𝔸𝕦𝕣𝕒 𓇗

Either from how his flame journey was going to the small bug he saw trying to lift a giant rock up it's back, he expressed how oddly sad he felt when he saw how it kept trying to left it up but when it almost reached it's journey the stubborn rock would fall down once again, and the bug would continue to go back for it and start, once again.

"It was admirable really, but would the poor creature have it's suffering reach it's end?"

-Phainon was the type to enjoy training or doing anything under the bright sun- no matter how much others tell him he would pass out from it, (which he did after a long training session). He truly was a stubborn being.

He would talk about how his mother would chase him around the golden fields to try and get him back since he had been playing and lying in the sun for too long,

"But mother I was having fun playing the hero with the other kids! They all relayed on me to save them, I can't abandoned them now!"

-Phainon loved eating as a kid and it was a fact he never grown out of, he would miss the fish he would catch so his father would cook it, he promises his father places some sort of spell on them, because why wouldn't it taste the same as his father's when he was the one cooking it? It was the same type of fish wasn't it?

"Maybe the type of water the fish was in is different? Huh? What do you mean it's because I didn't add any seasoning?"

-phainon loved competing with his friends the rush of being a hero and having his wish come true of saving so many people, if only his parents were here to see how their son had all grown up from the kid who had once tried to help the other farmers with their work.

"How about it? the person here who defeat the most enemies get to win-! Let's settle this once and for all!"

-----------------------‐

Phainon could only laugh when his body was burning and how he couldn't even lift a finger yet he laughed and laughed and laughed- ERROR - and laughed as he felt -ERROR- this burning in his body this ache and his chest this feeling of- ERROR- was coursing through his body was it the rush of -ERROR- yet his arm was sliced open and cut off his sword, still in his hand yet he couldn't stop laughing,

Because to have been bleeding is to have been fighting, to have given his creator a fraction of the hate he had stored in this -ERORR- .. .. . ... . -cycle reseting...- in 1...2....3

-Cycle resting complete-

----------------------------

"But mother I was having fun playing the hero with the other kids! They all relayed on me to save them I can't abandoned them now!"

"You don't have to protect them all the time you know? They are all strong and can handle themselves you can relay on them

His breath hitched when he heard a voice that made his heart skip a beat, he immediately sat up from where he was laying down on the golden fields, he tried to find where the voice came from, why was his heart racing? Why did he feel such a longing from the owner of said voice?

"Phainon!"

The voice grew louder but he couldn't pin point it, this time he stood up, he turned to pick up his--- his what? Why did he turn so suddenly to his side? He felt like something was up with his memories since there was nothing by his side.

"Phainon..."

This time he turned sharply to his left its when he saw the shadow of his village, why did his heart ache at the sight? Wasn't he just there?

Then he saw it, the one calling from him- or their figure at least they were far- but he recognized that voice- the voice of his beloved-! You were calling for him! He hurriedly took off running towards the figure and once he reached over he hugged it.

"Oh how I missed you so so much"

He didn't want to let go of the figure, phainon may not remember much for now but he remembers how much he missed you, how much he longed for you, why? His body and mind just does, heavily so.

"Where were you? It doesn't matter where I just would've preferred you would have told me at least."

He buried his face deep in your neck inhaling sharply, this time keeping it in his lungs and not letting go, but the moment he felt light headed he was forced to release it in small puffs of air, with a small chuckle as he nuzzled deeper, leaving a gentle kiss there,

"Phainon--!"

"Beloved I'm right here why are you calling for me?"

He slowly turned you around and gave a long kiss to your forehead this time, like something precious, that you were. He then gazed at your face but his eyes widened when a block of blue was hiding your face.

"Beloved?"

"Phainon!"

"Phainon-!"

"Phainon---!"

"Phainon?"

"Phainon-!"

"Phainon----!"

"Phainon???"

"Phainon-!"

"Phainon-?"

----------------------------------

Phainon eyes were aching when he opened them- but barely, he heard echos of his name come from multiple people, from where he was laying on the rumbled wall, his sword beside him where he was laying, his vision was blurry yet something light- and hopeful stood in front of him the sight of his beloved brought a smile to his aching body one he barely mastered but he wanted to for his beloved- they were so bright. So achingly bright that he wanted to close his eyes but he didn't no matter how watery they became from the bright light he refused to let his eyes close even a second in his beloved appearance, he took a deep breath as he slowly lifted his arm-

"Phainon-! Your awake!"

That made him flinch a bit and when he closed his eyes you were gone- and he was brought back to reality one so cruel- his breath hitched the air around was full of rumble the sky was dark and monsters were hunting down remaining humans in this area.

His world was so dark then the world he ached for- he turned to his side the sword right beside him, this time he stood up while blocking his lungs from taking on the smell of smoke and blood.

"Sorry, I might have had a quick nap, Tribbie- im all good now though."

He sat up, and stood up just as quickly not letting his body rest, as he held his sword by his side, clenching on the handle.

Tribbie knew why, but she didn't say anything- she thought of words to comfort him, and only one came to mind.

Phainon would be the type of husband to empress you the best he could, like how a bird finds a partner, he too would try to bring you the prettiest thing he could find. To give to you, pretty necklaces, rings or even pretty gems he found during his time fighting.

Phainon would be the type of husband to keep a photo of you in his pocket to bring out and admire each time he feels lost or in a dangerous mission, he has to remind himself to stay strong not only for amphorious, but for you as well. To bring you the tomorrow he knows you wish for.

Phainon would be the type of husband to try and never show you his faults, either from a small thing like him burning the food to him sacrificing himself for the greater good that he knows that you won't accept him to do. He just wants to be the person you rely on, now and forever.

(Huge emphasis on rely on, he loves it when you do, even the smallest acts like him opening a jar for you.)

Phainon Is not the easily jealous type but he will be if snowy keeps your attention all to himself.

Phainon is the type of husband to call you all sorts of endearment, like beloved or honey or even Καρδιά μου, or Ψυχή μου, the latter just slips out naturally out more often.

At the end of the day, Phainon is the type of husband who likes to look up at the moon, it reminds him of you shining all over his world even the dark bits in him.

The ocean reflects the moon gentle light, he hopes to be your ocean and reflect your light the same one you guide him with. But alas he could only be the sun.

He never realizes that the reason you have your light in the first place was because of the one he emits.

"Khas, I promise I will be back." You reassure the Titan before you, though the words hardly serve their purpose. If anything, they only seem to deepen the fear settling within him.

This all began when you casually mentioned your upcoming trip to the Grove of Epiphany. It was not a vacation, merely a work obligation—but the very mention of it was enough to send Khaslana spiraling. Even as the mighty Worldbearing Titan, he has always feared being separated from you.

"How do you know?" he asks, his voice unsteady. His larger fingers hover near you, brushing faintly against your form as he resists the overwhelming urge to pull you into his chest—something he once could do so easily.

You understand where his fear is rooted—in the agony he endured in his past life. You are infinitely more fragile than a Titan of his scale, and that truth terrifies Khaslana more than anything.

Your lips press into a thin line, unable to form a proper answer. His question is not one you can refute. You do not know what will happen, nor can you guarantee your safety. Once, you could—back when Phainon would immediately gather his things at the mention of your travels, his greatsword always secured at his side as he followed without hesitation.

Now, as a deity, he cannot even hold you. What kind of lover is he, if the one he loves could crumble beneath this cruel world while he stands afar, offering radiance to those who would never cherish you as he does?

"Take me with you," Khaslana finally murmurs, his words slipping through unsteady breaths. He sounds as though he stands on the verge of tears—but those have long since abandoned him. His tears dried the moment Phainon stepped into the Vortex of Genesis with the last Coreflame.

