I’m not really sure how to start an email to an ex-girlfriend but I hope “Hey” is acceptable. Maybe it’s too informal for email but you blocked me on everything else so here was my last option.
Also not really sure how to ask for forgiveness either but this is my attempt. And considering we broke up a week ago i’m guessing this is my last chance before you can find another guy
Please consider hearing me out. It was stupid of me to not make time for you and I especially understand that now that I don’t have you making out with me every other night and help me with well…everything. I miss you. I miss you being here, with me. I miss us. Trust me if you wanted me to quit the extra shifts at my mom’s, the smoking, hell if you wanted me to drop out I’d do it all in a heartbeat.
P.S: If there’s another guy already, please forward me his number and me and him can have a ‘talk’.
You started an argument with me about me “being too needy for you” right before valentine’s day—which I was alone for, Porco— and your big grand apology email consists of saying you miss making out with me?
Trust me, you won’t have to worry about quitting all those things because we won’t be getting back together.
Go to hell and don’t bother sending another email either. I won’t read it.
Leaving me chocolates, my hoodie, flowers like were still together at my door won’t fix us back together.
And the note attached saying “P.S: Technically this isn’t an email. I still miss you.” is probably as idiotic as something can get and isn’t aiding .
P.S: You didn’t even use P.S the right way. This is how you use it, in a formal letter or email, not attached to a poor attempt at getting your ex back. And you used P.S right the first time how did you fuck it up now ???
I know you said don’t email again but you emailed first this time so this felt like a get out of jail free card.
I really am sorry I ruined your valentine’s day. I didn’t really think it was all that big of a deal. Which sounds worse than I meant but we can both agree I’m an idiot.
And if giving you stuff won’t get us back together, what will? Because to me that sounds like another chance and I’d really appreciate one of those.
Also because I never followed up to ask previously you’re not seeing someone else, right?
If you are please tell him I did boxing in highschool and serially got into fights (and am willing to re-hash that ability if it means winning you back.)
I know we haven’t technically talked since you and Pock’s breakup but you liked my story the other day so I’m assuming this isn’t breaking any immediate boundaries.
I do seriously think you should give him another chance. He really is depressed without you. Clearly, because he’s an idiot, he didn’t realize that he can barely function without you when you were together. But now he does and is bitching to me about it every god damn day.
It is a little bit selfish of me to ask this because I want him to not complain and whine to me—about “I just wish she would give me another chance”, “Fuck, do you think she found another guy?” and “She’s too good for me. Fuck.”, trust me it gets annoying—but you understand just how relentless and pestering he can get.
Please, Y/n. I am begging you to at least try with him again. For my sake at least.
Look, I do not hate you, but trying to meddle with me and Porco doesn’t particularly come off as helpful as you think.
While it’s a sweet thing to do at heart, it doesn’t help me in the slightest to open my school email and see one brother begging, and another begging for him as if we’re middle schoolers.
If Porco is that desperate for a date, tell him to wait a month to at least let me think it over. I still have life, class, work, etc., and trying to get back with the asshole who called me “too needy” does not touch the top ten of my priorities.
P.S: Also tell him to stop having Pieck message me about our breakup as well.
What part of “let me think it over” is incomprehensible to you. I know Marcel told you what I said and I know the message of “leave me alone for a while” was clear. So why on God’s green earth do you continue toleave gifts outside my door?
Do you have any idea frustrating it is for you to ignore every single thing I ask of you?
If you want to have any hopes of us getting back together in the future, stop leaving gifts, stop emailing, stop getting your brother to email you, and stop getting Pieck to message me on Instagram because I know she’s not doing that on her own.
And so help me God, if Reiner asks me if I’m seeing anyone, then immediately pulls out his phone and texts you the answer after class again, I’m going to march to your apartment and shove a lit blunt down your throat.
P.S: This is not flirting. I know when we were together I got mad like this and you thought it was hot, but don’t take it that way. I’m genuinely upset and annoyed by you, Porco.
Omg I’d do anything for porco smut😓 if he were to taunt me just a little..
𝒮𝑁𝐼𝐷𝐸.ᐟ ❤︎ ft. porco galliard!
𝒞𝒪𝒩𝒯𝒜𝐼𝒩𝒮 ⨾ ( 1k+ ) words of . . . nsfw, porco galliard x fem!reader ( black coded ), canonverse, secret relationship, set in liberio ( year 854 ), size difference, power play, full nelson, dirty talk, porco’s a meanie >.< , creampie, use of pet names ( e.g. baby, princess, etc. ) explicit language, lowercase intended, minors shoo!
𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ 𝓁ℯ𝓉𝓉ℯ𝓇.ᐟ ۶ৎ omg i been feenin to write for my favorite jaw! (˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) ask and you shall receive, nonnie! pock such an asshole but you just know he’s a puddle for his girl once the lights go out >.< he tries to be all nasty & mean but i swear to you he is sooo pussydrunk . he’s so dumb & bigheaded ugh i love him <3 hope this satisfies the craving for some porco content hehe. thanks so much for reading! ❤︎
𝐼𝒩𝒮𝑃𝒪 𝑇𝑅𝒜𝒞𝒦.ᐟ ( ♫ ) till dawn (here comes the sun) by the weeknd
porco knows exactly what he is — the jaw, a piece of state-owned property forged for war. but when the sun lowers below the horizon, the rules begin to shift. the night is his only true taste of freedom, and he spends every stolen hour being a menace to your peace. he’s insatiable, a total asshole, and entirely yours. they told him a weapon didn't need a heart, but he spends his nights sneaking through the shadows just to find the pulse of yours, because nothing in his jagged life feels as real or as sweet as the way you feel underneath him.
the room was bathed in low shadows, save for the amber spill of warm lamplight cutting across the sharp, lethal edge of porco’s clenched jawline. he had you anchored flush against his heaving chest, those lithe, soldier-strong arms hooked firmly under yours to lock your hands behind your head — pinning you to him, back to chest, until you were thoroughly folded and utterly exposed. he was relentless, a force of nature hoisting you up just enough to keep you braced while he drove hard into you from below.
the only sound in the quiet room was the heavy, rhythmic slap of skin against skin — a wet, nastily suggestive cadence that echoed with every buck of his hips. greed and punctuated every sharp groan he breathed into the nape of your neck. he loved the sound of it, the way it filled the small room and drowned out all of liberio and the rest of the world, leaving only the reality of how well he was breaking you down and filling you up.
“oh god . . . p—pock, slow down, please—” the nickname tripped off your tongue in a desperate, broken plea, but it only earned you a sharp, jagged sneer.
“don’t fucking call me that,” he grunted, hands squeezing threateningly around the inner pit of your knees, his response coming in the form of a deep, punishing thrust that that silenced your protest and left you gasping. he grinned upon the feeling of your back arching helplessly off of him. “listen to that,” he rasped, the words a low vibration against your damp skin as the rhythmic, wet slap of his pace filled the air. “is that all you can handle? thought you were tougher than that, princess. keep taking it.”
every deep, dragging thrust felt like it was unravelling your very foundations, knocking the breath and the sense right out of you. you craned your neck back, muscles straining against the pivot as you searched for just a glance of the chaos he’d become. through a haze of tears, you caught the image — his once sharp undercut now a ruined mess, honey-blonde hair damp and dishevelled, falling into his eyes as he worked you open on his cock.
a dark, erotic-red flush stained his high cheekbones and the bridge of his upturned nose, the heat of him radiating against your skin. he was the ' jaw ' in every sense, his mouth never still as he alternated between spewing the nastiest words and biting the junction of your neck, leaving a reddened strew of molar-heavy nips that left you branded.
“god, you’re so fuckin’ sensitive,” he grit out from underneath you, “go ahead, cry for me. wanna hear you whining, it gets me off.”
gentleness was never porco’s way. it was a language he simply didn't speak; nor was it a luxury he could afford. but there was a particular, hungry focus in the way he fucked you after the long, harsh hours of being a warrior — all frantic, heavy-handed movements that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
he hitched your legs up higher, dragging you down on the length of him as his thrusts turned sharp and demanding. his breath was a fever-hot puff against your neck, and you could feel the predatory pull of a smirk against your warm brown skin.
"you’re greedy as fuck, you know? squeezing around me like that," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly taunt against your ear. it was pure filth, a smooth stream of feigned malice that turned your spine to warm liquid where it pressed against the solid heat of his bare chest. "you like when i talk to you like that, huh? want me groaning in your ear when i beat up this pussy?"
he revelled in the sheer feeling of it — how a few low words could send a visible shiver through you even as his body claimed every inch of yours. porco watched you break, smirk sharpening all the while over the sight of you unravelling completely in his own two hands. his thumbs hooked deep into the soft hollows of your waist, tilting your hips to catch that sharp, resonant spot deep in the sopping pulse of your cunt that only he could reach.
every muscle in your body seemed to coil around him at once, pussy fluttering in a signal that alerts him your finish was mere seconds away. the sensation made his breath hitch, a sharp jolt traveling straight to his tensed core.
"ohhhh, that’s it. cum hard as fuck on this dick, baby," he breathed, the words dripping with an arrogance so familiar that it made your head swim. he watched your orgasm wash over you through dark hazel eyes, drinking in the way your body stuttered in his grip, your muscles locking up as you finally gave in to the excess of pleasure he brought you.
ever triumphant, porco’s tooth-edged smirk widened just before his own composure shattered entirely after a few more sloppy thrusts. a series of heavy, guttural groans tore from his throat as he finally followed suit, his body tensing into yours as he released, hot messy spurts of white seed painting your walls.
that bite of his finally blunted, all the snark having vanished as quickly as it had come. he exhaled out a long, shaky breath; drawing out of you, even as remnants of your mixed juices dripped down his shaft. porco pulled you in close, your head tucked securely under his chin, the sharp edge of his bravado softening into a lingering, tender kiss at your forehead. you’d been so good, so perfect for him, he breathed out — no matter how vulnerable it might’ve sounded — and that he was never, ever letting go.
content warning (s): mature language - mention of asphyxiation - spitting - biting - exhibitionism - overstimulation - oral sex (fem receiving) - daddy kink - hand kink - breeding - unprotected sex - corruption - slight slapping - hard dom! porco
pairing: porco galliard x fem!reader
word count: 2.6k
a/n: i wanted to use this as a prep for my lifeguard! porco for @taixju summer collab (x) but that will be 100% dirtier and filthy. I have been having brainrot of him since he’s been animated *screech* i wanted to write more but you get the gist
banner credit: made it myself but porco fanart artist creds to @/KinNiku_OishiiZ on twitter
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✯ Porco isn't much for relationships and mostly plays around with others; however, all of his morals did a whole 360 once you stepped into his life.
✯ Very much a cocky, stuck-up man, and knows what exactly to make one fluster but doesn't know how to react when someone can actually deal with his bullshit.
✯ He is attracted to confident women who are assured of themselves, he does have a soft spot for shy girls because he knows just what to say to make them stutter.
✯ Porco is a hard worker and down bad for a hard-working woman because he knows if they want something, they will do anything to achieve that.
✯ Gives you cute pet names/classic ones like doll, darling, baby, bubs, love, honey, sweets, and amor.
✯ Porco comes from an Italian family, plain and simple. An Italian man with hints of his Italian accent.
✯ Although Porco has a mean facade towards everyone, he is a real sweetheart and kind human being, and that's what attracted you to him. He can be an angry and grumpy bean, he still cares and loves in his weird unique way, especially the ones he cares for deeply.
✯ He knows when something is wrong with you and wants to get down to what the problem is, he is always there for you and up for a vent if you need one.
✯ Porco knows you can overwork and pile much on your shoulders, so he does his part. If that may be acts of service or just being there, he always manages to always keep a smile on your face; it is what he loves most about you.
✯ Porco is your best friend in one and KNOWS you better than yourself; he is your equal and brings out the best in you.
✯ Porco bullied others for being romantic to their significant others but he really is a secret sweet tooth romantic and anything that is cheesy, already has it planned.
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✯ Definitely would be very cocky and stuck up around you because of his crush on you, thinking it would go in a good direction because he has no brains and doesn't think before he acts. He is much rather surprised to see you snap back at him with each comment or rather how you ignore him.
✯ Each passing day, he notices how he's always looking for you, waiting to see what you’ll say back or the annoying side looks you give him that he finds oh so cute.
✯ After finally getting the guts to ask you out, Porco would be the one to go out of his way to coordinate dates like visiting parks, cafes, museums, and different bookstores to check out on each date. He is a very big bookworm but you didn't know that until your third date. so we already know he will want to visit every possible local bookstore with you.
✯ He was the first to say “I love you”, and it did take some time for him. He wanted to be sure of himself because he knew you were, he was mesmerized at how beautiful you looked with the warm lights reflecting off of you, as you read together in his bedroom so caught up in the moment, he mumbled “I love you.” catching you a bit off guard but you always knew you loved him from the first stupid comment he made when you first met. Returning the mutual feeling made him push up his reading glasses to poorly hide his crimson shade cheeks.
✯ Book reading dates are something special because you and Porco both have a mutual love for books, no matter the genre or length they can be, that’s why he’s the best to have as a book buddy. He would ensure he had all the annotating supplies ready, even going as far as getting your favorite latte or drink before coming over.
✯ He loves to see your facial expressions while you read, the little giggles you let out make his heart flutter, pausing his reading; Porco really does love your smile. The way he feels all warm inside because he falls for you all over again as if he isn’t already.
✯ Porco was interested in these "spicy" books you talked about because you frequently get flustered which led you to get up and "take a lap", so he read along with you. He wants to get in on the action too
✯ Sometimes the dates can get steamy, blame the erotic books you buddy read together, but you nudge him on and leave him to always say, “why don't we recreate this scene ourselves rather than reading it?”; it was way better experiencing it than reading.
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✯ OVERLY handsy person, he will find any opportunity to have his hands on you; placing his hand into your back pocket, basically cupping your ass, hooking his finger onto your beltline, and wrapping his arms around your waist
✯ Hugs from him are just the best, although Porco is the size of fucking Mount Everest, the way his body fits perfectly into yours. Hugs from behind would be his signature move, he loves to hear you yelp in surprise and nudge your butt back into him while placing his chin on top of your head.
✯ Porco is the most loudly jealous person, but his actions would speak louder than words. If there are a group of guys eyeing you down, he places his arm around your waist and brings you in to trace his long finger over your lips, no kiss is needed. You know exactly what he was trying to do, make it loud and clear your his.
✯ As mentioned before, Porco loves having his hands on you, sometimes being a little too excessive but you love the feeling of his large calloused hands on the low of your back.
✯ Porco loves your hands, although you hate them, he loves the soft and warmness it gives him. Your hands are much smaller compared to his but he loves how delicate they look in his.
✯ He DEFINITELY buys you rings just to fidget with them when you hold hands
✯ Porco notices the small glances you give his large hands and fingers so he messages pictures of his veiny hands and arms post-workout; queue mutual hand kinks
✯ When you would be feeling down or not yourself, Porco knows just what to do to help make you feel better. If you didn't want to talk about it, he would just hold you close to him to let you know that he is there for you.
✯ Cuddling would be the best because he is like a giant human furnace, there is no blanket needed but sometimes you do need to push him away causing him to whine.
✯ Porco has been with many girls, there are no questions about that, but he very much is careful and worships you. He reassures your insecurities, as there is really nothing to be insecure about, and very much praises your whole body, all the imperfections you see are perfect to him. He has never felt this way about anyone and he holds that dear to him, there is nobody like the way you smile, smell, and soft finger trances you leave behind on his skin, which is what makes you special.
✯ He loves to trace his fingers over your stretch marks, connect the dots with the freckles on your body, and caress your tummy. Simply would love to have his head on your chest to hear the way your heart beats and soft breathing.
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✯ Porco was a very much well-known manwhore before meeting you, he knows how to please a woman and what makes them quiver under his touch.
✯ Porco’s cock is a little above average his ego is crumbling, quite beefy, and has a very good girth to it. He likes to keep it trimmed and not completely shaven but has a light happy trail.
✯ Although he may have a little above average dick, Porco knows how to give you a proper fuck, and have you creaming on his cock.
✯ Porco was a nervous bitch in the beginning with you. He wanted to make sure he was making you feel good, he gets more aroused when he knows he’s pleasuring you; however, he has never easily gotten a hard-on just from a simple makeout sesh nor had a woman that can keep up with him.
✯ Just having you make out on top of him while grinding against his cock would make him drip precum. The sounds of your pretty moans against his mouth, and the way you tug on his undercut literally will make him combust.
✯ Porco has never had a woman make him easily come undone but he swears you have something, also don't moan too hot or he’ll rip all your clothes off but he knows you love that oh so much.
✯ Porco is very much handsy during book reading dates and will have you sit in between his legs, fingering you, while you read your erotic book. Hearing your soft pants and heavy breathing as you try to concentrate. He loves watching you struggle so he bites on your ear lobe to make it even better for him.
✯ Porco has many kinks: degradation, praise kink, hair pulling, dirty talk, choking, asphyxiation, spitting, spanking, biting, exhibitionism, overstimulation, and pet names like sweet girl, pretty girl, baby. He loves it when he is in control and call him sir, or especially daddy.
✯ Porco never really had the thought of breeding or corruption until you. The way you sweet-talked the kids in your family or how you bit back at his snarky comments, giving a pressing hard-on in his pants that you could only relieve.
✯ Porco can be a soft dom when he wants to be a little soft and delicate with you; however, he is a very much hard dom. When fucking you, he holds your face making you passionately look into your eyes and feeling your hot moans in his mouth. He can be a little too invested in you and grab you by the neck slightly choking, but you give devilish smile, such a dirty slut for his cock you are.
✯ Always asks for consent no matter how long you’ve been together, he wants to make sure you feel comfortable and safe; you are what matters most, he could care less about himself. Your pleasure is important so you will always be put first.
✯ Going into what matters most, he will absolutely make sure you have all the orgasms first, ensuring what he’s doing is good and asking if you like it. He can tell you love it when he feels you squeeze around him. That's how he found out you loved letting him spit in your mouth.
✯ After finding your spit kink, he loves how dirty you were so he would grab your throat in any environment, always catching you by surprise and using it as an opportunity to spit in your mouth. He knows you're dripping wet by the time you get home or in the car. You did fuck like dogs in the car after he did that in front of Jean, he is very much territorial.
✯ He knows your body, everything, he quickly catches on to the things that make you moan and whimper. Definitely keeping a mental note to ensure his do’s and don’ts.
✯ What Porco lives for is you riding him. He loves the look on your fucked out face, eyes rolling back, telling him to go faster and deeper. He loves giving you light slaps across your face, as he tells you to beg for it. When picking up the pace, he will grab onto your neck and squeeze to make your face crimson red; only making you focus on his hard fast cock ramming into your cunt.
✯ Another thing Porco loves is to eat you out and his mouth does fucking god wonders. He loves the fact his tongue is making you whimper and moan and enjoys overstimulating you after you’ve cum all over his mouth. He loves to have his fingers inside you while he licks your sensitive clit and brings his long calloused fingers to have you taste your sweet slick.
✯ Sometimes you need to smack that man like you’re tagging out but that only makes him hold you down by grabbing your neck. He is just addicted to the sweet taste you leave in his mouth.
✯ High key loves your tits cause that’s his thing I don’t make the rules. Once he saw you lean over and saw your cleavage that was his limit. Squeezes your tits hard just to hear you yelp but religiously worships them. Your thighs are another thing, his dick twitches to you squeezing his head as he made you cum on his tongue.
✯ Lovemaking isn't his fortay but he’ll do so if he wants to show his love for you. When he is highly stressed, he will be extremely rough. During or after, he’ll ask if you’re okay and if he’s hurting you; Porco gives the best and most amazing aftercare.
✯ This man is super strong, super strong to where he can hold you against walls and hold you up while he fucks you, but loves to fuck you like a rag doll. Pulling your hair as he fucks you doggy style, pinching and biting your tits as he rams into you.
✯ As mentioned before, Porco has never had a woman that can keep up with him nor can have the dirtiest & kinky sex with him, so you were a package deal. Sometimes your sex drive was more than his, you can never get enough of his cock.
✯ He will find every opportunity to fuck you. Any surface place in the house is already checked off. Car sex? Yes, Public bookstore sex? Yes, party bathroom sex? Fuck yeah. Of course, Reiner walked in on you both but continued on like rabbit dogs. Let's just say you both were a match made in kink heaven
✯ Confidence and his ego radiate off him just by him making you cum on his hard cock not to mention his breeding tendencies, he’s never wanted more to cum inside a girl before you. He is a huge family man and loves kids. This man is so infatuated with you that he sees you having his children. His breeding kink is activated when you beg him to cum inside you. Since then, he loses control when he thinks about fucking a baby into you. He makes sure that every last drop of his cum is inside you and literally sticks his finger in your already overstimulated cunt to stop his seed drip out of you.
