; yandere, this is based on a cliche trope so do with that as you will, pathetic phainon but #he gets his way, plot device sunday, manipulation, brief mention of self-harm + suicide threat (it's used as a manipulation tactic), proofread to the best of my ability...
; becoming enamoured with phainon is an inevitability that you had no chance of ever resisting. but it stings how he'll never see you beyond a dear friend from kindergarten. the moment you move on, however, begins a shift in your dynamic with him -- he wants you back, desperately so.
; push-and-pull trope with phainon. oneshots masterlist can be seen here.
I. Love is a bitter fruit grown from trees.
“I’m Phainon! What’s your name?”
The first time you met him, his small hand reached out, waiting for you to take it. You did.
A duo is often composed of an extrovert and an introvert: at the age of seven, you knew full well who was who between you and your newfound friend, Phainon. He has a birthmark resembling that of the sun located at the side of his neck. It suits him well, you can’t think of anything but the sun when describing him. He shines like one, is warm like one, and basks everyone with his golden presence like one.
You wondered often: If he is the sun, then what would that make you?
Ideally, you’d be the complementary moon for him. During childhood, you tried to force it down your own throat by using the yellow crayon for him, and the blue one for you in your schoolwork doodles. Sun and moon, yellow and blue, light and dark – phainon and you. Growing up a bit more, you soon came to realise that you are no moon.
You’re more of a sunflower who basks in his sunlight and greedily soaks up all his affection. You’d hate to be the moon, for this meant you’d only rise when Phainon is gone – you prefer staying right by his side, a sidekick he can always count on.
A sidekick wearing your heart on your sleeves, shy but never quite ashamed of the sincere feelings you’ve held for him growing up. A flower bud that slowly unfurls into a full bloom.
As your mother would lovingly refer to you both, you are: “Two birds of a feather!”
Your childhood memories of Aedes Elysiae, blurry some of them may be, are bathed in everlasting gold. While Phainon dragged you off to go play heroes or look through Cyrene’s cards together, you remember dropping pollen of your romantic affection, scattered across planes of time like trails of breadcrumbs left for him to decipher.
While the sun dipped into the horizon, you inched closer to him day by day, the fluttering in your heart evolves into a palpitation you can never stop, and small gifts handcrafted to show your admiration all gently whispered to him to ‘please, take the hint’. But reminiscent of an immovable stone, Phainon remained blissfully oblivious to the signs.
Cyrene certainly got them; her narrowing eyes and poorly hidden giggles as she sent you and Phainon away were enough of a testament. “I’m not feeling well today, you two can go on without me!”
You’d linger at the edge of her front yard, unsure how to proceed with her help. At Phainon’s call however, you move to follow him – “okay, phai!” – trying to contain the dandelion seeds dancing around in your stomach when he leads you by the arm, not letting go despite arriving at your destination. You didn’t want to let go either, even with the sweat building up in your palm.
High school sprouts in your backyard as a tall and looming beanstalk that would force you both to grow up even more.
Phainon’s high-pitched voice starts cracking like eggshells, making way for a deeper tone yet still carrying that warm lilt he always had. You grow taller, still incomparable to Phainon’s own growth spurt, but a good few inches nonetheless. Your sense of style reshapes itself, old interests thrown out for newer ones, and the patch of land where you’d all play heroes together becomes forgotten, the trampled blades of grass outgrowing their original length.
You start favouring the comforts of your room over the blazing heat of the sun, beginning to find sweat as something you can’t stand and only coming out when Phainon pleads with you to do so.
He shines brighter in High School – his presence a beaming beacon of light as he walks through the hallways and enters classrooms. Being the sunflower that you are, you faithfully stayed by his side. Fawning crowds come and go, you don’t.
Your infatuation is exposed to those who aren’t Cyrene; childish people who never grew past the mental age of twelve tried to pick on you for always ‘Sticking to phainon like some damn leech! Don’t have any other personality traits or something?’ – the teasing didn’t last after Phainon punched one of them square in the face. His heroic act only dug your cove of feelings a little bit deeper.
He’s your best friend and first love, a pillar of comfort you grew up with – you can’t imagine your life without Phainon. You pick up more hobbies, he joins more clubs he never expected he would, and you share your new life experiences with each other during lunch. Sometimes separated, but never for too long.
Several months flicker by, and during one of your high school Valentine’s, you received gifts from men who aren’t just Phainon.
Despite his locker overflowing with pink, glittery love notes and heart-shaped chocolates handmade out of sincerity, his gaze was pinned to the white envelope and bouquet of flowers you carried - neither of them is from him. His own gift is already hanging off your backpack, the cute sunflower keychain that it is.
“From a friend?” He asks, finally closing his locker before he risks more glitter explosions on the ground.
“I doubt it,” He’s the only friend you have in this school, embarrassing it is to admit. Cyrene studies elsewhere. “But they’re cute.”
You see his tongue in cheek, and you dare let a seed of hope plant in the root of your heart. Is he… jealous? That makes you giddy. Tentatively, you ask, “You think so too, right, Phainon?”
He grimaces, glancing one last time at the items in your embrace before smiling, “Yeah, they are. Anyway, done with your locker? Let me carry your bag now.”
You nursed that seed of hope from then forth, slowly but steadily hoping more and more for the plausibility that he returns your feelings. It wouldn’t be too far off, surely – even if you’re not meant for each other in the end, you still want to try with him. You water that seed by dropping more subtle hints to Phainon, and you fertilize it by observing your best friend like an animal in a zoo, analyzing his minuscule actions and trying to correlate them to the mannerisms of ‘a guy with a secret crush on his best friend’.
To be young is to be naive.
You didn’t need much. A simple ‘you should go for it! I’ve been rooting for you two since we were all children!’ from Cyrene carved out your decision to confess to Phainon near the end of high school.
In the end, ripped straight from the dramas you watched out of curiosity, you confess to Phainon at the height of spring after getting your high school diplomas; the scent of flowers in full bloom makes you sick with nostalgia and nerves simultaneously. Your family is off conversing with his parents, while you dragged him to a secluded spot in the school.
“Uhm… I’ve liked you for a long time now, Phainon. I’m not expecting you to return my feelings but…” You leave it open-ended, too afraid to settle your confession definitively. You love him, actually - but love is a strong word that some don’t like to acknowledge. For his sake, you won’t either.
A warm, gentle spring can never stay for too long. In the same breath, you, too, are forced to abandon the sunlight you’ve known for several years at the sound of his discordant chuckle – the awkward smile etched on his face as his eyes could only look down at you in what you assume to be pity. You avert your gaze from his blue eyes, opting to stare into his birthmark instead.
“Hey, of course I like you too - you’re my best friend! But we can always stay as friends, (Y/N). You’re dear to me, you know – maybe not… like that, I just don’t want things to change between us.”
You experience the first and biggest heartbreak of your life just hours after graduating from High School. Your best friend Phainon does not reciprocate your feelings and instead wishes for your relationship to stay the same, locked into the tight box of ‘close friends’ he never plans on breaking. The seed-turned-plant of hope in your heart withers down to a sad, pathetic, dried-out flora.
That’s okay. You’ll be attending the same college as him, located far, far away – even if it’s not, you have to be okay.
After a few tense seconds of utter silence, you smile – the most carefree smile you can muster in that moment before enthusiastically nodding at him, “I get it! Don’t worry, Phainon. I totally get it. Uh, hey, I think Cyrene’s calling me. I have to take this phone call for a bit, okay? Let’s meet again later!”
You bury that confession six feet under in your backyard, covered and only seen by inches of soil as you maintain your close friendship with Phainon. Best friends, close friends, friends - you are not to cross these labels unless you want to lose your close companion.
The months of free time leading up to college are nothing unusual, you spend it as you would in the past: Phainon picking you up on the front porch to spend the entire day together. It’s either his or your room where you’ll pour sweating buckets over study materials and banter over multiplayer games on his console.
Your heart still beats like drums just being in his vicinity alone, and it took you days of preparation to act like you’re unbothered when he invites you to his room – the walls and shelves containing time capsules from years before. Pressed white daisies you gifted him on his 10th birthday peeks out as his bookmark, and your kindergarten doodle of him as the sun proudly hangs above his bed, displayed as if it’s an artifact from the Belobog museum.
The most heartwrenching item is the printed photo sitting on his desk: it’s little him kissing little you’s frosting-smudged cheek at your 10th birthday party. The shock on your face is captured and frozen in time, a memory you both laugh about every month or so. 10th birthday… It’s the same age you realized you see him as more than a friend.
Seeing it for the umpteenth time never fails to steal the air from you; the ache never gets easier. You wish you could truly put these romantic feelings to rest in a coffin and seal it shut with a lid, never to be opened again.
“Phainon, next time… let’s spend the day in my room.”
Seeing bits and pieces of you scattered around his room hurts more than him verbally rejecting you.
He grins, all teeth and gums, “Sure!”
Even branches grow into a tree of their own, just as a fledgling must leave its nest.
Spring came and went, high school a chapter closed, and you’re now faced with attending school – college, you remind yourself – an ocean away from the familiar warmth of Aedes Elysiae. The wheat fields that were once taller than you, and Phainon’s house right next door, are all left behind momentarily. You can’t pocket your hometown to bring with you in Penacony, but at least you still have Phainon.
“Everything all settled?” He gently lets go of your dorm’s wooden table, finally in its correct position, “This layout is fine, right?”
“It is,” You hand him a towel, itching to help with wiping off his sweat, “Thanks, Phainon. You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to, anything for you.” Anything for his dear best friend. He bumps your side before sitting down on the living room couch. You wanted him to stick around for a while longer, but he’s already out your door the moment he hears knocking – (‘Oh, your roommate is here! I need to go now, remember to call me if you need help, okay?’ he pats your shoulder on the way out).
The patch of skin he briefly touched is still tingling when you see someone walk into the living room, luggage trailing right behind. A tall man with shoulder-length gray hair and kind yellow eyes bows at you in greeting. He’s wearing a white cardigan with a blue sweater layered on top, the color alone reminds you of your best friend despite the difference in shades.
“Hello, pardon my sudden entrance.”
“...Hi.” You don’t know how to talk to people beyond Phainon and Cyrene - standing around here is making you shy. “Uhm, my name is (Y/N)... And you are…?”
“I am Sunday,” His hand extends for a handshake, and you hesitantly follow suit. “It’s nice to meet you. I sincerely hope we get along.”
You nod, staring back into pools of liquid gold while shaking his hand, “...Yeah, let’s. And please don’t mind the succulents on the windowsill.”
II. A close-knit friendship withers in winter, in its place is a new one.
Much to your relief, your late-night fears of college drifting you and Phainon apart never come to fruition. It has the opposite effect, to your surprise. While not overdramatically countries away, Phainon’s dorm room is located a floor above - a notable difference from when he lived right next door to you. The added distance often has him visiting your dorm room unprompted (you kindly gave him a spare key in case of emergencies) and easily greeting a confused Sunday who just finished his classes for the day.
“Call me your third roommate – don’t worry, I help around!” He’d joke. Using your headband to push his hair back, wearing a baggy tee and gray sweatpants, he makes himself at home. Sometimes doing his own homework or brings his gaming laptop along.
After the initial surprise, Sunday doesn’t mind his company – you certainly don’t.
Phainon waits for you outside your room to walk you to your class. He makes sure you sit next to him in the classes you share. He insists you join the same org as him, and predictably, you do.
You thought you buried your less-than-platonic feelings in your backyard; you truly did. But Phainon has your heart racing in excitement, rekindling the dying plant of hope. You still like him – truthfully, you never stopped liking him. But he’s closer to you now, a feat you previously thought to be impossible. The distance of just one floor away makes the heart grow fonder. Dare you say, clingy?
