Hello! I know you said god! Phainon series is closed but I have a idea that I like to share with you towards with expanding the story a bit.. (please hear me out on this)... In the game itself it's canon that some kremnoan people migrate to okhema for safety purposes.
Now I have a idea what if the reader got a kremnoan pen pal or even a friend? They both have a relationship similar to mydei and phainon like spending time together, travel out to streets, having grudges against one another but still friends.(when the reader successfully goes out of the shrine for some time...).
I think khaslana/ phainon and mydei will be quite fascinated about having their people being similar to them. That's all about what my idea is and thank you for your works! I also would like to know your thoughts about this..
Ngl anon you stumped me with this at first, but thanks to my delusional Imaginative brain, I managed to come up with something! ( ꈍ◡ꈍ)
To make this clear. In this AU, Castrum Kremnos is a flourishing dynasty under Mydei's rule. So I'll tweak it a bit! ✧( •⌄• )◞◟( •⌄• )✧
huhu I hope you don't mind the outcome of this (•᷄- •᷅ ;)
Wc: 5.3k+ (I REALLY DIDN'T MEAN TO MAKE IT THIS LONG)
Cw: God!Phainon x Fem!Mortal!Reader, Suggestive, MDNI!!!!
You and Phainon sat side by side beneath the pergola, its roof woven with flowering vines that lazily coiled around the pillars. The late afternoon light filtered through the leaves, casting warm, dappled shadows over the courtyard.
“Oh, it’s that time again?” you asked, eyes flicking to Phainon’s as he recounted the preparations for the upcoming joint Olympics between Okhema and Castrum Kremnos.
Phainon nodded, one arm draped behind you along the curve of the bench. “Yes,” he said, glancing up at the leaves. “This year, Mydeimos has decided to participate in mortal disguise, of course. He says he wants to experience the competition like his people do.” his tone was amused, but there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes.
You smiled, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? And will Okhema’s god be joining the games as well?” you teased.
“Of course!” Phainon leaned closer, his blue eyes glinting. “It’s the perfect opportunity to beat Mydeimos in every event and impress my wife in the process.” He gave you a wink.
You laughed softly, nudging his side with your elbow, but the sound faded quickly. Your eyes dropped to your lap as your hand idly smoothed a wrinkle in your robe.
Phainon’s expression shifted. He leaned in, sensing the change in you, his teasing gone.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, “You usually get excited about festivals. Are you… Not interested this time?”
You lift your head up to meet his gaze, “What? No, it’s not that.” You gave a little laugh, too quiet to be convincing. “I was just reminded of someone, that’s all.”
Phainon tilted his head. “Someone?”
You nodded, still fidgeting with the hem of your robe, “I used to have a friend from Kremnos back then…”
Phainon blinked, visibly surprised. Even though now was an era of peace, Okheman’s and Kremnoans still don’t get along well with each other. “Really? You’ve never mentioned having a Kremnoan friend.”
Your gaze softened at the memory, and your fingers stilled in your lap. “Well, we met a long time ago…”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You took another bite of the candied fig, your lips curling into a grin as you chewed with satisfaction. The sweetness burst on your tongue like victory.
Another successful escape from the temple.
The scent of roasted nuts, fresh bread, and foreign spices drifted thick in the warm air as you weaved through the packed streets. Okhema’s central square was more alive than you’d ever seen it. Colorful tents lined the pathways, their silk banners waving with the breeze, painted with the sigils of Okhema and Kremnos. It was the joint Olympics, held once every five years.
Like hell you were going to miss it.
Your father had been stationed at the northern gates to oversee security, which meant if you stayed clear of that quadrant, your disobedient little adventure would remain undetected.
You’d already spent nearly an hour trailing from stall to stall, admiring the exotic wares the Kremnoan merchants brought with them: black crystal beads, golden gauntlets, and lots of pomegranates.
You were too busy marveling at a carved figurine shaped like a two-headed lion when it happened. You turned too fast and smacked into a stranger.
“Oof!” You stumbled back, clutching your pouch of candies tightly to your chest.
The boy you collided with was tall, older than you probably, with cropped hair the color of red clay and a scowl that could crack stone. His eyes narrowed when he looked at your robes.
“Watch where you’re going, Okheman,” he barked. His voice was rough, curling with disdain.
“I—I’m sorry!” you said quickly, trying to step aside, but he shifted to block you.
“You bumped into me,” he said, folding his arms. “In Kremnos, people pay for that sort of offense.”
“What? I– that wasn’t even your–”
“Those candies look good,” he cut you off, eyeing the pouch in your hands. “Give me that, and we’ll call it even.”
You blinked in disbelief. “Wha– hey!”
Before you could take a step back, his hand was already reaching toward your pouch. But then—
“What the hell are you doing, Ares?”
Ares visibly jumped.
“E-eleni!” he stammered, quickly pulling his hand away and shoving it behind his back.
Eleni’s gaze flicked to you — quick and unimpressed — then she turned to Ares with a scowl.
“We’re in their city, idiot,” she snapped, “Stop dragging our name through the mud!”
Ares stumbled over his words, muttering out apologies and retreating behind a merchant’s awning.
Eleni sighed before turning around and beginning to walk away, not even sparing you a proper glance.
You stood frozen for a beat, still clutching your pouch, before you found your voice again.
“Wait!” you called, jogging after her.
She glanced sideways, brows already knit in mild annoyance. “What?”
“I just wanted to… thank you. For stepping in back there.”
She stopped and looked at you properly this time. Her arms crossed over her chest, head tilted in faint suspicion. “I didn’t do it for you,” she said coolly. “I did it because Ares was embarrassing all of us. Kremnos already has a bad enough reputation with you, Okhemans.”
You were about to say something, but she turned to leave again. But something in you, maybe stubbornness or even pride, didn’t want to let her go just yet.
You quickly stepped in front of her path, blocking her with outstretched arms and a flustered huff. “Here! Take a candy,” you said, pushing the little pouch into her face.
Eleni blinked, taking half a step back. “What… are you doing?”
“I’m repaying you,” you insisted, thrusting the pouch closer. “It’s an Okheman etiquette.”
She stared at you, then at the pouch, then back at you.
“... You Okhemans are weird.” She said flatly.
“Hey! At least I’m being nice.” You huffed.
She rolled her eyes but took a single candy from the pouch, popping it into her mouth. After a few seconds of chewing, she muttered with a slight pink cheek, “Fine. It’s not terrible.”
You beamed.
And just like that, you and Eleni spent the entire afternoon together.
It didn’t happen all at once, well… not at first. For the first hour or so, it felt like everything you said was met with an eye roll, a sarcastic remark, or a flat “I don’t care”. But you noticed the corners of her mouth twitching every now and then, like she was trying hard not to laugh at your dumb jokes or exaggerated stories about your life at the temple.
Eventually, after losing a bet to see who could climb the fig tree faster, she grinned. From then on, something softened.
You started making bets on everything. Who could leap the flight of stairs without tumbling down, who could eat a whole pomegranate without making a mess, who could run to the edge of the square and back before the sun passed the statue’s arm. The city became your playground. For that one afternoon, you weren’t people whose lineage had a bad history of being enemies; you were just two girls daring each other to laugh louder, climb higher, and run faster.
As the week-long games carried on, so did your adventures. While the adults gathered in the main plaza, shoulder to shoulder in the blistering sun, you and Eleni would sneak up to the old rooftops, the perfect spot to see the matches without being seen yourselves.
You showed her which columns to climb for the best views, and in return, she watched your back. If she spotted your father in the crowd, she’d yank you behind a barrel or shove a Kremnoan cloak into your arms and smirk, “Time to blend in, Okheman.”
You even let her braid your hair like hers one morning in the traditional style from her side of the border. Though she made fun of you for how bad you were at doing hers in return, saying that her hair might fall off because of how badly you were pulling it.
By then, it didn’t matter anymore that she was blunt and sarcastic, or that you sometimes talked too much. You understood each other and laughed easily with her. You’d even bicker without a sting.
But of course… festivals end.
The final day of the games arrived, and you planned to find Eleni before the sun set, to say goodbye properly. But when you reached the usual corner where her family’s stall had been all week, it was already gone. The tent was packed down, the crates empty, the cloth banners rolled away. Not even a trace remained.
You stood there for a long time, clutching your dress as your heart ached a little.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Well, that’s sad,” Phainon murmured, tilting his head with a dramatic pout tugging at his lips.
“It was,” you said softly, your fingers absently tracing the lines of the stone bench beneath you.
He leaned back, eyes narrowing in thought before a playful glint returned to his expression. “Well then, it’s a good thing you’ll be coming with me to Castrum Kremnos for the games this year. I’m sure you’ll run into her.”
You sighed, looking up at the sky, “Hopefully. Will she even remember me?”
Phainon chuckled, a knowing look in his eyes, “Kremnoans never forget.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You arrived at Castrum Kremnos. This time, you and Phainon stayed at an inn like normal humans would do. But it was one of the best, the most luxurious one in Castrum Kremnos. Thanks to Mydeimos.
The moment the door closed behind you, Phainon took off his coat and flopped face-first onto the plush bed with a dramatic sigh.
“Next time,” he groaned into the pillow, “I’m teleporting us. That carriage was a nightmare.”
You smirked as you walked past him, already rummaging through your satchel. “It wasn’t that bad.”
Phainon turned his head to look at you with one eye half-lidded. “You say that because you got to nap on my shoulder the whole ride.”
You ignored the jab, slinging the satchel over your shoulders again.
His brow rose. “You’re going out now?”
You nodded, humming.
“But we just got here.”
“I want to see the festival streets before it gets too crowded,” You said with a nonchalant shrug.
Phainon sat up slowly, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “And… maybe look for your old friend?” he added, voice tilting with playful accusation.
“...Maybe,” you admitted sheepishly.
He sighed and stood, walking toward you. His expression softened as he reached for your arm, fingers curling gently around your wrist. You glanced at the warmth in his eyes, and your heart fluttered at the way he looked at you.
“Stay here for a little while,” he said quietly. “Just for now. I miss you.”
To be fair, he had every right to. The past week, he’d been caught up in endless preparations with Mydeimos in the Vortex— debates over event lineups, symbolic meanings of contests, and other things you had assumed mortals handled. You thought the gods would simply watch the games, not dictate the entire event.
The journey here had been your first real time together in days.
“Phainon,” you said flatly, “we were stuck side by side in a carriage for hours.”
“That’s different,” he said, slipping the satchel from your shoulder before you could protest.
Before you could react, he pulled you toward the bed and gently toppled you both onto it. He tucked you in his arms with ease, burying his face against your chest with a contented sigh.
You couldn’t help but laugh, arms sliding around him in return. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re even a god.”
“With you, I’m just your husband,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. “A tired, needy husband.”
You were about to close your eyes when you felt him shift beside you. His hand brushed your waist as he lifted his head to meet your gaze. His face was close now, too close, his blue eyes glinting. You opened your mouth to ask what he was doing, but then he kissed you.
It wasn’t a teasing peck or a soft brush of lips. It was a slow, consuming kiss, one that made your breath hitch in your throat. His hand cradled your cheek as he deepened it, pouring in all the unspoken longing he’d kept hidden in every missed moment this week.
You felt your body respond instinctively, warmth flooding your chest, your fingertips curling into his shirt as the air between you grew heavy.
You pushed gently against his chest, just enough to draw a breath, lips parting as you blinked up at him. “Phainon…”
“How about,” he murmured, his voice low as his thumb traced the edge of your lips, “We make up for the time we lost?”
His eyes shimmered with a golden glow, and the mischief in them made your stomach flip.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You didn’t leave the inn until long after the sun had set.
The streets of Castrum Kremnos were alive with festive lights, the air thick with the scent of sweets and grilled meat. The beats of musicians playing their toubeleki and daouli echoed through the streets.
You walked beside Phainon, steps a touch slower than usual, face a little tired and slightly flushed, mostly because of what transpired in the inn. Meanwhile, Phainon practically glowed as he strode forward, humming to himself, a spring in his step like he hadn’t just spent hours exhausting you with affection.
Just as you were about to turn a corner, Phainon’s hand slipped to your shoulder, gently halting your movement.
“He’s here,” he said, voice low but amused, like he’s spotted a rare bird.
You followed his gaze, turning just in time to see a familiar figure making his way through the crowd. Blond hair streaked with deep red tips caught the flickering light, his golden pauldron, and leg armor glinting with each step. Crimson marking trailed down his skin, almost glowing.
“Hope the inn was to your liking,” the figure said gruffly, crossing his arms. “Wouldn’t want you to blame back pain when you lose.”
Phainon let out a laugh, clearly unbothered. “Why, Mydei, I didn’t know you worried much about my well-being,” he said, lips quirking into a grin as he took the jab in stride.
Mydei scoffed but said nothing more, his sharp gaze flicking toward you. Phainon’s hand stayed firm on your shoulder as he gently guided you forward.
“Nice to see you again,” Mydeimos said, his expression softer when it turned to you. “Call me Mydei from now on.”
You gave a polite nod, smiling, “Of course. It’s good to see you again, Mydei.”
He returned the nod before his attention shifted back to Phainon. “You two out exploring?”
“Yep,” Phainon replied, putting a hand on his hip. “Also, do you know someone named Eleni? My wife’s hoping to find her.”
Mydei furrowed his brows slightly, thoughtful. “Eleni… I think I’ve seen that name on the list of vendors.”
“She and her family sold traditional fabrics and accessories at the last festival,” you added.
“Then you best bet’s the market,” Mydei said, gesturing with his head. “They’ve expanded the stalls this year, more space and more foot traffic. Come. I’ll take you there. Unlike Phainon, I actually greet guests when they enter my domain.”
You caught the smirk that pulled at his lips, the subtle dig clear. The memory of Phainon’s absence on the day of your arrival at his temple stirred faintly in your chest.
Phainon only sighed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Like I said,” he murmured under his breath, shooting you a crooked smile, “Kremnoans never forget.”
Mydei led the two of you toward the heart of the market, and as he had promised, the streets were brimming with life.You recognized a few familiar faces among the crowd— Okheman traders who greeted you with brief nods or warm smiles as they passed. You returned their greetings fondly.
Phainon and Mydei paused near a stall selling antique trinkets. The Okheman vendor, a cheerful man with silver rings on all his fingers, was animatedly explaining the origin of a brass compass to them when a familiar voice called out from across the street.
Your head snapped toward the voice. A tall woman was making her way through the crowd, waving with a wide grin on her face. It took you a moment to place her— the unmistakable braid that hadn't changed at all, even though the rest of her had. She was broader now, her frame more muscular, her features sharper and more confident. But the laugh? That was unmistakable.
“Eleni?!” you gasped, the name spilling from your lips as your face lit up. You rushed toward her, and she met you halfway, embracing you with surprising strength that lifted you a few inches off the ground.
“Well, if it isn’t the tree climber of Okhema!” Eleni laughed, voice deeper than you remembered but still warm and teasing. “I almost didn’t recognize you!y You’re dressed all fancy now.”
You let out a breathless laugh, pulling back to look at her. “I could say the same to you! What happened to the twig who used to race me up fig trees?”
“Oh, she’s long gone,” Eleni winked, flexing an arm playfully. “Turns out hauling bolts of fabric and wrestling with market carts every day pays off.”
By now, the commotion had drawn Phainon and Mydei over. You felt their presence behind you and turned, tugging gently at Phainon’s wrist to bring him beside you.
“Eleni, this is my husband, Phainon,” you said, eyes soft as you glanced up at him. Then you gestured to the other. “And that’s our… friend, Mydei.”
Phainon offered a polite wave, while Mydei gave a simple nod. Eleni blinked at the two of them, clearly amused by the striking difference in their energies.
“You’ve got a husband and another Kremnoan friend?” Eleni raised an eyebrow, smirking at you. “I’m not sure which one surprises me more.”
You chuckled. “Turns out miracles do happen.”
Eleni crossed her arms, grinning wide. “Have you been to Castrum Kremnos before?”
You shook your head. “First time.”
Her grin only widened. “Perfect. Then just as you showed me around Okhema when I was a clueless merchant girl, it’s my turn to return the favor. Besides, don’t think I forgot our unfinished bet.”
You blinked. “You remember that?”
“Oh, I keep score,” she said proudly.
Phainon watched as your eyes gleamed.
“Doesn’t their friendship seem familiar, Mydei?” Phainon whispered with a knowing grin. Mydei rolled his eyes.
Then you glanced at Phainon, a silent question in your eyes. He leaned in slightly, brushing a kiss to your forehead before murmuring, “Just be careful, sweetheart.”
You couldn’t help but beam at the tenderness in his voice. Rising on your toes, you pulled him down by the collar and kissed his cheek. “I’ll be fine. I’ll meet you back at the inn.”
Without another word, you and Eleni slipped into the crowd, your laughter soon swallowed by the buzz of the marketplace.
Behind you, Phainon and Mydei watched your retreating form.
Mydei raised an eyebrow. “‘Sweetheart?’” he repeated, voice thick with amusement.
Phainon placed a hand on his hip, unbothered. “Why yes, Mydei. I do call my beloved wife a term of endearment. What, jealous? Want one too?”