✯ Porco loves trying new things so bringing toys into the mix was a god-tier. Fascinated by your toys, he would be so excited to use them on you. Instantly gets hard watching what they do to you and gets entranced at the faces you make and the way you moan his name while looking at him. Especially the remote-controlled underwear vibrators, the exhibitionism at its MAX
✯ Although Porco was a manwhore, he became a manwhore for you and only you. He surprises and suggests new positions and games just so he can fuck your brains out. He can fuck you anywhere or on any surface possible, I think you're both just horny for each other and can’t get enough.
summary. six months ago, you and adam were dating and happy until he randomly ghosted you. now, he's standing at your door.
includes. SMUT MINORS DNI 18+, exes hooking up, takes place after the end of masters of the universe, unprotected p n v, oral (f receiving), giver!adam, sex while wearing the he-man outfit
wc. 5.8k
a/n: it's finally done thank god. my first fic in forever so ... everyone be nice.
You shouldn’t have answered the door.
For once in your life, you should’ve stayed on the couch and hit play on yet another episode of the show you thought you would hate, but haven’t been able to put down all weekend. You should’ve pretended you didn’t hear the knocks, or you should’ve turned the volume on the TV all the way down, made as little noise as possible, and pretended that you weren’t home all together.
Because standing on the other side of the threshold, in your apartment complex hallway with a bouquet of flowers (your favorites, you notice) in one hand and a necklace you thought was gone forever in the other, is a man who undos months of healing and emotional growth with one small, shy smile.
“Hi,” Adam Glenn says.
The single word is tense, holding acknowledgement of his half a year of absence in the greeting.
“What the fuck?” The words leave your mouth before you can consider anything else to say. Truthfully, it is the best thing to say in this situation. Because you thought Adam was dead.
Six months ago, after a really great night out with Adam that ended with you falling asleep on his bare chest, there was some sort of alien attack downtown. The aggressor wasn’t your normal perception of an alien—resembling more of a freakish grizzly bear than a tiny grey being who wanted to be taken to your leader.
Luckily, you were not downtown during the attack. Which left you sitting in your office at work, neglecting the documents on your computer, and scrolling every single social media you possibly could in order to find more information. Someone in the office turned the break room TV from HGTV reruns to the news, which gathered every single person into the small room, all crowded around the disproportional TV.
That’s when you first saw him.
It was an aerial view at first from a news chopper, and on the ground he was nothing but a speck of blond hair and a dusty pink shirt. But then social media videos of the incident began to roll in a few nights later and you got the first clear look of Adam, standing in the park you were going to suggest for a Sunday date next week. He was standing next to a woman—a gorgeous woman who you quickly found out was some sort of extraterrestrial warrior goddess. The videos you saw were a little blurry, and didn’t have good sound, but it was definitely Adam. And you definitely saw him climb into a spaceship, and fly off.
Obviously, you didn’t hear from him after that.
Adam looks taken aback by your small outburst. Then, he recovers, as if he’d expected it.
“Can I come in?” He asks.
You hesitate.
Your fingers twitch where they’re still wrapped around your door with the urge to slam it. But Adam looks so earnest.
It’s the thing you liked most about him from the beginning.
In his slightly-dorky Hinge photos, he’d looked like any other guy. Obviously tall, obviously blonde, but the lack of a self-absorbed gym picture was the first thing to stick out. Then his surprisingly normal conversation (the lack of suggestiveness was a major green flag). Then, on the first date, just his eyes reeled you in. He had what your mom called honest eyes, completely devoid of any ulterior motives.
His optical honesty paired with his authenticity is what made you text Adam for a second date. Which became a third, which became dating. Unfortunately, you weren’t together long before the incident.
You pull the door open and step back, thereby letting Adam back into your life. At least temporarily.
Adam looks just a little bit uncomfortable in your apartment. Looking at him sitting with pristine posture on a stool at your kitchen island, you briefly remember before when you two had just gotten into the routine of being comfortable in each other’s spaces. Adam used to easily toe his shoes off at the door, hang up his keys beside yours, and join you in the kitchen with his frame enclosing you in from behind.
Now, he sits on one side of the island and you stand on the other.
Your eyebrows raise, prompting Adam to begin explaining.
He takes a deep breath, rests his hands on the counter. Then, “It’s all real.”
You wait for Adam to add on, but he leaves it there.
“...What’s all real?” You ask.
“Everything,” he says, oh so helpfully. “Eternia. Skeletor. The warrior goddess. The sword. My parents.”
Adam told you his origin story (his choice of words, not yours) very early on in your relationship. He explained how he held off on the first couple of dates because his backstory tended to scare women off. You, in a determined bout to be different from the others, told him you wouldn’t be scared off. But then Adam all but rambled about a place called Eternia, and his father who was a King, and the sorceress who sent him to Earth with a sword in tow. You blinked, smiled and nodded while Adam told you everything, and then put that entire story to the back of your mind.
Because while you wanted to believe him and be there for him, logic prevailed, and pushing everything to the back of your mind allowed you to appreciate all the amazing qualities about Adam while … ignoring the slightly offputting ones.
When he left you, his backstory was the first thing that came to mind as you told yourself that you should’ve taken it as the first red flag and avoided heartbreak in turn.
You did consider that everything Adam described was real, but since you didn’t have any proof, you couldn’t rely on that outcome. Until the attack.
Now, you’re ready to listen to him with more belief.
“Is that where you went when you got on the ship? To Eternia?”
Adam nods, face as stern and serious as before yet even more intense.
“What was it like?”
Adam closes his eyes as if he’s going back to the moment. “It wasn’t what I remembered. Everything was so dark and grey this time, but I vividly remember being surrounded by these large bursts of color when I was younger. And Skeletor and his goons ran everything, so it was like this police state in a way.”
“Do you have any pictures?” You ask, beginning to get more hopeful that all of this is real. Which means that you and Adam could pick up where you two left off, assumingly.
Then, Adam visibly deflates.
“No. I didn’t have my phone on me. I think it got smashed in the attack.”
“Oh,” you say. Convenient, you think.
Adam senses your tone. He perks back up just a bit, leaning even further over the island in an attempt to get closer to you. “But I swear to you I am not lying.”
He speaks with such determination. It’s nearly impossible for you not to believe him. Nearly.
“I thought you died, Adam,” you say. Initially, your voice wobbles. You stand a little straighter, plant your bare feet into the floor, and become stronger. “Or I thought you ghosted me.”
Adam’s face balks. He doesn’t know what to say, which is perfect because you’re not done.
“At first, I thought you were an unnamed casualty in the attack downtown because you just seemed so nice that there was no way you could ever ghost me, so you had to have fucking died. Then my friends started asking ‘what if you did just randomly ghost me’? And I started to really consider it.” It’s all coming out now and you can’t stop it. You don’t want to stop it.
It’s one thing telling your friends and therapist how hurt you are. It’s another thing telling the person who hurt you—intentional or not—how hurt you are.
“But then I saw videos of you climbing into that fucking spacecraft with that girl and I didn’t hear from you for months. I know you were probably doing things that are incomprehensible for me, real or not, but I really missed you. I thought we had something good going.”
“We did!” Adam shoots up. He walks around the island, coming near you with tentative steps, giving you an out. You don’t take it. Maybe you’re too trusting. Maybe you’re foolish and naive. But you stay right there, letting Adam wrap his arms around your shoulders and rest your head on his chest.
Did he get bigger?
“I really liked being with you,” he says your name, so soft around the syllables in a way that only he can manage. “I’m sorry about everything that happened. I’m sorry I left like that. I swear I thought of you all the time and I came back as soon as I could. I would’ve come back sooner but…” he hesitates, the next words heavy on his tongue and too thick to speak around in his mouth.
“But what?” you ask against his chest, enjoying the way his newly endowed pecs act as cushioning on either side of your head.
You wouldn’t tell your well-meaning friends this, but you will gladly let Adam back into your life because of your time in the bedroom. At the end of the day, he was the most respectful and tender lover you’ve ever had.
“But my dad died.”
“Oh my god, Adam.” You lift your head, searching for his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he assures through glassy eyes. “I just had to stay back and help out since I’m king of Eternia now.”
Your head finds his chest again and you rub at his back. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Adam, seriously. And …” you chew on your bottom lip, “I’m really glad you’re okay.”
Adam wraps his arms around your shoulders and you feel at home. Your eyes close and you can’t help the sigh that falls from your lips. You’ve missed this. You’ve missed how you just slot perfectly in Adam’s arms.
“Is there anything I can do?” You find yourself saying without realizing.
“Actually yeah.”
You’re standing on the top floor of a neighboring parking garage in your little shorts, slippers, and an old college sweatshirt. Your arms are folded over your chest and your heart is beating so hard that you can feel it against your forearm. Your squinting at the object in front of you, trying to do as many grounding techniques as possible to prevent yourself from freaking the fuck out.
Because there is no way the spaceship in front of you is real. You have to be hallucinating, which induces your panic.
Adam is standing next to you, clearly trying his best to let you digest this information without pressuring you into anything. But you can sense the way he’s fidgeting in an attempt to mask his anxiety.
“So …?” He sounds hopeful, as if it’ll be easy for you to say yes and jump into a spaceship with your ex-boyfriend (even though you two never officially broke up) for two months.
“I don’t know if I can, Adam.”
Adam steps in front of you, blocking your view of the spaceship and instead giving you a full view of just him.
“I know it’s a crazy thing to ask but I just really want to show you where I’m from. The traveling part isn’t that bad and it’s really quick, all things considered. And I’ll bring you back as soon as you want. I swear.”
Adam speaks of it as if he’s asking you to come on a quick road trip with him, not as if he’s asking you to fly across the galaxy (or to a different galaxy? you aren’t really sure where Eternia is located) to visit his home planet. He’s asking you to casually do something that astronauts train for years to do, and never on this scale.
But, there is room for argument. He wants you to do this with him, but he certainly won’t make you. His eyes are kind, above all, just as they’ve always been. His tone, although pleading, is not demanding.
You aren’t sure if it is his tone that does it, or if you’re just plain stupid, but for some reason you find yourself agreeing.
At the end of the day you’re curious. And taking this risk, even though it’s a massive risk, is more interesting than watching reality TV on your couch.
“Holy fuck.”
Adam has his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder as he crowds you from behind. Just like before. You’re leaning back into him, letting him carry your weight along with his. Your head is tilted up, eyes taking in as much of everything as you can.
Eternia is colorful, extremely so. That’s the first thing you notice.
Maybe you’ve grown used to the monotonous flat tones that surrounded you back home, or maybe Eternia is just that vibrant and beautiful, but either way—it’s a nice change.
You turn to glance at Adam and he shares a look similar to yours: eyes big, smile even bigger, wonder and amazement written on every aspect of his face.
“I know,” he laughs. “Believe it or not but a few months ago everything was the complete opposite. When—”
“Skeletor was in charge?” You continue for him without intending to.
Adam hesitates, clearly shocked. “Yeah,” he says, smiling even bigger. He’s proud that you remember, you can tell, but even further, he’s glad that you believe him, even as you’re standing on the palace grounds of the place that everyone—including yourself, you’ll admit—refused to believe existed.
Adam is beaming. He has to force every word out of a large grin, larger than you’ve ever seen him have back on Earth. Your chest soars as you see how happy he is. At the end of the day, he was just trying to make it back home. Now he finally is. And Eternia looks good on him.
“Yeah. Exactly. When I first came back everything was so dull and grey. And disgusting. But after I defeated him in this really epic battle we took the time to rebuild everything back to how it used to be. Or as close as we could get it.”
And they did a great job.
You might’ve never seen Eternia before the destruction, but you can see it now and there is hardly any evidence pointing to this place ever looking anything short of breathtaking. There are a few cracks in the stone-covered ground, and when Adam points to things and tells you how exactly they fixed them you can tell, but everything looks nearly impeccable.
“I have one more thing to show you.”
Adam takes your hand in his, eagerly tugging you down the walkway and to the castle.
At first, you thought what Adam wanted to show you was the castle itself. You did marvel at it, despite Adam’s hurried attempts to pull you further into Castle Grayskull’s walls. He took you to his room, pushed you inside, and disappeared for a couple of prolonged seconds before returning with a sword in his hands.
You didn’t even get to ask any questions before Adam thrusted the sword into the air and loudly proclaimed that he had the power. Again, you would’ve asked about that, if you had the time. But the transformation started immediately.
A bolt of lighting (you had no idea where it could’ve come from indoors) came down and struck the sword, surrounding Adam at once. You watched his clothes materialize off, and then different clothes materialize back onto him. You had no choice but to sit there, mouth open, eyes wide and hungrily taking in all of Adam.
And there is so much of him on display in front of you.
Adam has always had a nice body.
He told you about his trips to the gym in hopes of bulking up and gaining more muscle, and truthfully, before he disappeared you didn’t see that much progress. Which was no issue for you! You loved his body.
But somehow, this sword and the ‘power’ that Adam possesses has given him new clothes and a new body.
What was once perfectly soft for you to lay on during movie nights is now magically sculpted, and glistening in the sunlight filtering in from Adam’s windows. He’s chisled—that’s the only way to describe it. His thighs are carved, each and every muscle accentuated beneath his leather skirt. The definition in his abdomen isn’t extreme, and it feels almost natural, surrounded by a healthy layer of fat that tells you that despite his new body, Adam is still Adam.
“So…” Adam prompts, his arms slightly thrown out to either side of his body. For a moment, he looks a little shy, a glimpse of the Adam you knew back on Earth. But then he glances down at his torso, seems to remember who he is, and then he slowly gives you a spin, letting you take in all of him in one slow turn.
Somehow, his back looks even better than his front. You’ve never seen a back and shoulders as sculpted as his.
“Jesus Christ," you say, not even bothering to hide the amazement in your voice.
Adam rushes to you, dropping to his knees to be on the same level with you as you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. “I know, right! The first time it happened I couldn’t believe it.”
“What exactly just happened?”
He shrugs, gesturing to the almost-forgotten sword behind you both. “I have the power. By the power of Grayskull.”
Right. Whatever that means.
“What do you think?”
“I think this is so fucking cool, Adam.” Your hands cup his cheeks, the tips of your fingers reaching into his golden roots. Instinctively, you scratch at his scalp and instinctively, Adam melts into your touch. His eyelids flutter shut and he practically purrs, releasing a sound mixed between a sigh and a groan.
“I missed you so much,” he admits.
“I missed you more, Adam,” you admit. It’s the truth, wholehearted and vulnerable.
You were angry that Adam left, yes, but you were angry because you missed him. You were sad beneath everything else, and the sadness made you feel weak and exposed, especially to your friends who were quick to start shit talking Adam once you told them that you were essentially ghosted.
I knew there was something off about him.
No guy is that nice.
Didn’t you say he had some weird childhood or something? Never give one of those guys a chance.
There was practically nothing for you to do but be angry along with them. If you allowed yourself to be sad in their presence, that would be weak. You would be stupid to mourn a relationship that everyone else thought wasn’t going to work out.
So you hid everything beneath anger. You blocked his number and blocked his Instagram, just to unblock both a few nights later in hopes that he would reach out. You scrolled through the few pictures you had together, wondering where everything went wrong. You came to conclusion after conclusion, hoping the next one would make more sense than the last and make you feel better.
But you don’t have to do that anymore.
Because Adam is here, in your hands again.
You latch onto strands of his hair and pull him up and close, reclining back against the plush mattress throughout.
It doesn’t take long at all for Adam to pick up.
He wraps his large hands around your knees, reaching behind them to latch onto you and pull your legs further apart. He lets himself be guided home until your pelvis is flush together. One of his hands reaches up and steadies his body by pressing into the mattress, the other loosely gripping your hip.
HIs lips are hovering over yours, neither of you closing that space yet.
You tease the movement, lifting your head ever so slightly until your lips brush and the tip of your nose pokes his. Adam leans in, the movement minute and hesitant. Then, he goes for it, completely closing the gap.
Surprisingly, it doesn’t take you long at all to join each other in a familiar rhythm. This is a rhythm you’ve thought about for months now, eyes pinched shut in the middle of the night as you tried with all of your might to hold onto memories of Adam’s body against yours and your lips moving in near-perfect tandem.
It also is easy for you to reclaim this rhythm with Adam because you hadn’t attempted to find it with anyone else. Adam was the last person you slept with, making those six months of silence feel even longer.
Adam kisses hungrily. He always has—on your third date, you made a surprised sound into his mouth when he kissed you goodbye at the entrance to your apartment.
But now he kisses you like he’s insatiable.
It climbs, his hunger. He begins almost gently, tipping his head to the side just a bit to deepen the kiss. But when you hike a leg up his side and hold his head from behind, he inhales and presses into you with more force.
Your position is awkward enough to have Adam slightly hovering over you and you desperately desire to have him directly on top of you.
You climb up the bed. Adam follows you, kicking off his boots in his journey.
You end up with your head bracketed by pillows, the crown of your head pressing into the upholstered headboard.
Adam pushes the pillows to the ground. All except one which he lays beneath your head.
He descends your body until he’s face to face with your center. No conversation is required. You push your lounge shorts down your legs, your underwear following. You spread open for Adam, laying back and letting him make the decisions.
And his first decision is to stare.
Wide eyed, lips parted, warm breath gently fanning out to hit you where you’re most sensitive. He doesn’t make any moves, not yet. He just sits and appreciates you.
Before you can tease him about it (not that you were going to, of course), Adam makes his move. He leans in and he’s not timid at all.
He devours you now like he always has. His nose pressed into your hair, his tongue reaching and swirling and dipping, his eyes fluttering shut and his eyebrows pressing close together with concentration.
Your legs find their natural place over his shoulders, your thighs pressing into the leather straps of his chest piece that he still wears.
With how long it’s been since you’ve been with anyone else, and with how admittedly good Adam is at giving head, it’s not surprising how soon you start to feel the hints of an orgasm making itself known in your body.
You hold it off, though. This feels too good to give in quickly.
You press the heels of your feet into Adam’s toned back and twist your fingers into the bed sheets.
Your back curls when Adam swishes his tongue back and forth over your clit. You groan, loud and unabashed, when Adam licks a long stripe from your entrance to the hood of your clit.
He’s working you how he knows you like and you’re flattered when you realize that he remembers what you like. When he creates a point with the tip of his tongue and runs it up and down your cunt, something deep in you jumps.
“Don’t stop,” you whine, finally keen to chase the orgasm you’ve been attempting to ignore the whole time.
“Are you close?” Adam asks. You meet his big brown eyes and nod once before Adam’s dipping back down and doing his absolute best to get you there.
All it takes is a few more licks from him and then your back is arching, your mouth wide open even though absolutely no sound leaves it as you cum. One foot presses into Adam’s back, the other pressing into his shoulder. Your body can’t decide whether to pull him closer or push him away.
It’s not like you would have much success with either option, though.
Adam easily locks you against his mouth with two large hands gripping your ass cheeks. You’re stuck, not that you’re complaining.
The overstimulation kicks in quick, though. It’s not unfamiliar to you—this is something you’ve done often, both alone and with Adam.
You can’t help but whine when you try to twist out of Adam’s hold and he doesn’t let up one bit.
The reprieve you get is minimal, nothing but a quick moment when he removes his mouth to tell you “it’s okay, ‘m almost done”.
You have no choice but to breathe in the way you know how, and let it happen.
And when Adam makes you cum with his mouth for a second time, it’s nearly painful, but so worth it. Your toes curl and you feel the squirt of arousal release from within you.
It’s not clear when the fluid ends up until Adam lifts his head and his lips, nose, and nearly everything within the vicinity is coated in a thin sheen.
He smiles, big and dopey, clearly satisfied, and rests his cheek on your mound, absentmindedly pressing kisses into your thigh. “Hot,” he says. You aren’t sure what exactly he’s referring to, but you still grin.
“Do you want to fuck me?” You ask.
It seems like the option hadn’t crossed Adam’s mind. He looks almost surprised, his eyebrows lifting. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Sure.”
You tilt your head. “Do you?”
Adam nods vehemently. “Yes. Fuck yeah, I do.”
You grin and reach down, curling your fingers beneath the strap of his chest piece and using the leverage to pull him up to you. He wipes his mouth with the back of one hand before leaning in to kiss you, but even then you can taste yourself on his mouth.
You moan and purposefully make a show of sticking your tongue into Adam’s mouth and swirling it around, licking the taste of your cunt off of his molars and the back of his teeth. Adam lets you do it, mouth hanging limp.
And when you’ve had your fill, Adam eases you fully back into the bed, after lifting your shirt off of you. He presses kisses down your body, taking his time to appreciate all of you laid out before him. He swirls his tongue around your nipples, teasing the hardened bud with his teeth, and then repeating his ministrations on the other. He fondles your tits in his hands while he kisses you, and presses light, appreciative kisses into the side of your neck.