But he still remains your best friend. A clingy, touchy one – but your best friend.
Sunday discusses the topic on a slow, school-less night. You’re in the living room finishing up the last plates needed to be washed when he suddenly chimes in, tone so sure of his words, “Ah yes, I remember now. Please tell your boyfriend to stop entering our dorm past 11 PM. The faculty recently deployed a curfew; it’s best we follow it.”
The ceramic plate in your grasp almost crashes headfirst to the floor. Out of embarrassment, you refuse to turn around and face your roommate. Boyfriend. Boyfriend – only one person is a repeat visitor in your dorm room, and he’s nowhere near being your boyfriend.
Meekly, you set the plate down and correct him, “I’ll inform him, but… Phainon isn’t my boyfriend.”
The silence that wafts through is more humiliation added onto your person. What is Sunday’s facial expression right now? Shocked? Ashamed?
He answers it for you: “I see… This is quite mortifying, my sincere apologies.”
But he continues, “You’re both seen together, and he visits you so often, not to mention the look you give him, I got the idea that…– I’ll be sure to be more observant in the future. Again, my apologies.”
You’re wiping the table clean when you reply, still angling your face away from his eyes, “It’s cool, don’t worry! No harm done! He and I are best friends, yes… the bestest of friends!”
You feel him raise a brow at that, “I don’t mean to pry, however…”
Cyrene always chided you for being a pushover to those around you. In this instance, you hear her disapproving frown when you fold like a wet blanket, “Whatever it is you’re thinking –! I-it’s probably right.”
Wilted sunflower that you are, you mournfully face him with your eyes cast to the floor.
“Ah. You like him?”
You slowly nod, a small part relieved that you now have someone other than Cyrene and Phainon to confide in. “Don’t tell him, please…”
“I won’t.”
His bird-patterned socks enter at the edge of your vision. You slowly look up. Sunday is smiling at you, although a bit tense.
“Perhaps it’s a bit presumptuous of me considering we’ve only known each other for months, but… They say I’m a good listener. If you don’t mind, could you tell me more?”
Sunday is a Borage you unknowingly planted, only just now peaking when you need him most. Sitting side by side on your dorm’s small couch, you gain an outsider’s perspective on your years-long pining toward your best friend. He hears of your rejection and your still-persisting feelings. In the end, the advice he offered to you is:
“He may not be stringing you along, but you still foster optimism in your heart. So long as you have it, you will never move forward past him. If you ask me… confess your love a second time; see if his opinion has changed.”
You gulp, “And if it doesn’t?”
He smiles, gentle as clouds, “Broaden your horizons permanently. Distance yourself if you must; your friendship will pick up once you settle your feelings.”
Winter break is soon; you’ll need to go back to Aedes Elysiae in a few months’ time. However…
“If it’s not too much. A-and I understand if you don’t want to! But, could I ask you to…”
Sunday’s words continuously ring in your mind, repeating circles of “confess your feelings” and “move on,” bouncing off of one another. Coincidentally, Sunday is out for the afternoon when Phainon barges in a week later. Something about groupmates and ‘I wish you were in my group’ going one ear and out the other as you nod at him in autopilot.
He picks up on your unusual behavior not even ten minutes in: brows raised to the sky and eerily getting close and personal with you, surveying your face like it’d shed off all the information he wanted. He retracts a few seconds later, less joking when he inquires, “Something on your mind? Missing Aedes Elysiae?”
Hanging out in your small room like this, laptop opened to play some pirated action movie, and his class notes scattered around your bedsheets like autumn leaves…
You shake your head, feeling the moment to follow Sunday’s advice is now. This is the perfect timing – no one else around to see your heartbroken face for a second time, and no Cyrene to find out you’re still hung up on him.
“Phainon, I…”
He shuffles closer to hear you better – traitorously, your heart clenches in affection.
“Yeah?”
You take a deep breath, screwing your eyes shut, “I think I still like you.”
You downplay your feelings for the sake of self-preservation.
His breath hitches, “Ah, that’s–”
“I’m sorry.” You apologize, remorseful at how uncomfortable he must be right now, “I really tried, but…” A deep breath, “I’ll move on from you soon, I promise.”
“Oh,” He pauses, staring anywhere but you, “Uhm… sure… I’m glad to have you, you know?”
You nod, too fragile to face him.
“...You’re my first and dearest friend. I truly, really liked you, Phainon.” You love him so, so much.
“You’re dear to me too, (Y/N). Forever and now.”
You’ve heard of an overseas concept where a person in an unrequited love begins to sprout flowers from within. You feel like that’s happening to you right now with how unbearable heartbreak is – yellow carnations form from your bleeding heart, wormwood seizes your lungs in a tight embrace, and pink roses mix with your innards. You’d cough out the feeling if you could; empty your stomach from all the flowers and be done with it.
Predictably, he’s quiet for the rest of the movie – immediately coming up with an excuse to leave your dorm room once the end credits begin rolling in. You break down into tears the moment the lock clicks in place. You cry for hours, long enough for Sunday to come knocking on your door, just knowing you managed to do it when he readily offers you one of his giantmoa pudding tarts.
Eyes puffy and snot stubbornly running down your nose, you take a bite and thank him through a mouthful of pastry. It’d taste better if you weren’t so heartbroken. He gently rubs your shoulder in comfort.
“It’ll be alright.”
He’s right– But Phainon has always been by your side, rain or shine. The following months of his absence from your life will be akin to traversing a dark forest with no light source.
But there’s light at the end of the tunnel; a rainbow at the end of the storm. When Sunday bans you from helping with chores that night, you know your heart will heal in time.
“Thanks a lot… sunny.”
He sighs in mock exasperation, “I see you’ve picked up on that nickname too.”
The sun: Hey
The sun: I came by to pick you up, but for some reason, your roommate’s lying?? He said you’re not going back to aedes elsysiae this winter break??? And even denied me entry???
The sun: crazy right
The sun: I’m right outside waiting for you rn
The sun: do you need help packing up? :)
You: No
You: He’s telling the truth.
You: I won’t be visiting for now. Maybe next semester break?
The sun: what
You haven’t read his one-word reply when your phone screen transitions to his contact photo with the text ‘The sun is calling…’ displayed below. You sigh, reluctantly sliding to accept.
Even with speakers turned off, you hear him without pressing your phone against your ear: “What do you mean? Did something happen? Don’t tell me you and Auntie got into a fight…! Don’t worry! I’ll act as the middleman like usu-”
“Uhm, Phainon.” You cut him off.
“Yeah?”
“It’s nothing like that, please don’t worry.”
He makes a sound of confusion, painfully close to a whimper, “So then… why aren’t you visiting our hometown with me?”
‘Because you’ll be there’. “I’m busy with some personal matters here, don’t worry about me. Say hi to Snowy for me, okay?”
“No, I’m absolutely worrying about you – why not? We can visit them next week instead if you’re busy! Why… why miss out on the entire winter break? Won’t you be lonely here?”
“No need, really! Enjoy aedes elysiae for me. And I won’t be lonely… so stop worrying so much, you softie. I have sunny with me.”
“Sunny…? Your… roommate? Sunday? He’s staying here for winter break, too?” He sounds choked up from disbelief; you’d laugh if you weren’t battling against your resurfacing feelings from talking to him on the phone. “Sunday?”
“Yes, he’ll take care of me. I swear!”
“...”
“...Phainon? Hello?” Did the call end already? You glance at your screen, frowning in confusion when you see that the call is still ongoing. Is he lagging on his end? But he’s outside of your dorm.
“If you need anything,” He suddenly speaks up, “Anything – call me, please. If your roommate makes you sad or uncomfortable, tell me right away, okay? I’ll call you again the moment I’m back in aedes elysiae. Stay safe, I love you.”
You flinch at his admission, knowing he didn’t mean it like that. “I know… safe travels, Phainon.”
“Phai.”
“Huh?”
“Call me Phai. Isn’t that what you used to call me when we were kids? Why’d you stop? Let’s bring it back.”
You lie on your bed, pondering. Why did you stop? Perhaps since it was a nickname from childhood, you let go of it and hoped Phainon would see you more than just… his friend since diapers. It didn’t work, clearly. So you don’t mind calling him that shortened version of his name again.
“Okay… Safe travels, Phai.”
Despite your emboldened decision to ask Sunday to stay with you for winter break, you are still, at your core, a floundering, unsociable person. You have your moments of being bold and talkative, but it’s covered by leaves of quietude and slight stutters. Socializing is not your strong suit. You’re not at the stage of being totally buddy-buddy with your roommate, but you’re slowly getting there.
You’re glad you met Sunday. Had it not been for him, you’d still be stuck hopelessly waiting for a day that’ll never come: a phantom of the past who’s deathly afraid of the future.
In the span of your one-month winter break, you get to know him better. Your roommate, who’s a good listener is also an older brother to an idol trainee, has a trio of friends who roomed together a floor below, likes sweet treats, and ran away from his adoptive home after graduating high school.
Your profound respect for him only continued to grow, stalking across your shared living space like vines. While Phainon’s frequent messages, consisting of photos of Snowy and with your family, make your heart twinge in longing, you start ignoring them for the sake of progress. He’ll understand why a year from now, and you’ll both laugh about it like the pair of best friends that you are.
It’s not college that severs you and Phainon – it’s you yourself, but cutting off a branch from your tree does not mean it’s not allowed to grow a new one elsewhere.
III. Regret burgeons when everything is said and done.
Phainon: I feel like you’ve been ignoring me lately
Phainon: did i upset you?
Phainon: :(
The Gen Ed courses you took unfortunately landed you in some shared classes with Phainon, the ‘sunny’ side is that they’re coincidentally shared with Sunday and his friends too. While anxious to meet them, he thoroughly reassured you that they’re nice people.
“Just a bit… loud sometimes, I hope you don’t mind.”
You don’t – anything to physically get away from Phainon. The one-month winter break may have taught you to rely on him less, but seeing his face again might cause you to fold like paper. You see his unanswered texts when you close your eyes, and you hear his voice right before falling asleep. You miss him, but you know what must be done. When he visited you on the day he left Amphoreus, you and Sunday worked together to pretend that no one was home when he came knocking.
He stayed for hours before going up to his own floor.
Sunday sits on your left, and Stelle (A kind woman who is equal parts loud and quiet) on the other. Your new acquaintances, Dan Heng and March, are a row ahead.
“I’m telling you, (Y/N)! His nickname really is cold dragon young!” March cackles in glee, making sure to point at Dan Heng in case you mistake him for someone else.
He sighs, pushing down her finger, “That was years ago, ignore her.”
Stelle chimes in, lazily putting her arm around your shoulder and whispering, “Because he had a gachalife phase.”
Cold dragon young hisses at her to shut up, only to serve as fuel for their cackling. Entertained, you let out a few quiet chuckles at their display. You can never be happy for too long – the classroom door soon creaks open, familiar tufts of white hair peeking in not a moment later. The realization that it’s undoubtedly Phainon has you clammoring in your seat, sitting rigidly in attention.
Sunday gently rubs your back, eases you back to your current circle, “Sorry…!”
“It’s okay,” Sunday whispers back, sharing a glance with you.
“Ah, (Y/N)! There you are! …And everyone too, hello!” Phainon greets from up front, hastily picking up his pace to approach your group. Facing you, he wastes no time firing question after question, “Where were you yesterday? I waited around and tried the key you gave me, but it never worked. Did your phone break? I couldn’t contact you at all, I was so worried!”