Mydei scoffed and turned away, shaking his head. “Dream on.”
But Phainon wasn’t about to let it go. “Pookie bear! Wait for me!” he called out dramatically, throwing an arm over Mydei’s shoulder as he caught up.
Mydei groaned and elbowed him sharply in the side. “Let me go, HKS!”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The long-week festival had begun in full force.
Vendors shouted over the din of drums and flutes, and crowds poured into the streets from every direction, all eager to witness the Games. Phainon had mentioned early on that he wouldn’t be participating until the final day, a grand colosseum match that was being promoted as one of the week’s main events.
With his schedule mostly clear, you spent most of the week in Eleni’s company. She dragged you from one market stall to another, her sharp tongue and radiant charm effortlessly drawing in buyers like bees to honey. You had no intention of spending much, and yet… somehow, your coin purse was lighter by the end of each day.
You often invited Phainon and Mydei to join your small adventures around Kremnos with Eleni. Though both agreed readily enough, they usually chose to hang back, content to let you enjoy your time with your longtime friend.
From a quiet distance, the two gods watched you laugh and chatter with Eleni — hands waving, voices rising in shared memories and playful arguments. They exchanged a glance, both silently struck by how familiar your dynamic was. It mirrored theirs more than either had expected.
Mydei, as always, kept his thoughts to himself, arms crossed as he leaned against a sun-warmed pillar. But Phainon gave a quiet laugh, eyes soft as he watched you tug Eleni toward a market stall.
But now, the city had grown quieter.
Inside the cozy chamber of your rented inn, the only sounds were the faint murmur of distant laughter and the rhythmic thrum of Phainon’s heartbeat beneath your ear.
You lay sprawled across his bare chest, your legs tangled with his, fingers absentmindedly tracing the line of his ribs. His hand moved gently through your hair, brushing softly over your scalp with each pass, and his eyes were half-lidded.
“The big day’s tomorrow,” you murmured.
“Mhm.” His voice rumbled in his chest, deep and content.
You nestled your cheek against his skin. “Come to think of it… I’ve never actually seen you fight before.
Phainon chuckled, his hand pausing briefly in your hair. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“It is,” you said with a smile, then slowly pushed yourself up so you could meet his gaze. His blue eyes sparkled even in the dim candlelight.
“Still… I’m curious. I want to see what it looks like when a god takes the arena.”
He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Think you’ll fall even more in love with me?” he teased, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
You laughed softly, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “I don’t think that’s possible, seeing how I’m already obsessed with you.”
Phainon blinked, momentarily stunned. Then he let out a low groan and pulled you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you. “You’re treading on dangerous ground there, sweetheart,” he murmured into your hair, his voice a warm purr.
“You’re crushing me!” you said, voice muffled.
He only laughed and kissed your temple as he slightly loosen his grip.
But your amusement faded as a small weight returned to your chest. “Wait… You and Mydei are not going to start throwing meteors and lightning bolts, right?”
Phainon’s smile softened. “No powers. Mortal strength only. It’s part of the challenge. The first one to slip up and use divinity, even a little, loses.”
You stared at him, not entirely reassured. “So you’ll both be holding back.”
He nodded. “Exactly. No one will suspect a thing.”
“I’m not worried about people suspecting, Phainon,” you muttered. “I’m worried about the colosseum collapsing on top of the spectators because you two got carried away.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The day of the battle arrived.
The colosseum was a thunderous sea of excitement, every tier brimming with eager spectators chanting, whistling, and waving flags dyed in city colors. With Mydei’s help, you and Eleni managed to secure seats closer to the arena than most, tucked in a section high enough to remain safe, but close enough that you could clearly see the expressions of the men preparing to fight.
Even so, your nerves refused to settle, you’d been bouncing your leg for the past ten minutes.
Eleni, noticing, gave your back a hearty slap that nearly jolted you out of your skin.
“You nervous your husband’s going to get clobbered?” she teased, her smirk as broad as the bronze cuffs on her wrist.
You blinked, scrambling to adjust your thoughts. “Uh… yeah,” you admitted, though that wasn’t exactly the truth. “I’ve just… never seen him fight before.”
Eleni leaned forward slightly, squinting toward the arena. “From one warrior to another? He’s got the stance of someone who’s dangerous when he’s serious. Trust in him, tree climber.” She offered you a confident thumbs-up.
You nodded, though your stomach still churned.
Suddenly, the announcer’s magically projected voice boomed over the colosseum, silencing the murmurs.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the voice cried, dramatic and gleeful, “We now welcome two fearsome competitors to the arena! From the city of Okhema — a silver-haired humble, charming man — the one and only Dark Swordmaster, Phainon!”
You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you.
You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you. Dark Swordmaster? You looked to Eleni, who raised a skeptical brow and muttered, “A little dramatic, don’t you think?”
Still, the crowd loved it. Cheers exploded as Phainon stepped into the sunlight, casually waving at the spectators, his long coat trailing behind him, his white hair almost glowing in the heat as he soaked in the attention.
Then the announcer called again.
“And his challenger! The roaring shield of Kremnos, a warrior said to feel no pain, only pride — the Crimson Lion, Mydei!”
The noise grew even louder, somehow deeper, more grounded, like the mountain itself was cheering. Mydei entered with quiet gravity, his golden gauntlets gleaming under the sun. Unlike Phainon, he didn’t wave or smile, his eyes locked onto his opponent with steely purpose, every step deliberate and sure.
In the center of the arena, the two men met like opposites drawn by gravity.
“Dark Swordmaster?” Mydei raised a brow, arms folded across his chest. “You really do have a knack for saying the most ridiculous things.”
“It’s called ‘branding,’ Mydei.” Phainon gave him a smug grin as he extended a hand. With a flash of light and sound like a sword being unsheathed in a dream, his greatsword materialized in his grip. “Try looking it up in your Kremnoan dictionary.”
“Both of our contestants seem eager to continue,” the announcer declared, voice booming across the colosseum. “So without further ado—the duel begins in three…”
Mydei rolled his shoulders and clenched his clawed gauntlets, arms rising like a fortress.
“Two…”
Phainon narrowed his eyes, gripping his greatsword tighter, his stance low and poised.
“…One!”
In a blink, they charged.
The clash of steel rang sharp and clear across the arena as blade met gauntlet, and the colosseum erupted with cheers. You flinched at the sound, instinctively covering your mouth, while beside you, Eleni was already on her feet, shouting, “Make Kremnos proud, Mydei!”
Phainon swung wide, aiming for Mydei’s side, but the Kremnoan raised both arms to block the strike. The impact echoed as sparks fly where metal met metal. Mydei held firm, muscles taut as he forced the bladde aside with a smooth twist of his arms.
Phainon stepped back, adjusting his grip.
Mydei didn’t give him time to breathe as he lunged forward, slashing with his clawed gauntlets. One strike sliced through the air, only a hair length apart from Phainon’s face.
You gasped, half-rising from your seat. Several spectators winced or turned their heads, sure the blow had landed.
But it hadn’t.
Phainon ducked just in time, spinning out of reach, using the flat of his sword to push Mydei back before retaliating with a powerful horizontal swing. Mydei leapt back, barely avoiding it, sand and dust kicking up around his boots.
You let go of the breath you’ve been holding as you sank back to your seat, Eleni laughing beside you as she puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder.
They circled each other briefly, Phainon swinging his greatsword in hand in a taunting way.
“You’re going all out, huh?” Mydei asked with a smirk.
“Well… I do have a wife I want to impress.”
Then they began again, attacking with a series of fast exchanges. Mydei darted forward, his fists a blur of golden strikes. Phainon parried them with the broad side of his sword, using the reach of his blade to keep distance.
But Mydei was fast, he had already backed Phainon into the walls twice.
“Come on Dark Swordmaster! Use that fancy sword!” someone had shouted from the stands.
He did. WIth a sudden burst of speed, Phainon faked going to the left, then twisted his body, bringing his sword in an upward arc. Mydei dodged the blade, but the movement left his back exposed just long enough.
Phainon moved behind him in a flash, and with precise, controlled motion, he planted the edge of his sword gently against Mydei’s back. Mydei glanced behind him and sighed, lifting both of his hands up in surrender.
The crowd went silent for a moment and then they roared.
The announcer’s voice cracked with excitement. “The winner — Phainon, the Dark Swordmaster of Okhema!”
You stood up from your seat and cheered loudly for his name. Though the arena was filled with the loud cheers from the watchers, Phainon’s eyes immediately connected with yours. He planted the word to the ground beside him and smiled.
You wave your arms to show how happy you were and Phainon replied with a flying kiss your way.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You finally stepped into the carriage with Phainon. The time had come to return to Okhema. You’d said your goodbyes, exchanging addresses with Eleni and promising to send letters and gifts back and forth.
With a long sigh, you plopped down beside Phainon and immediately melted against his shoulder, the gentle rocking of the carriage already making your limbs feel heavy.
“I hope you had fun,” he murmured, wrapping an arm snugly around your waist.
“I did,” you said with a dreamy smile. “I got to visit Kremnos, reconnect with Eleni, and maybe even made a new friend… though I’m still not sure.” You tilted your head slightly to glance up at him. “Do you think Mydei sees me as a friend?”
Phainon chuckled, a low sound vibrating in his chest. “Oh, he does. He just won’t say it out loud.”
You both lapsed into a comfortable silence, the sound of the horses’ hooves and the hum of the wheels filling the space. Then, Phainon’s voice broke through again, soft but tinged with mischief.
“So… did you fall even more in love with me after seeing me in action?”
You raised a brow, playing along. “Hmm… I don’t know. Mydei was pretty cool too.”
There was a pause. “What,” he said flatly, blinking at you like you’d just committed treason.
You burst into laughter and hugged his side, catching the dramatic pout forming on his face. “I’m kidding! You were amazing. That whole duel nearly gave me a heart attack, though. I think I lost ten years of my life just watching.”
Phainon didn’t reply. When you looked up, his pout had only deepened, now paired with a sulky little frown.
“Aww, don’t be like that,” you cooed, reaching up to cup his cheeks. You pulled his face down to yours and began peppering soft kisses all over him.
“Please—”
Kiss. “Forgive—”
Smooch. “Your very cute—”
Chu. “Wife!”
You sealed your last kiss with a gentle one on his lips. When you pulled back, Phainon’s face was adorably flushed, though the frown lingered on his mouth, his eyes betrayed his amusement.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But I expect a much bigger reward when we get home.”
I love the side stories!!! The first side story made me wonder what kind of stories were taught to the reader while growing up 👀
Heroic tales, of course ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ! Something about battling a sea god to protect Okhema from getting destroyed, how he held the weight of the sky for humanity, all those things! But of course, there are love stories as well (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)
Wc: 1.1k+
Cw: Suggestive, Phainon CANNOT keeps his hands to himself (aglaea hold this man back), MDNI!!!
“Oh, they told me plenty of stories about you,” you murmured, your fingers lazily carding through Phainon’s soft golden hair. He hummed in response, a low, contented sound that vibrated against your thighs.
You sat with your legs spread on the bed, while Phainon lay stretched out in his full divine form. His long limbs were draped over the edge of the mattress, massive wings fanned out beneath him. His head rested snugly between your thighs, eyes half-lidded, his hands folded peacefully over his chest.
It looked uncomfortable—how your legs had to sit atop his wings, how his feet dangled at the edge of the bed. But when you had pointed it out earlier, he had simply smiled, nuzzled his face between your thighs, and said, “Not when I’m here.”
“They would always say how gentle you were to us humans,” you continued, idly tracing your nails along his scalp, watching the way his lashes fluttered at your touch. “How you were heroic and selfless. The bringer of light. The great Worldbearer.”
He chuckled softly, but you didn’t miss the faint blush that crept along his cheeks.
Then, you grinned. “They also mentioned your… not-so-successful love life.”
That got his attention.
Phainon cracked an eye open, brow slowly rising. “... What love life?”
“Mmm….” You tapped a finger to your lips in mock thought. “There’s this one story. You were in your mortal guise, and a tailor mended your robe for free. In return, you gave him a magical needle that could stitch through time and never break.”
Phainon blinked slowly, frowning.
You leaned in with a smirk, looking down at him. “And then — and I quote — Khaslana took his hands, looked into his eyes, and said, ‘your hands are more divine than mine’.”
Phainon groaned and covered his face with his hands. “That is not what I said.”
“Oh?”
He pouted up at you. “I said, ‘your handiwork is divine.’ Big difference.” He huffed. “And he didn’t even charge me! I just… gave him something useful. That’s not romantic love.”
You giggled. “Well, the temple dramatized it into an epic love story. The tailor’s descendants still run a shop in Aidonia, and they often brag about it. Even naming the shop after that encounter.’”
“Oh, for the love of—”
“Then there’s the bard,” You continued, voice full of amusement now. “You were watching her performance from the shadows, and when she sang of heartbreak, you cried, making it rain. And then you left a golden lyre at her bedside. Everyone says it was your divine confession.”
Phainon looked genuinely offended.
“She was dehydrated! She sang about how her love life was as dry as the water in her well. I summoned rain so she wouldn’t pass out!” He waved his hand frantically. “The lyre was a compliment for her pitch control— and I left it at her doorstep, not her bedside.”
“So you did leave her a lyre.”
“That’s not the point.”
You tried not to laugh seeing Phainon, in his divine form, being so worked up. Nonetheless, your hand still stroked his scalp.
“And then— Oh! The flower field incident—”
“There’s more?!”
“—They say you gifted someone an entire meadow of divine blooms, and when they didn’t love you back, you let the flowers wither in sorrow. That’s so tragic, Phainon.”
Phainon bolted upright, wings flaring slightly with indignant offense. “Those flowers died because they forgot to water them! I gave them an enchanted field, not a self-sustaining one! Why do they always make it about heartbreak?” He groaned.
He then fell back into your lap, causing you to yelp in surprise as he frowned and crossed his arms. “This is slander. Divine slander.” He really ought to have a word with those historians in Okhema.
You let out a light and breathy laugh, your fingers drifting once again through the soft locks of his golden hair. Phainon’s eyes fluttered closed at your touch, and a quiet pause settled between you. Then his lashes lifted, and his gaze found yours.
“But… do you believe in those stories?” He asked softly, voice low, as though afraid of the answer.
You hesitated, your hand stilling. Heat crept into your cheeks, and you looked away. “Well… I did,” you admitted, a little sheepish.
“They were told by the temple priests, and passed around like truths. And I… I admit I was disappointed at one point. Hearing that my future husband might have flirted with mortals left and right.”
A moment passed in silence. Then, without warning, Phainon moved.
He sat up with fluid grace, his divine form shifting so suddenly that your legs were pulled towards him. You let out a small gasp as your back hit the mattress, the silk sheets cool beneath you. He now loomed over you, his body caging yours in. His wings curled slightly inward, creating a canopy around you both. The air suddenly felt warmer.
His face hovered just above yours, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. His golden eyes searched yours, flicking downward to your lips before returning, gazing intensely.
“I told you what really happened,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. His clawed hand gently cupped your cheek, his touch feather-light. The other arm braced beside your head, his elbows holding himself up. “You believe me, right?”
Your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering beneath your ribs. His presence was overwhelming, intense in the depth of his love.
You nodded nervously, “Of course I-I do.”
His expression softened just a little, though the gold in his eyes still burned fiercely.
“Good,” he murmured, brushing his thumb slowly along your cheekbone. “Because I don’t want you to have even one stray thought that I could ever think of anyone else. I was never theirs. I am yours.”
And then he lowered himself, his lips ghosting across your neck— soft and hot and possessive. The sensation made your breath hitch, your fingers clutching at his arms beside you. His hand slid down, resting on the curve of your hip, his claw grazing the fabric of your robe.
“Phainon—” you whispered, breathless.
He chuckled against your skin, the sound low and wicked. Then, with his mouth brushing the sensitive spot just behind your ear, he whispered,
“How about we let the bards tell a new story?”
You shivered as his lips moved deliberately against the sensitive skin, his teeth biting with just enough pressure that it was ticklish and pleasurable at the same time. Your fingers flew to the nape of his neck, tugging at his hair.
“One about how the God of Worldbearing loved his wife so fiercely…” He murmured, his voice like a promise and a warning all at once.
“That she couldn’t leave their chamber for days, hm?”
Gonna close my ask box for now! Finishing up the last asks.
Thank you so much, everyone, for the love and support of my fic😭😭 it has been overwhelming (IN A GOOD WAY!!)🥹🥹🥹 But I gotta focus on the new mydei fic I'm making and knowing me, I easily get distracted... please look forward to it 🤸
hi!!! i read god!phainon fic a solid three times. i'm chronically, terminally, unequivocally obsessed with the way you write. it's been so refreshing amid this patch which is... raw pain. however, possibly bc i'm conditioned to pain, i've thought that wifey is a mortal... so... basically phaichan has but a blink of an eye together with her... what's 50 years to him? but i was thinking of a fluffy and potentially comedic resolution to all this, and wondered if they just were their lovey dovey selves and with time (say, around 20 or 30 years into their marriage), mrs. khaslana noticed she doesn't age in comparison to her old classmates, her cousins, even her atlas looks older than her. and then she realizes that her hubby's "divinity" rubbed off on her... phaichan probably fumbling bc he neglected to mention that a god's presence tends to 'rub off' on mortals that spend a lot of time with them - maybe the temple priests have unusually long lives too, but obviously, not to such an extent as his beloved, as they are just that close and intimate, as a married couple should be.
