you always die before i can say it
cw- Alternate universe!!, hurt/comfort, arranged marriage, some spoilers, tension and angst (?), unprotected sex, manhandling, fingering, cunnilungus, missionary, tummy bulge, aftercare and not proof-read Nd this the first time I'm writing smut 😭
The wedding veil is woven from the highest quality silk, threads harvested from the holy hands of the demigod of romance herself. The gown, ceremonial and stiff, is stitched with prayers in golden ink, the same shade of the chrysos blood.
They say marriage in Amphoreus is sacred, but rarely because of love though. most marriages in Amphoreus are about contracts and mutual gain.
You were chosen to be wed to Phainon, the world-bearing chrysos heir. Your name is etched onto some marble slab right after your birth.
Phainon.
Of course, you have heard of him. Everyone has. Charming, Strong, , Gold-blooded or Cold-blooded, who knows?
And now that man is your damn husband
The word tastes foreign. You’re not afraid. But you are… unsettled. Not because you’re marrying a stranger. That much was always expected. You trained for this, studied noble etiquette, practiced how to kneel without wrinkling your gown. You recited the vows until they bled from your mouth like scripture.
What unsettles you is the way he looked at you when you entered the chamber, like he knew you too well.
Not in the vague, political way nobles know each other through connections and rumors.
But intimately, like he’s seen you smile in private. Heard you whisper. Heard your soft pleas.
You try not to shudder as the officiant begins speaking in the tongue of the sacred titans, and you force yourself to look at Phainon again.
He stands unnaturally still, hands folded behind his back, clad in the suit which complements him a little all too well—obsidian and silver. His eyes, a dull ocean blue lacking the shine of the moonlit waters which you adored, do not move from yours. One can not deny that he is certainly fine asf
You wonder if he’s even listening
Then his gaze lowers to your hands.
You immediately freeze up, feeling the hair on your body stand up and your ears heaten up.
There’s heat there. Brief, scorching. Something in his eyes breaks for a fraction of a second, like a tidal wave threatening to breach a dam.
You remind yourself that this is routine. This marriage is simply contractual. You’re not meant to feel anything.
“Do you accept the terms of this union?” the officiant asks.
You swallow your saliva before finally speaking, “I do.”
Phainon doesn't respond right away. He just stared at you. someone give him brown contact lenses im shivering my timbers
And then, in a voice too soft to belong in a room like this: “I do.”
The officiant nods. Seals it. The pricked golden blood of your now beloved on the contract complements the deep red of yours
(One week after the ceremony)
You hadn’t expected much of him.
No one had told you that outright, of course, but the message had been clear enough in the way your tutors glossed over his personality and emphasized your posture instead. Your instructors spoke of duty, of expectation, of Chrysos' legacy. But never of warmth. Never of affection. And from the few conversations you’d had with Phainon in the first three days of your shared existence when you were teenagers, it had seemed like he was perfectly happy to uphold that cold, crystalline distance.
So you had made peace with it. You’d built the polite mask. The one that bowed and smiled and listened, and never expected him to ask you how your day had been
And for a while, he didn’t.
In those first days, he was distant. Not unkind, but cold in that chillingly efficient way Amphorean nobility mastered before they could walk. He would speak to you only when it was required. Your attempts at conversation—small things, really, like “Do you always rise before the second sun?” or “Do you like this blend of tea?” were often met with vague nods, faint grunts, or complete silence. He wasn’t cruel in those terms. But he wasn’t there. That was even more cruel.
And then suddenly one day, he was.
It began subtly. You nearly missed it, actually.
At breakfast, you reached for the honey spoon and noticed his gaze flick toward your wrist with concern. You thought you imagined it—until he spoke, in the awfully high tone of his
“You’re favoring your left hand. What happened??” You blinked at him, caught off guard. “…I burned my right last night. Just a little. I didn’t think you noticed.”
Well, you accidentally injured your hand by punching the wall in anger, but not that you would ever admit it. The second came later that evening. You were walking through the golden-lit halls toward the library when he appeared beside you—not from the opposite corridor, but from the shadows of a stone pillar. Like he had been waiting, sort of like a puppy waiting for their owner to return.
“I thought you were in the training grounds,” you said, voice kept carefully neutral.
“I was,” he replied. “But then what's the point if I can't flex to my dear wife :(”
You didn’t know what to say to that other than to just stare wide-eyed, feeling the tip of your ears burn and redden up.
But it only got stranger from there.
By the fourth day, you’d stopped being able to move freely through the palace without eventually encountering him. Not in an overt way. He never imposed himself or forced himself on you. But he was there. When you turned down a hall. When you stepped into the balcony garden. When you brushed your hair back and thought about the sun, it was as if the thought itself summoned him. When you briefly mentioned the fact that you like sun, a sun tattoo which you never knew of had been exposed on the crook of his neck with his shirt exposing his well-built collarbones.
You try to rationalize it.
Maybe this was just… politeness. Maybe you had been misled by his initial coldness, and this was the true Phainon. Perhaps, now that the marriage was finalized, he was merely making the effort to play the part of a proper husband.
Maybe. But then you’d wake in the morning to find the curtains already drawn—not by the servants, no, they would never touch your private quarters. It was him. You knew it was him. You could smell his cologne lingering too faintly in the air, like crushed vanilla and sweet tea leaves.
Another time, you mentioned missing the old garden that your childhood estate once had. The next morning, you looked out your chamber window and the entire palace greenhouse had been refitted with the exact same floral arrangements. The blue hydrangeas. The delicate roses. Even the silverleaf vines braided around the arch.
Next morning he greeted you at breakfast now, every morning, with a radiant sort of cheer that felt jarringly out of place in a palace built from marble and duty.