He brushes against your pelvis and you’re made aware of the boner poking against the leather flaps of his skirt. One of them brushes against your cunt and the smooth, cool fabric feels heavenly. You gasp, hips chasing the feeling. Adam gives it to you.
He presses against you fully, rocking his hips against yours in fluid motions. The leather glides smoothly until the metal decals at the end hit you. It hitches against your clit and enhances the experience even more.
“Oh my god, Adam.”
You press your fingers into his shoulders.
“What is it?” he asks, his head hooked into the crook of your neck.
“Put it in. Please.”
And he does.
He doesn’t bother removing the skirt. You watch him push down undergarments, and then the tip of his cock pokes out between two flaps of his skirt. The tip is flushed a deeper color than the rest of him, resembling a deeper mix of the color of his lips and the flush on his cheeks. You see a transparent bead resting at his slit, and Adam wraps his hand around his cock and glides it down.
The visual is obsense—Adam fully clad in his warrior outfit, sitting on his haunches, abusing the power of Grayskull to fuck his girlfriend (ex-girlfriend? You’ll need to figure that out later). The cherry on top comes when Adam brings his hand to his mouth and spits in it, using the saliva as makeshift lube to glide down his thick cock.
The Adam from your first date might’ve hesitated at doing something so blatantly lewd. But the Adam you started dating shortly after, the one who begged you to sit on his face and asked to cockwarm while watching The Godfather, began to delve into the obscenity.
He claimed it only came out with you—that you taught him how to revel in the vulgarity.
“Do you have a condom?” You ask.
Adam nods, staring down at you through lidded eyes as he continues to stroke himself. “There’s some in the bathroom. I can go grab one.”
And he should. You know he should.
But you want to feel Adam. You want to feel all of Adam for the first time.
“Forget about it.”
You reach for him with your feet, pressing the heel of one foot into his side and bending your leg in a pull.
“Are you sure? It’s really no problem—”
“I’m sure, Adam. As long as you are, too.”
He cock is close to your entrance now and Adam looks mesmerized. He doesn’t answer, not until you say his name once more.
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
Then he slides home.
It takes a few shallow thrusts and deep breaths for you to adjust around Adam.
You don’t remember him being this thick and this long. You’re unsure if that’s a lapse in memory, or if the power of Grayskull also goes to his cock.
It doesn’t matter. Not when Adam is rocking into your with languid thrusts. He’s moving so slowly and it’s obvious that he’s savoring it all and taking it in.
He hasn’t slid all the way in yet, though. You can tell because you have yet to feel the cool leather against your mound again.
Adam takes his time with you. He kisses you while he fucks you. His kisses are slow and lingering, just like his thrusts.
He pushes in and his lips tangle with yours. He pulls out and he hovers above your mouth, the ghost of his lips against yours.
It’s not until you wrap your hands around his tousled golden hair that Adam bottomed out and everything hit you all at once.
The leather of his skirt ticked around your cunt, his mound pressing against your clit (you notice the lack of hair and it occurs to you that his entire body is smooth. Interesting), and his cock is so ridiculously deep that you gasp.
“I’m sorry,” he rushes out, pulling back just a bit, but you pull him forward, back into you.
No, he lets you pull him back into you.
“You like that?” He’s earnest when he asks it, seriously wondering if you like the pain of having his cock nudging close to your cervix.
You nod even though your face is screwed up.
But Adam seems to take the hint even better than you can give it to him.
He uses the new knowledge perfectly, never overabusing the length of his cock and hurting you by fucking your cervix. No, he keeps nearly all of his thrusts to a respectable distance from the deepest part of you. Only a few thrusts get that close again and each time feels even better than the last.
You’ve missed Adam so much and you’re so fucking horny that somehow, you can feel another orgasm making itself known in your body. But truthfully, you’re spent, and all you desired was feeling Adam again after so long. So, nobly, you ignore it.
You pull Adam down, pressing your lips to his, and allow him to focus on his pleasure. You attempt to pry your legs even wider, giving him even more room and access to your body.
“I’m close,” he croaks out, words spoken directly into your mouth. It’s like he doesn’t even want to be a couple of inches away from you, and you feel the same.
You lock your ankles around Adam’s back and hook your arms over his shoulders.
You know exactly what he needs, so you press your lips to his and put all of your attention into kissing Adam until he finishes.
And he does finish, and it’s quick.
He barely pulls out of you before he’s cumming on your stomach and chest, not even pulling away from your mouth when he pumps the last few drops out of his cock.
The first thing he asks you is, “Are you okay?”
You nod, smiling softly against his lips. “I’m more than okay.”
“Good. That’s good.” He’s winded and after pecking your lips and forehead, he falls onto his back beside you.
He reaches over, grabbing a handful of tissues from a box on the nightstand and uses them to tenderly wipe his cum off of your torso. When there’s still a residue left behind, he apologizes and goes to stand up, likely to grab you something more efficient than tissues until you assure him that it’s okay.
For a moment, you turn your head the opposite way, taking in more of Adam’s bedroom.
You see photos on the wall, assumingly of a younger Adam with his parents. There are newer ones, too, images of Adam standing next to a green lion, him next to a blue robot, and him sitting around a table with a few men and women enjoying a feast.
When you look back to Adam, he’s back to how you knew him—muscles less defined, everything softer, fully stripped.
“What happened?”
“Yeah it doesn’t last forever.” He seems to shy away, curling in on himself and putting distance between you.
You don’t let it happen. You move closer, pressing your torso into his side, nuzzling your head into his chest. A moment passes, then, “Do you wanna go again?”
Adam perks up. “Yeah.” He sits up and scoots towards the edge of the bed.
“Where’re you going?” You ask, propping yourself up on your elbows.
He gestures to the forgotten sword laying on the floor and you shake your head.
“No. Don’t worry about that. C’mere.”
And he does. He practically scurries back over to you, sitting on his haunches and spreading your legs out around his hips.
“Okay,” he agrees, grinning as he leans in and presses his lips to yours.
Wc: 21.8k+ (woops)
Summary: You were promised to him as a child. You were raised within temple walls, trained to serve, to revere, and to love the god you would marry. But love between a mortal and a god was never meant to be easy. Especially when he never showed up.
Cw: God!Phainon x Fem!Mortal!Reader, Alternate universe, Semi-smut, OOC Phainon, mentions of blood, slight 3.4 spoilers, MDNI, hurt/comfort (I ain't Shaoji).
Notes: This is my first time writing (somewhat) smut + something this long, pls be nice (◞‸◟), pssst here's the side stories!
CHAPTER I
You sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the temple’s arched windows. The sunset bled across the skies of Okhema in a soft orange and gold. You could see the view of the city from afar as people began lighting up their burning lamps. The view should have brought comfort and peace to your restless soul.
But it only made you angrier as the color of the sky reminded you of him.
You closed your eyes and inhaled slowly as you tried to still the tightness in your chest. You lifted your elbows from the cool marble sill and turned away from the window, the warmth of the sun’s dimming rays brushing your back as you made your way across the quiet bedroom. You collapsed onto the cushioned couch near the hearth, arms folded. Soon, the temple maids would come, their polite voices chiming in another reminder for dinner.
Another formal, joyless meal at the long table meant to seat two — yet always ended with you alone at one end, the other left hauntingly empty. What was the point if your supposed husband never came home?
You tried to remember the string of events that had led you here.
It began twenty years ago, during the last days of the Black Tide.
Your father, General of the Okheman Knights, stood on a battlefield soaked in blood and shadow, surrounded by the groans of the dying and the monstrous. His comrades, once proud warriors, now lay lifeless or worse — corrupted into twisted, grotesque abominations, their bodies overtaken by the force of the Black Tide.
Smoke and ash choked the sky, painting it red. His vision blurred as the stench of rot and scorched steel filled his lungs. He sank to his knees, despair clawing at every inch of his body. It was then he whispered, eyes clenched shut.
“Oh… God Khaslana, protector of Okhema… Save this city. I will give you the greatest gift I can offer — My firstborn, to be yours, body and soul.”
Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, was known among mortals as the Deliverer, an eternal flame against the crawling darkness. He was radiant like the blazing heart of the sun and has long shielded the human kind with his light.
From the heavens, fire rained down. Meteors streaked through the sky like divine spears, crashing into the earth with fury. The monsters of the Black Tide screeched, then fell silent beneath the weight of the stones.
The battle was won, and the city was saved. The army cheered, thrusting their swords and shields upward as your father roared out a victory saying that Khaslana was with everyone.
When your father returned, he was hailed as a hero. He told the people of Okhema of the divine intervention — how the god himself had descended to save them. What he did not speak of, however, was the vow whispered on the battlefield, the promise made from a man to the divine.
It had been a desperate, spur-of-the-moment plea. Yet breaking a vow to a god? It was unthinkable. Especially when the god had answered so grandly, only his family and the priests of Okhema’s temple knew the truth. When he confided in the high priest, he was met not with comfort but with pressure.
“A vow to a god must be honored. To break it would only invite ruin,” the priest said.
That night, your father returned home. You were only a babe, swaddled in white linen, cradled in your mother’s arms. He watched the two of you quietly. His wife smiled, not yet knowing what burden had been placed upon their daughter’s shoulders.
You were raised in the temple, trained as a priestess to serve the god who had spared your city. Your father hoped that by living among the sacred — tending to the shrines, memorizing the old hymns, and praying beneath Khaslana’s ever-burning flame — you would grow to love the god who would one day be your husband.
You tried. You really did.
Now, you stand as a woman of the age when they became brides. Your time had come.
But your wedding was not like those you had seen in Okhema’s gardens or among the white-stone courtyards where laughter and music would echo. No streamers were fluttering in the wind, no tables heavy with food or jugs of honeyed ambrosia. No children dancing. Nothing.
Yours was a private affair. It was quiet, solemn, and shrouded in ceremonial gravity.
Only your family and the temple clergy were in attendance. You were dressed in a flowing white chiton, its fabric soft as breath, trailing behind you. A circlet of gold leaves rested atop your head. Golden cuffs adorned your wrists, broad and gleaming like sunlight pressed into metal. Your ears bore the weight of gold, your neck cradled by an intricate collar, etched with celestial symbols.
You climbed the stairs alone to the temple’s highest balcony — a sacred circular platform open to the skies above. The wind was gentle, brushing against your skin. You swore you felt a hand brushing your cheeks, the touch hidden in the gust of wind.
You stepped into the center of the platform as the archbishop began to pray.
You knelt, head bowed, hands clasped in practiced devotion. You said your vows, promises of loyalty, of faith, of love, offered not only as a worshipper, but as a bride. You spoke the vow you’d rehearsed a thousand times.
Then, light emerged from below you.
A brilliant, blinding glow burst from the platform, golden and radiant. It was more intense than anyone had ever seen. The wind surged around you, lifting your robes and tussling your hair. The archbishop froze, priests shielded their eyes. Even the people in the marmoreal market turned their eyes, wondering what miracle had occurred.
You closed your eyes against the brightness, heart thudding at your chest. But then, it was over.
The archbishop announced that your vow had been accepted. You were now the wife of Khaslana.
There were no cheers, only whispers, nods, and quiet awe.
You stood, shoulders stiff, eyes lifted into the sky. You breathed in deeply, calming yourself.
That night, you packed your things in silence. The carriage was already waiting for you at the gates of the temple. You said your goodbyes under the night sky. Your little brother, Atlas, clung to the hem of your dress, though you had never been close. His small hands trembled as you soothed his head with gentle pats.
Your mother embraced you next, brushing your hair behind your ear and murmuring her pride through teary eyes. Your father hugged you last, his was longer than the others. He didn’t speak first. Just held you.
“I’m sorry,” He whispered.
You forced a smile, “It’s all right. I’m lucky, aren’t I? Anyone would want this.”
You weren’t sure if you believed it.
As the carriage wheels creaked into motion, you stared out the window, watching your family grow smaller in the distance.
When you arrived at the temple atop the hill, the sanctuary where they said Lord Khaslana often rested, you couldn’t help but pause at the sight of it. It was… vast.
The marble pillars stood tall like pale tree trunks, disappearing into vaulted ceilings. The halls echoed softly with every step you took. Looking around, you realized there were a few staff members in this temple compared to the temple you stayed in, Okhema City. You later found out that only a few priests and priestesses served here — trusted ones who had long devoted their lives to silence, prayer, and sacred duties.
The elder priestess who guided you eventually stopped before a towering set of doors inlaid with gold and sunstone. Looking back, this place was separated from the temple, yet still connected by the long corridor. Your head turned back to the priestess when you heard a slow creak of the doors.
“This is Lord Khaslana’s chamber,” she said softly, “It is yours now as well.”
You stepped inside and gawked at the sight of the room. The bed alone was large enough to hold your entire family, heck, maybe twice over. The ceilings soared high, so distant that they would definitely fade into shadow if not for the chandeliers. The furniture was grand and oversized, built for someone not quite mortal. It really did feel as if a giant was living here.
You bathed in silence, the temple servants having prepared a warm bath perfumed with wildflowers and sweet oil. You dressed yourself in soft nightwear, brushed your hair, and sat carefully at the edge of the bed.
You even tried to make yourself look pretty.
You heard whispers about what a wedding night should be like. Servants at your old temple murmured things when they thought you weren’t listening. Stories passed between maids like secrets. Surely, this would be the same?
Right?
You flushed at the thought — embarrassed by where your imagination wandered, especially toward a god you had worshipped all your life. But he was your husband now, wasn’t he? It should be fine to think of him that way… shouldn’t it?
You didn’t even know what to call him. Should you call him with the honorifics still? Would “Khaslana” be too familiar? Would “my lord” be too distant? Could you ever say his name like a wife should?
You covered your face with your hands, trying to quiet your flustered thoughts. Still, you waited.
Would he descend in divine form, or would he look like the murals? Golden-dark wings stretching wide, with hair like woven sunlight, and eyes that could pierce souls. You told yourself it would be enough just to see him. To hear his voice. To feel that you weren’t alone.
Minutes passed.
Then hours,
The moon rose high above the temple, then it drifted past its peak.
Still, he did not come.
You stayed awake as long as you could, eyes fixed on the empty half of the bed. But eventually, exhaustion took you. You fell asleep with your body curled to one side, the silken sheets untouched beside you.
When morning came, nothing had changed. The bed was still smooth, the air quiet, the god you had been bound to in sacred ceremony had made no appearance, left no message, cast no shadow on the marble floor.
Was it supposed to be like this?
You told yourself he must be busy with the divine duties that kept him from descending. Gods moved differently through time than mortals did.
But as you sat in silence, a pit formed in your chest.
Were you not worthy of his presence?
Had you done something wrong?
A soft knock at the door startled you. A priest stood in the hallway, politely informing you that breakfast had been prepared. You forced a smile, thanked him, and got dressed. As you walked the corridor, you felt hollow. There were too many thoughts swirling in your chest.
Was this what marriage with the divine looked like? Was he disappointed in you? Displeased? Disinterested?
Still, you didn’t see him that day. Nor the next. Each night, you lie in the vast bed alone, heart aching a little more. The heart ached, pushing you to eventually gather the courage to speak to the Archbishop.
After morning prayers, you lingered near the sanctum until he approached. You explained your worries as delicately as you could — stumbling over words as you worry about how much was appropriate to say.
The Archbishop listened to you with patient eyes, “All things Lord Khaslana does,” he began gently, “Are done with purpose. Continue your devotions. If you wish to speak with him… speak through your prayers.”
That’s just their way of saying “I don’t know.”
You nodded and left the room. Nonetheless, you followed his advice.
The next day, you waited until the temple’s roofed balcony was empty. You stepped onto the stone platform, the one that overlooked the city below. The sky stretched endlessly above you, behind the round glass roof, the clouds painted with soft morning light.
You knelt on the cold marble, hands folded. At first, you whispered the usual verses. Then, you opened your eyes slowly. You looked up.
Hesitantly, you spoke.
“Greetings… husband,” you said, wincing at the awkwardness of it. When there’s no response, you felt your cheeks burn. But you still continued.
“I… I just wanted to say hi. Um…” You trailed off. You had no idea what you were doing.
“I hope you’re doing well. I’ll take my leave now!”
You stood abruptly, flustered beyond belief, and walked away with your heart pounding. But that soon became your routine.
Each day, you woke, ate a modest breakfast in the quiet dining hall, wandered the temple, sat in the garden with a book, prayed, ate lunch, wandered again, returned to your room, wrote idle thoughts on parchment you never sent, ate dinner, and finally prayed to your unseen husband.
Sometimes you’d say nothing, sometimes you’d ask him how his day was, even though you knew you weren’t getting a response. You smiled less. Spoke less.
Days blurred into weeks, weeks blurred into months.
You were now in the present, sitting alone at the long dining table, spooning a lukewarm breakfast into your mouth. The temple was silent, as always. Only the soft clink of metal against porcelain accompanied you — a small, hollow sound swallowed by the high ceilings and marble walls.
Once finished, you rose, gathered your plate, and made your way to the kitchen. A servant greeted you with a respectful nod, which you returned with a tired smile. You handed over the dish with a soft “thank you” before turning to leave.
Your footsteps echoed through the temple halls, vast and empty. Each corridor felt like a labyrinth of silence, lined with tapestries that did not stir and statues that seemed to watch but never speak. As you passed one of the open arches, you paused, drawn toward the view outside.
The city of Okhema lay far below, nestled among rolling green hills and sandstone streets warmed by the morning sun. From here, the people looked like ants, moving about in the rhythm of daily life.
It had been a long time since you’d last visited.
You remembered how excited you were the first time you asked for permission. The Archbishop had granted it, so long as one of the priests escorted you. You nodded and followed his orders.
You had tried to enjoy it. Truly, you tried.
But it wasn’t the same.
The entire excursion felt performative. You weren’t free to walk where you pleased, only allowed to greet your friends briefly. The visit to your family had been short and formal. They had asked you how you were holding up and if you were happy, but you could only answer with a bitter smile as you lied about your happiness. Your family smiled back, glad that you were okay. Though your father had watched you with wordless guilt in his eyes.
You had returned to the temple more tired than when you left. You didn’t feel like going through all that again, so you scratched the thought off. You exhaled and rubbed your temples as you continued to walk back to your chambers in silence.
You passed by the sacred balcony, the platform where you had once knelt and whispered greetings to a god who never answered. You didn’t even look toward it.
You had no intention of “talking” to him today. What was the point?
You had spoken your thoughts into the wind and silence for moons now. Whatever patience the priests spoke of, yours was running out. Whatever marriage this was, you were beginning to wonder if you were the only one in it.
You pushed the doors to your room and let them shut softly behind you. The air inside was still and faintly scented. The high windows poured sunlight onto the floor, casting long golden stripes across the stone.
You didn’t bother changing out of your temple robes. You simply crossed the room and slumped onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. The other half of the bed? Still untouched, pristine, as it had been every night.
You curled to your side, your cheek against the cool pillow. Outside the window, birds wheeled lazily through the sky. You watched them, envious of their freedom.
A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You weren’t even sure if you remembered what that kind of freedom felt like.
Your mind begins to wander, a thought crept in — quiet, sharp, and unbearable.
Has he… abandoned me?
You closed your eyes and let the silence answer.
CHAPTER II
You wandered the gardens again, your steps trailing along familiar paths. The air was warm today, soft with the scent of blooming flowers and freshly tilled soil. Sunlight filtered through the trellises, casting latticed shadows on the stone walkway. You passed by the same clusters of dianthus and wild hyacinths, now fully in bloom, their petals trembling slightly in the breeze.
The gardeners sure are diligent. Their work showed in every vibrant stem, every carefully clipped hedge. But even the beauty of the flowers couldn’t shake the dull ache in your chest.
You haven't prayed since yesterday. You knew you should have—not because you expected anything to change, but because that had been your one way to pretend someone was still listening. But the silence you would receive in return had grown too loud, too painful. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it again. Not now.
So instead, you let your feet carry you aimlessly through the garden’s winding paths. Eventually, your steps slowed, and you lifted your eyes toward the sky, letting out a quiet sigh.
“It’s so lonely here,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “I miss my family… my friends… the sound of the busy market…”
The words slipped from you without a thought. The truth of them made your eyes sting. You hadn’t realized how tightly the loneliness had been coiling in your chest until you said it out loud. It was homesickness, plain and simple.
The temple, for all its golden beauty and perfection, was a cage. Not one built of iron bars, but of duty, silence, and unanswered prayers. You were its reluctant bird, fluttering from one empty hallway to the next.
As you returned inside, your footsteps echoing along the polished floors, you passed by a few servants carrying bundles of fresh linens. They paused to dip their heads respectfully, and you returned the gesture automatically, your mind still lost in the haze of longing.
As you passed them, you caught fragments of their conversation.
“The town is already setting up for the festival… the one for Hysilens…”
Your breath caught. Of course. Today was the first day of the fifth month — the Month of Joy. The festival of Hysilens, goddess of the sea.