- peachy anon 🍑🧡
Okay, since Peachy anon 🍑 and other anon's questions are similar, I hope you all don't mind if I answer them together in a post ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ Also, I'm really impressed that y'all are so smart with these asks?? like I didn't even thought of that???? So as a thanks for fueling my brain juice, here's a drabble for it!
I tried so hard for it not to be too angsty and more fluffy. But really, how does one make the immortality theme 'fluffy'????? I hope it was to y'all's expectations huhu ಥ‿ಥ
Again, I am referring to this fic!
Wc: 2.1k+
Cw: Mentions of sex, mentions of death, kind of angst?? MDNI!!!!!
Now, you and Phainon had... well... done a lot of intercourse- Oh, what the hell, we're all adults here - SEX, you've had SEX lots of times.
At first, it was nothing.
The temple priests would mention, in quiet pleasantries, that you had begun to glow in the mornings. A soft, golden sheen clung to your skin like morning dew clings to grass— barely visible to the naked eye, but to priests trained to read omens and divine signs, it was unmistakable.
They said nothing outright, of course. Just subtle murmurs,
“Such radiance, even before morning prayers.”
“Lord Khaslana must be treating you very well.”
You brushed it off. Maybe it was just the afterglow of last night’s intimate session. Gods, he was affectionate, wasn’t he? Intimate moments with him often left you breathless and glowing in more ways than one. You didn’t think much of it.
Well… until you started to notice the other things.
The love marks Phainon left, the ones you tried so hard to hide with shawls and powder, began to fade. Too quickly.
You’d wake with fresh ones, only to find them already disappearing by noon. A few hours at most. Even when you knew they were raw that morning.
At first, you assumed Phainon was healing you in your sleep. Maybe it was just his way of doting on you, sparing you the discomfort. But soon, the phenomenon grew stranger.
Scars from childhood, a sign of your triumphant tree and wall climbing, were gone. Entirely! As if they had never existed at all.
You didn’t get blemishes anymore, even if you were out in the sun for too long. You didn’t have eyebags after sleepless nights. Your skin remained unblemished, your body never sore, your energy strangely boundless (even after rounds of intimacy with Phainon, and you know you don’t usually last after round two).
Then years passed.
You were still young, but others weren’t. Friends begin to subtly shift as their faces grew rounder, some even sharper. Wrinkles crept in at the corners of their eyes and the edges of their mouths. Their laughter sounded the same, but their smiles were aging.
And you… weren’t.
You still looked like the girl who arrived at the temple years ago. Your reflection hadn’t changed, and it wasn’t just your imagination.
Even Atlas, who was once clearly younger than you, now looked your age when you stood beside him. Time was grazing the world around you, but it was skipping you entirely.
You wanted to deny it. Chalk it up to a trick of the light. Good fortune. Healthy living. Anything but the obvious.
Is being with Phainon… changing me?
The question haunted you, ghosted behind your lips every time you looked in the mirror.
You were going to ask him tonight.
But first, dinner. A long, filling meal in the temple dining hall left you comfortably full and just a little sleepy. You leaned back in your chair, stretching your limbs with a soft sigh. The thought of walking all the way back to your chambers felt… effortful.
Still, you stood, pushing back the chair, only for the world beneath your feet to suddenly vanish.
A rush of wind.
Weightlessness.
Then solid ground again.
You blinked, heart racing, when you noticed that you were in your chambers.
No footsteps. No corridor. No time passed between standing up and standing here. Your fingers curled in on instinct. The air shimmered faintly around you, sparkling with gold, like the aftershock of a spell just cast.
And sitting across the room was Phainon. He looked up from a book, startled, eyes wide in disbelief.
“Did… did you just—?” he began, slowly placing the book down.
“I–I was going to ask you that!” you stammered, breath catching. “I thought you teleported me here!”
Phainon stood quickly and crossed the room in just a few strides, his expression shifting from surprise to concern. His hands reached for you with reverence, like you might break under his touch. He cupped your face, brushed his fingers along your arms, checking you for any signs of harm or tampering.
You saw it then—the golden flickers still dancing along your skin. The shimmering residue of magic. His magic.
His frown deepened.
“I didn’t teleport you,” he murmured. “But this—” his fingers hovered just above your shoulder, where the light hadn’t yet faded, “this is my power. My exact signature.”
He stepped back, gaze locked on you as if seeing something for the first time.
He decided to ask Anaxagoras about this.
The next day, you and Phainon journeyed to the Grove of Epiphany to visit the God of Reason, Anaxagoras. And today, Phainon carried a question that had quietly begun to terrify him.
Anaxagoras was already waiting, sitting atop his living throne—an immense, gnarled structure of divine wood and woven time, rooted deep into the heart of the grove. His form was human enough to comprehend, but his presence still felt divine.
“I heard you wanted to speak on something urgent,” Anaxagoras said dryly.
Phainon didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and uttered the question that had haunted him since last night.
And the vein on Anaxagoras’s temple visibly popped.
“Khaslana, you absolute fool!” Anaxagoras barked, leaping from his throne so abruptly that the branches shuddered in response. “If you were my subject, I’d have struck you down with my gun!”
You blinked.
Phainon blinked harder.
“Could you explain it first and threaten me later?” he muttered, rubbing his temples.
Anaxagoras growled under his breath before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But you’re not going to like the answer.”
He looked at you briefly, then gestured for Phainon to come closer.
“It’s your own doing,” he said. “Your powers, to be specific. Or in this case—your bodily fluids.” He shot Phainon a glare. “You’ve consummated the marriage, haven’t you?”
Phainon flushed, eyes darting away. “I mean… yes. A lot of times–”
Before he could say more, Anaxagoras reached out and flicked him hard on the forehead. The sound was crisp. “I do not need to hear details of that!”
You tried not to laugh. Truly, you did. You’d heard tales of how the gods interacted—centuries of shared chaos, rivalries, ridiculous escapades—but witnessing it firsthand was still surreal. The god of reason, flicking the god of worldbearing like a misbehaving child.
Then Anaxagoras turned to you.
Even in his mortal guise, he was intimidating.
But his voice, when he addressed you, was unexpectedly kind.
“I genuinely feel sorry for you,” he said. “Married to this fool.”
You blinked, unsure whether to thank him or agree.
Phainon groaned behind you. “You’re really not helping.”
“Let me be clear,” Anaxagoras said, turning back. “Our bodies—our fluids—aren’t like humans’. Ichor, divine essence, even our breath carries remnants of power. When exposed through repeated, intimate contact,” he emphasized, “it begins to leave a mark.”
Phainon’s brow furrowed. “So this is my fault?”
“Yes,” Anaxagoras said flatly. “Absolutely.”
“Will there be… side effects?” he asked, now more anxious than indignant.
Anaxagoras shrugged. “If you count slowed aging, accelerated healing, and a growing resistance to mortal harm as side effects, then yes. But she’s not immortal, Khaslana. Not truly. She’s just… out of sync with human time now.”
You had mixed feelings about this revelation, of course. But Phainon, knowing the pain all too well, would always comfort you whenever you had doubts. He felt sorry too, seeing as this was all because of him. But you reassured him, saying that you could be with him longer. He sighed, shaking his head. He knew you were just trying to put up a front, but he’ll play along with you. Talking about the things the two of you could now do with your extended time.
Now, talking about being mortal to divinity. Maybe at some point in your relationship, seeing as you are now aging differently, you might as well ask how to become an immortal like him.
When you asked the question, Phainon’s smile faltered.
He didn’t answer at first. His lips parting before closing again. He looked away, as if trying to search for a gentler version of the truth.
“It’s not easy,” He said at last. “Becoming a god… means dying first.”
His voice trembled in ways you’d never heard before—not with fear, but love, tangled with the fear of losing it.
Immortality wasn’t something that could simply be gifted. It had to be earned, endured. Ascension wasn’t just glory; it was transformation. And death would be your final offering.
The ritual was ancient. It required the counsel of Castorice, goddess of death, and the consent of the other gods.
And when approval was finally granted, he returned to you with a heavy heart and a golden chalice cradled in his hands.
The ritual took place in the Vortex of Genesis as you stood at the center of a magical circle, painted with Phainon’s golden blood.
The air shimmered, thick with power, and the light bent around your body like it already recognized your soul’s changing shape.
You stood there barefoot, wrapped in white, the chalice of ambrosia trembling in your hands.
Phainon stood behind you, arms encircling your waist, his face pressed gently into your neck. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered, “not for me.”
But you turned to him with a steady gaze. “I’m doing this with you.”
And so you drank. The special ambrosia burned.
It wasn’t a drink—it was fire, a star condensed into liquid. It lit every vein in your body until you collapsed, convulsing, gasping as the pain overtook you. Your hands clawed at the air, and Phainon was there, pulling you into his lap, cradling you like something fragile and sacred.
He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, and your hands. His tears evaporating everytime it touched your skin.
You screamed. Your body arched. And then—silence.
Phainon stared at your lifeless body, waiting nervously. Then, the circle glowed along with your body.
Golden veins of light threaded through your skin, pulsing with divine rhythm. The hollows of your cheeks flushed with new life. Your breathing returned—slow, serene. You opened your eyes.
And though you were no longer mortal, your eyes were still human. Still you.
Warm. Alive.
Phainon exhaled with relief, tears still falling. He cupped your face, awestruck. “Welcome back,” He whispered, “Welcome home, my love.”
Then he kissed you, not with desperation, but reverence.
After your ascension, Phainon chose to remain with you in Okhema.
He didn’t want you to make the same mistakes he had made.
For centuries, Khaslana had drifted through the divine currents of existence—distant, worshipped, untouchable. The god of worldbearing had carried the weight of creation across his back, but never the soft weight of a shared breath, or a mortal hand clasped in his own. He was praised by cities, prayed to by kings, but he had long since forgotten how to feel like one of them.
And over time, without even realizing it, he had let that distance hollow him out.
The more he watched from afar, the more he became something unfeeling. Something vast, and cold, and unreachable. He had thought it was the price of divinity—this quiet decay of empathy, this numbness that settled like frost across his soul.
But then you came.
And through you, your laughter, your mortal worries, your stubbornness, your warmth— he remembered.
What it was to ache.
To hope.
To want.
You brought color back to a god dulled by centuries of stillness. You touched him, and the world moved again.
Where once your relationship with Khaslana had been veiled in secrecy, now there was no more need to hide. You and Phainon walked openly through Okhema, your divine presence no longer a rumor, but a truth the people embraced. Hand in hand, you moved through the markets and narrow streets.
Your friends wept when they saw you. Some knelt. Others reached out to touch your hands, to make sure you were real. Your family embraced you with a kind of joy so deep it broke into grief.
And Atlas? He wept the most.
“Are you… Still you?”
You hugged him tightly. “I am,” you promised. “I will always be your sister.”
You and Phainon often returned to Okhema, walking through the markets, tending to the sick, healing when you could. Your powers were still new, still growing—but you used them with care, and with humility.
Just as Khaslana was the God of Worldbearing, to the people, you were now the Goddess of Humanity.
A goddess who still walked among her people, not above them, but beside them.
i know you said god!phainon fic has come to a close so feel free to ignore this ask if you dont want to answer!! but im really curious how it would go down if reader ever wanted to run off with phainon and how he'd respond to it? i know he expresses worry about reader falling for phainon instead of khaslana, so how would he react if he's actually faced with that situation?
HI!! Hi!!! Sorry, this took long, busy with my thesis ߹𖥦߹ but here you are!! Also, I'm referring to this fic right here
Wc: 1.1k+
cw: Yandere!Phainon lol
If y'all choose to run away with Phainon and not Khaslana. He won't take it very well. Your words would shatter him.
He would vanish. No footsteps, no goodbye, no trace of the quiet and gentle man who used to sit by your side to laugh at your jokes. Phainon simply disappears, leaving the wind eerily still in his absence.
You were worried at first, wondering if your question had pushed him away. Maybe you'd frightened him, maybe he was overwhelmed by the weight of your words.
But he, Khaslana, was still very much there. Watching, listening, breaking.
What you didn't know was that far above you, beyond the reach of a prayer and reason, a god was unraveling, almost going mad.
Your confession to run away with Phainon, the mortal, had echoed his mind like a parasite. Even if it was him in disguise, it still burned him.
You chose the man, not the god.
And if you could be swayed by that fragment of him, what would stop you from being swayed by another? What if someone else had met you first? Would you have run into their arms too?
The idea devoured him. The thoughts came faster than he could silence them. It was the kind of fear that gods weren't supposed to feel.
insecurity and rejection.
The weather in Okhema turned unnatural.
Blizzards swept in from the mountains. Then, as if repenting, the skies would break open into violent, dry heat. Crops wilted, and people were getting sick and injured. Winds howled without warning. The stars themselves seemed dimmer, as if even the sky was grieving.
You looked up at the sky in fear. Did Khaslana hear what you said to Phainon? Had you offended your husband? Had your betrayal angered a god?
You prayed. You knelt until your knees bruised. You whispered apologies until your voice cracked. You brought offerings, sleepless nights, bitter tears. Anything and everything to make the madness in the skies stop.
But the silence was unrelenting. And Phainon? he was still missing.
The loneliness gnawed at you. There was no one to confide in. You missed his laughter and his warmth.
Until one day, after too many nights and bad weather of unanswered prayers, you couldn't take it anymore.
You left the temple, walked into the wilds, and on top of the hill alone. The wind bit at your skin, and the air smelled like distant lightning. You screamed his name, Khaslana, into the sky. Calling him a coward for not answering your pleas.
But then, he appeared. The air turned heavy. It was too still, too quiet. From behind the trees, you saw him.
Phainon.
But something was clearly wrong.
He didn't smile. His usual warm face was unreadable. His eyes, the ones that would remind you of the blue sky, were now blazing gold. It was sharp, filled with divine judgment.
You stepped forward, heart stammering.
"Phainon?" you called softly. Questions filled your mind, but your mouth stayed shut.
He didn't move. Just stared.
Then, his voice filled the air. It was layered, echoing across the wind and stone, reverberating like the sound of a mountain crumbling to pieces.
"You wanted to run away with Phainon." He started, "You'd leave your husband."
Your breath caught.
Why was he speaking like that?
Why did his voice echo like thunder caught in the temple prayer room? Why was the air so heavy now, pressing against your lungs like a storm that hadn't broken? How had he found you on this desolate hill after disappearing for days?
And why... why did he come when you called your husband's name?
Your heart pounded.
"Who... are you?" You asked with trembling lips.
He stepped forward to you. From his back, wings appeared. One glowed gold, radiant and warm, while the other was as dark as a dying star. Flames crawled across his shoulders and down his arms, licking at his skin. It wasn't burning, it was revealing him.
His snow-white hair ignited into strands of living sunlight. His skin turned pale, statue-like, and fractured with glowing molten gold cracks.
You stumbled backward, eyes wide.
He was beautiful and terrifying at the same time. He was not the man you thought you knew.
And yet... his eyes were the same. Aching with unbearable longing.
"Phainon," you whispered,
“No,” he said. “Khaslana.”
His voice was soft now. Gentle. But it rumbled beneath your ribs like a god speaking through a dream. He took another step, his golden clawed hand reaching out—not to strike, but to touch.
His fingers then brushed your cheek. The sharpness of his claws grazed your skin, but the touch was careful, his fingers almost trembling.
“I met you in the market,” he said, voice thick with memory. “I laughed with you. I walked beside you as Phainon. As the man you trusted. The man you chose.”
He looked down at you with a cracked smile, pain gleaming in his golden eyes.
“But when I heard you reject Khaslana… the god—me… it broke something inside me.”
You tried to speak. To explain. That you didn’t know. That if you had, you might have—you might have—
“I’ve come to learn,” he continued, interrupting your panic, “that you can be easily swayed.”
His hand dropped to his side, claws curling slowly into a fist. The earth quivered beneath you. His voice darkened.
“If it had been someone else… someone kind, mortal, and warm. Would you have followed them too?"
He stepped closer. “If I hadn’t worn that face, if I hadn’t played the fool in the market, would you ever have loved me?”
You opened your mouth. “I—I didn’t know. I didn’t mean—”
He tilted his head slightly, as if observing a fragile creature he loved too much to break—but might still cage.
“I would destroy this city if someone took you from me.”
His words weren’t shouted; they were whispered. But somehow, that made them worse.
You reached out, hands trembling. “Please… I didn’t know. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t know you were the same. I’ll stay. I’ll be obedient. I won't ask for anything else—just please, leave Okhema alone…”
His gaze softened—just a fraction.
“You say that now,” he murmured, almost sweetly, “but mortals change. They wander. They forget.”
His wings stretched wide behind him, a divine eclipse folding in on itself. He stepped close enough for you to feel the heat rolling off his skin, the scent of lightning and smoke and myrrh. His arms came around you—not to harm, but to hide you.
“To keep Okhema safe…” he whispered, voice brushing your ear like a lover’s promise, “I must keep you where no one else can reach you.”
