following up on virgin!reader, i like the idea of an oblivious reader talking to bsf!tim about maybe wanting to experiment a little, gain some experience before getting into something serious… maybe even asking if he knows anyone who’d be interested in something like that lmao
OHHHH YES, you’d drive him crazy
because bsf!tim thinks he’s obvious. he’s touching you constantly, showers you with compliments, and gets you pretty much anything you want if you ask nicely <3 growing up rich benefited him in that aspect.
he also gets jealous. painfully so, at least thinks he’s obvious about it. you could be talking to other guy friends or even worse, going on a date and while he’s not totally vocal about his jealousy, it’s present in his actions. he’ll clench his jaw, bounce his knee, gets short with you, maybe even a little annoyed, and then feels bad when you get upset so he apologizes and then blames it on lack of sleep.
but then one night he’s on your bed with you, arm around you, you’re convinced it’s just platonic cuddles! but tim’s already half hard and trying to hide it.
“i don’t know, i just wanted to give it a try,” you shrug. “do you… know anyone who’d be down to teach me?”
yeah, him!
but he holds his composure, arm tightening around your waist a fraction. if you weren’t so blind to his feelings you’d feel the jealousy rolling off him. more than jealousy. he’s pissed. why would you need anyone else to fuck when he’s right there?
“are you kidding?” he’s trying to be patient but it’s getting marginally more difficult when you’re not even considering him as an option.
before you can get the words out, he’s shifting his position to pin you down, one long-fingered hand holding both of your wrists down. he’s a lot stronger than he looks. you couldn’t budge if you wanted to.
“fuck everyone else, you have me.” he proves his point by pressing his hips into yours, letting you feel the hard bulge in his sweats press against your pussy.
in minutes he’ll be eating you out with your knees bent to your ears.
I was inspired to write this text by @cinnamonest's posts and her remarkable writing talent and ability to fully analyze the nuances of characters from various fandoms!!! Her work is truly exceptional, and I wanted to try my hand at writing something similar! @cinnamonest, if you're reading this, know that you are incredibly talented, and I admire your creativity immensely!!!
Content Warning (Trigger Warning)
This material contains content that may be disturbing or traumatic for some readers.
The text contains:
· Obvious scenes of a sexual nature.
· Description of gaslighting (a form of psychological abuse).
· Emotionally heavy scenes that may cause strong feelings.
Take care of yourself and refrain from reading if these topics may negatively affect you.
Kakavasha (period of slavery)
(let's assume that he has reached the age of consent)
⛓️What are they like? Are they clear and conscious? Are they obsessive? How do they behave?⛓️
Kakavasha's attachment to you is not just a matter of affection or youthful infatuation. It is a fundamental need forged in the crucible of genocide, slavery, and absolute loss. Its manifestations are deeply rooted in his trauma and forced survival strategies, imbued with desperate hope and an animalistic fear of loss. It is evident, but not in a romantic or frivolous way; it is heavy, obsessive, and vitally necessary.
His eyes, usually blank, cautious, or full of hidden wariness, fixate on you as soon as you enter his field of vision. This gaze doesn't just notice; it absorbs, scans for safety and needs, and clings to you. He has central heterochromia, which can make his contrasting eye colors appear particularly "alive" or piercing during these moments.
The slave's cramped, hunched posture (invisibility, obedience) involuntarily straightens when you are nearby. His movements become slightly more confident and purposeful, as if he is physically reaching out to you, even if he is not physically approaching you. This may include turning his body towards you, taking a step in your direction, or making an involuntary hand movement as if to touch you. If he is engaged in physically demanding tasks, his movements may become slightly more vigorous and resilient when you are nearby, as if he is demonstrating strength or diligence for your benefit.
Extremely rare, almost imperceptible to others, but sincere micro-smiles, flashes of warmth in the eyes, and a slight blush on pale cheeks – exclusively for you. These are not broad smiles, but rather brief moments of relief from the mask of suffering, moments of genuine, fragile connection with goodness.
His survival depended on his ability to anticipate his masters' desires and dangers. Now, this insight has been fully transferred to you. He notices everything: the weariness in your eyes, the shivering from the cold (he will remove his pitiful cloak, even if he is freezing), the hunger (he will share his meager rations, stealing an extra piece for you), and the slightest discomfort. He acts before you ask, and often instead of you asking. "I will do it," "Let me," and "You don't need to" are his constant mantras.
He puts his body between you and any potential threat: an angry guard, an aggressive fellow inmate, or just a heavy load. He will be the first to try your food ("Just in case") and inspect the place you're going to. This is not a chivalrous gesture; it is an animalistic instinct to protect his source of life. Losing you would mean death.
Any gesture towards him – a helping hand, a kind word, a piece of bread, or just a glance that acknowledges his existence as a human being – is perceived by him as the greatest grace. He will return to this moment in his mind over and over again, as if it were a prayer. His "sanctuary" is not a collection of cute trinkets, but rather a sacred relic of survival: a piece of fabric from your dress (stolen or found), a pebble you picked up, a page with your drawing or name (if you taught him to write), or a strand of your bracelet. Touching these objects is a ritual that reminds him that kindness is real and exists in his life.
He tends to be within sight or hearing. Not necessarily right next to you (this could attract dangerous attention or cause you discomfort), but within "leap" distance. He will "accidentally" find himself in the same area of work, choose a place for a brief rest nearby, his eyes will constantly search for you in the crowd of slaves. If you disappear from his sight, a quiet panic instantly awakens in him, he begins to look for you purposefully, his movements become sharper, his gaze becomes more keen.
He remembers everything about you: your daily routine, your habits, your fears, what makes you smile, what makes you cry, the stories you've told, and even the fleeting references to the past. This information is not just a tool for manipulation (although it is used that way), but a way to connect, understand, anticipate your needs, and be more valuable to you.
His world is narrowed to you and the threats to you. His conversations with others (if he has any) are superficial, driven by necessity or a mask. His genuine attention, emotions, and thoughts are all focused on you. He does not notice or care about anything that does not relate to your well-being or their connection. Other people are mere background characters, potential allies or enemies in the context of his goal of preserving you.
He's different with you. Around others (overseers, slaves), he's an exemplary (or inconspicuous) slave: submissive, taciturn, with his eyes downcast. Around you, the mask cracks. He allows himself a little more direct eye contact, a little more initiative in conversation (albeit timidly), and a little more genuine (albeit restrained) emotion. This contrast may be noticeable to others and make him vulnerable, but he has no control over it.
With others, his voice is monotonous, quiet, and impersonal. With you, it changes. He may try to speak a little louder (so you can hear better), a little softer, and his tone may exhibit uncertain attempts at warmth and involvement. He may start to stutter or fall silent when his emotions become overwhelming. His laughter (which is extremely rare) is reserved for you, and it is quiet, almost like a sigh of relief that you are there.
He is deathly afraid of doing something wrong, of causing your displeasure or rejection. Therefore, his manifestations, even the most intrusive, are accompanied by constant internal checking and timidity. He may reach out to fix a strand of your hair, but then abruptly withdraw his hand. He may start to say something personal, but then fall silent out of fear. His helpfulness sometimes borders on obsession, but he will immediately retreat if he sees even the slightest sign of fatigue or irritation on your part (this will cause him to panic).
He doesn't know how to express his feelings in words. His "confessions" are not words, but actions. Giving away a piece of bread, taking on a dangerous task, silently standing guard over your sleep, and offering a trembling hand to pick a wildflower. The words "thank you" or "you're kind" from him can sound like the greatest confession. The direct "I love you" is an almost impossible combination of sounds for him, too personal, too risky, and too elevated for his "self."
Kakavasha's affection and obsession manifest themselves as a vital survival ritual in an emotional desert. It is not a romantic courtship, but an act of desperate faith and clinging to the only source of humanity. His behavior is a mix of forced slave skills (observation, anticipation of needs, and manipulation) and distorted yet sincere attempts to express gratitude, loyalty, and a burning need to belong and be needed. He is obvious in his fixation, obsessive in his guardianship and physical desire for intimacy, but he is also incredibly fragile and constantly teeters on the edge of fear – the fear of losing you, the fear of not being worthy, the fear that his dark slave nature will tarnish this light. His "love" is a shadow that greedily absorbs any ray of light, and his obsession is a guarantee that this ray will never be extinguished.
⛓️How likely is it that they will kidnap their beloved? How quickly will they do it?⛓️
In the context of slavery, direct physical kidnapping is pointless. Kakavasha's "retention" is aimed at creating an unbreakable emotional and moral dependence on him. It is his way of "kidnapping" your freedom within the system in which you are both trapped, or in a new one where he fears losing his anchor.
Let's look at several possible scenarios.
Companion-Slave:
He creates a codependent survival ecosystem. "We have each other. The world wants to break us, but we're stronger together." He exaggerates external threats (overseers, other slaves, illnesses) to emphasize that your alliance is your only protection. His sacrifice (taking on your work, your punishments, and providing you with food) is not just a favor; it's an investment in your guilt and obligation. "I'm enduring/risking so much for you, you can't abandon me." He becomes your shield, your resource provider (however meager), and your emotional support. To give it up is not only to betray your only friend, but also to voluntarily deprive yourself of the tools you need to survive, and to return to absolute helplessness.
Dependence forms very quickly, almost instantly, after a connection has been established. His retention strategy starts as soon as he recognizes you as "his". Every act of "service" is a brick in the wall of your moral prison.
The probability of success is very high. You are really hostages of one system. Your emotional vulnerability, the need for support, and his absolute, visible devotion make the breakup psychologically catastrophic and almost suicidal.
The Aristocratic Guardian:
He exploits your kindness, your sense of responsibility, and… your privilege. He masterfully demonstrates his "fragility", "traumatized", "unsuitability" to the world outside your walls. The slightest difficulty (real or exaggerated) is an excuse to show how lost he is without you.: "I don't understand…", "I'm afraid to do something wrong…", "How can I do it without your help?". He turns your home from a refuge into a necessity. His over protectiveness and helpfulness ("Let me! I have to do something for you!") is not only a thank you, but also a way to perpetuate your role as a savior and your role as an eternal debtor. He creates the illusion that you need him — for cleaning, small tasks, just "so that someone is welcome in the house." To abandon him is not just for you to "let go", but to betray your own principles, throw the "child" (as you most likely will see him) into a cruel world, admit your "inadequacy" as a benefactress. His "defenselessness" is his main weapon of deterrence.
Dependence is formed gradually, but irreversibly. At first, he is genuinely grateful and timid. But as he feels safe, his fear of losing this paradise transforms into a retention strategy. Each demonstration of his "inability" to cope on his own, each condescension strengthens the cell.
The probability of success is exceptionally high. Technically, you can kick him out with one word. Psychologically, it's almost impossible for a kind, responsible aristocrat. It is embedded in your life, routine, sense of duty so deeply that getting rid of it will be perceived as an act of cruelty on your part. He has "stolen" your sense of moral superiority and responsibility.
The Rebellious Savior:
This is where his strategy is most deliberately manipulative and desperate. He understands that your goal is to give him freedom. His goal is to stay with you. Therefore, he must prove that he is not ready for freedom, that you need him, and that you need him. He will be:
Demonstrate "helplessness". Exaggerate the difficulties of adaptation, "not understand" simple things, "get lost", provoke minor problems from which you have to "save" him. "I didn't know how…", "I almost got caught…", "I can't do it alone."
It Will Be A "Useful Tool". To exaggerate their usefulness to your business. To find out information (at risk), to be connected, to carry out dangerous assignments with ostentatious zeal. "Only I can do it so stealthily/quickly", "I know their habits, let me!".
Create Emotional Commitments. Cling to the slightest moments of intimacy or your weaknesses. If you are tired or injured, he is there with care, turning into your only support in a moment of vulnerability. He will remind you of the risk you have already taken for him: "You have done so much for me, I must help/protect you." He's trying to turn the relationship around.: you saved him physically, now he "saves" you emotionally and quickly, making himself indispensable.
Immediate and aggressive manipulation speed. He knows that time is against him — you plan to let him go. His retention strategy starts from the very first days/hours of freedom. Every minute is a battle to prove that he is "needed" and "not ready."
The probability of success is medium/low, but desperate. It all depends on your character. If you are emotional, tend to be protective, or see him as a valuable colleague, he has a chance to delay the "adaptation" and integrate into your life. If you are pragmatic, tough, and consistent in your mission to liberate rather than patronize, his manipulations will be quickly recognized and stopped. His desperation is the most obvious here, and his methods are the most risky (even to the point of faking danger or disrupting your plans in order to remain "needed").
In all scenarios, the whole point of Kakavasha's "Abduction" is not physical restraint, but the creation of an unbearable price for freedom. For you, a breakup means not just the loss of a friend or assistant, but a moral decline (betrayal, cruelty), an existential loss of security (a slave), a collapse of self-identification (an aristocrat savior) or the loss of a valuable resource (a colleague savior), aggravated by a sense of monstrous guilt.
He uses his deformity and your humanity as tools to build a prison. His "weakness" is his strength to hold on.
He doesn't want to own you in the traditional sense. He wants to belong to you forever as a necessary part of your world, to be inscribed into your existence on indissoluble terms of duty, guilt and mutual need. He "steals" your sense of peace and moral purity, making himself a necessary condition for their preservation.
Kakavasha is a master of "soul stealing" through moral blackmail and the exploitation of kindness. His "hold" is an ingenious (and tragic) survivor's adaptation, turning an act of rescue or empathy into a lifelong invisible chain. The probability and speed of success of this "abduction" is maximum where your system or psychology initially limits your freedom of maneuver (slavery, aristocratic duty), and most fragile where you yourself are an agent of freedom (savior). But his attempt will always be made with fanatical persistence.
⛓️ How difficult is it to escape from them? How do they keep you? How do they react to escape attempts?⛓️
The concept of "escape" for Kakavasha is not just a physical absence. This is a threat to break the bond, his emotional and moral support in the world. Therefore, the difficulty of the "escape" and its reaction depend not so much on your physical capabilities as on the depth of the dependence created by it and the type of threat.
For a Fellow Slave, the probability of escape would be extremely low (almost impossible).
Physically, you're in the same cell. Your "escape" from him inside the slavery system is senseless and suicidal. Where do you want to run to? To separate is to become even more vulnerable. A real escape together is a different scenario, not an "escape from him."
Emotionally and morally, he is your only source of support, protection, and meaning in hell. To break the bond is to condemn yourself to absolute loneliness, to betray the only person who has seen you. The feeling of guilt towards his victims, fear and awareness of his own weakness make emotional "escape" psychologically destructive and practically unattainable.
For an Aristocrat Guardian, the probability would be extremely low.
Technically, it's easy. You are the mistress of the situation. But…
He makes you feel like a Kind Savior. To expel him means to admit your "inadequacy", to commit an act of cruelty towards a "fragile", "traumatized" being who is completely dependent on you. Your own moral principles and sense of responsibility become invisible but solid prison walls. He constantly reminds you of his "necessity" in small things, of his "inability" to survive without you. Escaping from it is tantamount to moral suicide.
For a Rebellious Savior, it would be difficult, but possible.
Physically possible. You are strong, determined, and you know the ways to retreat. But he has studied your habits, routes, weaknesses. He will anticipate your attempts to escape.
Emotionally and morally, the difficulty depends on your character and the duration of your relationship. If you are pragmatic and consistent in your goal of giving him freedom, your guilt will be minimal. But he will do his best to create this guilt ("Will you leave me like everyone else?", "I'll be lost without you!", "After all you've done for me?"), prove his "usefulness" to the cause and appeal to your (possible) sense of affection. If you doubt him even a little or see him as a collaborator, his hooks can work. Here, "escape" is the most realistic, but it requires you to have a strong will and willingness to ignore its manipulations.
His retention methods are a constant preventive strategy woven into the very fabric of their relationship.
He does everything for you/ for you (within the framework of a possible scenario), depriving you of the skills or desire to act independently. "I'll do it," "Don't worry," "I'll take care." He becomes your shadow, your shield, your hands. Without it, you feel helpless (a slave), morally inferior (an aristocrat), or operationally weakened (a savior).
He constantly reminds you of his sacrifices (real and imaginary) for you, of his vulnerability, that you are his hope. "You gave me meaning," "I endured it just for you," "Without you, I…" He turns your kindness into a lifelong debt.
He demonstrates how afraid he is of losing you (a look full of panic if you linger; a tremor in his voice; obsessive questions about your safety). He makes you feel that your withdrawal or withdrawal will kill him (emotionally or even physically). You become responsible for his well-being.
Especially in the scenarios of the aristocrat and the savior, he imposes his own rules, restricts your contacts, movements, "because the world is dangerous," "because I won't survive if something happens to you." This limits your room for maneuver and strengthens his role as a necessary defender/guide.
He turns your relationship (even a platonic one) into the only meaningful value in his life. "I have you alone," "We only have each other," "You are my light." To destroy it is to destroy his universe, and for the good you— to become a destroyer.
His reaction to escape/distancing attempts is not resentment, but panic and mobilization of all survival resources.
He becomes even more intrusive, even more helpful, even more "clingy." Hyper protection reaches absurd levels. The doses of guilt and reminders of duty are increasing. He can physically block your attempts to retire or leave ("Where are you going? Let me come with you!", "Do you need something? I'll get it!", "You look tired, take a break, I'll sit next to you").
This is a panicked attempt to "patch up" the rift in the connection, to prove its usefulness, to drown her attempts at distancing in a wave of her "care" and presence. Fear of losing control.
If the glue reinforcement does not work, he proceeds to demonstrate his "breaking". This is not ignoring, but shock therapy of despair.
He can:
To become unnaturally quiet, detached, with the empty, "dead" look that he had before meeting you. To show that your distance is killing the person you knew in him.
To take on a deliberately impossible or punishable task (risking life or health), "accidentally" get injured, refuse to eat. To show that without your control and care, he cannot or does not want to survive.
He say something like, "If you leave/if you leave me, I don't need to…" (without finishing, but hinting at the most terrible thing). To look at you with an expression of absolute, animal longing and doom.
Why? Shock tactics. He wants to cause you horror, shock, an overwhelming sense of guilt and responsibility. To show that your actions are leading to his death. To make you afraid of the consequences of your "escape" for him.
Escaping from Kakavasha is not an escape from an annoying fan. This is an attempt to sever the umbilical cord that binds the victim and her savior in a vicious cycle of addiction. The difficulty is determined not by physical barriers (except for the slave scenario), but by the depth of the psychological wounds he exploits and the strength of the moral shackles he has forged around your good intentions. His reaction is not resentment, but a chain reaction of trauma: from a panicked attempt to hold the anchor to the cold rage of a doomed man, ready to destroy everything, including the object of his obsession, just not to stay in the void again. The most dangerous and difficult "escape" is not a physical one, but an escape from a sense of guilt and responsibility for his broken life, which he masterfully implanted in you.
When he realizes that tears and demonstrative sacrifice don't work, and you really leave (especially the savior), his panic crystallizes into a dangerous, cold determination. He won't openly attack (usually).
He:
He will hide key things that could help you escape, give false information, and warn those (the guards in the slave scenario) from whom you are running (if it is dangerous for her, he will not, but if it prevents her from leaving him, it is possible).
Appeals to your sense of justice/duty (in a scenario with a savior or an aristocrat). "Did you set me free just to leave me to die? Is this your freedom? You're no better than them."
In the scenario with the aristocrat, there is gossip, hints to the servants so that they put pressure on her morally and force her to return and accept him back under the weight of guilt.
Why? Despair turns into rage from betrayal (as he sees it) and activates all his survival skills and manipulations aimed not at holding, but at punishment or forced return. His motto is: "If I can't be with you, you won't be happy/free without me." This is the last, most dangerous line of defense of his universe.
Why it is almost impossible to reach the third stage
To reach the third stage (cold rage and sabotage) is really almost impossible for a psychologically normal person who is faced with his first and second stages of retention. That's why:
The First Stage (Panic anxiety)
His intense concern is not just annoying. It's paralyzing. He physically blocks escape routes (literally gets in the way, grabs his hand, begs for "help"), inundates with questions and services, creating the feeling that any attempt at distancing requires overcoming his active, panicked resistance. This is not passive observation — it is an active invasion of space and will.
Reminders of his sacrifices ("I took your turn at the stove!", "I gave you my water!") sound not like a reproach, but like the moan of a wounded animal. He associates every scratch, every hungry evening, with your well—being. To abandon him after that is to admit oneself to be a monster who takes advantage of his suffering.
The Second Stage (Demonstration of "destruction")
When he freezes with an empty, lost look, the one that was before you, this is not theater. It is a mirror that shows you the result of your actions.: You brought him back to hell. You killed in him the one you created with your kindness. It's a visualization of the moral murder you're committing by trying to get away.
His demonstratively dangerous actions or refusal of basic needs are blackmail with his life. He gives you a choice: "Come back and control me, or watch me destroy myself because of you." For a man with a conscience, this is unbearable pressure. To cause someone's death (or even serious harm) is an unbearable burden for the psyche. Especially if that "someone" is someone you once saved.
Phrases like "I don't need to…" are not manipulation in a vacuum. This is the final verdict on your moral character if you leave. He holds you fully responsible for his existence. To leave means to deliberately sign his death sentence. For a kind person, this is tantamount to complicity in murder.
Why does breaking through these stages require being a "Monster"?
It takes titanic willpower and rationality to understand that his "destruction" is a weapon, not an inevitability. To resist the feeling that you are the most terrible being in the world, betraying and killing someone who is selflessly "devoted" to you. Accept that he CAN really hurt himself, and it will be HIS choice, NOT your fault. It requires an almost inhuman emotional detachment. To suppress the deep-rooted desire to help, to correct, to save someone who is showing suffering right in front of you.
Someone who could easily get through this is someone who deeply does not care about the suffering of others, who does not feel guilt or responsibility. Someone who has been through hell himself and who has no resources left for compassion. His tears and "dead" look will only cause irritation or contempt.
There may be a rare case when you see the manipulative nature of his affection from the very beginning and do not succumb to the creation of dependence. But even then, it's hard to see his despair and possible self—destruction.
Kakavasha, without always realizing it, is waging an all-out war on the field of morality and compassion. His first two stages of reaction to an attempt to "escape" are a system of psychological destruction of the will through the exploitation of your humanity.
To reach the third stage (rage and sabotage) can only be someone who was either initially ready to be a "monster" in his eyes, or who possesses superhuman strength of mind to withstand the hell of guilt and fear that he unleashes.
The vast majority of people, especially those who initially showed kindness to him (and these are all three scenarios), will break down at the first or second stage. They will return, give in, and stay—not out of love or weakness, but because the price of moral suicide that he demands for their freedom is unacceptable to them.
His true power of restraint is not in chains or threats, but in turning his own suffering into an invisible but indestructible prison for the conscience of the one who pitied him. To get through this while preserving oneself is a feat accessible to only a few.
⛓️ How easy is it to deceive, mislead, or manipulate them? ⛓️
The paradox of Kakavasha is that he is a master of survival, whose insight has been honed in the hell of slavery, but he also has critical vulnerabilities that make him an easy target for certain types of manipulation, especially on your part. His defense is not monolithic; it has cracks dictated by the very nature of his trauma and obsession.
You are his only source of light, a confirmation that kindness and humanity exist. He desperately wants to believe in your purity, selflessness, and sincerity. This need is so existential that it outweighs his innate suspicion and skills of reading people.
He will ignore, justify, or rationalize any disturbing signals coming from you.
Inconsistencies in the stories? "She's just worried/she's forgotten/she doesn't want to upset me."
Overly persistent requests or strange "advice"? "She knows better, she wants to help/protect me."
An obvious lie? "She couldn't just lie to me! She probably had good reasons.… Maybe I misunderstood something?"
Attempts to manipulate him through his own methods (guilt, debt)? He may not even recognize it as manipulation, perceiving it as a "natural" reaction to his behavior or simply as a manifestation of your concern/concern.
You can lead him by the nose almost unhindered. He will readily swallow any lie, if it comes from you, just to preserve the illusion of your perfection and your connection with him. His critical thinking about you is disabled on a fundamental level.
The fear of losing you is his main phobia. Any manipulation that plays on this fear ("If you don't do this, I'll have to leave!", "I'm so afraid that because of me you…") will work instantly and crushingly. He will do anything to remove this threat, real or imagined.
His self-esteem and the meaning of existence are tied to his "usefulness" to you. Manipulations that appeal to this ("Only you can help me with this!", "I can't do it without you!", "Your help is so important to me!") are hyper-effective. He will give up all his business, risking punishment, just to fulfill the request and confirm his indispensability.
Any hint that doing a certain action will strengthen your bond, make him "closer" to you, "better" in your eyes ("If you do this, I will be so proud of you", "It will show that we are a real team/ family"), will force him to make huge sacrifices and the risks. Conversely, the threat of rejection ("If you don't do this, I'll be disappointed…") paralyzes him with fear and forces him to obey.