Your expression softens at his plea, touched with quiet sorrow. Your hand comes to rest against his cheek, a fleeting warmth he treasures more than the eternal radiance he upholds. "You know that's not possible, my love," you reply gently, as though handling something as fragile as glass. "But I promise, I will be back before you know it."

The Titan falls silent. His golden eyes remain fixed on you, filled with love yet heavy with grief. Oh, how he wishes he could simply hold you—keep you safe, keep you close, forever. But fate is rarely so kind.

"Then… stay a little longer," he asks softly, lowering his head closer to you. If he could, he would never look away—would watch over you endlessly to ensure no harm could ever reach you. "I want to hear your voice… remember it clearly until you return. So speak—tell me everything. I will listen."

What a tragic being Amphoreus has placed its faith in—a deity who still yearns like a man. One who craves warmth that has long since been taken from him. Such a luxury is no longer his to have.

And yet, just for now, he allows himself the illusion—pretending he is still the man who would abandon everything without a second thought, just to follow the one he loves wherever they go.

ouuuu shitttt 👀👀

i intend on making a pt 2

The first time Mydei notices it, he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing.

You’re walking through Okhema together just before Curtain-Fall Hour. The air is mild, comfortable, by any reasonable measure. Merchants are closing their stalls without hurry. Children are still out.

Beside him, you pull your cloak tighter around yourself, shoulders curling inward.

Mydei glances at you. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not,” you say automatically.

Your teeth choose that exact moment to betray you.

He frowns. “…You are.”

You sigh. “I just get cold easily, alright?”

That makes him pause.

Cold.

He considers this, then looks down at himself, the cool evening air moving across his bare chest, harmless as a passing breeze, the way it always is. He barely registers temperature anymore. Hasn’t, for a long time.

Then he looks back at you. “…That seems inefficient.”

You snort. “Sorry my body isn’t built like yours.”

Mydei huffs softly at that. But the next moment he simply reaches for you, and his arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his side.

The warmth hits you immediately. Not just warm. Hot. Like standing too close to a hearth, except it moves with you.

You blink.

Mydei continues walking as if nothing has changed. “Better,” he says.

It’s not a question.

You stare at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I?”

Your answer is muffled slightly by the fact that you are now very deliberately pressing closer.

After that, it becomes a habit.

Cold evenings in Okhema. Long conversations near the training grounds. Walking back when the wind picks up and the lights glow.

Every time you shiver, Mydei notices.

Every time, he pulls you closer without comment.

At some point he stops saying anything about it at all. It becomes simply understood. The way certain things between you have settled into place without ceremony or announcement.

The first time you stay the night, the problem returns.

You wake sometime before dawn, curled beneath every blanket available, which somehow still isn’t enough. The room has gone cool in the dark hours. Your hands are cold. Your feet are worse.

You shift carefully, trying not to wake him.

Mydei wakes instantly anyway. “…Why are you shivering again.” His voice is rough with sleep. Not quite a question.

You groan quietly into the pillow. “I told you. I get cold.”

Silence.

Then he moves.

His arm slides around your waist and draws you back against him, his chest pressing firmly against your spine.

The warmth is immediate and overwhelming. Like being pulled against something that runs hotter than it should, heat radiating through fabric, through skin, settling into the cold places all at once.

You exhale.

“Problem solved,” Mydei says.

“You’re basically a living furnace.”

“That seems like an advantage.”

He pulls you closer still, until there’s no space left between you. Then, with great practicality, he pushes aside the top blanket.

You twist slightly. “Won’t you get cold?”

A quiet sound behind you. Almost a laugh. “I’m already overheating.”

You feel the faint vibration of it against your back.

“More body contact,” he decides. “More efficient.”

His leg slides between yours. His arm settles more firmly at your waist. His hand, resting against your stomach, begins moving in slow absent patterns. Warm and steady, tracing nothing in particular.

“…You planned this,” you murmur.

“Maybe.”

The cold has retreated entirely now, chased off by the steady heat of him wrapped all the way around you. Your hands are warm. Even your feet are warm. The blankets, freed from the work of keeping you warm, feel almost unnecessary.

Mydei’s breathing slows again.

Just before sleep, he hums quietly. “…See? Efficient.”

You smile into the dark.

He is, you think, the warmest thing you have ever touched.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

He looks like someone who belongs in a boardroom or a private dining room, not a campus coffee shop with mismatched chairs and a specials board written in student handwriting.

You’ve clocked him enough times to recognize the pattern.

He’s clocked you too. You know that without asking.

It happens on a day when your notes are a disaster and your patience is thinner. You’re packing up too fast, papers sliding, your pen rolling off the edge of the table.

He picks it up before it hits the floor.

“Careful.”

You look up. Properly, for the first time.

He’s closer than you expected, and he’s looking at you with that same quality he has when he’s just sitting. Unhurried, direct, like he has all the time in the world and has decided to spend some of it on you specifically.

Up close, the watch catches the light. You notice, and then notice yourself noticing, and look back at his face instead.

He doesn’t hand the pen back immediately. He just holds it, waiting until he has your full attention.

“You’re here a lot,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “So are you.”

Something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile. More like acknowledgment. The look of someone who expected deflection and got something worth considering instead.

“Fair,” he says and hands you the pen.

He doesn’t leave immediately. Which is unusual. Most people, having completed the transaction, would go.

“Studying?” he asks, nodding at the scattered papers.

“Trying to.” You start organizing them with more dignity than you feel. “Midterms.”

“What subject?”

You tell him.

He listens with the focus he seems to bring to everything, and then says something that is actually relevant.

“You know it?” you ask, slightly suspicious.

“Enough.” He picks up his coffee cup, finally, and drinks. “You’re on campus?”

“Why?”

He meets your gaze. “Because you’ve been here for four hours and you look like you haven’t eaten since this morning. There’s a place nearby that’s decent.”

You study him for a moment. Expensive suit. Direct eyes. The particular confidence of someone who doesn’t feel the need to explain himself.

“I don’t know you,” you say.

“Not yet,” he agrees.

It should be presumptuous. Somehow it isn’t quite.

You go, mostly because you’re hungry and he doesn’t seem to be performing anything.

Mydei pays without discussion, eats without making a production of the food, and asks questions like he’s actually interested in the answers. When you mention your building on campus in passing, he notes it the way he notes everything.

You don’t think anything of it at the time.

One week later, you hear a knock on your door. It’s a delivery.

The arrangement is large enough to turn heads in the hallway. Flowers, the kind that aren’t trying too hard, wrapped simply.

Beside them in the courier’s hands, a small box of pralines from somewhere that doesn’t have a chain location, and a flat jewellery box that makes your stomach do something complicated before you’ve even opened it.

Inside: a bracelet. Simple. Elegant. The kind of thing chosen by someone who paid attention.

There’s no note explaining it. Just his name.

You stand in your doorway holding the weight of someone’s attention and feel, distinctly, that you are going to have things to say about this.

The next day, you go to the coffee shop again. Mydei’s at his usual table when you arrive. Of course he is.

You sit down across from him without being invited, which he accepts without comment, and put the jewellery box on the table between you.

“This is too much,” you say.

He looks at it, then at you. “Is it.”

“The flowers were already too much. The pralines were too much. This is—” You push the box slightly toward him. “I don’t know what you think this is, but I’m not—”

“I know what you’re not,” he says, calmly. He doesn’t touch the box. “That’s not what it was.”

You look at him.

“Money is only excessive,” Mydei continues, unhurried, “when it’s spent to impress. That’s not why I spent it.” He pauses and picks up his coffee. “I thought you’d like them. That’s all it was.”

The simplicity of it stops you.

“You thought I’d like them,” you repeat.

“The flowers. You had a dried one tucked in the back of your notebook. Three weeks ago. I noticed.”