His wings closed around you like a cage made of light and shadow.
i wonder how phainon would feel if his wife was seriously hurt at some point. hmm. hurt by someone else intentionally. hmmmmm.
NO BUT think about it!!! If the Reader was sought out by someone just to be hurt for whatever reason, (whether that be the guy from your last god!phainon story who was chased off by him and wanted some sort of revenge against him and/or them both!!) I wonder how bad Phainons reaction would be. He responds as Khaslana, not as Phainon. Lets himself invoke wrath upon this guy for hurting wife. hoo yeah. If Khaslana was scary to the Reader during the storm, imagine just how terrifying he could be if this happened. But thats just me!!! do whatever you want with this information!
Cw: slight gore, talking about divine punishments
Fun fact! Phainon ALMOST lost it and wanted to curse or bring wrath upon that dude. But he's not in Okhema. He's in another God's territory, and that said goddess is Aglaea. He can't go willy nilly and punish the Goddess of Romance's subject, especially seeing you're not hurt.
No one wants to get on Aglaea's bad side.
BUT, in the circumstances that the dude DID hurt you, Phainon would probably lose it. I'm thinking somewhere around turning him into a weeping statue, or literally appearing to him in Khaslana form, sending him to another realm for punishment Atlas Greek myth style (pushing a boulder up a steep hill) if he gets crushed, Phainon would ask Castorice to bring the dude back to life to start over from the bottom.
If the dude wasn't from a city that worships anyone? Say bye bye to that said city. If the dude was from Okhema? The punishment is just as severe as the Carmitis dude, but a little less harsh to his standards (it's still incredibly disturbing to humans, cuz wdym turning him slowly into a tree as his body grew rigid everyday and the branches burst from his skin is 'less' harsh?)
It really depends on how hurt you were! For the dude in Carmitis, he's sure Aglaea would understand... maybe. Oh, he'll think about that later! As long as you're okay.
I love the way you write phainon so much it's so addicting to read
Thank you?!?!?!? I really appreciate it because there's LOTS of times where I thought that the way I write him might be too OOC??? Like I didn't want to write a whole different person 😭😭
But seeing y'all liking him in the fic so much is 🥹🥹🥹 thank u again to all of you!! I love reading your comments 🤸♀️
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.
But... It was all worth it.
Notes: Hey, so uh, if you see this first, I recommend you read this fic before this one, otherwise it won't make sense hehe. With this, To Love The Burning Sun has come to a close. Please look forward to my future projects (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ
Side Story I
“Are you sure we won’t get caught?” Arielle whispered, her voice barely louder than the rustle of leaves. She kept glancing nervously over her shoulder, eyes locked on the grand doors of the temple’s main prayer hall—the very room the three of you were supposed to be kneeling in, chanting verses.
“Don’t worry about it~” Fortuna said with a dismissive wave, flipping her braid over one shoulder. “We’ve done this a hundred times.” She jerked her chin toward you and the tree.
You stood at the base of the old fig tree, squinting up into its thick tangle of branches. Your fingertips brushed the bark, testing for the dampness.
Good grip, you thought as you gave a satisfied nod. “Alright, just like before. Follow my lead.”
Without another word, you hoisted yourself up, sandals scraping against the bark and trunk pressing into your palms. The muscle memory guided you as you put your left foot on the knot and your right hand on the branch just above you. You have to admit it didn’t look elegant, but hey, it worked.
“I-I really think we should head back,” Arielle said, wringing her hands at the base of the tree. She looked as if she’d rather face the head priestess than climb a tree.
“If you’d rather spend the entire Lucid Hour rewriting verses we’ve all memorized since we were ten, then, by all means,” You said, not even glancing down as you climbed higher. “But I’m going to see what Okhema has to offer today.”
Fortuna snorted with laughter and grabbed a low branch, pulling herself up with ease. “Come on, Elle. You can’t live in fear forever.”
You reached the branch that jutted over the temple wall and inched across it, balancing carefully as the leaves brushed your face. With practiced motion, you swung your legs over the edge, perched like the birds you often see.
“See you on the other side,” you whispered to them and jumped.
You landed on the grassy slope with a soft thud. A pulse of victory surged through you as you turned and threw a grin up to your friends. “Easy!”
Fortuna followed with a fluid leap, landing with the grace of someone who was clearly enjoying the rebellion a little too much. She brushed off her hands and turned around t look at Arielle.
Meanwhile, the girl had just managed to crawl to the top of the wall. She sat there frozen, hands gripping the edge of the wall as she looked down with wide eyes.
“Come on!” You called up, hands cupped around your mouth. “You’re not going to die!”
“I’m not so sure,” Arielle muttered.
After a lot of coaxing and a little peer pressure, she slid off the edge with a squeal that made a few birds fly from the nearby trees. She landed in a clumsy heap, dress tangled around her knees. Her face was bright red as she stood and attempted to dust herself off with whatever dignity she could salvage.
“See? You survived!” Fortuna grinned.
“Barely,” you added with a snicker, patting Arielle’s shoulder as she groaned. “Let’s go. The market’s waiting!”
“What about your dad? What if he finds out?” Fortuna asked.
“My mom visited yesterday and told me to pray for him during his travels to Akashic. He won’t be back for a while.” You shrugged.
As you led them down the winding footpath away from the temple, the city of Okhema opened before you. Stalls lined the cobbled streets, bursting with the colors of fruits, silk, painted trinkets, and books with cracked spines and questionable titles. The sweet and savory smell of food filled your nostrils. Children ran between carts, laughing.
You sighed, breathing in the air.
The three of you browsed and bartered, your pockets nearly empty but your curiosity overflowing. You spent your last few coins on skewers and sizzling meat. You pointed to a quiet corner near the fountain, and the others followed as you sat and enjoyed your hard-won lunch.
Just as you raised your skewer to your lips, a familiar sound froze you in place. A sharp clearing of the throat.
You turned, stomach dropping to the nether realm.
Your father stood there in his full military uniform, arms crossed, brow raised in a way that could silence a battlefield. His presence casts a shadow bigger than the temple walls themselves.
Fortuna’s smile vanished, and Arielle’s soul was probably already turning herself in to Lady Castorice in the nether realm by how pale she turned.
“What a surprise,” your father said dryly, voice flat with disapproval. “Didn’t realize temple training involved grilled meat and street musicians.”
“We were just — um — there was— I—” You tried,
Your father didn’t even blink. “All three of you. Back to the temple. Now.”
The walk back felt longer than your journey out. Heads ducked, feet dragging, you followed him like prisoners returning to their sentence. You glanced at Arielle and Fortuna. All three of you wore the same expression of dread and resignation.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Wow,” Phainon murmured, resting his head lazily on the pillow beside you. “Didn’t take you for a troublemaker, with how obedient and polite you acted when you first came here.” his chuckle was soft, almost amused, his eyes half-lidded with post-bliss after another intimate session.
You snorted, your cheek pressed against the plush pillow as your body sank deeper into the mattress, your bare skin still warm beneath the blankets you both now shared.
“Yeah, well… I learned my lesson. After that last escapade, the temple enforced stricter rules just for me. And my father? He made sure I got my fair share of punishment.” You exhaled through your nose, the memory still vivid enough to make you wince.
“My rebelling teenage days were cut short; the ‘Elusive Priestess’ was no more.” You dramatically cried.
Phainon sighed, “I don’t think that’s something you should be boasting about… especially to me,” he commented.
“Don’t worry. Just because I used to sneak out of prayers doesn’t mean I forgot my devotion to you. All those stories they told about how brave and loving you were… they really did something to me.” You smiled wistfully, eyes distant with the memory of the Khaslana you once imagined.
Though, to be fair, there were times when it felt like you’d been coerced into loving him. By putting you in that temple, learning those prayers, lessons, and praises sung in his name… it had felt less like love and more like obligation.
But the man before you now was everything you had once dared to hope for. Kind, flawed, warm. You hadn’t been wrong about him. The path to get here had just been… a little rougher than expected.
Phainon shifted beside you, turning to his side, his bare chest in full view, his white hair slightly tousled as he rested his head on his hand.
“But wait,” He said, narrowing his eyes as the thought struck him, “Didn’t you say your father was supposed to be on a campaign? How was he even in the city that day?”
You smiled faintly.
“Funny you ask that. He actually said something weird at the time — he swore in your name, mind you — that a mountain had suddenly appeared where there wasn’t one before. He and his men had taken that road dozens of times, and it had always been flat. The maps didn’t show any mountains nearby either. He had to turn around and rethink the entire route.”
You laughed quietly to yourself at the memory. Your father’s face was twisted in frustration, gripping a map in one hand and cursing the magically-appearing-mountain under his breath.
But Phainon didn’t laugh.
You turned your head, “Phainon?”
He was quiet, his expression blank for a moment before he blinked, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. “Where exactly did you say your father was going again?”
“Akashic…” you replied slowly, narrowing your eyes.
Phainon let out a soft laugh and shook his head in disbelief. “Oh dear,” he muttered under his breath, then looked at you again. “Okay, this is going to sound… bad, but do you know Mydeimos, the God of Strife?”
You nodded, “Yeah…”
“So… we sort of had this wager a while back. He claimed I couldn’t move one of Georios’ immovable mountains in a day. He said that if I failed, he’d get to rule Okhema for a full year.”
You stared at him, “You’re joking.”
“Nope. I took the challenge. Moved the mountain in under half a day. Tossed it near Akashic because it seemed out of the way. Crisis averted, Okhema remains under my jurisdiction.”
Your jaw dropped.
“So… you’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that my father wouldn’t have caught me sneaking out if you hadn’t moved an entire mountain into his path?!”
Phainon smiled nervously, inching slightly away from you. “Technically— yes?”
You squinted at him. “You absolute—!” Your hand shot out, grabbing his ahoge. That one rebellious strand that always sprang from his head.
“OW— Hey!” He yelped.
“Do you have any idea how many verses I had to write?!”
“OW! Not so hard!”
“My fingers were cramped for a month!”
“Forgive me!”
“You think a god would have some foresight,” you muttered through gritted teeth, twisting the strand lightly.
“Wait– why are you blaming me? It’s your fault for sneaking out– OW!”
With one final tug, you let go, watching him collapse dramatically onto the pillows with his hands shielding his hair. His eyes were glassy, and his lower lip jutted out in the most exaggerated pout you’d ever seen— like a kicked puppy.
“Come here,” you mumbled, pulling him into your arms.
Phainon let out a pleased hum as you wrapped yourself around him, his face nuzzling your naked chest. You placed a firm kiss on his ahoge, slightly harder than necessary, and he chuckled again.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked.
“Barely.”
You kissed his temple, your earlier annoyance melting into soft affection. Your fingers combed through his white hair, soothing the pain. He had relaxed completely, limbs tangling with yours under the blanket.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your father let out a long sigh as he crossed his arms, watching you from across the room. You sat at the low table in the living room, hunched over a worn sheet of parchment, your cramped finger scrawling the same sentence, what must have been the thirtieth time.
I will not try to sneak out again.
The scratch of your pen was the only sound filling the air, save for the occasional huff of frustration you would let out. This was supposed to be your weekend of fun! You can even hear the sound of laughter from outside your house. Instead, you were trapped indoors under your father’s surveillance, paying the price for your latest stunt.
Your mother appeared beside him, placing a cool drink into his hands. She settled into the seat next to him with a small laugh, her eyes glinting with amusement as she glanced at your miserable figure.
“What am I going to do with her?” your father muttered, not loud enough for you to hear but perfectly audible to his wife.
“I heard they found a map of ‘possible escape routes’ scribbled behind her desk at the table,” your mother replied, unable to stop the fond smirk tugging at her lips. “She definitely inherited your strategic genius.”
Your father groaned, rubbing at his temples as if the memory of his youth physically pained him. “And what does she do with it? She uses it to scale walls and dodge prayer sessions! I just want her to be ready… her future’s already been decided because of me. The least I can do is prepare her.”
His voice was softer and quieter, heavy with guilt.
Your mother’s gaze softened. She leaned into his shoulder with a knowing sigh. “Oh, like you were any better,” she said, nudging him gently. “You used to skip out of training just to see me in the market, remember? You climbed up those spiky fences once just to leave me a note.”
Your father tried to hide the flicker of a smile. “That was different.”
“Sure it was,” your mother said, clearly unconvinced. “Maybe Lord Khaslana will appreciate a lover with a rebellious streak. You know, someone who’s bold and witty. The kind who climb temple walls for fun.” She sipped from her own glass, her eyes twinkling with tease, “I accepted you, didn’t I?”
He raised a brow at her, deadpan. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing!” she said quickly, rising to her feet with feigned innocence. “Phew! The weather’s hot today, isn’t it?” And with a teasing smile, she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him to grumble behind her.
Side Story II
“Wow! So this is Carmitis!” you gasped, eyes wide with wonder as they roamed the breathtaking cityscape.
Built along the curve of a serene bay, Carmitis shimmered like a gemstone beneath the sun. The city was renowned across Amphoreus for its devotion to the arts. Sculptures adorned every corner of every plaza, and murals danced across temple walls in hues so vivid they seemed to glow. The sound of music floated on the sea breeze, even though no musician was visibly performing. The wind itself carried the ethereal tones of water lyres, instruments unique to this city, creating melodies that colored the air like threads of silk.
You had always wondered what other cities in Amphoreus looked like. And Phainon, ever the considerate husband, had kept his promise to bring you beyond the marble gates of Okhema. Now here you were.
Before your trip, Phainon had consulted the other gods for suggestions on where to take you at the Vortex of Genesis. Naturally, the ever-proud God of Strife, Mydeimos, had jumped at the chance.
“You must visit Castrum Kremnos,” he’d said with a grin. “We serve the finest pomegranate juice in all of Amphoreus. The annual Kremnoan Festival is just around the corner. It’ll be held in the colosseum. Nothing stirs the blood like the clash of swords while drinking the taste of pomegranate juice with milk. Trust me, your little wife will love it.”
Phainon had barely stifled a grimace when Anaxagoras, God of Reason, interjected coolly.
“Do you want her to die of a heart attack from those brutal Kremnoans you’re always so proud of?” Anaxagoras stepped forward, arms behind his back, gaze steady. “I suggest the Grove of Epiphany instead. The public library there is extensive, from divine philosophy to romantic fiction. Knowledge deepens connection. Let her mind grow with yours.”
Phainon had considered it. You did love reading, after all. The Grove of Epiphany, where Anaxagoras resided and had watched over, could be an excellent choice.
But…
“But, Anaxa, are there–” Phainon began.
“Anaxagoras,” the god corrected with a sharp glance.
“A-Anaxagoras,” Phainon tried again. “Are there… any other activities there besides reading?”
Anaxagoras frowned, as though the question offended him on a spiritual level. “What other activities should there be, when reading is clearly the pinnacle of shared experience?”
Before Phainon could reply, a soft, melodic laugh floated through the air.
Aglaea arrived with grace, her heels clicking elegantly across the polished marble floor. Her arms crossed over her chest, expression full of amusement.
“Do not listen to these fools, Khaslana.” She said, her voice silken. She stopped beside a now scowling Anaxagoras and a very unamused Mydeimos, casting her eyes toward Phainon.
“The Grove will give you more trouble than pleasure,” She drawled, casually flicking her hair toward the God of Reason. “You’ll be too busy slipping over damp moss and avoiding overly curious scholars to enjoy a good book in peace.”
Then, with a coy smile, she added, “We wouldn’t want another storm to befall our beloved Amphoreus, would we?”
Phainon groaned under his breath. She was never going to let that incident go.
“Oh, and what, pray tell, would you suggest?” Mydeimos asked, raising a brow.
Aglaea smirked like she had already won. “Trust the Goddess of Romance to know the answer.”
And for once, Phainon followed her advice without protest. Because standing there now, beside you, watching your face light up as the sea wind played music through unseen lyres, he had to admit that Aglaea was right.
“Well,” he chuckled, “You really can’t go wrong with a city that worships the Goddess of Romance. It lives up to her name, that’s for sure.”
Phainon gently tugged your hand as the two of you strolled through the marble-lined streets of Carmitis. The scent of salt hung on the breeze, mixing with sweet hints of florals that spilled from balconies above. He led you through an ivy-covered archway, toward a villa tucked near the cliffs, its design both modest and elegant.
“She prepared this for us?” you asked, eyeing the delicate rosewood carvings on the doorframe.
Phainon nodded, though his lips curled sheepishly. “I originally planned for us to book an inn. You know, get the full ‘mortal couple on a trip’ experience. Maybe a rickety room with creaky floors and too many windows.”
You snorted. “Very romantic.”
“But... a private place like this?” He smiled faintly as he pushed open the doors. “It’s nice to have something that’s just ours.”
Inside, the house was bathed in warm light, soft drapery flowing with the breeze through open windows that framed the sea below. After setting down your travel essentials, you both ventured back into the city, arms brushing as you walked side by side, savoring the relaxed freedom of being unknown, unburdened.
“Aglaea said we’re welcome to visit her tailor shop here,” Phainon mentioned, glancing at you with a hint of mischief. “Anything we like, on the house.”
You blinked. “Wait, Aglaea has a tailor shop?”