Your footsteps slowed to a halt.
You remembered how, back in the city, this day would transform the streets into rivers of color and sound. You remembered the rows of market stalls selling sugared fruits and roasted meats, the performers dressed in sea-colored robes dancing in the square, the laughter of children chasing painted ribbons through the air.
You remembered attending those festivals with your friends, pockets full of wages saved up over weeks, spending every coin on treats and trinkets and memories that lingered long after. Those had been the brightest days.
But now… You were up here, alone. Watching the world move on without you.
For a moment, you thought about asking permission from the Archbishop to attend the festival. But the thought quickly left your mind. You already knew how it would go. Even if he said yes, he would assign you an even stricter chaperone. You would be led from one designated stop to another, rushed. It would feel less like a visit and more like a ritual of appearances.
It wasn’t worth it.
Then a thought struck you. It sparked suddenly in your chest like a match struck in the dark.
What if you didn’t ask? What if you just… Snuck out?
Your heart skipped.
Could you even do that?
It felt like madness, but the idea had already lodged itself into your mind, refusing to leave. There were guards posted at the gates. Clergy walking the halls at all hours. And yet… the idea of slipping past them, of blending into the crowd of festivalgoers, of tasting freedom even for a day — it was too tempting to ignore.
You couldn’t make it to today’s celebration, that much was certain. But maybe, just maybe, if you prepared carefully… next week could be different.
Over the next few days, you turned your casual walks into reconnaissance. You watched the guards from a distance, searched the halls for blind spots, watched the rhythm of the servants, and mapped the quietest corridors. You draw a poorly made map of the temple, scribbling notes on the paths you could take.
With your newfound determination, you’re sure you’ll be able to go to the festival this week.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
This temple was built like a damn fortress!
Every entrance was watched. Every path accounted for. You returned to your room one afternoon and slumped into your writing chair, burying your face in your hands. The frustration burned in your chest.
Curse those who assigned the layout of this prison temple.
You ran a hand through your hair, fingers tangling in frustration. With a sharp exhale, you stepped out into the quiet halls of the temple. It was nearing the hour of evening prayer anyway, so you stormed through the quiet halls of the temple, the sound of your hurried footsteps echoing faintly against the stone.
When you reached the prayer chamber, you kneeled at your usual place. You clasped your hands together. When you opened your mouth, the words you uttered were not soft-spoken, but they were razor-edged. You followed the usual form of prayer, though this time, there was fire in every syllable, a simmering fury that made the priests nearby stiffen and steal worried glances.
They had never heard you pray like this before. Were you praying to Khaslana, or were you threatening him? They didn’t know. The priests dared not interrupt and kept their heads bowed.
After your evening prayers, you passed by the front gate. You didn’t intend to do anything, just watching.
But then you saw it.
Two of the guards had stepped away from their posts, moving with practiced ease as they swapped shifts. You lingered nearby, pretending to observe a flowering vine on the stone wall. Five minutes later, they returned.
It wasn’t much — just a narrow window, a sliver of chance. But it was something.
Your heart raced as you walked back to your chamber.
If you timed it perfectly, if the halls were quiet and no one was watching, you might be able to slip through during a shift change. It wouldn’t be easy. But it wasn’t impossible. Still, you had doubts lingering. You knew how unpredictable the temple was. There might still be wandering priests in the halls. You would need more careful timing.
You would need luck. Even divine intervention.
The thought made you pause. Would your husband notice? Would he stop you? Would he… care?
You considered praying to him, you know, just enough to tip fortune in your favor. But how could you make such a prayer without revealing your intent?
You tried keeping things vague: requesting protection, for clarity, for guidance on uncertain roads. But even so, guilt festered at the back of your throat. You were a mortal trying to outwit a god.
You sighed deeply as you sat back at your desk, fingers absently brushing over your ink-stained parchment. Your eyes drifted to the row of old temple scrolls. One of them, worn at the edges and bound in cracked leather, mentioned Cifera — goddess of trickery and hidden paths. For a moment, you considered turning your hopes toward her instead. Surely she would understand. She was the patron of secrets and silent rebellions.
But even that felt dangerous. Gods did not always answer as mortals expected — and Cifera, for all her wit and charm, was as unpredictable as the ocean. One prayer could lead you to freedom.
Or straight into a trap.
You sighed, walking to your bed, planting your face into the pillow, carefully planning the escape.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When the night finally came, you looked outside your window and gathered your courage. You had prepared everything in secret, every detail planned with precision over the past few days. Your belongings were already packed: a modest satchel with your saved coin, you wore a simple linen dress, and a travel cloak with a deep hood to hide your face.
Just before sunset, you told the priestesses not to disturb you for dinner, claiming that you were unusually tired and would be resting early. They seemed concerned but didn’t question you further.
You waited until the temple fell quiet. According to what you’ve overheard, the Archbishop had summoned all the priests and priestesses to a meeting. Something about receiving a message from Lord Khaslana himself. That timing couldn’t be more convenient.
It was almost suspicious, even.
You almost laughed. Whether it was divine providence or coincidence, you didn’t care. You were determined to leave.
With your cloak slung around your shoulders and your bag secure at your hip, you crept through the dimly lit corridors. You kept to the shadows, heart hammering in your chest as the last golden rays of sunlight bled over the hills. You arrived at the edge of the temple grounds, ducking behind a stone pillar near the front gates. Just as you had predicted, the guards began their shift change.
Now.
You sprinted across the open courtyard, your breath catching in your throat as your sandals pounded against the stone. You muttered a desperate prayer to the West Winds, begging them to carry your footsteps quietly. Reaching the outer wall, you climbed with surprising ease — the muscle memory of childhood sneaking and tree-climbing in Okhema still alive in your limbs. With one final push, you vaulted over the gate, landing softly on the other side with a thud muffled by grass.
You paused only a moment to catch your breath, casting one last glance back at the towering temple. Then you ran, cloak fluttering behind you, hair whipping in the wind as you tore down the hill toward the city below. Your feet burned and your lungs ached, but you didn’t stop.
For the first time in months, you felt free.
The gates of Okhema loomed ahead, golden lights from the festivities already glowing like stars fallen to earth. Laughter, music, and the clatter of wooden wheels floated on the breeze. Your heart pounded.
Not from the run this time, but from exhilaration.
You were finally here.
You made your way to the familiar district where your family lived. When your mother opened the door, her eyes widened in disbelief.
“By the gods… what are you doing here?” she whispered, pulling you inside.
Atlas, your younger brother, shouted your name with delight and rushed into your arms, wrapping himself around your waist. You smiled as you held him close, heart clenching at how much he had grown.
“I was granted permission to attend the festival,” you said, the lie tasting oddly natural. “Just for tonight.”
Your mother’s eyes searched your face, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press. “Your father’s out of town,” she said after a pause. “There was an urgent dispatch from the southern front.”
You nodded, choosing not to ask for details. “Will you come with me to the festival, then? Just for a little while?”
She shook her head with a tired smile. “No, I’m too old for those crowds now. But take Atlas. He’s been begging me for days.”
“Please, Ma? Can I go?” Atlas clutched your sleeve eagerly.
Your mother sighed, then gave you a look that was part blessing, part warning. “Come back safe.”
“Of course,” you said with a grin.
Moments later, Atlas returned with a small bag of coins and excitement bursting from every step. He grabbed your hand and began pulling you toward the heart of the city.
The festival was more dazzling than you remembered. Lanterns strung across the streets bathed everything in amber light. Stalls overflowed with spiced meats, honey pastries, roasted chestnuts, and painted masks. Atlas dragged you from one corner to the next — watching dancers spin to the beat of drums, laughing at jugglers dropping flaming torches, squealing at the scent of fresh honeybread.
He remembered your favorite food. You hadn’t even realized he’d been paying attention all these years.
“Sis, look! There’s a play! Let’s go watch!” Atlas tugged on your arm, pointing toward a crowd gathering near a stage.
“Atlas, slow down,” you said, laughing as you tried to keep up with his darting steps.
You ended up at the back of the crowd, barely able to see over the heads in front of you. Atlas strained on tiptoes, pouting in frustration.
“Come on, I’ll lift you,” you said, crouching.
He blinked. “Are you sure? I’m not that little anymore.”
“I’ve carried heavier,” you teased, and with a grunt, lifted him onto your shoulders.
His hands settled on your head for balance, and his smile widened as he finally got a good view of the stage. For a moment, everything felt perfect. It felt as though you had slipped into a pocket of time where none of your duties or fears existed. But that moment was broken when you felt something shift behind you.
Your bag. A rustle.
You turned quickly, but it was too late. A man was already sprinting away, the coin pouch clutched in his hand.
“Thief!” you shouted, quickly setting Atlas down before darting after the man.
You pushed past onlookers, dodging carts and barrels, the thief just ahead, weaving between alleyways. Then, suddenly, someone stepped in.
A tall, white-haired man blocked the thief’s path, moving with fluid confidence. Before the thief could turn, the man seized him by the collar and effortlessly lifted him off the ground. The thief writhed and kicked, but the stranger didn’t flinch.
“Now, now,” the man said calmly, his voice smooth as still water. “Let’s not ruin the festive mood with petty crime.”
He held out his other hand, palm open. The thief groaned and quickly handed over the coin pouch. Without another word, the stranger dropped him to the ground. Guards rushed in from the crowd and dragged the man away. You arrived just as the commotion died down, shielding Atlas with your arm on instinct.
The white-haired man approached, holding your pouch. “Yours, I believe,” he said.
You stared at him, not just out of gratitude, but out of something else. Something you couldn’t quite name. His presence was overwhelming in a quiet way — like a hearth fire in winter, steady and warm but impossible to ignore.
“Thank you so much, sir...” you hesitated, unsure how to address him.
He seemed to catch your pause, his gaze briefly flickering with something unreadable before he smiled. “Phainon.”
“Sir Phainon… I can’t thank you enough.”
“Thank you for helping my sister, Sir Phainon,” Atlas said with an adorable bow.
Phainon chuckled, kneeling slightly to ruffle Atlas’s hair. “It was my honor.”
You clutched the pouch to your chest. That was all the money I had left…
You found yourself staring at him; his striking white hair, his eyes the clear blue of the high heavens. He looked unlike anyone from Okhema. Had you met him before? Surely you’d remember a face like his.
You shook your head and composed yourself. “Then… let me repay you. I’ll buy you something from the stalls.”
He raised a brow, considering. “And if I decline?”
“Then I’ll insist,” you said with a half-smile.
He sighed with mock reluctance. “In that case, I trust you’ll choose wisely.”
The three of you began walking together, passing through the glowing streets of the night market. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he lingered in front of a stall selling grilled meat skewers. You chuckled softly, stepping forward to place your order.
You handed one skewer to Atlas, then another to Phainon. As you held it out, your fingers brushed. A strange heat rose up your arm — not burning, not painful, just… familiar.
Phainon looked at your hand for a moment before taking the food from you, then offered a slow, easy smile.
“Thank you, pretty lady.”
You turned away quickly, cheeks warming. That same feeling fluttered in your chest again, unnameable and unfamiliar.
The festival lanterns were beginning to dim, their golden hues paling against the indigo sky. The evening air had cooled, brushing against your cheeks with the gentle scent of roasted spices and trampled flowers. You hadn’t intended to spend this much time with Phainon. In truth, you hadn’t expected to spend any time at all. But something about his presence was disarming. He was steady, grounding even. He had a calmness that settled like silk over your nerves. Atlas adored him; that much was obvious.
Still, as you glanced up at the clock tower at the center of the city square, you knew time was slipping from your hands. If you don’t return soon, someone might notice your absence.
You turned to Atlas, who was still licking honey off his fingers from a fruit skewer. “It’s time to go home, Atlas.”
He frowned, lower lip jutting out like it used to when he was a toddler. “Can’t I stay with you a bit longer?”
You hesitated, your smile softening with guilt. “I’ll try to visit again soon,” you said, crouching to ruffle his hair. “Promise.”
You guided him home, Phainon walking silently at your side. When you reached your family’s doorstep, your mother opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of a stranger beside you.
Her eyes flicked to Phainon. “Who is this?” she asked, ever the vigilant matron. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts, young man.”
Phainon bowed slightly, his voice smooth. “Phainon, ma’am. I’m from out of town. Recently relocated here.”
Your mother tilted her head. “I see,” she murmured, her gaze turning to you for explanation.
You cleared your throat. “He helped us earlier. A thief tried to steal my coin pouch.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “A thief?!” she gasped, her hand flying protectively to Atlas’s shoulder. “Oh, by the gods... thank Khaslana you were there, Sir Phainon.”
Phainon gave a modest smile. “I only did what anyone would.”
Your mother turned to you, concern etched into her face. “I should’ve known trouble might stir while your father’s away. With the general gone, they think they can take liberties.”
You offered a faint nod, placing a hand over hers. “I’ll pray for your safety every night, Mother.”
She squeezed your hand gently. “And what about you?” she asked, more quietly. “Is your... husband treating you well?”
You froze, a familiar ache returning to your chest. The words caught in your throat, and you looked away. Phainon, standing just behind you, didn’t say a word. But his gaze was steady and unreadable.
“I have to return now,” you said, dodging the question. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around your mother. “Please send father my love.”
She held you tighter than usual. “Be safe, my child.”
You pulled back, your throat tight. Atlas tugged at your cloak and hugged you around the waist once more. You turned away, waving goodbye to them, your mother’s expression sad, but you tried to reassure her with a bright smile. Phainon silently followed as you walked down the lantern-lit streets, heading toward the city’s edge. The path grew quieter as you left the bustle behind.
“It seemed like you hadn’t seen them in a long time,” Phainon remarked softly from beside you. “Why not stay longer?”
You exhaled, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself. “I can’t. My husband is... strict.”
He stopped walking for a moment. “Strict?” he echoed, with a frown. “Really?”
You glanced at him, raising a brow. “He’s a loving husband,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your tone. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I’m a child again.”
Phainon’s frown deepened, but he looked down, expression unreadable. “Maybe he’s just... worried. About your safety.”
You laughed bitterly, the sound carrying a note of pain. “If that’s the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”
He didn’t reply to that. The silence between you grew heavier as the temple walls came into view in the distance.
“I can walk you back,” Phainon offered after a pause.
You looked at him. There was sincerity in his tone, no trace of insistence — just concern. “I live somewhere... unusual,” you said carefully. “Not many are allowed near it. It’s better if I go alone.”
He nodded slowly. “Then let me walk you to the gates, at least.”
“...Alright.”
The rest of the walk was quiet. You tried to find something to say. Small talk felt foreign now, like a language you hadn’t spoken in years. You glanced at Phainon from time to time, noticing the way the lantern light softened the sharp edges of his face.
Before you realized it, you were standing at the main gates.
You stopped and turned to face him. “Thank you again, Sir Phainon. For everything.”
He smiled, tilting his head. “Thank you, too. You were good company tonight.”
An awkward pause stretched before you. You cleared your throat and stepped back.
“Well... I should go. Farewell, Sir Phainon.”
“Safe travels, my lady,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.
You began to walk, the gravel crunching beneath your feet. But something tugged at the edge of your thoughts. You stopped and turned around.
“I never told you my name, did I—?”
But he was gone.
The street was empty. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. Not a shadow, not a trace of him remained.
Your shoulders slumped, a sigh escaping your lips. Still, a strange warmth lingered in your chest.
Maybe you would see him again.
CHAPTER III
Ever since you went to the festival, things have gotten… strange.
You hadn’t expected the guards to make it easy for your return. In fact, you’d spent most of your walk back from the city wondering how you’d sneak past them again without getting caught. As you neared the outer wall of the temple, your pace slowed, eyes scanning the shadows. Your heart was pounding as you drew closer to the main gate.
That’s when you heard it — a low, rhythmic sound. You stopped in your tracks.
…Were those snores?
Your brows knit in confusion. That couldn’t be… right?
But sure enough, when you rounded the corner, there they were: the two guards slumped against the wall, fast asleep while still standing on their feet. Their helmets were slightly tilted forward. The gate was ajar, just enough for someone your size to slip through.
There’s a weird feeling in your stomach. This wasn’t normal.
Had someone broken into the temple while you were away? Were the guards faking it?
You hesitated, then began to move cautiously as you moved your feet against the stone path. You slipped through the gate, wincing slightly when it let out a small creak. You paused, eyes flicking back to the guards.
They were still snoring; if anything, it was louder.
You exhaled softly. You admit this situation was a bit odd, but you didn’t want to think about it right now.
The temple grounds were unusually quiet. You would’ve expected at least one priest or priestess wandering about at night. But there was no movement, no sound. There was only a gentle breeze and your own groggy footsteps.
Your unease grew, but you pushed it down. Worry about this tomorrow!
For now, you just needed to make it to your chambers without being seen. Not that it mattered, there was no one patrolling the halls. It was as though the temple had fallen into a temporary slumber.
You slipped into your room unnoticed. Changed your clothes. Lie in bed.
Sleep came quickly that night.
The next morning brought no answers; it brought more confusion.
You were halfway through your breakfast, your thoughts still adrift in the memory of last night’s strange silence, when the Archbishop passed by. He gave you a warm, grandfatherly smile and patted your shoulder.
“When you’re finished, come to my office. I’d like a word.”
Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t thought he’d found out, but now, your mind raced.
You’d explain, you told yourself as you walked toward his office. You’d apologize, say you just wanted to see your family, that you had no ill intentions. Maybe even pretend to weep if needed.
You knocked gently. “Come in,” came his voice.
The Archbishop was at his desk, scribbling notes into a scroll. He looked up, eyes bright behind his glasses. He gestured for you to take a seat across from him. You sat down and braced yourself.
“How are you feeling?” he asked casually, quill still in hand. “The priestesses mentioned you weren’t well yesterday.”
Your breath caught. Then you blinked.
What.
“Ah, yes. I was just… tired,” You said, quickly recovering. “A little rest was all I needed.”
“Glad to hear it.” He smiled, setting his quill down and folding his hands. “We wouldn’t want you falling ill, would we?”
You forced a polite laugh, tension still clinging to your spine. He laughed with you, then leaned back in his chair.
“One more thing,” he said, removing his glasses and setting them aside. “Lord Khaslana has spoken to me.”
Your heart jumped into your throat. “He… did?”
The Archbishop nodded, his expression unreadable. “He’s permitted you to visit Okhema. Whenever you’d like.”
You sat there, stunned. “Truly? I can go alone?”
“Yes. You may leave the temple without an escort.”
Your face lit up with disbelief and joy. “Thank you,” you said quickly.
“There is one condition,” he added gently. “You are expected to return by parting hour, and you must ‘talk’ with him every time before you go.”
You tilted your head. The Archbishop noticed your confusion as he let out a laugh.
“Yes, I was taken aback by his last condition as well. I take it that you haven’t been talking with him lately?” He asked.
You looked away, “I… may have.” You answered sheepishly.
“Haha! Maybe he just wanted a bit of attention from his dear wife.” The Archbishop stroked his beard.
Him? Wanting attention from you? Last time you checked, he was the one ignoring you!
“Right… But I will accept those conditions,” you replied.
He smiled and nodded. “Then that is all I wished to share.”
You stood to leave, already imagining the market stalls, the smell of roasted foods, and the distant music echoing through the streets. But something tugged at you — a bitter feeling in your chest.
You turned back at the doorway. “Archbishop?”
“Yes?”
You hesitated for a few seconds. “Does… my husband speak to you often?”
He furrowed his brow slightly, as though surprised by the question. “Hmm… I wouldn’t say often. But from time to time, yes. Usually, when he has something he wishes us to know.”
The ache bloomed again, sharp and cold inside your ribs. “I see. Thank you.”
You left the office quietly. Your footsteps echoed in the corridor as your thoughts spiraled. You were sure that your new freedom was because your husband had probably heard you talk with Phainon yesterday, he knows you snuck out, and he lets you. You were now sure that the guards and the gates were all his doing. He heard you and yet…
Why won’t he speak to me?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
True to his word, the temple’s gates no longer kept you captive. The priests, once hovering shadows at your every step, now bowed and let you pass unaccompanied. No more chaperones, no more restrictions, no more surveillance. For the first time since your marriage, you were free. And you felt it.
You began to spend more time in the city. You walked with Atlas to his school, sneaking in conversations with your friend at the bakery and other shops. Of course, you couldn’t tell them the truth. You simply said you’d been promoted and reassigned to a more “sacred” temple. That word tasted bitter on your tongue.
Even so, the temple staff noticed your glow; how your prayers grew longer and how you seemed to have more to say to your husband in the roofed balcony when you thought no one was there. Because now, you have something to talk about. Even if he never answered.
You ran into Phainon again one sunny afternoon, just outside the antique shop. This time, you introduced yourself properly.
“A beautiful name,” he said, and before he could follow up with something else, you gave him a stern look and reminded him that you were married. He only laughed, completely unbothered. It annoyed you and, somehow, made you smile.