You smile at him, “Phai, it’s nice to see you again. Sorry, we replaced our door lock with a new key for uhm… security reasons, I’ll try to get you a copy sometime. And no… my phone isn’t broken, I was just busy, that’s all!”
He audibly sighs in relief, “...Really? That’s good, I’m glad – I missed you a lot, you know?” Adjusting his bag strap, he nods to the unoccupied seats in the first row, “Come on, let’s sit.”
Stelle speaks for you, “Oh, she’s sitting with us.”
“Hm? Right! Thank you for taking care of my best friend, but we’ll get going now–”
“No, I mean she’ll be sitting with us for this class.”
Phainon cocks his head, “Sorry, can you repeat that?”
You meekly affirm, “I’m… sitting with them. Uh, they’re really nice people, Sunny introduced me to them!”
“Huh?” He looks like a lost puppy on the verge of being abandoned, “...But our seats?”
“I’ll try to sit with you next class!”
You never do: you sit next to Sunday in every single one of them and ignored the bewildered look on his face each time.
He beelines for you after dismissal, blue eyes so eager and pleading when he asks you, “Let’s get dinner together – my treat? It feels like I haven’t seen you in centuries.”
Only for you to scratch the back of your neck while shyly glancing at Sunday, “Uhm… we already made plans after school. Sorry, Phai.”
“Oh.” He steps back, letting you and Sunday pass by him to exit the room. His blue eyes follow you until they can no longer. He’s left with himself when he mutters a bitter:
“I get it.”
“Let me carry that for–Ah, Sunday…?”
He’s a second too late, but Phainon stubbornly clings to your bag’s front pocket, the very bag that the other man is already carrying. You’re still in the bathroom when the professor dismisses the class. Wanting to do his usual duties, Phainon intended to carry your bag, but… someone already beat him to it. He smiles at him, polite, “Thank you friend, but this is my thing, if you’d kindly–”
Sunday’s lips curve into what seems to be a subtle mocking smile. He adjusts the bag closer to him before replying in a composed manner, “How chivalrous of you, Mister Phainon. However, it’s not needed. See? I can carry it for her.”
Phainon sees it as clear as day.
Childishly, Phainon thinks he can carry it better than he can. It’s what he always did for you since he still had some front teeth missing from his smile; it’s his duty, not your roommate’s.
He reluctantly lets go when you come up to thank Sunday, blatantly ignoring him just a few feet away. He enthusiastically greets you, but he still exists as an imaginary concept in your eyes. What’s going on? He ponders, watching you chat the world away with Sunday. What happened before that winter break that caused you to grow so tremendously close to that guy?
You said you’d give him a new copy of your dorm room, but you’re ignoring his texts, his existence, and now – letting someone else do his usual tasks. Seriously, what gives?
Sunday’s like a parasite attached to your hip, it unnerves and angers him.
Are you… trying to replace him? His heart threatens to drop just thinking about it.
You are.
You really are trying to replace him.
Sunday sits next to you, Sunday lives with you, Sunday eats with you, Sunday talks with you, Sunday texts with you, Sunday laughs with you – Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. Every time Phainon is graced with your presence, it’s quick to sour from your notable companion by your side. Your new circle of friends too, Phainon sees it clear as day: you don’t want to be around them all the time, but you’re peer pressured into doing so. If Phainon was by your side… he would never let that happen to you. He’d punch them into blindness should they dare to make you inconvenienced.
Two birds of a feather – that’s what your mother called him and you; A pair of friends so close you might as well be surgically joined together in the middle. When Seven-year-old Phainon first reached his hand out to you, his brain made the unconscious decision then: you’d be the sole irrevocable part of his life. Flowers bloom and wilt; they experience a death of their own, but under Phainon’s sunlight, he promised that he’d never let a sunflower like you be anything less than thriving.
He leads and you follow, only so he’d be the one to be hurt when braving the unknown. Scraped knees and bruised patches of skin are nothing because you’re not hurt. He shines so you can comfortably hide under the shade – you’re not one for people, he’s fine with the way you are. He adjusts around your existence, a mold of comfort that perfectly fits none but you. He’s your fighter and protector; sword and shield.
Skipping rocks on a nearby lake, teasing Cyrene together, learning from her cards, and discovering a poor abandoned puppy who’d eventually be named ‘Snowy’ are all flashing strings of gold in his memories. Moments carefully planted in his own backyard and given regular maintenance lest he start neglecting them.
He loves you, of course he does. There is nothing purer in this world than his love for you; a flower specially nursed and plucked with the greatest care, a beauty unparalleled for it’s fertilized from the attention you give him.
His room is centered around you; every item given is meticulously stored and given a special place. The polaroids, your kindergarten doodles, the yellow crayon you gave him, your pressed flowers – he still has it, even brought it along to his dorm room, where he’s embraced by your presence every night before sleep.
He loves you, he knows this well in his heart. But Phainon is simply not worthy of you. His love for you is pure, but he, as a person, is not. A Sun can also be damaging to a sunflower – he is the filth to your pure, the actual darkness to light.
Is it because he refused your confession?
He preserves you because no one in this world deserves you, but must you go ahead and leave him for dead after finding a different sun to seek sunlight from? Sunday… What does he have that Phainon does not? Is he the better him? Does he treat you kinder than he does?
Sunday is far from holy. If anything, he’s the snake trying to lure you to ruin. You don’t know any better, hence why Phainon is around to protect you.
This is the biggest hurdle you’ve ever faced together, and with his heart being torn to pieces by your own gardening tools, he’ll make it right. He always goes. He’ll make it right, he’ll get you back, and you two can go back to the way you were before – just more. Friends, best friends, lovers, and everything in between, he’ll really give it all to you.
Sunday… he’s poisoned your mind and rotted your pure soul.
IV. Desperation is a seed planted long, long ago – still, spring has come.
“Thank you for sticking around me, Phai.”
He’s in the middle of starting a pathetic fire using twigs and stone when you blurt out cryptic words beside him. He hums, continuing his work, “What do you mean?”
“Can’t I just say thank you!?” You fluster, quickly standing up and pacing around the edge of the forest you’ve both designated as your ‘camping spot’. “Mama said it’s nice to thank people! So, uhm- Thank you for being my friend, please never stop being my best friend!”
“‘Course I won’t!” Phainon toothily grins, fluffy white hair gaining a slight bounce from his motions, “Actually, I’ll never abandon you. Ever!”
You perk up like a sunflower dancing in the wind, “Really!?”
The fire finally sparks to life, small and flickering, but there. At the same time, he gazes deep into your eyes, only knowing nothing else but sincerity at such an age, “Yeah! I swear!”
A yelp, “Swearing is bad!”
Phainon’s eyes blearily blink open. His dorm room ceiling greets him first thing in the morning.
Phainon stalks and waits like a deep-rooted willow tree. He strikes you when he knows you’re alone. It all falls into place: Sunday’s trainee sister is dropping by a different part of the city over the weekend; logic dictates that he won’t be coming back to his dorm room until then. Your close proximity to Sunday will momentarily halt, and Phainon is free to slither in.
He’s waiting right outside your dorm room when you come walking down the long hallway, body language all languid, even resting against the paint-chipped-off stone pillar while scrolling through his social media feed,
You’d spot him a mile away, and seeing him without Sunday by your side makes you hesitate all the more. Your stupid heart starts speeding up.
“I just want to talk,” He calls out, pocketing his phone to spread his arms wide open for a hug, “I miss you, is that too much to ask?”
You slowly approach him, “...No, I missed you too.”
You miss him. You miss him. You miss him. You’ve been holding your sunflower keychain as your nightly comfort or else you’d end up calling his number at 2AM.
Phainon smiles, “Really?”
“Yes… I just got… busy, that’s all.”
He smiles wider, blue eyes turning into blue crescent moons, “Really?”
“...Yes.” His hand gently pries the keys out of your hand; you let him.
You hear Sunday screaming on your shoulder, telling you that your blase facade is quickly falling apart at the seams. Unaffected, unmoved – you’re nothing of the sort right now. You’re a sunflower who’s been starved of sunlight for too long.
With a click, he opens the door for you and softly murmurs, “You’ve been hurting me a lot, (Y/N). You know that, right? But I understand, it’s not your fault.”
You step inside, letting him lock the door behind you, “Not… my fault?”
He shakes his head, hands firmly grasping your shoulders to sit you down on the small couch, “No, it’s mine.”
Immediately you protest, “That’s not true. We just drifted apart–”
Once more, he shakes his head before dropping to his knees before you. The sudden action makes you flinch, growing more uncertain when he holds your hand in his. Phainon’s eyes remind you of butterfly peas from up this close.
He’s quiet when he speaks, a deep rasp overtaking his voice, “...You don’t understand: I miss you.”
You understand what he means. Parting from Phainon is disorienting. Sunday and his friends may have managed to fill the gaping hole in your heart, but it’s incomparable to Phainon’s presence.
Are you a bad person for not finding satisfaction in your new friends? Are you sick in the end to still crave Phainon after being rejected two times? Is this what you get for sticking by his side for so long?
It probably is.
He continues speaking, “I’m sorry for pushing you away; that was never my intention. I wasn’t lying when I said you’re dear to me – you truly are. I never wanted to pursue a relationship with you because, I– I’m too lowly for you. I would only taint you.”
You run your fingers through his hair, reminiscing on all the nights you spent crying over him – it still bleeds like fresh wounds, “That’s ridiculous, Phainon. I’m not some holy figure to taint. I was just a girl in love with her best friend.”
“I know, but you… you don’t understand. You’re everything to me.”
“You’re everything to me, too, that’s why I loved you.” You still do.
“I think of you first thing in the morning. I brush my hair wondering how I’ll spend the day with you, I eat breakfast, thinking what yours was at that moment, I kept the homework you threw out. I always hate it when I talk to people who aren’t you. I still have the twigs you gave me during our 6th-grade camping trip. The reason the pressed flowers you were planning on giving out during high school graduation went missing is that I stole them – I didn’t want anyone else owning a piece of you. I make sure you’re always too shy to stand up for yourself, so I can save you. I… I hate Sunday for getting into your head – it should only be me. I should be the one you hate and love. I – you’re everything to me.”
His grip tightens, blunt fingernails leaving indents on your own fingers, “I’m sorry, please take me back. I’m unworthy, but I don’t want you to be happy with anyone else. I started cutting myself when you refused to go back to Aedes Elysiae with me – I don’t want to live in a world where I’m not by your side. Please. I’ll kill myself if you leave me. I really will.”
You swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth.
If Phainon is the sun that will incinerate you and your sunflower petals for getting too close, the question it poses is: Do you let it consume you whole? To forgive and forget, starting a new chapter anew in the process?
kill yourself or let (y/n) have friends and move on from you
tw/cw: typical yandere behavior - though it’s a bit soft here, but he’s heavily codependent; unhealthy relationship dynamics; NSFW/dub-con - male m*sturbation/self pleasure; phainon might be ooc soooo sorryyyy; reader is female
words: ~3k
a/n: word vomit incoming…this is probs terribly written but i had to quickly write this to get it out bc i had this thought scratching me :p
Your phone had rang again for the third time within the past five minutes. You chose to ignore it because you knew it was futile to hammer some sense into Phainon at this rate. He’s supposed to be working right now, as he was just on stage a few moments ago, announcing awards and giving trophies to colleagues alike. Cameras flashing all around him and fans screaming his name in a dispossessed passion. But no, he’s being completely ridiculous at a time like this, calling you when he’s in the public eye—supposed to be public.