“She’s a terrific businesswoman,” Phainon said, “Sewing and dressmaking are her passions.”
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Which one? Which shop?”
“I think it’s called... Romantic Threads?”
Your jaw dropped. “The Romantic Threads? The one in Okhema that books up three seasons in advance?!”
“...Possibly?”
Without another word, you latched onto his arm. “We are going. Now.”
Phainon let out a startled laugh as you dragged him down the main street.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The boutique was nestled between sculpted columns and surrounded by glowing flowers that never wilted. You stepped inside, and your breath hitched. The interior was all velvet drapes and mirrors kissed with gold. A soft instrumental hum floated through the air. As if summoned by your entrance, one of the Garmentmakers glided toward you, its elegant, floating form headless but perfectly graceful.
“Greetings, Lord Khaslana and his bride. Lady Aglaea has instructed us to offer you our full attention. Please, make yourselves at home.”
You could barely believe it. Garmentmakers flitted across the floor, carrying bolts of silk that shimmered like captured starlight. Phainon wandered curiously to a mannequin clad in a regal ensemble.
“Hmm… do you have this color in purple?” he asked, tilting his head. The Garmentmaker paused mid-glide, its hand tilting in acknowledgment before floating off to find alternatives.
You, meanwhile, stood in the center of the boutique, completely overwhelmed by the grandeur.
“I can’t believe it’s empty,” you murmured aloud. “In Okhema, you can’t even peek through the windows without a reservation.”
A nearby Garmentmaker turned toward you. “Lady Aglaea cleared the schedule. Today, this boutique belongs to you alone.”
Your heart warmed at that. You were ushered gently into a fitting chamber, the Garmentmakers taking precise measurements while whispering silks and satins floated from their unseen racks.
When you finally stepped out, you wore a dress crafted in hues of soft blue, white, and warm gold. A corset cinched your waist in elegant curves, engraved with delicate floral motifs that shimmered with each breath. The skirt floated just beneath your knees, perfect for walking near the sea.
You saw Phainon was still busy asking the poor Garmentmaker for other colors. So, you cleared your throat to get his attention.
He turned. And froze.
His eyes widened as if he had forgotten how to breathe.
“You…” he exhaled, stepping forward as if drawn to you by some invisible thread. “You look… amazing.”
He circled around you slowly, fingertips brushing against the curve of your arm, then ghosting along the edge of your sleeve. His gaze was reverent, like a priest looking upon a miracle.
You giggled, cheeks warm. “Right? I’ve always wanted to visit this shop back in Okhema. But every time I tried, it was fully booked. I didn’t even know she owned it!”
Phainon chuckled and brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Next time, we’ll just ask Aglaea directly.”
The Garmentmakers helped adjust your accessories as Phainon disappeared into a fitting room of his own. You didn’t see the outfit he chose, but you were certain it was wonderful. (it's not)
You decided to immediately wear yours while Phainon’s clothes were wrapped up. By the time you stepped out onto the street again, hand-in-hand, the world felt warmer.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Unlike the structured stone markets of Okhema, Carmitis boasted a floating market unlike any you’d ever seen. Wooden platforms bobbed gently atop the clear turquoise waters of the bay, connected by arching bridges of woven rope and driftwood. Colorful stalls shaded by silk canopies swayed in the breeze, offering everything from exotic fruits to jeweled trinkets.
You found yourself drawn to a stall where strands of pearls gleamed under the sun, laid delicately atop deep blue velvet. Each pearl shimmered with subtle hues: rose gold, ocean silver, even a rare iridescent black, and for a moment, you were lost in their beauty.
Phainon had excused himself moments ago, promising to return with a delicacy he spotted. It was a charred fish skewer, seasoned with spices known only to this coastal region. You’d smiled and waved him off, humming softly as you browsed.
That peace didn’t last long.
A man sidled up beside you, a little too close for comfort. His voice broke the serenity. “These pearls are something, huh?”
You turned to him, instinctively taking a half-step back but offering a polite nod. “Yes, they’re quite beautiful.”
He grinned, the kind that didn’t quite reach the eyes. “You’re not from around here, are you? I’ve lived in Carmitis my whole life. I’d remember someone like you.”
Your smile tightened. “I’m just visiting.”
That should’ve been enough, but he wasn’t finished. He launched into a stream of chatter—stories of his childhood, fishing trips on the bay, festivals he’d danced in, all the while inching closer. When you tried to change the topic, he pivoted. When you gave short answers, he filled the silence.
Then, as if you hadn’t already been trying to signal disinterest, he asked, “Mind if I buy you something to drink?”
There it was.
You exhaled sharply, keeping your tone civil but firm. “No, thank you. I have a husband.”
He blinked. “Really? Don’t see a ring on you.”
You gave a tight-lipped smile and glanced toward the stall owner, silently hoping for help, but the man behind the counter suddenly busied himself with rearranging necklaces, pretending not to hear.
Before you could conjure another excuse, you felt a shift behind you, like the air itself had thickened.
A sudden chill crawled down your spine, and a familiar pressure pressed in on your senses.
“Would a punch to your face suffice?”
The voice, low and dangerous, sliced through the tension.
You turned to see Phainon standing behind you. But this wasn’t the soft-eyed, patient Phainon who held your hand ever so gently. No, his posture was sharp and rigid. His usual ocean-blue eyes blazed gold, glowing with divine ire.
The stranger visibly paled. “H-hey, man, I didn’t mean— I didn’t realize—”
Phainon stepped forward once. “Get lost.”
The words weren’t shouted, but they echoed like thunder. The man didn’t wait for a second warning as he spun on his heel and stumbled away, disappearing into the crowd.
You let out the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “Thanks for saving me back there—”
But before you could finish, Phainon’s hand gently but firmly clasped your wrist. “Phainon?” you blinked, trying to catch up. He led you to a more secluded area, where no one was watching.
You were about to protest, but it died in your throat as the world around you flickered, blurred, and folded inward. The scent of salt air was replaced by wood, and the hum of the market gave way to silence.
When your vision cleared, you found yourself standing inside your villa. In your bedroom.
You’d never get used to his teleportation.
Phainon stood with his back to you, shoulders still tense. You reached out instinctively. “Phainon, are you alright? I’m okay, truly. He didn’t hurt me.”
He turned slowly, and your heart skipped.
His golden gaze still burned, bright and unyielding. But it wasn’t anger that radiated from him now; it was protective, possessive, and unnerved.
His lips parted, but for a moment, he said nothing. Just stared at you as if confirming you were really there, unharmed.
“I know,” he finally said, voice hoarse. “But… seeing someone else speaking to you like that…” his jaw clenched. “It infuriates me.”
You stepped toward him gently, your fingers brushing the curve of his arm. At your touch, Phainon let out a shaky breath, the storm in his golden eyes beginning to settle. You reached up, resting your hand on his cheek, grounding him back to the moment.
He took your hand in his, his thumb lingering over your ring finger. The gesture was soft, but his expression turned pensive. You followed his gaze and realized what he was fixated on.
You gave a faint sigh. “I’m yours, Phainon,” you said softly, giving his hand a light squeeze. “You don’t have to prove that to anyone else.”
His shoulders relaxed at your words, and he leaned forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His arms encircled your waist with a quiet desperation, as if anchoring himself to you.
You chuckled lightly and ran your fingers along the back of his neck. It was something you’d discovered that calmed him in moments like this. He melted into your touch.
The dress you wore slipped slightly as you shifted, baring more of your shoulder. Phainon’s lips found the newly exposed skin, pressing slow, reverent kisses there.
At first it tickled, but then he added the slightest pressure with his teeth— gentle nips that sent warmth coursing through you. You sighed, threading your fingers through his hair, then tugging lightly when he bites harder, your knees weak.
“Ah— Phainon…”
He let out a quiet growl in response, his grip around you tightening. When his lips left your neck to meet yours, the kiss was unrestrained. It was messy and hungry, his emotions pouring into every movement. He guided you back toward the bed, easing you down as he hovered over you.
His breathing was uneven, matching your own. He paused for a moment, his eyes drinking in your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the dazed look in your eyes. Then he smiled, a mix of affection and something more intense.
“I blame Aglaea,” he murmured, tugging at the collar of his shirt with a low huff. “Making you wear something this beautiful… now I have to protect you from pests.”
You laughed, breathless, watching as he fumbled with his shirt. There was something endearingly human about the way he struggled with it despite all his godly elegance. Once it was off, he leaned down again and pressed a softer kiss to your lips.
“As much as I adore you in this,” he whispered, fingers brushing the edge of your dress, “I want to see you out of it.”
His hands moved with care, slipping away the layers of fabric with practiced grace. His gaze never left yours, reverent and full of fire, as if each inch of skin revealed was something sacred.
He trailed kisses from your collarbone, leaving red blooming marks in his wake. Once his lips reached your breasts, he latched his mouth to your nipple, giving the bud kitten licks while his hand paid attention to the other, tugging and pinching at the flesh. You moan at the waves of pleasure crashing to you.
After having tended both of your breasts, his fiery kisses traveled lower to your stomach, then to the inside of your thighs. His muscular arms opened your legs wide. He pulled away, earning a whine of protest from you.
He slid your panties down your legs with ease, letting them fall forgotten to the floor. His gaze flicked up to meet yours— your breath uneven, the back of your hand pressed to your mouth, eyes fluttering from the weight of pleasure. With a playful grin, he leaned in close, blowing softly against your wetness. You let out a frustrated whine, your body tensing in anticipation. He chuckled, clearly pleased by your reaction.
“Don’t tease me.” You said, between breaths.
Phainon chuckled, lying down on the bed as he put your legs over his shoulder, “You’re making it hard not to, sweetheart.”
Your heart leaped at the pet name. But before you could calm yourself down, Phainon connected his lips to your folds, tongue lapping you up and down before pushing it inside.
You arched your back from the pleasure. Usually, Phainon would be more gentle during intimacy. This time, it felt like he was impatient—angry almost, with the way he pulled you closer to his mouth.
You reached down, fingers threading through the tousled strands of his hair. With a gentle tug, you felt him shudder below you— a low moan escaping his lips. The sound reverberated against your core, you ground your hips on his mouth, and the sensation sent a jolt through your entire body.
Phainon then inserted two fingers inside. A shameless moan escaped your lips before you could stop it, the sound far too indulgent for your own comfort.
Phainon finally pulled away from your vagina, lips glistening with your fluids. He hovered his body above you, fingers still inside as his gaze met yours. With hooded eyes, he watched you whimper and whine while he thrust his fingers roughly, grinning as your body would jolt with pleasure every time he hit that spongy spot inside you. Your hands flew to his arms, gripping his muscles tightly.
“Phainon–Phainon–Phainon,” you murmured his name like a prayer, breathless and trembling. A soft smile curved his lips as he leaned in to kiss you again, letting you taste yourself on his lips.
When Phainon curled his fingers, you couldn’t help but pull away from his kiss, letting out screams of pleasure as you near your high.
“Come on, you’re doing so good for me, sweetheart. Just let go,” He whispered, rubbing his thumb on your clit.
You came undone after a few more thrusts of his fingers. Your voice cracking as you felt the tight knot in your stomach snapped. Phainon slowed down his digits, calming you down from your high.
When your breath became steadier, he pulled his fingers out, causing you to whimper at the empty feeling. Still drunk from the euphoric feeling, you didn’t realize Phainon was flipping you over to your chest. He then lifted your hips with care, just as you heard the quiet rustle of his pants being pulled off from behind you.
“Phainon, what– ah!”
Before you could even finish your sentence, Phainon had fully pushed his length into you, letting out a low groan as he bottomed out. His breaths quicken as he holds you still, watching you squirm and whine, still sensitive from your previous high.
You propped yourself on your elbows, and he leaned closer, placing his head beside yours, which only caused him to go deeper into you. You whimpered as your walls tightened around him; no matter how many times you've done it, you still had to get used to his size at first.
“I’m sorry, just—let me have my way with you—just this once. Okay, sweetheart?” He asked, voice pleading.
You calmed your breathing, adjusting to his size before nodding your head.
“Okay.” You said, breathless.
Phainon let out a contented sigh as he kissed your cheeks. He moved his hips backward, pulling out from you, leaving only his tip, before pushing his length inside you with force. Your body swayed with each push and pull, mouth hanging open from the sensation. Your moans were getting louder with every thrust, and the way his hands played with your nipples.
Phainon wasn’t any better. He moans, groans, growls, and whimpers in your ears. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. He murmured slurred praises into your ear, occasionally biting down on your neck and reaching his hand lower to rub your core.
“Oh, you feel so—mmh, s’good around me, sweetheart.” A hard thrust into you.
“You want me to go harder? Hm? You want that? Yeah?” He was already picking up his pace before you could give him an answer.
He pulled away from your neck, straightening up his body to get a better angle. The room pulsed with the sound of ragged breaths and bodies moving in rhythm. Every gasp, every whisper of his name, mingled with the sound of skin slapping against skin. You were sure that anyone who passed by the building could hear the melodic sounds you and Phainon let out.
His thrusts were getting sloppier, words he spoke were unintelligible. He leaned back down in your ear, his fingers rubbed your clot faster in a circular motion, urging you to finish.
“C’mon, sweetheart, come with me, yeah?”
You nod frantically, choked moans escaping your lips with his every thrust. You chanted his name once more and tightened around his length, your knees growing weak. The feeling of your walls caused him to reach his edge.
“You’re mine. Mine. mine. mine.”
His hips still, unloading his seeds inside you. He gave a few lazy thrusts to ride out his high before pulling out.
You let your hips sink back into the mattress, limbs loose and trembling from your climax. Beside you, Phainon collapsed with a deep, contented sigh, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. For a long moment, neither of you moved, suspended in the quietness of the room.
Then, he turned to his side and gently pulled you into his arms, cradling your head against his chest. The warmth of his skin and the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek soothed the rest of your lingering tremors. He then pressed soft, slow kisses to your hairline.
“Forgive me,” he said quietly, his voice still rough, “Was I too rough?”
You shook your head, snuggling closer until his arms tightened around you. “No, you weren’t. I’m okay,” You whispered, your voice light with affection.
A light chuckle rose from your throat as you tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “Did you get it out of your system, then?”
Phainon let out a long exhale, his brows knitting slightly with guilt. “Yes… Though I’m not proud of myself for taking it out on you,”
You reached up, brushing your fingertips gently against his cheek. His eyes had returned to his usual soft blue, no longer intense. “You didn’t hurt me. I enjoyed it… Really.”
A playful glint entered your eyes as you leaned in to kiss the edge of his jaw. “Maybe I should make you jealous more often.”
Phainon groaned dramatically, burying his face in your shoulder. “Please don’t,” he mumbled.
You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you as you wrapped your arms around him tightly. “I love you,” you whispered, your words warm against his chest.
He plastered a grin, “I love you more.”
“Don’t start.”
Side Story III
Phainon stood at the heart of the temple gardens, now transformed into a soft dreamscape of ivory and gold, nervously clutching the small velvet box in his hand. The sun filtered gently through the canopy of trees above, painting dappled light across the petals scattered along the aisle. Every inch of the garden shimmered under careful touches of decoration, elegant and simple.
Today marked your wedding anniversary, one full cycle since the day you had been bound to him. But the memory still lingered heavily in his chest, that first ceremony marked more by duty and uncertainty than celebration or love.
There were no kisses. No shared vows. Just a pact, divinely sealed and hastily delivered.
Phainon had spent weeks planning a proper wedding.. A wedding with laughter and vows, flowers and witnesses, and most importantly… a ring, crafted with the help of Chartonus himself.
He fidgeted slightly, shifting his weight between his feet as he watched his friends (the other gods and goddesses) milling about the decorated garden space.
Flower garlands hung between ivory pillars, gentle lyre music drifting from unseen strings in the wind. Tables were arranged with modest care—Ambrosia, honeyed cakes, fruits, and traditional Okheman dishes lining the platters. A clear aisle of white petals led up to where he stood, waiting.
Aglaea stood beside him, regal and radiant. The Goddess of Romance had been both surprised and delighted when Phainon asked her to officiate the ceremony. She never thought the Deliverer would ever wear such a nervous expression over something so delicate.
Mydeimos looked at Phaino’s hands. “You’re holding that box like it’s going to explode.”
Phainon gave a tight-lipped smile. “It might. My heart’s been in it for weeks,” he then puts the box inside his pocket, fidgeting with his hands lightly.
A firm clap landed on his shoulder. “Calm yourself, Khaslana,” said Anaxagoras, God of Reason, dressed far too formally for someone who had once argued weddings were ‘inefficient emotional rituals.’ “This is a wedding, not a battlefield.”
From behind him, a familiar lilting laugh rang out. “You should’ve seen his face when Aggy scolded him for his original outfit choice,” said Tribios, Goddess of Passage. “He looked like a child getting caught breaking something precious.”
Phainon scowled. “I liked that outfit. It was from Aglaea’s boutique.”
“Yes,” Aglaea said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And it made you look like a fool. How dare you mix violet and mustard in front of me, with my own designs no less?”
The laughter that followed was interrupted by a fluttering of wings. From above, Hyacinthia descended with her miniature pegasus, Ica, trailing glittering sky dust behind her. She landed gently, her heels brushing the grass lightly.