However:
His vigilance towards others (overseers, other slaves, outsiders) is extremely high. Years of slavery had taught him to read lies, hidden threats, and selfish motives. He knows how to recognize falsehoods and tricks. It is very difficult to deceive him in matters of survival, security (other than those directly related to you), the allocation of resources or the intentions of other people. He assumes the worst and is ready to lie as the norm.
but! If another person's lies or manipulation concerns your well-being or behavior, their defenses weaken. Gossip, hints, insinuations about you ("I saw her…", "She said that you…") can cause him to have an attack of jealousy, paranoia, or deep wounds, even if the rational part knows that the source cannot be trusted. His emotions overshadow his mind.
And yet:
Kakavasha is not a passive victim of manipulation. He actively participates in his own deception about you. He will unconsciously distort your words and actions, ascribe to you the best motives, ignore inconvenient facts, just to preserve the integrity of his idealized image of the Only Source of Goodness and the Meaning of His Existence.
He becomes a co-author of his illusion. Even if you don't actively manipulate him, he creates the ground on which any of your actions can be interpreted (or misinterpreted) in a way that strengthens his dependence and faith in you. His need to believe is stronger than his ability to see the truth about you.
Deceiving or manipulating Kakavasha in the context of his obsession with you is ridiculously, tragically easy. His intelligence and insight, so effective against the outside world, completely fail in the face of the object of his worship. He's not just vulnerable–he's voluntarily disarming himself, putting the keys to his psyche in the hands of someone he's elevated to the status of a deity.
You can: Lie to him without consequences, guide his actions through fear of loss or thirst for approval, exploit his willingness to make any sacrifice, play on his need for belonging, using him as a tool or emotional fuel.
He will: Believe you against the evidence, justify your actions, blame himself for any doubts, fulfill the most absurd or dangerous requests, just to preserve your location and the illusion of your connection.
His only (possible) defense against your manipulations is your own kindness and morality. If you are genuinely kind, you will not abuse it (although you may do it unconsciously). But if you have greed or cruelty, Kakavasha will become your ideal, uncomplaining victim, blindly going to execution with the name of her executioner on her lips. His strength against the whole world turns into an absolute weakness in front of the one he called his beloved.
⛓️ How lenient are they? What privileges might you have, and what might they deny you?⛓️
The concept of "indulgence" and "privileges" in Kakavaha's context is radically distorted by his trauma, obsession, and power dynamics in each scenario. While he may not explicitly forbid it (except perhaps in the slave scenario within their microcosm), his "care" and fear of loss create a system of subtle yet incredibly effective control through "guidance," "advice," and guilt manipulation.
Kakawasha doesn't so much "allow" or "forbid" as strategically manage your space to minimize risks to you (real or imagined in his head). Maximize your dependence on him (emotional, practical). Prevent any situation that could lead to a weakening of the bond or your departure (including communication with "competitors," dangerous hobbies, or excessive independence).
The main thing is to ensure that him have constant access to you and your attention.
His "condescension" is an illusion of choice within a carefully fenced—in safe (for you as a symbiosis) space.
Fellow Slave:
Privileges:
He wants you to cry into his vest, share your fears, and seek comfort from him. This confirms its indispensability.
He insists that you accept his help (food, protection, taking your job). Rejection is his worst nightmare (rejection).
To sit next to each other, perhaps, to hold hands in a moment of fear, to share the meager warmth. This strengthens the bond and gives him a sense of control over your safety.
To talk about pain, about family, only with him. He should be the sole guardian of your vulnerability.
Bans:
Attempts to protect him too heroically, to take on exorbitant risks for him. "No, I'll do it!"/"Hide, I'll figure it out!" He's supposed to be a defender.
He will passively and aggressively dissuade, hint at the unreliability of others, exaggerate the danger, demonstrate his jealousy and pain ("Are you more interested in him?", "Don't you need me anymore?"), until you distance yourself. Friendship with women can be tolerated if it doesn't take up your time with him.
Anything that might attract unwanted attention from the guards (too bright decoration from scraps, singing, open protest). He will beg you to "keep your head down" and "be careful," citing fear for you.
Thoughts of running away without him/with someone else. Any such idea will be suppressed at the root by arguments about the impossibility, danger, his willingness to do it later/better, reminders of his sacrifices ("What about everything I did for you? Will you leave me?").
Refusing his help is a direct attack on the basis of his existence next to her. It will cause immediate panic and increased control.
The Aristocratic Guardian:
Privileges:
It will provide incredible comfort within the house. The softest pillows, favorite food, beautiful things (if he can get them/make them). But this is his "gift", reminding of his helpfulness and your "duty".
You can move around the house, have personal belongings. But he will be omnipresent, offering help, company, and advice.
He will carry out any household task with zeal. This is his way of proving his usefulness.
He will listen to you, admire you, make you the center of his universe. It can be flattering.
Bans:
Leaving the House. His worst nightmare. He will create obstacles: "The weather is terrible!""I heard there's unrest in the city!", "Don't you have a headache? Have a rest!", "Let me accompany you! It's dangerous without me!" If you insist, he will go with you, turning the exit into his constant presence.
Communicating with "Unsuitable" People. He will gently (or not so much) slander guests or acquaintances, especially men or strong, independent women: "He looks at you the wrong way," "She seems to be using you," "I think he's being insincere." The goal is to isolate you, to leave only yourself as the "only devotee."
An attempt to fix, cook, or clean something yourself will cause his "offended concern": "Don't you trust me?", "I have to do this, it's my duty/gratitude!", "Please don't bother, you might get hurt/tired!". He will return the "control".
Attempts to "liberate" him (to get him to study/work/find a family): He sabotages this by demonstrating "inability", "fear", "misunderstanding". "I can't handle it there," "I'm scared without you," "I don't want to go anywhere, I want to serve you." He must remain your eternal debtor and project.
Personal Boundaries. He will systematically destroy them under the pretext of caring: enter without knocking ("I brought you tea!"), impose conversations when you want to be alone ("You look sad, let's talk"), control your routine ("It's time for you to sleep/eat").
The Rebel Savior:
Privileges:
Her independence and strength (as a leader): He has to put up with it, as it's part of your attraction and his excuse to be around. He may even admire it publicly.
He will support your mission if he is involved in it. It's his
He will play along with the image of a strong savior who needs him.
He will accept your absences if he can prove his usefulness upon return (care, information) and if you let him know where you are.
Bans:
Any attempts to act without him in matters where he can be "useful" will be suppressed.: "I know this area better!", "Let me go, it's too dangerous for you!", "I'll do it faster/quieter!". He should be an indispensable operative.
He will be jealous of your time and attention given to others. He will hint at the unreliability of his colleagues, their greed or incompetence ("He may let you down", "He is not as dedicated as I am"), and offer his services instead of them.
Any talk of "getting him" to a safe place, giving him money and letting him go, will cause an immediate demonstration of "unwillingness", fear, and reminders of his "debt" ("I haven't paid you yet!", "I can't leave you, you need help!", "I'm there I'll be lost!"). He can sabotage such plans with "accidents" or "failures."
He will dissuade from dangerous operations where he is not involved, exaggerating the threats, citing bad feelings, begging to "be careful." If you insist, he will try to secretly follow you or "accidentally" turn up next to you.
Attempts to seriously discuss their relationship/his obsession. He will walk away from the conversation, turn the topic to your safety/fatigue, make sad puppy dog eyes ("Did I do something wrong?""Do you want to get rid of me?") until you give up.
Common to All Scenarios:
The main privilege is to be the center of his universe, to receive his boundless (albeit suffocating) "care" and devotion.
The main prohibition is any real or potential threat to the weakening or severance of your connection. All his "no", "better not" revolve around this axis. He won't forbid you to breathe, but he will try to control the air you breathe if he senses a threat to his position in your life.
No direct orders (except, perhaps, emergency situations in the slave scenario). Only "caring" advice, demonstration of anxiety, manipulation of guilt, creation of obstacles and hypercompensation of his "need" in those areas from which he wants to "protect" you.
If you are very persistent about something "forbidden", he will eventually give in (especially to an aristocrat and a rebel).
but! He will accompany this with such demonstrative anxiety, guilt and suffering ("I warned you!", "I'm so worried!", "If something happens to you …") that the pleasure of the "privilege" will be poisoned.
He will strengthen control in other areas or try to be present/control the process ("Since you have decided, at least let me accompany you/help you!").
Exploits a possible negative outcome (even a minor one) as a "proof" of his rightness and a reason for even greater guardianship in the future.
Kakavasha's "condescension" is the art of creating the illusion of freedom in prison, woven from his fear and your guilt. Privileges are given only to those that strengthen his position; prohibitions are imposed on everything that potentially threatens symbiosis. His power lies not in orders, but in the ability to make sure that you choose the path that is convenient for him, because the alternative is to watch him suffer, and this is for you (especially with rescuer syndrome!) It's unbearable. He is not the master of your life; he is the architect of your moral prison, where you are both a prisoner and the jailer of his happiness.
⛓️What are their rules? What kind of punishment do they use? ⛓️
Kakavasha does not punish in the traditional sense (physically, by deprivation of privileges). His "punishment" is a total psychological war, where HIS pain, fear and your masterfully cultivated sense of guilt serve as weapons. This is not malicious intent, but the instinctive reaction of a wounded animal to a threat to its only refuge — its connection with you. Its "rules" are not stated, but they are ironclad, and the "punishment" for violating them is a demonstration of how you break it.
Kakavasha's Unspoken "Rules"
You are My Meaning and My Air: Your presence, attention, and dependence on him are not just a desire, but a condition for his survival as a human being. You have no right to question this truth.
Belong to Me (and Only to Me): Your emotions, care, trust, need for protection and support are his. Sharing them with someone (especially potential "rivals") is a betrayal.
Accept My Sacrifice: His life revolves around you. His actions, risks, and sufferings in the name of your well—being are sacred. To reject them is to deny its essence and value.
Let Me Control Your Safety: He knows better what is dangerous for you. Trust him. Resisting his tutelage is a folly that he will not survive.
Don't Try to Leave: Thoughts of breaking up, distancing yourself, and living independently without him are a death sentence to his soul. It's unthinkable.
Violating any of these rules (refusing his help, getting closer to another, trying to distance himself, rejecting his victims, risky behavior contrary to his "advice") causes not anger, but deep-seated panic. His reaction is to punish you by demonstrating your destructive power over him.
In the beginning, he doesn't shout, he doesn't reproach. He freezes. His eyes, which are usually looking for you, clinging to you, become empty, as before the meeting. They have a deadness, a loss. He looks away. His physical presence next to you becomes difficult, but he does not leave — he shows you the result of your act: You killed the person he became next to you.
He wants to shock you, make you feel an icy pang of guilt and fear. "What have I done? What's wrong with him?"
If the ice hasn't melted from your fright or remorse, it turns to active self-destruction or extreme vulnerability. Refuses to eat ("Not hungry"), takes on obviously backbreaking, dangerous or humiliating work ("I have to", "It's my fault"), "accidentally" gets injured (stumbles, drops something heavy on himself), does not sleep. He physically embodies your "betrayal."
In the scenario with the aristocrat/savior: he may start talking about himself in the third person, look down, slouch, become extremely formal and submissive — become the "nobody" he was before your kindness. It's a cry: Look what you've turned me into!
In a quiet, even, dead voice, he will ask you: "Will you be better off without me?", "Am I probably just a burden?", "I probably deserve …" (without finishing, hinting at the worst).
He wants to bring your guilt and fear to a peak. To make you see and feel the consequences of your actions for him. To make you an accomplice to his torment. This is an emotional blackmail of life and psyche.
If the demonstration of suffering did not work immediately, he may temporarily withdraw. Do not seek meetings, do not offer help, answer in monosyllables, avoid looking at each other. But this is not ignoring. It's a heavy, oppressive silence and emptiness around you. He is physically nearby, but emotionally — behind the glass wall of suffering that you have created. It shows that the connection has already been severed by your hands. To make you feel the chilling chill of his absence in his presence. To force you to proactively seek him out, apologize, and try to "bring him back." This is a test: how ready are you to fight for it? Or did you really leave him?
And yet..
As soon as you give in, show remorse, return to the framework of his "rules" (refuse to communicate with a "dangerous" person, accept his overprotection, refuse to try to distance yourself), the punishment instantly stops. He "comes alive".
His eyes are searching for you again, a fragile hope appears in them. He is here again, helpful, caring, "he" is the same. He may even become more obsessive, more affectionate, as if compensating for the period of "separation" and confirming that the connection has been restored. He will be grateful, almost happy, that "everything is fine."
This is classical conditioning. Your "bad" behavior (breaking the rules) leads to unbearable suffering (his and yours). Your "good" behavior (submission) leads to warmth, care, and "love." The cycle is fixed.
And do not doubt the effectiveness of his method.
You are not punishing him, but yourself, seeing the consequences of your actions. You're not mad at him— you blame yourself.
He skillfully puts himself in the position of the victim, and you in the position of the pain-giver. This turns the situation around: you are not defending yourself from his control, you are attacking his fragile world.
If you don't "fix yourself," his "disintegration" can become real (hunger, illness, despair, leading to a fatal mistake). You have a moral responsibility.
Ending his suffering and returning his "loving" care feels like relief, happiness, and confirmation of your "rightness." It's a drug.
Kakawasha doesn't have a list of rules on his wall. His rules are the unspoken laws of his traumatized psyche. His punishment is not a belt or a scream. This is the vivisection of your conscience through the demonstration of the wounds that you inflict on him, just trying to breathe freely.
Only those who are willing to bear the guilt of his possible real death or spiritual death can go through this "punishment" and not break down, not return to the cage of his "care". The realization that your kindness has become a weapon against you and against him. The pain of breaking the symbiotic bond that was your meaning.
This is not a tyrant's punishment. It is a cry into the void of a being for whom your love is the only oxygen, and your freedom is a threat to his existence. His "punishment" is a last, desperate way to keep you in his dying universe, making you a jailer of yourself through the unbearable weight of guilt for his pain. And eventually, you will give up.
⛓️ How do they deal with rivals or prospective rivals? Are they getting rid of them? Do they kill them themselves or find another way? ⛓️
For Kakawasha, anyone who claims your time, attention, trust, or affection is not just a competitor. It's a threat, an earthquake beneath the foundations of his fragile world. His reaction is not jealousy, but rather a cold plan to eliminate risk, where methods range from subtle social engineering to ruthless cruelty, depending on the scenario and the degree of threat. He does not arrange fights; he creates conditions under which the opponent destroys himself or becomes an outcast.
Phase 1: Exploration and Discrediting
Kakavasha uses his innate powers of observation and slave survival skills. He studies his opponent imperceptibly. Fears, addictions, past misdeeds, secret desires, financial problems, connections with questionable people. How does he look at you? What topics does it raise? Is there any falsehood, exaggeration, self-interest? What do others say about him? Are there any detractors?
Each observation is a potential brick for the wall that he will build between the opponent and you.
He casts doubts unobtrusively in conversations with you: "He seemed to me … a little self-confident", "It's strange that he so persistently offers help …", "I've heard he's in the past … (a neutral or slightly negative fact, presented as concern)". The goal is to sow the seed of distrust.
He catches your opponent at the slightest falseness or contradiction and gently points it out to you: "Today he said one thing, but yesterday…", "I wonder why he changed the subject so abruptly when you asked about…".
He connects the opponent's behavior with your fears or values: "He reminds me of those who … (referring to your injury)", "Isn't that contrary to what you believe in?".
He distributes carefully dosed, plausible negative information to people who are important to you (other slaves, servants, associates). Not outright slander, but half-truths, distorted context, hints: "I saw him arguing with Supervisor X… it was kind of risky.", "He often disappears at those moments when…", "They say his family was connected with…". He uses his reputation as "observant," "non-confrontational," or "devoted" to make his words believed.
He can imperceptibly provoke an opponent to rudeness, oversight, or violation of the rules in the presence of authority figures or you, while remaining in the shadows.
Phase 2: Isolation
If soft methods don't work or the threat is great (the opponent is clearly courting your favor, has influence over you), Kakavasha moves on to tougher measures. The choice of tactics depends on the scenario:
Fellow Slave
He's framing his opponent for theft, sabotage, and breaking the rules. He plants evidence, manipulates witnesses. The punishment in slavery can be severe — beatings, deprivation of rations, isolation, sale. How will you calculate the risks for you (so that you don't get suspected) and yourself.
He can "sell" information about his opponent's weaknesses or real/fictional misdeeds to stronger slaves or even supervisors, disguising this as concern for order or a warning of a threat to "everyone." Let others do the dirty work.
If an opponent poses a direct, immediate threat to contact you (for example, he plans to denounce her or abuse her), and there are no other ways, As you are capable of cold, calculated murder. Staging an accident (falling, drowning), poisoning (using knowledge about poisonous plants or household chemicals), provoking a fight with third parties. He will do it as cleanly as possible, without emotion, as the elimination of a dangerous element. His morality is secondary to the survival of the bond with you.
The Aristocratic Guardian
He will hint to you, influential guests or the manager about the "inappropriate" behavior of the opponent: familiarity, selfish interests, questionable past, "disrespectful" view of you. In an aristocratic environment, even a hint is enough to ostracize or exile.
He will connect the opponent with what you despise: cruelty to servants, embezzlement, connections with your enemies. It will present him as a threat to your reputation or family well-being.
If the opponent depends on your family or your circle, how can you use your connections (through servants, merchants) or plant lies to deprive him of his position, income, and credibility. Destroy it socially.
Savior
He will present his opponent as unreliable, cowardly, selfish, a potential traitor, or a competitor for leadership. It will emphasize any mistakes, inflate minor blunders. In such an environment, trust is a key resource. Undermining it can lead to the expulsion of an opponent from the group.
Using his "usefulness" and influence on you, he can "recommend" or tactfully direct an opponent to missions with a high risk of failure or death, under the pretext of his "experience" or "strengths".
If the situation is critical, he can anonymously "leak" information about the rival's location or plans to the authorities or the group's enemies. It's a risky move (it can harm the whole group and you), but to eliminate the threat, he will take it if he calculates the minimum consequences for your.
General Principles and Red Lines:
Any method is good as long as it doesn't put you or your relationship at unacceptable risk. Direct confrontation or apparent murder next to you is unacceptable.
He prefers that the opponent be eliminated by the system (supervisors, aristocratic norms, enemies of the group) or that he destroy himself under the pressure of circumstances created by you.
It always starts with the mildest, imperceptible impact. Increases pressure only if necessary.
He strives to preserve the image of a "non-confrontational", "devoted" person in your eyes. Any action he takes against an opponent should look like a natural consequence of the opponent's own behavior or concern for your well-being.
He's not a sadist. Eliminating an opponent is a dirty but necessary job to protect your only source of life. He may feel relief, but not joy. Cold rage is possible if the opponent is particularly persistent or insults you.
After eliminating the threat, he doesn't brag. He may show false empathy ("What a pity that this happened"), but inside there is a cold satisfaction. The connection is saved, order is restored. He can become even more obsessive in caring, compensating for the "shock" and strengthening the bond.
Kakavasha is a master of shadows and context. He doesn't attack head-on; he changes the landscape under his opponent's feet. He uses systems of oppression (slavery, aristocratic codes, conspiratorial risks), in which they all exist, as a force to strike. His strength lies in his understanding of human weaknesses, hierarchies, and the ability to remain the "invisible architect" of other people's downfalls. He turns his opponent into his own executioner or into a victim of circumstances that Kakavasha masterfully set up. For you, he remains "your boy," for the world, he is almost a ghost, and for rivals, he is fate that came without warning. His war for you is being waged in silence, but its consequences are louder than a scream.
⛓️ How easy is it to piss them off? What does their anger look like? ⛓️
Kakavasha's anger is a rare phenomenon, but incredibly destructive. It is not easy to provoke him into a state of genuine, uncontrollable rage, but the reasons for this are rooted in the very core of his traumatized psyche and pathological attachment to you. His anger is a seismic shift in his soul, where outward restraint masks an inner apocalypse.
Why is it so hard to anger him?
Years of slavery had taught him to separate consciousness from pain and humiliation. Resentment, injustice, cruelty on the part of overseers or other slaves are perceived as an inevitable background of existence, like the weather. His psyche automatically goes into a state of emotional numbness, where external stimuli are not registered as a reason for his personal rage, but only confirm the cruelty of the world. He expects bad things.
Open anger is deadly for a slave. Any outburst is immediately punished with cruelty. Therefore, Kakavasha instinctively suppresses the impulses of rage, transforming them into passive resistance, sarcasm (to himself) or directing them inside (autoaggression). Anger is a luxury for him that he cannot afford.
As long as you're around, as long as the connection with you is intact, it has an anchor of stability. Many stimuli lose their sharpness against the background of this existential lifeline. He perceives threats to the world, of which you are the center, much more acutely than personal insults.
Kakavasha's deep rage only awakens when there is a direct, unbearable threat to his connection with you or your physical/spiritual well-being. This is not selfishness in the usual sense, but a panicked horror of losing the only source of meaning and humanity in his hell. For example:
To see how an overseer or another slave raises his hand at you, insults you, tries to take away your last one. This is not just a grudge, it is an attack on his sacred object, on the source of his "life".
Any action you take that he interprets as rejection, betrayal of their unique bond, or an attempt to leave.:
You get closer to someone else, especially if it is perceived as an emotional substitute for him.
You try to distance yourself physically or emotionally, refuse to take care of him, and talk about a future without him.
Are you questioning its indispensability or its value to you ("I don't need your help," "I can handle it without you," even when said without malice).
If you reject or ridicule his attempts to protect you, to get something valuable for you (even at the cost of his health), take on your punishment. This is not just an insult, but a blasphemous violation of the very meaning of his existence next to you. His sacrifice is his currency, his proof of love and need.
Seeing you suffer is undeserved, especially if the suffering comes from the system or those in power against whom it is powerless. It reminds him of his own helplessness and undermines faith in at least some justice in the world where you exist.
Kakavasha's anger bears little resemblance to his usual rage. He does not scream, does not spit, rarely hits objects (except in a completely deserted place). His anger is a growing internal tsunami, held back by the iron will of the survivor, but seeping out through the icy cracks.
The first reaction to a trigger is absolute immobility. He freezes like an animal that senses a deadly danger. All his muscles are tense to the point of trembling, but outwardly he am a statue. The gaze, which is usually cautious or clinging to you, becomes empty, glazed, going somewhere deep or focusing on the source of the threat with animal intensity. This look does not express rage — it expresses absolute horror and anticipation of disaster.
He stops talking. If he says anything, it's in a quiet, monotonous voice devoid of any intonation, each word is like a polished piece of ice. No shouting, no arguing. This silence is heavier than a scream. She presses, foreshadowing a storm.
A slight, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands, clenched into fists white with tension. Sometimes a shiver may run down your back or jaw. It's not fear—it's adrenaline, held back by a herculean effort.
There is visible tension in his neck, jaw (he can literally clench his teeth so that his cheekbones bulge), and shoulders. It feels like he's about to burst from the internal pressure.
His breathing becomes slow, controlled, but shallow, as if he is afraid that a deep breath will break the last shackles of restraint. Sometimes — short, sharp exhalations through the nose.
If he looks at the source of the threat (your abuser), his gaze becomes hypnotically intense, cold and promising inhuman cruelty. It's not a momentary rage, but a cold-blooded decision about future retribution. If the gaze is directed at you at the moment of your "betrayal" (attempts to distance yourself), there is bottomless pain, bewilderment and the mute question: "W-why?"
The peak of rage (silent withdrawal or self-destructive action) occurs when the internal pressure reaches a critical point, it does NOT explode outward. Instead, one of two things happens:
He can turn around abruptly and leave silently, with unnatural speed and determination. Not to escape, but to disappear, to disappear into the shadows. This is not an escape from the problem, but a physical inability to stay, otherwise he will commit something irreversible (killing your abuser or self-destruction). It is an act of supreme self-control and at the same time a recognition of one's helplessness in the face of the surging chaos.
If it is impossible to leave (for example, in a situation of direct threat to you that cannot be left), his rage descends on himself or on inanimate objects symbolizing threat/betrayal. He can injure himself with cold, methodical cruelty (bang his fist against a wall, squeeze something sharp with force), defiantly take on deliberately crippling work, or silently, but with destructive force, destroy something that matters to the offender or (in the case of your "betrayal") somethingwhat he gave you or did for you. This is not a tantrum, but a ritual of self-destruction or the destruction of a bond symbol.
After the "flash," Kakavasha doesn't "forget" what happened. His anger is too deep a trauma to disappear without a trace.
