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? And will Okhema’s god be joining the games as well?” you teased. 

“Of course!” Phainon leaned closer, his blue eyes glinting. “It’s the perfect opportunity to beat Mydeimos in every event and impress my wife in the process.” He gave you a wink.

You laughed softly, nudging his side with your elbow, but the sound faded quickly. Your eyes dropped to your lap as your hand idly smoothed a wrinkle in your robe.

Phainon’s expression shifted. He leaned in, sensing the change in you, his teasing gone. “What’s wrong?” he asked, “You usually get excited about festivals. Are you… Not interested this time?”

You lift your head up to meet his gaze, “What? No, it’s not that.” You gave a little laugh, too quiet to be convincing. “I was just reminded of someone, that’s all.”

Phainon tilted his head. “Someone?”

You nodded, still fidgeting with the hem of your robe, “I used to have a friend from Kremnos back then…”

Phainon blinked, visibly surprised. Even though now was an era of peace, Okheman’s and Kremnoans still don’t get along well with each other. “Really? You’ve never mentioned having a Kremnoan friend.”

Your gaze softened at the memory, and your fingers stilled in your lap. “Well, we met a long time ago…”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You took another bite of the candied fig, your lips curling into a grin as you chewed with satisfaction. The sweetness burst on your tongue like victory.

Another successful escape from the temple.

The scent of roasted nuts, fresh bread, and foreign spices drifted thick in the warm air as you weaved through the packed streets. Okhema’s central square was more alive than you’d ever seen it. Colorful tents lined the pathways, their silk banners waving with the breeze, painted with the sigils of Okhema and Kremnos. It was the joint Olympics, held once every five years.

Like hell you were going to miss it.

Your father had been stationed at the northern gates to oversee security, which meant if you stayed clear of that quadrant, your disobedient little adventure would remain undetected. 

You’d already spent nearly an hour trailing from stall to stall, admiring the exotic wares the Kremnoan merchants brought with them: black crystal beads, golden gauntlets, and lots of pomegranates. 

You were too busy marveling at a carved figurine shaped like a two-headed lion when it happened. You turned too fast and smacked into a stranger.

“Oof!” You stumbled back, clutching your pouch of candies tightly to your chest.

The boy you collided with was tall, older than you probably, with cropped hair the color of red clay and a scowl that could crack stone. His eyes narrowed when he looked at your robes. 

“Watch where you’re going, Okheman,” he barked. His voice was rough, curling with disdain.

“I—I’m sorry!” you said quickly, trying to step aside, but he shifted to block you.

“You bumped into me,” he said, folding his arms. “In Kremnos, people pay for that sort of offense.”

“What? I– that wasn’t even your–”

“Those candies look good,” he cut you off, eyeing the pouch in your hands. “Give me that, and we’ll call it even.”

You blinked in disbelief. “Wha– hey!”

Before you could take a step back, his hand was already reaching toward your pouch. But then—

“What the hell are you doing, Ares?”

Ares visibly jumped.

“E-eleni!” he stammered, quickly pulling his hand away and shoving it behind his back.

Eleni’s gaze flicked to you — quick and unimpressed — then she turned to Ares with a scowl. 

“We’re in their city, idiot,” she snapped, “Stop dragging our name through the mud!”

Ares stumbled over his words, muttering out apologies and retreating behind a merchant’s awning.

Eleni sighed before turning around and beginning to walk away, not even sparing you a proper glance. 

You stood frozen for a beat, still clutching your pouch, before you found your voice again.

“Wait!” you called, jogging after her. 

She glanced sideways, brows already knit in mild annoyance. “What?”

“I just wanted to… thank you. For stepping in back there.”

She stopped and looked at you properly this time. Her arms crossed over her chest, head tilted in faint suspicion. “I didn’t do it for you,” she said coolly. “I did it because Ares was embarrassing all of us. Kremnos already has a bad enough reputation with you, Okhemans.”

You were about to say something, but she turned to leave again. But something in you, maybe stubbornness or even pride, didn’t want to let her go just yet.