“Did you sleep well?” he’d ask, eyes crinkling as he leaned forward across the table, like you were a childhood friend he hadn’t seen in ages. His tone was lilting, almost teasing. “I heard the second moon stayed full all night. Maybe it blessed your dreams? Or was it the sun that blessed you? :D ”
You nodded, tentatively, unsure how to respond.
He didn’t stop smiling.
Sometimes you caught him just… looking.
You’d be walking through the hall, pacing out your next speech for the council, when you’d glance sideways and see him leaning against a stone column, arms crossed, hair tied back messily like he hadn’t bothered fixing it since sparring with Lord Mydeimos.
He didn’t say a word.
Just watched you. Head tilted. Like you were art worth billions
And then, when you paused, when you opened your mouth to say something, anything—he’d flash that infuriatingly lovely smile and say something stupid like, “Your left shoe’s a bit loose.”
You would blink. Look down. See that, indeed, it was. No wonder you were walking clumsily today. You bend down to remove the unfit shoes from your feet, and then suddenly, he had scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all—like a prince from some ridiculous, overly saccharine romance novel that your childhood handmaid used to smuggle under your pillows in hopes for you to try those tactics with the child Phainon.
“What are you—?! Phainon!”
“Can’t have my wife tripping and faceplanting before council,” he grinned, his voice a mockingly exaggerated whisper as he cradled you in his arms. “That’d be bad for image. What would the old geezers think?” “That I’ve married a lunatic,” you snapped, flustered beyond comprehension. “Put me down.”
“Sure,” he chirped cheerfully, “right after I carry you to the sitting room and get you a new pair of shoes.”
“You’re impossible,” you muttered.
“You’re pretty light,” he countered, and you swore to the titans that if he wasn’t your legally-bound husband with an entire planet at his back, you would’ve smacked the smug grin off his face.
well... who says you can't? Your hand pitifully punches his chest, but the only reaction you got was a huge grin from your husband and a sudden reddening of embarrassment from yourself. Your traitorous hands gripped the front of his training shirt, trying to stabilize yourself as you felt the warmth of his body, the strength of his arms. One was wrapped firmly around your back and the other curled under your knees. His skin was sun-warmed, faintly smelling of steel and faint vanilla now.
His muscles flexed with each step. He was so warm, but not in an overwhelming way like the spring sunshine, and strong. Filthy thoughts clouding your mind on what he could do to you with that strength and-
You bit down on your cheek hard. Just to focus on the sting, to stop the swirl of confusion and butterflies and every other damn thing his nearness ignited in you.
“Where did you even come from?” you mumbled, unable to help yourself as your eyes flicked toward the corridor behind you. “You weren’t at my side five minutes ago.”
Phainon just laughed, his stupidly lovely ocean eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m the world-bearer, wife. I show up wherever I’m needed.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m your husband.”
That word again.
It didn’t taste so foreign this time.
When he finally set you down gently, like you were carved from glass, he knelt in front of you and began adjusting the fit of your shoes. His fingers were sure, calloused, and surprisingly gentle. He didn’t meet your eyes this time, just focused on the buckle, humming softly to himself. Something old. A lullaby, maybe. One that prickled at the edges of your memory, it felt very similar.
When he was done, he looked up at you, still crouched low.
“There,” he said. “Fit for council now.”
You stared down at him. This strange, strange man. Phainon the golden heir. Phainon the storm-fisted warrior. Phainon your absurd, ridiculous, soft-handed husband.
“…Why are you doing this?” you whispered, voice more fragile than you meant it to be.
“Doing what?”
“This. All of it.” You gestured vaguely at the air between you, secretly hoping that his response would explain and calm the heat pooling down your body. “You never acted like this before. Not when we were younger. Not when we first met.”
His expression changed. Just slightly. The edges of his smile curled inward, softened.
"People change."
He definitely had an ulterior motive.
No one becomes this devoted in a week. Not when, for years, he looked at you like one more duty to be managed. Not when, as a boy, he’d barely spared you more than a nod. People change, yes—but not like this. Not overnight. Not with this intensity. Not with this… unspoken ache.
You narrow your eyes.
He stood slowly, and for once, he didn’t flash that mocking grin. He didn’t deflect. He didn’t tease. He simply looked at you and flashed you a smile again. That same smile that he uses to escape something, how do you know? He would always attempt to use that infamous smile of his on Professor Anaxagoras, but it never worked.
Your throat felt tight. Not from sadness—no, you’d learned long ago how to school that away. But from the quiet, dull ache of inevitability. Of disappointment. Of waking up from a dream you didn’t realize you were having.
“…Right,” you said after a beat. You smiled, small, polite. The kind of smile you’d give a visiting noble who asked too many questions, or a war general trying to barter peace with veiled threats from the other side. A smile that meant nothing but silence. “Of course.”
Phainon tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for more. As if he hadn’t quite expected you to drop it so quickly.
But you did. You had to.
Because asking again would mean hoping. And hope, for you, had always been a mistake.
He didn’t move right away. Just stood there, watching. The shadows of the hall fell soft against his cheekbones, painting him in that same eerie glow the temple’s moons always cast. He looked like a statue. The one whom you wanted to worship.
And still, he tried to soften it. That stupid, lovely smile.
“Sleep early tonight,” he said eventually, stepping back into the corridor. “Council starts at dawn, and you need the energy to deal with that Wench Caenis.”
You only nodded. You didn’t watch him leave. You didn’t have to. You knew the sound of his footsteps now. The way his boots pressed against the marble. The shift of his weight when he turned. The subtle creak of the door as it closed behind him.