He sets the cup down. “The pralines…you mentioned the brand once. In passing. The bracelet—” He glances at it briefly. “You looked at one like it in a window when we walked past. For about four seconds. Then you kept walking.”

You stare at him.

“That’s unsettling,” you say, after a moment.

“Probably.” He seems unbothered. “Keep it or don’t. It wasn’t a transaction.”

You look at the box, then at him.

You don’t push it back again. But you don’t pick it up either. Not yet.

He doesn’t send anything after that.

Not because you told him not to. You didn’t, exactly. But Mydei’s observant in that particular way, and he seems to have noticed that the grand gestures, however genuinely meant, put distance between you rather than closing it. They made the gap in your circumstances too visible. Too much to weigh up.

So he stops.

And starts doing something else instead.

The coffee appears beside you without announcement. Then food. Not restaurant deliveries, not anything that requires a reservation, just a container left on the table one afternoon with the matter-of-fact quality of someone who cooked because it needed doing and made enough for two.

It’s good. Better than good. You eat the whole thing before you think to question it.

“You cooked this,” you say, when he sits down.

“Yes.”

“You cook.”

He looks at you with mild patience. “You sound surprised.”

“You don’t look like someone who cooks.”

“What does that mean.”

You gesture vaguely at him. The suit, the watch, the general quality of someone who could have anything prepared for them.

Something like amusement crosses his face. “I’ve been cooking since I was old enough to be useful,” he says. “It has nothing to do with what I can afford.” He nods at the empty container. “You finished it.”

“…It was good.”

“I know,” Mydei says, and opens his book.

You test him, periodically.

Because the situation is strange and he is strange in it: a man who is clearly comfortable with money in the way that people are when they’ve had it long enough to stop thinking about it, who spends it on you with the same matter-of-fact quality he brings to everything, and who has never once made you feel like it means you owe him something.

You’re used to things costing something. Attention especially.

His doesn’t seem to. Which makes you suspicious, and then curious, and then something else.

So one afternoon you’re deliberately difficult about it.

You push the coffee back across the table without touching it. Tell him you don’t need it. Wait to see what he does. Whether he pushes back, whether something shifts in his expression, whether the patience reveals itself as strategy.

Mydei looks at the cup. Then at you.

“Alright,” he says.

And he takes it back.

Nothing else. He just picks up his book and reads, and twenty minutes later when you’re clearly flagging he sets a glass of water beside you instead, without comment, like he simply noticed and acted on it and the rest isn’t worth discussing.

You stare at the glass for a moment.

It’s the most annoying thing he’s ever done. (And the most reassuring.)

And yet, you smile to yourself.

The flowers arrive on a Thursday, which is your worst day of the week and he somehow knows that.

Something small and unpretentious left on the table beside your coffee. The kind of thing you might have picked out yourself if you ever bought yourself flowers, which you don’t, because there’s always something more practical to spend money on.

You look at them for a long moment.

“You’re doing it again,” you say when he sits down.

“Mm.”

“The thing where you pay attention to things I didn’t tell you.”

“You mentioned Thursdays once.” He opens his book. “In passing.”

You look at the flowers again, then at him, settled comfortably across from you, reading, completely unbothered by your scrutiny.

“This is a lot of effort,” you say, “for someone who hasn’t asked me for anything.”

He glances up at that and holds your gaze for a moment.

“I’m not in a hurry,” Mydei says simply and goes back to reading.

You don’t know what to do with that. So you do nothing, for now. But you take the flowers home, and you put them in a glass on your desk, and you don’t examine too closely why.

The moment it changes isn’t dramatic.

You’re tired. Genuinely, visibly tired, the kind where you stop performing fine because you don’t have the energy.

You sit down across from him with your coffee and your terrible notes and say nothing.

Mydei looks at you for a moment.

“Sit properly.”

You frown. “I am sitting.”

“You’re hunched like you’re bracing for something.” His hand presses briefly to your shoulder. “Properly.”

You exhale.

And you do it.

And for the first time, you don’t argue about it.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you tell him one evening, quieter than you intended.

“I know.”

“Then why do you?”

He’s quiet for a moment like he’s deciding how much of the honest answer to give you.

“Because you have too much to carry,” he says finally. “And some of it doesn’t have to be yours.”

You look at him.

“It’s not about showing off,” he continues. “Or keeping track. I just want you to have less to worry about.” He pauses. “That’s all it is.”

It shouldn’t be enough of an answer.

Somehow it is.

You don’t soften all at once. That’s not how you work, and Mydei seems to understand that. He has never pushed for more than you were giving, never made the patience feel like a strategy.

But you find yourself noticing things. The way he remembers details without making a performance of it. The way his presence has started to feel less like something to be suspicious of and more like something you’d notice the absence of.

You don’t examine that too closely. Not yet.

It’s a quiet evening when it finally shifts. You’re walking back from the café, later than usual, the city settling into that particular after-dark calm. He’s beside you, not filling the silence with anything.

You stop walking.

Mydei stops a half-step after, turning to look at you.

“You’ve been patient,” you say. “For a long time.”

“Yes.”

“Most people wouldn’t be.”

“I’m not most people.” He says it without arrogance. Just fact.

You look at him, really look, the way you’ve been careful not to for a while now. The steadiness of him. The way he’s watching you with that direct, unhurried attention that has never once asked you to be anything other than exactly what you are.

“I know,” you say quietly.

You close the distance yourself.

The kiss is brief at first, tentative in a way that surprises you, given how certain he is about everything else. But his hand comes up to your jaw, careful and deliberate, and he kisses you back like he means it. Like he’s been thinking about it and is in no particular rush now that it’s happening.

When you pull back, he’s watching you with something warm and unguarded in his expression.

“Took you a while,” Mydei says.

You laugh despite yourself. “Don’t push it.”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

He takes your hand, and you walk the rest of the way in silence.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)

You want to explain. Or lie. But you can’t get your throat to cooperate.

He watches you for a breath and then moves with purpose. He sits on the edge of the bed, knees apart, leaning forward so he can see your face better.

“Move.”

It’s not harsh. It’s not even really a command. It’s simply Mydei’s version of concern.

“I…” you rasp, but he’s already sliding a strong arm behind your back.

His hand spreads across your side—warm, grounding, inescapably real—and he lifts.

Your body comes with him before your mind even catches up, and suddenly you’re sitting upright, supported by his arm and the heat of his chest behind you.

He doesn’t let go.

“Good,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, as if confirming something he suspected. “Just hold on.”

You do. Because you have nothing else to hold onto right now.

The next thing you know, he’s guiding you into the kitchen with one hand on your lower back. The touch light but impossible to ignore.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing at a chair.

You sit.

He turns to the counter without another word, pulling ingredients with precision. You watch the lines of his back shift under the dim light. Shoulders working, muscles flexing, markings catching the glow with each movement.

He cooks in silence.

He always does. Focused. In his element. But today, you notice the way he glances at you between motions. Checking. Assessing. Making sure you’re still upright.

He places a plate in front of you. Simple food. Warm. Exactly what you can stomach.

“Eat.”

You try. Your hand trembles.

Mydei sees.

He doesn’t comment—doesn’t make it a thing—just rests a finger on the edge of the plate and nudges it slightly closer.

When you hesitate, when your appetite falters, he says quietly, “You’re losing weight. And you look pale.”

It should sting. It doesn’t. Not the way he says it. More like: You matter to me. I’m paying attention.

You force yourself to take another bite.

“Good,” he murmurs.

He stands the whole time, arms crossed, watching you without watching you. Gaze steady, posture relaxed but protective in a way that makes your chest hurt.

When you’re done, he picks up the plate.

And then, he says, “Get up.”

“Mydei...”

“We walk.”

He doesn’t wait for argument.

The streets of Okhema are quiet at this hour, washed in pale gold.