You quickly stepped in front of her path, blocking her with outstretched arms and a flustered huff. “Here! Take a candy,” you said, pushing the little pouch into her face. 

Eleni blinked, taking half a step back. “What… are you doing?”

“I’m repaying you,” you insisted, thrusting the pouch closer. “It’s an Okheman etiquette.”

She stared at you, then at the pouch, then back at you.

“... You Okhemans are weird.” She said flatly.

“Hey! At least I’m being nice.” You huffed.

She rolled her eyes but took a single candy from the pouch, popping it into her mouth. After a few seconds of chewing, she muttered with a slight pink cheek, “Fine. It’s not terrible.”

You beamed.

And just like that, you and Eleni spent the entire afternoon together.

It didn’t happen all at once, well… not at first. For the first hour or so, it felt like everything you said was met with an eye roll, a sarcastic remark, or a flat “I don’t care”. But you noticed the corners of her mouth twitching every now and then, like she was trying hard not to laugh at your dumb jokes or exaggerated stories about your life at the temple. 

Eventually, after losing a bet to see who could climb the fig tree faster, she grinned. From then on, something softened. 

You started making bets on everything. Who could leap the flight of stairs without tumbling down, who could eat a whole pomegranate without making a mess, who could run to the edge of the square and back before the sun passed the statue’s arm. The city became your playground. For that one afternoon, you weren’t people whose lineage had a bad history of being enemies; you were just two girls daring each other to laugh louder, climb higher, and run faster. 

As the week-long games carried on, so did your adventures. While the adults gathered in the main plaza, shoulder to shoulder in the blistering sun, you and Eleni would sneak up to the old rooftops, the perfect spot to see the matches without being seen yourselves. 

You showed her which columns to climb for the best views, and in return, she watched your back. If she spotted your father in the crowd, she’d yank you behind a barrel or shove a Kremnoan cloak into your arms and smirk, “Time to blend in, Okheman.”

You even let her braid your hair like hers one morning in the traditional style from her side of the border. Though she made fun of you for how bad you were at doing hers in return, saying that her hair might fall off because of how badly you were pulling it. 

By then, it didn’t matter anymore that she was blunt and sarcastic, or that you sometimes talked too much. You understood each other and laughed easily with her. You’d even bicker without a sting.

But of course… festivals end. 

The final day of the games arrived, and you planned to find Eleni before the sun set, to say goodbye properly. But when you reached the usual corner where her family’s stall had been all week, it was already gone. The tent was packed down, the crates empty, the cloth banners rolled away. Not even a trace remained. 

You stood there for a long time, clutching your dress as your heart ached a little. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Well, that’s sad,” Phainon murmured, tilting his head with a dramatic pout tugging at his lips.

“It was,” you said softly, your fingers absently tracing the lines of the stone bench beneath you.

He leaned back, eyes narrowing in thought before a playful glint returned to his expression. “Well then, it’s a good thing you’ll be coming with me to Castrum Kremnos for the games this year. I’m sure you’ll run into her.”

You sighed, looking up at the sky, “Hopefully. Will she even remember me?”

Phainon chuckled, a knowing look in his eyes, “Kremnoans never forget.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You arrived at Castrum Kremnos. This time, you and Phainon stayed at an inn like normal humans would do. But it was one of the best, the most luxurious one in Castrum Kremnos. Thanks to Mydeimos. 

The moment the door closed behind you, Phainon took off his coat and flopped face-first onto the plush bed with a dramatic sigh.

“Next time,” he groaned into the pillow, “I’m teleporting us. That carriage was a nightmare.”

You smirked as you walked past him, already rummaging through your satchel. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Phainon turned his head to look at you with one eye half-lidded. “You say that because you got to nap on my shoulder the whole ride.”

You ignored the jab, slinging the satchel over your shoulders again.

His brow rose. “You’re going out now?”

You nodded, humming.

“But we just got here.”

“I want to see the festival streets before it gets too crowded,” You said with a nonchalant shrug.