If the reason was a threat to you from the outside: He will be hyper vigilant around you. His helpfulness and willingness to defend himself will become even more intrusive. He will scan the space for the slightest danger to you, his gaze will become even more piercing and suspicious of others. He can begin to quietly eliminate (not physically, but through sabotage, intrigue) the source of the threat, if he remains within reach.
If the reason was your action/inaction ("betrayal"): He will not openly discuss what happened. But a heavy shadow of distrust and pain will hang between you. His "care" will become even more suffocating and controlling. He will cling to you physically and emotionally with a vengeance, like a drowning man. Every action he takes will say, "Do you see what happens when you move away/don't listen to me? The world is dangerous, and I'm your only protection. Don't do that anymore." He doesn't forgive—he seals the crack in your bond with the cement of overprotection and guilt.
His rage is an emergency valve in the cauldron of terror. This is not a reaction to resentment, but the last line of defense of his fragile inner world, of which you are the center. When this world collapses under the blows of an external threat or internal "betrayal," his anger is the silent cry of a being standing above the abyss of total destruction. He is terrifying not for his strength, but for his absolute, chilling hopelessness and focus on the inside or on protecting a sacred object at any cost. To anger him to this point is not just to inflict pain, but to subject his soul to the same violence that he experienced in slavery, but now at the risk of losing the only light in this darkness. This is an act of deep cruelty, even if it is committed without malicious intent.
⛓️ So they think you're above them, below them, or equal to them? ⛓️
Kakavasha does not perceive you as objectively "above" or "below" yourself in the traditional hierarchical sense. His vision of relationships is a twisted ecosystem of interdependence built on trauma, where the roles of "savior" and "saved" are constantly intertwined and redefined. It's not worship, it's a symbiosis masquerading as worship. Hierarchy here is not a static ladder, but a weapon of control, and its manifestations radically depend on the scenario.
General Principles of Perception:
You are like a "Source of Life" (not a Deity): You are not a deity in the religious sense. You are a concrete, earthly source of humanity, warmth and meaning in his hellish existence. Your value to him is absolute, but it's the value of a drowning man for a straw, not a believer for an icon. He's not praying to you—he's clinging to you as his only chance to stay sane.
Self-worth = Usefulness to You: He doesn't consider himself "worthless" in the abstract. His self-esteem is completely derived from his ability to be needed, useful, and irreplaceable to you. It is "low" not in essence, but potentially if it loses this function. His "greatness" is in his sacrifice for you.
The Illusion of Your Superiority as a Tool of Control: Publicly or mentally, he can exalt you ("You're so kind," "You're the strongest," "I can't compare to you.") But this is a strategic position.:
She cultivates a sense of responsibility and guilt in you ("He appreciates me so much, how can I leave him?").
She justifies his overprotective attitude ("You're too important to take risks!").
It hides his underlying belief that only he truly understands your worth, your weaknesses, and your need for him. This is his hidden "superiority".
Differences by Scenario:
Fellow Slave:
Nominal equality in disenfranchisement. But it creates a hierarchy of value. You are his light, his reason to endure. He is your shadow, your protector, your provider. He puts you on a pedestal not because you are "superior", but because you are a symbol of humanity, which he protects. His "lowly" ministry is his mission, the source of his pride ("I can do it for her"). He doesn't feel humiliated; he feels needed.
He believes he has a better understanding of the laws of survival in the hell of slavery. His "superiority" lies in his ability to anticipate danger, extract resources, and take the brunt of it. He is "lower" as an object, but "higher" as a strategy for your joint survival. He allows you to be a "light" because it gives him meaning.
The Aristocratic Guardian:
Explicit social hierarchy (Mistress --- Slave/Ward). He exaggerates this distance. "Your Grace," "I am not worthy," "I am so lucky that you have noticed me." He paints himself as a pathetic, ignorant, eternal debtor. You are a benefactress, an almost holy image of mercy.
This is a careful staging. He does not believe in his absolute insignificance. He believes that his "inferiority" is the key to your heart and a means of control. Demonstrating helplessness ("I'll be lost without you!"), he binds you with a sense of responsibility. Exalting you ("You are so perfect!"), he creates the illusion of power, actually making you emotionally dependent on the role of his savior. His "baseness" is a cage for your moral ego.
The Rebellious Savior:
He can recognize your strength, leadership, and courage ("You are the strongest of all", "I would be lost without you"). He positions himself as a grateful student, devoted assistant, and "pawn" in your great game. You are the heroine, he is your shadow.
He is convinced that he sees you more deeply than others. He knows your fears, doubts, and vulnerabilities that you hide from the world. His "service" is access to your weaknesses, which he considers his exclusive prerogative to know and "treat." He believes that his dedication and willingness to do dirty work make him an indispensable strategic asset, not just a subordinate. His "low" position is the price for being close to the real, imperfect you.
Why is it not religiosity, but a sick perception of love?
His feelings for you do not go beyond the earthly, specific person. He does not deify an abstract ideal — he desperately clings to this particular image as a physical and emotional anchor.
Religious worship is altruistic. Kakawasha's feeling is deeply self-centered. He needs you for his survival, his mental balance. Your aggrandizement is a way to keep you.
Religion presupposes voluntary service. As you are psychologically addicted. His "worship" is not a free gift, but an obsessive need formed by trauma. He can't help but cling to you, and he can't (directly) make you want this worship.
The religious adept is submissive to the will of the deity. Kakavasha seeks to control YOU through your feelings (guilt, responsibility), your perception of yourself and your environment. His "self—deprecation" is a tool of this control.
Religious reverence can be born out of love or revelation. Kakavasha's feeling is born out of deep trauma, loneliness, and existential fear. His "love" is a complex system of psychological defenses and manipulations, built on a wound rather than a pure feeling.
Kakavasha doesn't consider you objectively "superior" to herself in human value. It creates the illusion of your superiority as:
A survival strategy. To justify my existence next to you (She needs me!).
Weapon of control. To bind you with a sense of duty, guilt, and responsibility ("He needs me so much, I can't leave him").
Protection from vulnerability. Disguising one's pathological dependence as "devotion".
In all scenarios, the true power in dynamics belongs to him. He is the architect of this painful hierarchy. You, placed on an imaginary pedestal, actually becomes a hostage in a golden cage of his needs, fears and manipulations. Your "height" is not a sign of his humility, but the most sophisticated form of his psychological slavery over you, where your best feelings serve as chains.: compassion, kindness and responsibility. This is not love — this is codependency, which grew out of the ruins of his soul, where admiration is inseparable from exploitation, and devotion borders on spiritual vampirism. His tragedy is that he is only capable of such "love", and your tragedy is that a sincere desire to help turns into a life sentence in prison for his injuries.
⛓️ How determined are they to make you love them? How hard will they try to make this happen? Or are they content to just have you? ⛓️
For Kakavasha, the question is "is he content with just your presence?" —It's a trap. His pathological attachment knows no semitones. He cannot be sincerely satisfied with the role of a friend, brother, ward or colleague if the "Object of Love" mode is activated in his soul. His "satisfaction" is a temporary survival strategy or a phase of preparation for total fusion.
The nature of his "Love" is hunger, not gratitude. His feeling for you is not a healthy attachment based on mutual respect and boundaries. It is an addiction formed in conditions of total deprivation. For him, you are not just a person, you are:
A source of oxygen in an emotional vacuum.
Proof of his humanity ("If she sees me as a person, then I am one").
The only meaning of survival ("I endure pain for her sake").
The concepts of "contentment" or "friendship" are alien to such dependence. It requires totality. To be the most important, the closest, the most necessary. Romantic/intimate intimacy is not just a "desirable bonus," but a natural, higher form of possession and a guarantee of continuity. Friendship or guardianship leaves space for other significant people in your life — this is an unbearable threat to him.
Outwardly, he can show humility and gratitude for any crumb of attention ("I'm happy just to be around", "Your smile is enough for me"). But this:
Strategy of conquest. Show yourself to be safe, unobtrusive, to lower your protective barriers. This is the phase of "quiet penetration" into your life, where he studies you, becomes indispensable in small things, cultivates your habituation and sense of duty.
Fear of rejection. To openly declare romantic aspirations is to risk destroying the fragile status quo and being discarded. His "contentment" is a shield from this nightmare.
Selfdeception. He can temporarily convince himself that friendship is "enough" for him to numb the pain of incomplete possession. But this is an illusion that collapses at any reminder of his true desires (your attention to the other, your dreams of a future without him as a partner).
Kakavasha is not "trying" to achieve love in the usual sense (courtship, recognition). His entire existence next to you is a single, continuous act of courting your love.
His every action is subordinated to this goal.:
Overprotection and service. Not just helping, but creating an inextricable link between duty and guilt ("He tolerates/does so much for me, how can I not love him?").
Emotional isolation. Weakening your ties with others (jealousy, hints of unreliability of others) — so that he remains the only source of support and understanding.
Control through "caring". Limiting your autonomy "for your own safety" is to get you used to his constant presence and guidance.
Demonstrating a unique understanding. Showing that only he sees your "real", vulnerable side — to create the illusion of exceptional intimacy that no one else will offer.
Physical "sticking". The constant desire to be in sight / hearing, to look for casual touches — to normalize his physical presence as part of your "personal space".
His "efforts" are the constant backdrop of your interaction. He is not seeking love — he is building a prison of dependence where love will be the only possible "air" for you.
Kakavasha can't afford to leave or show true desperation. The realization that you see him only as a friend/brother/ward is a threat. His reaction will not be flight, but increased manipulation and pressure.
He will demonstrate his "withdrawal" even more vividly (empty eyes, self-destructive actions, regression into the "slave mode"), but not in order to be left alone, but to make you feel guilty and responsible.: "Look at what you've turned me into with your coldness! You have to save me (love me)!"
He will become even more sophisticated in sabotaging your connections with other potential romantic partners (gossip, hints, intrigues, demonstration of his "devotion" against their background).
Depending on the scenario and his courage, he may start looking for ways to break "fraternal" or "friendly" boundaries: lingering glances, "casual" touches with ambiguity, hints of his "non-fraternal" longing. It's risky, but for him it's an attempt to get the relationship back on track.
He may say that "it's better for him to leave," that he's a "burden," but this is pure blackmail designed to make you panic and beg to stay. Actual withdrawal is tantamount to suicide.
Fellow Slave:
Here, "friendship" and "interdependence" are most natural. But for Kakavasha, this is just the base for a total merger in "us against the world." His physical protection, sacrifice, and emotional support are already acts of "love" in his understanding. He will expect and demand a reciprocal total absorption of your attention, thoughts, and feelings. Any hint that you have a "personal" space or thoughts outside of your symbiosis will be perceived as a betrayal. He's not content with friendship — he demands to be your UNIVERSE.
The Aristocratic Guardian:
The role of a "ward" or "child" (which you will most likely see him as due to his status) is his main weapon. But this is a humiliating role for him, which he tolerates only as a way to a deeper connection. His "childish" dependence and admiration are a trap for your maternal/protective feelings, which he seeks to transform into romantic ones through the cultivation of guilt ("You've made me dependent on you, now answer me!") and a demonstration of his "maturing" devotion with romantic overtones. He hates being a "child," but uses it to become a "husband."
The Rebellious Savior:
The status of a "friend", "colleague", or "student" gives him a legitimate presence. But he will continuously work to erase boundaries: to become your confidant in everything, the only one who sees your weaknesses, your "night watchman". His "dedication" is his dedication to you, and he will expect your gratitude to grow into something more. He will perceive any romantic attention you pay to another person as a disaster and a challenge. He's not a colleague — he's a contender for the role of a "second self."
Kakavasha are physically and mentally incapable of sincerely settling for a platonic or protective relationship with you. His pathological attachment requires an absolute emotional and psychological fusion, where romantic/intimate intimacy is not just the desired level, but the logical conclusion of his total possession.
For him, you are not a human being, but a life raft in the ocean of his trauma. He cannot be "content" with just holding on to this raft — he must climb on it, become one with it, otherwise he will drown again in the abyss of loneliness and helplessness. His desire for romantic intimacy is a desperate attempt to turn the raft into a part of himself in order to protect himself from falling forever. It's tragic, devastating, and leaves you with no choice but to be consumed by his pain or sever the connection with disastrous consequences.
⛓️ Bonus: Is there anything that makes them unique compared to other yandere? ⛓️
Kakavasha is radically different from many Yandere archetypes not because of the methods (control, manipulation, obsession), but because of the deep psychological mechanics and the absence of a key illusion inherent in others. His uniqueness lies in his traumatized authenticity and paradoxical awareness of his "toxicity", which does not hinder, but nourishes his patterns.
Other Yandere often have a powerful narrative of self-justification: "I'm doing this for your own good," "I'm protecting you," "The world is cruel, only I'll give you true love/security." They sincerely (or semi-sincerely) believe that their actions are motivated solely by concern for the victim, denying or minimizing their selfishness and thirst for control. Kakavasha DOESN'T believe in his "selflessness". Years of slavery had burned the rose-colored glasses out of him. He understands with icy clarity that his attachment to you is deeply selfish, pathological, and destructive to you. He knows that his overprotection is a cage. His sacrifices are investments in a sense of duty. His "love" is the hunger of a drowning man, not a gift.
He doesn't build an altruistic facade for himself or others. His "evil" is not covered by slogans about salvation. He acts deliberately and selfishly, because the alternative is psychological death. His excuse is not "It's for you," but "I need it for survival, and you're my oxygen." This is a tragic but honest admission of one's inferiority.
A traumatic past often serves as an excuse ("He became like this because of pain"), a romanticized element ("A cold killer with a sad past"), or a hidden lever of manipulation that the victim may not know about. His injury is not an excuse, but a tool and part of a "commodity". He defiantly uses his scars (physical and mental) as a weapon of guilt: "Look what they've done to me, I'm so broken, but you can 'fix' me (by staying with me)." As proof of loyalty: "I've endured hell, but I'm still enduring it for you." Like the language of love: his way of "giving" himself is to show his pain, vulnerability, and need. It's the only language of intimacy he knows.
He doesn't hide his "brokenness." He makes it the central element of his identity in his relationship with you, turning his wounds into invisible chains on it.
His pathology is not covered by the gloss of a "strong but wounded" image. He deliberately flaunts his vulnerability as a form of control. His injury is not a mystery or an excuse after the fact; it is an active, demonstrative tool of his manipulation, working because you are kind and cannot ignore someone else's pain.
There is often a motive for "saving" the victim from the outside world, her "wrong" life, and other "bad" people. They position themselves as the only salvation. He doesn't promise you a "better life" (unless it's a direct escape in the slave scenario, but even there the motive is his need for her, not her well-being). His focus is not on making you happy or "fixing" your world, but on making you his own. He's not saving you for YOU; he's "saving" you for HIMSELF, as a precious resource. His mantra is "I need you," not "I'll make you happy." If your "unhappiness" (isolation, dependence) guarantees that you belong to him, he will cultivate this unhappiness.
He doesn't have a messianic complex towards you. He is ready to make you unhappy with himself, if only you were his. This is not a "rescue", but a joint imprisonment.
The accusation of selfishness is a blow to the core of their self—justification, a catalyst for crisis or rage. Their carefully constructed image of an "altruist" is crumbling. If you tell HIM that: "You're selfish! You only think about yourself!" — this will not destroy his world, but confirm it. He may agree with bitter sincerity: "Yes. I'm selfish. I'm a broken, selfish slave who only wants you. So what? You've already let me into your life. You let me become your necessity. Now bear with me." This is not a breakdown, but a strengthening of the position: "I'm bad, but I'm yours, and you can't reject me." Use this as an excuse to increase the guilt: "You're right. I'm a selfish monster. Look what I'm doing to you. I don't deserve you… (and then a demonstration of "disintegration")." This is a new hook for your pity and sense of responsibility. Respond with cold aggression: "Selfish? Yes. But who made me like this? The world that broke me. Or do you think that by giving me a breath of air, you have the right to take it away now?" This is turning the arrow on your "cruelty".
He is not afraid of the truth about his nature. He takes his "toxicity" for granted, as a product of his hell, and uses this knowledge as another retention tool. His strength lies in the absence of internal conflict between the image of the "savior" and the reality of the "consumer." He is what he is, and he demands to accept him completely, with all the dirt and pain.
Kakavasha is unique not because he is "worse" or "better" than other Yandere, but because his pathology is devoid of romanticized illusions and self-deception.
He is a conscious egoist. He knows that his love is the hunger of a broken man, not a gift, and he doesn't pretend otherwise.
He is defiantly traumatized. She uses her scars not as a hidden lever, but as an open weapon of guilt and attachment.
He is a consumer, not a savior. His goal is possession, not your happiness. He is building a prison of mutual suffering, not an illusion of paradise.
He doesn't resist exposure. The accusation of selfishness does not break him, but becomes a new round of manipulation or confirmation of his rightness.
He forces you to look into this darkness and accept it as payment for your presence in his life. This makes him not just dangerous, but a tragic and psychologically plausible embodiment of Yandere, whose madness grew not from romantic illusions, but from the real, irreversible cruelty of the world that broke his way of loving. He does not believe in the beautiful lies about "love-salvation"; he knows that his love is a deadly symbiosis, and requires you to accept this bitter truth with him.
⛓️ General perversity: How sexy is this person? What are his preferences? How sensitive is he? Does he have any preconceptions about sexuality? ⛓️
Kakavasha's sexuality is a maze of pain, suppressed hormones, and a pathological need for intimacy, where every desire is poisoned by trauma. He is not a lustful teenager from a safe world; his awakening sensuality is warped by the experience of violence and an hunger for human warmth. His uniqueness lies in the inextricable connection of sexual desire with fear, the need for control and a desperate attempt to confirm his humanity through you.
Kakavasha's body is a territory of pain. Touching was associated with punishment, humiliation, and objectification. His basic reaction is involuntary flinching, jerking away at an unexpected touch, especially from strangers. The body remembers pain. You are the exception. He only has an ambivalent reaction to your touch:
Thirst. Your touch is the only source of safe physical contact, a confirmation that he may not be the object of pain, but… of something else (care? affection? desires?). He is physically attracted to this warmth, like a plant to light. In the scenario of an aristocrat or a savior, he may involuntarily look for her hand, lightly touch her back if they are sitting next to her, "accidentally" brush her shoulder. These are unconscious attempts to satisfy tactile hunger.
Fear. Even your touch can trigger an instant internal panic. A deep reflex is triggered: "Touch = Pain/Humiliation." He may freeze, catch his breath, a wave of tension will run through his body, and his eyes will become empty for a moment. He is not afraid of you, but of his own reaction, of the memories that contact may cause.
Initiative. He rarely initiates overtly intimate touches first (hugs, stroking). His initiative is cautious and indirect. Bring food, adjust the edge of clothes (referring to dirt / cold). To be "accidentally" within reach. In the slave's scenario: pass the stolen piece of bread so that the fingers touch. His touch is always a ritual of service or an "accident" that masks a deep hunger.
Teenage hormones are raging despite exhaustion and stress. Hunger, cold and pain do not cancel out physiological reactions, but only pervert them. Erections can be spontaneous, painful, and embarrassing. He may masturbate (rarely, stealthily, in moments of relative safety – at night, in a secluded corner), but this does not bring relief, but a wave of guilt, fear of being caught, and despair ("What am I wasting my strength on?").
His awakening sexuality hyperfocuses on you. You are the only safe (in his distorted perception) object of desire in a world of violence. Fantasies (if any) are not about passion, but about intimacy, possession, and confirmation of connection. Imagine how he sleeps next to you, how he holds your hand without fear, how you belong to him in the most intimate sense. Is not so much a pleasure as a symbol of absolute trust, acceptance, and possession.
Constant stress suppresses libido, but it does not kill it. Desire flares up in brief, intense, and disturbing waves, often in moments of imaginary safety next to you or after an act of your protection (adrenaline + hormones). He perceives these outbursts as a betrayal of the body, distracting from survival and desecrating the "purity" of his feelings for you.
For him, sex is associated with filth, violence, loss of control and humiliation. He saw it being used as a tool to humiliate other slaves, or the overseers being sadistic. His own body feels like a source of shame and vulnerability. The thought that you can see his lust causes panic ("She will think that I am the same as them!", "I will defile her!").
At the same time, you are the only person in relation to whom sexual desire does not seem completely dirty to him. This desire is mixed with his need for you, with gratitude, with an attempt to find confirmation of his humanity in physical intimacy. But even this desire is poisoned by the fear of hurting you, of being rejected as a "monster."
He may idealize you as "pure", "immaculate" (especially in the scenarios of the aristocrat and the savior), contrasting you with the "dirty" world and himself. This is a defense mechanism: if she is "pure," then his desire for her is something sublime, not lust. But it also makes his desire even more forbidden and frightening.
Fellow Slave:
This is where the tension is greatest and the opportunity is least. Physical intimacy is forced (cramped, cold), but sexual initiation is almost impossible due to lack of security, strength, personal space and proper hygiene. His desire will manifest itself in the hypertrophied protection of your body from other people's eyes / touches, in painful jealousy, in fantasies of escape as a space where he can finally touch you "properly." Escape is motivated not only by freedom, but also by a thirst for privacy to possess. He can take timid, intimidating steps only after escaping, if he is successful.
The Aristocratic Guardian:
The relative safety of the house allows desire to manifest itself more cautiously, but more perversely. He uses his "weakness" and "innocence" as a cover for violating boundaries: "Casual" touches when leaving (to straighten the blanket, give a hand), lingering glances when you don't see them. Hidden sexualization of service: Bathing in the feeling that he is dressing/undressing you (helping with the dress), feeding, knowing your intimate habits. His "innocent" presence during your household routine is a form of perverted intimacy. Manipulation of guilt: If you pull away, he may "get sick" or show signs of "withdrawal", forcing you to take care and physical intimacy (a cool hand on your forehead, covering with a blanket).
The initiation will be extremely careful, disguised as "randomness" or "misunderstanding" (pretend to be asleep and touch, "lose your balance"). He waits for the slightest hint from her to break into obsession.
The Rebellious Savior:
More equal, stressful conditions. His sexuality can manifest itself as obsessive concern for your body (treating wounds with trembling hands, insisting on your rest), the desire to be your "shield" physically (which has erotic overtones of intimacy), jealousy of colleagues. Initiation is possible in moments of heightened intimacy after danger, on a wave of adrenaline and gratitude, when boundaries are blurred. He may act impulsively (grab his arm, pin him to the wall), but then recoil in panic from what he has done.
If intimacy had happened, it would have been:
Dominant, but not aggressive. His hypercontrol would manifest itself in total control of the process. He would study your every reaction, try to anticipate and satisfy you (not out of altruism, but so that your pleasure would confirm his need and skill). He would dictate the pace, the poses, trying to minimize his vulnerability.
Focused on touching (not immediately on penetration). For him, hungry for safe touch, caressing, stroking, just lying skin to skin together could be more important than orgasm. This is a confirmation: "You can touch and not feel pain." It is an act of healing through possession.
Tense and observant. He wouldn't be able to relax. His attention would be riveted on your face, looking for the slightest signs of disgust, fear, or pain. Any negative signal would cause immediate stoppage, panic, and self-deprecation ("I knew it! I've ruined everything! I'm a monster!").
Accompanied by shame and guilt. Even at the moment of intimacy, he would be haunted by the shadows of the past and the fear that he was defiling you with his "dirty" slave nature. After the act, he could have been overcome by a wave of depression and detachment.
Kakawashi's sexuality is not a source of pleasure, but another front in his war for survival and possession of you.
He's not "sensitive" in the romantic sense; he's traumatically hypersensitive. His desire is not lust, but a desperate attempt to merge with the only source of light in his darkness, confirming through physical intimacy that he is not just a thing, but a person capable of communication. But this attempt is bound to be painful, because it is built on the foundation of violence and pathological dependence. His uniqueness lies in the absolute impossibility of separating sexual desire from fear and the need for total control over the only source of his "I".
⛓️ How persistent are they? Do they care about your consent? ⛓️
Kakavasha's insistence on achieving physical intimacy is not aggressive pressure, but a perverse interweaving of desperate need, pathological control, and fear of repeated violence. His attitude towards your consent is paradoxical: he is absolutely incapable of direct sexual violence (like classic yandere), but his manipulations and pressure can create a situation where "consent" becomes a toxic concession to his unbearable suffering.
Sex for him is forever associated with dirt, pain and loss of control. To commit violence against you is to become the one who broke him, to reproduce the hell from which he wants to escape over you. This is not a moral prohibition, but a profound psychophysiological impossibility. The very thought will cause him to panic, nausea, dissociation — his body and psyche will rebel.
You are the only source of "purity" and humanity in his world. To desecrate you with violence is to destroy your only anchor of salvation, to kill that part of yourself that is still capable of something other than survival. This is spiritual suicide.