Only after he was gone did you let out a long, shaky breath.
You had hoped for more. That was the truth of it. You sank into the stone bench by the window, watching the wind ripple the garden leaves outside. You stayed there long after the moons had fully risen. Long after the last torch had been extinguished in the main halls.
Not crying. Not thinking. Just waiting for the ache in your chest to pass.
It didn’t.
Because what was more painful than hatred, more confusing than love… was being wanted for the wrong reasons. Being kissed with an agenda.
He knew he shouldn’t touch you. Not yet. Not like that.
Not until the world turned once more, not until he was sure this time would be different.
But Phainon had always been selfish.
That was the truth of it. For all the people who called him the golden heir, the world-bearer, the man of law and legacy, none of them had ever seen the core of him—dark and clawing and desperate. Desperate in a way that didn’t match the cold angles of his public mask, in a way he had buried lifetimes ago.
And yet, there he was again. Standing just beyond the threshold of the corridor, hidden by shadow, watching you sit by the window, arms curled around yourself as if your own skin couldn’t be trusted to hold you. Moonlight wove silver threads through your hair. Your expression was unreadable. You didn’t cry.
You never cried.
Even in death, you never made a sound. Phainon’s jaw clenched. In one life, you had died in an assassination by that wench Caenis. In another, it was that damn black-cloaked moon bastard. And once—once, it had been him. Not directly. But with silence. With neglect. With the hope of avoiding, you would keep you safe. You had died in that life not with blood, but with resignation. With your back turned to him, staring out a window just like this one.
You had always loved windows.
In every life, no matter what, you always stare at the sky.
And he always ended up watching you.
Phainon pressed his back to the wall and exhaled, slow and quiet. His hand drifted to the sun-shaped tattoo at the crook of his neck, hidden once more beneath his collar. He hadn’t intended for you to see it so early. But the moment you smiled faintly at that flower arrangement in the garden, the same ones you used to plant in the old timeline when your hands were still callused and he was too much of a coward to say your name
He showed the sun tattoo to you, for you, it seemed like he showed it to the world. In a way, he is right, though, after all. You are his world
"This time, I’ll keep her alive."
Even if he had to fake the marriage. Even if he had to pretend to fall slowly, like a fool playing at affection.
But it wasn’t pretend, was it?
He was already too far gone.
Even now, he wanted to go back into the chamber. To kneel beside you, brush your hair back, tell you everything—that he had loved you in every cycle, that this life, this union, was the only one he had dared to interfere with directly. That every part of this palace had been reshaped to your tastes because he knew them.
He only wanted to kiss those sweet lips of yours; he wanted to kneel and kiss the inside of your thighs, he wanted to suckle on your clit, he wanted his saliva and your essence mixed all over his face and your thighs, he wanted your thighs to shake, he wanted to suck up all your sounds, all your sweet whimpers and moans and to feel your fingers in his scalp screaming his name.
He wanted to say, "I love you so much, my dear beloved."
But you had always died before he could say it.
But this time, you wouldn’t lift a finger.
This time, he would bear the world so you could rest.
He liked seeing you tired. Not from fear or grief or survival. But from things like reading too long, or laughing too hard. He liked how you tucked your feet under you on the garden bench, how your hair always curled slightly at the temple when you were exhausted, how you never finished your second cup of tea no matter how much you insisted you could.
He liked watching your shadow move through the halls. His hand would twitch toward you when you passed—wanting to reach, to hold, to kiss, and how he wished that those hands would cup the tainted face of his.
You’d been burned before. By versions of him and by his incompotency.
But this him… this one would be perfect for you.
A husband worthy of your trust. A man so attentive, so devoted, that your heart would melt without realizing it. He’d make it seem effortless, so that when you fell in love with him, you’d think it was your choice. Your will. Not something he carved into fate with the blood of a titan. He was patient now.
He collected your empty teacups, examined the pattern of your lipstick against the porcelain, and chose your favorite blend before you could even think of it. When you spoke, he listened. Not just to the words, but the way you breathed between them. The way your fingers fidgeted, the curve of your lips when you were holding back a lie.
He even learned to do that darn puppy plead, just the way you liked. He practiced in front of the mirror.
Because gods, he wanted you happy.
Happy. His happy little wife.
He wanted to see you glow. In this life, he would give you everything that every other life denied you. A garden full of your favorite flowers. Silk bedsheets in your favorite hue. A husband who memorized every line of your face and made you laugh at breakfast and stayed awake through the night just to make sure no bad dream ever reached you.
Phainon had once been a soldier, a role-model, a god-kissed heir of the Chrysos. But all of that meant nothing. Because in every timeline, the only title he ever wanted, the only one that mattered—was yours.
Yours to call. Yours to curse. Yours to kiss. Yours to fuck.
He had lived lifetimes without your love. This one, he would not.
This time, he would coax it gently, sweetly. He would cradle your heart like glass in his hands.
Tomorrow, he’d surprise you with pastries from your childhood province. He knew the exact ones you liked. The honey lemon-soaked marble cake your late aunt used to bake.
Tomorrow, he’d smile again. Tease you. Maybe carry you down another hallway, just to hear you swear at him with fire in your voice and a blush on your face.
You skipped breakfast.
You told yourself it wasn’t deliberate—that you were just tired, that the meetings had run late, that you hadn’t been hungry. But when you passed the dining hall and saw him already seated, waiting and fidgeting with his fingers with a lovesick smile on his face, your heart curled into itself like a fist. And instead of entering, you turned away with your head down, pretending you hadn’t seen.