Phainon sat up slowly, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “And… maybe look for your old friend?” he added, voice tilting with playful accusation.

“...Maybe,” you admitted sheepishly.

He sighed and stood, walking toward you. His expression softened as he reached for your arm, fingers curling gently around your wrist. You glanced at the warmth in his eyes, and your heart fluttered at the way he looked at you.

“Stay here for a little while,” he said quietly. “Just for now. I miss you.”

To be fair, he had every right to. The past week, he’d been caught up in endless preparations with Mydeimos in the Vortex— debates over event lineups, symbolic meanings of contests, and other things you had assumed mortals handled. You thought the gods would simply watch the games, not dictate the entire event.

The journey here had been your first real time together in days. 

“Phainon,” you said flatly, “we were stuck side by side in a carriage for hours.”

“That’s different,” he said, slipping the satchel from your shoulder before you could protest.

Before you could react, he pulled you toward the bed and gently toppled you both onto it. He tucked you in his arms with ease, burying his face against your chest with a contented sigh.

You couldn’t help but laugh, arms sliding around him in return. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re even a god.”

“With you, I’m just your husband,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. “A tired, needy husband.”

You were about to close your eyes when you felt him shift beside you. His hand brushed your waist as he lifted his head to meet your gaze. His face was close now, too close, his blue eyes glinting. You opened your mouth to ask what he was doing, but then he kissed you.

It wasn’t a teasing peck or a soft brush of lips. It was a slow, consuming kiss, one that made your breath hitch in your throat. His hand cradled your cheek as he deepened it, pouring in all the unspoken longing he’d kept hidden in every missed moment this week. 

You felt your body respond instinctively, warmth flooding your chest, your fingertips curling into his shirt as the air between you grew heavy.

You pushed gently against his chest, just enough to draw a breath, lips parting as you blinked up at him. “Phainon…”

“How about,” he murmured, his voice low as his thumb traced the edge of your lips, “We make up for the time we lost?”

His eyes shimmered with a golden glow, and the mischief in them made your stomach flip.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You didn’t leave the inn until long after the sun had set.

The streets of Castrum Kremnos were alive with festive lights, the air thick with the scent of sweets and grilled meat. The beats of musicians playing their toubeleki and daouli echoed through the streets. 

You walked beside Phainon, steps a touch slower than usual, face a little tired and slightly flushed, mostly because of what transpired in the inn. Meanwhile, Phainon practically glowed as he strode forward, humming to himself, a spring in his step like he hadn’t just spent hours exhausting you with affection.

Just as you were about to turn a corner, Phainon’s hand slipped to your shoulder, gently halting your movement.

“He’s here,” he said, voice low but amused, like he’s spotted a rare bird.

You followed his gaze, turning just in time to see a familiar figure making his way through the crowd. Blond hair streaked with deep red tips caught the flickering light, his golden pauldron, and leg armor glinting with each step. Crimson marking trailed down his skin, almost glowing.

“Hope the inn was to your liking,” the figure said gruffly, crossing his arms. “Wouldn’t want you to blame back pain when you lose.”

Phainon let out a laugh, clearly unbothered. “Why, Mydei, I didn’t know you worried much about my well-being,” he said, lips quirking into a grin as he took the jab in stride. 

Mydei scoffed but said nothing more, his sharp gaze flicking toward you. Phainon’s hand stayed firm on your shoulder as he gently guided you forward.

“Nice to see you again,” Mydeimos said, his expression softer when it turned to you. “Call me Mydei from now on.”

You gave a polite nod, smiling, “Of course. It’s good to see you again, Mydei.”

He returned the nod before his attention shifted back to Phainon. “You two out exploring?”

“Yep,” Phainon replied, putting a hand on his hip. “Also, do you know someone named Eleni? My wife’s hoping to find her.”

Mydei furrowed his brows slightly, thoughtful. “Eleni… I think I’ve seen that name on the list of vendors.”

“She and her family sold traditional fabrics and accessories at the last festival,” you added.