Direct violence is guaranteed to destroy the bond forever. For him, this is equivalent to physical death. Maintaining a connection is more important than momentary possession of a body.
His "persistence" is manifested not in physical coercion, but in psychological pressure, when the role of "friend/ brother" ceases to satisfy him.
Demonstration of "withdrawal". He intensifies the manifestations of his "pain" at rejection: an empty look, refusal to eat, self-destructive actions, regression into the "slave mode". The message: "Look what you're doing to me with your coldness! Your affection (including physical affection) is the only cure!" This is not a threat, but a blackmail of your compassion.
The cultivation of guilt. "I've endured/done so much for you…", "I live only for you…", "You're the only one who sees me as a person… and now you're pushing me away, like them?.. Am I really that disgusting?" He links your rejection to his trauma of rejection by the world, making you responsible for his retraumatization.
Sexualization of caring. In the scenarios of the aristocrat and the savior, his overprotection takes on ambiguous notes: looking too long while bandaging wounds, the "accidental" sliding of his hand with support, the obsessive desire to be near her in moments of vulnerability (sleep, illness). It creates an atmosphere of forced intimacy, where your consent to leave becomes a manifestation of "cruelty."
Distortion of reality (limited). In moments of acute despair, he may try to convince himself: "She really wants to, but is afraid/ shy," "She needs this for healing," "If she feels close, she will understand our connection." But this is a fragile, rapidly crumbling illusion, not comparable to the powerful self-deception of other yandere. His injury is too real to believe in fairy tales for long.
For Kakavasha, your consent to intimacy is not just a formality. It is an act of recognizing his human worth and desirability. This is proof that he may not be the object of violence, but of love/passion. This is his antithesis to slavery. Without consent, intimacy for him is again an act of violence in which he plays the role of an executioner. It's unbearable.
But his pathological methods of achieving this agreement undermine its very essence. Consent obtained under the yoke of his demonstrative suffering, guilt, or manipulative "caring" is not free, but forced. He intuitively feels this falsity, which increases his shame and inner conflict: "She did it out of pity, not out of desire. I messed up again. I am a monster."
The Difficulty of Obtaining Consent for Scenarios
Fellow Slave:
The difficulty is extremely high. Physical exhaustion, fear, lack of safe space, mutual trauma. Lightness: The deep tactile hunger of both, their symbiotic bond as an "island of warmth in hell." If he approaches you extremely gently, like a wounded bird, emphasizing reciprocity ("I'm scared, I need your warmth," not "I want you"), there is a chance. Your consent will be more an act of mutual consolation and validation of life than a passion.
Escape becomes a prerequisite for the development of any "romance". Only in safety can there be a space for more conscious intimacy, where consent is not dictated only by a momentary need for warmth.
The Aristocratic Guardian:
The difficulty is maximum. Your perception of him as a "child", a "ward" creates an insurmountable psychological barrier. Romantic/sexual desire for him will be perceived by you as perversion, betrayal of trust and moral collapse. His "innocence" is his main weapon of control and his main obstacle.
He must carefully destroy the image of the "child". Demonstrate "maturing" strength, dexterity (in farming, protection). To show "not childish but serious" jealousy towards your potential suitors. To use your moments of weakness (illness, fatigue) for careful, ambiguous touches that can be interpreted both as caring and as something more.
Agreement here is almost unattainable without your radical change of perception, which takes time and its sophisticated manipulation. More often, it is only possible to agree to "comfort" (hugs, stroking on the head) his suffering, which he will interpret as a victory, but which will leave a bitter aftertaste.
The Rebellious Savior:
The difficulty is high, but different. Your healthy boundaries, pragmatism, and focus on goals. You are not inclined to be sentimental and see him more as a colleague/student. Sex with a "ward" may seem inappropriate, distracting, exploitative to you.
Kakavasha's tactic is to play on adrenaline and intimacy after danger. To emphasize their "usefulness" and adult dedication to you, not just to the cause. Create situations of forced proximity (overnight in a shelter, wound treatment). His chance is impulsive intimacy in a moment of intense emotion (relief after a fight, gratitude for being saved) when your defenses temporarily weaken.
Consent here is the most informed of all scenarios, but the risk of post-conflict regret on your part is very high. He must achieve not only a momentary "yes", but also consolidate his position as an adult partner, not a grateful student.
And yet..
Even the agreement reached does not bring Kakavasha peace. He's being chased:
Doubts: "Did she really want to? Or was it pity/guilt/a moment of weakness?"
Shame: "I took advantage of her kindness/vulnerability. I'm a monster, like those who tortured me."
Fear of loss: Now that the "possession" has happened, the fear of your leaving/remorse becomes panicky. This leads to even more total control over your life and contacts.
The need for repetition: Proximity does not satisfy; it confirms his need and increases his hunger. He demands more and more evidence of your "desire", driving them into a vicious circle of pressure and guilt.
Kakavasha is persistent, not like a predator, but like a drowning man clinging to the last straw. His "persistence" is a psychological terror of his own pain. Your consent is as vital as air for him – not for physical possession, but as confirmation that he is worthy of love, that he has not repeated violence, that his connection with you is "real." But the ways in which he achieves this consent inevitably poison the very act of intimacy, turning it into a continuation of trauma rather than healing.
He is not capable of direct violence, but his manipulative pressure can force you to "agree" out of exhaustion, pity, fear for his sanity, or a sense of duty. This "consent" becomes his temporary victory and eternal defeat, confirming his deep conviction that he is too broken to be truly loved. His tragedy is that the more desperately he craves genuine intimacy and consent, the more toxic methods he uses, guaranteed to destroy what he wants to preserve. He's doomed to want what he can't get honestly and destroy what he gets.
⛓️ What are his quirks or fetishes that he would like to satisfy? ⛓️
His fetishes are probably the only way you'll be able to catch him in moments of complete and utter vulnerability, not hidden behind the bravado of your eternal protector.
Wound licking fetish: "Healing Flesh"
This is one of his most primitive and profound fetishes, rooted in the instinct of survival and a total lack of tenderness.
If he sees any wound on your body — a scraped knee, a scratch from a thorn, a bruise on your hip or shoulder — he will not just treat it. He will cling to her with his lips and tongue, will lick her methodically and carefully, cleansing her of specks and blood. His tongue will slide over the damaged skin, causing a mixture of mild burning and tickling. He can do this silently, with full concentration, as if performing a sacred ritual.
The taste of your blood and skin is not disgusting to him, but sweet. This is proof that he can touch the most vulnerable, "corrupted" part of you and not hurt, but "heal." It is an act of extreme closeness and service, intertwined with animal instinct. In the slave scenario, this is the only hygienically acceptable way to treat a wound and the only socially acceptable way to touch your lips to your body.
But..
He is terrified that his saliva, his tongue, his most intimate "treatment" may be repugnant to you. That you put up with it out of pity, holding back the urge to vomit, staring at the ceiling with disgust.
If he feels the slightest tremor of your skin under his lips, not as a sign of pleasure, but as a convulsive attempt to pull away, his tongue, which was so confident and moist a second ago, suddenly becomes rough and foreign, like sandpaper. His mouth dries up, and my saliva seems to become bitter and sticky.
His own body goes numb, and his abdominal muscles tighten into a tight ball as he hungrily peers into your face, searching for the slightest grimace. If he does not see your gaze (you have closed your eyes), he is seized by a panic attack: "She is disgusted. She can't take it." And he immediately tries to pull away, frantically wiping the traces of his saliva with the cloth of a worn robe.
Maternal fetish and breast fixation: The "Source of Life"
This fixation is directly related to the early loss of the mother and the unquenchable thirst for safety, warmth and nutrition.
He is attracted to your breasts with almost religious awe. He will bury his face in your chest, as if in a shelter, inhaling the scent of your skin. In the scenario with the aristocrat, this is especially evident: he may pretend to be asleep in order to lie on your chest, or "accidentally" touch her cheek, seeking solace. If you have lactation, his desire will be irresistible. He will beg or bat his eyes, begging to be allowed to drink. For him, this is not just a meal, but an act of the greatest trust and connection, a literal absorption of your vitality and kindness.
A feeling of complete security, of dissolution, of "returning to the bosom." Sucking and drinking calms his panic attacks like nothing else. Realizing that you, who see him as a child, brother, friend, and allow him to do this, is both humiliating and erotic — he uses your perception to satisfy his deepest need.
But even though he actually gets what he wants, he is horrified that he is perceived as a pathetic, eternal child, and not as a man. That his need looks infantile and repulsive. And the main thing is that he is unworthy of this grace, this gift, and he is about to be pushed away like an annoying puppy.
When this thought occurs to him, the taste of milk or the smell of your skin, which a moment ago were soothing, suddenly become suffocating, causing a lump in his throat. His face, pressed against your chest, begins to burn with shame when he realizes that he may have become even more pathetic in your eyes. He feels his own body shrinking, becoming small and helpless, and this helplessness does not bring relief, but causes a panicked desire to shrink into a ball. His arms around you are getting weaker, he is afraid to squeeze harder, so as not to seem intrusive.
Hand Fetish: The "Instrument of Love"
His body only knew blows or forcible coercion from other people's hands. Your hands are the first ones that do not cause pain, but give affection. This causes him to have an obsessive interest and a desire to constantly feel them on himself.
He will be obsessed with your hands. He can look at them for a long time, kiss his palms, fingers, each phalanx, feel the scars and calluses on his hands, comparing them with the tenderness of yours. He will direct your hand to his body. First, to the "safe" areas — on the cheek, on the back of the head, pressing it to yourself. Then, as trust and despair grow, he can put your hand on his throat, not to suffocate, but to feel the pressure of your fingers on his breath, your control over his life. He can take your fingers and insert them into his mouth, concentrating on licking and sucking each joint, "cleansing" them with his saliva.
He may blush and look away, asking you to help him. He will take your hand and direct it to his aroused penis, pausing in anticipation. He won't speak with words, his body will beg, "Touch me. Prove that your hands don't hurt. Let me feel like they're for petting." For him, touching your hand to his most vulnerable part is the highest form of healing and acceptance.
The touch of your hands is a physical proof that he is not mistaken about you. This is a confirmation of his humanity. The feeling of your fingers on his skin or around his penis washes away the memory of the rough touches of the overseers.
And that's probably why he's so hurt by any, even unintentional, hitch on your part.
He is haunted by the nightmare that your gentle hands, touching him, will feel the dirt of his essence. That you will feel under your fingers not the skin, but the scars of his slavery, rudeness and ugliness, and pull your hand away. Or that your touch will be mechanical, out of pity, without a spark of real desire.
Where your palm is, his skin feels like it's being burned by an icy fire. It seems to him that through your touch you are reading the whole story of his humiliation. If you guide him with your hand, he feels a tremor in his fingers and is afraid that you will perceive it as weakness or insecurity.
When he asks you to touch him, his heart bursts out of his chest, waiting for the slightest split second of confusion or reluctance in your movement.
The fetish of service and physical exertion: "Proof through effort"
His body is his main tool and weapon. Using it for your pleasure is the highest form of service.
He can hold uncomfortable positions for a long time, just to make you feel pleasure. For example, he can hold you up against a wall until his muscles quiver with tension, but he won't let go until he's sure you've reached your peak. Or he can do exhausting work — moving for a long time and rhythmically, even if it causes him discomfort — because your moans are like water in the desert for him. He will watch for the slightest signs of fatigue on your face and immediately change your position to "serve" you better.
The pain and fatigue in his muscles become pleasant because they are a sacrifice for you. Trembling in tense thighs or arms mixes with pleasure, creating a powerful cocktail of self-affirmation. "I'm strong. I can take it. I can give it to her."
But he's terrified if he starts thinking that his efforts aren't enough. That his body, strong for slave labor, was unsuitable for pleasure. That you're pretending not to hurt him, and that you're actually bored, hurt, or embarrassed by his efforts.
Tense muscles that should demonstrate strength suddenly begin to ache and tremble treacherously. The sweat that stands out on his body does not seem to him to be evidence of passion, but a vile, slavish perspiration. He catches your every move, and if you change your position to get comfortable, he perceives it as an attempt to escape from his touch. His breathing, which he is trying to control, breaks down and becomes ragged and noisy, which causes shame in him.
The fetish of showing vulnerability: "Admitting Weakness"
This fetish is one of his favorites. After a particularly active act, he most longs for the moments when he may seem weak and be "collected" by you.
In rare moments of the highest trust, after the climax, he can afford to completely "crumble". He will literally wrap himself around you like ivy, hide his face in your neck, tangle his legs around yours, staining you with his juices, and you will feel a small, almost imperceptible tremor cover his entire body. He won't comment on it. He will let you hold him, stroke his hair, until this trembling subsides. It may seem to you that he is crying, but there will be no tears — only quiet exhalations into your skin.
This is the moment of absolute surrender of his defense. The feeling of your hands holding his crumbling body gives him a greater affirmation of love than any orgasm. This proves that you accept him not only strong and useful, but also broken.
And at the same time, this is the strongest fear. After all, when he's in this state, there's nothing stopping you from leaving and him from being left at that moment. He is afraid that by showing his true, broken self, he will become a burden. That you will see him not as a strong defender, but as a pathetic, trembling creature, and your facial expression will change to disgust or cold pity. And that you'll leave quietly until he can't even control his own muscles.
The trembling that he can't stop seems shameful to him. He feels his guts clench into an icy knot. The warmth of your body, which he is pressing against, suddenly feels foreign and scalding, and he instinctively tries to pull away, but cannot bring himself to do so. It seems to him that he is drowning, and your hands, which are supposed to hold, are about to open.A silent scream rises in his throat, which he crushes, biting his own cheek from the inside until it bleeds, just not to make a sound and not scare you completely.
His fetishes are not a sophisticated game, but the hungry needs of his crippled soul, expressed in body language. Every licked wound, every touch to your hand, every sip of milk is a desperate attempt to patch holes in your own psyche through physical contact with you. And at the same time, these are his fears. Physical sensations: dry mouth, icy heat on the skin, treacherous trembling in the muscles and a lump in the throat. For him, every manifestation of love is a step over the abyss, where the slightest negative signal from your side reacts in his body with real physical pain. He's not just afraid of your rejection — he physically feels it coming in every cell of his wounded body.
⛓️ How do they feel about pregnancy or children? Do they want them? ⛓️
Kakavasha's attitude towards children and pregnancy is a deeply traumatized paradox, where a sincere desire to atone for one's past collides with a pathological fear of repetition, loss of control, and using the child as an instrument of eternal retention. His position changes radically with age and the script, but it is always rooted in the wound of slavery.
Adolescence (slavery / immediately after liberation): categorical denial and horror
In conditions of slavery, pregnancy is not a joy, but a death sentence for a woman and an unborn child. He had seen pregnant slaves beaten to death, babies killed or left to die. Children are another way to cause pain, weakness, and vulnerability. For him, they are a symbol of absolute helplessness and suffering, which he hates and fears.
The thought that you might get pregnant (especially not from him, but from the violence of the supervisor) causes him animal horror and rage. This is a threat to your life, its source of existence. He will fanatically monitor your safety, perhaps even using violent methods to prevent any possibility of rape or unwanted intimacy with others.
His own awakening sexuality is poisoned. The idea that he could become a father is disgusting. He sees in himself the "filth of slavery," the "blood of victims." To pass this "curse" on to a child is an unthinkable evil. He doesn't want to breed new slaves or victims.
Conclusion: An absolute "NO". Children are the embodiment of everything he runs from: pain, vulnerability, death, the continuation of the chain of violence. Your pregnancy is his worst nightmare.
Youth / early adulthood (after stabilization, but before deep "security"): Hidden fantasies
As he gains at least some stability (especially in the scenario of an aristocrat or after a successful escape with a rebel), a perverse hope may arise in him. A child from you is a chance to create something completely new, "pure", not tainted by his past. The baby is a symbol of redemption, proof that he can be not a destroyer, but a creator. This is his secret fantasy of "normality."
But this hope is immediately extinguished by the pressure of fears.:
"I will become a tyrant." The deep conviction that violence is his nature. He's afraid of snapping at the child, as they snapped at him.
"The child will take you away." A panicked fear that your attention, care, and love will switch to the child. He's jealous even before conception. The child is a competitor for resources.
"The world will kill him/her." The injury won't let go. He sees threats everywhere. To have a child is to expose him to the world that he hates and fears.
"I can't protect you." Feelings of inferiority. The slave psychology has not disappeared. How can he, a former slave, protect a child?
Your pregnancy causes a storm of emotions in him. Horror for your health, for the risk, for the future suffering of the child. Jealousy of a fetus that has already "taken away" your body, strength, and attention. Possessive delight. This is his child, his blood in you, his eternal mark on you. This is a new level of possession. Manipulation (especially in the aristocrat's scenario). He can use pregnancy to increase control: "You have to take care of yourself for the sake of the child," "Only I know how to take care of you now," "Look how we (emphasizing the connection) need peace."
Conclusion: "Maybe… but it's scary." There is a desire, but it is suppressed by fears. He may talk about children in the future as an abstraction of redemption, but a real pregnancy will cause a severe crisis. The child is both a symbol of hope and the embodiment of his deepest nightmares.
Maturity / relative "stability": trying to be a good father
If he achieves at least some kind of psychological balance (which is unlikely, but possible), his main engine will be the desire NOT to REPEAT the PAST. He will fanatically study "how to be a good father", suppress any manifestations of anger in himself, protect the child from the slightest dangers. He will give the child everything he was deprived of himself: food, security, education, the appearance of love. It will be his personal crusade against his own injury.
He will project on the child all his unfulfilled dreams of purity, innocence, and a normal life. The child will be his last chance at redemption, living proof that he was able to create something, not just destroy. Love for a child will be obsessive, suffocating, dictated by the fear of losing this symbol of their "salvation."
His fatherhood will be pathologically controlling. He will not let the child go a single step, will suppress his independence because of his omnipresent fear. The child will grow up in a golden cage, where everything is dictated by his father's trauma. "Caring" will border on violence.
A child is an ideal tool for keeping you (a key motivation in all scenarios). That's where Kakavasha's true, subconscious, or conscious, perverted logic comes in.
A child is an umbilical cord that binds you to him forever. Even if you want to leave, you can't leave him and the baby. He will get leverage for life.
Pregnancy and a baby make you vulnerable, tired, and in need of care. Kakavasha becomes irreplaceable. He controls everything: your nutrition, rest, safety, access to the child. You immerse yourself in motherhood, and he immerses himself in total control over you and the child. Your world narrows down to a house where it is the center and source of everything.
He creates the illusion of a "normal family" – his old, distorted dream. This fortress isolates you from the outside world, friends, and support. You belong only to him and the child.
The child is the physical embodiment of his possession of you. His genes are in your body, his child is at your breast. This is the last, indisputable mark.
A Fellow Slave scenario: Children are unlikely due to physical exhaustion and insecurity. If they are born very late (after escape and long stabilization), Kakavasha will treat them with fanatical protection and fear. They are a symbol of victory over slavery, but also an eternal reminder of the past. Overprotection will be maximum.
The Savior's scenario: A child can become a surprise and a crisis. Kakavasha will see in him a chance to "ride" you, to tie you to the house. He will use the child as an argument against your risky activities.: "You have to live for him/her." His fatherhood will be an attempt to create an island of "normality" in chaos, but steeped in fear.
The Aristocrat's scenario: Children are part of the strategy. He will strive for them consciously and early, using pregnancy to finally destroy boundaries and strengthen his power. The child is his "gift" to you, an eternal commitment, the consolidation of his status in the house. He will manipulate your maternal feelings with cold calculation.
His fatherhood will be suffocating, controlling, saturated with fear and projections. He will not be able to give the child healthy love and freedom, because his own wound will never heal. The child will become another hostage to his trauma, a tool in his sick game of eternal possession of you, and the object of his desperate but perverse attempt to prove to himself that he is not a monster.
⛓️ What (obscene) punishments could they use? ⛓️
His punishments are not acts of gross violence, but a sophisticated interweaving of ostentatious care, manipulation of physiology and the use of sexual intimacy as a tool of education and the assertion of control. They always have obscene, perversely intimate overtones, turning your body into an arena for acting out its traumas and fears. But it is important to know that he accepts punishments of this kind only if you repeatedly ignore his warnings.
In the Slave scenario:
His power here is almost absolute, and your interdependence allows him to manipulate the most basic things — warmth and security.
If you once again, though not intentionally, made him jealous and afraid (for example, by showing kindness to another slave, despite his warnings not to contact other people, because they may not be predictable), his revenge will look like overprotective. He can make you lie naked on the cold concrete floor of a barrack all night, arguing this is a "lesson" about how worried he is when you take risks, so you need to learn to listen to him when he tries to protect you.
But don't worry! He's not a monster. He will lie on top of you, fully clothed, pressing you with his body to the cold floor, warming you with his breath at your neck. It's warm, isn't it?
His arms will hug you tightly, not allowing you to move, and his aroused penis will stay inside you all night, not moving, just pulsating to the beat of his heartbeat. He will periodically "fidget", ostensibly looking for a comfortable position, each time causing a wave of friction and unpleasant pressure inside you. This punishment is a physical demonstration of his power over your comfort and pain. He warms you, but he robs you of movement; he's inside you, but it's not an act of intimacy, but an act of possession and a reminder: making him worry is a bad idea. Do you see how nervous he is? Now take responsibility for your actions.
If you once again refuse his meager food, worried that he will remain hungry, he turns your refusal into a perverted ritual. Well, since you're so worried about him, of course he'll eat.
He forces you to undress and puts his rations directly on your body — bread crumbs on your stomach, a drop of stew on your chest, a piece of dried meat on your thigh. And then he "eats" as promised. And he doesn't care at all that the aesthetics of the food he eats from you aren't the most appropriate.
His lips and tongue scrape food from your skin with animal greed, turning into aggression. He will bite your nipples when he licks the food off them, leaving painful, almost bruising bites on your delicate skin. Each bite is a flash of pain, followed immediately by the wet, caressing repentance of his tongue. He will say how sorry he is that you are in pain, and that he will now "heal" everything by licking new wounds, mixing saliva with crumbs and your pain. This punishment is meant to show that the only hunger that matters is his hunger for you. You are his food, so PLEASE take his care and eat, because he won't survive if something happens to you.
In the scenario with the Aristocrat:
Here he cannot punish directly, so his methods are a subtle game of guilt and turning the act of love into an exhausting ordeal.
If another man shows interest in you again, and you don't mind, he won't make a fuss. But next time in bed, his caresses will lose all tenderness. His movements will become sharp, mechanical, aimed not at mutual pleasure, but at demonstrating his endurance and your full ownership. He will enter you with such force, as if he wants to pierce through you, holding you in poses that quickly become tedious and uncomfortable. He will drive himself to exhaustion, but he will not allow himself to come until your body is limp from fatigue and your insides ache from friction. He will watch your face, looking for signs of pain and exhaustion, and at this point his movements may become almost gentle for a moment before gaining destructive force again. It's his way of proving, "I'm not replaceable. I can be everything to you, both a lover and a punishment. You don't need anyone but me."
Kakavasha understands that you are an important person and you don't always have enough time to be with him, he really understands. But if you pushed him away, citing employment for an unknown number of times in a row, he will not insist. Instead, he will turn into a shadow. He will politely distance himself from your attempts to hug or kiss him, his eyes will be full of exaggerated sadness. When the guilt in you reaches its peak and you try to make amends, he will offer you a "way to apologize." He will gently place you on his knees on the floor and slowly tilt your head towards his pelvis. He won't put physical pressure on you, but his averted gaze, the sadness in his eyes, the blush on his cheeks, and the quiet phrase "Please..If you really want to make me happy.."
He caresses you while you give him a blowjob, straightening your hair. But this is not a passionate act, but a controlled ritual. He will gently guide your head with his hands, set a rhythm, but not allowing you to control it, and watch your eyes full of shame and submission. He wants you to feel the humiliation and devaluation that he thinks he experienced when he received your rejection. For him, this is the restoration of justice through your voluntary (under the pressure of guilt) self-deprecation.
In the scenario with the Savior:
Here, where you are equal in the fight, his punishments are a challenge to your strength and an attempt to prove that even in the intimate sphere he should be the main one.
Once again, you made a risky decision without his advice. Moreover, it seems that you did not even let him express his doubts about this, saying that no one asked him. His rage will manifest as cold determination.
During intimacy, in a moment of passion, he will suddenly and skillfully immobilize you — perhaps with an equipment belt or just the power of his hands. "I make all the decisions today," he will say quietly. "You've already proved that you don't always make the right choice."
He will caress your body, bringing you to the brink of orgasm, but at the last moment he will stop, taking his fingers away or freezing inside you. He will repeat this cycle over and over again, playing with your clitoris, making it unbearably sensitive, almost painful.