You still smiled. Of course you smiled. It wasn’t like you wanted a war in the house—gods knew how fragile everything was already—but that smile never reached your eyes anymore. Not the way it did on the wedding day, when everything was still so bright and confusing and painfully hopeful.
No, now it was just… easier. Easier to pretend, easier to nod and say “thank you” when he pulled out your chair or handed you your favorite tea, easier to swallow the sudden knot in your throat when he looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world.
Because that couldn’t be true. It shouldn’t be true.
Phainon didn’t look at you that way before the wedding. You remembered. You knew. Back then, every conversation was clipped and careful, formal even in private. He rarely asked about your day. Never touched you if he didn’t have to. He was dutiful, at best. Indifferent, most days. Cold, sometimes. A contract, after all, didn’t require affection. Just presence. Just heirs.
So what changed?
That question haunted you more than you cared to admit.
Because no one changed this quickly. No one woke up one morning and decided to act like they were in love. Especially not him.
You could see it in the way he lingered near doorways, hesitating like a man too afraid to knock. You could hear it in his voice, softer than silk when he asked if you needed anything. You could feel it when his fingers brushed yours and lingered—just a moment too long to be innocent.
It terrified you.
You’d never been loved like that before. Not truly. And certainly not by someone who had once treated you like another duty, another requirement.
So you did what you always did when something became too fragile. You retreated.
Your walks in the garden changed hours. He’d arrive with that little hopeful gleam in his eye, only to find empty benches and untouched tea. You took to eating dinner in your study under the excuse of paperwork. You made sure your warded doors were properly sealed before bed, a ritual you hadn’t kept up since the first week of marriage.
You didn’t hate him. That was the worst part. If you hated him, it would be simple.
No, it was the not knowing that broke you.
You didn’t want to be a fool who reached out, only to find out later that the warmth was just a tool. That it was manipulation dressed up in affection. That maybe, just maybe, this too was part of the contract—something he was fulfilling for the sake of reputation, or power, or something even worse.
It had to be something like that.
So you started saying less. Moving quieter. Laughing less.
And Phainon… he noticed.
He didn’t push, not at first. He remained gentle. Almost painfully so. Still pulled your chair out. Still offered your favorite cloak when it rained. Still watched you from across the hallway with that same haunted look, like he was holding something in his chest that was too heavy for words.
But he didn’t say anything.
Until one morning, as you passed him in the hallway and offered your usual strained, polite smile, he caught your wrist. Gently. Carefully.
“Are you angry with me?” he asked, voice low and far too sincere.
You blinked, startled. “No. Of course not.”
“Then why are you avoiding me?”
You swallowed. Your throat felt tight. “I’m not.”
“Don’t lie.” His fingers didn’t tighten, but his gaze sharpened. “You haven’t looked at me in a week.”
You pulled your hand free, stepping back a little too fast. “I’ve just been busy. There’s nothing wrong.”
“Nothing wrong,” he echoed, voice flat now. His face gave nothing away, but his eyes..they looked like something was splintering beneath the surface.
You couldn’t do this.
You weren’t strong enough to ask what he wanted. Weren’t brave enough to hear him confirm that yes, he was just doing his part. That all of this. this closeness, this softness was just another act to maintain the illusion of a happy union.
So instead, you did the cowardly thing, which Phainon would always do.
You smiled again. And said, “Don’t worry about me.”
Then turned and walked away before he could say anything else.
Phainon didn’t move from the corridor for a long time.
He stood still, hand limp at his side where your wrist had just been. The emptiness there felt sharper than it should have. His shoulders were too tense, chest hollow like a bell that had never been rung. He should’ve expected this..gods, why didn’t he expect this? People don’t forget how they were treated. And he hadn’t exactly been kind, hadn’t been present, hadn’t even been human to you during those earlier years.
And now?
Now he was trying too late. Giving too much, too fast. Like pouring water into a cracked cup, hoping it’d hold.
Of course you were pulling away. Of course you didn’t trust him.
And he didn’t blame you.
But knowing that didn’t make the ache stop gnawing at the edges of his chest, didn’t make the silence at dinner any less crushing, didn’t make the distant smile on your lips feel any less like a dagger stuck under his ribs.
He ended up at the training grounds of Castrum Kremnos. It was empty. Saved for the half-curled figure already there, manspreading in a chair like he’d been expecting him all along. Mydeimos didn’t even glance up from the book he was pretending to read.
"You can read?"
“…You look like a kicked puppy,” Mydeimos grunted, before shutting the book and keeping it on the chair beside him.
Phainon didn’t answer. Just dragged a chair back with a hollow scrape and dropped into it.
The silence stretched between them like a storm cloud. It was ridiculous—Mydeimos wasn’t exactly the ideal confidant. He didn’t provide emotional support. But he was a good advisor.
“She’s avoiding me,” Phainon murmured finally, staring up at the arc of the stars through the skylight.
Mydeimos gave a long sigh through his nose. “Gee. I wonder why.”
“…I don’t know what I did wrong.”
This time, Mydeimos did look over. His eyes narrowed. “You mean besides the years of emotional negligence and emotional distance ?”
Phainon flinched.
“…I didn’t mean to treat her like that. Back then.” He rubbed his face with both hands, voice thick. “I thought… if I kept things distant, it would be easier. For her. For both of us.”
“Easier to keep her from hurting you, you mean.”
Phainon went silent.
“Easier to keep you from feeling anything real,” Mydeimos muttered. “Until you woke up one morning after the wedding and realized you loved her. Congratulations, by the way. That realization only took, what, ten years?”
“I do love her,” Phainon snapped, softer than anger but too raw to be anything else. “I—I love her, I do. It’s not just the contract. Not anymore. I just… I don’t know how to show her. I’m trying. Titans, I’m trying.”