“Then you best bet’s the market,” Mydei said, gesturing with his head. “They’ve expanded the stalls this year, more space and more foot traffic. Come. I’ll take you there. Unlike Phainon, I actually greet guests when they enter my domain.”

You caught the smirk that pulled at his lips, the subtle dig clear. The memory of Phainon’s absence on the day of your arrival at his temple stirred faintly in your chest. 

Phainon only sighed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Like I said,” he murmured under his breath, shooting you a crooked smile, “Kremnoans never forget.”

Mydei led the two of you toward the heart of the market, and as he had promised, the streets were brimming with life.You recognized a few familiar faces among the crowd— Okheman traders who greeted you with brief nods or warm smiles as they passed. You returned their greetings fondly.

Phainon and Mydei paused near a stall selling antique trinkets. The Okheman vendor, a cheerful man with silver rings on all his fingers, was animatedly explaining the origin of a brass compass to them when a familiar voice called out from across the street.

Your head snapped toward the voice. A tall woman was making her way through the crowd, waving with a wide grin on her face. It took you a moment to place her— the unmistakable braid that hadn't changed at all, even though the rest of her had. She was broader now, her frame more muscular, her features sharper and more confident. But the laugh? That was unmistakable.

“Eleni?!” you gasped, the name spilling from your lips as your face lit up. You rushed toward her, and she met you halfway, embracing you with surprising strength that lifted you a few inches off the ground.

“Well, if it isn’t the tree climber of Okhema!” Eleni laughed, voice deeper than you remembered but still warm and teasing. “I almost didn’t recognize you!y You’re dressed all fancy now.”

You let out a breathless laugh, pulling back to look at her. “I could say the same to you! What happened to the twig who used to race me up fig trees?”

“Oh, she’s long gone,” Eleni winked, flexing an arm playfully. “Turns out hauling bolts of fabric and wrestling with market carts every day pays off.”

By now, the commotion had drawn Phainon and Mydei over. You felt their presence behind you and turned, tugging gently at Phainon’s wrist to bring him beside you.

“Eleni, this is my husband, Phainon,” you said, eyes soft as you glanced up at him. Then you gestured to the other. “And that’s our… friend, Mydei.”

Phainon offered a polite wave, while Mydei gave a simple nod. Eleni blinked at the two of them, clearly amused by the striking difference in their energies.

“You’ve got a husband and another Kremnoan friend?” Eleni raised an eyebrow, smirking at you. “I’m not sure which one surprises me more.”

You chuckled. “Turns out miracles do happen.”

Eleni crossed her arms, grinning wide. “Have you been to Castrum Kremnos before?”

You shook your head. “First time.”

Her grin only widened. “Perfect. Then just as you showed me around Okhema when I was a clueless merchant girl, it’s my turn to return the favor. Besides, don’t think I forgot our unfinished bet.”

You blinked. “You remember that?”

“Oh, I keep score,” she said proudly.

Phainon watched as your eyes gleamed.

“Doesn’t their friendship seem familiar, Mydei?” Phainon whispered with a knowing grin. Mydei rolled his eyes.

Then you glanced at Phainon, a silent question in your eyes. He leaned in slightly, brushing a kiss to your forehead before murmuring, “Just be careful, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t help but beam at the tenderness in his voice. Rising on your toes, you pulled him down by the collar and kissed his cheek. “I’ll be fine. I’ll meet you back at the inn.”

Without another word, you and Eleni slipped into the crowd, your laughter soon swallowed by the buzz of the marketplace.

Behind you, Phainon and Mydei watched your retreating form.

Mydei raised an eyebrow. “‘Sweetheart?’” he repeated, voice thick with amusement.

Phainon placed a hand on his hip, unbothered. “Why yes, Mydei. I do call my beloved wife a term of endearment. What, jealous? Want one too?”

Mydei scoffed and turned away, shaking his head. “Dream on.”

But Phainon wasn’t about to let it go. “Pookie bear! Wait for me!” he called out dramatically, throwing an arm over Mydei’s shoulder as he caught up.

Mydei groaned and elbowed him sharply in the side. “Let me go, HKS!”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The long-week festival had begun in full force.