He began showing up more often after that, just accompanying you wherever you go. He’d tell you about the fake antique he saw, and how he managed to convince someone from getting scammed. Sometimes you’d share a meal with him after you pick up Atlas from his classes. Atlas was more than happy to see him, talking about what he learned from school and even bragging about his grades.
The little traitor even stopped pulling your hand during festivals and started dragging Phainon’s around instead. The tall man always hunched a little so Atlas could reach him properly, grumbling playfully and shooting you half-hearted looks of betrayal. You only chuckled.
And now, here you were, seated on a bench near the festival square on the last day of the festival. The lanterns above cast flickering gold against the deepening dusk, music drifting from a nearby corner. You both sat with tired feet and half-eaten honeyed bread in hand, watching Atlas run off with some boys from school. You and Phainon started talking as usual.
You hadn't meant to bring up your troubles. But the words slipped through anyway.
“He never talks to me,” you muttered, biting into the sticky bread. “Never comes to see me. Sometimes I wonder if I’m invisible.”
Phainon cast a glance at you, his usually bright face dimming. “Your husband…? Maybe he’s… busy,” he said, cautiously.
“That’s the thing,” You cut in, a bitter laugh escaping. “I know he’s probably busy with… whatever he’s doing, but don’t tell me he doesn’t have time to even see me? No need to talk for hours, just… see me.”
You shouldn’t have underestimate what gods do. For all you know, he could be busy protecting Okhema from unseen threats. But you were pissed off, it’s rational for you to think this way.
Phainon looked like he wanted to say something, but swallowed it down. You stared off into the square, the sound of flutes drifting in the air.
“Maybe…” Phainon began carefully, “Maybe he’s afraid.” his voice was too steady for someone just speculating. It made something tighten in your chest.
You blinked and turned to him. “Afraid? Of me? I’m his wife.” You flail your arms, “He’s faced monsters and armies. He has helped many people as well! He has all that power— I mean skills, and yet he’s afraid to meet his wife?” You scoffed.
Phainon sighed, letting out a soft, breathy laugh, “To be fair, you are terrifying,” he mumbled.
You widened your eyes, looking at him with mock offense, “What did you say?” You asked, tone offended, though the smirk on your lips said otherwise.
Phainon raised his hands defensively, “What? I didn’t say anything. Wow, the West Winds sure are strong nowadays…” He said, looking at his surroundings as if to check the wind.
You tried to hold your scowl, but it cracked at the edges as you let out a laugh, “You defend him a lot for someone who’s never met him.”
Phainon smiled sheepishly. “Let’s just say… I can imagine his side of things. From one man to another.”
You let out a small huff, rolling your eyes with a fond smile. “How about we just enjoy the festival tonight and leave our troubles behind, huh?” You said, rising to your feet and extending your hand to him.
Phainon hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on your outstretched hand. Then, without a word, he took it.
You gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze before gently tugging him upward. As he stood, you released his hand and turned, stepping forward with your newfound energy. Behind you, Phainon followed, your touch still lingering on his skin.
And the evening continued — gentle, golden, warm in ways you hadn’t felt in a long while. You didn’t notice the way Phainon’s gaze lingered. The way he watched you not with curiosity…
But guilt.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was the sixth month now— the Month of Everday.
The days were blazing, the sun bearing down on Okhema like a merciless spotlight. You had stopped visiting Okhema City as often, worried that too much time outside would leave you sun-drunk or worse, sick. So you remained within the white-stone halls of the temple, living in routine and resignation.
Oh, and of course — you still hadn’t met your husband.
Still, you had a growing suspicion. Your prayers, though unanswered in voice, felt… heard.
Whenever you complained about the stifling heat, a gust of wind would roll in from the hills, brushing sweat from your brow like an invisible hand. Whenever you wandered into the gardens, that familiar loneliness clawing at your chest, you’d find yourself quietly joined by a bird perching near your feet, a butterfly settling on your shoulder, and a stray chimera curling beside your bench, purring softly.
Were those coincidences? Or was it his doing? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.
Today, the wind had picked up again. Cool enough that you decided to visit the temple library. The temple’s archive of fiction was surprisingly robust. Romance novels nestled among sacred texts, hidden like small rebellions. The priestesses pretended not to notice them, and you didn’t ask questions.
If escapism was a sin, then you were already damned.
Oh well, at least you’ll have your divine husband to save your soul later.
When you stepped inside, the doors were already open. The scent of parchment and lemon polish drifted in the warm air. Ah, the priestesses must’ve been cleaning. You walked down the rows of bookshelves until you reached the fiction corner. You were just beginning to trail your fingers across a row of colorful spines when hushed voices caught your attention from behind the adjacent shelf.
You didn’t mean to listen. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop. But then—
“It’s been a while since Lord Khaslana visited, huh?”
You froze.
“Yeah… I miss when he used to talk about the stars with us,” one voice sighed.
“He was so kind. Just… glowing. I always felt so calm around him.”
“Ever since the wedding, though, he’s stopped coming. I wonder why?”
Your blood turned to ice. The ache in your chest, the one you’d been nursing in silence for six months, splintered. So he had been coming before. He could come in human form. He had been visiting. He laughed, talked, and spent time with the others.
Just… before you came.
You turned on your heel, left the shelf, and made your way to the Archbishop’s office with purpose burning in your steps. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.
The Archbishop startled in his chair, lifting his gaze. “Child, what’s—?”
“Did Lord Khaslana used to visit the temple?” You asked, your voice low but shaking.
He blinked. “Yes… regularly, in fact. He often stayed in his chambers. He enjoyed visiting in his human form. Shared stories with us. Just casual talk.”
You swallowed. Your mouth tasted bitter. “When did he stop?”
The Archbishop exhaled slowly. “He… hasn’t visited since the wedding.”
You nodded, almost mechanically. “Thank you,” you said, though your voice barely carried. You turned before he could say anything more.
You walked. Fast. You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself back in your chambers, your hands already gathering your cloak and satchel. You didn’t greet the guards at the gates like usual. You barely acknowledged them at all.
Their concerned glances followed you, but you didn’t stop.
You ran.
You ran through the dirt roads, through the burning streets of Okhema, your breath heavy and ragged. You didn’t care about appearances anymore. You didn’t care if people stared. You just needed to see someone who loved you.
You reached your parents’ home, panting and soaked in sweat. Your hand trembled as you knocked. When the door opened, your mother’s eyes went wide at the sight of your tear-streaked face. She didn’t ask questions and pulled you inside. She held you like she did when you were little, brushing your hair back and murmuring.
Your father was home too; he had just returned from his campaign. His rough soldier’s hands clenched into fists the moment he heard your sobs.
You sat between them on the couch, your words tumbling all at once. You told them everything. About the empty bedroom, the silence, the prayers that never answered in words, the dinners eaten alone.
The months of hoping for something — anything.
“I hate him!” you choked, collapsing into your mother’s arms. “I hate him.”
She stroked your hair, whispering, “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”
“I don’t care! I want him to hear me!” You screamed into her shoulder. “I hate him! I hate him! He left me! I don’t want to go back!”
Your father stood in silence. Then, in a voice like thunder, he said, “I’ll kill him.”
You pulled back from your mother in shock, breathing still ragged, “What?! Father—” you sobbed, “have you lost your mind?!”
“I mean it,” He snapped. “God or not. No one does this to my daughter.”
“Dearest, calm down. Don’t say that,” Your mother gasped, rising to stop him. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
He paced, shaking. “I do not care! It is not impossible to kill a god.” He muttered, “I offered her over, thinking that he would protect her.”
You looked up at him, tear-streaked, heart pounding. The sight was enough to stop him. Then slowly, he knelt beside you.
“Forgive me… I should’ve never…” He trailed off, gritting his teeth, “This is all my fault. Forgive me, my daughter.”
You wrapped your arms around him, nodding on his shoulder.
The rest of the evening passed quietly. Atlas had just come back from school. Thank the gods you had already washed your face. You greeted him with a smile as he told you about what he learned in school. Your mother ushered Atlas to take a bath and to change. He nodded and went straight to his room.
Everyone was at the dining table, your mother bringing out your favorite food. Your father, still trying to calm himself, began recounting silly stories from his latest travels, with Atlas asking him hundreds of questions every time your father said a sentence. The sight made you smile. It was warm and familiar.
But eventually, the moment had to end.
You declined their offer to stay the night, thanking them both for comforting you. You promised to return soon. Your mother pulled you into one more hug. “I love you, sweetheart.” She whispered, her voice helpless.
“I love you, too, mother.”
You stepped back into the streets of Okhema. The warmth of home faded behind you. You wondered if Phainon would appear tonight. But he was nowhere to be found. Maybe it was for the best, you’re not exactly in a condition to talk to anyone right now.
You arrived at the temple just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. You told the priestesses not to wait for you at dinner, informing them that you had already eaten with your family. In your chambers, you changed out of your clothes, washed your face, and leaned against the window. A drop of water hit your hand, causing you to look up.
“...Rain?” you whispered. The sky above was darkening quickly, a deep grey settling over the hills. A crack of thunder rumbled in the distance.
You watched the rain fall, slow and steady. You didn’t know why, but something about the rain felt… different.
You closed the window and walked towards your bed. The sound of rain tapping the glass and thunder rolling over the skies above rocked you into sleep.
CHAPTER IV
The first time Khaslana heard your father’s prayers, he was sitting alone beneath the wheeling stars in the Vortex of Genesis. His throne was carved from marble and fiery amber, but tonight, his eyes were downcast, quiet.
The voice of a mortal reached him. It was frantic and raw. A father, kneeling in bloodied armor beneath a broken sky. He had offered his daughter to the Worldbearing God in exchange for deliverance. Not her life, but her fate. Her soul. To be entrusted to him. To become his.
Khaslana didn’t speak, nor did he descend. But he heard and he listened.
With a wave of his hand, the heavens cracked open. Meteors streaked through the red sky, cleaving through the monsters of the Black Tide with divine precision. Screams of terror turned into shouts of awe.
Your father’s voice rang out among the crowd. But the god had already turned away. There were other matters to attend to.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Time passed differently for gods; A year for mortals was a blink for him. Yet when he returned to the mortal plane in his human form, the earth had changed again.
His hair was now snow-white, his eyes the piercing blue of high summer skies, and he walked through the halls of his personal temple, blending in like any other human. The Archbishop welcomed him warmly, inviting him into his study. The scent of honeyed tea and spiced bread filled the room. Though Khaslana had no need for food anymore, he accepted it out of politeness. Human cuisine always stirred something faint within him, perhaps it was a memory, a warm feeling.
“It seems the time has come for your wedding, Lord Khaslana,” the Archbishop began.
The god paused, a piece of pastry untouched in his hand as he raised a brow.
“The one with the General’s daughter,” the Archbishop clarified. “She’s of age now. And, if I may speak freely… she’s become quite the beauty.”
Ah. That exchange..
“Has the time come already?” he murmured with a quiet laugh, more to himself than to the priest.
“Yes,” the Archbishop replied, watching him carefully. “Though I must admit, I didn’t expect you to accept the offer.”
Khaslana didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the tea’s surface, where the reflection of his own face shimmered.
“The law of Equivalence,” he said at last, voice low. “As old as the breath of the world.”
The Archbishop remained silent.
“When a mortal offers something of true value, something that wounds them, the heavens are bound to answer. The greater the sacrifice, the deeper the prayer carves its way into us. And a daughter…” He looked up. “A daughter is no small offering.”
“So you accepted… not out of desire?” the Archbishop asked softly.
“No,” Khaslana said. “I accepted because it was owed.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The wedding day arrived.
Seated upon his throne, Khaslana watched. The ceremony unfolded beneath him like a sunlit dream.
You stepped onto the temple balcony, dressed in white and gold, the light catching the silk of your dress like water running over moonstone. Every moment, the way you walked and the way your fingers clutched stirred something ancient in him.
And when you lifted your face to the sky, full of resolve, something inside him ached. You were radiant. Perhaps… too bright for a god like him.
Aglaea has blessed her, he thought. I’ll have to ask her about this later.
He could not descend. Not yet. So he sent a warm, soft, laced with summer and sunlight, breeze to touch your cheek in place of his hand. And when you spoke your vows, so simple yet earnest, he smiled—not as Khaslana, the bearer of worlds, but as a man. A soul. Phainon.
As you pledged yourself to him, he answered. Not with words, but with the divine. The stone beneath your feet lit with a celestial glow. The covenant is now sealed.
As the ceremony ended, he immediately left the vortex, but not to you.
His mind raced with questions: How does one protect a mortal wife? How does one hold her without harm?
He went to Castrum Kremnos, seeking the advice of Mydeimos, the God of Strife, and also his closest friend. He had led his people to many victories. He was battle-hardened and unshaken. His people look up to him for his protection, and almost all of his people were warriors or warriors-to-be. Surely, he’s the one best when it comes to protection, right?
That was his first mistake.
“Why ask me such stupid questions?” Mydeimos grunted, arms crossed. “Treat her like any subject… just more important.”
Khaslana frowned. “Do all Kremnoans speak in riddles?”
A vein bulged in Mydeimos’ forehead. “Just get her guards! When she goes outside, someone follows her. Feed her. Protect her.”
Ah. Khaslana nodded slowly.
And just like that, he returned to his temple, appearing in the Archbishop’s office in his mortal form. The old man barely flinched — already used to his god’s sudden appearances. Khaslana gave his orders, guards, routines, and what was expected. The Archbishop was a bit puzzled, but he obeyed.
That night, Khaslana stood again in the Vortex of Genesis. Stars spun above like galaxies caught in breath. But his gaze was fixed below.
On you.
There you sat in your new chambers, at the edge of his bed, alone. Waiting.
Aglaea, the Goddess of Romance, made her presence known behind him, “Shouldn’t you be down there with your wife, Deliverer?” She asked, voice gentle and curious.
Khaslana turned to her, about to ask what she had meant. Then his breath caught in his throat.
Ah. The wedding night. Where couples would usually consummate their marriage.
He turned back to your room. You had changed from your temple robes into more delicate garments. You sat at the edge of the bed in silence, tugging at the edges of your sleeves.
“You fear her,” Aglaea murmured, stepping beside him.
“I do not fear her,” He replied too quickly. Then after a moment, “I fear what I no longer understand.
Aglaea tilted her head. “She’s human.”
He closed his eyes. “I was, too, once. I remember what it was to love, to burn, to yearn with a heart that beat for another. But now… I remember only the shape of those feelings, not their weight. Like remembering the warmth of a fire I can no longer feel.”
His eyes drifted back to you, “I know what she hopes for. I know what I should do. But what if I fall short? What if I hurt her without meaning to?” He turned to look at Aglaea.
“She wants with no fear. Speaks freely. Cries and smiles and hopes. How am I supposed to touch that… without breaking it?”
Aglaea’s face softened. “So the god who bears the world is afraid of breaking a single girl’s heart?”
He gave a dry smile, “Because I have broken nations without meaning to. What damage might I do… when I mean to touch?”
She shook her head, smiling faintly, “Hearts don’t shatter from being touched, Khaslana. They break from being left waiting.” She turns to leave, her voice fading with her steps.
He stayed silent, watching as you curled up in bed. Alone.
He took a deep breath before he descended in silence.
He appeared in his divine form, the chamber awash in starlight and wind. You lay peacefully, fast asleep. So small compared to him. His hand hovered near your cheek, trembling slightly.
You were… fragile.
He could cover your entire face with one palm. If he tried to touch you, would he shatter you like porcelain?
He withdrew.
Then disappeared again, leaving you in the quiet of the night.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Khaslana had watched your daily life unfold with quiet diligence. From the celestial cradle of the Vortex of Genesis, he observed everything. How you rose with the morning light, how you bathed with graceful efficiency, how you chose your robes each day with a frown of indecision. He even listened in on your earliest prayers, chuckling softly to himself at how bashful your voice became when you "talked" to him aloud for the first time. Something was endearing about the way your voice trembled.
He watched as you walked through the streets of Okhema with a chaperone trailing behind you, weaving between markets and festival stalls. He felt assured that you were safe, that you were protected, as Mydeimos had advised.
And yet, he never answered your prayers with words.
He could have. He had the power to appear at your side in an instant, to offer his voice in response. But a part of him hesitated. What if you asked why he hadn’t come to you? Why hadn’t he appeared on your wedding night? Why hadn’t he even seen your face-to-face since the vow? He wasn’t ready to answer that.
It was now the Month of Joy, and for the first time, your prayers carried a different weight. No longer just requests for health or protection.
You began to whisper your loneliness.
At first, he was puzzled. You were allowed to leave the temple grounds. Why didn’t you simply request permission through the Archbishop? A chaperone was all it took.
But then, he noticed something… odd.
Your behavior changed. You lingered in corridors longer than necessary, watching the guards with sharp eyes. Your gaze flitted from corner to corner when you thought no one was watching. You studied the temple’s layout as though trying to memorize every hallway, every path.
Suspicious. Curious. Restless.
Was this normal behavior for humans? Khaslana tried to remember how he had acted as a mortal. But his memories, though vivid in form, felt distant in emotion.
And your prayers changed again. They still asked for his blessings and guidance, but now they sounded… sharper. Each line was laced with the fire of frustration. Threats, almost.
Ah… those suspicious behaviors and those oddly vague yet threatening prayers… You were trying to sneak out. That amused him more than anything.
Cute. He thought, lips curling with dry humor.
Then came the night of your escape.
Khaslana had already planned ahead. He contacted the Archbishop using the stone tablet etched with his sigil, the divine channel between the Vortex and his temple, asking him to gather the priests and priestesses for an urgent “discussion.” The Archbishop, ever dutiful, obeyed. When the clergy assembled that night, expecting celestial orders, Khaslana simply asked how they were doing. No divine proclamations, no rituals. Just… small talk.
With the temple’s attention occupied, he turned his gaze back to you.
There you were — walking the cobbled streets of Okhema in the moonlight, your younger brother trailing behind you, eyes full of wonder. A smile tugged at Khaslana’s lips.
But then… a thief. Quick hands snatched your coin purse and darted through the crowd.
Before Khaslana could think, his body moved. In an instant, he teleported down to the mortal plane, hidden behind a tree in the city’s plaza. The thief was already headed his way, and without effort, Khaslana caught him by the collar, lifting him off the ground like a child.
He retrieved your coin bag and turned toward the sound of your footsteps. You had run after the thief, breathless, face flushed, and worried. Khaslana approached you with a quiet composure, holding the pouch in hand.
“Yours, I believe,” he said, voice steady. Though his pulse might’ve been racing.
“Thank you so much, sir...” you replied, dipping your head politely. His breath caught slightly. Your voice sounded so much clearer now, spoken directly rather than through the haze of prayer.
Then you looked at him expectantly.
Oh. You were waiting for a name.
He blinked once before smiling with effortless charm, “Phainon.”
“Sir Phainon... I can't thank you enough,” you said again, gratitude glowing in your eyes.
Your little brother approached, too, grinning up at him and offering his thanks. Khaslana reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair, warmth blooming in his chest.
He should’ve left then. It was safer that way. But—
“Then... let me repay you. I'll buy you something from the stalls.”
He paused. Considered it. “And if I decline?”
“Then I'll insist.”
There it was. That smile. How could he say no to his wife?
So he agreed, reluctantly, but with a small twist of amusement. You led the way through the colorful rows of vendors and festival lights, your brother bouncing ahead. It had been centuries since he’d stood in a human celebration like this.
His eyes lingered on a stall that sold meat skewers. Oh, those looked heavenly.
Suddenly, you stepped in front of him and ordered two skewers. Without hesitation, you handed one to him, the other to your brother. His hand hesitated as he took the skewer from yours, your fingers brushing his in that brief contact. Warm. Real. He held onto that sensation like it might disappear.
“Thank you, pretty lady.” He smiled.
Your cheeks turned crimson.
Khaslana — no, Phainon — felt something loosen in his chest.
He stayed with you longer than he planned, drawn into the simple joy of watching you laugh, eat, and enjoy yourself. He noticed how your smiles here, in the mortal realm, were fuller than the ones you wore inside the temple.
He wanted more of that.
But then he saw your expression shift after looking at the clock tower. You quickly offered to bring your brother back home. Ah, yes, it was getting late for a youngster like him. He followed you back home, greeted your mother, and stayed silent after. Just watching you interact with your family.
After that encounter, he had tried to dissuade you from leaving so soon. Really, it was fine if you wanted to stay longer. He could just tell the Archbishop to turn a blind eye for tonight.
But then, something you said made him stop in his tracks.
“I can’t. My Husband is… strict.”
His brows knit together. Him? Strict?
“Strict? Really?” He hadn’t meant to sound so offended.
You looked back at him, an eyebrow raised.
“He's a loving husband,” you said with dry sarcasm, the same tone Mydeimos would usually use on him, he notes. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I'm a child again.”