You move slowly. Mydei adjusts without comment.

After a few minutes, he speaks. “Your mind is loud today.”

It’s not a question.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Walking quiets it. For a while.” A pause follows. “Helps me.”

His hand brushes your back again. A pass that feels like the ghost of a touch, but you know better. Mydei doesn’t do anything by accident.

He leads you through winding paths, away from crowds, into open air where the breeze lifts the heaviness from your lungs even a little.

He doesn’t talk much.

But when he does, it’s this:

“You’re breathing better.”

“You’re walking steadier.”

“You look more alive.”

He notices everything. He always has.

Your stomach drops when you see where he’s heading.

“Mydei—I really can’t—”

He cuts you a sharp side-eye. Deadpan. Slightly offended.

“You think I’d put you out there?” A tilt of his chin toward the public ground. “With all those people?”

The thought clearly irritates him.

He steers you past it, toward the back. A secluded alcove of sand, shade, and quiet.

When you stop walking, he turns fully to face you.

“Fight me.”

You stare. “What?”

He steps closer, expression unreadable but intent.

“I don’t want you to win,” he says, voice calm. “I want you to try.”

Your pulse jumps.

“Mydei, I don’t—I’m barely—”

“You’re still here,” he interrupts. His eyes hold yours, unflinching. “Prove it.”

Your throat tightens. “I can’t beat you. You know that.”

“I don’t want you to beat me.” He shifts his stance slightly. Not aggressive, but open. Ready. “I want you to fight.”

The distinction lands somewhere in your chest.

You swallow hard, then swing.

Weakly. Sloppily. Your fist barely connects with air.

He sidesteps with ease.

“Again.”

You try. Miss.

“Again.”

You try harder. Still nothing.

“You’re moving like you’re already dead,” he says flatly.

Your breath catches. Half from exertion, half from the sting of his words.

“That’s...”

“Not an insult.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “Observation.”

You grit your teeth and lunge.

He blocks without effort, catching your wrist and redirecting your momentum so you stumble forward instead of connecting.

“Sloppy,” Mydei comments. “But you’re getting angry.”

“I’m not...”

“You are.” There’s something satisfied in his tone. “Good.”

Heat flares in your chest. Frustration. Embarrassment. Something alive clawing its way to the surface.

“You...” You shove him. Hard.

Palm flat against his bare chest, right over those red markings that seem to pulse with heat under your touch. Warm skin, solid muscle, the slow steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your hand.

He barely moves.

But his eyes change.

That flicker of approval. Heat. Satisfaction.

“Finally.”

Your breath comes faster now, chest heaving not just from effort but from the sudden rush of feeling something other than emptiness.

“This was your plan,” you accuse, voice rough.

Mydei’s mouth twitches. The closest thing to a smirk you’ll get from him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You absolutely do.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t need to.

Instead, he catches your wrist and adjusts your stance with his other hand at your hip.

“Again,” he says. “But this time—“ He guides your arm into proper position. “Don’t aim to hit me.”

You blink. “Then what...”

“Aim to mean it.”

The distinction is subtle but crucial.

You try again. This time, when you strike, there’s intent behind it. Purpose. Even if your form is still terrible, even if he deflects it easily—there’s life in the movement.

“Better.” His hand stays at your hip, steadying. “You felt that?”

You nod, breathless.

“That’s what I want.” His thumb brushes your side, almost absent. “Not perfection. Not victory.”

He steps closer, crowding your space, heat radiating off him like a furnace.

“Just fight. Against the stillness. Against the weight.” His voice drops lower. “Against whatever’s trying to keep you in that bed.”

Your eyes sting.

“I don’t know if I can...”

“You just did.” His hand moves from your hip to your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “You’re still doing it. Right now.”

And you realize—he’s right.

Your heart is pounding. Your breath is coming faster. Your hands are shaking. From energy. From feeling something after days of feeling nothing.

“See?” His thumb brushes your cheek. “You’re not gone. Just stuck.”

You make a sound. Half-laugh, half-sob.

“And what, you unstick me by pissing me off?”

“Works for me.” That almost-smirk again. “Figured it might work for you.”

“Do you really want me to fight you?” you ask, still catching your breath.

“No.” His hand drops from your face but stays close. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“Then why...”

“I want you to understand something.” He takes your wrist again, but gently this time, guiding it through a slow, deliberate motion. “When you fight, really fight—it’s not about the other person.”

He adjusts your stance with practiced ease, moving behind you so his chest is against your back, his arms guiding yours through the movement.

“It’s about being present.” His voice rumbles against your spine. “Awake. Here.”

He moves your arm through a strike.

“Every movement requires awareness,” he continues. “Where your weight is.” He taps your hip. “Where your balance sits.” His hand steadies your shoulder. “What you’re protecting.” His palm spreads over your sternum, right over your heart. “What you’re fighting for.”

Your breath catches at the contact. At the heat of his hand, the solidity of his presence behind you.

“When you’re in motion,” he murmurs, “you can’t disappear into yourself. Your body demands attention. Forces you to be present.”

He guides you through another movement—this one defensive, bringing your arms up in a block.

“And when the weight gets too heavy—“ His hands steady yours. “—you keep moving anyway. Even if it’s slow.”

He turns you to face him, hands settling on your shoulders.

“Stillness isn’t rest for people like us,” Mydei says roughly. “It’s where the fight gets harder. Where the weight wins.”

Your throat tightens.

“So what do we do?”

His eyes hold yours.

“We keep moving.” His thumbs brush your collarbones. “Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

A pause.

“And when we can’t—“ His hand moves to cup your face. “—we let someone else move us. Until we remember how.”

Something in your chest cracks open.

“Is that what you’re doing?” Your voice comes out smaller than intended. “Moving me?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No apology. “Until you can move yourself again.”

His hand comes up, calloused thumb brushing your jaw.

“But I want you to feel something again.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s not slow. It’s direct. Firm and grounding and utterly purposeful in the way only Mydei can be.

One hand slides to your jaw, fingers spreading across your cheek, thumb tilting your chin up with clear intent. The other hand grips your waist and pulls you flush against him until there’s no space left between your bodies.

The first press of his lips steals the breath from your lungs.

He kisses like he fights. Intense, every movement deliberate, every touch meaning something. His mouth is warm, firm, demanding in a way that makes your knees forget how to work.

You gasp against him, and he reacts immediately, deepening the kiss with a low sound in his chest that you feel more than hear.

Heat explodes through you.

Your hands find his chest instinctively, palms flat against bare skin and those red markings that seem to pulse with warmth under your touch. His heart is thundering beneath your fingers, strong and steady and real, and suddenly you’re acutely aware of everything.

The furnace-heat of his body pressed against yours.

The calloused roughness of his thumb stroking your jaw.

The way his other hand has slid from your waist to your lower back, fingers splaying possessively, holding you to him like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

The taste of him. Smoke and something sharper. Something uniquely Mydei.

Between breaths, he mutters against your mouth, “You shove me like that again—”

His lips drag across your cheek, down to your jaw.

“—and I’m taking it as permission.”

His teeth graze your pulse point, and your entire body jolts.

“Your consent,” he finishes roughly, voice dropped to pure gravel.

You make a sound—half-gasp, half-something else entirely—and your fingers curl against his chest, nails catching slightly on skin.

He huffs a quiet, pleased breath against your throat, and you feel his mouth curve into something that might be satisfaction.

“There,” he murmurs, lips brushing the sensitive spot below your ear. “There you are.”

Then he’s kissing you again. Harder this time, more urgent, like he’s trying to pour life back into you through sheer force of contact.

And it’s working.

The numbness that’s been suffocating you for days cracks apart under the assault of sensation. Heat and pressure and the overwhelming presence of him.