Vendors shouted over the din of drums and flutes, and crowds poured into the streets from every direction, all eager to witness the Games. Phainon had mentioned early on that he wouldn’t be participating until the final day, a grand colosseum match that was being promoted as one of the week’s main events.

With his schedule mostly clear, you spent most of the week in Eleni’s company. She dragged you from one market stall to another, her sharp tongue and radiant charm effortlessly drawing in buyers like bees to honey. You had no intention of spending much, and yet… somehow, your coin purse was lighter by the end of each day.

You often invited Phainon and Mydei to join your small adventures around Kremnos with Eleni. Though both agreed readily enough, they usually chose to hang back, content to let you enjoy your time with your longtime friend.

From a quiet distance, the two gods watched you laugh and chatter with Eleni — hands waving, voices rising in shared memories and playful arguments. They exchanged a glance, both silently struck by how familiar your dynamic was. It mirrored theirs more than either had expected.

Mydei, as always, kept his thoughts to himself, arms crossed as he leaned against a sun-warmed pillar. But Phainon gave a quiet laugh, eyes soft as he watched you tug Eleni toward a market stall.

But now, the city had grown quieter. 

Inside the cozy chamber of your rented inn, the only sounds were the faint murmur of distant laughter and the rhythmic thrum of Phainon’s heartbeat beneath your ear.

You lay sprawled across his bare chest, your legs tangled with his, fingers absentmindedly tracing the line of his ribs. His hand moved gently through your hair, brushing softly over your scalp with each pass, and his eyes were half-lidded.

“The big day’s tomorrow,” you murmured.

“Mhm.” His voice rumbled in his chest, deep and content.

You nestled your cheek against his skin. “Come to think of it… I’ve never actually seen you fight before.

Phainon chuckled, his hand pausing briefly in your hair. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“It is,” you said with a smile, then slowly pushed yourself up so you could meet his gaze. His blue eyes sparkled even in the dim candlelight.

“Still… I’m curious. I want to see what it looks like when a god takes the arena.”

He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Think you’ll fall even more in love with me?” he teased, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “I don’t think that’s possible, seeing how I’m already obsessed with you.”

Phainon blinked, momentarily stunned. Then he let out a low groan and pulled you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you. “You’re treading on dangerous ground there, sweetheart,” he murmured into your hair, his voice a warm purr.

“You’re crushing me!” you said, voice muffled.

He only laughed and kissed your temple as he slightly loosen his grip.

But your amusement faded as a small weight returned to your chest. “Wait… You and Mydei are not going to start throwing meteors and lightning bolts, right?”

Phainon’s smile softened. “No powers. Mortal strength only. It’s part of the challenge. The first one to slip up and use divinity, even a little, loses.”

You stared at him, not entirely reassured. “So you’ll both be holding back.”

He nodded. “Exactly. No one will suspect a thing.”

“I’m not worried about people suspecting, Phainon,” you muttered. “I’m worried about the colosseum collapsing on top of the spectators because you two got carried away.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The day of the battle arrived. 

The colosseum was a thunderous sea of excitement, every tier brimming with eager spectators chanting, whistling, and waving flags dyed in city colors. With Mydei’s help, you and Eleni managed to secure seats closer to the arena than most, tucked in a section high enough to remain safe, but close enough that you could clearly see the expressions of the men preparing to fight.

Even so, your nerves refused to settle, you’d been bouncing your leg for the past ten minutes.

Eleni, noticing, gave your back a hearty slap that nearly jolted you out of your skin.

“You nervous your husband’s going to get clobbered?” she teased, her smirk as broad as the bronze cuffs on her wrist.

You blinked, scrambling to adjust your thoughts. “Uh… yeah,” you admitted, though that wasn’t exactly the truth. “I’ve just… never seen him fight before.”

Eleni leaned forward slightly, squinting toward the arena. “From one warrior to another? He’s got the stance of someone who’s dangerous when he’s serious. Trust in him, tree climber.” She offered you a confident thumbs-up.