Phainon frowned, visibly stung. That wasn’t possessiveness? It was protection. But… maybe he’d misjudged what that protection felt like.
“Maybe he's just... worried. About your safety,” he offered gently.
“If that's the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”
The words landed like a stone in his stomach.
When he walked you to the city gates and watched you disappear into the night, a heaviness settled in his chest. He sighed, teleporting back to the Vortex, where the stars coiled like a divine storm above his head.
The Archbishop was still in his study. Through the sacred stone, Khaslana reached out once more and delivered new instructions — gentler rules, freer movement, and no more chaperones. The Archbishop, though clearly confused, agreed without question.
He owed you that much, at the very least.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Truly, revising the temple’s rules had been the right decision.
You had begun to bloom.
Your voice in prayer softened from its once-frustrated edge to something warmer, more sincere. Each time you entered the temple sanctuary, he could sense it: a calmness in your posture, a gentler rhythm to your words. You spoke to him now not as a distant stranger, but as someone familiar.
You told him about your plans before venturing into town, where you might go, and what you hoped to find. And when you returned, you’d come to the roofed balcony and recounted everything to him. From the people you saw, the food you tried, to the new book you discovered tucked away in a corner stall.
It had become your ritual. And though you didn’t hear his answers, he listened to every word like scripture.
Your frequent visits to Okhema meant he could now meet you — not as Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, but as Phainon.
Still, a quiet fear gnawed at the back of his mind.
What if you came to prefer Phainon? What if the smiling stranger with the white hair and blue eyes, the one who could laugh and tease and walk beside you, eclipsed the unseen god to whom you had been bound?
But those fears melted the day he tried flirting with you in the middle of a market stall, only for you to straighten and remind him, quite firmly, that you were a married woman.
He had laughed, not because of the words, but because of the quiet, overwhelming relief that swelled in his chest.
You still remembered him.
Not just the idea of a husband, but him. Khaslana. The one cloaked in divinity, hidden behind stars and clouded sky. You still held space for him.
After that second encounter, meeting you came more naturally. Your conversations grew longer. He no longer felt the sting of hesitation when you smiled at him, or the jolt of nervousness when your fingers brushed again. And in your evening prayers, you started mentioning Phainon with a kind of amused fondness that made him laugh in the Vortex.
It was adorable hearing you try to hide how much you enjoyed his company.
Whenever you visited the city, he’d always find a way to cross your path. Never too obvious. Never too frequent. But enough. Enough to hear your voice, to see you light up when Atlas tugged on his arm, to walk beside you, even if only for a little while.
He cherished those fleeting moments more than you could ever know.
And when you were back in the temple, fast asleep in your chambers, he would sometimes return in his divine form, a silent shadow bathed in starlight. He would stand at the foot of your bed, watching your chest rise and fall, listening to the soft sighs you made as you dreamed. In those quiet hours, something stirred in his chest — something foreign and familiar all at once. A tenderness and longing he could scarcely name.
You had gotten closer. Perhaps that was why your words on the final night of the festival struck him so deeply.
You had laughed together that evening, walked through bright-lit streets beneath strings of lanterns. But when the topic shifted to your marriage, about the husband you had never seen, your smile dimmed. Your voice cracked, wrapped in quiet sorrow.
You confessed how confused you felt, how hurt you were. How you didn’t understand why he — Khaslana — hadn’t come to see you. And in a low, guarded voice, you asked aloud if he even cared.
He listened, seated beside you as Phainon, heart heavy with guilt. Each word was a knife, though you didn’t know you were placing the blade in his hand. He had wanted to speak. To explain.
To say I do care. I watch over you every day. I listen to every prayer, every breath. I’ve never left your side.
But instead, he defended Khaslana as if he were someone else entirely.
A stranger.
That night, when he returned to the Vortex with questions running through his mind. Should he tell you the truth? Reveal the name behind the face you now trust? Or would it ruin everything you had come to build between you?
No, he’d just have to keep it a secret. Just for a little longer.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When the Month of Everday rolled in, Phainon had begun answering your prayers more deliberately.
When you sat alone in the gardens, shoulders hunched, eyes faraway, he sent soft-pawed animals to sit with you; a curious chimera here, a fluttering cluster of butterflies there, chirping birds above. Gentle companions — not enough to startle, but enough to soothe.
When you muttered beneath your breath about the suffocating heat, he stirred the air with his fingers, sending winds to cool the sweat from your brow. You never seemed to notice the small cloud that followed you whenever you stepped beyond the temple gates, shielding you from the sun like a loyal servant.
He watched you and thought, Yes, this is enough.
The days had been steady. Almost peaceful.
Until he heard your sobs.
At that moment, he was in the midst of an argument with Mydeimos, a spirited bet over who could lift an entire mountain range faster. Their fists pounded the cliffside as they compared strength like war-hardened brothers.
Your sounds reached him like a whiplash.
It was soft at first. It sounded fragile, but unmistakable.
Then, loud sobbing.
Phainon stilled.
His head jerked slightly, listening. Mydeimos raised a brow at the sudden silence.
“What's the matter—?”
But Phainon was already gone.
He reappeared just behind your parents’ house. The sky above was bright, a contrast to your emotion. And through the walls, your cries tore through him like thunder splitting stone.
“I hate him!”
He froze, eyes wide, and his breath caught in his throat. The words struck like a blow to the chest, and his pupils trembled.
“I hate him.”
No.
No, no, that can’t be right.
He stepped closer, pressing himself against the shadows of the wall, every muscle in his divine body locked in place.
Then your mother’s voice, soft and warning: “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”
You didn’t hesitate as you answered, “I don’t care! I want him to hear me!”
The air around him cracked.
“I hate him!”
His heart stuttered.
“I hate him!”
Stop... please—
“He left me!”
No. No. I’m right here–!
“I don’t want to go back!”
That sentence hit harder than any divine weapon ever had. For a moment, time twisted. The world stilled. Your voice echoed in his head on a cruel loop, every syllable sharper than the last.
I hate him.
He left me.
I don’t want to go back.
He could no longer hear the muffled protests of your father or the sound of your mother’s arms pulling you in close. None of it registered. All he could hear was you.
The pain was unfamiliar. Foreign and all-consuming.
Why?
Why did you feel this way?
He had given you everything: comfort, safety, freedom. The power to come and go as you pleased. He answered your prayers. Protected you. Watched you. Even the smallest desire, he met with quiet, invisible care.
So why did you hate him?
He vanished once more, light splitting the space where he stood.
Back in the Vortex of Genesis, the stars above spiraled violently, distorted by the storm brewing in his chest. He hovered in the silence of the divine plane, your cries still ringing in his ears, over and over.
The look on your face. The tears that spilled down your cheeks. The grief in your voice.
It was all because of him.
Even when he kept his distance to protect you. Even when he tried to be careful. He still hurts you.
And he didn’t understand.
Phainon’s — no, Khaslana’s — breathing ragged, he fell to his knees. Divine form trembling, hands clenched so tightly the stone beneath him cracked. His heartbeat thundered like war drums in his ears. Mydeimos' spear had pierced his chest once in battle, but it hadn’t hurt like this.
This... this was heartbreak.
Tears welled in his eyes, burning hot. They fell freely, only to sizzle and vanish into steam the moment they touched the sacred ground beneath him.
“You hate… me…” he whispered.
You hate me. You hate me. You hate me.
He repeated it in his mind like a curse, and the storms began to brew.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Okhema had been ravaged by storms for over a week.
Thunder rolled through the heavens day and night, shaking rooftops and soaking the earth with relentless rain. The fields were drowning. Crops began to rot beneath the mud. Work halted, streets emptied, and the people whispered of divine wrath. It was the worst weather Okhema had seen in generations.
High above, Aglaea watched the storm with a quiet frown. The Goddess of Romance was no stranger to divine tantrums; gods and mortals alike threw them when love faltered.
But this one had become… excessive.
Not only had Hyacinthia, Goddess of the Sky, blistered her ears with complaints about the ruined blue of her canvas, but one of Aglaea’s golden threads was trembling. Dangerously so. Nearly fraying at the edge.
A divine-mortal bond. Now that was rare.
Aglaea leaned closer, fingers brushing the glowing weave, noting its resonance. This wasn’t an ordinary thread, tangled from passing crushes or whispered longing. This one pulsed with something ancient and sacred. A thread that should never have been this brittle so soon.
She hummed, amused. “Now… who do you belong to, I wonder?”
Without another word, she vanished from her realm.
In a breath, she stood within the Vortex of Genesis. Stars swirled in slow, infinite spirals, like pain spilled into the void. She walked with grace past the twelve thrones of the Twelve, each grand in their own way.
And there he was.
At the edge of the vast platform, Khaslana stood alone. The Worldbearing God, cloaked in shadow, stared outward into nothing. His broad wings, once radiant with power, now hung heavy behind him. Their gold and amethyst plumage dulled like tarnished glass. The eternal flame of his hair, normally burning like a solar flare, flickered dimly above his brow. Even his halo had lost its luster.
Aglaea paused beside him, her presence warm, “I see Okhema’s having quite the weather — on the sixth month, no less,” she said lightly, her voice breaking the hush.
No response.
She tried again, more pointed this time. “Hyacinthia has come to me to complain that a certain Worldbearing God has been painting over her skies with stormclouds. She says they look like… hm… what was it that she said?” She tapped her chin with a playful smile, “‘a muddy, sulking bruise.’ Quite poetic, don’t you think?”
Khaslana didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes remained fixed on the stars, or perhaps… beyond them.
Aglaea folded her arms beneath her chest. “So… nothing to say about the storms, then?”
Still silence.
Her eyes narrowed, studying him more closely. His face was drawn, the sharp lines of his jaw clenched tight beneath his dim halo. Everything about him—from the slouch of his wings to the rigid set of his shoulders—radiated tension.
“The crops are dying,” she said more gently now. “The streets are flooded. The people of Okhema are starting to wonder what they did to anger their precious god.”
At last, his jaw shifted.
“…Let her complain,” he muttered, voice low and rough as crushed stone.
“Oh, she is,” Aglaea smirked faintly. “But I didn’t come for Hyacinthia.”
She raised her hand, and with a glimmer of divine threadwork, a golden string appeared. It curled in the air between them, one end wrapped around Khaslana’s divine presence, the other trailing far downward, through the layers of the world as if reaching for someone below.
“This thread,” Aglaea said, letting it swirl around her fingers, “has been trembling all week. Do you know how rare it is to see a bond like this? Between a god and a human? This isn’t just affection. It’s something sacred. But right now,” her eyes narrowed, “it’s falling apart.”
Khaslana said nothing, but his brow furrowed deeper. Then, finally, he spoke.
“She said she hated me.”
Aglaea’s eyes softened, a quiet breath leaving her lips. “Ah.”
“I did everything for her,” he said, and though his voice was calm, there was a bewildered ache behind it. “I protected her. Gave her food, shelter, and freedom. Everything she could want. And still…” He looked down at his hands, clenching them slowly. “She said I left her.”
“Well,” Aglaea said carefully, “didn’t you?”
His head snapped toward her, but she didn’t flinch.
“You gave her your temple, your guards, your blessings. But not you. You let her see her family, her brother, but not her husband.”
“I was there,” he said sharply. “I watched her. I listened to every prayer. I shielded her when no one else could.”
“But did you hold her?” Aglaea asked softly.
Her words landed like thunder on Khaslana. He didn’t answer.
“She is human, Khaslana. Mortals aren’t fed by silent devotion. They need to touch, they need voice, and presence. She needs her husband. Not just her god.”
Khaslana looked away.
“I never wanted a bride,” he muttered. “I only answered a prayer… one too steeped in blood and desperation to ignore.”
Aglaea raised an eyebrow. “Then cast her off. Let her go.”
The thread shimmered between them, its glow dimmer than before. He didn’t speak, his jaw tensed, and his fists trembling.
“I can’t,” he said at last, voice cracked.
“Even if I never asked for it, I can’t let her go. I don’t know when it happened, but I can’t imagine the temple without her steps echoing in the halls. I can’t remember what silence was before her voice filled it.”
“She was a burden I never meant to carry,” he whispered, “but now… she’s a weight I don’t know how to set down.”
“Then carry her properly,” she said. “Because if you don’t—she’ll tear herself from your hands just to feel free again.”
Khaslana’s voice turned hard. “You speak as if I could have simply walked into that room. As if lying beside her wouldn’t risk shattering her ribs or scorching her skin.”
Aglaea tilted her head. “Is that truly what you fear?”
He was quiet. Then, softly:
“My form isn’t what it used to be. I’m not some soft-lit statue. My body is lined with cracks. My shoulders are spiked. My hands are claws. I have destroyed armies with the weight of my breath.”
His claws curled against his palm.
“If I touch her… I would ruin her.”
Aglaea was silent for a long breath.
Then she said, “So instead, you let her ruin herself. Wondering what she did wrong. Believing she was unwanted.”
Khaslana’s expression faltered. Barely. But enough to show the storm beneath.
“She hates me.”
“She was lonely,” Aglaea replied, her voice quiet.
He turned from her, “You wouldn’t understand.”
But Aglaea only stepped closer.
“I understand love,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “And I understand what it means to show up, even when it’s terrifying. I’ve seen mortals risk heartbreak, war, even death, just to reach each other.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and warm, “Your body may be forged from flames, Khaslana. But your soul still longs.”
She stepped back.
“I’ll leave the skies alone for now. But if you let this thread break, the world may not end... but something inside you will.”
And then, like the soft falling of starlight, she vanished, leaving Khaslana alone with his thoughts.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You stood by the window, worry etched into your features as you gazed out at the endless downpour. The storm still hadn’t passed.
For the past week, the rain had come in vicious cycles. It would rage from Lucid Hour to Parting Hour, winds howling, thunder deafening, and rain lashing the windows like angry fists. Then, it would slow to a drizzle during Curtain Fall Hour, only to begin again at Entry Hour the next day.
You were grateful that the corridors connecting your chambers to the temple were covered. Without them, even the simple act of fetching food would have been an ordeal.
Now, wrapped in a blanket, you remained cooped up in your chambers, your fingers curled around the warm fabric to help shield you from the cold. The sound of rain pelting the stone walls had become constant, almost maddening.
Then came a knock at your door.
You blinked, startled, and rushed to answer. Standing in the doorway was the Archbishop, his robes damp at the edges, his face weary but composed.
“Forgive me for coming so suddenly, my child,” He said gently.
You stepped aside without a word, allowing him to enter. He moved with care, as if unsure whether he was intruding.
“You’ve never visited me in my chambers before, Your Excellency,” you said as you shut the door behind him.
He gave a small nod, his hands folding behind his back as he walked a few steps in. “Is something wrong?” You asked, sending a weight in his silence.
He stopped at your question and drew a deep breath. When he turned to face you, his expression was troubled.
“I believe this storm is Lord Khaslana’s doing.”
Your brows furrowed. You stepped closer, clutching your blanket more tightly around your shoulders.
“What makes you think that?” You asked, your voice low.
The Archbishop looked down, hesitating before he met your gaze again. “This has happened before, there would be raging storms and our prayers would take more effort to be heard. And right now… He has not responded to our prayers,” he said, voice subdued. “Nor has he answered any of our calls to commune with him.”
You blinked, silence stretching between you. There was a heavy feeling in your chest.
“There are reports from the city,” he went on, “that the flooding is getting worse. The crops are dying. Food stores are spoiling faster than we can replenish them. Children are falling ill. Transportation has all but stopped.” His shoulder sank. “I fear we may be approaching a crisis if this keeps up.”
His eyes reached yours, weary and pleading. “Have you tried praying or talking to him to stop this storm? Did he answer?”
You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Forgive me, but asking me is pointless.”
You took a step back, your voice tightening. “He’s never responded to me. Not once. He has never spoken, has never appeared. Even if I did pray, he wouldn’t respond.”
The Archbishop’s expression fell, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped forward and gently took both of your hands in his.
“You are his wife,” he said, his voice steady despite the desperation behind it.
You looked away, your jaw clenched. “Only in name.”
He held your hands a moment longer before releasing them. “Try,” was all he said.
Then, with a small bow, he turned and left you standing alone. The silence that followed was deafening.
You bit your lip, frustration burning behind your eyes. Was this storm his answer? Did he hear you that night at your parents’ home, shouting your anger at him?
You let out a low, bitter sigh and dropped onto the edge of your bed. It didn’t matter what you felt. People were suffering, the city drowning, and your family — your people — were in danger.
You had no choice now. You would have to swallow your pride for the sake of Okhema.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was useless.
No matter how many times, in however many ways you tried, your prayers were met with silence. You had offered devotion, tears, your voice hoarse with pleading. And still, nothing. Lord Khaslana remained absent, and with each passing storm-filled day, your anger burned hotter beneath the weight of your helplessness.
How could you not? He’s acting like a child throwing tantrums!
You’ve had enough. If the passive approach didn’t work, you need a more aggressive approach.
You left before dawn. The thunder, for once, had settled to a distant murmur, like a beast sleeping fitfully beneath the clouds. You threw on the thickest cloak you owned, but the rain had already soaked you through the bone before you reached the temple gates.
The guards cried after you, the priestesses stepped into your path in panic, but you didn’t stop. You shook their hands off your arms. Your boots splashed through rising pools of mud as you walked with purpose — not to the city square, not to shelter, but to the hills. To the highest point you could reach, far from protection, far from anyone who might stop you.
Your fingers trembled with cold, your soaked cloak clinging to your back like a second skin. The rain was relentless now, an endless sheet drumming down from the bruised sky. The winds howled against your face, strong enough to nearly topple you off balance with each step.
But you pushed through it anyway.
Wet hair whipped against your cheeks, sticking to your skin. Mud pulled at your feet, but you climbed higher. The temple had long disappeared behind you, and now only the city lights flickered below, blurred by the mist.
By the time you reached the hill’s summit, your breath came in shallow gasps. Every muscle in your body ached, screaming at you. Your lungs felt like it was burning from the cold, and your teeth chattered uncontrollably.
Yet you stood there against the blackened sky. Your chest heaved as you felt the air was heavier.
“Lord Khaslana!” You screamed, the name ripped from your lungs, echoing into the storm. You paused, but no reply came.
The rain struck harder now, angry needles against your skin, “I’ve prayed!” you shouted, louder. “I’ve waited, I’ve begged! But you — you arrogant, absent god! You stayed silent through it all!” Your voice cracked under the weight of months of abandonment.
“You bring storms to punish the people of Okhema just because I said what I felt?!”
Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the sky for a breathless moment. You didn’t flinch. You glared into the storm as if daring it to answer.
“Oh, send your thunders then! Strike me down if it pleases you!” Your chest rose and fell rapidly as the words poured out in rage and desperation.
“Just stop hiding and face your wife you– you–!” You clenched your fists. Your body trembled from a final, reckless kind of defiance.
“COWARD!” you screamed with all the force your soul could muster.
A blinding light shattered the sky. Thunder cracked loud enough to split stone. Then came the strike.
A bolt of lightning split the earth just ahead of you. The blast threw a gust of wind so strong it forced you a step back, shielding your face with your arms. But when the light faded and the roar quieted—he was there.
He stood tall, towering over you by more than triple your height.
Radiant and terrifying.
Golden wings streaked with violet unfurled behind him like a storm split in half. His body glowed like cracked marble, lines of molten gold spilling from the fractures across his limbs and chest. Spikes jutted from his shoulders, golden and sharp, and his hair blazed like the sun.
His clawed hands flexed at his sides. And those eyes—those burning, golden eyes—pierced through the veil of rain like twin suns, fixed solely on you.
You staggered back in awe, your breath hitching as his presence filled the air like a pressure too great to bear. But before you could speak, the storm around you softened. A dome of warm, golden light shimmered into place above your head, shielding you from the wind and rain. The world fell quiet, save for the sound of your breathing.
You dared a glance upward.
He hovered just above the ground now, slowly lowering himself to stand before you. The closer he came, the more you felt it; his power, his sorrow, his presence pressing against your skin like something tangible. You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your fury had carried you here, but his silence stole the words you had prepared.
With trembling breath, you forced yourself to stand firm. You could feel droplets of water dripping from your hair, your wet clothes heavy on your body. The wind no longer reached you, and the weight in the air still crushed your chest.
“Stop this storm,” you managed, voice rough. “Please.”
Khaslana’s golden eyes locked onto yours. There was no flicker of warmth in them, no spark of the god you once dreamed of meeting. His voice when he answered was low, almost cold.
“You’re asking me? The god you hated?” He said,
The sound of his voice rooted you in place. It was the first time you’d heard it, and yet something about it was painfully familiar. A memory brushed the edge of your thoughts, but the coldness in his tone and the tension in your spine prevented you from figuring it out.
“Oh for goodness sake,” you hissed, rolling your eyes as your chest heaving from anger, “You never responded to my prayers! You never even looked at me! What was I supposed to think?”