Your hands slide up from his chest to his shoulders, then into his hair, and he makes a low sound of approval that reverberates through both of you. He intensifies the kiss even more, pulls you closer with such possessive intent that a short giggle escapes you.

Mydei doesn’t comment on it, but you taste the smirk on his lips. It makes you feel even warmer. When his touches grow more urgent, you know he’s missed this too.

The world narrows to this: his mouth on yours, his hands holding you like you’re something precious and unbreakable all at once, the way your heart is suddenly pounding instead of just existing, the way your lungs are working harder instead of just mechanically cycling air.

You feel awake.

For the first time in what might be weeks, you feel present.

When he finally pulls back—slowly, reluctantly, like it physically pains him to put even an inch of distance between you—you’re breathless and flushed and trembling.

But alive.

Undeniably alive.

Mydei’s eyes are darker than usual, pupils blown wide, and his chest is rising and falling harder than it should be for someone who’s usually so controlled.

His thumb brushes your kiss-swollen lower lip, and his expression does something complicated. Satisfaction and concern and heat all tangled together.

“Better,” Mydei says quietly, voice still rough around the edges.

Because he can see it. The way color has flooded back into your face, the way your eyes are focused and present instead of distant and hollow, the way you’re breathing like it matters again.

You nod, not quite trusting your voice yet.

His hand slides from your jaw to cup the back of your neck, pulling you forward until your forehead rests against his collarbone.

“Good,” Mydei murmurs into your hair, and you feel the word vibrate through his chest. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then another. And another. “Stay here. With me.”

And for the first time in too long, you actually can.

Mydei looks calm. Of course he does. But his eyes are warmer than before.

“You look better,” he says simply. “Now come.”

He takes you to a high, hidden ledge overlooking Okhema.

The view is breathtaking. Golden light spilling across rooftops, distant sounds of life below softened by height and distance.

You didn’t know this spot existed.

Mydei sits down, elbows on his knees, gaze distant.

You settle beside him, still feeling the echo of exertion in your muscles. The pleasant ache of having moved, having done something after so long being still.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

Then, he mutters, “Sometimes I want to stay in bed too.”

You turn to look at him.

He doesn’t look back. His profile is sharp against the sky, jaw tight, eyes tracking something far away.

“Not to sleep,” Mydei continues, voice lower than usual. “To stop. To let go. To disappear for a while.”

Your breath catches.

He flexes his hands once. Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s reminding himself they’re real.

“All my life, stopping meant dying.” His throat works. “The River of Souls taught me that. And all the fights after. If you stop moving in the current, you sink. You drown.”

He finally turns his head, meeting your eyes.

“Stillness is dangerous for people like me. For anyone who’s been fighting too long.”

Your chest tightens.

“But motion…” He shifts closer, knee brushing yours. “Motion helps. Gives the anger somewhere to go. Gives the weight something to push against.”

His hand reaches for yours. Large, warm, calloused from years of fighting.

“And when you can’t move on your own—“ His fingers thread through yours, grip firm and grounding. “—I will come get you.”

Your throat closes completely.

“Every time?”

“Every time.” No hesitation. No doubt. “I’ll pick you up. I’ll make you eat. I’ll make you walk.” His thumb brushes your knuckles. “I’ll make you fight me if that’s what it takes to remind you you’re still alive.”

A tear slips free before you can stop it.

Mydei sees. Of course he does.

His free hand comes up to catch it with his thumb, then he pulls you into his arms without waiting for permission.

Strong, sure hands guide you against his chest, one arm banded across your back, the other cradling your head.

You sink into him completely.

He holds you firmly. Securely. Like solid ground when everything else feels like quicksand.

“You’re here again,” he murmurs into your hair. Not a question. A confirmation.

You nod against his chest, breathing in the scent of him. Smoke and metal and something indefinably Mydei.

“Good.” His arms tighten fractionally. “Stay here. With me.”

For the first time in days—maybe weeks—you feel like you can.

Your breathing evens out. The tightness in your chest loosens. The weight doesn’t disappear, but it becomes bearable. Manageable.

Because you’re not carrying it alone.

Mydei presses his cheek to your hair, and you feel him exhale. Long, slow, like he’s been holding tension you didn’t know he carried.

“When the weight comes back—” His voice is quiet, almost drowsy. “—and it will—”

“I know.”

“—you tell me. You don’t have to fight it alone.”

You place your hand on his chest.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Good.” He sighs softly, then presses a kiss to your temple. “I’m here.” The words are simple but sincere, and you swallow the tears away.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Not for that,” Mydei replies instantly, almost gruffly. “You’re my priority. Always.”

He doesn’t let go. Not for a long time. And when he finally does ease his hold enough for you to breathe properly, he keeps one arm around you.

You stay on that ledge until the sun starts to set, wrapped in Mydei’s steady presence, feeling more alive than you have in weeks.

And for now, that’s enough. ___ A/N: Thanks for reading. :) I hope you enjoyed it. Likes, reblogs and comments always mean a lot. :)

I really do miss Mydei a lot right now. I mentioned it before, but Mydei's groundedness and maturity are some of the qualities that I deeply appreciate about him. More Mydei works to follow soon. :)

You sit up slowly, letting your eyes adjust to the dimness, listening to the sounds of your home at night. Your daughter breathes softly in her crib beside your bed. Little sighs and the rustle of blankets as she shifts in sleep.

She’s always been the deeper sleeper of the two, which is why her crib stayed in your room while your son’s moved down the hall. Separating them keeps them from waking each other through the night.

Your son should be sleeping too, safe in his own crib in the twins’ room.

But Phainon’s warmth is gone from beside you. And you know, with that instinct that comes from months of shared parenting and even longer years of knowing him, that your son is awake too.

Your heart jumps. Not with fear exactly, because you trust Phainon with everything you have, but with sudden alertness. That shift from sleep to awareness that every parent knows.

You slip out of bed as quietly as you can, bare feet touching cool floor. You wrap a shawl around your shoulders against the slight chill of night air and follow the faintest trail of sound drifting through the hallway.

A voice.

Gentle and soft and familiar.

Almost singing.

You exhale with a smile you didn’t know you were holding back, relief and affection flooding through you in equal measure.

Of course.

You pad down the hallway on silent feet. When you reach the twins’ room, you push open the door just enough to see inside, careful not to let the hinges creak.

And there he is.

Phainon sits on the floor beside your son’s crib. Legs folded beneath him in that easy way he has, white hair completely mussed from sleep and falling across his forehead, shirt half-buttoned like he threw it on in the dark without bothering to check.

The light from the small lamp on the dresser catches on the planes of his face, highlighting the gentle curve of his smile, the softness in his eyes.

In his arms is your son, small body curled against his chest, tiny fists gripping the fabric of Phainon’s shirt near his collarbone. The baby isn’t crying, just awake, wide-eyed in that solemn way infants have sometimes, staring up at his father’s face with rapt attention.

Phainon’s hand moves slowly across the child’s back in soothing circles, and his voice continues in that low, melodic murmur:

“…and down through the market we go,” he’s saying, weaving a story like thread, “past a stall where a lady shows us all her clever inventions, and the fruit vendor who always gives us too much because she says growing heroes need their strength…”

Your son makes a tiny sound. Half-whimper, half-curious coo.

Phainon’s smile widens, eyes crinkling at the corners as he adjusts the baby more securely against his chest, one hand cradling the small head with practiced gentleness.

“Oh yes,” he whispers, voice warm as sunlight, “heroes like you. Heroes like your sister sleeping so peacefully right now. And your mother, of course—” His voice drops even softer. “She’s the bravest one of us all. The strongest. The kindest. Everything good in this world.”

You press your hand against your mouth, throat suddenly tight with emotion. Lean your forehead against the doorframe because your knees feel weak.