You nodded, though your stomach still churned. 

Suddenly, the announcer’s magically projected voice boomed over the colosseum, silencing the murmurs.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the voice cried, dramatic and gleeful, “We now welcome two fearsome competitors to the arena! From the city of Okhema — a silver-haired humble, charming man — the one and only Dark Swordmaster, Phainon!”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. Dark Swordmaster? You looked to Eleni, who raised a skeptical brow and muttered, “A little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Still, the crowd loved it. Cheers exploded as Phainon stepped into the sunlight, casually waving at the spectators, his long coat trailing behind him, his white hair almost glowing in the heat as he soaked in the attention. 

Then the announcer called again.

“And his challenger! The roaring shield of Kremnos, a warrior said to feel no pain, only pride — the Crimson Lion, Mydei!”

The noise grew even louder, somehow deeper, more grounded, like the mountain itself was cheering. Mydei entered with quiet gravity, his golden gauntlets gleaming under the sun. Unlike Phainon, he didn’t wave or smile, his eyes locked onto his opponent with steely purpose, every step deliberate and sure.

In the center of the arena, the two men met like opposites drawn by gravity.

“Dark Swordmaster?” Mydei raised a brow, arms folded across his chest. “You really do have a knack for saying the most ridiculous things.”

“It’s called ‘branding,’ Mydei.” Phainon gave him a smug grin as he extended a hand. With a flash of light and sound like a sword being unsheathed in a dream, his greatsword materialized in his grip. “Try looking it up in your Kremnoan dictionary.”

“Both of our contestants seem eager to continue,” the announcer declared, voice booming across the colosseum. “So without further ado—the duel begins in three…”

Mydei rolled his shoulders and clenched his clawed gauntlets, arms rising like a fortress.

“Two…”

Phainon narrowed his eyes, gripping his greatsword tighter, his stance low and poised.

“…One!”

In a blink, they charged.

The clash of steel rang sharp and clear across the arena as blade met gauntlet, and the colosseum erupted with cheers. You flinched at the sound, instinctively covering your mouth, while beside you, Eleni was already on her feet, shouting, “Make Kremnos proud, Mydei!”

Phainon swung wide, aiming for Mydei’s side, but the Kremnoan raised both arms to block the strike. The impact echoed as sparks fly where metal met metal. Mydei held firm, muscles taut as he forced the bladde aside with a smooth twist of his arms.

Phainon stepped back, adjusting his grip.

Mydei didn’t give him time to breathe as he lunged forward, slashing with his clawed gauntlets. One strike sliced through the air, only a hair length apart from Phainon’s face.

You gasped, half-rising from your seat. Several spectators winced or turned their heads, sure the blow had landed.

But it hadn’t.

Phainon ducked just in time, spinning out of reach, using the flat of his sword to push Mydei back before retaliating with a powerful horizontal swing. Mydei leapt back, barely avoiding it, sand and dust kicking up around his boots. 

You let go of the breath you’ve been holding as you sank back to your seat, Eleni laughing beside you as she puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder. 

They circled each other briefly, Phainon swinging his greatsword in hand in a taunting way.

“You’re going all out, huh?” Mydei asked with a smirk. 

“Well… I do have a wife I want to impress.” 

Then they began again, attacking with a series of fast exchanges. Mydei darted forward, his fists a blur of golden strikes. Phainon parried them with the broad side of his sword, using the reach of his blade to keep distance.

But Mydei was fast, he had already backed Phainon into the walls twice.

“Come on Dark Swordmaster! Use that fancy sword!” someone had shouted from the stands.

He did. WIth a sudden burst of speed, Phainon faked going to the left, then twisted his body, bringing his sword in an upward arc. Mydei dodged the blade, but the movement left his back exposed just long enough.

Phainon moved behind him in a flash, and with precise, controlled motion, he planted the edge of his sword gently against Mydei’s back. Mydei glanced behind him and sighed, lifting both of his hands up in surrender.

The crowd went silent for a moment and then they roared.