His voice cracked.
And then, quietly, Mydeimos barely caught it—
“…Why won’t she look at me?”
It was pathetic. He knew it was. The great and noble Phainon, reduced to trembling fingertips and broken breath because the woman he loved wouldn’t meet his gaze. Because the only person who had ever made him feel tethered to this world now drifted further away with each day, and he was too late to stop it.
He buried his face in his hands.
“Why did I wait so long?” His shoulders shook. “Why didn’t I say something sooner—before the wedding..before all this, why did I wait until she already stopped believing me?”
For once, Mydeimos didn’t make an immediate retort.
He let Phainon’s sobs and breath escape without mockery.
Then, slowly, gruffly, he reached over and gave Phainon’s arm a small, awkward pat.
“…She probably thinks it’s not real,” Mydeimos muttered, voice lower. “That you’re only acting sweet because it’s convenient. Because the contract’s signed now.”
“I don’t want convenience,” Phainon whispered. “I want her.”
“Then stop treating her like someone you’re trying to win back and start treating her like someone who already matters.”
Phainon wiped his eyes.
“…Do you think she’ll ever believe me?”
Mydeimos sighed again and leaned back in the chair. “You’re gonna have to earn that. Every damn day.”
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
Well, Phainon was now drunk.
Very drunk.
The type of drunk that made his usually elegant speech slur into incomprehensible, soggy babbles. The kind that replaced his usual gliding footsteps with staggering shuffles and dramatic floor collapses. He was lying in the middle of the training grounds now—shirt half untucked, hair a wind-blown disaster, one shoe missing—and loudly reciting what Mydeimos could only assume was meant to be a love poem.
“…And I said—hic—my wife—my beautiful, ghosting wife—she smells like spring and vanillaa!—she—she gives me so mcuh pain :(”
He attempted to sit up dramatically to emphasize the word pain, but gravity had different ideas. His arm flailed out in a sweeping arc and he toppled back onto the ground like a fallen tree. A very sad, very loud, very dumb tree.
Mydeimos stood nearby with his arms crossed, a twitch in his jaw, looking one step away from calling pest control.
“You’re lucky I don’t just bury you in this training pit and call it fertilizer, HKS.” he muttered.
Phainon sniffled. “I tried to write her a letter. A letter, Mydeimos. With calligraphy and metaphors. I rhymed ‘love’ with ‘dove.’ I’m not okay.”
“Clearly.”
“I think—hic—I think she hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Mydeimos muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s just smarter than you and has a memory longer than a week.”
Phainon lay still for a beat. Then, with the solemn dignity of a man who’d had six glasses of wine and no sense of shame, he whispered, “What if I duel the sun for her affection?”
“You duel the sun, and I’m going to marry her,” Mydeimos snapped.
Phainon gasped. “You wouldn’t!”
“I absolutely would. Out of spite.”
Phainon dramatically flopped again and groaned into the dirt. “She won’t even look at me…” “Because you’re in the dirt. And drunk.” “She’s my moon!” Mydeimos kicked some dust toward him. “And you’re a dumbass.” There was a long silence. Then a quiet, pitiful whimper. “…Do you think she’d at least come to my funeral?” Mydeimos turned, fully done. “I’m going to get a bucket of water and a shovel. If you’re still like this in ten minutes, I’m planting you next to the cabbages.”Phainon wept. Louder.
Dragging Phainon was like hauling a wet velvet curtain that wouldn’t shut up. He clung to Mydeimos’s shoulder like a damsel in distress, rambling into his ear the entire way about how your voice made flowers bloom, how he should’ve memorized every word you ever said like sacred scripture.
“Mydeimos, wait—wait—I forgot her favorite tea,” Phainon whimpered mid-step, only to be yanked forward with zero grace.
“She doesn’t want your goddamn tea. She wants space,” Mydeimos snapped, gripping him by the back of the collar like an unruly pup.
“But I made her a poem, should I recite it again? You didn’t let me finish earlier. ‘Her silence is a blade that cuts my soul—’”
“I will literally hurl you into a lake,” Mydeimos growled, kicking open the gate to your residence.
Phainon gasped. “You wouldn’t. This outfit is imported silk.”
“You’re covered in dirt, Phainon. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
Despite his weight and whining, Mydeimos manhandled him up the steps, muttering curses in three dead languages including Kremnoan, occasionally giving Phainon a little jostle when he tried to slump dramatically against every column, sighing like a tragic widow.
At one point, Phainon tried to claw at the ivy near your window and whisper, “Do you think she’s watching me suffer? Maybe she likes it. Maybe she’s a sadist—”
Mydeimos didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed a broom resting near the door and whacked him with it.
“OW—WHY—”
By the time they reached your door, Phainon had managed to tangle himself in Mydeimos’s cape, sob three more times, and threaten to write you another letter “in blood, if necessary.” Mydeimos dropped him on your doorstep like a sack of emotional garbage and knocked, hard.
You opened it a moment later, blinking at the sight—Phainon half-collapsed on your doormat, cheeks flushed from wine and crying, mumbling your name like it was both an oath and a prayer. You sighed tiredly but you were shocked aswell.
“…What happened!?” you asked in shock, gaze flicking from your drunk husband to the thoroughly unamused man beside him.
Mydeimos adjusted his gloves, tone the picture of politeness despite the vein twitching near his temple. “Your husband drank an entire bottle of Okheman wine, and tried to fight..dromas."
“…Right.”
You crouched and started dragging Phainon in by his wrists, ignoring his dramatic attempts to cling to the doorframe like he was being separated from his soulmate.