He continues, voice dipping into a gentle rhythm that’s half-song, half-story:

“…and we’ll hunt for treasures only heroes can find. Shining pearls hidden in market stalls, little crystals that catch the light just so. And we’ll bring them home to show Mama, won’t we?"

Phainon laughs quietly and clears his throat. "She’ll smile that smile that makes everything bright. Then we’ll eat sweetbread still warm from the baker’s oven, and go to the bathhouses because even heroes need to wash after big adventures…”

The lullaby is entirely made up, you realize. Improvised from the fabric of your daily life. The market trips, the appraisal work Phainon does, the simple domestic rhythms that make up your world together.

He’s turning the mundane into magic for your son, making heroic quests out of grocery shopping and bath time.

Your son’s eyelids are drooping now, blinking slower and slower, small head dropping more heavily against Phainon’s shoulder. Fighting sleep with the determination of the very young. Losing the battle.

Phainon hums now instead of singing words. Soft and melodic and steady as a heartbeat. The tune is sweet and simple, something he’s making up as he goes, but it carries all the love in the world.

You step inside finally, moving quiet as breath.

Phainon looks up the moment he senses you. Those impossibly blue eyes finding yours across the dim room, and they’re warm, tired, but absolutely glowing with contentment.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t want to break the spell. Just smiles that soft, private smile he only ever shows you. The one that says you’re home, you’re everything, I love you.

After a long moment, when the baby has gone boneless and peaceful against him, Phainon rises with fluid grace despite his exhaustion. He moves like water, like he’s done this a thousand times, cradling your son with such careful reverence.

“He didn’t want to wake his sister,” Phainon whispers, voice barely more than breath as he crosses to you. “Woke up fussing, and I thought—well. I thought we’d go on a little nighttime journey instead.”

His free hand rises instinctively, thumb brushing your cheekbone in a gentle sweep. Tender, protective, a little worried.

You reach up and brush a strand of white hair back from his forehead, fingers lingering against his skin. “A very heroic one, I hear.”

His cheeks flush faintly even in the dim light, that endearing embarrassment that comes when you catch him being sweet. “I may have embellished our adventures for dramatic effect.”

“As you should,” you murmur, affection making your voice thick.

Phainon carries the baby back to the crib with steps so careful you can barely hear them. He leans down slowly, pressing a kiss to your son’s temple, before laying him gently back into the soft blankets.

The little boy sighs in his sleep, a sound of pure contentment, and curls onto his side. His breathing evens out immediately, deep and peaceful.

You both watch him for a moment, making sure he’s truly settled. Making sure he’s safe and warm and dreaming sweet dreams.

Then Phainon turns to you, and his expression melts into something so tender it makes your heart ache.

His hands find your waist, fingers spreading across the fabric of your nightclothes, and he pulls you close, slow and careful and deliberate, like he’s savoring the feeling of you against him. Like even after all this time, touching you is still something precious.

“You should be sleeping,” he murmurs, forehead dropping to rest against yours.

“I woke up and my other half was missing.”

Phainon laughs quietly. That warm, breathy sound that always makes your heart flutter and stumble. “I’m sorry, my love. I tried not to disturb you.”

“You didn’t. I just missed you.”

Something in his expression cracks open at that. Softens further.

Then he kisses you.

Soft and sweet and unhurried, tasting like sleep and affection and home. His lips move against yours gently. Like he’s saying thank you for choosing me, for making this life with me, for giving me everything I never knew I needed.

Your hands slip up his chest, fingers finding the fabric where your son’s small fists had clung to him moments before. The shirt is wrinkled there, warm from tiny hands.

He breaks the kiss only to lift you in one smooth motion, arms secure and solid beneath you. One under your knees, one supporting your back.

You yelp softly, startled. “Phainon!”

He only grins, eyes sparkling with mischief and love, voice dropping into that sweet, teasing warmth that you’ve loved for years:

“Shh. You’ll wake the little heroes.”

He carries you down the hallway, moving through the darkness of your home like he knows every inch by heart. Light from the nightlamps brushes over you both as you pass windows, painting you in shades of blue and silver.

At your bedroom door, he pauses. Shifts you slightly so he can press a kiss to your forehead. The promise of protection and love and I’ve got you.

“Back to sleep,” Phainon whispers against your skin. “Let me take care of you, too.”

He lays you down with such reverence you might be something sacred. Tucks the blankets around you with careful hands, smoothing them over your shoulders, making sure you’re comfortable.

Then he slides in beside you and immediately pulls you against him with a soft, contented sigh.

“There,” Phainon murmurs, nose brushing your temple. “Much better.”

You settle against his chest, breathing in the scent of him. Clean and familiar and home. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, a rhythm you know as well as your own.

For a moment you just lie there together, warm and safe and quiet.

Then Phainon shifts slightly, tilting your chin up until you’re looking at him in the dimness.

“Hi,” he whispers, and there’s something playful dancing in his eyes despite the late hour.

“Hi,” you whisper back, smiling.

He kisses you. Soft at first. Gentle and sweet, lips moving against yours with tender familiarity. But then he deepens it slightly, hand sliding up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone as he kisses you like he has all the time in the world.

When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to press his forehead to yours, breath warm against your lips.

“I missed you, dawnlight,” Phainon murmurs. “Even just for those few minutes.”

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. “You were only down the hall.”

“Still too far.” He kisses you again, quicker this time, almost playful. Then again. Little butterfly kisses across your cheek, your nose, making you smile helplessly.

“Phainon,” you breathe, trying not to laugh and failing.

“Shh,” he teases, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “You’ll wake our daughter.”

You bite your lip, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, and he grins. That beautiful, mischievous grin that makes him look years younger.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper.

“You love me,” Phainon counters.

“I do,” you say, bringing your hand up to touch his face. “So much it counts as otherworldly.”

His expression melts at that. All the playfulness softening into something tender.

“Not as much as I love you,” he whispers, and kisses you again.

This time it’s slower. Deeper. His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he pours everything he can’t say into the kiss. Gratitude and devotion and wonder that you chose him, that you built this life with him, that you gave him a family he never thought he’d have.

You kiss him back, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing harder, and his eyes are almost glowing in the soft light.

“I love you,” Phainon murmurs against your lips. “I love you, I love you, I—”

You kiss him quiet, smiling against his mouth, and he makes a soft, pleased sound.

Then he shifts, pressing you gently onto your back so he can lean over you, propped on one elbow. His free hand finds yours, fingers lacing together, bringing your joined hands to rest against his chest.

“Thank you,” Phainon whispers, and his voice cracks slightly on the words. “For this. For them. For—” He stops, swallows hard. “For everything.”

You squeeze his hand. “Thank you for singing to our son in the middle of the night. For being so gentle with them. For loving us the way you do.”

He closes his eyes briefly, overwhelmed.

Then he leans down and kisses your forehead, long and lingering.

“Always,” he promises against your skin.

Phainon settles back down beside you, and this time when he pulls you into his arms, it’s with complete surrender. Tucking your head beneath his chin, wrapping both arms around you, legs tangling with yours beneath the blankets.

You can feel the moment he fully relaxes. The last tension draining from his shoulders, his breathing evening out, his body molding perfectly against yours like you were made to fit together.

“Comfortable?” Phainon murmurs, lips brushing your hair.

“Perfect,” you whisper back.

His arms tighten fractionally, and he presses another kiss to the top of your head.

You curl into him, hand resting over his heart, feeling the steady thump-thump-thump beneath your palm.

You’re drifting off, warm and safe and loved beyond measure, when you hear it.

Him humming again, so softly you almost miss it.

The lullaby.

But this time it’s different. This time the melody shifts and the words, barely breathed against your hair, are about you.

“…and the bravest hero of all,” he sings, voice barely above a whisper, “who gave me everything… who made me whole… who shows me every day what love means…”

Your heart clenches with so much emotion you can barely breathe.