“I cleared every gray cloud from the sky just for today,” she smiled, brushing back strands of her pink colored hair. “No storm’s going to ruin this one.”
"Doot, doot!" Ica added.
“Thank you,” Phainon said sincerely, looking at each one of his friends.
Just then, Castorice, the Goddess of Death—pale and composed—peeked from between the garden hedges. “She’s coming,” she whispered, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves.
Time seemed to stand still.
Phainon straightened. His heart thundered in his chest. He could already feel the warmth of your presence drawing near, the familiar hum of your soul that soothed his own. For all his power, all his light, nothing made him feel more undone than the sound of your footsteps approaching.
Then you appeared, the sunlight catching on the gold threading of your dress as if even the heavens wished to spotlight your presence. Your family followed closely behind.
The garden had never looked more beautiful. Flowers that normally only bloomed in different seasons now adorned the path in unison, their petals vibrant and full. Music floated through the air from invisible strings, harmonizing with the wind.
Your eyes scanned the crowd. Familiar faces looked back—Phainon had introduced them to you before, gods and goddesses of Amphoreus in their finest attire. Your eyes landed on Anaxagoras, Hyacinthia, Tribios, Aglaea, and then Mydeimos.
And then you saw him.
Phainon stood at the center of it all. He looked nervous, heart-bared, and unmistakably dazzling in a tailored robe. You recognized Aglaea’s influence immediately in the subtle elegance of the embroidery across his shoulders and cuffs. His hair was neatly swept back, though the familiar ahoge still bounced stubbornly in place. His blue eyes, brighter than ever, locked onto yours the moment he saw you.
“Phainon?” you breathed, stunned. “What is this?”
You turned in confusion, your voice filled with wonder, only to be met with a warm smile from your father. He stepped beside you, offering his arm.
Your lips parted slightly in surprise as you looked between him, the petal-strewn aisle, the altar at the end, and the dress your mother so stubbornly told you to wear today. A realization dawned over you. This wasn’t just a celebration—this was a wedding.
Your heart swelled. Slowly, you reached out and linked your arm with your father's.
As your mother and Atlas took their seats, your father leaned in slightly, his voice tight with emotion. “I’m glad,” he said softly, “that I’m finally, properly, giving away my daughter.” His hand tightened gently on your arm. “It may have started from a vow made for peace. But today, I know you’re walking toward love.”
You bit your lip, your vision already blurring with tears. “Thank you, Father.”
Both of you reached the end of the aisle. Phainon stepped forward and extended his hand. You glanced once more at your father, who gave your hand one final squeeze, tears already streaming down his cheeks, before placing it in Phainon’s.
Then it was just the two of you standing before Aglaea, who was holding a ceremonial scroll in her hand. Though she didn’t have to read from it.
“Dearly beloved,” Aglaea began, her voice carrying every corner of the garden.
“We gather here not to forge a new bond, but to renew one. This is no ordinary union, nor a formality. A vow spoken not by decree, but by choice. A promise not from god to mortal… but from soul to soul.”
She turned her gaze to you first, calling your name. “Today, do you vow yourself to him again? This time not as an offering, but as a partner? Do you give your heart freely, not to his divinity or power, but to his person?”
You swallowed back your tears and nodded. “I do. And I always will.”
Aglaea smiled, then looked to Phainon. “And you, Khaslana, God of Worldbearing. Do you vow yourself to this mortal not out of obligation, but out of love? Do you promise to show her not only your divinity, but your humanity?”
Phainon’s voice wavered slightly as he answered. “I do. More than anything.”
Then Phainon reached into his pocket. From it, he drew a small velvet box— one you hadn’t seen before. Your breath caught when he opened it.
Inside sat a beautiful ring, golden, forged with delicate sunburst patterns that shimmered faintly with divine warmth. In the center stood a diamond that glimmered slightly in the light.
Phainon took the ring between his fingers, his hand holding yours. With great care, Phainon slid the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had been waiting for you all along. Aglaea conjured her golden threads as they swirled brighter around the two of you, encircling your joined hands.
“Then, as Goddess of Romance,” Aglaea said with a soft smile, “I bless this union, again and forever. Let the world bear witness to this second vow. You may seal this promise with a kiss.”
Phainon didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer and took your face gently in his hands as he kissed you, soft and slow. You reciprocated all the same, wrapping your hands around his shoulders. Everyone rose in applause, the wind turned musical as sunlight poured through the clouds above in radiant beams.
In that golden moment, with the gods as witnesses and romance as their blessing, two hearts vowed once more. This time, not by fate, but by love.
phainon is always changing. he’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. and he’s changing. but he’s still your phainon and you still love him
word count. ❤︎ 10.4k words — girl (gn) what ze hell
before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; childhood friends to lovers ; modern/non canon au ; reader saves him from a bully when they’re young ; reader has a bad date (with someone else) ; very tame violence (phainon fights some assholes for her) ; love confessions ; loss of virginity ; awkward first times ; car sex/semi public sex (it’s dark) ; use of condoms (be safe!) ; finger sucking ; vaginal fingering ; slight hand jobs ; vaginal sex ; proposals (you say yes!) ; phainon is a bit of a crybaby (affectionate) ; not proof read pls tell me if there’s errors
commentary. ❤︎ THAT ART IN THE HEADER SENT ME INTO A SPIRAL BRO . so here’s the result ig
You meet Phainon when he’s twelve.
You’re new to the neighborhood, and so is he, starting over at school at the same time and learning the halls and classrooms in the same way—he seems to take being the new kid well. The teachers like him, and he’s friendly and easy to get along with, and most other boys like having him on their teams for sports because he’s agile and decent at catching a ball. You? Well…you don’t adjust as well.
You move not far from your old home, but far enough that everything feels different. He moves from some small town that no one has ever heard of, and all in the matter of a few weeks, he worms his way into your life and doesn’t let you know a single ounce of peace. You’re still eleven at the time, but he’s only two months, one week, and four days older than you, and you’ll be the same age soon enough.
But it doesn’t really matter that he’s older, anyway, because he cries like a god damn baby.
The older kids can be mean. Especially when twelve-year-old boys who still haven’t hit that growth spurt that most teenage boys seem to hit, like Phainon, are right there. Despite being quick on his feet, he’s especially small and scrawny for his age, shorter than you by a couple of inches—which is a little pathetic, you think. He’s supposed to be older.
It happens on a Monday—the start of you and Phainon. Phainon and you. Something weird possesses you on a random Monday before you turn twelve, and you step between him and a taller, broader, acne-painted older boy after school, and before thinking, you glare as you hiss out, “Leave him alone, weirdo.”
The boy doesn’t look too happy—and if you had an ounce of common sense, you’d take that as your cue to leave. But you don’t. You stare him good and hard in the eye as he grits out, “Mind your business.”
Phainon is still on the concrete, flat on his ass in a pathetic sort of way as tears coat his pale, soft cheeks and glisten in his eyes. They’re blue. Very blue. You glance at them for a quick second and realize too late that looking into them was an awful mistake. He looks like a kicked puppy, and something stirs in you and makes you turn abruptly, drawing your hand back before it snaps, and a loud, hard clap rings through the air.
You freeze, processing what you’ve done. Phainon’s breath hitches. The boy—some asshole whose name you never learn—turns his head, slow and stunned, the side of his cheek where your palm landed blooming red.
This is it, you think. This is how you die. This is where your body will be found face down in the dirt behind your new school that you didn’t even want to come to, and your parents will find you lifeless and limp. They’ll mourn you, like any parents would, and they’ll wonder why it has to be this way—why they have to bury their daughter and not the other way around. You’ll be dead in a few moments, and your poor, unsuspecting parents will have no choice but to blame stupid, annoying, crybaby Phainon for getting you killed in the first place. All because he’s too weak to fight his own fights and stick up for himself.
Except…nothing happens.
The boy just glares, rubbing his cheek, and grits out, “Lucky you’re just a brat and not like that little punk. I don’t hit girls.”
And just like that, he storms off. Heavy, angry stomps trailing behind him as he leaves you to let out a shaky breath of relief and marvel at your luck—you don’t typically run into people with standards when it comes to who they pick on. But, all things considered, you survived, and your parents won’t have to pay for your tombstone. You count your blessings and thank whoever’s looking over you.
And then you glance down at Phainon. He’s still sitting there, looking at you like you just parted the sea.
“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.
“You’re pretty cool,” he says in awe.
“You should learn how to throw a punch or two.”
He grins, tears long forgotten as he stands up, brushes his hands on the front of his pants, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. You wrinkle your own nose at the snot stain he leaves behind.
“That’s okay,” he beams, “you can always just slap the bullies across the face like that for me, right?”
“No,” you gape, “I’m not your baby sitter—”
“I’m Phainon!” he holds a hand out to you. You look at it with a raised eyebrow before curling your lips in disgust.
“And I’m going home,” you say flatly.
You turn on your heel and start walking home promptly. You don’t want to make friends with the other new kid—especially not since he seems so much more well-adjusted to his new environment than you. (It’s a sort of bitterness only someone so young would feel. Being eleven and just on the cusp of twelve isn’t the age where rationality and logic are factored in with most decisions. Maybe, if you were older, you’d realize your bitterness has nothing to do with Phainon and everything to do with your inability to let go of your homesickness from moving.)
But Phainon is hard to shake off. He jogs after you and falls into step beside you as he pipes up, “You live down the street. I saw your moving trucks. My mom said I should be friends with you because you’re new too!”
“I don’t want to make friends,” you grumble out.
“Why not?” he looks bewildered, “being new and friendless is no fun.”
“Because I’m not staying here for long,” you snap, “I’m gonna save up and move back as soon as I get the chance. I don’t need to make friends somewhere that I’m not staying for long.”
He looks skeptical. It only makes you angrier as you throw him a sharp glare for having the audacity to not take you seriously, and he at least has the sense to quickly put his hands up in surrender as he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I believe you. But we can still be friends until you leave, right?”
“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. He walks you home. You feel a little less lonely on the way back.
(In the end, you never move away like you said. He never stops being your friend. You can’t say you hate it even if you never admit it out loud.)
— — — — — — — — — —
Phainon is sixteen when you first realize he is no longer that puny, bite-sized little runt that got bullied by the older kids for being new. He doesn’t need saving anymore.
(He still cries as easily, though—it just happens with a little more dignity. He cries during movies and when he’s stressed from school and maybe after a bad day, but he doesn’t do it so easily in front of other people anymore.
Still, he always does in front of you.
Pathetic, you always call him. So mean, he always pouts. And then you hug him and he hugs you back and you remember the little boy you grew up alongside for the last four years. The one who’s two months, one week, and four days older than you, even though it doesn’t feel like it.)
It happens on a Friday night.
You go on a date. It’s your first one ever, in fact. Your father isn’t too happy, but your mother is ecstatic, and after a couple of convincing words from her, he reluctantly allows it to happen as long as you know your curfew and keep your location on at all times. You’re excited.
Until you’re not.
You think the date is going rather well. Really well. You like the boy, and he’s handsome and funny, and he listens to you when you ramble about the things you like. It’s a good date. Your mother bought you a new dress, and it’s your favorite color, and you even do your makeup a little nicer than you usually do. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s going how it should, and some naive part of you starts to dream about a high school romance that blossoms into something serious. Maybe at the wedding, you’ll speak about this date. How your father was against it, but your mother was thrilled. How you tried on seven dresses before this one, and had started to get antsy until you tried it on and knew it was the one. How you watched a YouTube video or two to learn how to do your eyeshadow properly, because you’re not used to doing it the fancy ways that older girls seem to do.
It’s all going well. Until your date politely goes to the bathroom and you wait for five minutes, which turns to ten, which turns to fifteen, and then at twenty minutes, your waiter comes and holds an apologetic look on his face as he informs you that the bathroom is empty after you insist for the third time that your date is just taking a while in there.
It guts you.
You don’t even know how or when he managed to slip out and leave you alone and stupidly waiting, but he does. Long gone are your dreams of a sweet high school romance and a big, happy wedding where you smile and remember the silly old days when you’d get dropped off to your dates by your mother ten minutes early as you anxiously check your makeup in the mirror. (And yes, maybe later you’d look back and laugh at how naive you were to think one silly date would snowball into all of that, but you’re sixteen. And at sixteen, your world feels like it’s the only thing that exists, and your problems feel like they’re bigger than they are.)
In the end, the only thing you can think of doing is calling Phainon. He comes in ten minutes flat, waiting outside in his father’s car that he’s allowed to use on weekends only and nothing more. (He’s sixteen and you’re still fifteen, so he’s licensed and you’re not. He likes to brag. You don’t typically find it as amusing as he does. Right now, though, you’re grateful. )
You get in the passenger seat, and before he can even ask, you burst into tears. He makes a face that you can’t quite discern. But he’s not happy—you know that much as easily as you know Phainon.
“What happened?” he asks softly, “It didn’t go well?”
“It was,” you sob, “I-I th-thought it was! We were talking, a-and laughing, and…and he asked me things and then…h-he went to the bathroom and he just disappeared for like…like half an hour! And the waiter checked the bathroom a-and he wasn’t there…and it was so embarrassing!”
He’s silent. For a long time, Phainon is quiet and he doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him. He never lets the silence go on for long before he fills it with something. Whether it’s stupid or sweet or funny or annoying, Phainon always has something to say to you. He never runs out of things to talk about. It’s always been like that. He’s never had a problem talking your ear off and keeping you company and following you around and filling the silence with his voice. You never realized how deep it had gotten over the years until you watched some old videos back. The first time he was gone for a whole summer, you didn’t realize how quiet the world was until the only way you could talk to him was over text.
But he’s quiet now, and he just lets you cry. Softly, he reaches out and brushes tears from your cheeks gently as he murmurs, “Your makeup is pretty tonight. You shouldn’t ruin it, you know.”
“There’s no point,” you sniffle, “it’s not like anyone is gonna see it now, anyway.”
“I’m seeing it,” he insists, “just because some weird asshole doesn’t appreciate a nice smokey eye doesn’t mean I can’t.”
“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”
“Whatever it is,” he shrugs, “it looks good. You’re pretty.”
He says it easily, like it’s not weird or awkward or makes him shy to point it out. He says it so plainly, it’s like some passing observation he makes and doesn’t have to think too hard on. You’re pretty. Even when you cry your makeup off, he thinks that.
“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper, “my mom is gonna be sad and my dad will get angry when he knows what happened to me, and I just…don’t feel like dealing with that mess.”
“Then don’t,” he offers.
You raise a brow, sniffling as you reach into the compartment and grab the tissues that you know are there, and blow your nose. He stifles a smile at the way it’s loud. “What am I supposed to do then, just sit in here?” you ask blandly.
“Why not? We can drive for a while. In fact, we can get milkshakes.”
“Are you buying?” you perk up.
He snorts, looking at you in amusement as he mumbles, “Don’t I always have to?”
You beam at that. It’s true—he does always buy.
He takes you to a drive-thru and buys you a milkshake like he always does when he drives you somewhere. You add in a side of fries and he lets you, paying without a complaint and handing you your order as it comes through the window. It’s nice. It feels like it always does when it’s you and Phainon, and you forget the shallow asshole who broke your heart on your first date not even an hour ago. He parks in the parking lot and you sit and share your fries, and when he dips his in ketchup, you wrinkle your nose—and when you dip yours in your milkshake, he wrinkles his.
“I’m never going on a date again,” you mumble.
“Don’t say that,” he says softly, “you might miss out on a super handsome and nice guy some day who’s waiting for you.”
“That sounds like something my mom would say,” you snort.
He cracks a grin, chuckling as he offers, “Well, that’s probably why I’m so smart. You should listen to me more.”
“I don’t know about that one,” you tease, “you’re still the same crybaby from middle school.”
“I’m not a crybaby!” He gasps, “Quit saying that! Being emotionally intelligent and being a crybaby are not the same thing, you jerk!”
“Is that what you like to call it?” You laugh, throwing your head back against your seat. He stares. For a good, long moment, he stares as you laugh, and you never catch it. (He wonders sometimes if you will. If some day he’ll stare and you’ll finally notice that he only ever looks at you.)
“Yes,” he grumbles, “I am, in fact, emotionally intelligent. And women are really into men who are smart about their feelings.”
“I’m sure they are,” you give him a sarcastic nod. “And I bet they—”
“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.
You pause as he interrupts your sentence, and before you can even blink, his door is opened and then closed, and Phainon is gone. He’s left the car and he’s walking over to some group of boys who leave the fast food place you’re parked outside of, and you can’t figure out what on Earth would make him leave so abruptly to go over and—oh.
Your eyes widen as you realize.
Oh.
Something in your heart sinks deep into the bottom of your stomach as you realize your date is standing there among the group of boys with a bag of food in his hands and a drink. Something else in you gets a lick of anger that starts to burn in the pit of your stomach as you think about how he left you to pay for his meal while he’s here buying himself a whole new one after ditching you. And then your eyes widen when in a quick second, Phainon has swug his arm and landed a solid punch right in the jaw and knocked the guy onto his ass as he towers over him. You blink once, then twice, and then you quickly take your seatbelt off and climb out of the car as you rush over.