The announcer’s voice cracked with excitement. “The winner — Phainon, the Dark Swordmaster of Okhema!”

You stood up from your seat and cheered loudly for his name. Though the arena was filled with the loud cheers from the watchers, Phainon’s eyes immediately connected with yours. He planted the word to the ground beside him and smiled. 

You wave your arms to show how happy you were and Phainon replied with a flying kiss your way. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You finally stepped into the carriage with Phainon. The time had come to return to Okhema. You’d said your goodbyes, exchanging addresses with Eleni and promising to send letters and gifts back and forth.

With a long sigh, you plopped down beside Phainon and immediately melted against his shoulder, the gentle rocking of the carriage already making your limbs feel heavy.

“I hope you had fun,” he murmured, wrapping an arm snugly around your waist.

“I did,” you said with a dreamy smile. “I got to visit Kremnos, reconnect with Eleni, and maybe even made a new friend… though I’m still not sure.” You tilted your head slightly to glance up at him. “Do you think Mydei sees me as a friend?”

Phainon chuckled, a low sound vibrating in his chest. “Oh, he does. He just won’t say it out loud.”

You both lapsed into a comfortable silence, the sound of the horses’ hooves and the hum of the wheels filling the space. Then, Phainon’s voice broke through again, soft but tinged with mischief.

“So… did you fall even more in love with me after seeing me in action?”

You raised a brow, playing along. “Hmm… I don’t know. Mydei was pretty cool too.”

There was a pause. “What,” he said flatly, blinking at you like you’d just committed treason.

You burst into laughter and hugged his side, catching the dramatic pout forming on his face. “I’m kidding! You were amazing. That whole duel nearly gave me a heart attack, though. I think I lost ten years of my life just watching.”

Phainon didn’t reply. When you looked up, his pout had only deepened, now paired with a sulky little frown.

“Aww, don’t be like that,” you cooed, reaching up to cup his cheeks. You pulled his face down to yours and began peppering soft kisses all over him.

“Please—” Kiss. “Forgive—” Smooch. “Your very cute—” Chu. “Wife!”

You sealed your last kiss with a gentle one on his lips. When you pulled back, Phainon’s face was adorably flushed, though the frown lingered on his mouth, his eyes betrayed his amusement.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But I expect a much bigger reward when we get home.”

[maidflowery]

POV: Showering with Mydei

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[nevermoresworld]

» What've you done? «

Phainon x NB! Reader

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Just a fun drabble I saw on TikTok the other day, lmao.

Please bear with me and my flat sense of humor.

Potential Spoiler for HSR Patches 3.0 - 3.2. You have been warned. ~

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"That's a stupid idea.", you remarked, already massaging your temples.

Phainon, once convinced of his own idea, didn't let himself stop there.

"My love, you're underrated my capabilities!", he stated knowingly, before doing the one thing he shouldn't do.

Making a fashionable mistake.

Sure—

His sense of fashion matters is not the best... but in that case, to revive Lady Aglaea, it could be a chance to bring her back, right?

The white haired man wasted no time. Doing one fashionable sin after another.

... That's when a gust of gold and glitter appeared.

"Not. On. My. Watch.", stated a usually calm and watchful voice. Aglaea stood there. Arms crossed. And a deep frown on her usual calm and gentle face.

With the deadly precision of being a Chrysos Heir, she threw her High Heels against Phainon's Head.

Said person lay on the ground, with a big smile.

"Told you it worked!"

[nevermoresworld]

That was for a friend of mine, but feel free to see it as Anaxagoras x female Reader/fem! OC <3

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Drabble: Anaxa x female Reader

In which he takes care of his somewhat skittish significant other.

“You're brooding.”

“I’m tending your wounds, woman.”

Anaxagoras frowned. The usual bite in his tone was sharper than normal.

Y/N pouted, but didn’t protest.

“…You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?”

She glanced at the little chimera dozing at her feet—it looked just like the scholar sitting before her.

Anaxagoras said nothing.

“I’m not mad at you,” he sighed after a moment.

“…Just be more careful next time.”