“I said I was sorry!” he sniffled. “Don’t avoid me again, wife—please, I’ll give you my sword, my titles, my soul—”
You would be lying if you said you weren't amused and flustered but you could only mutter, “You tripped over your own feet and cried on a marble bust, calm down"
Phainon whimpered and rolled over onto your hallway rug like a wilted flower.
Mydeimos raised an eyebrow. “You’re…surprisingly good at handling him without violence.”
“I’ve dealt with an unreasonable grandmother,” you replied, brushing hair from your face. “This is marginally worse.”
He huffed—something nearly like a laugh. “He’s been miserable,” Mydeimos said after a beat, voice quieter. “Hasn’t trained properly in a week. Barely eats. Keeps talking about how you won’t look him in the eye.”
You glanced in your room where Phainon had successfully face-planted into a pile of your clothes. “…I see.”
He looked at you, arms crossed, expression softer than you’d expected. “But for what it’s worth—he’s not faking this. He’s a pathetic actor.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just leaned against the doorframe, rubbing your temple.
“Thank you,” you said eventually. “For bringing him back. For not throwing him into the sea.”
“Wasn’t for his sake,” Mydeimos muttered, before turning away with a wave. “Get some rest. Both of you.”
"Thank you..Lord?"
"Mydei."
"Thank you, Mydei"
“I was going to leave you a letter,” he mumbled, voice thick, slurred. “But Mydeimos said that’s what cowards do.”
“I would’ve preferred the letter,” you muttered under your breath.
You grabbed a blanket. Not out of compassion—at least that’s what you told yourself—but because the idiot was shivering.
“Why are you avoiding me?” Phainon slurred suddenly. You froze. One hand still caught in the blanket.
He blinked at you, eyes glassy and half-lidded, but there was something underneath—something old and heavy and hurting. Something that cut too deep for alcohol to dull out.
“…You don’t need to pretend like you care,” you said quietly. “I know what this marriage is.”
Phainon didn’t laugh. Not this time. He looked at you like you’d struck him.
“You think I’m pretending?”
You said nothing. Pulled the blanket over him and moved to stand, but his hand caught your wrist—clumsy, but desperate.
“You don’t get it,” he whispered.
“Let go—”
“No.” His grip tightened. “You don’t understand. I—I've watched you die.”
You went still, your breath stopped and you swear your hair stood up.
“…You should sleep,” you said, voice barely a whisper.
"Please...(Y/N) p-please... don't leave, you're the reason I'm here, you're the reason I can keep hope in these painful fucking cycles...please.."
And though your heart ached and your throat burned with all the words you didn’t know how to say—you simply pat his back as he falls asleep and walk away to the couch to fall asleep.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
When you opened your eyes, it was morning.
And your first thought was: Why does my pillow feel like it breathes?
Your eyes fluttered open fully, lashes brushing the softness of something warm. The light was gentle, soft gold through half-drawn curtains. There was a weight wrapped around your waist. Another draped over your thigh. And something..no, someone was pressed against your chest, face buried there like you were the safest thing in the world.
“…Phainon?” you croaked.
He didn’t respond. Only burrowed in deeper.
His silver hair tickled your collarbone, messy and unstyled, a far cry from his usual immaculate self. Just the soft, rhythmic puff of breath against your skin and the occasional, sleepy twitch of his fingers curled into your shirt.
You blinked at the ceiling, completely and utterly paralyzed. Not because he was heavy. Not because you didn’t want to move.
But because you didn’t know why he was here. How you ended up in bed with him when you’d fallen asleep on the couch.
You shifted slowly in attempt to leave.
He made a sound. A low, almost pitiful whine
You swallowed hard.
Your fingers twitched where they hovered over his shoulder. You didn’t touch him. Not yet. You didn’t know what this meant.But gods, how easy it would be to give in. To sink back into the warmth. To pretend, just for a moment, that everything he said last night was real. That he wasn't drunk. That this wasn’t something born out of fear of losing you again.
Your heart thudded against your ribs as he breathed in deeper, chest rising against yours, arms tightening.
And all you could do was lie there, trapped in his arms and your own racing thoughts.
Phainon stirred with a soft groan, brow twitching as sunlight nudged at his eyelids. His mouth tasted like regret and cheap wine. His head ached like a bitch because of the Hangover.
But none of that mattered.Because the warmth he’d clung to—the softness pressed against him all night—was gone.
His eyes shot open.
The bed was half-empty. Sheets still creased where your body had been. Still warm.
His heart dropped. His hands clenched the blanket for a breath too long before he sat up, rubbing a hand down his face. He scanned the room like you might be hiding in the drapes or behind the fireplace, and when you weren’t, something ugly and raw twisted in his chest.
Of course. Avoiding him again.
You always leave.
It took him barely a minute to find you.
You were in the study, curled on the couch again with a half-read report in your lap, eyes stubbornly refusing to look his way.
“Why,” he said sharply, standing in the doorway, “are you doing this again?”
You stiffened. Didn't answer. Just kept reading, even though your hands trembled slightly at the edges.
His gaze darkened and something finally snapped.
“I am trying for you..” he said sternly in anger, striding across the room, “and you keep running like I’m some kind of curse.”
“Phainon—” you started, already standing, but too late.
He reached you in three steps and lifted you clean off the floor.
“Put me down,” you snapped, swatting at his shoulder—but it was like hitting a wall of sculpted granite. Infuriatingly warm, shirt slightly wrinkled from sleep, and entirely unmoved by your struggle.
“No,” he said flatly, voice low and tense. “We’re not doing this anymore.”
When he kicked open the door to his room, he didn’t drop you.
Just strode inside, closed the door behind him with a deliberate click, and finally, finally set you down on the edge of his bed like you were the most delicate thing in the world.