Now he’s off the stage; some new segments have started with a live performance from a nominated group. But last you checked, Phainon is supposed to stand off to the side alongside his fellow idol-host, so that the cameras would cut to them intermittently to show their surprised expressions for live reactions. But just as the camera did decide to pan to them, he wasn’t there. Phainon was completely gone from the entire set, nowhere to be found, and even his fellow host wore an annoyed look that couldn’t be masked with years of PR training.
You knew you could not do much as you would want to, even as you had begged him to go and show up to this event. And in return, he begged and groveled not to go because he’d rather spend it with you. Still, you called him childish for not wanting to do his responsibilities as Phainon was obligated to do—he did willingly choose to be an idol all those years ago, and he certainly can’t just back out now, so soon, so abruptly, at the height of his career. His entire job is to show up and show face, his presence being his main trademark. It’s unfathomable that you, his non-idol, normal girlfriend, had to convince him to show up to this award ceremony, because you knew the significance of his absence more than he was willing to admit himself.
As weeks passed through rehearsals and promotions, he continued to have a hard time regularly showing up to sets and scheduled events. And on the rare occasion he did decide to go, reluctantly, and carrying on false promises from you, he’d show up late, knowing too well his PR team had to work overtime to keep his appearances as perfect as possible, despite his less than professional attitude.
Suddenly, his manager is calling you here and then whenever Phainon manages to tick him off. His manager had already disapproved of your relationship with him, even more so with having to jump through extra hoops to keep it private to protect Phainon’s marketable looks for the wider audience. But it hadn’t helped when Phainon was acting like this, now that his manager was readying to blame you for all of it. Phainon didn’t use to be like this; he used to be hardworking. Devoted. He’d always stay back late to practice to his fullest and work even more, until he couldn’t. And he was actually so damn eager to show up to events. Then you came along; suddenly, all he cares about is you. You, you, you. What happened to that hunger? To that passion? What did you do to Phainon?
You don’t know how to answer things like that, even when you were chided by his upper management, sometimes even begging to break up with him. So you had to beg Phainon to start giving more of a shit, now that his stresses of idol work are placed onto you. You felt guilty, as much as you were growing angry with him. Boyfriends aren’t supposed to ruin your life like this.
And for a while, it did work, even if he was bitter himself. Wasted time, he’d complain. People don’t get it, Phainon would mumble; they have never been in love. You wanted to deny, but you held back. Instead, you promised to let him fuck you raw if he showed up for his new album recording, and so he did that day. His manager and producers had sent flowers your way as a thank-you, but you didn’t get to keep them for long, since Phainon had burned them to ash once he caught on, proclaiming himself as the only person in your life to buy your flowers like that. You don’t say anything because you’d rather keep him pacified. He’s stable if you just let him, easier to control, at least for some time.
But now, your phone rings a fourth time, as you continue to ignore it, deciding to begrudgingly watch the live show, hoping that Phainon in the background, wherever he is, would just quit it and decide it’s worth more to pop back up on stage, and all will be normal. So you can panic less about it. But he never does, and you’ll panic even more, whilst slowly getting accustomed to this kind of burden.
Your phone just keeps ringing and ringing, and fuck, disbelief washes over you as you accept the fact that he decided to play hooky of all times. Any other time was annoying, but not as severe as this. Rehearsals have room for fuck ups, as unfortunately infuriating as it is, but not when it’s live. Not when it’s during an award ceremony, amongst a sea of other successful idols and a crowd of thousands of fans screaming. Not when there are hundreds of cameras lined up to catch every single expression and interaction. Not when half the world is watching—not when Phainon, being one of the most anticipated and popular idols in the past few years, decides to fuck it all up, and you’re at the center of all his bad decisions.
Then your phone pings: Pick up my calls please please please??
You go to press a hand to your forehead, a loud exhale escaping your mouth.
Phainon💕: Stop ignoring me
Phainon💕: Please call me back
Phainon💕: Call me
Phainon💕: I want to talk to u
Phainon💕: I know ur ignoring me. Stop it stopstop it stop itt
Phainon💕: I listened to u, okay? I wentIwent. iwent even when I didn’t wanna. But i went for u…Just talk to me.
Phainon💕: Call me
Phainon💕: Call me
Phainon💕: Stop doing this to me.
Phainon💕: I feel hurt
Phainon💕: Call me.
Your fingers hover over your keyboard, just in utter shock at Phainon’s behavior, and you’re thinking, maybe it’s all your fault. Maybe you had enabled him too much, kept promising him to do this or that if he just did what you and his manager wanted him to do. Maybe you had fed the dog the wrong kind of treat, Pavlov backfiring, and now you’re reaping the consequences.
Looking at it, you really should’ve ended it before it got worse, because it’s all flashing in front of you. Was it even worth it? Through the good looks, the promised companionship and stability, the intimacy. But you knew, sooner or later, news headlines would catch wind, as critics swarm over Phainon, only for it to filter out as they manage to figure out your existence—suddenly, hordes of fans coming to pile in on you, ready to blame you for his lack of professionalism and declining image. Who knew the It-boy had a girlfriend this entire time? And Somehow, the media will begin to spin lies of a jealous partner, manipulative and cruel—you did this, you know you did, ruined his career, and his company will throw you under the bus if it meant saving their biggest money-making asset. Because you made a fuck up by taking a risk when staying with him.
You: Phainon, go back to work. For everyone’s sake. Especially mine.
Phainon💕: I did do that???? Just want to talk to u :(
You: Phainon. It’s only been an hour. The ceremony is three hours long. Pick up your feet and go back out.
Phainon💕: I told u I didn’t want to MC this year bcuz it would only take time away from us…
You: It’s your job.
Phainon💕: I had a choice, yknow
You: And your manager will bite both of us in the ass if you have turned it down.
Phainon💕: Why do you care more about him than me? Don’t say stuff like that :(
You: That’s not what I meant. I meant that you need to straighten up and get over yourself.
Phainon💕: I love you
You: Later. Hurry, the performance is ending, and you can’t just leave your other host alone. Think of what others would say, Phainon. People talk.
Phainon💕: I have time
You: No, you don’t.
Phainon💕: Do u have the timetable or smth 🤣
You: Yes.
Phainon💕: 🥲
You: Phainon, Go back to work.
Phainon💕: I’m sorry. I’ll go back out in a bit- I’ll be good! It’s just that I can’t stop thinking about u.
Phainon💕: Can I hear ur voice? Just for a bit?
Phainon💕: Darling come back
Phainon💕: Darling!!
You had to put your phone back down and completely shut it off. You’d rather stare at the wall than read Phainon's texts. You wonder whether it would be any more worthwhile to waste your time thinking to yourself than to try to comprehend him, so you resign yourself to continue watching the program, counting each ticking second till Phainon would be called back up to continue hosting.
You wonder if you should bring out a coin, heads or tails, and count your chances within the 50/50 possibility whether this would be the night Phainon royally fucks himself over.
And just as the dancers on stage glide through, sparklers and confetti imploding atop, you get another ping, amongst the plethora of spam messages from Phainon—his manager; he disappeared, phrased rather plainly, but oh so heavy.
You also choose to ignore that. At this point, Phainon wasn’t your problem anymore, completely numb with exhaustion. You’re done, just wallowing with the fact he’s screwing up the biggest night of his idol career. You watch more of the performance, preparing to see Phainon’s name all in red in the next swarm of headlines for his sudden absence, then followed by an onslaught of rumors and gossip. His first prominent scandal, but his first decline into a descent; a growing headache for his management, and especially you. Again, dragging under-the-bus shenanigans, you know that dating an idol has more downsides than perks.
You disappear into your thoughts for a long while, until the live performance has come to a stop and the camera cuts to a sea of applause and cheering, smiling fans and impressed celebrities in the front rows. Then it cuts to commercials before the next segment; the TV screen had cut to black for a split second, and you see your reflection, a blank, hollow look greeting you.
You blinked—oh shit, you hold your breath. But what really shocked you was that your phone had stopped buzzing altogether. You never thought it would ever. If anything, the more you ignore Phainon, your phone might as well explode from all the ringing and buzzing it has to do.
But there, on the coffee table, your phone lay silent and desolate. Completely still as stone, for the first time really knowing peace. And somehow, unwillingly, there’s a compulsion coming in with your surprise to pick up your phone and to see what Phainon was up to—why’d he stop now? Should you be glad? Scared? How must you feel about this?
When you scrolled through your lock screen, shifting through Phainon’s indescribable babble in text format, misspellings and errors, the last thing he ever sent was a video file a little over five minutes long. You raise an eyebrow. Nothing else after that, just a sudden halt, then oblivion.
You press on it, and you meet a black screen for a split second, then it cuts to the camera zooming out into focus, and you see him sitting in some odd cubicle—a bathroom stall? It looks like it: the regular tight four walls, and a small hint of what looks to be a toilet paper holder in the corner. And then he positions the camera on his lap, wearing his black slacks, gifted to him by some designer, which must have cost thousands. His hands begin to slither down, onto a peculiar bump just below his waist, his voice trailing soon after: “I told you, I can’t stop thinking about you; it’s starting to hurt.
And it sinks in, like venom, what this was all about. Something washes over you, something heavy, and your head pounds in a rhythm indescribable.
“I should have a few minutes left. I swear,” Phainon starts to sound more and more ragged as he speaks, losing breath by slowly unbuckling his belt, studded in jewels you can’t even pronounce. “I swear I won’t let you down. I will—I’ll work hard and be good. I just have to do this right now.”
He slides his pants down, now greeted with the sight of his underwear, and the imprint becomes bigger, his bulge practically begging to break out of his boxer briefs, a small wet spot painted atop just where his tip would be. He traces his fingers around the outline of his cock. He’s panting, heavy, long-drawn pants, as if he just ran a marathon. The camera is now uncontrollably shaking the more he rubs himself, now moving from his dainty fingers to the flat of his palm as he shifts to massaging himself.
“I miss you so much. I wish you were here right now to help me feel better,” he whispered into the microphone, “But I—I can’t help myself. I can’t wait.”
He tugs at himself, the fabric of his boxer tightening around his length, and he squirms involuntarily, no doubt from the combination of his imposing grip and the sensation of the pricking fabric magnetizing the hair on the back of his neck to raise. He does it again, tugs himself, then begins to massage himself more, pressing onto his dick, thighs bobbing up and down, slightly and surely.
You can hear the thick globs of saliva wetting his lips, hear how he licks it up, biting down anything too loud wanting to escape him. But it doesn’t fully stifle the groaning, the grumbles in the base of his throat, or the soft chant of your name dancing in between his clattering teeth.
“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” he sounds dazed. So lost in the compulsion, in the neediness of it all, it felt so right for him to feel his own dick harden at the thought of you. That’s why it must be done, to touch himself in some stall, just right before he gets on broadcast television for millions of fans awaiting him. But here he is, for you.
A choir of discontent, and something imminent echoes all around you—his manager pings you again: do you know where he is?
You can respond and say you do. Phainon’s right here, about to fuck his dick into his hand. But you didn’t because you feel yourself physically shrink smaller and smaller as your eyes linger more as the video progresses. You go to press the pause button, but you realize you’re watching more than actually doing anything at all.
It’s a trying effort.
Phainon now tugs down at his boxers; the camera wobbles about for a split second as eager hands try to rip off the fabric walling him in. But it all steadied once free; his hardened cock springs up, hitting his stomach, red and swelling, his tip leaking already, “Ah, look how you got me—fuck—“ Phainon sucks in a breath as he begins to wrap his hands on his bare self, “you were watching me, right? While I was speaking up there? I hope you knew I was really thinking about you more than anything else. I kept—“
He stops; a jolt has spiked through his spine as he began to move his hands up and down his entire length, and you can hear the wet skin through your screen; your hands begin to shake, “—You. I kept just thinking about you. How I would get to have—have you once I got home and—and how I missed having you around me.”