There’s a chorus of deep, angry voices back and forth and you can’t make out more than a few words at a time as everyone speaks over each other—Phainon, your asshole date, and his asshole (by association) friends.
“Yo, what the fuck—”
“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)
“Who the hell are you—”
“What’s your fucking problem man—”
“You get off on being an asshole, or something?” (Also Phainon.)
Maybe if you weren’t so worried, you would think about why Phainon’s voice is the only one you can make out so easily in a mess of all these other voices. Maybe if you weren’t worried about a group of boys outnumbering him as they approach him and try to beat him to a pulp, you might think more about the implications of that and what that means.
But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you have to go and save him, just like the day you met him, from boys who are stronger than him and can knock him to the ground easily.
Except he doesn’t need you to save him. Phainon…holds his own against three boys who come swinging at him, and…he does surprisingly well. He shrugs off each guy one by one and lands a punch when he needs to, and soon enough, when they realize that he’s a little too strong for any of them to properly take on, they call him a few names and leave a few empty threats before they leave. You stand a short distance away and watch, blinking as you process the whole exchange.
Finally, with a shaky breath, he turns to face you with a guilty look on his face.
“Sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done—”
“When did you get strong?” you interrupt, flabbergasted. “You can fight?”
He looks almost a little offended. “What do you mean? Why do you have to say that like I can’t be strong?”
“I used to save you from the older boys all the time,” you gape, “and all you ever did was cry! Since when do you know how to throw a punch?”
“I was twelve!” He sputters, looking at you in equal parts disbelief and equal parts embarrassment. “I’m way bigger now! I’m taller than you!” (He is.)
“You’re still a crybaby!”
“Am not!”
“You fought four guys and won,” you breathe out, like the concept is something you still can’t quite wrap your head around. (You can’t.)
He shoots you a glare and grumbles, “I am grown now, okay? You don’t have to keep acting like I’m the scrawny kid you saved in middle school.”
“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.
“Am not! Look, I’ve been working out!” He flexes his arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulge of muscle forming at his bicep, and it makes you stare in disbelief as you take in the way Phainon has really changed. You never notice it because he’s with you every day, and every single day has started to leave its mark on him, but you’re too caught up in knowing him the way he is to think about knowing him the way he isn’t anymore.
But he’s stronger now. His voice is deeper, and he’s taller, and he has some muscle to him. You look at him properly for a moment, and it occurs to you for the first time that the chubbiness of his round face and baby cheeks are gone and they’re replaced with a strong, sharp set of cheekbones that carve his face perfectly. His hair is longer, too—and you think it suits him better this way. He parts his hair in a way that looks less childlike and more mature.
But his eyes are still the same. Same shade of blue. Same puppy look as he stares at you, mildly offended. Same soft, delicate orbs that look you in the eye, always, and never look away.
“Oh my god,” you mutter, “what is happening to you? This is freaky.”
He cracks a smug grin before he teases, “I’m growing up. Try not to fall in love with me—pretty soon, I’ll be a heartthrob.”
You bite back a grin and give him a scoff. “I doubt that. You’re about as interesting as cardboard.”
(You lie. In the end, you go against your own words, and you do fall in love with him. It’s hard not to. It’s hard not to fall in love with him, the more time passes every day. You never admit it, but you notice every little thing about him that changes from then on.)
— — — — — — — — — —
You’re eighteen when Phainon and you don’t just kiss, but share your first time. It’s on your birthday. There’s something there between the two of you that you both know is there. It’s impossible not to notice it.
You leave for college in two months, and he might not be going to the same one as you, but it's close enough that you can see him whenever you want. (Whenever you want—it’s what he had said when he first told you he wasn’t picking the same college as you. The look on your face was enough to voice your devastation without actually using any words, but he only laughed and murmured, I’ll be close by. You can still see me whenever you want, yeah?)
It happens in his car. It’s no longer his dad’s old one that he had to ask for permission to use only when his father wasn’t using it. This one is his, and he can drive it whenever he wants and wherever he pleases. Because you’re both old enough for that now—driving around and going places without needing to worry about curfews and school nights and your parents’ angry texts about being home soon.
“I’m officially an adult,” you tell him in his car, drinking the last of your milkshake that, as always, he’s paid for. (It’s your birthday, though, so you think it's especially fair that he pays because no one should expect the birthday person to pay for their milkshake.)
“Congrats,” he hums, “they grow up so fast,” he adds with a soft, dramatic sniffle.
“You’re not old enough to act like there’s a difference,” you roll your eyes, “I doubt in two months you’ve learned things like how mortgages and property taxes work.”
“Well, it’s actually two months, one week, and four days,” he corrects with a pointed look, as if it really makes all the difference, “and I’ll probably still learn all that shit before you do because I’m older.”
“Yeah, but you’ll also probably die first since you’re older,” you point out cheekily.
“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he huffs.
“You always decide how things work when it’s convenient for you, you prick,” you accuse, shoving him away as he chuckles and steals a french fry from your share.
He’s stopped laughing when his eyes meet yours, and something about the way he looks at you feels a little out of the ordinary. The wrappers are crumpled, the milkshakes are almost gone, and you’re both sitting in the same parking lot you have for years in the middle of the night, nothing but just the light over your heads in his car illuminating him just enough that you can still make out that soft blue of his eyes.
Everything is the same. The parking lot, the milkshakes, the way you drain his wallet, and he lets it happen, the way it’s you and him and no one else. Nothing has changed. Nothing but you and Phainon. You’re both different—something about you and him is different.
“What?” you ask.
Phainon shrugs, smiling to himself. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess you just look old.”
You scowl as he throws you a lopsided grin. (You think, regretfully, that it’s quite handsome.) “And you look geriatric,” you hiss back.
His smile becomes a little softer, and something in it flickers—sad, maybe. You can’t tell exactly what it is, but you do know it makes something in your heart ache. Something like longing fills you up to the brim—it’s funny, you think. Even when Phainon is right next to you, all you can do is long for him anymore. You wonder when that started. Maybe it was the day you noticed he was bigger and taller. Maybe it was the day you noticed he paid with a credit card and not cash anymore, like a proper grown man. Maybe it was the day you realized his front teeth were no longer crooked and his smile was as bright as those perfectly blue eyes of his.
“I’m gonna miss this,” he admits quietly.
You don’t ask what he means. You already know.
It’s not the milkshakes, or the shared fries, or the way he always pays, no matter how much you can easily afford it on your own by now. It’s the way he’s home for you. The way you moved when you didn’t want to, and you didn’t get a say because you were only eleven and your parents made those kinds of decisions for you—when you left behind everything you loved, and Phainon took on the burden of becoming everything you’ll relearn to care about. When you promised to move away the first chance you got, he made you want to stay without trying. Now it’s not the same—now you move, and so does he, and you both make those decisions on your own because you're older now.
You’ll miss it. The quiet nights in his car and the long, stupid, pointless, aimless conversations that always meant the most when you babbled about nothing. The easy, familiar way you’ve always fit together—ever since he was twelve and you were eleven, all the way until now, after you both grew and grew and the days added up until they totaled to you both being eighteen-year-old adults. You’ll miss the way you’ll open your door, and you’ll see him waving down the street as he opens his. You’ll miss the way he can crawl to your window and sneak in to play card games, and your mother isn’t surprised as she makes him breakfast when you both accidentally fall asleep before he can leave. You’ll miss the way the world felt small, and all you knew was this. Here. Phainon and you and the town that becomes home, even when you didn’t want it to be, all because of him.
“You don’t have to miss it,” you say, trying to convince yourself it’s true. “We’re not going far.”
“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But it won’t be like this. Not exactly.”
It won’t.
It won’t ever be like the way you guys are now, how you were over the years. When he sat on the ground and cried after being picked on and you saved him. When he came over and met your mother for the first time, and she looked relieved at the fact that you finally made some friends. When you let him borrow your favorite book, and he gave it back with the pages dog-eared and you had your first argument over your ruined book. When he rescued you after your awful first date and spent the night with you so you’d go home happy. When you rear-ended the car in front of you, and he was sitting passenger as he tried to warn you that you weren’t hitting the brakes soon enough.
“Is it a bad thing, do you think?” you murmur hesitantly, “if things change?”
“Maybe not,” he says, leaning closer as he looks at you better.
And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. What matters is that you’re kissing each other. It’s been a long time coming—your parents have teased you about him, and your friends have always been too nosy about just how close you really are, and your teachers have always meddled with seating arrangements to make sure you’re close by each other because they’re certain something is going on.
He smiles into the kiss. It’s giddy and sweet and a touch clumsy as he presses into you closer, leaning over the center console of his car to get closer to you. You giggle. A soft, delicate little sound that makes his breath hitch before he moves again to swallow it up, drinking in the small, precious little sounds of joy you make against his mouth as his hand cups your cheek and your arms swing lazily over his shoulders.
“I think things are already changing,” you breathe as soon as you pull away, “so it can’t be so bad.”
“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.
“Are you still gonna miss it?” you ask softly.
“Hm,” he pretends to think, “let me try this again and see what I like better just to be sure.”
You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you, pecking your lips once, twice, a third time before he’s back to pressing his against you with a lingering pressure. Some part of you knew this was going to happen. You didn’t know when or how, but you think this is a good way to let it happen. You knew that day he came to your defense in that parking lot—when he didn’t have to, but he did because he cared enough to. When he showed you he was bigger than you remember and growing more than you realized, and could take care of you just like you took care of him. (Maybe he’s been taking care of you all this time, and you just didn’t realize it. Maybe when you stopped being lonely and finally felt like you made a home on the street that he came at the same time as you, he was looking out for you all along.)
“I think change is an inevitable part of life,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t avoid it.”
“Hm, that’s very grown-up of you to say,” you tease.
“Thank you,” he grins—stupidly handsome, and annoyingly cheeky. And you love him for it. “I am older, you know. By two months, one—”
“—One week and four days, yes, I know,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”
He does. He shuts up only to press his lips against yours again and kiss you like he’s been waiting years to do it. (He has. He’s waited many, many years to do this. More than he thinks you might even realize—he doesn’t think you understand how much he’s changed until rather recently, but that’s okay. He could wait. He did. He waited and he waited and he’d always have waited if it was for you.)
“Do…” he pauses, nervously taking in a shaky breath as he mumbles, “do you…want to like…w-well, we don’t have to do anything…but if you want—”
“At least this much hasn’t changed,” you snort, interrupting him, “and maybe it won’t—you’re still lame.”
He scowls at that, and as if he has something to prove, he climbs (and fumbles a little) into the back seat before his hand grabs your wrist and tugs you to follow. And when you fumble your way onto his lap with a squeak, flustered as your chest is pressed right up against his own (rather sturdy one), he murmurs, “Yeah? Is that what you think?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, looking into his eyes for a short second before quickly looking away, “it is.”
“Guess I’ll just have to change that,” he hums.
Suddenly, your lips are once more coated with the heat of his, and you close your eyes and fall apart in his arms. You press more of your weight onto him, letting him slump back against the backseat of his car while your hands weave into his hair and tug. He groans deeply. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him—ever.
His hands bring you closer, and as your body is pressed against his with even less space, you feel it—something hard that pokes against your leg that you’re certain you know what it is. But, just to be sure, you pull away to look at him.
“What’s that?” you hum, grinning smugly as you move your thighs to brush over the hardness once more, “is that—”
“You know exactly what it is,” he huffs, flushing a soft pink that you can just barely make out in the dark, “now quit talking so much.”
“You don’t like me when I’m chatty?” you pout.
“I like you always,” he says bluntly, lips forming a small pout as he adds, “but I like you a little less than other times right now for being rude.”
“I’m not being rude! I’m simply making an observation—mmph!”
He cuts you off with another hard, impatient kiss before he pulls away and lets his thumb brush over your lip, smearing your already messy lip gloss some more as he murmurs, “I always wondered how that tasted. Seen you apply it so many times.”
“It’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” you wink cheekily, “strawberry flavored.”
With that, you wrap your lips around his thumb and slowly roll your tongue around the digit, swallowing around it as you suck. It’s probably the filthiest thing you’ve done—which is not a lot. The filthiest thing you’ve done prior was sitting on a boy’s lap and feeling his hard-on against your thigh as you kissed him. There are a lot of firsts it seems he’s hell bent on taking from you tonight. Luckily, there’s not a lot of firsts you’re unwilling to give.
He groans at the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue making him stare at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes before he pulls his hand away from your lips, hoisting you up enough so he can reach under your skirt and pull your panties down. They’re drenched. He takes a second to stare at them through the darkness of the backseat of his car while it’s your turn to feel heat spread across your cheeks and up to your ears.
“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.
He gives you a not very apologetic grin. “Sorry,” he lies through his perfect, pearly whites, “guess that’s not very chivalrous of me, huh?”
You snort as you murmur, “You had your finger in my mouth a second ago.”
“And who put that there?” he teases. You feel your cheeks burn again—but he spares you the embarrassment a second time as he pulls your underwear down your thighs enough to leave your aching cunt exposed before he murmurs, “Do it again one more time for me, baby.”
You open without thinking as he presses his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, letting your tongue roll around them, too. You coat them well, the wetness of your mouth covering his fingers as his thumb strokes your cheek. His cheeks are flushed pink from the sight alone. Your throat bobbing from every swallow around his digits has him imagining much more lewd fantasies, and you can tell that from just the way his pupils lose focus, dilating at the image of you. You moan around him, and his breath hitches as he feels the vibrations from the sound.
It’s dirty, the way he’s thinking about you. Almost as dirty as the way you look as you suck on his fingers—and when he pulls them out and uses his fingers to press into your cunt, it feels dirty to be worked open with your own spit as the lubricant that helps him slip inside easily. Well…you suppose the way your core is dripping is also part of the reason why it’s so easy, but you don’t focus on that.
Instead, the only thing you can focus on is the way he curls into you as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are longer than yours. The only thing that’s ever been inside of you are your own digits when it’s late and night and you force yourself to stay quiet in your room—but Phainon’s fingers reach deeper and there’s no one here you have to be quiet for, so you whimper loudly as he presses into your walls and finds some spot deep in there that you’ve never felt before.
“Well,” he chuckles, “that was easy. I found it,” he gives you a cheeky grin.
“Sh-shut up,” you hiss, the sound tapering off into a moan as the heel of his palm glides over your clit while he angles his hand in and out of you.
He’s never done this before—it’s good, and it feels better than anything you’ve ever felt yourself, but he’s still never done this before, and it shows. He doesn’t get the rhythm quite right as he goes faster than you like, and when your hand gently grabs his wrist, he pauses and looks at you in alarm.
“W-what’s wrong? You want to stop? I-I’m sorry, I…I got carried away, I didn’t think—here,” he goes to pull his fingers and you hiss, tightening your grip and keeping him in place as he pauses and looks at you, bewildered.
“Just…just go slower,” you breathe, panting softly, “that’s all.”
“O-oh…” he nods slowly at first, then again with more confidence. “Okay.”
It’s better this time. He paces it better and watches your face for your reactions as he slows the timing of his fingers pressing into you, applying pressure with every thrust against a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had. It makes your head feel light and your ears hear things all muffled. You can hear his labored breaths as he watches you, and you can hear your own (almost embarrassing) noises as he works you higher, higher, higher to some invisible height that you can feel yourself slowly become closer and closer to plummeting off of.
“K-kiss,” you gasp, pleading as you lean closer, and he chuckles before he indulges you.
“Anything you want,” he murmurs, and then that familiar warm pressure of his soft, yet chapped lips is the final push you need to fall off the edge. You whine into his mouth, and he drinks in every sound like he’s parched, swallowing down your noises as your walls flutter around his fingers.
He works you through it. It feels better when it’s someone else—he’s not distracted by the feeling of being overwhelmed to falter in rhythm or pace. In fact, he’s extra careful as he watches you, rolling his palm over your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers in and out of you as your walls erratically clamp around him.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, gasping as a particularly harsh wave of your orgasm crashes over you, “Ph-phainon, fuck.”
“Feel good?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as your mouth parts with a soft, delicate moan. It’s endearing. He’s not even smug anymore—all you do is fill him up with affection as he watches you.
“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”
“Good,” he hums.
His forehead presses against yours as you finish, letting you calm down and take heaving breaths while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and rubs the small of your back with his other hand. You clutch onto his shirt, fingers grasping onto the fabric to ground yourself while he admires the glow of your sweaty, damp skin.
“When did things change for you?” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Between…between us?”
“Hm…” he hums softly, “Don’t know. I think…I think they never really had to change. I always knew I wanted you.”
“Oh,” you mumble, still nervously toying with the fabric of his shirt. You don’t know what to say, so you say it again. “That…oh.”
He laughs softly, like the idea of things not being the same for you doesn’t bother him. (It doesn’t. He got you, he thinks. As long as it’s that outcome, he could have always waited longer.)
“When did they change for you?”
“When we were sixteen,” you barely force out, “when you…when you took on those guys. In the parking lot.”
“On your first date that broke your heart?” He gasps, “I owe your heartbreak to swinging things in my favor? That feels a little wrong,” he says dramatically, “I almost feel like I’ve manipulated you!”
“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes, breaking into a small grin.