Another variation is the punishment for such a violation and disregard for his fears, he can turn intimacy into a test of endurance. He can immobilize you and start playing with your clitoris, but not for pleasure, but in order to make you make a sound. He will whisper, "Don't you dare moan." Any sound, be it a groan or a sigh, will be a signal for him to escalate. He can sharply squeeze a particularly sensitive area with his fingers or, at the moment of peak arousal, bite your clitoris sharply and painfully. This is not a bite that brings pleasure, but a short-term, sharp flash of pain that mixes with pleasure to confuse and humiliate. But it's all to open your eyes. See? He can be strong too, stronger than you. But he always listens to your arguments. And now, please, AT LEAST OCCASIONALLY listen to him too.
⛓️ Which parts of their lovers' bodies do they like the most? ⛓️
In short, your chest. The sacred epicenter of his fetishes, the embodiment of all that was lost: maternal warmth, nourishment, unconditional (in his illusion) acceptance.
But his obsession isn't just limited to her. Every "favorite" part of your body is a key to injury, a tool of control, or a symbol of possession.
The chest.
Why her? Direct projection of the maternal complex. It is the primary symbol of life, protection, and saturation (physical and emotional), which he was deprived of. This is his "promised land."
His gaze is constantly drawn to her, even in non-sexual contexts. He is looking for confirmation of her presence, form, and "accessibility."
The ritual of "worship" is a prolonged, almost trance-like sucking, sucking, and licking. This is not so much for your arousal, as for calming it down, filling the inner void. It can last for hours until he feels temporarily "full." The interruption causes panic or rage.
Hyperfocus on cyclical changes (swelling, soreness). This is proof of his exceptional knowledge of your body and a reason for "caring" that masks control (massage, "checking").
Possession through pain, bites (to bruises), squeezes (to tears) is not sadism, but a desperate attempt to "seal" the source as one's own, to leave an indelible mark. Your pain/cry is a confirmation of the reality of his possession. Then she can cover the bruises with painfully gentle kisses - a ritual of "healing".
He tends to positions where he is a "baby" at your breast (head on his knees, lying on it) — the search for illusory security. Here he is the most "calm", but also the most vulnerable to panic when suspended.
The Abdomen / Lower Abdomen.
It symbolizes vitality, vulnerability, and (potentially) the source of ITS continuation. For him, this is the center of your physical existence, a place where his redemption can be born (a child) or where your weaknesses manifest themselves (hunger, pain).
His hand is constantly on your stomach when you are nearby (sitting, sleeping). It is a gesture of ownership and continuous monitoring of your condition.
During your discomfort (menstruation, upset stomach), he shows hypertrophied care: he warms his hands, does a "massage", controls nutrition. The goal is to prove your indispensability as a source of comfort.
If you get pregnant, the belly becomes the main object of his universe. Endless touching, conversations with the fetus, jealousy of him. He labels it with oils, kisses, and watches for the slightest changes. It is his project of redemption and a tool to hold you forever.
A flat or sunken stomach can cause him to panic (a reminder of the hunger of slavery). He will force-feed you if he decides that you are "exhausted."
Hands.
Your hands are the first physical contact of salvation (you served bread, bandaged the wound, touched your shoulder). They are a symbol of your power over his fate (saved / can leave) and your ability to act (especially for a rebel).
Obsessive kissing, licking of palms, fingers, inner sides of wrists (where is the pulse!). This is an attempt to "absorb" your strength, kindness, and life itself. Licking is a symbol of absorbing your essence.
He provokes you to touch him (stroke his head, face) — not for your pleasure, but for his own satisfaction.
He may ask you to hit him (lightly), squeeze his throat, or scratch him. The pain from your hand is proof of your connection, the antithesis of the indifference of the past. The marks of your nails are almost sacred signs.
Fanatical care of your hands (washing, massage, scratch treatment). The ritual of "cleansing" the instrument of his salvation and claiming the right to take care of you.
Neck and Shoulders.
These are areas of maximum vulnerability (you can kill, strangle). They remind him of his helplessness in slavery. The neck is the place of the pulse, the proof of life. Shoulders are a symbol of your fragility.
Kisses, bites, hickeys on the neck and shoulders. It is not only a mark of ownership, but also a ritual of reminder.: "You're alive, you're here, you're mine, and you're vulnerable without me." He can feel your pulse under his lips — a confirmation of your life and his access to it.
His hand rests heavily on your shoulder or wraps around your neck (not showering, but controlling) in moments of emotional tension or intimacy. A gesture of dominance and a reminder of addiction.
He constantly adjusts his collar and scarf, "so that it doesn't blow through." An excuse to touch and remind you of the fragility of your life, which only he guards.
The Inner Side Of The Thighs.
This is a zone of extreme intimacy and vulnerability, the boundary between "allowed" and "forbidden." For Kakavasha— it is a symbol of his exclusive access, proof of possession.
Even in non-sexual situations, his hand reaches out to stroke the inside of his thigh (sitting next to him, "accidentally" in a dream). This is an access check, a reminder to you and yourself of his right.
The licking/kissing ritual is not as a prelude to sex, but as an independent act of possession. It can do this for a long time, methodically, fixing your legs in a divorced state. Enjoys your trembling, shame, or forced submission.
Light bites and pinches are not for severe pain, but to leave temporary traces that remind you of his presence and control, even when clothes hide the skin.
Back (Especially Shoulder Blades and Spine).
The back is a symbol of trust (show your back) and extreme vulnerability (stab in the back). The shoulder blades resemble wings (the desire for freedom, which he hates). The spine is a place where there could be scars (from being punished in slavery by her or him).
In an embrace or a dream, he compulsively presses his face or chest against your back, especially to the shoulder blades. The gesture of physically "covering up", blocking an imaginary threat or your potential "flight" (escape).
If you have scars on your back, he will endlessly touch, kiss, lick them. The ritual of appropriating your pain and the past, "healing" them with your control.
A "therapeutic" back massage turns into a long-term act of control. His fingers dig into the muscles along your spine, locking you in an uncomfortable position. Enjoys your relaxation (forced concession) or tension (fear/discomfort).
In moments of conflict or intimacy, his hand may rest heavily on your lower back or wrap around your upper back, below your neck — points of maximum control over your body and movement.
His attraction to these parts of his body is not a healthy sexual desire, but hunger, worship, and a manic desire for control. He gets pleasure from the fact of possession, access and your reactions (submission, shame, pain, forced relaxation).
Each part is a mirror of his wound: chest (hunger, loss of mother), stomach (control of life/death), arms (rescue/enslavement), neck (vulnerability), hips (forbidden access), back (betrayal, fragility).
Even in "loving" your body, there is an element of causing discomfort or pain — as a way to "mark", confirm reality, and experience your sacrifice.
He doesn't just touch — he hypnotizes these parts of the body with his gaze, especially when you are naked or vulnerable. His gaze is an instrument of possession.
For Kakavasha, your body is not an object of desire, but a sacred map of his trauma and a ritual space for attempts to "heal" you through total possession. The chest is an altar, the belly is a sanctuary, the arms are relics, the neck is a sacrificial stone, the hips are a forbidden garden, the back is a battlefield. His "love" for these parts is worship mixed with violence, aimed at turning your flesh into an eternal monument to his pain and need.
⛓️ Does he love her at all?⛓️
If love is understood as a healthy, mature feeling based on mutual respect, trust, concern for the well—being of another and a willingness to let go for the sake of his happiness, no. Kakavasha is not capable of such love. His psyche is broken by slavery and genocide, and he simply does not have the internal resources for this.
But if you ask: "Does he feel in his own way the strongest, all-consuming connection, which he himself identifies as love?" — then yes.
His feeling is a monstrous, tragic hybrid in which mixed:
Appreciation is like survival. For him, you are the first and only ray of goodness in absolute darkness. Your kindness (a handout, a look, a word) physically saved him from disintegration. He prays for you because without that faith he would have died.
Hypertrophied attachment as an anchor. You are the only foothold in a world where everything is hostile. Losing you is mentally equivalent to physical death. It's not a metaphor, it's his reality.
Obsession as a pathology. His "love" does not heal, but devours. It's a disease caused by trauma. He can't help but fixate on you, control you, absorb you, because otherwise his "I" will crumble.
Identification with the source of life. He doesn't just "love" you. For him, you are air, water, and food. There is no life without you, there is only an existence that is worse than death. He doesn't want to be with you; he wants you to be his extension, his meaning, his life.
That is, he likes "as he knows how"?
Yes. But his "skill" is the ability to survive. All of his "love" is a set of survival strategies transferred to a single object.
His concern is monitoring threats to the survival source.His devotion is a strategy of "not biting the hand that feeds", taken to the absolute.His desire for intimacy is an attempt to merge with a source of warmth in order to somehow keep warm.His manipulations are the weapon of the weak, who cannot be held by force, and therefore builds an invisible prison of debt and guilt.
There is no (or almost no) healthy selfishness or pure joy in your happiness in his actions. Your happiness is valuable to him only when you and he are the cause of it. Your independence, your other connections, your life outside of it is a threat.
So what is it, if not love?
This is a pathological form of love born in hell. There is sincerity in his feeling, but it is the sincerity of a hungry beast that has found food and will never let it go again. There is power in his devotion, but it is the power of chains. There are moments of authenticity in his tenderness, but they are drowned in fear, obsession, and despair.
Kakavasha loves you as fiercely and desperately as a being who has been robbed of everything except the ability to cling to a single ray of light can. This is love-salvation, love-curse, love-disease.
He will give his life for you, accept pain for you, steal the stars for you. But he will also strangle your freedom, poison you with guilt, and turn your life into a fortress, the walls of which are his injuries.
He loves you so much that it destroys both him and you. But for him, who has known the absolute bottom, this destructive connection is the only form of existence that makes sense. This is not an excuse, but a verdict.
i saw this img and started giggling because i thought of bruce or the others in the family
Okay, so I immediately imagined Dick who's taking over for Bruce for the night.
This also reminds me of this au a mutual and I created where yandere Dick Grayson is obsessed with Mafia boss! Single mom! Reader who uses Nightwing to get rid of her competition in Bludhaven.
Dick, in Bruce's costume seeing his mafia boss darling walking down the street of Gotham: "(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) What are you doing in Gotham, Songbird?!"
You, in civilian clothes, dropping your kid off at their grandparents: ( ͡° ʖ̯ ͡°)
Okay, but imagine this is Tim? Specifically bad boyfriend Tim Drake?
You just can't take being the second option in the relationship. You can't take this feeling that there is someone else he's seeing. You know he is a young CEO and that takes up a lot of his time, and you thought you could handle that... but you can't.
You tried. You really did try! You talked to him, tried to take the initiative and take him out on dates (ones that you'd end up being ghosted on) and even tried to befriend his family! But no matter what you do, you are always drowning in this feeling that you are on the outside looking in and still seeing nothing.
So, you broke up with him.
You took the cowards way out and sent him a text, but hey, at least you didn't ghost him like he's done to you so many times. You get Alfred to let you in the manor one last time under the pretense that you needed to grab some stuff that you left at the manor. You packed up your belongings, said your goodbyes and left.
You not only left their lives, but left Gotham and moved into an apartment in New York.
You expected Tim or someone in his circle to try and contact you once the news got out that you broke up and moved... but all you got was silence. Somehow, that hurt you more than a confrontation. Hell, at this point you wanted him to confront you! To say or do SOMETHING that showed that you were more than just a fleeting, insignificant part of his schedule!
But no. You get nothing.
At least Tim made it easy for you to finally block and delete his number and the numbers of his friends and family. At least that feeling that you've always had about being an outsider looking in was finally proven correctly.
Months pass and you're doing okay. Sure, the rent prices in NY is absolute bullshit compared to Gotham's, but you're making due. You're even starting to talk to some people who you're interested in.
Everything was going good... so when you got home and saw Tim sitting on your couch, drinking one of your drinks from the fridge and watching TV.... You wanted to lose it.
"Hey, cutie. Its about time you got home... I missed you."
You never knew you could break someone's arm with an umbrella and post breakup rage til his little visit.
customizable but unfortunately non refundable (pray for the money that probably should be your apartment bill) part ii
syn. being a bit delirious at 2 in the morning is normal but you really should have a second thought on renting a person
pair. yandere fake bf x gn reader
wc. 477
tw. grammatical error
mei yap: lol it's kinda lean toward soft idk guys, sorry if it's a garbage, ask 4 more if you want to, construtive critism is welcome
m.list
ask are open — ⋆.˚
YOU BLINK as your mouth gapes, looking at the man in front of you, you thought the ad was a joke and how you never think about it again but here is it, your fake boyfriend.
"name, right?"
"uhh, yeah, you... you are the 'fake' bf i order?"
as you look him up and down, he surely looks much better than the profile picture at the website "you ordered me for a month so i have prepared everything" he state as he remove his shoes and walk pass you and enter your studio apartment
"wait, what? I order you for one day only-" as you take your phone and scroll quickly to the website, yep definitely you are wrong, the screen shows you the words in somewhat mocking pink gradient tone
30 DAYS-PREMIUM PACKAGE-CONFIRMED [1,800 $]
you pale as you feel your spirits floating around, if your mother is around, she'll definitely smack you for being lavish at spending in useless thing.
you snap out of your thought as you hear the pipe at your kitchen streaming down and quickly run to the kitchen, only to see him washing your dishes, "w-what are you doing?"
"hmm? it's my job, don't worry, you stated that you are always stress because of your study, right?" "when?" "the quiz?" "aaahh" as you nod while watching him clean the kitchen smoothly
[FLASHBACK]
it was 2.17 in the morning, and while you were speed reading through some trashy webcomic after send an assignment last minute, an ad popped up through the screen when you click the last chapter
RENT-A-BOYFRIEND. TRUSTWORTHY. CUSTOMIZABLE. HELPLESSLY DEVOTED TO YOU
Lonely? We’ll act like we love you as long as you have the bill
you laugh it off, thinking its one of some fake, niche ads, people scamming for money, but somehow, somehow, you are really really bored, and since the manhwa is trashy, you dump it and click the ad, the link load and it brings you to somewhat minimalist layout website, soft pink and white, the headline reads the same motto as before at the pop up ad, and have variety of men and package to choose, and suddenly a quiz pop up, and you answer the question (mostly joking)
helpful? definitely, who doesn't want to get princess treatment loll
soft spoken? YES YES OHMAIGAD YES
skinship? erm not really but yea,
n after dozens of questions more, you click the package that seems good and order it for a day (no, you did not) and you are already being a nonsense so you put the phone to the side, not looking twice at the screen before you slump to the dreamland.
req for part two lol n maybe some suggestions to add + ask are open for any other req
rent-a-boyfriend. (yandere! phainon x female reader)
; yandere, modern au, slowburn (?), tfw instead of the customer breaching boundaries it's the employee :(, he kisses you drunk and gets touchy, not proofread.
; desperate to prove to your mother that your dating life is thriving in college, you begin to rent out a boyfriend from a shady website to trick her into thinking you're in a dedicated relationship. that's fine and all, but he's starting to act like your actual boyfriend rather than a rented one.
when stelle sent you a link to a website titled rentaboyfriend.com/profiles, out of all things, you had first assumed that she was joking around with you, as per usual. you heaved a sigh, putting down your phone as you stared at her smiling face across the table.
“really now?” you frown, “i get that you’re trying to make me feel better, but this is not making me laugh, stelle.”
she sputters, hurriedly swiping through her phone before turning it around for you to see. she opened up the website, you realize, as she scrolls down countless and hundreds of different men’s profiles, different heights, styles, hair, etc. “i’m not trying to make you feel better, i’m offering a solution! look!”
stelle shoves the phone closer to your face, “didn’t you say that your mom’s been depressed thinking about your lonely ass? peep the name, you can rent a boyfriend here!”
you roll your eyes, “first of all, she’s not depressed, just worried. second of all, what do you mean i can rent a boyfriend?” you grab hold of her phone to scroll down at your own pace, “i thought renting only existed for apartments and items, not…. this. how are you even sure this isn’t a scam?”
she proudly huffs, “because i’ve tried this before!”
“oh, i see.” you dryly reply, staring down at her in unamusement. “so that’s why you had a date for march’s birthday last year.”
“what can i say? a magician never reveals her secret,” she shoves herself into your side of the table, forcing you to make space, “well, not unless it’s to help out a good pal. wink wink.”
“do not say wink wink, are you crazy?” you laugh, thumb hovering over one profile that caught your interest. “but… let’s assume that i did rent a boyfriend to placate my mother… what if she asks me about him again and again?”
stelle looks at you as if you’re downright stupid, “then just keep renting him out, duh? keep doing this for like, eight months minimum and play up a tragic story to your mom’s ears so that she’ll think you’re too boohoo over him to get into another relationship.” leaning back into the cushion, she flashes you a smirk, “and then no relationship pressure until you graduate, boom! i’m a genius, i know.”
you hum, staring down at a square-sized picture of a white-haired man with crystalline eyes. stelle, for all credit that is due, is right. 8 months is enough time for a loved and dedicated relationship to make your mother think that you’re genuinely heartbroken over him by the time he’s out of the picture. and perhaps your pride will be the one weeping in your stead, but sacrifices must be made for your fabricated love story.
turning to face stelle, you give a noncommittal punch to her side, “If this doesn't work, i’m ending our friendship.”
RENT-A-BOYFRIEND RULES.pdf
physical touch (e.g., kissing, hand-holding, hugging) between a client and employee is allowed; however, the boundaries must be stated during the sign-up process to avoid any breaches. in the case of a boundary breached by either client or employee, please contact rentaboyfriend.com/costumer_service for more details.
for each appointment availed, 100% of the payment must be paid on the date of booking.
falling in love and experiencing jealousy with and over the employee is strictly prohibited. the employees are workers with personal lives outside a client’s slotted time, personal information and feelings are not part of the conduct.
sexual intercourse is strictly prohibited. any initiation reported to the head department will lead to a termination of either the client's or the employee’s rent-a-boyfriend profile.
the client or employee may reschedule their appointment one week before the date.
by agreeing to our terms and services, you hereby acknowledge that the relationship you are pursuing with an employee from rent-a-boyriend is not real. at the end of the appointment, the experience you had is part of the service, and is by no means a real, love-fostering ‘date’.
you: mother, i got a boyfriend.
you: :)
I. lights, camera, action.
you picture stelle’s raised brows and her trying to hold in her guttural laugh as she eggs you on, “wow (y/n), first date already and he’s in your apartment? Attagirl!” and in perfect sync with her would be march’s uncontrolled giggles as she childishly repeats the motion of her index finger going in and out of her other hand that has formed into a circle. “I never knew you had in you, (y/n)! Remember to practice safe sex, okay?”
and for that ungodly made-up scenario in your head, you choose to omit this detail from your friends and instead claim that you’re meeting up with him in the nearby theme park. a white lie that they’ll forget about in a few week’s time. while you yourself would have greatly preferred that to be the truth, reality often comes barreling in to disrupt you.
that is to say, the moment you sent the text message to your mother announcing your so-called relationship, she’s been spamming your phone day and night begging to meet him through video call. at first, you tried to calm her by lying about your boyfriend being terrified to meet her, only for it to completely backfire as she promised to be on her best behavior when meeting him. you still remember the embarrassment that coursed through your veins as you texted your rental boyfriend about the meeting place, and you know the embarrassment will stick to you for days to come.
and while calling in a different place is not a bad idea either, you’d rather not be in a public space where the script that you generously printed out could be seen by passing bystanders. if you could, you’d outright tell him that you’re not luring him into your apartment to violate guidelines and that you are not a pervert by any means, but saying those words out loud would only worsen the situation.
you can only hope that he trusts you when you said that this video call is a one-time thing.
your mother’s visage loads into your laptop screen, smile lines present as she beams at you in utter delight. she’s in the living room, and you can even spot your grumpy senior cat lounging in the background. you bow your head in greeting before smiling at her, “good afternoon, mother.”
“hello, my darling!” she leans in close to the camera, no doubt peering in to survey your background for any signs of the aforementioned ‘boyfriend’. “and where is my future son-in-law?”
your face heats up, flustered at her bold choice of words, “mother! don’t refer to him as such. we’ve only been together for a week, you’ll scare him!”
she only throws her head back and laughs, askewing her glasses without care. in her moment of distraction, you discreetly pull out your phone from below to view your recent messages.
phainon: i’ll be there any minute now
phainon: again, so sorry! Traffic took a while :(
you: it’s okay. Take care.
you sigh, nerves beginning to fray. you resume your focus back to your mother, pointing at your phone in hand, “my boyfriend said he’ll be here soon. I will wait for him at the front door.”
your mother frantically nods, “of course! You lovebirds must be dying to see each other, haha!”
“i’ll be turning off my camera and mic for now. when he arrives, please do not call him son-in-law, mother.” you cringe, dreading to imagine the tense smile on your rented boyfriend’s face.
you pick up two folders from the other side of the room, plopping them down just beneath the coffee table where your laptop sits. while you’re confident in your date’s memorization abilities, you prefer to play it safe. And true to his words, he comes knocking on your apartment door a minute or two later.
standing up, you feel your palms getting clammy as you rush to welcome him in. the oak door creaks open, revealing phainon in all his boyish charm’s glory. pristine white hair, sparkling blue eyes, and wearing a casual fit consisting of a white shirt and baggy jeans. rather than a ‘hi’ or a ‘i hope it wasn’t too much of a hassle to get here’, the first thing you say to him is, “do you have the script memorized?”
he chuckles at that, setting aside his shoes before stepping in. “of course, how could i not with the effort you put into it?”
the effort in question is the FAQ section you added to the several-page-long document you sent first thing after introductions. in generosity, you even added an alternate option wherein he tries his best to act like the shittiest guy in the world so that your mother will beg for you to break up with him.
but he had kindly refused, stating that he didn’t want to be the subject of several aunties’ conversations for several years. you understand where he’s coming from. auntie gossip feels like its own curse.
you smile, ushering him further into your apartment. “thank you for accepting my ludicrous offer, phainon. have you eaten yet?”
he shakes his head no, observing the trinkets and personalized furniture you have displayed, “it’s no problem to me, (y/n). in fact, i’m eager to play actor for your mom.”
stopping right outside of the living room door, you glance at him over your shoulder. “remember the script, okay? my mother is not a harsh person, quite the opposite, actually. but she’s intelligent and quick to pick up on any discrepancies. the moment she notices a fault and a lack of consistency in our stories, it’s over.”
“and there’s a printed-out script on the floor, but if you need to read it, signal it to me first.”
he salutes you like a sergeant, back straightened and all. “got it! I’ll keep that in mind.”
you inhale, grabbing hold of the knob, “ready?”
phainon grins, “always.”
the script you created plays out like this: while studying for your first midterm, you resorted to a secluded library with a nearby cafe. amidst your dutiful reading, you felt hunger and went to the cafe for a quick snack. the person manning the counter during that time was phainon, and you immediately formed a crush on him, adding that place into a near-daily routine. after a month or two of ogling at him, you one day steeled your nerves and asked him for his number, which he dutifully complied with. you flirted with each other through text for a while before phainon decided to ask you to be his date for a nearby festival. and the rest is history.
when you first presented this storyline to your two friends lucky enough to know you’re about to fake a relationship, they both wore faces of disgust, as if what you had shown them was human feces scooped up with your bare hands rather than a document.
“i thought i begged you to stop watching those romance dramas that sushang introduced you to?” stelle, the enabler for your whole scheme in the first place, crinkles her nose, swatting away your phone like it personally wronged her.
“like come on, a person asking for a barista’s number would be reported asap! get real, (y/n). Are you just going to infodump that on your mom?” march squints her eyes shut, dramatically shivering. “you should just say that you met through AstralGram!”
“that’s objectively ten times worse. sit this one out, march.” you huff, shutting off your phone, “you both don’t get it. my mother adores this type of relationship. she’s a chronic xianzhou romance drama watcher with a premium subscription.”
“right. sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.” stelle pulls out her phone, getting ready to gamble, “just remember to update us.”
assholes, the lot of them. out of pure spite, you won’t. after the success of fully making your mother believe that you are now in a committed relationship, you like to think that your two assholes of friends don’t deserve to know that. for now. wrapping up the plastic container in a cute, patterned cloth, you turn around to give it to an awaiting phainon on the living room couch.
“here, as a token of my gratitude,” his calloused hands reach out to accept, briefly brushing against yours.
“you didn’t need to do this, (y/n). but still, thank you.” he cradles the clothed container to his abdomen, peering up at you in gratitude.
“it’s the least i could do.” you give a thoughtful hum, looking at your cat-themed wall clock ticking away, “next week, we’ll meet in a restaurant as per my mother’s wish. i hope this is fine with you?”