You pick up on your own heartbeat speeding up in pace, and it makes you wonder if it ever connected in the same tune as his, in this moment as he masturbates to the thought of you.
His speech grows more disconnected, more blurred, just as your vision has been, overcome by a thick haze swaddling you, “I almost didn’t go today, until you had pulled me by my tie and dragged me out the house. You kicked—kicked me out,” Phainon cries, his thighs beginning to shake with his hands circling his length, pumping to the thought of your cunt on his, instead of his own hands. You’re much warmer.
“Just wanna be in you all the time. Oh fuck, oh fuck. But the thought of you watching me earlier got me excited, okay. Fuck. Fuck,” Phainon’s pumping himself more aggressively, more words spilling out of him. Fantasies all about you, your eyes on him, your touch on him.
You really need to look away and stop this video. Text Phainon and get mad, scolding him for his recklessness. But your hand hadn’t moved from its position of gripping your phone tight, nor had your other hand intervened to stop the video from continuing.
You looked at the bottom corner, only to see that there was only a minute left, but it felt like eternity.
“I’m sorry for pissing you off lately. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Phainon gives himself a tight squeeze, and you see his cock practically twitch, more pre-cum spitting out, his legs opening wider and the clinking of his belt buckle slapping around the floor. “But I want you so bad. I want you, so, so, bad—”
You had blinked blearily at the screen, astounded—he’s fucked you before. Furiously, passionately, as intimately as any other time. He’s whispered equally despaired and debauched confessions into your ears as he fucks you balls deep, using his entire length to clear through your pussy—but this video hadn’t failed to give you a dizzying spell, more potent than whenever Phainon had you on your back as he buried himself inside of you.
Just, why now?
You had to swallow a thick spit, sweating from your tongue, tasting a slight tinge of metallic acid from a biting cheek you hadn’t even noticed.
You look up to the TV, commercials still playing about, but your mind can barely catalog the advertisement playing right now, or the approaching time crunch for him—he needed to get back on that stage. Still, your eyes are drawn particularly to the rolling of his hips onto his cupped hand. How, when he flexes his muscles enough, the line of abs, smoothing down to that V-shape around his waist, as if arrowing down to his impressive length.
You hadn’t noticed your mouth was open, your own shaky exhale fogging up your screen with something humid and sticky. Something feels equally familiar within you, hot and boiling, buzzing about in your stomach as Phainon continues to squirm and moan.
You’re screwed. It really is all your fault. You can’t stop this because you’re starting to realize you never had the power to stop this. You’re weak. You keep breaking in and giving him so many chances, believing it’ll get better—he’ll get better. But you should’ve known better than a man who’s more than eager to lock the front door from the outside to keep you in.
“I love you,” you hear the tears warble in his voice. The camera slants a bit back, now that Phainon positions himself further reclined into the stall, back hitting the wall as he spreads his legs wider, dick standing taller, his moaning louder with dignity now long abandoned. Just you and him dancing in pink swirls in his head, dick pulsating so hard it hurts.
His knuckles have turned sheet white, but his tip is still a bruising red. He continues to say your name, before swallowing another rush of spit pooling in his mouth around the shape of you, “I’ll quit. I’ll quit everything. I don’t—I don’t want to keep doing this.”
Your heart lurches; a slight tug pulls you back to reality, away from this video. But you had instinctively leaned closer to your screen, “I just want to stay with you. I hate leaving you for work. I’m gonna quit, tell everyone I’m gonna marry you and—and I’ll be with you. I love you. I love you. I don’t care about anyone else. Just you. Just you.”
Your breathing goes rapid, stomach doing flips, face scrunched in total incredulity—no. Phainon doesn’t really mean that, does he? Does he? Please, oh fuck, oh fuck. You’re fucking everything up. It’ll be your head on the platter for everyone to eat.
And yet you continue to watch. As helpless as you’ll ever be.
The TV plays the last designated commercial, about thirty seconds left. Same amount of time as whatever’s leftover from this video, too short, too little.
Phainon’s hands slicked his entire length, covered in pre-cum. You see his skin tugging up and down, his heavy breathing playing in the background as he tightens here and there to stimulate even a fraction of what heaven is to be swallowed up by your cunt. And even then, he can’t stop because the image of you in his head is too enticing. Just the mere picture of your face has him reeling, his hand going faster, the camera almost falling out of his grip.
“I love you. Please marry me,” Phainon whimpers, and he finishes; something in him just explodes, untangled all for you to witness. Thick spurts of cum catch all over his open stomach; even a drop manages to catch on to the camera lens. A small, tiny trail slides onto his black slacks, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. He just continues to lazily rub himself for a few more pumps, cum and all, trickles of sweat pilling down. Then the video abruptly ends.
You sit in frozen silence.
Now the TV cuts to the award ceremony, and there is Phainon alongside his host. A lazy smile on his face, his once neat hair now a few strands looser, his tie all messy, and the collar of his shirt no longer neat or flat. And yet Phainon performs as expected, as if he wasn’t just fucking himself to the thought of you in some bathroom a few minutes ago.
And as Phainon rolls by through that rehearsed speech and smile, you look away and go back to press play, wondering if he’s still thinking of you now.
BONUS hehe -
The next morning rolls in, somewhere around 10 AM.
Phainon’s Manager: [Sends link]
8 HOURS AGO | BREAKING NEWS: SOLO IDOL PHAINON ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT DUE TO MARRIAGE
cause and effect. (yandere! phainon x female reader)
; the guy she told you not to worry about: the fic, aka homewreckernon, yandere, college au, slight reader x npc, character pov for once, proofread to the best of my spotting ability, exploitation of trust, nonconsensual kissing, some cheating (phai x (y/n), influence of alcohol, .
; Having been in love with you since freshman year but unable to act upon his feelings due to your boyfriend, Phainon finds the opportunity to dismantle your relationship after paying you a visit while you slept. He's simply correcting the grievous mistake Mnestia made.
“Hey there, lovebirds!” March greets from a distance.
Phainon’s ideal reality unravels like a scroll painting from ancient Planarcadia; a blush would nicely settle on his cheeks before turning around to blow raspberries at the pink-haired woman. He’d pull you closer to him in a protective stance before he jokingly complains about the two of you getting bullied by your joint group of friends.
All in good fun; he loves the ‘loverboy’ reputation he has. Your hand would reach out to lovingly caress his face, laughing at his antics, and the atmosphere would be ruined by another one of your friends - Dan Heng or Mydei – who’d dryly comment something about keeping your hands off each other. Love is the key to eternal happiness, a moment this simple is paradise to Phainon. He needs nothing more.
When Caelus accidentally jostles against him, Phainon is forced to roll the scroll shut and come back down to his actual reality. He’s not the one embracing you in his arms while he preens under the endearing term of ‘lovebirds’. He’s not the one you call your boyfriend, nor the one you share your personal space with.
Rather, Phainon is your good friend; he takes on his role to chuckle and say, “Easy on the PDA now, you two.”
Your boyfriend, certainly not Phainon, laughs in embarrassment. He withdraws his arm from your shoulder to play with the anniversary necklace hanging off your neck. He shuffles closer to your side, always so shy when he’s reminded of the fact that he’s dating you, you, out of eight billion people. A lucky bastard who can’t seem to grasp miracles even when he’s hit in the head with one, Phainon sourly thinks.
Staring at him any longer will make him retch, so Phainon faces you instead and points at the drink you’re holding. All teasing, he remarks, “The party started an hour ago and you’re already running to get drunk, I see. I see!”
You bristle, now cradling the drink close to your chest - Phainon wishes he were it, “Oh, zip it. Weren’t you whining in my texts about unfinished homework earlier today? What happened to that?”
Caelus chimes in in his stead, “Don’t remind me of uni work at a party, (Y/N)...”
You roll your eyes, “Blame him!”
Phainon sticks his tongue out at you. A lighthearted scowl to take residence on your face while you flip him off.
You’re so cute like this – the heavy weight on his heart begins to ease up, savoring the current time he has with you. If he squints enough, he can pretend you’re not seated next to a parasite who gets to call himself your boyfriend.
It’s a moment cut too short, unfortunately. Not even a minute later, with the speakers blaring in the background, your boyfriend leans over to whisper into your ear, completely pulling you away from Phainon (and Caelus). A conversation limited to the lovebirds begins while your other friends settle into their own conversations and cliques, voices occasionally rising above the pop music circling throughout the house.
Phainon is still stuck on you. March taps his shoulder, but he can never tear his eyes away.
Wistfully, he wonders (he always does) what it’d feel like to be in his position.
Two hours in, a few friends have already excused themselves from the party hosted by March and Caelus.
Aglaea said she had an internship tomorrow, Hyacine and Anaxa had lab reports due, Sunday and his sister, Robin, must prepare for their theater troupe, Castorice needs to take care of her sister, and now…
“Going home?” Phainon asks when Mydei strides up to his spot on the living room couch. His friend nods, eyeing his lone beer sitting on the coffee table.
“I have a morning shift,” He quirks a brow, “You aren’t? You have an exam tomorrow.”
Phainon shakes his head, discreetly jabbing a thumb in your direction. “(Y/N)’s still here, I can’t leave her.”
He needs to keep watch of you since your jackass of a boyfriend is getting shitfaced drunk at record speed. The rotten, vile man that he is. If Phainon were your boyfriend, he’d be the one staying sober so he can keep watch of any potential creeps who wants to catch you off guard. But not everyone has your best interests in mind; he knows this well enough.
Mydei can only sigh, as if to tell him, ‘you’re hopeless’. Frankly, he doesn’t need an outside perspective to acknowledge the blatant truth: Phainon’s world has and will always revolve around you. His close friends know this as they’ve been subjected to the horrible depressive period in Phainon’s life after he found out you’re taken. They’ve seen him bounce back good as new in the aftermath, too.
Still, Mydei relents, knowing that Phainon’s reasoning is quite logical. Patting his shoulder, he murmurs, “Well, keep her safe.”
It’s a needless order; Mydei does not need to state the obvious.
Waving goodbye, the blond man exits the living room shortly after.
No longer occupied, Phainon picks up his beer can and resumes watching you from his place on the couch. You’re stuck in an IPC monopoly game with a few acquaintances while your boyfriend drunkenly babbles stupid, incomprehensible shit right next to you. It flares up irritation in Phainon’s chest - gives him such a profound feeling of disgust that he wills it down, if only to ensure that the hatred isn’t obvious on his face.
You’re clearly inebriated, tipping from one side over to the other – movements sluggish and frequently getting your property cards all mixed up. It makes him wonder how accurate the entire game has been if your group of players is in similar states as you.
Taking a sip of his beer, he continues to watch, no different from a loyal guard dog.
A defeat and alcohol-imbued ramblings over who really ‘won’ later, you’re unsteadily rising to your feet with your boyfriend following after. You mumble something to him before moving forward, or at least, trying to without stumbling over your own feet. Deeming it his chance to step in and help, Phainon sets his empty beer can down before coming to you.
Kindly pushing through dancing bodies, he smiles in the face of your (intoxicated) suffering and offers, “Let me help you with that, (Y/N).”
Completely and purposely disregarding your boyfriend lagging a few steps behind, he hoists your arm over his shoulder and nicely settles you by his side. His heart thundering, Phainon gently assists you in slow, measured steps before sitting you down on the living room couch. You grunt upon settling, mindlessly clinging to his T-shirt that you refuse to part from. He almost coos out loud – you’re too cute for his poor, yearning heart. Too adorable.