You smile into his chest, tears pricking at your eyes, and press a kiss over his heart.

Phainon's arms tighten around you one more time. Secure, protective, infinitely gentle.

And you fall asleep to the sound of him singing you into dreams.

Safe.

Loved.

Home.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :) Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ☺️

The bathhouse is quiet at night.

Steam drifts over the surface of the private pool, blurring the light into warm gold. The air is thick, humid, scented with something faintly floral.

Phainon stands in the water already, waist-deep, the glow catching in his hair. He’s watching you before you even reach the edge.

“You’re tense,” he says, voice soft. “You’ve been hiding it since midday.”

You pause, fingers hovering over the tie of your robe. “…You noticed?”

His eyes soften. Just slightly. Just enough.

“I always notice.” A pause. “When it comes to you, I notice everything.”

Something warm uncurls in your chest. You let the robe fall.

He extends a hand.

When you step into the water, heat envelops you instantly. Silky, almost liquid warmth that seeps into your muscles, your bones, your breath. You sink in with a slow exhale you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Phainon watches you with quiet focus. Patient. Attentive. But underneath—something rawer. Something that flickers in his gaze.

“You shouldn’t allow your body to stay wound so tightly,” he murmurs, moving closer through the water. Slow. Deliberate. Each step sending ripples that lap against your skin. “It hurts you more than you admit.”

“Phainon…”

You don’t know what you meant to say. But he hears everything in the way you breathe his name.

His fingers brush your jaw. Barely there.

You shiver.

The sound he makes is small. Soft but sharp-edged, like your reaction hit him somewhere vulnerable.

“You feel that much?” he asks quietly. “Just from this?”

You try to speak. Fail.

The water is too warm.

He is too close.

His thumb traces along your jawline, featherlight. “You’re trembling.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” His voice drops lower. “And I don’t think it’s from the cold.”

Your breath catches.

Phainon’s eyes darken. He steps closer still—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his chest, see the way his pulse beats steady at his throat.

“Tell me something,” he says. “Did you come into the water because you wanted to relax… or because you wanted me closer?”

Your heart stutters.

You know the truth.

He knows it too.

“That’s what I thought.”

His thumb drags across your lower lip. Slow. Testing.

“You can tell me what you want, dawnlight.” His voice is soft. “Or I can read it from your body. Either way—” He leans in, breath warm against your cheek. “—I intend to give it to you.”

Heat coils low in your stomach.

“Phainon…” Your voice comes out shaky. Wanting.

His breath shudders.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Say my name like that again.”

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek.

“I brought you here because you needed relief,” he whispers against your skin. “But if you want more—if you want me—tell me now. I need to hear you say it.”

You whisper something. Maybe his name. Maybe a plea.

Whatever it is, it ruins him.

His control fractures. You see it happen—the way his jaw tightens, the way his breath goes ragged, the way his hands flex at his sides like he’s barely holding himself back.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“You want me to touch you,” he says, voice rough. Raw. “Don’t you?”

You nod. You don’t trust your voice.

“Words, dawnlight.” Soft command. “I need your words.”

“Yes,” you manage. “Please.”

Something shifts in his expression. Goes molten.

“Then let me take care of you.”

His hands settle on your waist—firm, grounding—and he begins to sink lower in the water.

Your breath catches.

“Phainon—”

“Shh.” He presses a kiss to your sternum. Another to the space between your ribs. “Hold onto the edge for me. Keep yourself steady.”

You reach back blindly, fingers finding the smooth stone lip of the pool.

He watches you obey. Something hungry flickers in his gaze.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice dropping into that deeper register. The one he uses when he’s either furious or wanting. “Just like that. Don’t let go.”

His mouth trails lower.

Your stomach. The curve of your hip. The soft skin just above the waterline.

“You’re already warm,” he breathes against you. His fingers trace up your inner thighs beneath the water, parting them gently. “Already wanting.” He looks up at you through the steam, eyes dark. “The water didn’t do that, did it?”

You shake your head.

His smile is devastating. Soft and sharp all at once.

“It’s me,” he says quietly. Not a question. “I did this to you.”

“Yes—”

“Good.”

He exhales shakily. Like your admission broke something open in him.

“Then I’m going to take such good care of you, dawnlight. I’m going to make you feel everything.”

His lips meet the inside of your thigh first.

Slow. Testing. Worshipful.

The warm water laps against your skin with each movement, but his breath is hotter—burning against you.

You gasp. Your fingers tighten on the stone.

“That’s it,” Phainon murmurs against your skin. “Let me hear you.”

He trails higher. Deliberate, open-mouthed kisses that grow bolder with each one. His hands slip beneath your thighs, spreading them wider, guiding—never forcing—your body toward his waiting mouth.

“You don’t have to hold yourself together,” Phainon whispers. “Not with me. Not ever with me.”

Your knees buckle.

He catches you instantly. Steadies you with strong hands.

“I have you,” he breathes. “I won’t let you fall.”

And then his mouth finds you.

There.

You cry out—sharp and sudden—and the sound seems to shatter him.

He groans against you. Low, raw, unguarded. The vibration makes your whole body shake.

“Yes,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “That sound. Give me that sound again.”

He works you slowly at first. Learning you. Testing what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes your thighs tremble around him.

“So responsive,” he murmurs against your flesh. “So perfect.” His tongue drags slow and deliberate, and you keen. “You have no idea what you do to me. How long I’ve thought about this. About you.”

Your hips jerk involuntarily. He holds them steady with firm hands.

“Easy, dawnlight.” But his voice is strained now. Hungry. “Let me savor you.”

He presses deeper. His tongue moves with familiar precision—circling, stroking, devouring—and all you can do is hold on.

“You taste divine,” he groans. “Like you were made for me.”

You feel it building.

The tension. The heat. The impossible pressure coiling tighter and tighter—

Your legs shift restlessly in the water. Your foot brushes against him—against the hard length of him, straining, unmistakable.

You gasp.

So does he.

“Phainon—you’re—”

He shudders. Actually shudders, mouth going still against you.

“I know.” His voice is rough. Barely controlled. “I’m painfully aware.”

Your hand moves instinctively—reaching for him, wanting to touch—

He catches your wrist.

“No.” His voice shakes, but his grip is steady. His thumb strokes over your pulse point. “Not yet.”

“But you—”

“This is about you.” He presses a kiss to your inner thigh. Soft and grounding. “Right now, I only want to make you feel good. Let me have this.” His eyes meet yours through the steam. Dark. Desperate. “Please.”

The plea undoes you.

You nod.

His exhale is shaky with gratitude.

“Thank you,” he whispers. And then, he adds, “Now—where was I?”

He doesn’t start gentle this time.

He lifts your thighs over his shoulders—one, then the other—until you’re spread open for him, supported entirely by his strength. The new angle is overwhelming. Exposed. Intimate.

“Hold the edge,” he commands. “Don’t let go.”

“Phainon—”

“I’ve got you.” He kisses your thigh. “I’ve always got you.”

And then he consumes you.

There’s nothing slow about it now. Nothing careful. He eats you like he’s starving. Like you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy him.

“Gods, you taste so good,” he groans into you. “So wet. So perfect. You have no idea—” He breaks off, mouth working faster, harder. “—no idea how many times I’ve imagined this—”

You moan. Loud. Unrestrained.

He moans back—desperate, vibrating against your most sensitive flesh—and the sound nearly breaks you.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let me hear you. Let everyone hear you. I want them to know—” His tongue presses deep. “—that I’m the one making you fall apart.”

Your back arches. Your legs shake. You’re right on the edge, teetering—

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

His pupils are blown wide. His lips are slick. His hair is damp and disheveled and he looks absolutely wrecked.