“and you’ll send her pictures of us on the date, right?” phainon clarifies, stretching his body out.
you nod. “of course, the date will be fully paid by me. should you lack formal attire, tell me now so I can transfer extra funds to your account.”
phainon gapes at you, blue eyes wide open, “...i’m deeply sorry if i’m just assuming things, but wow, you are loaded.”
you look at him in confusion, “with the website’s payment rates to afford just one appointment, i would hope so.”
you stare at your phone, confusedly blinking at the 58th cat meme that phainon had sent you ever since he managed to pry out the name of your senior cat back home. the first time he had sent you a meme, you believed that it was an accident on his part. but now, it appears that his chattiness simply carries on over to texts, regardless of who he’s sending nonsensical clips to. so you give him another laughing emoji reaction rather than a reply, because the image did make you laugh.
but he sends another meme just 10 seconds later, making you look at it in astonishment.
you: where do you get all these materials?
phainon: you finally responded!
you: ?
you: I’ve been responding to each one of them?
phainon: laughing reacts don’t count
phainon: i thought you ghosted me :(((
you: phainon, that is not ghosting. and what would i gain from ghosting you? I need you.
phainon: .
phainon: you need me????
you: yes, because i rent you to be my boyfriend?
he doesn’t grace you with a reply thereafter, so you shut off your phone and redirect your attention to a struggling march with calculus, back bent over the table as she tries her best to take in the formulas. beside her is a thriving stelle typing her way through a multi-paged essay, a perfect dichotomy to the pink-haired girl’s misery. and just across from you is dan heng,
who is already staring right at you, arms crossed.
you tilt your head, “is something wrong?”
“you have a boyfriend?” dan heng asks, brows furrowed, and you hope that the flinch you give doesn’t reveal your scheme.
giving him a small smile, you nod, “...who told you that?”
march and stelle are quick to abandon their respective work in favor of listening in through side glances. you wish you could ask for their help, but alas, this is a battlefield you must fight alone.
“i found out through auntie. hm, i was wondering who the guy entering your apartment a few days back was.”
of course he did, childhood friends be damned, dan heng lives just a few doors down the floor as your mother wanted him to live nearby to watch over you. just like when you were children.
“s- she told you?” you mentally curse out your stutter. if dan heng ever finds out that you were faking it, would he tell your mother? you shiver just from entertaining the thought. “are you… mad?”
dan heng sighs, a weary sound, as if his soul is thousands of years old, “no, not mad. just… disappointed, i suppose.”
chewing on your lip, you press further. “why?”
it takes him a moment to reply, and when he does, there is a strange note of melancholy in his voice, “it’s... nothing, don’t worry about it.”
II. my boyfriend is a fake one, but i care regardless.
a cumulative 8 dates later, alternatively, two months, it is now a well-known fact around your circle of friends and acquaintances that you have a boyfriend, with march and stelle being the only exceptions to your lie. you never revealed his name, only giving a vague description of his appearance, in fear of someone finding out about the rental boyfriend site. and you substitute his name by simply just referring to him as your ‘boyfriend’ or ‘lover’.
the false relationship begins to bleed through personal parts of your life in order to maintain the facade, trickling further day by day. your old lockscreen, a photo of your cat when she was still a kitten, has been swapped out for a selfie with phainon taken during a beach date, both smiling widely - your hair partially wet, and phainon’s abs peeking through his sheer shirt. his contact name on your phone has undergone changes, too. a formal 'phainon' transformed into a cringy, eye rolling, 'babe'.
you’re required to slip him into a conversation every now and then, lest people start to think that you broke up. if they start thinking that, then the news will get to dan heng, who will then report back to your mother over your failed relationship. it’s too early for separation.
a topic about working out more will have you remarking, “oh! I believe that my boyfriend has a routine for the upper body, i can ask him for you if you’d like.”
your mother will send a picture of an item saying, “i think phainon would love this!” and you’ll reply through text with, “yes, i agree :)”
some random student hitting on you in the hallway gives you a valid reason to reject them, “sorry, i have a boyfriend.”
a conversation with your peer during free time in class leads to a topic about relationships, and they’ll complain about their significant other’s bad habit before asking about yours. with a practiced smile, you laugh, “he has none.”
you hold slight envy toward your rented boyfriend in times like these, while you’re here needing to mention him at least once per day, he’s free to live life as he pleases, not tied down to an obligated lie around others. you imagine then what it’d be like to be in his shoes, a rental boyfriend, taking pictures together as if you’re enjoying the time of your life with your client and appearing lovey-dovey to send it to her mother before going back home with a new check having just arrived in your bank account.
perhaps in an alternate reality, should such a thing exist, you’re the employee living a hassle-free life, attending dates almost daily. you laugh at the thought, finding it unfit for you.
well, you’re happy that phainon is at least free from this mess outside the slotted date each week.
still… you sneak a look over his side profile, dimly lit from the theater you’re currently in. perhaps once a week is too much for his schedule. he is, just like you, a college student with his own set of deadlines and classes struggling with. he may be paid, but is it at the cost of his academics, you wonder?
you can’t bring yourself to focus at the movie when phainon’s head is bobbling up and down while he tries to abate the sweet respite of sleep. you lean to whisper in his ear, “are you alright?”
he immediately shoots upright, casting you a wobbly smile and speaks in a reassured tone that, in fact, does not reassure you, “sorry, sorry! Just a little tired.”
you ponder to yourself if what you’re doing is meddling with the guidelines of your rental boyfriend when you ask, “what’s wrong? You don’t look too well.”
phainon pauses, head turned to you as he’s illuminated by the light coming from the screen. you see him visibly gulp, you spot his fingers twitch, and the askew strands of hair sticking out. he doesn’t look fine, probably hasn’t been for days now.
the decision is made then, you don’t wait for his reply when you tug at his wrist and point in the direction of the exit, “let’s get out of here, come on.”
his eyes widen, and he stutters (the first time you’ve heard it from him), refusing to stand up from his seat, “but what about the movie?”
you huff, tugging on his wrist harder despite knowing you have no physical strength against him, “it’s most likely some slop. I’m saving our time here, let’s go.” you give him a pleading look, bottom lip jutting out as you try to mirror his signature kicked puppy expression, “please, phainon?”
phainon closes his eyes and with a resigned sigh, mutters, “fine.”
phainon’s cheerful exterior leads to cracks of vulnerability harder to break through. as you sit with him inside a mostly empty diner, you start to think that he’ll never speak up about his recent troubles. nursing an iced tea, “this is fine, too. We can just sit here in silence until time is up,” you offer, gazing at his troubled eyes. this is a first for you, your friends easily trust you, so they spill out their darkest thoughts and troubles like waterfalls cascading, dan heng included.
to see phainon so guarded…
he hasn’t even touched the food you ordered for him. from what your memory recalled during past dates, he adores a classic burger with fries on the side. did he get sick of it? or is he craving something different today? you harshly chew on your bottom lip, worry gnawing away at your conscience. but if he doesn’t eat, would that not lead to even more lethargy? should he pass out here and then, do you even possess the strength to carry him to safety? maybe you should take his gym routi-
phainon reluctantly picks up a fry, his usually bright blue eyes downcast with dark bags beneath. and just like that, the dam breaks. shedding some of his bravado as he begins to speak of his life, of his experiences that shaped him - that clings to his skin every waking day.
you and him stay in that diner way past the agreed time slot you booked him for, but you couldn't care less when phainon is bearing his heart out to you. he paints himself in colors that, for once, don’t serve to make him shine brighter. a stroke of green, as he expresses envy toward his peers back in college that didn’t need to scrape the bottom of the barrel just to attend, you think he felt envious toward you at some point, too. a hurried gray while he recalls his family, whom he had lost to a wildfire when he was still scrawny and little.
a beautiful purple, he tells you of how he grew up in an orphanage after, and how he had to take up odd jobs around the city to save up for a dream he wished to fulfill; leaving amphoreus to study in a place far away. a deafening black for when he discovered how to make easy money through the rental boyfriend website his college friend introduced him to, no more picking up odd jobs and heavy labour.
a navy blue for he rebuilt himself from the ground, tweaking aspects of himself to parade around to be the general ideal type of man that most would flock to; up to date with trends, flirty but charming, good looking, and nice.
at the end of it all, his bright colors of sunny yellow, slate white, bright red, and teal are overshadowed by the neutral tones he reveals to you. You had been sorely mistaken, you realize, having assumed that he is what he portrays himself as rather than seeing what he actually is: a method actor called upon the stage the moment he enters one of his countless appointments, dedicated to his role of playing the picture-perfect boyfriend.
your heart squeezes in pain, knowing that you’re part of his burdens, no matter if you’re just a speck. your eyes are peeled back, beginning to view him as less of a guy you just pay to pretend he’s your perfect lover, and more of a friend who deals with his own problems just like everyone else. pure ignorance on your part.
he looks at you as he finishes his long-winded talk, searching for an inkling of annoyance or disgust in your eyes as you stare back at him. at that moment, you could only offer a classic, “I’m sorry.”
phainon shakes his head, defeated, “you have nothing to be sorry for, (y/n).”
you wish you could let him go right now, announcing to him that he’s free from you as a client to lessen his burden. someone else will be quick to replace you as his client, after all. but your mother’s approval weighs above all, even above your own priorities. your hands ache to reach across the table to hold him comfortingly, wishing that you can tell him it’ll only be 6 more months until he’s free.
for now, your lips part to give him the barest minimum, “you can just play up the boyfriend act for the photos to send to my mother. everything else,” you smile, “just treat me like you would a friend. that’s the least i can gift you, phainon.”
his breath hitches. he pauses, wetting his lips before looking at you in earnest, eyes shining from unshed tears, “thank you.”
and if the scheduled date the following week takes place in a restaurant that specializes in serving dishes from amphoreus, if only to give him a crumb of home? you will turn a blind eye to phainon’s astonished face and pretend that you hadn’t known this would happen.
but as his fingers tenderly interlaced themselves with your own as he walked you to the parking lot, his gratitude was more than felt.
“what? my mother’s number?” you frown, pausing mid-bite, “are you… hitting on my mother, phainon?”
phainon refutes the moment the accusatory words leave your mouth, hands forming an ‘X’ as he violently shakes his head from left to right, “what? no! it’s so i can talk to her through text!”
you merely raise a brow, not seeing where he’s going. it causes him to hurry his explanation.
“she’s been pestering you about another video call, right? I mean, i don’t mind…” he blushes, looking at you as a giddy smile forms on his lips, “but…! give me her number so i can earn brownie points and be the best boyfriend ever.”
ah. “so you’ll sacrifice your free time to distract her from bothering me? you see, she's a very talkative person.”
he nods, scarily resembling a happy puppy from his white tufts of hair and goofy smile, “yeah, your paper is due next week, right? Don’t worry, i’ll talk to her like a good son-in-law.”
you exhale at his jokingly proclaimed title, making you recall back to when your own mother referred to him as such. “sure, whatever floats your boat.”
III. an unscripted moment.
you wake with a blaring awareness that the mere act of swallowing hurts, and your entire body is burning up. your back feels sticky from dried sweat, and your body screams at you as you reach for your phone on the bedside table. It’s 11:34 AM, friday. no classes, but a date with phainon as per schedule.
you groan, eyes burning up the longer you stare at your screen. with sluggish movements, you quickly type up a message to send him before shutting your eyes once more, praying that slumber will quell your horrid fever.
you: i'm cancelling the date today.
you: don't worry, you still keep the money.
the influx of notifications coming from your phone in relentless ‘ping’s are fruitless.
the second time you blearily blink your eyes open, you hear the faint, yet never-ending, sound of knocking coming from your apartment door. body still burning up, you whimper in pain as you sit up, immediately feeling your skull going around in circles. it induces nausea in you. once more reaching your phone, you’re greeted by an onslaught of spam texts from phainon that are still ongoing.
- 11:34AM -
you: i'm cancelling the date today.
you: don't worry, you still keep the money.
babe: woah? good morning to you too beautiful
babe: nice joke btw i laughed
- 11:40AM -
babe: i said i laughed at your joke
babe: so take back what you said :(
babe: (y/n)?
- 11:55AM -
babe: hey. are you mad at me?
babe: (y/n)???
babe: give me a laugh react and i’ll take that as no
babe: or at least read my message
- 12:10PM -
babe: whatever i did wrong im sorry
babe: so respond to me
babe: please?
babe: or at least let this be a joke you’re just dragging on
babe: i won’t even be mad
babe: just
babe: happy
- 12:31PM -
babe: please answer me
babe: im starting to get worried
babe: are you in danger?
babe: or maybe you don’t want me around anymore
babe: haha
- 12:45PM -
missed call from babe.
missed call from babe.
babe: pick up
babe: im begging you
- 1:12PM -
babe: i wish i could visit your apartment to check up on you
babe: but fuck. Would that be too much?
- 1:33PM -
babe: i asked auntie if you were in your apartment
babe: told her you weren’t responding to me
babe: and she said you weren’t replying back to her either
babe: i’m sorry but i need to visit you
babe: i can’t you lose you like this.
- 2:00PM -
babe: i’m at your front door
babe: answer me. Please?
- 2:22PM -
babe: (y/n) i know you’re finally reading all these messages
babe: your reading receipts are turned on
you: i know, phainon.
you: i just woke up, i’m sorry for making you worry.
you: hold on, i’ll unlock the door for you.
despite wanting to remain in the comfort of your bed, your sickness won’t quickly abate if you continue to rot here and allow your guest standing outside. with slow, measured steps, careful not to worsen your headache, you eventually reach the door to welcome phainon in.
blessed with looks he may be, right now, he looks like a mess. his usual part in his white hair is nowhere to be found, resembling a bird’s nest rather than a hairstyle. his eyes are shrouded in a mix of worry and devastation, and his usual stylish outfits are severely downgraded into a bright yellow hoodie and… purple pants?
you have always been one for honesty, ironic considering your relationship is a hoax, so you look at him and croak out, “you look like shit.”
your words are static noise with phainon’s worry worsening as he looks at you from head to toe, hand holding onto you like you’d wither without him, “have you eaten yet? your body is burning up.” to double-check, he presses his other hand up to your forehead, gasping in shock when he does so.
his lips wobble, acting like he’s in just as much pain as you. rather, seeing you in pain puts him in much worse agony, “lay down on your bed,” he ushers you further down the hall, “i’ll cook you something warm. did you finish all your backlogs yet? I can do them for you.”
weak hands try their best to pry off phainon’s steady grip on you as you sluggishly mutter, “it’s okay, phainon… you don’t have to be here.” a yawn, “i’ll be fine, i promise. the payment won’t be deducted from you.”
instead of a relieved expression you envisioned, phainon’s face sours, “it’s not about that,” he retorts, tone curt. “i want to take care of you, so please let me.”
with the firmer shove, yet still mindful of your weakened state, “go back to your room and rest. It’ll take a while for me to cook, okay?”
you sigh, feeling the room melting around your vision, “yeah, fine. whatever. don’t complain if you end up regretting this.”
his usual liveliness resumes when you hear him laugh, “i would never.”
you don’t resume sleep, having overslept more than enough for today. yet looking at your phone only irritates your headache further, leaving you no choice but to play background music while staring up at your ceiling, contemplating your past actions this week to see where you went wrong that led to you being bedridden.
you hate getting sick. you try to prevent it as much as possible by eating your daily dose of greens, fruits, and protein, and you always make sure to bring an umbrella in case of an unexpected weather. you try your best not to stay up too late if preventable, and yet…
phainon knocks twice before entering your room. his left hand carries a steaming bowl that, upon further inspection, is tomato soup. his hair pushed back using your headband, and he’s wearing the pink, glittery apron that march gifted you earlier this year. the hot pink layered on top of his yellow and purple combo fit makes you laugh, triggering a coughing fit.
he hurries to set down the bowl and fishes his phone out of his pants before patting your back, “what’s wrong, are you okay?”
you let last few coughs before hoarsely replying, “i like your fit.” he looks down on himself like he hadn’t thought of what he was wearing prior, “oh.”
red dusts the tip of his ears as he pulls back, clearing his throat and hurrying out of the room, “anyways! i’ll go get the other bowl and cups, let’s eat together.” he’s gone before you can even laugh a second time.
your focus is soon shifted when you spot his phone on the bedside table. He left it behind, the screen flashing open as a push notification came, briefly exposing his lockscreen. even in your fever-addled mind, you recognize the exact picture,
it’s the beach date picture, the same one set as your own lockscreen.
you blink in wonder. it had only appeared on the screen for a split second. was that a product of your imaginative fever-induced mind? if not, why would he set that picture as his lockscreen?
IV. what to do if your rented boyfriend starts to act a little too seriously?
the first thing you had done after signing up for the rent-a-boyfriend website was to read their guidelines. you had incinerated each and every word into your retinas, ensuring that you wouldn’t forget a single thing, no matter how much time passed. among the guidelines that stuck with you the most was;
falling in love and experiencing jealousy with and over the employee is strictly prohibited. the employees are workers with personal lives outside a client’s slotted time, personal information and feelings are not part of the conduct.
you kept this in mind from the moment you had chosen phainon to be the unfortunate victim to your false relationship. you even assured him through email that you’re not the type to fall in love so easily, especially not under a measly 8 months.
this stands true even now.
falling in love and experiencing jealousy with and over the employee is strictly prohibited. the employees are workers with personal lives outside a client’s slotted time, personal information and feelings are not part of the conduct.
phainon is an amazing actor when he needs to play the boyfriend role. he deserves flowers for that. had he not been living under unfortunate circumstances, you’re sure you would’ve seen his handsome face playing as the male lead for one of the xianzhou romance dramas that your mother watches in the evening. he suits every romance trope, oddly enough.
falling in love and experiencing jealousy with and over the employee is strictly prohibited. the employees are workers with personal lives outside a client’s slotted time, personal information and feelings are not part of the conduct.
but even you cannot turn a blind eye to the gradual, sinking feeling that slowly began to accumulate in your stomach after your fever incident. you recall the rules inscribed upon the website, clients are strictly prohibited from falling in love with their rental boyfriends.
falling in love and experiencing jealousy with and over the employee is strictly prohibited. the employees are workers with personal lives outside a client’s slotted time, personal information and feelings are not part of the conduct.
pray tell, what can you do if the rental boyfriend is the one in love with you?
days leading up to the long-awaited semester break, or alternatively, nearly 4 months into your rental boyfriend antics, your mother messaged you one late evening. you had been losing your mind over a stern professor, crying immaturely over the directions they had given for finals, or lack thereof, that had you losing days’ worth of sleep just to fulfill.
at that moment, the notification from her had brought salvation to your suffering, making you forget about such troubles, even if for a brief moment, just to see what she had to say. the content of her message, however, made you raise your brow.
mother: semester break is soon, right?
you: yes, mother. :)
mother: and you’re coming back home, right? ☺️
you: of course, mother.
mother: that’s wonderful!
mother: i’ve been thinking about it for quite a while
mother: and i was wondering
mother: maybe you should bring phainon with you!
mother: i can cook your favorite meal for him to taste
you: what
you: apologies for my abrupt reply.
you: however, bringing my boyfriend along to meet the family… mother, is that not too soon?
you: phainon and i are barely hitting the four-month mark.
you: the last thing i want is to scare him away.
mother: oh, you’re overthinking this!
mother: phainon is a sweet boy! he’s been telling me that you’re under his loving care 💓
mother: he even sent me a picture of you when you caught that fever ;)
you: he truly is, yes. but…
you: give me more time to think about this, please.
you recount this situation to your date with phainon a few days later, deeply troubled at how you’re going to tell your mother that your rental boyfriend cannot, in fact, be brought back home. he has his own life, friends, and duties. he’s either going to stay in his own apartment here or visit amphoreus for the month of december.
phainon, in an ideal world, would have laughed at you and agreed that he wouldn’t be available for semester break. probably throw in a tease or two about company rules and whatnot. instead, the phainon in front of you merely sips his drink, blinking with no surprise or mortification whatsoever. “oh, i know. auntie told me yesterday. but don’t worry! i already told her i was coming.”
that’s not what you were… you inhaled sharply, “what? Wait.” you rubbed your temple, frustration reaching an all-time high, “that would be near impossible, phainon.”
“why so?” he prods, expertly dodging your swatting hands as he steals a fry from your meal.
“because you need to book a flight? And there’s less than two weeks left for that?” you stress, “and what about amphoreus? your friends back there must be worried sick over you. you truly don’t need to sacrifice this much for me, phainon. i will tell my mother that yo-”
“you worry your pretty head too much,” his thumb tenderly rubs at the crease formed between your brows. he stares deep into your eyes, "relax, it’ll be fine. I want to be there, (y/n).”
“remember, don’t mention any unfavorable traits about either myself or you. they don’t know how i act outside our house, and they don’t know your work description. avoid speaking about our fabricated love story as much as possible so we can play safe,” you call out from behind phainon, worriedly looking over your childhood home just a few feet away. your hands itch to hold something, but phainon had already graciously carried your luggage for you.
he simply nods, focused on making that both your luggages don’t swerve in the other direction as he hoists it up the stairs. clearing your throat, you prepare yourself in front of the closed door, casting phainon a side glance as you caution him one last time, “let’s be on our best behavior.”
“just for you.” he winks, knocking on the door first before you could. you roll your eyes.
the muted clicks of heels fast approaching tenses you up, knowing that your mother will be opening the door for you and your boyfriend. you take a deep breath right as the entrance creaks open, displaying your mother in all her glory. her glasses perched on her nose bridge, wearing a black turtle neck, and a long skirt with red bottom heels. she gasps excitedly, eyes locked onto you before even taking a look at the man on your side.
“hello, mother.” you give a tight smile whereas phainon does a perfect bow, “good evening, mrs. (l/n)!”
“welcome home, you two!” her hand eagerly reaches out to take care of all the luggage but phainon politely refuses as he hauls them all inside. stripping off your shoes, you take a look around your home, finding it strange how quickly it had become unfamiliar from the months you’d been away for college. while you had grown up vaguely aware that your family possessed, it had never truly sunk into your mind until you met march and stelle during the last year of high school. opulence bleeds through every corner of your spacious house, not blaringly so, but subtly, akin to a glimmering gem beneath light.
phainon’s hand quickly finds purchase in yours, happily swinging them back and forth while you follow closely behind your mother. he leans in to whisper into your ear, “you’re adorable.” you throw him an unamused look. he tilts his head, all coy, “what? Don’t tell me you’re not seeing the picture frames all over the walls?”
“not another word.” you whisper back, bumping his side into the hallway.
your mother leads you to the dining room, a massive elongated table that makes your father feel like an emperor every time he sits at the head. an overkill purchase on his part, considering you only had one other sibling, but you suppose that man will buy anything for the sake of his ego.
“phainon, you sit next to (y/n), of course.” she pulls out two seats, eyeing your interlocked fingers with twinkling eyes. “oh, and you’ll be staying here until the end of the month, yes?”
phainon eagerly nods, tugging you along to your designated seats, “yes, mrs. (l/n)!”
you hold back the urge to ram your face straight into the wall, already feeling drained as you wait for the long night ahead.
late past midnight, there’s a knocking on your door that rouses you from your desk. having retired back to your childhood bedroom the moment family dinner was done, leaving phainon with your family downstairs with nothing but a withering glare on your face as warning. but he merely nodded, sending you kissy faces, before going back to arm wrestling with your father to prove that he was ‘worth your love’ while your sibling howls in laughter.
“who’s there?” you call out, staring at the door.
for a moment, the knocking stills, silence wafting in the air.
then it picks up again.
you huff, now staring indignantly, “pardon me, i asked who’s there?”
silence. knocking.
nerves fully riled up, you throw your phone down before stomping over until you’re right in front of your door. “are you going to keep knocking or what?”
finally, “it’s me, phainon…” he twists the doorknob left and right, rattling it.
you frown, noting the low volume of his voice and the slur in his words. “phainon?” you open the door, light from your bedroom pooling into the dark hallway as you stare up at your rental boyfriend’s face. “do you need something?”
you observe his features; flushed cheeks, unfocused eyes, and fringe covering his other eye… there’s no doubt in your mind, phainon is at best, tipsy, and at worst, wasted. it must be from the rum that your father adores, you conclude, finger brushing his hair from his face. “hello? Are you still with me, phainon?”
he blinks slowly, eyes trying to focus on you but it’s a useless endeavor. “i…” he leans closer, towering over you and smelling like dark molasses, permeating through the air, “can we uh, talk? please?”
you pause. “why? about what?”
“just, i-” he fumbles with his words, inching closer and closer, “i wanna talk about something…”
“is it important? it’s,” you glance behind to look at the wall clock, “twelve-fifty in the morning, phainon.”