But his eyes? They weren’t gentle at all
They were hurt and bloodshot
“You don’t get to vanish on me,” he said, softer now, as if the rage had drained into something heavier. “Not after last night. Not after what I said. You don’t get to pretend you didn’t hear it.”
Your throat tightened.
“I watched you die,” he spat, voice cracking, “burning, bleeding, crushed, cursed—every fucking version of you, I buried. Again and again. And this time—this time I thought if I could just—just be better—you’d stay.”
He turned, finally meeting your gaze.
“I love you.”
That broke something in you.
You stood, shaky, hands clenched by your sides. “And what am I supposed to do with that, Phainon?”
“Do you even see how insane this sounds?” your voice wavered, rising, trembling with something you’d buried so long it came out all at once. “You never gave a damn about me before. I was just your responsibility. another name on your list. You barely even looked at me.”
Phainon’s mouth parted, eyes widening. “That’s not—”
“—And now you love me?” you laughed, wet and sharp. “Now you start smiling and acting gentle and calling it love? You expect me to believe that after years of treating me like a ghost in your house?”
Tears burned your eyes before you could stop them.
“I thought—I thought maybe I was just unlikable. Maybe I was the problem. And then you come back from the dead or the past or whatever the hell this is and suddenly you’re devoted and soft and… obsessed. Like you’re playing a part.”
You choked on your breath, finally breaking.
“What do you want from me, Phainon?” you whispered. “Is that it? Is that why you’re acting like this now? Because you want something?”
Silence. Thick. Suffocating.
Phainon just stood there.Frozen. Pale.
His eyes were wide. His hands had fallen limp at his sides. And for once—once—that storm of intensity in him didn’t crackle with rage or passion or conviction.It shattered.And all that was left was guilt. Just Hollow guilt.
“…I didn’t know,” he breathed. “I didn’t know you felt like that.”
You said nothing. Couldn’t. You just sank back down to sit on the edge of the bed, trembling, your tears hot and silent.
You didn’t mean to hit him.
But your fists were balled up and shaking and they found their way to his chest anyway, weak and desperate. Not hard enough to hurt, not really—but enough to demand he feel something.
Anything.
He didn’t stop you.
Didn’t flinch, didn’t raise a hand to block, didn’t try to calm you down.
He just let you. And you broke apart there, sobbing into his chest, fists pounding once twice, before they faltered and gripped the fabric of his shirt, clutching it like it was the only solid thing left in a world that wouldn’t stop spinning.
“I hate you,” you cried into him, voice wrecked. “I hate you, I hate that you ignored me for so long and now—now—you’re just this, like it means nothing. I hate that I want to believe you but I can’t.”
His arms wrapped around you so gently it nearly shattered you all over again.
“I know,” Phainon whispered. “I know. Titans, I know.”
You felt his chin rest lightly on the crown of your head, his breath shaky.
“You don’t have to forgive me,” he murmured, words quiet and thick with guilt. “But I need you to know. You deserve that much.”
You just shook your head into his chest, clinging to him harder. You didn’t know if it was to hear the truth or to stop yourself from slipping away again.
“I’ve regressed over a million times,” he said. “Some lives, I remembered everything. Some I didn’t. But the constant. The only constant—was you.”
You stiffened.
"...And you kept dying."
He pulled back, cupping your face in his trembling hands, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were shining—deep, cerulean blue and glassy with unshed tears.
“I didn’t talk to you after the wedding because I was scared,” he admitted, voice raw.
“Scared I’d fuck it up again. Scared if I said the wrong thing, you’d leave. Or die. Or disappear before I got the chance to… to love you right.”
Your lip quivered, a sob caught in your throat.
“I didn’t ignore you because I didn’t care,” he said, firmer now. “I ignored you because I cared too much. And I thought I could wait. Thought I had more time to… ease into it. To prove myself slowly. But then I saw you giving up on me. And I panicked. I panicked.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, breath shaking, close enough for your tears to fall onto his cheek.
"I don’t want anything from you,” he whispered. “I don’t want your power, your title, your kingdom—nothing. Just you. I want to learn your favorite songs. I want to know how you take your tea. I want to be the one you go to when your hands are cold or when you can’t sleep.”
You choked on a sound. Something between a sob and a laugh.
"I’m sorry,” Phainon said again, softer now. “For all the times I failed you. For all the lives I was too late. For this life, where I was too scared to look you in the eyes.”
Your breath caught. His eyes searched yours, desperate—like he was trying to memorize this exact moment, like he was afraid you’d vanish between one blink and the next.
And then—Then you surged forward and kissed him
It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t chaste—it was years of grief and longing and anger and guilt, poured into the press of mouths and the clash of teeth. His breath hitched sharply, like he couldn’t believe it was happening. And then Phainon melted.
He groaned low in his throat like a man starved, and his hands slid from your cheeks to your waist, tugging you closer like he physically couldn’t handle the distance anymore. Like he needed you now, in his arms, against his chest, lips bruising his in the best possible way.
"Titans, finally,” he breathed, breaking just for a second before diving back in, hungrier this time. His mouth was hot and urgent and desperate, like he was trying to make up for every stolen second he’d ever lost with you. His tongue slid against yours and you swore you felt him shudder.
He kissed like he was drowning. Like you were air. Like he was the damned luckiest man to ever live because you were here, still here, kissing him back.
You tugged his hair—he gasped into your mouth.
And he just whined.
Don’t leave,” he murmured between kisses, voice cracked open and boyish. “Don’t..don’t ever—”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back, breathless.
