Helloo!!! I get terribly nervous when sending a request so hopefully I'm doing this right
Anaxagoras, Mydei and Phainon (separate) with a reader who's based on the Greek prophet Tiresias? Nothing much (hopefully), just the same attributes like: blind but can see the future and past, all ominous and shit but can be unserious if wanted to etc etc. (I'm too lazy to write down everything)
And could you make the reader male aligned if possible? Thank you!!! :3
Kissed by the Future, Held by the Damned
Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Romance, Angst With Comfort, Male-Aligned Reader, Blind Seer, Prophecy, Tragedy, Emotional Intimacy, Slow Burn, Found Family, Mysticism, Subtle Flirting, Reader Sees Past And Future, Pre-Established Relationship (Anaxa), Enemies To Confidants (Mydei), Sunshine X Cryptid (Phainon), Philosophical Themes, Destiny Vs Free Will.
Warnings: Death And Rebirth (Mydei), Implied Body Horror (Anaxa), Religious Trauma, Prophetic Madness, Mentions Of War And Violence, Emotional Distress, Grief, Sacrifice, Unstable Time Perception, Non-Explicit Intimacy, Casual Language, Swearing, Mental Strain From Foresight.
It was late—always late—when Anaxagoras came to you. Not as the Great Performer, not as the Demised Scholar, but as a man unraveling at the edges of his own brilliance.
He didn’t knock. He never did. The doors opened for him, as they often did for men who had torn open the veil between what is and what ought never have been.
You sat cross-legged atop a dais of moss and moth-wing tapestry, blind eyes fixed on a point he could never see.
“You've been poking holes in the firmament again,” you said mildly, tilting your head. “I felt something scream.”
He scoffed. “A Titan soul ruptures, and you reduce it to screaming fabric, Freak.”
“Gilded heretic,” you replied with a lazy grin.
The tension held, then broke—he laughed. Rare. Like stormlight caught in glass.
“You saw it, then?” he asked, quieter now. “What I tried to become?”
“I saw the truth clothe itself in your skin,” you said. “And I saw it burn you alive from the inside out.”
He knelt before you, his eyepatch gleaming like a sigil of failed divinity. “Would you have stopped me?”
“No. I love you too much to lie, and too little to save you.”
His hands found your face, reverent despite the tremor in his fingers. “You could see the future. But you chose me anyway.”
You leaned forward until your forehead touched his. “I didn’t choose you. I recognized you.”
He kissed you like a man kissing a funeral pyre—because some things burn and illuminate at once.
You first met Mydei on a battlefield, surrounded by smoking corpses and shattered prophecies.
He had just felled a Strife-Born, its Coreflame bleeding into the earth. You walked barefoot through blood to reach him.
“You're late,” he grunted, eyes narrowing. “The gods said you’d arrive before the battle.”
“I did arrive before the battle,” you said, tapping the side of your head. “You’re just behind in perception, Last Prince.”
He almost struck you. Instead, he laughed—a dry, rusty sound.
Later, when the campfires burned low, and his warriors slept with swords under pillows, you sat beside him.
“Mydei,” you said, voice softer now. “You wear your survival like a curse.”
He didn’t look at you. “It is.”
“I saw you in the Sea of Souls. Nine lives torn from your body. You screamed like a star being born.”
“Then you know why I cannot rest.”
You touched his arm, feeling the heat of him—always burning, always aching. “You could. If you let yourself be seen.”
He turned. His golden eyes bore into your unseeing ones. “By you?”
“Only I can look at your ruin and call it holy.”
He didn’t answer. But when his lips met yours, it wasn’t a kiss of romance—it was surrender. A prince bending not to fate, but to a man who read eternity like a book he’d grown bored of.
Phainon was fascinated by you from the moment he met you. You were sprawled upside-down on an altar, humming off-tune and sipping wine from a broken goblet.
“You’re the prophet?” he asked skeptically.
“I’m the visionary, thank you very much,” you replied, raising your goblet in mock salute. “Prophet sounds too responsible.”
Yet when his team entered the Black Wastes, it was your voice that guided them. You whispered warnings of collapse, mimicked the laughter of Titans, and wept for futures you couldn’t change.
He watched you—between battles, during moments of stillness. You unnerved him.
“You speak like you’re already dead,” he said one night, sitting beside you as stars blinked out above.
“I’ve died more times than you’ve drawn breath,” you said cheerfully. “Time’s weird.”
He looked away. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I remember to be human.”
A pause.
“Then be human with me,” he said.
You blinked, blind eyes widening. “That was... surprisingly romantic for a man in silk armor.”
He flushed.
Later, in the heart of a temple collapsing around you both, he shielded your body with his own, dragging you from falling debris.
“I saw this,” you whispered, clutching his shoulder. “I knew you’d protect me.”
He gritted his teeth. “Then you should’ve warned me I’d fall in love with you.”
“I didn’t need to,” you said, smiling. “You’re Phainon. You fall in love with light.”