Khaslana’s eyes narrowed, the gold in them flaring like the sun. “I did respond,” He said, “You just didn’t notice.”
You blinked, caught off guard by his words. “What…?”
“I sent you winds when the sun was too harsh. I made the guards fall asleep when you returned late from sneaking out of the temple. I changed the temple rules after your complaints. I sent you critters to accompany you in the gardens. I was there, every moment, watching. Protecting.”
Your breath caught in your throat. A thousand little things that never made sense now returned like puzzle pieces falling into place.
“But you weren’t present,” you said, frustrated. “They said you stopped visiting after our wedding. You never came to see me. Never… touched me. Never spoke to me.”
“I did,” Khaslana said, quieter now. “Just… not in this form.”
And in a quiet, golden shimmer, his divine shape began to fade. The crackling marble softened into flesh. The halo dimmed. The claws became gentle fingers. The glowing eyes, still golden, now carried something more—vulnerability.
Phainon stood before you.
You gasped, eyes widening as the realization hit you like thunder, no wonder his face and voice was familiar. “Phainon… You were Phainon this whole time?!”
He frowned, looking away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“When we first met,” Phainon murmured, “there were too many people. I didn’t plan to talk to you for long. Then... I panicked.”
“Panicked?” you repeated, hurt blooming in your chest like fire. “You’re a god, and you panicked?”
“I did,” he answered, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “And the longer I stayed quiet, the harder it became to fix it. You smiled at Phainon… but you said you hated Khaslana. How could I show you I was both?”
“Then why didn’t you just visit me—like you’re supposed to? As my husband?”
“Because I was afraid!” he shouted as a sound of muffled thunder cracked from behind him.
“I was afraid,” he said, quieter now, almost desperate. “Afraid that if I touched you, I’d break you. My true form… It’s wrong. It’s all jagged edges and burning weight. I’m not like you. I remember what it was like to be human, but I don’t understand those memories anymore. I don’t understand those feelings.”
His voice broke slightly. “I didn’t want to hurt you. So I kept my distance. I thought if I gave you the world, you wouldn’t come looking for the god you were promised.”
Something snapped in you at those words. Your hands curled into fists, trembling. And then, before you even realized it, you struck him in the chest.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop you.
You hit him again, your voice ragged with pain. “I never asked for the world! I asked for you!”
You hit him once more, sobs escaping you now in messy gasps. “I waited. Every day. I waited for you to come. To say something. Anything. And instead, you watched me from your sky like some—some coward! I thought I was the problem. I thought I wasn’t worthy of you.”
Your fists weakened, falling limply against his chest as your legs gave out. You collapsed against him, burying your face into his shoulder.
“I was so lonely,” you whispered, brokenly. “So alone.”
Phainon didn’t speak. He stood still, hands trembling slightly at his sides as you sobbed into his shoulder, your pain crashing into him like waves. Each crack in your voice struck something tender in him — deeper than any spear, sharper than any blade. And though he tried to stay composed, he couldn’t stop the single tear that slipped from his cheek.
It fell onto your hair with a soft hiss, evaporating before it touched your skin.
Then another fell. And another.
You heard it, the faint sizzle of heat, and slowly, you pulled away to look at him.
His brow was furrowed, his mouth parted in a quiet breath, and his blue eyes were wet and aching. The tears continued to fall and vanish into vapor, but he didn’t hide them. He let you see every drop of sorrow, every fracture of regret written into his face.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
Unbeknownst to either of you, the storm outside the golden shield had eased. The sky was still bruised with clouds, but the wind had softened, and the thunder no longer roared.
You wiped your own tears away with a trembling hand, then reached for his face. With slow, deliberate care, you brushed the tears from his cheeks, fingertips cool and soft against the heat of his skin. The contact made him flinch, not from cold, but from the gentleness, the grace of being touched by you in kindness after everything.
You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked away for a moment. Then, voice raw but steady, you spoke.
“You hurt me,” you started, “So much that… there were nights I thought about leaving you.”
A bitter chuckle slipped from your lips, dry and hollow. When you looked back at him, you expected anger or indifference. But what met your gaze was something far more fragile.
His face was stricken. His eyes were wide, devastated, like a child who had just broken something precious and didn’t know how to fix it. Your words had pierced him in a place not even divinity could shield.
“Do you want me to leave?” you asked, quieter now. “If being married to me is just… a burden to carry, if I’m something that makes you uncomfortable —”
“No!” Phainon’s voice rose sharply, full of panic, as he stepped forward and caught your arms, holding them firmly but not harshly. His grip trembled, as if afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
“I—” he faltered, eyes searching yours.
“I never asked for this marriage, no. But meeting you as Phainon… being with you that way — it changed everything.”
His voice the softened, almost trembling as he continued, “You made me feel something I hadn’t felt in centuries. You made me imagine a life where we weren’t bound by pacts or divine duty. A life where we were just two strangers who met by chance and fell in love slowly without fear.”
Phainon’s smile flickered, touched with ache and hope. “You made me feel human again.”
“So no,” he said, firmer now. “I don’t want you to leave. Not now. Not ever.”
You stared at him, stunned, then slowly your expression softened. A new tear slipped down your cheek — not from grief, but relief.
“I see…” You murmured.
Phainon quickly released you, noticing your flinch too late. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I hurt you again?”
You shook your head. “No,” you whispered. “I’m… relieved.”
Above you, the sun began to pierce through the clouds, golden light filtering softly across the hill.
Phainon let out a shaky breath of relief. “Then…” he began, voice tender, “can we start over?”
You hesitated only for a moment before nodding. “Let’s start over. No need to rush.”
Then, with a faint smile and glistening eyes, you reached out your hand to him—not as a formality, but as an offering. Your fingers were cold, wrinkled from rain, yet steady.
He blinked, taken aback by the gesture. A handshake?
But the moment he took your hand, it no longer felt like just a handshake.
You gently curled your fingers around his and pulled his hand to your chest, just above your heartbeat. “I’m your wife,” you whispered, your voice warm and trembling. “It’s nice to finally meet you… truly.”
His eyes softened as he lowered his head, pressing a reverent kiss to your knuckles. His lips lingered there a moment longer than expected, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin, the texture of this promise, the shape of a new beginning.
When he looked up, he smiled.
“I’m Phainon,” he said gently.
You tilted your head. “Not Khaslana?”He held your hand a little tighter, “Khaslana bears the weight of the world. But when I’m with you… I’m not holding the world. I’m holding you.”
CHAPTER V
When he heard you sneeze on the hill, his expression shifted instantly to worry. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you firmly against his chest. In a blink, the storm vanished from your senses. There was no more wind, no more rain, only the sudden warmth of your chambers and the soft scent of cedar and rose oil clinging to the walls.
You blinked in surprise, barely catching your breath as he guided you gently toward the washroom.
“Take a hot bath, quickly,” he said, already unfastening your soaked cloak. “You’ll catch a fever like this. I need to take care of a few things first—Hyacinthia’s going to have my wings for the skies I ruined.”
And with that, he vanished.
Just like that.
You stood there in silence for a long moment, the empty space where he had been already cold. The pain that flared in your chest was sharp, instinctive—not as deep as before, but still a ghost of the hurt you'd carried for months. You pressed a hand to your heart.
No. You had made peace with him. You had seen his tears. His heart. You had both made a choice to begin again.
Still…
You sneezed again—sharper this time.
You sighed, stripping off the damp layers clinging to your skin. Your fingers moved quickly as you turned on the hot water, steam already beginning to rise around the marble basin.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Phainon returned to your shared chambers not long after Parting Hour, the quiet hum of his powers still clinging to his presence. His expression was soft but worn, likely from appeasing Hyacinthia and announcing his return to the temple priests. You heard from the priestesses earlier that the temple had rejoiced, and the Archbishop was moved to tears when Phainon’s voice finally answered the ritual prayers.
Inside your room, the air was warm. You had just finished towelling off your damp hair, your night robe loose around your frame as you combed your fingers through the tangles. The sound of the door opening behind you made you turn slightly.
Phainon approached with a tentative smile. “Sorry for making you wait,” he said as he made his coat vanish with a shrug of his shoulders, the materials disappearing into soft golden dust.
You arched a brow and gave him a small, teasing smile. “Only half a year. Barely noticed,” you said with a playful roll of your eyes before turning toward the bed.
Phainon let out a breathless sigh, following behind you with a dramatic pout as you perched at the edge of the mattress. He sat beside you, close enough for your knees to brush.
After a short silence, he cleared his throat. “So…” he said as his eyes nervously flickered between you and the bed.
“We don’t have to rush anything, Phainon,” you said before he could get too tangled in his own nerves. “Besides, I’m not spending the night with someone I barely know.”
His lips parted as if to protest, but you lifted a hand before he could. “And don’t argue that I know you because of the times we spent together. I know Phainon, the human version—the friend. But you? As my husband?” You gave a soft shrug. “That’s a whole different story.”
Phainon looked a little deflated at first, but then he smiled. It was a quiet, grateful kind of smile. “That sounds fair. Getting to know each other properly… That sounds nice.”
And so you talked. For hours.
The two of you curled into the bed, at first upright against the pillows, then slowly sinking into the comfort of the covers as the conversation stretched into the night. You told him about your childhood. You spoke of your fears, your petty dislikes, and your odd preferences.
Phainon, for his part, opened up in ways you didn’t expect. He told you about the earliest memories he had when he first became human, how he used to live in a place called Aedes Elysiae, which was surrounded by fields of wheat as far as the eye could see. He described his affinity for antiques and how he had a hobby of collecting them back then.
You laughed, cried a little, and at some point, you both lay facing each other under the shared blankets, your fingers tracing idle shapes against the fabric between you.
In the days that followed, life began to bloom around you again.
Phainon kept his promise. He was no longer just a god hiding behind the sky. He became a presence, warm and tangible. He walked with you through the temple gardens, sat beside you during meals, and occasionally dragged you just to lie in the sun.
He asked you questions often, about your dreams, your moods, your thoughts on every little thing. As if trying to memorize you in real time.
He formally met your parents again. This time, not as a stranger cloaked in mystery, but as your husband. You nervously explained everything to your family, how Phainon and Khaslana were the same person, and how things were different now. Your parents exchanged looks, and your brother seemed to be more excited, but overall, they were overjoyed to see you smiling again.
Your father did apologize for threatening to kill him once, though Phainon simply laughed and said, “I genuinely don’t remember what you said. I was too busy panicking.”
There were still days when he was called to perform his duties as the Deliverer, but every night, without fail, he returned to you. Sometimes late, sometimes exhausted, but always with the same gentle smile and whispered “good night” against your hair.
Tonight, he returned to you in his divine form.
Though he carried himself with his usual solemn dignity, there was no denying the weight on his shoulders. His movements were slower, the glow of his halo a little dimmer, and the golden lines within his fractured marble skin shimmered less brightly than usual.
Phainon rarely used this form in your presence, always quick to shift back to the human face you had grown familiar with. But when he moved to do just that, his hands already glowing with the telltale light of transformation, you stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Wait,” you said gently. “Stay like this. I want to see you… Really see you.”
His glowing eyes flickered with hesitation, but after a long breath, he nodded and let the light fade. Then, without a word, he lowered himself onto the floor, sitting cross-legged so that he could be closer to your eye level. Even so, his form was enormous, vast in its presence.
You reached forward, both hands rising to cradle his face. You have to admit it took you effort to do so. The moment your fingers made contact, Phainon closed his eyes. His expression softened, almost like he was savoring the contact.
You marveled at the texture of his skin — it was pale gray like the statues in the public garden, but far warmer beneath your touch. Your fingers traced one of the fine, golden cracks that ran along his shoulders.
“Do the cracks hurt?” you asked.
Phainon opened his eyes halfway, a breath escaping him.
“No,” he replied quietly, “They don’t.”
“Ah, okay. That’s good.” You murmured. “They kind of look like they did.”
Your touch wandered, now to his fingers. His claws were long, sharp, and metallic gold. You turned his palm upward and traced the ridges along it with your thumb. He watched you in silence until a soft chuckle broke free from his chest.
You looked up, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”
His smile was small but sincere. “Nothing. It’s just… It’s endearing — you asking if the cracks hurt.”
You huffed and looked back down at his claws. “I’m comparing you to a human body. If a human cracked like that, they’d be in excruciating pain.”
He hummed in amusement, eyes glinting with affection. You let your touch travel again, to the base of his wings. They were breathtaking—wide, arching structures of gold and violet. From afar, they looked feathered, but up close, you saw the sharp, blade-like edges to them, each feather-like sliver layered with precision. They shifted slightly under your hand, fluid despite their rigidity.
He noticed you staring and shifted awkwardly, eyes flicking away for a moment.
“Am I… scary?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.
You smiled at him, fingers tucking a strand of glowing hair behind his ear.
“When you appeared to me during the storm? Absolutely.” You laughed softly. “But now? You look absolutely divine.”
He stilled under your touch, eyes widening slightly as you leaned forward. With careful intent, you pressed a kiss just beneath his left eye.
Phainon froze.
He blinked as you pulled back, your cheeks warming as you began to mumble an apology. “Sorry—I just couldn’t help myse—whoa!”
He tugged you gently forward, hand firm around your wrist. You gasped at the sudden closeness, your face just a breath away from his.
“Do it again,” he said. His voice was quiet, but filled with something desperate and hungry. His eyes searched yours, filled with longing and disbelief, like he didn’t think he was worthy of what you’d just given him.
Your heart raced. Still blushing, you leaned forward again and placed another kiss on the other cheek.
“Again,” he whispered, his grip steady.
So you did. You kissed his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. Then the top of one of his ears. Each touch was soft, reverent. You moved slowly across his face, offering gentle affection like a balm over wounds unseen. As you kissed the curve of his jaw, you swore you heard his wings flutter.
You stopped just short of his lips, both of you breathless now. His eyes were locked onto yours, wide and filled with quiet pleading. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes.
And with a quiet courage, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.
It was quick. Soft. Awkward in the way all first kisses are. You pulled back, your cheeks burning, and your hands covered your face.
He chuckled.
You peeked between your fingers to see what he was doing, but before you could say anything, he moved forward, his voice brushing your ear like wind across a harp string.
“My turn.”
In a blink, you felt the world around you shift.
You barely had time to gasp before you felt yourself being cradled by the familiar softness of your bed. The linens cushioned your fall as your back met with the mattress. And above you, Phainon — still in his divine form — hovered.
His immense body caged you gently, one hand braced beside your head, the other reaching up to brush your cheek with a touch so impossibly careful, it made your heart ache. His golden eyes were darkened by something deep and unreadable as they scanned your face, searching every inch like he was trying to memorize you all over again.
You swallowed, your breath catching when he tilted your chin up with his clawed finger, nudging your gaze to meet his, and then he leaned in and kissed you.
It was different now.
Even though he was careful, his lips dwarfed yours, overwhelming and unfamiliar in their shape and weight. You tried to match him, but it was clumsy, the angles imperfect. You shifted under him, trying to adjust, but it only made your nerves more jittery.
Phainon must have noticed. With a soft hum of understanding, he shifted course. His lips trail down the curve of your jaw, then to your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped when you felt his mouth on the delicate spot just beneath your ear.
He kissed slowly, reverently. That is… until your reaction changed him.
Your gasp made him pause, then lean in again, this time with more intent. His lips pressed firmer, then parted. His tongue brushed your skin.
And then, he bites.
It wasn’t harsh, but it sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body, so unexpected it drew another sound from you, softer this time. Phainon exhaled against your throat like he’d found something precious. And then he began again, mouth moving along your neck with a hunger that wasn’t just physical; it was need, longing, the weight of months unspoken and untended.
But he was heavy. His divine body, though restrained, pressed down on you with weight you hadn’t realized until now. Your arms trembled beneath him as his kisses grew more intense, and you could barely catch your breath between the sensations.
“P-Phainon…” you managed, your voice small, but he didn’t stop. He was lost in you, in the way you sounded, the way you felt under him. His mouth grazed lower, teeth brushing your collarbone.
“W-wait!” you finally gasped, louder this time, your hand pressing gently against his chest.
He froze immediately. He pulled back with a worried expression, his clawed fingers rising hesitantly as if afraid he’d broken you.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice quiet, eyes flicking between your face and the red marks blooming along your neck. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, It’s—”
“Then… do you not want to…?” He asked again, voice careful.
“No!” you said quickly, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away in embarrassment. “I just… I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to… It’s just — your size…”
For a moment, he didn’t understand. Then, realization dawned in his eyes. He blinked once, twice, and then looked down at himself, still in his celestial form.
“Oh,” he murmured, “Forgive me.”
In a pulse of golden light, his form shimmered and then shifted.
Where divinity once loomed, now sat Phainon. He was still radiant, still beautiful, but wholly human. He was shirtless, his skin glowing faintly from the residual of the transformation, the muscles of his chest rising and falling with each breath.
There was a flicker of nervousness in his blue eyes as he glanced at you.
“Better?” he asked softly.
Your gaze had wandered without permission, drawn to the definition of his chest, the lines of his collarbone, the familiar face now so close. You met his eyes again, your breath catching in your throat, unable to hide the flush on your cheeks.
Phainon picked up where he had left off, his touches reverent, slow, as if trying to memorize every inch of you through the warmth of his hands. His fingers traced along your sides with care, learning the curve of your waist and the rise and fall of your breath.
He leaned in again, placing kisses along your collarbone before slipping the fabric of your nightgown off your shoulders.
You felt the cool air brush your skin, but it was his mouth that truly made you shiver. He pressed his lips to the swell of your chest, then just above your heart, each kiss more deliberate than the last. His mouth moved lower, a soft sigh leaving your lips when his tongue flicked across your bud teasingly.
Your fingers slid into his hair, gently tugging when he bit down with a soft pressure. Your breath hitched, a quiet moan slipping free, but you instinctively held back.
Phainon noticed.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression pinched with confusion, and just the faintest trace of a pout on his lips. “Why are you hiding your sounds from me?” he asked, voice low and tender.
You averted your gaze, cheeks flushed. “I just… I don’t want to be too loud.”
His frown deepened. “Why?”
You hesitated, then whispered, “What if someone hears?”
Phainon’s gaze softened at your words, though there was still a flicker of amusement behind it. He leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on your lips.
“They won’t,” he said with a chuckle. “We’re far enough from the temple for that. And even if someone did…” He gave you a teasing look. “This is my temple, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I be allowed to do as I please in my own domain?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, his hand had dipped lower, fingers skimming along the soft flesh of your center. The sudden sensation caught you off guard, and a moan escaped your lips, sharper than before and unrestrained.
Phainon paused, smiled against your cheek, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.
“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s the sound I wanted to hear.”
He didn’t stop. His movements now grew more assured, guided by every breathless sound that escaped your lips. Each time you gasped, his gaze flickered to your face, watching your expression. When your body would jolt, reacting to a particularly sensitive spot he had touched, Phainon would smile softly. A feeling of pride bloomed in his chest as if he had just uncovered a secret.
He leaned down to drown your voices in him, and slowly, he pushed his fingers in. His fingers moved with a pace—long, steady, and unrelenting. Each touch sent a pulse of warmth coursing through you. One had gripped his arm, while the other found its way into his hair, fingers curling just enough force to draw a low breath from him. He leaned closer, welcoming the contact as though your need anchored him just as much as his touch unraveled you.
“P-Phainon…” You whined, and he answered with a kiss to your forehead.
“Hm? Does it feel good?” He asked, still pushing his fingers in at a slow pace.
You nod your head, “I–I need, mmh, more…”
“More? Are you sure?” Phainon asked as he adjusted his position, resting on his side while his other hand lay beneath you, hugging you closer.
“Yes, p-please…” You managed to voice out.
Phainon let out a breath before inserting another finger in. Your body arched towards his chest, and a high-pitched, strangled moan escaped you.
“Does it hurt?” He asked, planting kisses on your face.
“I’m okay…” You huffed, “Keep going.. Just… go slow…” You said.
“Okay,” he whispered, following your directions.
He moved his hands slowly and sensually, carefully checking your reactions to see any signs of discomfort. Then, after a few minutes, you nod your head.
“Okay… you can go a little faster.”
With that, Phainon picked up the pace of his fingers, curling them when he was deep enough. The rhythm of his fingers sent warmth blooming to your core, a rising tide sensation that left your breath stuttering.
You could no longer hold back the soft, broken sounds that spilled from your lips. Your fingers clenched tighter around his arm, nails digging into his skin in a desperate bid to stay grounded.
But Phainon didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned into your closeness, entranced by the way your face contorted with unguarded pleasure.
With Phainon’s quick fingers, your body finally gave in to the building tension. The knot inside you snapped with a wave of release, your breath catching, his name escaped your lips in a cracked whisper. He watched you ride your high, his gaze filled with wonder, as though your unraveling was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed.
As you came down, your lashes fluttered open. Phainon leaned in, peppering your cheeks with gentle kisses, his hair brushing your skin and drawing a quiet giggle from you.