He doesn’t want to part from you either. Phainon leans in, the imagination of being your boyfriend becoming more tangible as he asks in a hushed tone, “How are you going to go back to your dorm in this state, you dummy?”
You grumble something he can’t decipher. He sighs. You need him, you really do. Phainon can be stripped of all knowledge, and this singular thought would still be glaringly obvious to him. How can you possibly function in this world without him? You can take your actual boyfriend out of the equation, and it’ll collapse nothing; everything will stay as it is without him around. But if you take out Phainon… ah, the thought tastes too sour on his tongue. It feels indigestible, like food that’s gone bad and begun growing mold.
When the other side of the couch dips to accommodate your equally drunk boyfriend sitting, an idea sparks to life, and he makes up his mind then.
Rising above the speaker’s volume, he asks, “How about staying here for the night?”
Your boyfriend tilts his head in confusion - almost in slow motion, “Wha…?”
Phainon flashes him a fictitious grin, all buddy-buddy. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ll go ask March about it. I’ll even stay here too!”
Yawning, you make a noise of agreement before flopping down on the armrest. Phainon hurriedly adjusts your position into a more comfortable one, secretly savoring the feeling of your skin beneath his fingers. Once he’s also ensured that your boyfriend will fall over the side opposite to you, Phainon maneuvers through the slowly dispersing crowd to negotiate with either of the hosts.
Who he finds isn’t the ‘all too agreeable’ March or the ‘laidback’ Caelus. It’s the ‘easy to get suspicious’ Dan Heng, who’s very much sober and reading a book in the middle of a party. Phainon hopes their friendship card will be enough to convince him.
“Hey, friend,” Phainon smiles, angelic with a hint of halo forming from the room light. “Got a moment?”
“I suppose so,” Dan Heng reluctantly replies, brows already raised as if he’s waiting for something that’ll ruin his night. “What do you need?”
Phainon leans his body on the door frame, “Those two are too drunk right now, so-! there’re a few guest rooms around here, right? Can we sleep here instead?”
Dan Heng audibly breathes a sigh of relief, deflating like a popped balloon, “I thought… Yes, they can sleep here for tonight,” At Phainon’s expectant face, he adds, “You included.”
Phainon grins and walks over to the table. He reaches his hand out, “Thank you, friend. And the room keys?”
Dan Heng digs into his pockets and fishes out two keys, the jagged edges of the metal softly dyed in a world of flashing purple, red, and green lights. The pair lightly jingles when he makes the move to pass it onto Phainon’s awaiting palm - when he withdraws, however, Dan Heng can’t help but be miffed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Why’re there only two keys…?”
“Because (Y/N) and her boyfriend can just share a room?” Dan Heng answers, somewhat surprised that he needs to state the obvious, “Other drunkards will have to stay in the other guest rooms, too.”
Phainon’s amicable attitude drops below freezing temperature in the next second. His arm unconsciously flexes, itching to rip your boyfriend apart if he even dares to be in the same bedroom as you, “Hey… Stop messing around.”
“Does it look like I am?” Dan Heng dryly replies, “If you want them to sleep in different rooms, then go home, Phainon. This house is not a boarding school.”
It’s a few moments later that Phainon makes his decision. He blinks, his smile settles back on his face, and then–
“...I… I can just sleep on the couch.” Once more, his hand extends out, “Sorry, can you give the keys back to me?”
Phainon’s ears feel the sudden, glaring difference of having full-speakers on blast playing the loudest pop songs the general public has ever known before it suddenly quiets down into tipsy, drunk, intoxicated individuals saying their farewells, and then, as everyone is lulled to sleep - a blanket of utter silence.
But even in quietude, his ears ring, remembering the soundwaves that went on from evening to night - his eyes feel the phantom imprints of vivid, strobe lights on his eyelids. Tossing and turning around here on the living room couch, Phainon concludes that he’s in no state to fall asleep. Not when you’re just a floor above him, sleeping peacefully with that parasite taking residence in the room right next to yours. The thought alone makes his heart beat faster.
Lying on his back, he turns his head to the side so he can look at the inconspicuous pair of keys lying on the coffee table. Reaching for his phone, located somewhere beneath the covers, the rectangular device with its blinding light displays the time to him:
2:55 AM.
Sitting up, Phainon stretches his body before reaching across the coffee table to nab the keys.
He observes it on his palm, thinking now is the best time to visit you.
Phainon is admittedly a tad bit too eager when he uses the key to unlock your guest room. In a house of stillness, the door shuts behind him in creaking groans, a sound that rouses you, causing you to shuffle around beneath the covers. He stills at the sight, grabbing onto the door handle in preparation. But when you sink back into the mattress, he breathes a sigh of relief and lets go. Everything is okay, nothing is at risk.
It’ll be hard to wake you up after your intoxicated state, he reminds himself.
He looks around and notes that the guest room is dimly lit; moonlight seeps through the window, nearly dyeing everything in his vision a serene blue. The only exception is the night lamp on the bedside table, glowing a soft hue of orange – brushing your face in a soft gradient between tangerines and blueberries. His heart painfully squeezes in his chest, a love so intense it hurts him.
You look so unguarded, peaceful. Wrapped in a vulnerability that you’d never allow him (and your friends) to see otherwise. Phainon bites his lip, hastily walking around the dim room to find his way to you. He loves you. He loves you-
Crack. Ah, he accidentally stepped on something.
Phainon lifts his foot, squinting to see a little clearer: lying on the ground is the anniversary necklace you wore to the party earlier. He remembers it still hung on your neck, even teasingly dipping into the valley of your breasts, when he settled you into this room hours ago. He chuckles to himself, did you drunkenly remove it before going to sleep? It’d explain the reckless positioning.
The metal stringing it together is all shattered from the force he exerted. Unfortunately, the main accessory, a locket containing a photobooth picture of you with your boyfriend, stays unharmed. It’s even flipped open, as if to mock Phainon from where he stood - just mere inches away from your unconscious body. He clicks his tongue and picks up the broken necklace.
Would you be mad if you lost this?
He pockets it, deeming the locket to be an item that’ll further drive you away from him. Ever since you got that necklace from your boyfriend, you have stopped wearing the friendship bracelet Phainon gave you a year ago. All you do is break his heart, but his unwavering love and golden loyalty will always persevere. True love is not a painless process - it’s okay if Phainon is the only one hurting right now. Soon, you will, too.
Discarding his shoes, Phainon climbs onto the bed and crawls over until his face looms above yours. He breathes you in, unabashedly smelling a mix of liquor, sweat, and remnants of your usual perfume. You smell so good. Licking his lips, he slowly leans down, nose nuzzling into the base of your neck where he can smell you better. He closes his eyes and drinks it all in, savoring the smell and cataloguing it in his brain - no different from a tantalizing wine. If he leans down further, your breast will press against his chest - his arms threaten to give out just thinking about it.
Your smell, your neck, your breasts, your face, your fingers, your arms - so many wishes he wants to fulfill, yet so little time. But even neck-deep into his (Y/N)-induced haze, he knows that he can’t be caught by you or anyone else. His love story with you can’t end before it even started.
Phainon pulls back, whimpering at the loss of contact. Blearily opening his eyes, he locks onto the apple of his eye: your lips, the main show of his romantic fantasies. He’s always wondered what it’d be like to kiss you. Foolishly, he even thought about being your first kiss before your boyfriend cruelly shattered that dream into dust.
Kissing you now, with you deep in slumber, can serve as practice for him. So when he kisses you truthfully, you’ll be awed at how well he knows your body. And perhaps, it’s also because he’s a pervert who can no longer contain his perverse nature in his mind.
A kiss is a kiss, regardless of his true intent. His right hand softly parts your mouth open, greedily wanting all tongue and spit for his first time with you.
“You won’t mind, right?” He softly whispers, centimeters away from your lips. A reply never comes, but the way he devours your mouth may as well serve as a yes. It’s everything he’s dreamed of. An accomplishment that no award or credential can hope to compete with. This is his life’s calling; with you, inside you, lavishing you.
Unknowingly, clear droplets fall from his eyes, rolling down his cheekbones and disappearing into the fabric of your T-shirt. Phainon thinks you are too mean. In fact, you’re quite heartless for withholding this exhilarating experience from him. You’re too mean in the way you treat his heart carelessly, even if unintentional. It breaks even under your gentle caress and airy touch, for it knows that your own heart is not his to treasure. It beats to the syllables of your name, but you're unaware.
For that: He can’t take it anymore - he can’t. He can’t. He just can’t. Phainon cannot live as your best friend, he can’t be satisfied with anything less than being your husband. He must be your other half, else, what would be the point in life? He refuses the reality he has right now; craves the ideal one in his dreams.
Had he met you a few years earlier, the outcome would surely be different. It's not fair, he childishly thinks. Love shouldn't be first come, first serve; it should be just like the storybooks he read during his childhood, where true love waits for hundreds of years, immune to the passage of time.
He parts from your lips, panting. Desperate for more, yet wanting to abstain from your lips, fearful he’ll be too addicted to you.
“I love you,” his toned body collapses on the bed’s free space, limbs akin to jelly, eyes utterly fixated on you. Always has been ever since he met you during freshman year. He repeats again, “I love you, (Y/N).”
A shaky hand intertwines itself with your unconscious one. He wonders if married life will be like this.
With a faraway look in his eyes, Phainon whispers to no one in particular: “I’ll correct everything, I promise.”
Then, he dives back in to kiss you until he's shed off all thoughts irrelevant outside of this room – careful not to wake you. He must kiss you until you familiarize yourself with his saliva and lips, ridges of his teeth and heat of his tongue, the crevices of his mouth and vibration of his moan, even in your sleep.
He stays in the guest room for an hour more, uncaring for your boyfriend sleeping all alone next door.
Months ago, the moment Mydei realized Phainon wasn’t giving up on you, even with a boyfriend in the picture, he had asked: “Are you this stubborn with your past crushes?”
Phainon shook his head and answered honestly, “I’ve never had a crush before. (Y/N) is my first and true love.”
You are the one for him; an outcome stating otherwise will have to be bent until it, too, rings true.
Phainon is ‘studying’ in the library a few days later. Tucked into a corner with the seat next to him occupied by his schoolbag. Truthfully, he’s only here because you asked to study together, but knowing you for this long, it’s simply code for ‘I need to complain about something to you’ since you prefer to study in your apartment.
His laptop has gone to sleep mode, notes strewn about in an illusion of productivity, while Phainon makes a growing pile of bird origamis on the table. It’s a him and you thing - tradition born from a shared class with a professor who had melatonin for a voice.
He hears your footsteps a few meters from him at a hurried pace. He briefly speculates whether you still remember his kisses in your subconscious before brushing it off, you’ll remember soon enough.
Right when you’re behind him, Phainon smiles and asks, “What’s wrong?”
“My boyfriend’s mad at me,” you groan, haphazardly dropping your bag on the table. You collapse into the chair, limbs sprawled out, and take a deep breath.
Phainon’s paper folding is paused, neck snapping to face you. Your boyfriend never amounts to anything, so- “Why?”
“I realized I lost my necklace the day after the party,” you begin, “I thought I just left it lying on some floor, so I asked March to check for me but she couldn’t find it. I told him, and he started lecturing me that if he can keep his necklace, then he expects me to keep mine safe, too!”
He frowns, feeling the warmth of your locket in the pocket of his jeans. “That’s ridiculous - you didn’t mean to.”
You nod vigorously, “Right!? That’s what I told him, yet…! I get it! Ugh, I really do! But he’s so worked up about this for some reason. Acting like I purposely lost it at the party - someone probably saw it and threw it in the trash by accident, so what? Nothing I can do now!”