“Look at me,” he commands. “I want to watch you come undone.”

Your eyes lock with his.

“Now, dawnlight.” He seals his mouth over you. “Give it to me.”

You shatter.

You scream his name—or something close to it—and he holds you through every wave, groaning against you like your pleasure is his own, like he’s falling right alongside you.

“Yes,” he breathes when you finally stop shaking. “Yes. Perfect. You’re so perfect.” He looks almost humbled. Like your pleasure undid him more than his touch undid you.

He doesn’t move away immediately.

He stays close—forehead resting against your thigh, breath warm on your oversensitive skin, hands steady on your trembling legs.

Then, slowly, he lowers you back into the water.

“Come here.”

He pulls you into his arms, lifting you against his chest like you weigh nothing. You’re still shaking. Still floating.

“You’re trembling, dawnlight,” he murmurs into your hair. “Lean on me. I’ve got you.”

You melt into him.

The water is warm.

He is warmer.

After a long moment, he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, then another to your neck.

“Tell me,” he says quietly. Something vulnerable flickering beneath the steadiness. “Did I overwhelm you… or give you what you wanted?”

You nuzzle into his throat.

“Both.”

His breath catches.

“Good,” he whispers. “That’s exactly what I intended.”

You shift in his arms, settling more comfortably—and feel him against you.

Still hard. Still wanting.

His jaw tightens.

“Ignore that,” he murmurs. “Tonight was about you.”

“But I don’t want to ignore it.” You press closer deliberately. Watch his eyes flutter shut. “I want to make you feel good too.”

“Dawnlight—”

“Please.” You kiss his jaw. His throat. The corner of his mouth. “Let me have you. The way you had me.”

He makes a sound. Low, rough, breaking.

His hands tremble where they hold your thighs.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” You roll your hips against him, and his whole body shudders. “I need to. Please, Phainon.”

Something snaps behind his eyes.

“Hah,” he breathes. “You really will be my ruin.”

He kisses you then. Deep and urgent, tasting of steam and wanting and you.

When he pulls back, his voice is controlled but his eyes are wild.

“Like this,” he murmurs, shifting you in his arms, pulling you closer with one hand while the other pushes his trunks down. “We’ll do it like this. Slowly. Together.” He positions you over him, the blunt heat of him pressing against your entrance. “Does that sound good, dawnlight?”

You kiss him.

“Yes.”

His forehead drops to yours.

“Thank you,” Phainon whispers. Like you’re giving him a gift. Like he’s the lucky one.

And then he guides you down onto him, and the only sound is the water lapping at the edges of the pool and both of you gasping each other’s names.

___ A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. :)

I miss him a lot. More Phainon to follow soon. :)

“I don’t know what you—”

“You do.”

He stands, and something about the way he moves—smooth, unhurried, every step measured—makes your breath catch.

“You’ve been testing me all week,” Phainon continues. “Teasing me. Seeing just how far you can push.”

He crosses the room, and you suddenly realize how vulnerable your position is—stretched out on the sofa, nowhere to go.

“So here’s my question.” He stops beside you. “Do you actually want to know what happens when my restraint breaks? Or are you just enjoying the game?”

Your mouth goes dry. “I—”

“Because I can keep humoring you,” he says softly. “Or we can stop pretending this is innocent teasing.”

Before you can form a response, Phainon moves.

One moment you’re on the sofa, the next you’re on your back with him above you, his hands catching both of your wrists and pinning them gently but firmly above your head. The shift is so smooth you barely process it. Just heat, closeness, and the realization that you are very, very thoroughly trapped.

“Phainon—”

“Shh.” His thumb traces over your racing pulse. “You wanted to test my restraint. So I‘m returning the favor now.”

Your brain short-circuits. “What?”

“Don’t move your hands. Hold still, dawnlight.” His voice is gentle, but there’s firmness underneath. “Can you do that for me?”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

“Good.”

He releases your wrists, but the command remains. Your hands stay pinned by nothing but his instruction and the weight of his gaze.

He’s barely touching you now—and yet you’ve never felt more held. You can’t think straight.

“Do you want to know what I think, my dawnlight?” Phainon murmurs, leaning closer, his breath ghosting across your lips. “I think you’ve been teasing me because you wanted this. You wished to see what I’m like when I stop being quite so careful.”

“Maybe,” you manage, voice embarrassingly breathless.

His smile is small, knowing. “Then allow me to show you.”

He kisses you.

Not rough—that’s not his way—but thorough. His mouth moves against yours with the same focused intensity he brings to everything else, precise and controlled until suddenly it isn’t—until he’s kissing you like you’re the only thing that matters in the world.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your head exactly how he wants it. The other braces beside your head, caging you in. And your hands—your hands stay right where he told you to, fingers curling into fists as you fight the urge to touch him.

When he pulls back just enough to let you breathe, you’re dizzy with it.

“Still there?” Phainon asks softly, a faint smile on his lips, eyes searching yours. “Check in with me.” You nod frantically. “Yes. Very yes.”

He smiles—that warm, bright smile that makes your chest ache—and then he’s kissing you again. Deeper this time. His teeth catch your lower lip gently and you make a sound you’ll be embarrassed about later.

“Good,” Phainon murmurs against your mouth. “Keep your hands there. Just feel this.”

And you do. You feel everything. The solid weight of him above you, the heat radiating from his skin, the way his thumb traces your jawline with such careful attention. The way he kisses down your neck, unhurried and thorough, sucking and nipping gently, while your hands tremble with the effort of staying still.

“Phainon,” you gasp. “Please—”

“Please what?” He looks at you, tender but intense, in control but affected. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want—” You can barely form words. “I want to touch you.”

“Not yet.” His tone stays gentle, firm. “You tested my restraint. Now I’m testing yours.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “I want to savor this. Savor you. Is that alright?”

Phainon kisses you again, slower, deeper. His hand slides from your jaw down your neck, resting over your racing pulse—feeling how thoroughly he’s undone you without even trying.

When he finally pulls back properly, you’re both breathing hard. His hair is mussed, though you never touched it. You kept your hands where he told you to. The realization sends heat through you.

“You did so well, love,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Better than I could have hoped. Thank you for trusting me with this.” He looks at you for a long moment, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. There’s pride there, but also something softer. Awe, maybe. Like he’s not used to being allowed to want like this. “You may move now.”

The second permission is given, your hands fly down, clutching his shoulders like you’re drowning. He laughs—quiet and warm—and catches your hands, guiding them to his chest instead.

“You‘re so impatient,” Phainon teases, all affection.

“You’re terrible,” you accuse breathlessly.

“Am I?” His smile widens. “You’re the one who spent all week trying to break my composure.”

“Did it work?”

He considers, then leans down to kiss you once more. Soft and sweet. “What do you think?”

Your laugh is shaky. “I think you have better restraint than I gave you credit for.”

“Years of practice,” he says, pulling you close. “Though with you, it’s significantly more difficult.”

You curl into him, still catching your breath. “Good.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re going to be the end of my carefully maintained self-control, aren’t you?”

“Promise?”

His arms tighten around you. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, honest. “I should’ve known better than to think I could restrain you. You’re everything I try to be careful about—and I’m discovering I don’t actually want to be. Not anymore. With you, I want everything.”

Your chest tightens. “Phainon…”

Phainon kisses your forehead gently. “Next time you want to test my restraint, maybe warn me first? So I can prepare accordingly.”

You grin. “Where’s the fun in that?”

His answering laugh is warm as sunlight, and when he pulls you close again, you feel it—the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the warmth of his presence, the certainty that you’re safe here.

“You’re impossible,” he murmurs into your hair.

“You love it.”

A pause. Then, so soft you almost miss it, he mumbles,

“I do.” And kisses you again.

___ A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you liked this little exploration of that more dominant side of him. :) Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. :)