“I take it you had a good time?” he asked, voice playful but laced with affection.
You rolled your eyes at him fondly and reached up to trace his cheek with your fingers. “I did… thanks to you,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.
Phainon moved to hover over you again, deepening the kiss with growing need. His hips moved slowly against yours, his breath growing heavier. You gasped as he pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours.
“Do you want to continue?” he asked, voice thick with restraint.
You nodded, more than ready, and pulled him close once more. Somewhere in the haze of kisses and wandering hands, you noticed him fumbling with his pants—an amusing contrast to his usual effortless elegance. But before you could comment, his body pressed against yours in full, his form settling into yours with a heat that stole your breath.
He paused, eyes locked with yours. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” you whispered, heart pounding.
Phainon leaned in, resting his forehead to yours, breathing with you, grounding both of you. He finally pushed his hips forward slowly and measured. You held onto him tightly, overwhelmed by the stretch. Phainon let out quiet sighs against your neck, he pulled out before pushing back into you.
Your tightness around him was heavenly, and he’d been to heaven before.
As he rocked his hips into yours, you’d open your eyes to look at him. Small flickers of golden light danced around the corner of your vision. Every now and then, his divine form would slip through — his eyes would shift from sky blue to golden ones, even as far as only turning golden in one eye.
Soft golden flames would appear on his shoulder every time he reached a certain spot inside you, his hair would pulse from his usual white ones to his blonde ones. His voice, once deep and steady, faltered into quiet groans and murmurs of your name. Praising you, telling you how good he felt.
You kissed him again, anchoring him to you. “I love you, Phainon.”
His breath caught, but his hips still moved. When your eyes met, there was nothing hidden in his gaze. Just awe.
“I love you too,” he whispered, voice almost breaking.
With another kiss, he quickened his pace to chase your highs. The world around you blurring into quiet gasps and muffled moans, until nothing remained but warmth, closeness, and the stars flickering in his eyes.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was unusual to wake up to Phainon still beside you.
His body was warm against yours, his arms resting loosely around your waist in a quiet embrace. Before this, you would open your eyes to find him already sitting at the edge of the bed or by your desk, greeting you with a quiet “good morning,” already dressed.
But not this morning.
This morning, the golden sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, touching his bare skin like a blessing. The light kissed the curve of his shoulder, the gentle line of his jaw, illuminating the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. You took in the sight carefully, as if afraid that moving too quickly would ruin this rare moment.
You turned on your side to face him, your body still aching from last night. You gaze across the angles of his face. His lashes were long, shadowing his cheeks with each breath, and you caught yourself smiling, well, perhaps a little jealous of how effortlessly beautiful he was.
Your fingers reached up, slow and gentle, to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The softness of his hair against your skin made something tighten in your chest. It was the feeling of the weight of everything it took to reach this moment. The silence, the missteps, the months of loneliness, of sleeping on this very bed with nothing but questions in your heart.
And now, here he was. Real and warm. Sleeping beside you like he belonged there all along.
His brows twitched slightly, and then, with a small breath, his eyes fluttered open.
Those familiar blue eyes looked at you now with a different softness. They locked onto yours, and he didn’t say anything at first, as if trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.
From where he lay, the morning light behind you framed you like a painting. Your hair was still tousled from sleep, your eyes a little puffy, the wrinkles of your smile faint. To him, there was no sight more divine than this. Nothing could rival the simple beauty of waking up to you.
“Good morning,” you whispered, your voice soft.
“Good morning,” he replied, his voice still hoarse with sleep but still laced with the same tenderness he had shared with you last night.
You reached for his hand beneath the covers, and he met you halfway as he curled his fingers around yours without hesitation.
The silence stretched between you, but this time, it was warm. It was the sound of reconciliation, of finally being seen.
You rested your forehead against his and closed your eyes. You know there are still roads you’ll need to go through in the future. There would still be moments of misunderstanding, of learning how to love each other more. But now, you weren’t afraid of the road ahead.
🏩 "𝑽𝑨𝑹𝑲𝑨," ◦ ₊ㅤ ﹙ nsfw varka's cock is big, as we all assumed, and it just causes a little bulge on his wifey’s abdomen when he's balls deep inside her ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა artist credits: @/aveli.nnn on insta plz reblog / like 2 support ⠀ ⃘໋ׅ♡ 𝑤.𝑐: 0.6k ⁀ ˳ ⟡
#⃝ 𝓦ARNINGS ◦ ₊ㅤ ㅤ﹙ smut p i v sex varka’s huge mentions of breeding reader’s body allows tummy bulges unprotected sex varka’s mean & teases you this mf knows exactly what he’s doing 2 u finger sucking mentions of cunnilingus reader is his wife slight dumbification
໒ִ 𓈒ིྀ ˚ ℳINA'S 𝓝OTES ⫽ ୧ྀ ─ I’m writing this before I go to bed after studying and reciting ⁺ ノ masterlist ◦ ₊
VARKA’s cock pulsed deep inside your pussy, your half lidded, pleasure-drunk eyes meeting his teasing ones.
“You feel me deeeep inside you, yeah?” He spoke in a low deep hum, kneeling on the bed before you, his hips pressed against yours. The room felt hot, sweaty, walls too thin for what you two were doing. Mondstadt saw him as the grandmaster, smiling, perfect, and a little empty headed at times. You were the one who saw past the outer shell, who got to experience him at his most depraved state.
His favourite state; being balls deep in his wife.
You hummed softly in response, naked and sweaty beneath him. Your thighs were aching from the past 20 minutes of “foreplay” which he loves so much. Burying his face between your thighs while striking his cock but edging himself so that he could finish inside your warm, sweet hole.
“I’m not letting any of it go to waste, m’kay?” He had told you, before filling you up repeatedly with his sticky white seed.
His hand shifted from your thigh, warmth spreading to your tummy when his large hand pressed down gently. Eliciting a soft moan from you, your hands clawing into the silk sheets, curling your toes and squirming. As if you weren’t already on edge. “Mmm… s-stoppp.. don’t press there,” you whined, left eye closed from the twitching pleasure.
“No?” He raised an eyebrow, smirking, before lifting his hand obediently and staring at your abdomen. “S’hard not to… can see my cock bulging from inside your cute belly,” he hummed lowly, hips slowly pulling back.
It’s almost like you could feel what he was about to do, already watching your back and holding on a breath. His hips slamming forward, knocking the air out of you, a loud moan passing unfiltered through your soft lips. “Fuck… you sound good with me in you, you look incredibly good with me inside you, you smell so good when I’m in you… wanna marry me, doll?” He breathed out, his hand moving from above your abdomen to grab your chin.
“We’re already marriedddd.. stop talking and just fuck me..”
He chuckled, moving to push his index and middle finger into your mouth. “Don’t even need to ask twice…” he grinned, eyes half lidded with blissful pleasure. He blinked, watching you instinctively suck on his fingers with muffled soft moans, before he pulled his hand back, pushing your thighs down against your chest again. Lifting his hips, and slamming back into your again.
Plap. Plap. Plap.
Your breathing had quickened, your head lolling to the side, moaning out loud between every thrust. The room was loud and lewd. A fwop here and a shlorp there. “A-ah.. ah… mmh..!” You moaned out for him, mouth agape, eyes squeezed shut. While he was groaning shamelessly and moving his hips with a desperate pace.
“F-fuck yeah… you love this, don’t you?” He chuckled between his own gasps at your mindless nodding, “love being fucked dumb by me,” he punctuated dumb with a sharper thrust, pressing the gummy head of his cock against your cervix. Before focusing on the quicker, more shallow thrusts.
His pace quickened when he felt the tingle at the back of his spine, that euphoric sensation buzzing through him, before he stuttered and slammed against your hips for the last time.
Cum spurted from the tip of his cock, painting your walls in his warm white seed again. Filling you up for the nth time that night. His body blanketing yours in a warm hug, kissing the tension and stress away on your face. “Y-yeah.. just… a little more, angel..” he breathed out, muscles tightened and sweating all over. Nose nudging against your cheek.
“Just… a few more rounds, I need to see your tummy all big, whether that be from our babies… or just that cute bulge from my dick.”
a/n: i made these all on picsart (including the hair edits bc FUCK AI). i’m too scared to actually go into the cesspit that is hinge, sooo, sorry if the profile looks a little shitty :,)
pairing: adam glenn/he-man x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
synopsis: your hinge date is acting unhinged, but you indulge his crazy-talk in the hopes that he’s crazy good in bed
warnings: contains spoilers/requires movie context, porn with plot (minors go awayyyy), reader is kind of a mean sycophant at first, subby/awkward adam, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl guys)
word count: 2.6k
—
“Anyway, that’s how I ended up in Oklahoma City.” Adam’s strong eye contact and easygoing smile were unnerving, given the fantastical fairytale he’d just told you in place of a legitimate, normal backstory. You’d been curious about his Hinge prompts, but maybe he felt comfortable larping in front of you because he sent you a rose on your photo at the renaissance faire. He was committed to the bit, that’s for sure.
“What about you? Are you from around here?” He asks casually while you try your best to conceal your amusement.
“Yeah, born and raised…” You bite your lip, mulling over your options for the conclusion of this dinner date. The meal was on him, and you still had half a plate you didn’t want to go to waste. Was it worth ditching just because he was full of it? Or you could play along and enjoy your free meal along with the entertainment. “So, prince Adam of Eternia, do you have any pictures of your home planet?” you ask casually while taking a bite of your food.
“Pictures? Like photographs? No, it’s not like I had time to pack before I had to flee… but I tried to draw everything I remembered of home as soon as I got here so I wouldn’t forget it.” Something in his expression lights up like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. You could tell he was dying to talk more about his little fantasy.
“Can I see them?” You ask with a curious smile, the toe of your heel gently grazing the inside of his ankle under the table, hiking under his pant-leg just a smidge. You watch him freeze up for a moment, sitting up straighter as he processes the proposal. You couldn’t help yourself. He was cute, tall and nerdy, and you could tell he was hiding some serious muscle underneath his clothes.
“You want to see my drawings?” He clears his throat and looks at you as if he doesn’t believe you.
“Sure, why not?” You shrug slightly with an antsy smile, gazing at him through your lashes, hopeful for an in to his room.
“I mean, okay. Yeah! I’ll show you after dinner.” He decides with a newfound excitement. You squeeze your legs together in anticipation. The light pink tinge in his cheeks and shy smile were too cute to ignore. You couldn’t help having a thing for making awkward guys squirm.
-
Surprisingly, the rest of the date went smoothly. You could talk openly now that you’d gotten over the hump of his supposed royalty. He was attentive, open, and really good at communicating; all qualities you suspect are necessary for HR, but it was good to know he could carry it outside of the office.
Things went so well, he even got you dessert just to keep the conversation going. You teased him and he treated you. He liked the attention. You had a sneaking suspicion no one had given him a chance quite like you had. You almost felt bad for being so horny for him, nodding your head and giving him the floor to geek-out like a real people-pleaser.
By the end of the night, you were holding his hand as he walked you to his apartment. You seized the opportunity to squeeze his arm, leaning into his side with a faux-innocent smile, relishing the feel of him in a socially acceptable manner. His hand completely dwarfed yours, but his size didn’t equate his confidence. You held all the power in this dynamic; the power to make him blush, choke up, lose his words, and swallow thickly.
You bit your lip in anticipation as he unlocked his apartment door, only to catch his roommate switching off The Notebook at the last moment, grunting obnoxiously in an attempt to hide his tears.
“Hey man, don’t mind us.” Adam greets him with forced smile that his roommate meets with wide eyes, seemingly impressed that Adam managed to bring someone home. He gives you a little wave as you follow Adam towards his room.
“The Notebook gets me choked up as well,” You whisper with a knowing smile to his roommate before disappearing into Adam’s room. You immediately stop in your tracks as you come face-to-face with Adam’s bedroom walls, littered with drawings, mostly of swords. The alarm bells in your head were definitely going off now.
“I’ve never shown anyone these,” He says as he pulls out a little box from under his bed. You hold your breath, still standing in the doorway, a good few steps away from him. “Well, except for Hussein, and my therapist… and the kids in school…” He shakes his head of the memory and opens the box.
You raise your brow as he pulls out a stack of drawings you assume are from his childhood. Scribbles of a skull-cave, jacked heroes in funky armour, and a drawing of a little boy holding the hands of a king and queen, topped off with the little green tiger cub he wouldn’t stop droning on about.
You sit next to him tentatively, eyes flicking between his face and his artwork. He was lost in his own head, stuck on the picture of his family.
“Is that them?”
“Hm? Oh, yeah.” He nods, finally snapping out of his trance. “Those are my parents, and that’s Cringer…” He lets out a little sigh, handing the paper over to you to look at.
“Do you miss them?”
“Everyday.” The look he gives you is genuine; a pain in his eyes he couldn’t hide even if he tried. You wonder if maybe there is some truth to what he’s been saying.
“I’m sorry you lost your parents, and your home. I can’t imagine what that’s like.”
“You know, you are the only person who’s let me talk this much without trying to dismiss me. Are you going to tell me I’m crazy? Or that I’m a liar?” He looks you in your eyes, so sincere, so vulnerable, waiting for you to shut him down so he can get over the rejection now.
“You say it’s the truth. Why shouldn’t I believe you?” You can’t believe you’re allowing yourself to get swept up in this poor man’s drama. Logically, it’s all nonsense, but coming out of his mouth, it’s gospel. And seeing the muscles in his face relax with relief is all too rewarding.
He drops his head down to your shoulder, resting his forehead against you in a defenceless act of gratitude.
“Thank you, for believing me.” He whispers into your skin, the strap of your dress having slipped down your arm. You feel his plump lips graze your flesh as he lifts his head to look at you again, looking all pathetic and needy from his lower angle. You gently cup his face in your hand, stroking his cheek as he melts into your touch. “If I find my sword, I’ll take you with me to Eternia.” He starts but you shush him softly.
“Hey, the only sword we need to worry about right now is the one in your pants,” You smile at him mischievously, your hand sliding over his lap, slowly creeping to his inner thigh. He lets out a few heavy breaths, suddenly bashful again. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah- yeah, it’s cool…” He nods breathlessly, still maintaining eye contact as you lean into him, caressing the inside of his leg and working your way up to his bulge. He closes his eyes as you feel him up, his imprint already obvious through his dress-pants that are all but too tight on his massive thighs.
“Is prince Adam in need of a princess?” You tease, suddenly pushing him back onto his bed and climbing over his massive frame. His eyes are blown wide in astonishment and nervousness as you sit atop him.
“I- I’m… yeah… I mean yeah.” He nods through laboured breaths as you prop yourself on him, almost chest to chest. Your fingers tenderly trace along his soft jawline, causing his eyes to flutter closed. Leaning in, your lips barely brush his own before he’s tensing up underneath you.
You melt into him, pressing him into the bed as you kiss passionately. It’s hesitant at first, testing the waters of his capabilities, but when you feel his massive hands rest on your sides, you go in for the kill. You part his plush lips with your tongue, drawing out a whiney moan from him as you taste him.
He’s a mess. He’s trying to keep up, smacking his lips desperately, eager for more, but when you bite his lower lip and pull it back, he whimpers to a stop. He looks up at you dazed, papers abandoned. You sit up, hands roaming over his chest, finding the buttons and undoing them one by one. Underneath your already aching core, you feel his clothed erection pulsing beneath you, like he’s already trying to hold himself back.
“You’re so… wow,” He breaths once you have his shirt open. You press kisses along his chest, trailing down to the bulky abs he had been hiding from you. You smile against his muscles and look up at him wickedly as you lower your head down his body. He watches as you kiss down to his pants, over his bulge, making him squirm.
The belt comes off quick, and the zipper follows. You have to put some might into your tugs as his pants get stuck around his thick thighs. But when you manage to get his boxers down and his cock springs free, you let out a little excited exhale. It’s so big, tip leaking onto his abdomen with abandon.
You take the thick base into your hand and he makes a strangled noise. You chuckle at him, having barely touched him, and he’s a wreck. He presses his head back into the bed, and squeezes his eyes shut as you pump slowly, barely able to wrap your hand around his size. You add another, only increasing the pleasurable sensation that has him letting out a loud moan abruptly.
“Shh!” You pause and try not to laugh at him as he goes red in the face. He covers his face with his hands and tries to conceal his own embarrassed giggles. You hear The Notebook suddenly get louder outside the room.
“I’m sorry…” He pants, sitting up slightly to pout at you apologetically. You smile and climb up, meeting him for a kiss. He pulls you in closer, arms encircling your waist to make you straddle him. “Can I get you out of this?” He whispers, fingers playing with the loose straps of your dress. You nod silently and bite your lip as you watch him undress you painfully slow. He takes his time admiring your body as it is slowly revealed to him, and he uses all his restraint in getting your dress off so he doesn’t ruin it.
Once the dress had been discarded onto the floor, Adam finds himself fondling your breasts, squeezing them gently as he engulfs them in his hands. His fingers are kind and shy, only barely stroking your nipples while he watches with his mouth open. You smirk to yourself, pushing your body towards him, his face suddenly between your boobs. You giggle softly as he manages to find a nipple with his mouth, kissing tenderly before popping it into his mouth while looking up at you adoringly.
You let out an exhale and weave your fingers into his golden locks, enjoying his affection. But you grow hungry for more, needy for the desperate hunk. You pull back enough so you can position yourself over him, holding his cock up so his tip teases your entrance. He sucks in a harsh breath, so sensitive and he’s not even inside yet.
“You want it?” You tease, rubbing your swollen lips along his length, coating him in a thin layer of your own arousal. He nods quickly, panting, eyes bouncing between your face and your heat.
“Please, please…” He groans as you sink onto his tip leisurely, testing the stretch that’ll leave you aching tomorrow. You rest your hands on his chest, letting out a whine as you take him further inside, feeling how full he makes you feel without even bottoming out. “Oh fuuuck…” He moans, unable to stop himself.
“It’s so big…” You chuckle to mask the sting as you try to adjust to his size. He holds you up supportively, not letting you take more than you can handle.
“We can stop if it’s too much,”
“No, I can handle it. I want it…” You hum as you sink down further, surrounding his shaft in tight, warm, wetness.
“Oh, you’re so good…” He groans, closing his eyes as he tries not to come prematurely. You lick your lips before manoeuvring your hips in a way that makes him slide out almost all the way, but then suck him back up inside again. He can hardly take it, moaning like a bitch beneath you.
“You’re so loud…” You giggle and lean down to kiss him, hoping to stifle some of his noise.
“I can’t help it…” He whimpers, kissing you haphazardly as his eyes roll to the back of his head. You take the opportunity to start bouncing on his slick cock, breathing in time with the smacking of your skin. He grips your thighs, fingers melting into the fat as he guides you along his length, loving the way you ride him.
“You like that?” You smile down at him, riding him harder so you feel him in your belly.
“Yes… so much…” He nods, moans just falling past his lips like a gushing waterfall. You can tell by the way his chest is concaving quickly that he’s close. You pursue him faster, trying to chase your own high.
“You wanna come, your majesty?” You tease, whispering against his lips.
“Yes, can I?” He mumbles against your mouth, tongue darting out to taste you.
“Not yet, hold on first okay?” You moan softly, sitting up so you can ride him with full control. He holds his breath, trying his absolute darnedest to not come inside you while you get yourself off on his cock. Your hand goes down to rub your aching bud as you get closer to finishing, but Adam selfishly smacks your hand away to replace it with his own.
Your gasps get louder as his touch sets your body on fire, his chunky thumb pressing against your clit lasciviously in a race to make you come first. You hold your own breast while your other hand braces itself on his abdomen, trying to stay steady as the pressure builds between your thighs. You close your eyes, his cock burying itself against your gummy walls in a way that has you crashing down on top of him.
You whine as your body shudders, pussy pulsing around his cock. He moans in a panic, quickly pulling himself out of your soaking cunt as he feels himself spilling over the edge; hot white cum pouring out of his reddened head, painting the outside of your labia.
He holds onto you as he tries to catch his breath, eyes bleary as he comes down from his high faster than you do. You eventually meet him where he lies, nestled against his hard chest, eyes blinking at him through batted lashes.
“I’ll help you find your sword if it means you do me like that again…” He chuckles at your words and pushes a stray hair out of your face.
“I’ll give up my sword if it means you do me like that forever…” You laugh but smack his chest in chastisement.
“Don’t say that… I have all the sword I need right here,” You kiss his chest softly while he holds you close, one large hand cradling your head against his heart.
—
a/n: it’s been soooo long since i’ve written smut but this was so fun! i had to do it with motu still fresh in my mind because i was geeking during that whole movie. i hope to see that hunky himbo again 🤞
I’d only believe him for a nice bite outta those biceps and how convinced he was. I love a man who is 100% sure of something.*bite lips 👄 uncontrollably*