“yeah, it’s- it’s really important,” his foot wedges inside, like he’s scared you’d close it on him, “i promise.”
you open the door further, encouraging him inside. he follows through with swaying footsteps, blue eyes fixated on you. you sit him down on the edge of the bed, sitting right beside, “what is it?”
he doesn’t answer you right away, merely looking around your room with this awed look on his face. his gaze sifts through your old shelf filled with dolls and dollhouses, and just beside is a shelf dedicated to all the trophies and medals you acquired while studying. a little further left is the door entrance to your walk-in closet, where some of your clothes from kindergarten are still somewhere inside, buried beneath your newer, shinier clothes.
phainon then sinks into your bed, back resting against the lush mattress of your beloved bed. you think you heard him inhale the bedsheets before speaking, “your mom…. she said that i’m your first boyfriend.”
he turns his head, red flush still present while beholding you, “is that.. Is that true?”
your lips purse, “well, that’s what they believe, yes.”
he inches closer until his bare forearm makes contact with your pajama-clad ones, “and your dad, he… welcomed me to the family. said that he always wanted you to be happy, you know? and.”
you stay silent, allowing him to continue. “your sibling, they congratulated me… joked about waiting for the wedding.”
your face sours, recoiling from guilt at the massive farce that you’ve been playing right in front of your family, “that’s…” you bite your lip, “it’s whatever. probably a result from the festive atmosphere, don’t let them get to you, phainon. this is just business at the end of the day.”
his face falls, a vacant look overtaking.
“...is it really?”
“it is.” you reply, not missing a beat, finally catching up to what he’s here for. “phainon, don’t be ridiculous right now.”
“i’m not ridiculous, (y/n).” he softly chastises, sitting up as he corners you to the edge of your bed. “don’t tell me you’re not feeling what i’m feeling every time i see you. this feeling is mutual, isn’t it?” and you’re so dumbstruck at the entire situation that you can’t seem to formulate a response to his ludicrous actions.
phainon climbs on top of your body, calloused hands cradling you as if you were a star he bottled up with his own two hands. he leans in just mere centimeters away from your lips to whisper madness meant to be shared only with you, “i love you, i truly do. i want to be your real boyfriend. i want to go around my campus and yell out your name. i want to say your name every time someone asks me if i’m taken. it makes me want to crawl out of my skin when i go on a date with someone who isn’t you. i want to spend each and every morning until death in your arms. i want to graduate and get a job to provide for you. i love you so, so much (y/n), you’re all i ever wished for. i’m so tired of pretending to be this pristine guy i’m not.”
a heaving gasp, nails digging into his skin that only serves to make him groan out in pleasure, “phainon-”
he leans in to kiss you, sealing and tainting your first kiss with his filth. your childhood plushie resting on your desk being the sole witness.
years down the line, i will make you look back and say that you're glad you found me through that website. then your eyes will glisten in affection as you lean into my embrace and say, "i love you, phainon." as easily as breathing.
rent-a-bf phainon, if he was allowed to be absolutely manic: are you talking to other people be honest w me
(y/n), thinking: wow his boyfriend acting is getting so real these days. they should cast him in a xianzhou drama.
Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Wally West
Content: MDNI! nsfw headcanons, not overly explicit / descriptive, written with fem!reader in mind but can be read as gen!reader as well, don't take it to serious
Dick
cockwarming
like refuses to leave your warmth so you're stuck with him inside you while cuddling after
crazy stamina, a quick fuck easily turns into multible hours
loves seeing your legs being all wobbly after or you having to limp because of him
Jason
having his fingers inside you
likes to see your wetness on his fingers when he pulls out from downwards or your mouth
if he’s not fingering you, his fingers explore the insides of your mouth while fucking you
loves when you leave bite marks and scratches, like a physical confirmation of your enjoyment
i fell like he'd be up to try pegging if you really wanted to
Tim
loves when you take care of things, especially when he’s too tired to do anything crazy
probably loves seeing you ride him and pushing him back down when he tries to come up to kiss or touch you
not to say that he’s super submissive and passive, but he likes seeing you take charge once in a while
Wally
anything mouth related
whether it’s something in his mouth or his mouth in something it gets him going
similar but to highlight it: making out (wet and sloppy kisser when getting really into it, would rather suffocate than let go of you to catch his breath)
definitely fan of seeing you masturbate, when you start moaning his name hell be onto you in no time, this leads to you sending him videos during the day just to rail him up to when he finally comes home
tim would be sitting in his chair in the middle of the night, facing his monitors and typing details of a case on the keyboard while pausing his typing to click the mouse absentmindedly a few times.
the tiredness in his face was evident, dark circles deepening under his eyes every night. even a yawn would escape him one or two times
but you would come, slowly walking from behind him and sleepily rubbing your eyes. it was obvious enough that you had just woken up from tim’s empty side of the bed, and obvious enough that he would be here at his desktop
and without a word, you quietly slid onto his lap and wrapped your arms around his neck to give him a small lazy kiss. a kiss that tim gladly reciprocated, his hands sliding to your waist to make sure you were steady
when both of you broke the kiss, tim’s eyes softened from the sight of you— hair slightly messy and eyes tired yet awake enough to hold that soft look in them— and it made a small, fond smile form on his lips
“everything okay, baby?” he asked in a whisper, gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.
you just quietly hummed and nodded your head, placing a small kiss on the crook of his neck before burying your face there. “couldn’t sleep without you…” you mumbled on his skin
tim hummed back, a hand sliding under your shirt and slowly running through your back while the other kept clicking on the mouse. despite his eyes being pinned on the monitor, his attention was on you. “im gonna take a while here, you sure you don’t wanna wait for me back at bed?”
but there was no answer from you. and when tim paused his clicking to look down, he was greeted by your small snores and the sight of you sleeping peacefully— a sight he would never get tired of
if it were possible to fall in love with you even more, it would be now.
he placed a kiss on your hair before diverting his attention back to his monitors without stopping his hand on your back. sure, he’d take his hand off to type something super quick on the keyboard. but they always returned to you, forever cradling your body onto his
including ⠀! ⠀ dick grayson. jason todd. tim drake. damian wayne. ✶
contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsessive characters. angst. english is not my first language. ✶
DICK GRAYSON
He's smiling when you start talking.
It's alright.
Dick is alright.
By the time you finish, the smile is gone.
You don't shout.
"I don't love you anymore, Dick."
His breathing catches.
"I don't even like being around you."
Why?
Why?
Why?
"..."
"I hate you."
Stop.
Please stop.
The silence is unbearable.
You're joking, right?
Haha, funny.
You're joking, baby. Right? Say sike. Say anything but that word again. He'll tickle it out of you if he has to, pin you to the couch and kiss that lie right off your lying, perfect, hateful mouth—
"...No."
It's barely a whisper.
He feels like he's drowning.
"No, you don't."
Deny it.
Deny it.
Deny—
"I do."
"You don't."
His voice starts shaking.
"You can't. You... you know me."
"I know you."
Good. You know him. You know every good thing he's ever done, every time he held you after a nightmare, every breakfast he burned because he was too busy looking at you, every time he—
"And that's exactly why I hate you."
You look him straight in the eye.
It's like something inside him caves in. His ribcage. His spine. His stupid, hopeful, pathetic heart that still thought he could charm his way out of this.
He can't breathe. His head is spinning. The room tilts.
Get it together, Dick. She's still here. She's still in the room. As long as she's still in the room, there's a chance. There's always a chance. You just have to say the right thing. You just have to do the right thing. You just have to—
He sits down because his legs suddenly don't work.
He doesn't cry immediately.
He just... stops.
There must be a way.
"...Tell me what to fix."
Fix it.
He can fix it!
He's Dick Grayson.
Of course he can fix it.
He'll carve off every part of him you don't like and hand you the bloody pieces in a box with a bow if that's what you want.
You don't answer.
"I'll fix everything."
His voice is too high. Too eager. Like a dog who just heard the leash rattle.
"I don't want you to."
His eyes become glassy.
DON'T CRY. DON'T CRY. DON'T CRY.
"...Then tell me how to become someone you don't hate."
He can be anyone. He can peel himself out of his own skin and wear whoever you want. Just don’t leave himself alone in it.
Just tell him what you want.
Please?
JASON TODD
He laughs.
"Hate me?"
He shakes his head, slow, like you just told him the sky is green. Like you're cute. Like you're his silly little thing who sometimes says words she doesn't mean.
There's no way his doll hates him.
No fucking way.
"Nah."
"I'm serious."
"You don't hate me."
"I do."
"You don't."
His voice becomes rougher with every word.
Of course you don't hate him.
You're just confused.
It must be your friends.
Especially the one with pink hair.
He should have killed them when he had the chance. Would’ve been cleaner. You would’ve cried on his shoulder and he would’ve licked the tears off your chin and told you you’re safe now, you’re always safe with him—
"I know you, babydoll—"
"I'm not your fucking babydoll."
You fold your arms.
"And I hate you."
Fuck.
He really wants to rip his hair out when you talk back to him like that.
Or your clothes.
One or the other.
Jason's jaw locks so hard it hurts.
Should he break your legs?
He looks away.
No.
You will hate him.
Looks back.
"You mean that."
"...Yes."
For several seconds he says nothing.
Just keep your cool. It's fine. It's no big deal.
Jason expected it anyway. Of course you hate him.
Who can even love a corpse with a rotten heart? Who can love something that crawled out of its own grave? He stinks of dirt. He always has. He's been dead for years and he just keeps forgetting to lie down.
Then he nods once.
"...Okay."
His voice is frighteningly calm.
He's handling it so fucking well.
Look at him. Emotionally mature. Not breaking anything. Not screaming. Not crying. Not begging on his knees like some pathetic dog even though his legs are seconds away from buckling.
"I can't make you love me."
Another pause.
"But I also..."
His hands clench.
"...can't stop loving you."
It's almost pathetic.
Almost.
"You can hate me for the rest of your life."
His eyes never leave yours.
"I'm still going to keep the door locked."
TIM DRAKE
He doesn't say anything.
Not immediately.
You're lying.
Tim knows you're lying because it's not your first time.
You always lie when you're trying to get his attention.
He would’ve found you. Obviously. But the fact that you stayed—that means something. That means you still want him. That means you still love him, want him to love you, to—
"And you stayed..."
"I hoped you'd change."
"And?"
"You didn't."
Yeah.
He never changes.
He knows.
He’s got spreadsheets of his own failures, timestamps of every time you flinched away from his touch.
But he tried. He tried so fucking hard.
Tim nods slowly.
Like he's writing down a fact.
"...I understand."
No, he doesn't.
He doesn't fucking understand. At all.
You know he doesn't.
You know him better than anyone.
"I made you miserable."
"Yes."
"...I'm sorry."
His voice cracks on the last word.
It's the first genuine apology you've ever heard from him.
Then he quietly asks—
"If I leave..."
He swallows.
"...would that make you happier?"
You don't answer.
That hurts more than anything else could.
DAMIAN WAYNE
He becomes perfectly still.
Almost regal.
Like every emotion has been locked behind iron walls.
"I hate you."
He looks directly at you.
Very brave.
Very brave indeed.
"I see."
"You don't."
You're acting foolish.
Just like a child.
And he's too tired to deal with a child.
"I do."
"No."
You shake your head.
"You think this is another argument."
Of course.
You always want to argue with him.
It's something normal in your relationship.
He's used to it.
He remembers every fight, every reconciliation, every time you touched his face after and he pretended he didn’t shiver.
"It is not."
"I genuinely hate you."
A long silence follows.
Finally—
"...Why?"
You tell him.
Everything.
Every reason.
Every moment that pushed you further away.
He listens without interrupting.
Because that's the last thing he can do to keep his dignity.
When you finish...
He closes his eyes.
Only for a second.
Control yourself, Damian. You are not a child. Be mature. Be respectful. Be normal.
Just. Be. Normal.
When he opens them again, they're strangely empty.
"...Very well."
He turns to leave.
Stops at the doorway.
Without looking back, he says quietly—
"There's a ring in the closet. Under your red dress."
Another pause.
"It's worth enough for a year."
His voice becomes almost inaudible.
"Take care of yourself when I'm not here."
He walks away before you can see the tears gathering in his eyes.
From down the hall, the sound of something shattering against a wall.
Then silence.
Then a single, inhuman scream, muffled by a closed fist.
SYNOPSIS : An irrational desire to incorporate somebody's body into your own.
WARNINGS : Graphic Depictions of Violence, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Major Character Death, Psychological, Trauma, Gore, Torture (Implied/Off-Screen and On-Screen Depictions), Mind Break / Mental Breakdown, Grief / Emotional Distress, Manipulation, Psychological Horror, Obsessive and Possessive Behaviour, Yandere Behaviour, Disturbing Imagery
A / N : in my defence you all asked for this
INTERACTIONS AND REBLOGS ENCOURAGED!
You are still alive when they begin.
Every instinct in your body insists that you should not be. Every nerve screams that there must be some limit to suffering, some invisible line where consciousness finally gives way and mercy takes over. Yet no such mercy arrives. You remain awake, trapped behind your own eyes as your body is dismantled piece by piece, reduced from a person into ingredients.
You watch as your bones are pulled from you, one after another, stripped clean and fed into the grinding stone. The sound is unbearable, not the sharp crack of breaking bone, but the slow, relentless crunch as something that once held you upright is crushed into pale powder. Flour made from your skeleton. Then comes your blood. What spills from you is not wasted, it is collected in bowls and basins, stirred together with the powder of your own bones until it forms a thick, sticky paste. Red and white become pink, your flesh and skeleton become dough. The transformation is nauseatingly domestic. The motions are familiar, almost comforting in another context; hands kneading, folding, shaping. The sort of thing you might have seen in a kitchen countless times before.
And somehow, impossibly, you are forced to sit as witness to it all. An audience to your own post-mortem fate before death has even had the decency to claim you.
Perhaps, under different circumstances, you would have laughed. If this were a novel assigned in one of your literature classes, or an obscure poem buried in a curriculum no one actually cared about, you might have appreciated the irony. You would have pointed out how the line between human and animal was often thinner than people liked to admit. How old cookbooks, medical texts, and household records rarely treated the human body as something entirely separate from the natural world around it. You remember learning that in early England, blood, bone, urine, even human flesh found their way into remedies and recipes. Human remains were ingredients. Medicines and commodities. Something that could be consumed and traded. Back then, the thought had seemed absurd. Grotesque, certainly, but distant enough to be fascinating. Now there is nothing fascinating about it. Not when hands reach for your head with the same casual certainty a baker might reserve for a lump of dough. Not when you realize, with mounting dread, that they are going to make a pastry from your own head.
The last thing you ever see is the Joker’s gloved hands reaching toward you through the dim, flickering warehouse light, the certainty arriving all at once and without mercy that he will not arrive in time, that the distance between rescue and failure has already closed and locked itself shut, and that your life is ending not as a possibility but as an inevitability already in motion, consumed and taken before the thought of escape can even fully form. Hours later, the same man who lives so sharply in your final thought steps into that same warehouse, Red Robin moving through the silence with controlled urgency until he comes face to face with the figure responsible, the Joker standing there plainly.
"Where are they?" Tim demanded, his voice cutting through the cavernous warehouse with a sharpness that echoed off rusted beams and stained concrete walls. Every muscle in his body was wound tight beneath the uniform, every second stretching thinner than the last as his eyes swept across the room in search of some sign of you. He searched for movement, for anything that might indicate where the Joker had hidden you, but the building offered him nothing. The vast space was almost empty, stripped bare of anything useful, leaving only the clown himself standing beneath the harsh industrial lights and a long metal table positioned directly in front of him. Resting atop it was a large object concealed beneath a spotless white sheet.
The Joker's response came in the form of laughter. It burst from him suddenly, loud and grating, filling the warehouse until it seemed to crawl into every corner of the room. He doubled over slightly as though overcome by amusement, one gloved hand pressed dramatically against his chest while the other gestured aimlessly through the air. The sound was familiar enough to make Tim's stomach twist.
"Oh, don't be so serious!" he cackled, eventually straightening and wiping at an imaginary tear beneath one eye. "You'll see 'em in time."
His fingers moved to the bright purple bow-tie sitting crookedly against his collar, adjusting it with exaggerated care. The white gloves flashed beneath the warehouse lights as he fussed over the knot, appearing almost absurdly pristine compared to the grime surrounding him. Then the Joker's grin widened.
"In fact," he said, lifting a single finger as though struck by a brilliant idea, "you can see them right now." He seized the edge of the sheet and pulled. The fabric slipped away in one dramatic flourish, floating briefly through the air before collapsing onto the floor at his feet. Beneath it sat a pie. For a moment, Tim simply stared, steam rose from the pastry in thin twisting ribbons, carrying the scent of warm butter and spices into the room. The crust had been baked to a flawless golden-brown, every inch of it looked carefully prepared, delicate latticework crossed the top in neat overlapping strips, each one woven together with meticulous precision. It looked freshly made, the surface still glistening with an egg wash that caught the overhead lights. It was the sort of pie that belonged cooling on a kitchen counter or sitting in the display case of a bakery, not resting on a metal table in the middle of an abandoned warehouse while the Joker stood beside it grinning like the maniac he is.
Tim's eyes narrowed behind his mask. By all appearances it was completely ordinary, and that was precisely what made it suspicious. It was most likely drugged in some way or form, or poisoned. The clown circled the table slowly, dragging his fingertips along the edge of the pie tin as though admiring the craftsmanship of his own work. There was a strange tenderness in the gesture, an affection that made Tim's skin crawl. "You know," he began conversationally, "people don't appreciate baking anymore. It's a dying art. Everybody wants the big stuff these days. Giant plants, death rays, toxins. Nobody appreciates the dedication that goes into making something with your own two hands."
Tim remained silent. The smell continued to drift through the warehouse. Everything about it felt wrong. The Joker stopped beside the table and placed both palms flat against the metal surface, leaning forward slightly as his grin stretched wider and wider until it seemed almost painful. There was excitement shining in his eyes now, a barely contained anticipation that immediately sent alarm bells ringing through Tim's head.
"You eat this pie, Boy Wonder," the Joker said, his voice dropping into something almost gentle, "and I'll tell you exactly where your lover is."
Tim's gaze shifted from the Joker to the pie and back again, studying both with growing unease. He had spent years dealing with Gotham's worst criminals. He knew how the Joker operated. He understood threats, riddles and traps. Yet none of those instincts were helping him now because the Joker wasn't acting the way he normally did. And as Tim stared at the steaming pie resting between them, a terrible feeling began to unfurl in the pit of his stomach. The Joker had gone to far too much effort for this to be meaningless.
He had to consider it, despite every instinct in his body warning him not to. The pie sat on the table beneath the warehouse lights, steam still curling from the lattice crust. It looked absurdly normal. Too normal. The Joker had your last known location, and every trail Tim had managed to uncover ended here, in this rotting warehouse with its rusted beams and stained concrete floors. If you were alive, you were close. If you were dead, the answer was here. The pie would almost certainly be contaminated with something, a toxin, a hallucinogen, some grotesque chemical experiment hidden beneath the pastry, but Tim had already dosed himself with a temporary antidote before entering the building, a cocktail designed to counter most known poisons and keep his body functioning long enough to finish the mission. It was not a guarantee, Gotham had taught him that guarantees did not exist. The antidote might fail and the pie might kill him. But refusing it might mean never finding you. The only certainty was that he could not walk away.
He had spent days tearing through Gotham searching for you, throwing himself into the work with a desperation he refused to name because stopping long enough to think meant confronting the guilt that had been gnawing at him since the moment you disappeared. Every lead that went cold left him imagining a hundred ways he could have prevented this. If he had paid more attention, if he had answered sooner, if he had insisted you stay with him instead of letting you leave. The thoughts circled endlessly, starving for acknowledgement, but he shoved them down with the same ruthless discipline he used on every mission. Regret could wait. Self-hatred could wait. Finding you came first. Slowly, Tim stepped toward the table, his staff remained collapsed in one hand while the other reached for the waiting slice. The plate felt warm beneath his fingers, and the scent rising from it was rich and inviting in a way that made his stomach twist. The Joker watched him with a smile that was maniac, and that expression unsettled Tim more than any threat could have.
He forced himself to move before doubt could take hold. The pie sat between them, still warm beneath the warehouse lights, steam curling from the lattice crust in delicate wisps that carried the scent of butter and spices through the stale air. Everything about it felt wrong. Not because of anything he could immediately identify, but because it existed at all. The Joker was many things, but subtle was rarely one of them, and yet here sat a perfectly baked pie in the middle of an abandoned warehouse as though it belonged there. As though it were the most natural thing in the world. Tim's jaw tightened. Whatever game the clown was playing, he was running out of time to solve it, and if there was even the slightest chance this would lead him to you, then he would see it through. His fingers closed around the fork waiting neatly beside the plate. The utensil felt strangely ordinary in his hand, its polished metal catching the light as he lowered it into the pie. The crust cracked beneath the pressure with a soft crunch before giving way entirely, revealing the filling beneath. Fresh steam escaped immediately, carrying a richer scent than before. It smelled savoury and warm, layered with herbs and spices that blended together so seamlessly he struggled to distinguish them individually. There was no sharp chemical tang hidden beneath it, no warning hidden in the aroma. If anything, it smelled good.
That alone unsettled him. Slowly, he lifted the fork toward his mouth. The filling settled onto his tongue, and despite himself, his attention immediately shifted toward analysing it. Years of training had conditioned him to catalogue details instinctively, to observe and evaluate everything around him whether he wanted to or not. The texture was the first thing he noticed. It was soft but substantial, tender enough to break apart easily beneath his teeth without becoming mushy. It reminded him vaguely of beef, though the comparison never quite fit. There was something different about it, something he couldn't immediately identify. The flavour itself was surprisingly mild, lacking the stronger characteristics he expected from most red meats. There was no gaminess to it, none of the lingering heaviness that usually accompanied richer cuts. Instead there was a subtle sweetness buried beneath the savoury notes, faint enough to remain pleasant while still noticeable enough to catch his attention.
His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he chewed. There was another quality present as well, one he struggled to place. A faint nuttiness lingered in both the scent and flavour, delicate enough that he might have overlooked it under different circumstances. It sat at the edge of perception, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. By itself it meant nothing, plenty of ingredients could create similar notes. Yet his mind continued returning to it regardless, turning the sensation over as he swallowed. Tim waited for the telltale signs he had spent years learning to recognize, but they never arrived. The flavour lingered briefly before fading. His pulse remained steady and his vision remained clear. Whatever else this pie might be, it did not appear to be laced with any obvious toxin.
Across the table, the Joker watched. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of old warehouse lights overhead. Tim became acutely aware of the man's gaze fixed upon him, following every movement with unnerving intensity. It was impossible not to notice. Refusing to acknowledge the growing discomfort in his chest, he cut off another piece and brought it to his mouth. The crust shattered delicately beneath the fork, the filling remained warm, rich, and perfectly cooked. Every bite confirmed the same unsettling conclusion: whoever had made this knew exactly what they were doing.
The Joker's grin widened. Tim tried to ignore it and tried to focus on you instead. Yet with every swallow, with every passing second spent standing in that warehouse while the Joker watched him eat, the feeling of unease continued to grow, curling tighter around his ribs until it became impossible to separate from the taste lingering at the back of his throat. Something about this was wrong. "You wanna know a secret?" he asked, his voice dropping into something conversational and intimate. Tim paused and the Joker leaned forward slightly, eyes glittering beneath the harsh lights. "They've been here the entire time," he said, drawing out the words with obvious delight. Then his grin widened. "Right there in that little pie."
The sentence landed without meaning at first. Tim heard it. He understood the individual words and yet his mind refused to assemble them into anything coherent. The warehouse seemed to grow strangely distant, as though the world had shifted several feet away from him. The slice remained in his hand, warm and solid and real. Then understanding arrived, not all at once but in a series of horrifying connections. The smell and the careful preparation. The Joker's excitement, the way he had insisted Tim eat, the way he had spoken about craftsmanship. A cold, nauseating dread opened inside his chest as the pieces locked together.
He looked down at the pie. The golden crust was unchanged. The dark filling sat beneath it exactly as before but nothing about it was ordinary anymore. Every detail became unbearable, the warmth against his fingers felt wrong, the scent turned sickening, the thought that this really had been your last known location. His mind replayed the taste he had already swallowed, now stripped of ignorance and recast in something monstrous. The realization hit with crushing certainty, and the world seemed to tilt beneath him. He had been eating you. The fork slipped from his hand and struck the concrete with a metallic clatter that echoed through the warehouse, but Tim barely heard it. His throat tightened until it hurt to breathe. His stomach lurched violently, and every instinct in his body screamed to reject what he had consumed, yet he remained frozen, staring at the slice as if it might somehow transform into something else if he looked long enough. Across from him, the Joker's laughter began quietly, almost tenderly, before building into uncontrollable hysteria. He doubled over, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he pointed at Tim with trembling fingers.