And now you seriously aren't going anywhere
Now you're on your back, thighs trembling and chest heaving up and down trying to breathe when you can as he suckles on your clit, sucking sounds making you whine in embarassment as you feel your cunt getting wetter and wetter.
He pulls away from your sweet cunt to look at you up, and god he looked filthy, your essence mixed with his saliva all over his mouth as he dives in again-
Your fingers pull at his soft silver hair resulting in him whining into your you, the vibrations of his voice making you squeal and shake even more
"Ph-Phai-!" before you could even cry out to him to slow down, he licks a broad stripe up your slit and slides it right back inside where it belongs.
"C'mon baby you can squeal louder than that cant cha?" He says looking up at you from between your thighs maintaining eye contact as his eyebrows as furrowed, god that fuckign tease.
"P-Phainon-?! O-oh Fuc-"
His tongue flexes a little before licking a straight line up your clit and then a Curve similar to that of an opposite c.
P
And then his rough, calloused thumb meets your pretty little bud before rubbing on it and licking your pussy at the same time. Making you shriek out and both hands fly to your mouth in order to muffle your cries.
H
You babble out incomprehensible nonsense begging for him to stop being a tease but then this poor guy was too busy between your legs spelling out his name on your swollen little clit :(
Then followed by he spells more letters but you are too drunk on pleasure to even differentiate and identify the letters, and then he ends it with a harsh suck on your clit and leaves it with a pop sound! Causing your gummy walls to clench at the emptiness begging for more stimulation from your husband.
"Good little girl, Tell me baby who's name did i spell out on his pretty cunt?" phainon whispers huskily, voice thick with lust before lightly slapping your abused pussy, looking at you with a nasty smirk.
"Y-yours!..P-Phai!~" Before you could even complete your incomprehensible sentence, he pulls your hips closer to his face and starts sucking on your clit harshly and one finger into your gummy walls
"phai- oh~!! i-i'm sho sensitive!!"
he hushes you and pecks the inside of your thighs before another finger enters inside you and then starts to move in a scissoring motion, making your already shaking thighs to shake even more and clamp shut around his face. Whining and crying out in pleasure
"Such a sweet voice you have beloved" phainon mutters into your cunt, pussydrunk on your slick and scent then reluctantly leaves before kissing your clit goodbye
You cry out at the sudden loss of contact and especially when your were so close, but phainon crashes his lips onto yours and starts to undress himself, first the shirt and then the pants.
He leans in peppering kisses all over your thigh to your belly and then leading upwards as his large calloused hands find the swell of your breasts before starting to play with them, rolling the hard buds of your nipples and then a soft wet muscle wraps around one of them.
Making you arch your back in sudden contact and then feeling the tip of his wet cock slobbering all over your swollen clit.
"C'mon baby you gotta stop moving around, gotta taste you and worship you"
Too bad you can't even protest to that because you're mewling at the nipple assault and your clit getting stimulated at the same time! :( and plus this meanie held your hands up your body, he's too strong.
He watches with dark and heavy-lidded eyes, sucking on your breasts, oh god your belly felt weird- and then right before the climax he pulled away with a cocky fucking grin on his face
"Aw I'm sorry baby were you close?"
You whine out by shaking your legs only to feel a thick sticky head at the entrance of your cunt
"So responsive baby, ahh.. you're dripping all over my cock too?" He pulled away his cock from your entrance and pressed two of his thick fingers back inside, stretching you open as he moved with a devastatingly slow rhythm inside you
"Come for me pretty,, fuckkk" he murmured against your skin before popping a nipple inside his mouth sucking with greed as you finally squeal and cum around his fingers, tears forming at the corner of your eyes with your tongue lolled out and chest breathing raggedy.
"Look at you my pretty little wife...all mine aintcha?~"
He kisses you fiercely without a warning and finally you felt his cock enter you slowly, it felt so good in a painful way
"N-no-!! Phaii..t-too b-BiG~!!"
You mewl out weakly clawing at his chest but he only chuckles before whispering soft nothing's in your ear talkin your through it.
And then he thrusts inside you, making you bounce up and both your legs rest on your husbands shoulder,
"Y-You're too deep in..." You mewl out completely senseless as your breasts and body shake with every thrust this man does. His hips slapping against yours as he lazily smiles at you.
"yeah baby?"
You weakly eagerly nod and then his mouth meets yours, kissing you with need and then
"N-ngh~?!!"
You scream out feeling a hand on your belly, a bulge going in and out of your tummy, your soppy wet cunt making sounds which make you squeal in embarassment but titans... he's huge..
You yelped, as you suddenly were being lifted into his strong muscular arms with ease, his fingers digging into your thighs as you babble and cry whole your back is against his chest.
He pushes you up and down at such a speed that it surprises you and you pathetically clas onto his biceps in a failed attempt to make him to slower. This man is rearranging your insides as you are completely helpless to do anything but to whine, cry and moan out his name. That's your job as his pretty little wife <3 just to feel good for him and let the husband do all the work.
"My pretty wife enjoying herself" you nod instantly ad your eyes were stuck at the back of your eyes and tongue lolled out with a bulge popping up your tummy with each thrust. You look so delirious and hazed being bent in half with your huge, strong husband seems like you didn't mind at all !!
With a loud groan, Phainon let's put of your cunt and releases all over stomach and guides you through your orgasm and lies you down. Kissing your temple, your vision was blank white completely empty before feeling two arms wrap around your waist and a glass of water next to your lips.
You sip the cold water and catch your breath after god knows how long, and look to your left to see a cocky in love phainon staring at you...and the marks which you clawed on him everywhere.
You flush up and hide your face in the crook of his neck before he giggles and carries you to the tub
"You did wonderful baby <3"