Phainon clicks his tongue, “I never knew your boyfriend could be so immature. He’s probably sensitive from other problems in his life, but that’s no excuse to be such a jackass to you.”
It’s a good call that he pocketed your locket, then.
“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes, mindlessly picking up one of the countless bird origamis, “Shy types like him are always the most entitled, I feel like. But wait- don’t tell him I told you that.”
“Why would I?” Phainon bellows a laugh, “I’m your friend, not his. Always on your side, you know?”
He looks elsewhere, “Besides… Maybe it’s not my place to say this, but he really shouldn’t be talking to you in that manner.”
“Hm? Oh, don’t worry, this is just a normal couple argument.” You reach up to ruffle his white hair, “I don’t take him too seriously when we’re fighting.”
He sighs, anchoring his head down for better access, “I just think you shouldn’t settle for someone like that.”
You smile, endeared by his thoughtfulness. “I wouldn’t. I’ll talk it out with him, don’t worry.”
That’s not what he meant.
He takes a while before speaking again, “Well. Either way, if there’s a problem – just call me, okay?”
He mulls it over his head for an indefinite amount of time: How can he remove your boyfriend from the picture?
If this truly played out like his childhood storybooks, then it’s easy to assign the roles: you are the princess in need of saving, the parasite by your side is the monster who threatens the livelihood of the entire kingdom, and Phainon is the knight in shining armor protected by the narrative. He needs no deep contemplations because the monster’s defeat has already been woven into the story’s ending, bound through inked letters. No matter what, it will be a happy ever after: the knight saves the princess, and they are wed. A linear process with no real complications.
Unfortunately, Phainon is a college student who’s never held a sword in his life, and you have no royal blood. This is the cruel, harsh real life. But the monster is still a monster, regardless of setting.
But he loves being around you too much to ever plan on removing him by the means of murder, even with his constant violent urges.
He’d tried seducing you during your shared class together, but loyalty is a virtue you strongly hold onto. Even manufactured incidents, such as forgetting an umbrella with a storm outside, tripping into your arms, or being too clingy with you under the influence of alcohol, were all for naught. You never saw him beyond the title of friend because you’d turn your phone on, and your boyfriend would be there waiting for you on the lockscreen.
He understands. The possibility of seeing Phainon as a dating candidate will remain zero so long as your boyfriend is within arm’s reach. But he remains selfish, unreasonably so.
Once night falls, Phainon is absentmindedly playing with the locket he stole from you, repeating the question in his mind: How can he remove your boyfriend from the picture?
The metal warms beneath his fingertips as it’s slowly rolled around his desk, silence in the room stretching on into uncertainty. He lays it face up to toy with the lid, the clasp making a clicking noise every time he slams it open and shut. Phainon doesn’t have it in him to look at the frankly disgusting couple photo nestled inside - he refuses to.
Click. Click. Cli-
His finger slips, losing its momentum and forcing the locket to stay open longer than necessary. Phainon is forced to look at the atrocious couple photo as he repositions his hand. The image is still the same: your boyfriend looking at you with slimy, gooey eyes while you gave finger hearts inside the photobooth. It’s unsightly - your boyfriend taints your perfection and infects you with the mold that he perpetually carries around.
He’s tempted to ruin this locket and the printed picture over an open fire, only to see the satisfying visual of your boyfriend melting before his eyes. You don’t need this dingy thing after all - it’s all your asshole boyfriend’s fault for kicking up a fuss over it.
Yet Phainon pauses his train of thought in favor of a new one. Remembering what you confined in him earlier, he picks up the locket and observes it up close, shadowed in its display from the fluorescent lights overhead.
If your boyfriend is truly the immature rascal that Phainon hopes he is, then perhaps this very locket he stole may just be the key to all his problems; sent down from the heavens to answer his wish, just like they do in fairytales. So long as he withholds the locket from you, then your relationship will crumble to its own accord.
It’s less about the locket and more about the principle behind it, you find yourself explaining.
Not even a week later, Phainon agrees to meet up with you in a cafe not far from campus, intent on listening to you complain about your most recent argument with your boyfriend.
In your own words: “I have to speak to you because I need a guy's perspective on this.”
He nods, anchoring his elbows on the table, “Got it. I’m all ears!”
To reiterate your point: your boyfriend is hung up on the reaction you had rather than the locket as an item itself. He thought of your non-panicky reaction as a form of disrespect in your relationship, because if it were reversed, he would’ve gone crazy trying to look for it.
“That’s still his point?” Phainon briefly cuts in to shake his head in disapproval, “He needs to let this go.”
Your boyfriend should drag it on further, Phainon hopes.
You roll your eyes, “You’d be surprised. Every conversation we’ve been having lately is about that locket. I don’t get it, I’ve lost couple items before, even he did! But for some reason, he’s frothing at the mouth looking for that thing. I already placed my order for a new one on a different site, but he insisted that I cancel… which kind of hurt, to be honest.”
“That’s fair,” He easily agrees, “You’re trying to make up for an honest mistake but he’s refusing - that would hurt me, too.”
“I knew you’d get me, Phai,” You sigh in relief. “He told me to go back to that house and re-check it myself and if I keep refusing, he’ll be the one to go.”
“Oh? I didn’t know he had it in him.” Phainon laughs under his breath. Your shy boyfriend? Marching up to that trio’s house to survey the floors like it’s his job? He doubts that man would actually pull it off. It’s all bark, no bite.
“He’s going crazy looking for it, I’m telling you!” You take a long sip of your ordered beverage, “That’s why I wanted to ask for your thoughts on this. What would you do if you were in a similar situation to my boyfriend?”
Phainon pretends to think about it.
“...Well. I'm speaking as a man, you know? Man to man,” He licks his lips, “But I swear, I wouldn’t treat my girlfriend like that. This entire problem is blown out of proportion because of him.”
“You’re making it sound like he’s abusing me.” You deadpan.
“Listen! If my girlfriend told me that she didn’t mean to, then that would be the end of the situation. I wouldn’t dare to drag it because that’d bring distress to her. I don’t want her to feel anything less than the center of my world. Her happiness is my happiness… if that makes any sense.”
He, Phainon, would never sully your relationship with a pointless argument. If you were with him from the start, you’ll never find yourself in this situation.
You blink, “Huh. That was sappy.”
His ears burn bright, retort to defend his honor at the tip of his tongue, but you intercept before he can speak.
“But really sweet. I can’t believe guys like you still exist,” A soft giggle, “Keep that up, Phainon, and maybe you’ll find yourself a girlfriend before the year ends.”
Phainon scratches his cheek, “I’m speaking from my heart.”
“I know.”
“So… Please find it in your heart to think about your boyfriend’s refusal to see your point. There’s plenty of fish in the sea. You’ll find someone else, I’m sure of this.”
This time, you visibly hesitate.
“...I know. I don’t want to break up over an annoying locket, but I’ll keep your advice in mind.”
Your boyfriend’s reaction is unnatural; there’s more to it beyond being mad at your lack of urgency. There has to be.
Phainon re-examines the locket in his hand, eyeballs mere inches away from it as he pours time to solve this apparent mystery. He’s never been the closest to him, yet Phainon knows it’s not within his usual behavior to hold grudges against you. One of the main reasons your relationship has lasted three years and ongoing is his amicable nature - for a switch to be flipped, this locket must be hiding something important to him.
It twists and flips in his hold, tilted left and right, front and back, opened and closed. And repeated until he finally sees something.
There, at the side of the inner lid, read the engraved words: ‘Will You Marry Me?’
Oh.
He laughs, finding true humor in your boyfriend’s actions. He gets the fuss now, this locket is meant to be a proposal plan in motion for years. He understands that loser’s line of thinking: he gifted it to you during your 3rd year anniversary, it becomes a familiar item after a few years, and one day - graduated and now a working man - he’ll slip the ring into the compartment with the picture while you’re not looking and he’d ask you to look inside, angle your head, and squint at the small text hidden in plain sight.
It’ll be a proposal rooted in the sentiment of, “It’s been here all along; how could you not have noticed?”
You’d swoon at this, you certainly will. This would be the type of proposal that’ll have you retelling the story to your children and grandchildren down the line, recalling the moment with nothing else but utmost fondness. The arguments that resulted in this locket would be rendered null from the effort your boyfriend exerted. You’d forgive him in a heartbeat and leave Phainon in the dust.
The locket is enclosed within his palm as Phainon breathes out a sigh of relief.
With this in his possession, that proposal won’t be happening in the future. Not happening at all.
He’s fortunate. A man blessed by the Amphorean Titans, he truly must have been a world-saving hero in his past life.
“My boyfriend claimed you’ve been saying nonsense.”
Phainon raises a brow, “He knows I’ve been in the know about this entire locket situation?”
“Unfortunately,” you shake your head, “He found out after he saw your text notification on my lockscreen. You know? The one where you called him a jackass.”
“Oh… But I’m not in the wrong, am I?”
You laugh, “No. You’re not.”
A wedge driven between you and your boyfriend is Phainon’s own benefit.
Arguments don’t last forever. A week and a half later, Phainon is informed through text that you’ve made up with your boyfriend. Everything is fine now, apparently. But Phainon sees the cracks that can’t be patched up in the aftermath of that locket spiel your boyfriend had been on. Not glaringly obvious, subtly there - for him to see and exploit. All he needs is a minuscule crack in your perfect relationship for him.
You think less of your boyfriend now, not as trusting with him anymore in fear that he’ll trip up and go on another temper tantrum over a minor issue. A situation purely in his favor, as the moment March announced another party the ‘Express Crew’ will be hosting, who you gravitate to is not your boyfriend, it’s Phainon.
“Come to the party, please!” You begged him while the professor’s back was turned.
“Your boyfriend’s not going?” Phainon subsides the hope poking through his chest, but when you look up at him with those pleasing eyes…
“No. Not that I’d want him there,” You frown, “He might flip if I end up losing another necklace or something, so come with me! It won’t be the same without you. Be my watchguard!”
“Oh, I see,” He feigns hurt, “You just want me there to watch over you while you get drunk!”
Shamelessly, you nod. “Correct! Correct! I can’t have my boyfriend ruin this for me, pleaseee Phainon. I need you for this!”
He folds under zero pressure - his agreement to come with you was cemented even before you asked.
It’s come full circle.
Perfectly mirroring the last party, the current one plays out as its reflection, with only one singular change: your boyfriend isn’t in the picture. Phainon is in his rightful place now - right by your side. You fall into a familiar rhythm: drinking liquor while playing board games, arguing who really won that round, stumbling to walk, so inebriated that Phainon has to coax Dan Heng for those two guest rooms once more.
It’s so, so similar yet different in the same breath. Instead of observing you from afar, Phainon is placed front and center. A taste of what his future will be, he salivates just thinking about it. He can’t wait to be your boyfriend turned husband. He really can’t; he’s been patient enough.
For now, he opens the door of the guest room and gently ushers you inside, treating your drunken state with the fragility of handling glass. You trip and fall into the bed, causing Phainon to yelp in surprise. Instead of stepping out to enter his own room next door, he stays. There’s no boyfriend to tell him off, it’s free rein as far as he’s concerned. He can stay here with you under the guise of genuine concern and ‘looking out for you’.
He sits at the mattress’s edge, fondly watching you savor the plush pillows and fuzzy blankets. His happy ending is within his grasp now, no longer miles away compared to the last time he was in this room. You mumble something incomprehensible, he inches closer.
“Hm? What was that?”