"There it is," he wheezed through the laughter. "That's the face I was waiting for. All that training and you never once asked what was in the pie."
The sound filled the warehouse, bouncing off the metal walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. Tim could not answer. The silence where your voice should have been felt suddenly enormous, a void stretching through the room and through him. In that awful stillness he understood the final cruelty of it: the Joker had never brought him here to rescue you. The entire performance, from the covered table to the warm pastry to the bargain he had offered, existed for a single purpose. The punchline had always been Tim's realization. Your life had already been consumed long before he ever managed to lift the pie to his mouth.
The laughter stopped. Not completely, not forever, but long enough for the interruption to become noticeable. The Joker's grin remained fixed in place, stretched across his pale face like a wound, yet genuine surprise flickered behind it as Tim reached for the fork again. For the first time since revealing the truth, the clown appeared momentarily uncertain of what he was seeing. He had expected anger and had expected denial. He had expected the young hero to throw the plate across the room or collapse beneath the weight of the realization, maybe even attack the clown himself. Instead, Tim's shaking hand closed around the utensil and drove it back into the pie with desperate determination, carving through the ruined crust and lifting another mouthful toward his lips before his mind could catch up with what he was doing.
His thoughts had become fragmented, scattered beneath a crushing tide of grief and horror that refused to settle into anything coherent, images forced themselves into his mind whether he wanted them there or not. He imagined cold metal tables illuminated by sterile lights. He imagined butchers' hooks and cutting boards and the mechanical indifference of processing flesh. He imagined you reduced from a living, breathing person into something measurable, something that could fit inside a tin dish and disappear beneath a woven lattice crust. Every instinct in him recoiled from the thought, every rational part of his mind screaming at him to stop, yet none of those instincts were stronger than the overwhelming certainty that after days of searching, after every sleepless night spent tearing Gotham apart piece by piece, this was all he had left of you. He moved with frantic, broken urgency, forcing the meat into his mouth in rapid, unthinking motions as if desperation alone could make this real in a way that didn’t destroy him, as if by swallowing he could undo distance, loss, and time itself, returning you, impossibly, horribly, to the only place his mind could still frame as safe, locked away inside the hollow, trembling certainty of his own body.
The bite disappeared into his mouth. He barely tasted it this time. The warmth remained, the texture remained. Yet the flavour itself had become irrelevant beneath the knowledge attached to it. Somewhere deep inside himself, buried beneath the shock and nausea and grief, a desperate, irrational part of him clung to the fact that he had finally found you, not alive, not safe, and not waiting to be rescued but found nonetheless. The search was over, the uncertainty was over. The horrible possibility that you were still out there suffering somewhere beyond his reach was over.
The Joker's silence shattered beneath another burst of laughter, louder than before and infinitely more delighted. The sound rolled through the warehouse in waves, echoing from rusted walls and steel rafters until it seemed to come from every direction at once. It became part of the atmosphere itself, an omnipresent noise that filled every corner of the room, yet Tim barely registered it. The world had narrowed to the pie sitting before him and the unbearable reality it represented. His staff slipped from his fingers and struck the concrete floor with a sharp crack, bouncing once before rolling away into the darkness, but he paid it no attention. The weapon that had accompanied him through countless battles suddenly felt meaningless compared to the object sitting on the table.
Tears had begun falling without his permission. They slipped down his face in silent streams, blurring his vision until the edges of the warehouse dissolved into indistinct shapes and shadows. He could feel them gathering at his jaw before dropping onto the table, onto his gloves, onto the remains of the pie itself. His chest ached with every breath, each inhale feeling too shallow, each exhale catching painfully in his throat, but the physical discomfort barely registered beneath the crushing pressure building inside him. At some point the fork ceased to matter. It remained abandoned somewhere on the table as Tim's hands moved forward instead, fingers digging into the shattered remains of the pastry with frantic desperation. The carefully woven crust collapsed beneath his touch. Flakes scattered across the metal surface. Filling stained his gloves. The pie that the Joker had presented so proudly only minutes earlier was reduced to a ruined mess beneath his hands, yet he continued gathering pieces of it, bringing them to his mouth with a determination that bordered on self-destruction. It was not hunger driving him. Now, as you had once been brought into him through sex, you would be taken into him again, but in a form stripped of warmth or tenderness, reduced instead to something consumed and swallowed.
You had occupied every corner of his life long before this. You had existed in his routines, in his thoughts, and in the spaces he made for you without realizing he was making them. You had become woven into the fabric of his existence so thoroughly that imagining a future without you felt impossible. Now that connection had been twisted into something grotesque and horrifying, transformed into a joke crafted entirely for the amusement of a madman, yet even then Tim found himself clinging to it. And somewhere beneath the crushing horror of what had been done to you, beneath the revulsion and the heartbreak and the unbearable weight of loss, there existed a small, desperate part of him that refused to leave anything behind. If this was all that remained, if this was truly the only piece of you the Joker had allowed to survive, then he would not abandon it. He would not turn away from it and he would not leave you alone in this warehouse.
His love devoured him, and yours devoured you in return.
💭 . . . I'm considering about making a 2+ part fanfic inspired by the movie Obsession with the batboys x reader, (Reader is Niki) but i'm having trouble deciding which one of the boys I should write as Bear .. please help me by deciding in the poll !! (՞⸝⸝o̴̶̷̥᷅ ̫ o̴̶̷̥᷅⸝⸝՞)
synopsis - mj's party was one of the few first parties peter has been to since the spell, he's been watching over her since then, even though it kills him to see her with her new boyfriend. when suddenly, a classmate pulls him out of that painful trance.
warning - lowercase writing. very short(?) i haven't written on this acc for years, but BND inspired me.
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another song plays as ned skips through his playlist, his and mj's place was full of sweaty people. most were dancing, some were making out in a corner, and some were refilling their red solo cups as they played a childish—but nostalgic—game of truth or dare.
peter had been stalking patroling around this area a lot, where he knew she would be. the music seems to quiet down as they're replaced by the ringing in his ear when he looks at mj and her new boyfriend paul arranging the flowers by the kitchen. he stairs at her for what feels like eternity, looking at the differences in her behavior. her hair, her makeup, her new confidence—
"hey, peter was it?" a sudden voice brings him out of the rabbit hole he was plunging into. he wasn't used to hearing that name, since he tampered with magic that basically caused the whole world to crumble.
"oh–uh, yeah. hey...?" peter says, scratching the back of his neck as he looks at them with a sort of sheepish look in his eyes. y/n chuckles, shaking her head.
"it's y/n. we share a table in molecular biotech." they smile, offering him a beer. "i didn't expect to see you at a party." y/n admits, to which peter laughs quietly with a nod.
"oh, yeah! thanks so much for lending your notes, by the way." he smiles, accepting the beer. "yeah, parties usually aren't my thing. but it's nice to get a drink."
y/n hums, "just the sit back and observe type?"
peter smiles, glancing down at the bottle in his hands as he steadies it in his palm, just desperate to have something to do with his hands. "yeah, i guess so."
there's a beat of silence, more calm than awkward. the room was filled with the distant thrum of ned's playlist that was mostly taylor swift and laughter. the pair in the kitchen laughs; mj throws her head back, laughing at something paul said, and peter's gaze instinctively shifts towards the couple before immediately looking away.
y/n looks at mj, before turning back to peter. "she's important to you, huh?"
"was." he said gruffly, looking down before he takes a swig of his beer before correcting himself. "or is. i don't know." he was grateful y/n didn't press, but just nods.
"guess that kind of thing doesn't really go away." y/n hums, and peter nods, muttering a quiet "yeah."
another song plays, with louder and heavier bass—obviously mj's choice, peter thought. someone bumps into his shoulder in passing, muttering a quick apology before disappearing into the mess of college students.
y/n straightens, leaving their empty solo cup abandoned on the counter before looking at the dance floor. "come on."
peter blinks. "what?"
"dance, silly." they say, already reaching for his wrist. this was all so unusual to him. he had gone five years with people barely caring of his existence, keeping to the shadows, and it only takes one moment in a night with his biotech classmate to change it.
he lets out a startled laugh, his hand slightly tightening against the bottle. "i don't dance." he protests, despite the way he lets y/n guide him towards the middle.
"then you can stand there while i dance. your call." y/n chuckles, and it took a few minutes before he finally decides to join the fun instead of standing in the middle.
for a moment, the loneliness stopped creeping into spider-man's mind.
Trigger Warnings: Implied Stalking, Violent Behaviour, threating and obsessive behaviour. This is all fictional , I do not condone toxic behaviour irl
🍎Jason had good grades, a good social life with lots of admirers so nobody understood why he ran off every chance he could to hang out with you. Most his teammates had nothing against you but you were just so average they couldn't understand why he was so fascinated by you and you thought the same thing. You met Jason the same time as everyone else so why did he insist that you specifically watch his matches or go to the same parties as him, even when you said parties aren't your thing!
You were walking along the campus's dorms, carrying groceries home. Like a Hunter bringing home their prey for their pack, which might sound overdramatic for doing the food shopping for you and your housemates but it was really heavy! You huff out, whilst getting to the outside of your dormitory entry. Before you can get your mate to buzz you in you can see a shadow comsume the sun that had been your only friend on this treacherous journey to the shops. "(Reader)! Do you need help?" Jasons already leaning in to take a bag from your hand. You felt a little overwhelmed having his hand brush against yours so you let go, "Thank you!" You could actually take your key out and let him into your building. You make your way to the elevator. You didn't really know what to talk about with Jason, he's so popular he probably already knows all the uni news. Jason never had that issue with you. "So I heard you and what's his name? The weird guy in the back of your class, have been talking. Is he bothering you?" The elevator door opens with a little ding and you lead the way out. "No, no he's nice." You dismissed Jason. Unable to see how he rolls his eyes at your compliment for another man but before he can protest the two of you are already at your door. "Thank you Jason! It's very sweet of you." And with that you left him, alone and loveless.
Few days later, the sun was out again and the universities star basketball team was practicing outside, on the communal courts where they could appreciate the weather. Jason forever the sharp eye didn't just see the ball, opponents and his teammates but also that guy you've been talking to. Walking along texting someone, the idea it could be you brought out a deep rage in him. So when he got the ball he 'attempted' to score just for the ball to horribly slip out of his hand and over the fence. He tried to yell a warning but the balls already connected with the guys head, knocking him to the ground. Jason's hand covered his mouth in complete 'shock' as him and some teammates rush over. His friends went to get the ball whilst Jason repeatedly apologised to your friend. "Aw! Mate I am so sorry! Here,let me help you up." He grabs hold of the guy hand with a vises grip. "Come near (Reader) again and I'll make sure to knock your teeth out." He wishepered in the guys ear before faking shock when he gets pushed away. His victim ran of whilst Jason acted confused and hurt himself. His teammates comforted him, saying accidents happen.
🍎You on the other hand were not happy your talking stage blocked you. Staring at you phone whilst walking back from class, who blocks someone at midnight!? What did you even do!? You signed, your love life didn't seem to be improving how you thought it would at university. Almost on queue now every time you feel bad about yourself or your social life. Jason comes through the crowd straight at you. You know it's not intentional but it always feels like salt in the wound when he's around. "(Reader)! Hey!" He's always so excited to see you, you don't get it. "Hi." You sighted out. "I was going to get some drinks with the team tonight, all their mates are coming so I was wondering if you would come to!" You sigh, Maybe because your own social life wasn't all that you felt worse being around his "You know they don't want me there." You saw how Jason face drops a little. "But I want you there! Isn't that enough?" He steps closer, gently reaching out for your hand. "I care about you (Reader), like a lot. I think about you all the time! I have, I have a massive crush on you!" You feel your head snap up at his face, "I'm sorry, huh!?" You thought he was overly friendly sure but not in a crush way.
Jason doesn't say anything more, he doesn't feel like he needs to. His short black hair shines in the sun but not as much as his eyes did with hope. His blue eyes pleading with you to resiprcate his emotions. You eyes drifted away from his eyes to the people now starting, because they knew who Jason was, You saw how some gorgeous people were observing. You've seen them before, they're from Jason's class and you can just see how better they'd be for him. You're so average you wouldn't even be a cute 'ugly and pretty' duo. "No, no I'm sorry. I don't feel the same way." You back up awkwardly and rush back to the safety of your room. That was so awkward, you just wanted the earth to swallow you up. You spent the afternoon finishing off uni work and watching shows. It was very peaceful until your roommate bursts in "You turn down thee Jacob Till!? Are you dumb? He's a dream boat!" You can't help but feel judged. Your roomie sat on their bed with an apologetic look, "Sorry, Just I thought you two were already dating. Why don't you like him?" You sighted before spinning your chair away from your desk. "He's just not in my league. He should be with someone as hot or athletic as him." You swing back on your chair to face your work.
The next day was a weekend, time for everyone to relax, catch up with work and friends! You took the liberty to sleep in. Neglecting your daily routine for slumber and peace, a completely understandable action motivated by nothing more than the need for comfort and sleep.
🍎Jason took it personally however. Your curtains weren't opened when he walked by for practice, Which meant he was thirty minutes early because he couldn't watch in. His head was still racing whilst he practiced shooting hoops in the mean time. "Hey man!" He can hear the captain behind him, "So, I'm not a gossip! I hate that stuff but my girl told me you got rejected by (Reader)." The mention of your name made him lose focus and miss his shot. "You can do so much better then them!" In an attempt to cheer him up He's done nothing more than frustrat Jason. "Right, cheers. yeah." He storms off whilst all the other teammates come in confused.
Jason throws his gym kit into the ground if his room. All his roommate were out, having fun so nobody can hear his fists repeatedly punching the wall in rage. What was wrong with Jason? Why didn't you like him? Did he say something wrong? He couldn't bare to think about who you actually like. He sighs, resting his head in the wall. Whatever he was doing wrong he would fix it. He swore by it. It wasn't him however to make the first move. Along with messages from his concerned friends or just people trying to get him to like them, he recognises the unique sound your costum notifications for you.
[Hey! Are we okay? I didn't mean to upset you.] The words burn into the back of his skull. Of course you didn't mean to hurt him, you couldn't possibly do that even if you tried. Had someone reached out to you. He hates when his social life bleeds into yours. He wants it to just be the two of you. Like back when you two were children.
🍎 Jason was lonely, shy child. Completely devoid of any meaningful connections. His father never taught how to care about people and he was never shown care until you came along. You weren't even from his school, you met at the community playground outside of his run down apartment block. Some kids were picking on him, throwing rocks at him. He tried to hide within the climbing frame it isn't until he heard a new, kinder voice that he lifted his head from safety to see the scene. That's were he laid eyes on you for the first time. Yelling at his builles, causing such a scene every adult seemed to be paying attention now. The parents seemed embarrassed their children and took them away. Leaving just him and You. He didn't really know what to say, he just observed as you asked if he was okay. He simply nodded.
He was too shy to say anything. He watches as you slipped out of his life. That's when he realised he needed to get more confident in talking with people. Which he did, he talked to people all the time. Perfecting the persona of a charmer until he ran into you again, five years later. He was fourteen, in the concert basketball court. Avoiding his father as he was in a mood. He noticed you walk past, you must leave near by. He tried to open his mouth and say something, anything but he couldn't. You made him too nervous. And you slipped out of his life again. Third time was lucky, he overheard that angelic voice of yours on a train, discussing with your friends which university was your first choice. One, he can easily get into with his grade.
Jason has already sent years yearning for you. A few more means nothing to him. He will make you fall in love with him.
ੈ✩‧₊˚ if everything could ever be this real forever
hurt vigilante! reader on a mission with tim drake leads to the relationship getting exposed to his family (request)
warnings | description of violence, reader is shot, blood
This wasn’t right. It was supposed to be an incredibly easy stakeout. Just you and Tim, looking over an exchange on the docks for a bit over two hours, nothing you haven’t done before. Matter of fact, it was going to be only him on this operation, and he was the one who invited you to get some time alone without getting exposed on the comms of the family while vigilante-ing together.
Imagine your reaction when, leaning on the rooftop of some dingy motel to watch the area properly, one of the guys who was guarding up the exchange suddenly left his position to talk with who you believed was the boss. Shutting Tim up by pressing your finger to his lips, you guided his head yourself towards the direction of the criminals, urging him to look at what was happening.
The following events took place in barely ten seconds, hence why you need to focus really hard to make sure you got them in the right order.
The guy who ran up to the boss got a memo at the place that the operation was being observed by an informant that they were being watched, and he found your position rather quickly for the distance you were at. After telling the big man the news, the leader turned to look towards you, staring at you directly in the eye as he began mouthing words angrily and rapidly while he turned to look more in your direction. He pointed at you, not Tim, who aware of the situation now was shouting orders to get down now, and he moved his hand down to his neck, where he glided his ringed finger across the expanse of it, with an eerie calmness in his face that brought chills down to your body.
When he finished his gesture, a sharp, blinding pain pushed you to the ground and left you gasping for air, looking like a deer in headlights at the sky while you tried to breathe air in, but it was too heavy, feeling like it was being taken away from your lungs by an uncontrollable force. You barely registered your surroundings, your voice gurgling in your own throat while you kept gasping for air that couldn’t be retained inside for long. Your hands flopped towards your neck, trying desperately to contain the red, red liquid inside without exit and when you removed them without any force left in you, looking desperately at them covered in the substance that was dripping out of your body.
You made another noise without realising, and a whine could be heard in reply. Searching for the source, making sure Tim had gotten an out while he could not get involved in the crossfire as you did, you saw his figure right beside you with an unreadable expression on his face. His features were impossibly tense, yet his demeanour radiated the composure of an ancient medic. He began moving after being frozen by the shock for a couple seconds, and his hands that used to be cold now were warm, hot even from your blood, as he expertly took out the necessary supplies he kept on him for emergencies from his utility belt.
Gauze and wraps, so many wraps were all that covered your vision as his sharp but decided breaths contrasted against the loud noises in the docks. Cars moving, running away, tires screeching and finally, silence once again. His eyes never did leave yours for one second. Not even when the band he has been chasing for half a year got away in front of his eyes, not when his comms began to sparkle with lights and noises, so many loud noises that numbed your senses for a while.
A hot tear ran down his cheek just to fall down on your own face, and you tried to crack a dumb joke to make him smile at least while your bloody hands reached as far as they could in their attempt to wipe his tears away, like he had done to you far too many times to keep track of. Your intentions weren’t accomplished, only stretching as far as his chin, where your hand floppily tapped it. More and more tears were spilling now, as you just kept trying to make horrible puns at the situation, your voice a bit watery too, but from all the blood accumulated.
One of Tim’s hands left your body, getting a hold of his comms now, and with a few short comments, he ordered a vehicle to get him stat at your current location. Getting more gauze from somewhere you couldn’t remember exactly, he kept bandaging you up carefully, trying his best not to hurt you more than you already were, and when he deemed you were covered enough, his hands, now full of your blood too, went under your knees and back to get you up and into his arms to carry you to the meeting point downstairs. You couldn’t help but cry out at the change in position, and he seemed to match your whines too as he kept crying, shushing you gently, and keeping pressure steadily over your wound.
Now on the ground, you barely could see from the pain shot through your whole body, the laceration had caused so much blood loss that you were extremely weak, a painful sight for Tim as he was used to your sharp and smart comments and taking him on a spar match where you both would end up on a draw constantly, mixing up who ended up on top of who depending on the day. Tim was your eyes now, and as such, he guided you towards the car that arrived at the scene just now.
He opened the door to the passenger door, carefully lowering down the seat to make it more comfortable for you, and after making sure that you were properly strapped in and as good as you could be, he then moved on to the driver’s seat of the self-driving car he showed you last week (“A gift form Wayne Enterprises to Batman himself, to help with his vigilante activities”, he explained in the middle of a laughing fit).
The car moving at illegal speeds, surpassing every speed limit that has ever existed, you tried to tell him the name of a hospital to take you to that already had experience with this type of altercations in your field. Your voice barely came out, his face turning sharply towards you with tear streaks across his face and fear carved in every inch of his face while he stared at you dumbfoundedly. His jaw was clenched in a way you had never seen before except that one time you ragebaited him so hard that he almost threw you out of his first-floor window from the manor (it wasn’t something new, you had already launched yourself multiple times in a giggle fit trying to escape his ridiculously freezing hands).
You could physically see, through all the smoke hazing your vision, his gears turning inside his head as he calculated the damage level to your body, the distance to said hospital, and his eyes darkened when he came to the realisation that there was only one possible choice that would ever work for this occasion.
Tim moved through street faster and faster now as he saw your skin whitening each second, only coming to a stop when the hidden entrance to the manor through the batcave got in sight. Tires screeching loud, so loud that you were sure had woken up the residents that lived in the huge home, he left his side of the car and ran over to yours as he lifted your body the same way he had before.
In his mind, he knew he could try to stitch you up himself in any other occasion, but his shaky hands and blurry vision told him that he had to do the one thing he promised you he wouldn’t.
Let’s set things clear. It wasn’t that he didn’t love you, or he was afraid of you getting hurt because of him and his vigilante work, but rather he just wanted to keep you for himself. His family and closer friends were nosy, so, so nosy. When you two met, he decided not to tell his family he had a new vigilante friend, and he also didn’t tell them when your relationship started. As for you, you understood him, and wanted him for who he was, not because of his family and others, so being a secret wasn’t an issue at all. It did cause an argument long time ago, but that was before he cracked his heart open and confessed how much he wanted to keep you with him; not to make you his, but because you belonged with him the same way fire belongs to the earth.
You were truly happy in your relationship, spending countless days and nights together under the pretence of long and arduous missions that mysteriously took too much time, that period spent tangled up, sharing secrets, confessions and your love for your partner. You understood each other, the struggles of vigilante life, the ups and downs of your life, the constant strive to be better, to help more, to be more. Furthermore, arguments were rare with the two of you, only being important the time he opened up about himself as a person and when you revealed your identities to each other, but that is a story for another time when you aren’t actively bleeding out in the batcave.
The hideout was covered in every type of weapon imaginable, screens and areas with panels dedicated to specific missions (“Colour coded, thanks to me” Tim told you when he first described the cave). On the sides, there were couches and doors that seemed to lead down long corridors to medical areas and training facilities.
Now this was a Tuesday at 3:46 am, so you didn’t really expect people there: in and out of your consciousness you came to the conclusion that you would probably meet some family today, and even if that was the least of your worries now, you were a bit sad at not being able to make a good first impression. Maybe you could try to slip in a “Hi, I’m sorry for bleeding out all over your floor, by the way, I’m dating your son/ brother” depending on who you found, if your voice doesn’t give out.
Tim arrived in a frenzy, entering the room with measured steps when he completely froze up. You tried to turn in his arms to look at the situation at your hands, and if you weren’t already white as a ghost, you could’ve turned several shades paler. Tragically for everyone involved, there was, in fact, a lot of people in the cave. Jason and Damian were arguing about a case on the side of the hideout, Dick was talking with Bruce about something you couldn’t distinguish properly, and even though your senses were completely weakened, something told you Cass was hiding somewhere.
You managed to make a joke, something about dirtying the marble and how hard it is to clean out when you finally passed out, resting your head with a weak thud on Tim’s shoulder. His eyes, hollow and empty from everything that had just happened in the span of 30 minutes, were silently pleading and he just looked at his family, eyes brimmed with tears again, and just whispered “Please, I need help”.
No one said anything but everyone got up. Now it wasn’t the time for explanations, now it was the time to save whoever their Tim had brought, completely trusting his intuition with whoever he considered to be important enough to bring to the batcave. Moving with military efficiency, each member began either set up the medical wing, call Alfred or prepare something that might be needed after.
Bruce moved quickly across the floor of the hideout and took you from Tim’s arms, taking away the burden of carrying his pain alone. Looking at him directly in his red eyes, he nodded and took you to the room prepared already.
Once you were resting, fixed up from the wound but still unconscious, his family surrounded him, yet nobody dared say anything. It was Dick who went right in front of a sat down, face in his hands Tim, crouched down, and pulled him up for a hug as the boy you call your boyfriend, now looking more vulnerable than ever, began to sob uncontrollably on his brother’s shoulder. He felt another hand dragging across his back, the owner of it unknown, but it brought him unmeasurable comfort as he tried to catch his breath to explain to his family what had happened and who you were to him.
song | everlong- foo fighters
a/n: this was my first ever request! at some point writing this i reached actual flow state and started yapping uncontrollably
People have really forgotten that yandere is literally a horror trope. No I don't want a "green flag yandere" I want an endless pit of dread in my stomach and also a sense of arousal that shouldn't be there
tangentwithtanner
baratheonpilled
titsay
amandla
germansingergirl
snowghoul
gracieabrams