He laughs. It’s sweet. He’s always had that charm about him, even when it didn’t make you want him badly. “I think I told you not to fall in love with me, too. Seems like my words had the opposite effect,” he wiggles his brows.
You snort, shoving him lightly as you whisper, “It just felt nice to know you care. Like my feelings were yours, too.”
His eyes soften, and Phainon, you realize, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. So blue, you could mistake them for the ocean and get called over like a siren luring you in, drowning you until your lungs are heavy and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe.
“I always cared,” he hums, “still do. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” you bite your lip as you fight back a wide, giddy grin. “Yeah, I do.”
And you kiss him. This time, you know it’s you who does it first because he stiffens for a moment with a hitch of his breath before he melts into it. You’ve kissed so many times tonight, you don’t know why the feeling keeps shocking you, but it does. It’s new every time, but never unfamiliar. You know him—you know him like the back of your hand, and you’d know him with your eyes closed. But you’re still learning him. The way he parts his lips and the pattern of how he nips yours. The way he tugs you closer when he’s overwhelmed, so he can squeeze your hips and ground himself. The way he lets out a soft, barely-there whine when you tug at his hair without realizing it.
“I want you,” he breathes, “i-is that…is that okay?”
“Yes,” you practically beg, “yes—please.”
He clumsily undoes his belt and unzips his pants with shaky hands. You try not to watch and make it awkward. (It is, just a little. But it’s not bad. Nothing ever is with him.) You try to keep your expression neutral as his aching cock is finally freed from its confinements, springing up with a hard, leaky tip as pre cum collects in a small bead. It’s big—it curves a little to the side and the vein is thick along the bottom, and a part of you itches to wrap your hand around it and feel its weight in your grasp.
He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily.
“Can…can I…” You hesitate before gesturing at it.
He nearly passes out from shame when he nods too quickly, forcing himself to slow down and throw on a faux sense of nonchalance as he stutters out, “Y-yeah, yeah that…that’s cool. With me. If you want, that is.”
You nod. Slowly, hesitantly, your thumb smears the leaking pre cum at the tip along the head of his cock before you wrap your hand around him and squeeze slightly. He chokes, gripping your hips tightly as his jaw clenches and his eyes shut tightly while he tries to keep his breathing steady.
“Is this okay?” you whisper.
“More than okay,” he says, voice strained.
“Okay,” you nod, and, a little more confidently, you stroke along his length, watching as he melts and the tension leaves his shoulders, his face slackening while he lets out a soft moan. It feels good—you can tell that much as his head falls back and he lets out a soft, throaty sound when you squeeze a little at the tip before stroking down again.
It doesn’t last long, but you like it, you decide. You like making Phainon feel good. You like the way he looks when you touch him, and you like the feeling you get when you take care of him and give him something without taking anything back. But he stops you before long, and you pause as you raise a brow in confusion.
“J-just…I don’t think I’ll last if we keep…”
He’s red in the face when your eyes widen—you can tell even if it's dark. “Right,” you smile softly, “okay. Do you have…”
“Y-yeah,” he nods, “right…right, yeah.” He fishes out a condom from his pocket, and it takes everything in you not to ask the question in the back of your head of why he keeps one.
(A spark of jealousy clouds your mind for a moment, of whether or not this is something he’s done before with someone other than you to need one, but then you realize that you know Phainon. Better than anyone else, you know him, and you know he’d at least tell you if he’d ever done something like this before.
Because it’s you—you’ve known for a while now that there isn’t anyone else other than you.
The jealousy dies down, and all that’s left is endearment—you’ll tease him later about carrying a condom around like he’s preparing. For now, though, you’re grateful.)
It takes a tense moment of fumbling around with opening and rolling it over his length, trying not to let your hands visibly shake as he makes soft, breathy sound at your touch before gently, you raise your hips, hand still wrapped around his length while you guide him to your folds, the tip brushing along the slick, warm entrance of your cunt and making you both shiver. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as he guides you down, inch by slow inch taken one by one until he’s as deep as he’ll go and you’re sat on his cock, panting and quivering on his lap.
“T-tell me when it’s okay to m-move,” he grits.
“Okay,” you whisper shakily, trying to accommodate his size. It’s a stretch—it burns slightly, but you welcome it wholly. You’ve never taken anything as big as Phainon, and faintly, you hope you’ll never have to compare the size with anything else because you think this is it. This is perfect and what you were made to take. He’s perfect and what you were made to take. You fit like he was tailor-made to fit in you, and you don’t think anyone else will ever replace this.
This feeling. Him. What he means to you. Everything about Phainon is perfect to you—perfect for you. You don’t think it’ll ever be anyone but him.
“Okay,” you plead, “you…you can move now.”
With that, he guides your hips up, almost pulling you off of him completely before he brings you down, helping you slam down on him while thrusting his hips up and meeting you halfway. He’s thick, too, girth-wise—stretches you in a way that adds to the pleasure apart from just pressing against a spot your fingers used to never reach. You thought it was good before when he was just using his hand, but the real thing is even better. Everything around you stops. All you know is Phainon. All you ever want to know is Phainon.
“F-fuck,” he pants, and you barely register his voice cracking as he shoves his face into your neck, “y-you…feel incredible. I’ve always wanted you. You have no idea how fucking bad.”
Something wet hits your neck. You suck in a sharp breath as his hand pulls you down, helping you rock your hips onto him and slam down harder on his cock, taking him deeper inside of you and practically cling to him while he maneuvers your body the way he needs. The way you need.
“A-are you…seriously crying?” you gasp, “Now?”
“No,” he huffs. As if to distract you, he reaches between your bodies and finds your clit with his thumb and rolls harsh, fast circles while a strong, muscled arm wraps around your waist and guides you along a rhythm that has him nudging the tip of his cock hard and blunt against the back of your walls.
“You are,” you accuse. “Do you ever quit being a cry—” you moan and cut yourself off when his tip practically bruises the spot it presses against hard and fast, angling to meet exactly where you fall apart.
“Not a crybaby,” he argues, and his pace gets sloppy as he ruts his hips up into you. You can feel it, too—the beginnings of your second high of the night approaching you as you try to snap your hips and bounce along his length to match his pace.
It’s going to hit you harder this time. You can tell—you can practically feel it as it comes slowly but surely, creeping up on you in a way that makes you anticipate it blindly.
“M’close,” you pant, “m’so so close, Phai…Phainon.”
“Yeah? You are? M-me too, baby,” he groans. You clench around him at the pet name, and he has the audacity to chuckle about it, murmuring a low, “like being called that, huh? You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby—y’know that?”
“Fuck,” you whine, and with one last roll of your hips that he meets with his own thrust upwards, you fall apart while his thumb rubs its circles along your clit.
Your orgasm comes harder than you expect it to—it’s different when he’s that deep and stretches you out so well. It’s different when he rolls his hips to continue to fuck into you to work you through your high. It’s not like other times you’ve cum on your own, and it’s not like the time he made you cum on his fingers. This is entirely different. You can feel the twitching of his cock as the thickess bullies into you, splitting you open while you fall apart on him.
He follows not long after you, the tightening of your walls around him in spasms pulling him into his own release. It’s warm—you can make out the feeling of his release through the thin barrier of plastic as he fills it with thick ropes of cum. He pants your name through a soft, breathless voice, and you slump against his chest and lay your cheek on his shoulder as you ride through the final few waves of your peak.
When he finishes, he slumps back against the seat, chest rising and falling beneath you as he tries to catch his breath. His arms are still wrapped around you, loose and warm, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.
“How was it?” he asks, voice tentative, almost shy.
“Good,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “I-it was… really good.”
“Me too,” he says with a quiet smile. You can hear it in his words. “It was really good for me, too.”
You snort. “Is that why you cried?”
He groans, burying his face against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you in protest. “No,” he grumbles, muffled. “I just… got…”
“Emotional?” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching up.
“Yes,” he huffs, clearly flustered. “The way I feel about you…” He trails off for a second, like he’s waiting for the right words to show up. “It’s just… a lot,” he says finally, soft and vulnerable. “You make me feel a lot.”
“I know,” you say, muffled by his shirt, “I…I feel it, too.”
“Yeah?” he beams.
“Yeah,” you grin.
(You want to tell him that night—that you love him. That you have for a while. That you know you always will. You don’t have the courage to, though, but you never bring yourself to regret it. Maybe because it almost feels like he’s always known.)
— — — — — — — — — —
You’re twenty-three when Phainon proposes. It…doesn’t go how he wants.
He plans it out—it’s meticulous, and sweet, and it was going to be perfect and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he knows you wanted, too. He takes you on a nice, fancy trip, and you’re by the beach where you can feel the sun kiss your skin along with the warm breeze. On the last day, he can sit and admire you as you enjoy the beach one last time happily, and when the sun gets close to setting, he’ll drag you for a walk along the shore where the tides will come and wash away your footprints as they come. And when the sky is pink and purple and orange and every other color of the sunset that reflects in your eyes, he’ll get on one knee and ask you to be his wife.
And then it rains.
It rains hard.
You both gather your things as quickly as you can and run for the car—a fancy rental that he spent quite a pretty penny on to get for this trip, because it’s the kind you’ve always wanted to have and you’re still just barely out of college to have enough saved for it.
You climb into the car, drenched and panting from running, and still beautiful. And he feels his world crumble all at once as he sees that dazzling smile on your face while your hand brushes your forehead and wipes away droplets of water.
He notices your finger. Ringless. His heart bleeds, and everything around him feels like it's caving in on him, and he can’t breathe.
“My goodness,” you giggle, “who’d have thought the rain had it out for us on our last day, huh?”
He swallows thickly at that. And he tries—he tries so hard to keep on that brave face and act like it’s okay. It’s fine. He can wait and plan something else. He has time to make it better, more perfect for you. That’s what you deserve, anyway. He’ll make you smile bigger, make you want to say yes even harder.
This is okay. He still has you. He knows you. He knows you’ll say yes. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or a little later—he still has you.
And yet, when his face crumples and the dryness of his throat is something he realizes he’s not able to control, he understands why you’ve always called him a crybaby. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s going to cry, and you’re going to be worried, and he’s going to have to explain why he’s upset and ruin your surprise and the most perfect moment of your life.
“Phainon?” You freeze, noticing the beginning of tears collecting in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink away. He swallows thickly, and your hand instantly moves to cup his wet face. “Baby, what’s happened? Did you leave something? We can go back and look—it’s just some rain, I don’t mind.”
“No,” he croaks, “no, it’s not that. It’s…it’s nothing,” he forces out.
“It’s not nothing,” you frown, “c’mon, you know I know you better than that. Acting like I don’t is almost insulting,” you nudge his ribs gently. It’s supposed to be good-natured. It’s supposed to be light-hearted and sweet, so he feels safe enough to let down his walls and tell you what’s on his mind because you love him. You do. You love him more than anything, and you make everything better, so he should just tell you.
But the thought of the words coming out feels like he’s a failure. Like he’s taken every ounce of your careful love and not given you what you deserved, even a little. But, as he’s starting to realize after years of arguing with you on it, Phainon is indeed a crybaby. And the tears tell on him faster than the words can, and he knows there’s no hiding anything from you.
So shakily, he grabs something small from his pocket, making you frown as you try to figure out what it is. He brings it closer, and your eyes widen, breath hitching.
You know what that is. You’d be a fool not to. You’re speechless as he sniffles and looks miserably down at the velvet box that’s tiny in his large hand.
“I…it was going to be perfect—th-the sun was supposed to set, a-and we’d go on a walk, and then when the sky was pretty I’d ask, and…and…and…” he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes in defeat. “It was going to be perfect. For you. I had everything planned,” he croaks.
You soften. It’s quiet. For a moment, he thinks maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you weren’t going to say yes, and all the marriage talks of the future lately were just talks and nothing more. Maybe it was too early for all this, and those were just talks of something for the distant future. Something he’d have to wait a bit longer for. And that’s fine—he would. He’d wait for you because he always has. He’s always loved you, and he’s always waited, and it’s always been okay. In the end, he’s always had you, and that’s all he’s ever needed.
Somehow, no matter how many years pass, Phainon stays loving you. At first, he thought it was a crush and that it would be just a phase, but it never went away. It’s just how he is, ingrained into him since he was young—he loves you, and he can’t stop. Somehow, every year, he grows and grows, and all it does is make more room for his love in that stubborn heart of his. He’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. Every year he’s older and he changes, yet somehow, every year, it’s still always you. Even when you’re not there, it’s always your laugh he hears in the wind as it grazes his cheeks and leaves him with the ghost of you.
Loving you comes as easily as breathing. When the air finally settles in his lungs and lets him breathe, he starts to love you even more.
It’s that simple. It always was.
He lets out a shuddering breath and mumbles, “I-it’s okay. It was probably a bad time anyway—I got carried away. J-just forget I said anything, please. I…we can just forget—”
“Oh Phainon,” you sigh, soft and breathless, “you never change, do you, you big crybaby?”
He pouts. There are still tears clinging to his cheeks, and it only proves your point further. Still, you have enough grace not to point it out as you reach and cup his cheek to wipe away a tear gently.
“I am not a crybaby,” he denies half-heartedly, “I was just emotional, okay? Being emotionally intelligent is important!”
You smile. It’s warm and bright, and it’s the same smile he’s known for over a decade, but it’s different, too. Every year it changes a little. The days leave their small footprints along your features and carve their paths as you age, and sometimes, he sees it all at once. How much you’ve changed. How your features are a little sharper now that you’ve grown into them. How small, barely-there lines are etching into your skin where you smile the most and by your eyes where they crinkle. You’re older. You’re still you.
You smile, and it’s like he’s twelve again and nothing has changed, even if he’s twenty-three.
“Ask me,” you whisper, “I’ll say yes no matter where you ask me. So quit crying and ask, you big baby.”
“What?” he gapes, still sniffling a little.
“Ask me,” you huff, giving him a soft, impatient shove. Something about you is giddy. It’s raining outside, he’s crying yet again like he always does, while you have to deal with it, your beach day has been cut short, your surprise is ruined, and you’re drenched in the rental car that he’ll have to return tomorrow before you board your flight and go home. But still, you’re giddy.
And Phainon is in love. It’s nothing new, but it’s different. It’s better. It’s always you.
“Will you marry me?” he murmurs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be my friend that day, and I was a tiny bit of a crybaby only that day,” he gives you a pointed look as you roll your eyes, “and I know you said you’d move away and never come back and you didn’t need me to be your friend but we were friends anyway. And I was always happy being friends, but changing and being more was probably the best thing ever, so maybe we should just change one more time and be husband and wife, right? We’re not on the beach or under the sun, and we’re soaking wet, but will you marry me, anyway? So I don’t live up to the crybaby allegations?”
You laugh. The sun isn’t there anymore, but light still finds a way to break over your face as you laugh, and you cry, too. You cry with him, tears collecting in your own eyes as you nod frantically and whisper, “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you, of course I will. Is that even a question?”
“You’re crying,” he blinks back his own tears, “who’s the crybaby now?”
“Still you,” you snort.
He grabs your hand and just like he envisioned to leave this trip, there’s a pretty little ring on your pretty little finger that catches the light and makes you look a little more different than he remembers you, but a little better than before. He didn’t meet you with a ring on your finger, but he knows you that way now. And it’s different. It’s different and it’s good.
“I love you,” he murmurs, “even though you always lie and call me a crybaby.”
“I love you, too,” you sigh exasperatedly, “even though you lie about being the damn crybaby that you are.”
(He kisses you after. Kisses you hard over the center console of the car as your fiance just like the first time he kissed you over the center console of a car as your best friend. As Phainon. As that stupid, annoying, crybaby boy you came across when he was twelve and you were still eleven and younger by only two months, one week, and four days.)
well . i don’t rly wanna talk about it so there you have it folks. do not look at me
Hello! I just read your latest phainon fanfic and THANK YOU for the SCRUMPTIOUS meal!! I really love this work of yours and it's really close to the canon! Phainon behaviour despite the fanfic being an au. Each part of the fanfic is a chef's kiss and I'll read it again!
Anyways, in the part where the reader starts to escape. They seemed like an expert of it and it's not the first time they did it despite saying in the chapter 1 of the fanfic being 'memorizing prayers all their life'. Now it got me thinking on how did y/n get used to that? Especially with that environment when y/n grows up, I'm sure they would be hesitant or even scared to go outside because of fears of being caught.
Now I have a head canon in my head where y/n actually have friends in their childhood where they would sneak out for a bit for some activities, hanging out or doing some stuff and came back on time on where are they supposed to be. What do you think about this? Sorry this is too long and that's all I would like to say.😭 Thanks again for the delicious fanfic and have a good day/ evening.❤️
Hi, hi anon!! Thank you so much for the kind words, I really didn't expect "To Love The Burning Sun" to get this much love, AAAAH Thank you all so much for the love and support!!! ( ≧ᗜ≦)
Especially after doing 3.4
To answer your question, yes! The reader does have a background story during the days in the old temple (including your HC). I was planning to write snippets of those in an "extras" post for the fic, like little events that happened BEFORE and AFTER the fic.
I wanted to add those in the story at first, but I didn't want to make it too long and lose track of the story flow. They're in the works, so stay tuned!! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )
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.