“...ow… up…” You groan, groggily pushing yourself to sit. He steadies you with one hand, “I.. I thinkI’mgonnathrowup.”
He helps you into the bathroom, flickering the light on and gently rubbing your back in circular motions. You had too much alcohol this time. His arms wrap around your waist to sit you down on the sink. He makes conversation with you while wiping your mouth clean, feeding you deception after deception.
“Dan Heng only gave me one guest room. I hope you don’t mind sharing a room with me.” He lies with ease as he throws the paper towel into the trash can. You nod, not fully understanding the gravity of the situation.
Phainon knows this, but he still smiles; grateful for your blind kindness, “Thank you, let’s go sleep.”
If Dan Heng asks, Phainon will lie again and tell him that you really wanted him to stay in your room. It’s as easy as that. The lights in the room are turned off, but the lamplight stays. Phainon discards his pants, leaving him in his boxers as he crawls inside the warm covers. You’re so close to him, it’s been too long since he’s last had you like this.
He needs to kiss you again.
Scooting closer to you, Phainon grows bold with his actions. You’re most probably blackout drunk, unfairly tempting in his eyes, and he’s hungry for everything you have; he wants it all and then some. Testing the waters, he lifts his hand to play with your bottom lip. You don’t push him away even in your intoxicated state, it’s enough of a permission for him.
Reminiscent of the first time, he’s centimeters away from your lips when he softly whispers, “This is fine, right? You’re okay with this.”
You blink a few times and nod. His hand travels down to your neck, holding you in place as he replaces the remnants of vomit in your mouth with the unknowingly familiar taste of his mouth. It’s vastly different from the first time - your tongue isn’t limp, it’s reciprocating, albeit in clumsy motions.
The missing locket remains in his pants’ pocket, lying pathetically on the floor a few feet away, reminding him he wouldn’t be winning had your boyfriend attended the party with you.
A narrow crack; a single event is all he needed to tear your relationship down to the ground.
Tomorrow, he’ll retell the events of what happened and paint it out to be an accident born from mutual inebriation, but it won’t erase the blaring problem that you’ve cheated on your boyfriend.
You’ll be so scared, he imagines, and he’ll swoop in to save you like the hero he’s always wanted to be.
Phainon and the bad bitch he pulled after stealing her locket.
in which : under the care of an endearing knight who seems far more than he lets on, you can't help but notice his gaze often lingers on you as if forgetting him was the cruelest thing you could’ve done.
wc: 11.1k (it gets better as u read i promise!!), historical / royalty au, knight x princess, reader is from aedes elysiae, let’s give it up for sir phainon aka yearnmaster3000, childhood friends + amnesia, fem reader referred to as “princess” / “my lady”, art by 子执子知 (id: 61319986479) on douyin.
this is what happens when ure unemployed n have a big fat crush on phainon. enjoy !
PROLOGUE: WHY WON’T THE HANDSOME KNIGHT MEET MY EYES?
you’re not sure what’s stranger.
how natural it feels to walk beside prince mydeimos again after all these years, or the fact that he is personally leading you around castrum kremnos like an old friend.
which, technically, he is.
you grew up crossing paths at the same royal festivals and formal banquets, you even attended mydei’s own coming of age ceremony at some point. though you rarely saw each other beyond such occasions, you still managed to build a rather good friendship over the years.
“this way,” he says, pushing open the doors to the training grounds.
you squint against the sudden sunlight. the rhythmic clang of metal against metal reaches your ears as dozens of knights spar in duels, while others run drills under the barked commands of their captains, sweat darkening the collars of their tunics.
somewhere in your chest, a distant ache stirs.
your parents had only your best interests at heart. they wanted you somewhere safe especially after the assassination attempt that left you with only half your memory intact.
the neighboring kingdom, castrum kremnos, was the obvious choice; home to the finest warriors in the land, and close enough to your homeland that you wouldn’t feel entirely adrift.
and so, here you are now, a year after your coming of age ceremony, standing on foreign soil under the protection of another kingdom.
they hoped a change of scenery might help you heal after all these years.
“i was told,” you say, “that i’m to choose a knight.”
mydei nods, “it’s customary. you’ll remain under kremnos’ protection regardless, but a personal escort will ease the council’s worries. and your parents’.”
you don’t suppose you like the idea of having a glorified babysitter in metal armor, but alas, you understand why it’s necessary.
finally, you come to a stop at the edge of the training grounds. “choose carefully. these men and women will lay down their lives for you, should the need arise.”
your eyes sweep over the crowd, scanning the lines of soldiers before you—until they catch on a certain figure and don’t move again.
he kneels like the rest, yet something about him sets him apart.
snow-white hair falls loosely over his face, obscuring most of it, catching the sunlight like spun silver. with his head bowed, you can’t see much, only the sharp line of his jaw, the smooth curve of his cheek.
but what little you can glimpse is almost ethereal; the kind you might even call beautiful.
mydeimos’ voice rings out, taking you out of your trance and dismissing the knights back to their training. boots scuff against stone at the command as they stand and begin to disperse across the grounds.
as they return to their drills, you sense more than a few lingering looks subtly aimed your way—brief, curious flickers of the eye; some seem eager to catch your attention, others simply taking in the sight of the visiting princess.
where the others can’t help but sneak a glimpse, you notice he doesn’t so much as lift his head.
his focus locked somewhere far from you. not once does he look at you; in fact, he’s the only one who doesn’t.
you glance back toward the field just as a commotion starts to stir.
from your vantage point, it’s easy to spot a few older knights surrounding a younger recruit, likely an inexperienced junior, judging by his awkwardness and stiff movements.
the knights goad him with swings he clearly struggles to deflect, one even slips in a low sweep that knocks him off balance, and when he stumbles back, barely managing to stay upright, the laughter that follows is nothing short of mean-spirited.
in the midst of everything, one of them even glances toward you.
ah. so that’s what this is. show-offs, the lot of them.
your brows furrow slightly at the sight in front of you. the hits aren’t hard enough to injure, but still, that’s no way to treat your comrades! you’re just about to lean toward mydei to ask if this kind of thing happens often when—
the white-haired knight approaches with a calm, unhurried gait, tilting his head slightly in a casual nod.
“three on one?” you hear him say, voice clear even from a distance. "doesn’t seem very fair to me."
“captain,” one of the older knights replies, straightening slightly, though there’s still a trace of a smirk on his face. "we’re just testing the rookie’s reflexes. builds character, you know."
“oh? then let me help.” he draws his training sword in one smooth motion, the blade gleaming under the sun. “how about i take his place? i could use a little discipline myself.”
a short silence follows; the knights glance at one another.
then, with a begrudging scoff, one of them steps forward, rolling his shoulders as he raises his blade.
“don’t go easy on me, captain.”
“wouldn’t dream of it. though if this is your way of impressing her highness…” he briefly flicks his gaze up toward you, the look on his face is hard to pin down—
“you’re doing a terrible job.”
ACT I: WHY HIS LOYALTY WAS MINE ALONE
the spar that follows isn’t violent, but it’s unmistakably a lesson (one the egoistical bunch sorely needs).
the white-haired knight meets every blow with ease, and effectively disarms his opponents. the difference is immediate.
by the time the bout ends, the three knights lower their blades, avoiding his gaze as they shamefully retreat with stiff bows. the white-haired knight gives the junior still watching from the sidelines a quick, reassuring pat on the shoulder, and murmurs something you can’t quite hear.
you blink.
that was… unexpectedly gentle.
and very impressive.
“you’ve got a sharp eye. that’s phainon, the captain of the royal knights,” mydei adds with a touch of reluctance, “the only one here who can rival me in a spar, unfortunately.”
you stifle a laugh. the image of the oh-so-mighty mydeimos getting knocked flat in training is too good to resist. must be frustrating, being shown up by your own subordinate.
he shoots you a sideways glance. “you look like you’re thinking something rude.”
urk… nevermind!
anyway, you feel a bit guilty; you’d meant to observe everyone objectively, to judge them fairly by their skill. but admittedly, you’d been staring more at his face than anything else on the field here.
still, as that little display just now proved, he also happens to be the most capable one out there (given that he’s the captain and all).
so really, it’s a win-win isn’t it?
your eyes naturally drift back to him across the courtyard, and when his gaze unexpectedly meets yours, you offer a small, pleasant smile.
for a moment, something in his expression falters. his pupils seem to dilate ever so slightly like he’s been caught off guard, before he quickly averts his gaze as though he hadn’t seen you at all.
“do you know him?” mydei asks, curiosity evident in his tone.
“no,” you reply without hesitation.
his hair—snow-white, so striking in a way that feels impossible to forget. you’re almost certain you would remember it if you had seen him before, somewhere in passing, though where or when eludes you.
you brush the thought aside. probably just a trick of the eye.
while you’re busy conversing with mydei, you miss the way his gaze keeps drifting to you whenever you aren’t looking; and how, earlier, when your eyes passed over him without a trace of recognition, he turned away just as fast.
mydei gestures him over; he approaches and comes to a stop before you both, offering a courteous bow.
when phainon lifts his head, his eyes find yours—and for the first time, he doesn’t look away. they’re warmer than you expect, startlingly soft, and the way he holds your gaze makes your breath catch a little.
you blink, unsure what to make of the sudden attention, and even more unsure why it leaves your heart skipping a beat.
but before you can dwell on it, he drops to one knee. “thank you for choosing me, my lady,” he says, voice steady. “i’ll protect you with my life.”
ACT II: WHY I FELT SOMETHING AKIN TO WARMTH
you don’t remember much of your childhood, not after that day. your memory fractures like shattered glass around the moment you were attacked, during the afternoon you snuck out.
your parents told you it was a group of mercenaries that vanished without a trace after the failed assassination and that you were lucky someone nearby had saved you in time.
whoever it was carried you back, left you somewhere safe enough for the guards to find you in a bloodied and unconscious state, before disappearing without any indications of their identity.
the search that followed led nowhere. there were no witnesses, and your testimony was of no help either, you couldn’t recall a thing about the attack. even now, it’s all a blur, likely a side effect of the trauma caused by this incident and the coma that followed.
and though you tried, again and again, to recall the face of your savior… there was nothing.
still, some part of you is convinced it wasn’t just a stranger. deep down, you’ve always believed it must have been someone dear to you—and the only person that comes to mind is a boy your age who you’d often sneak off to play with when you were young.
but you can’t recall his name. or what he looked like. not even the sound of his voice.
but whoever he was… you’re certain he was the first person who ever made you feel truly loved.
since your arrival at kremnos, the letters haven’t stopped.
every few days, a fresh stack arrives. you open elegant envelopes sealed in wax; promises of affection, proposals of alliance, declarations of admiration from noblemen near and far, so on and so forth.
you never read past the first few lines.
today is no different. you absentmindedly sort through the pile as they gather on your desk, eyes glazed from the monotony—until a familiar crest pressed into pastel pink wax catches your attention.
from… countess cyrene?
countess cyrene of aedes elysiae; though your duties often kept you both endlessly busy, the two of you still exchanged letters now and then.
you’ve always looked forward to her letters. this one is no different.
the letter comes in her familiar flowing script. she writes that word of your stay in kremnos has reached her—and she’s delighted, at last, to have a reason to visit. once her family matters are in order, she promises to make the trip and see her old friend again.
you continue to read for a while, barely noticing how the sky softens into twilight. and at some point, without meaning to, you fall asleep.
when phainon finds you, the room is quiet, bathed in the gentle hush of dusk.
you’re fast asleep beneath the warm spill of fading light, your breathing soft, the faintest crease between your brows. you’re slumped over the desk, cheek resting against your arm.
he pauses in the doorway. maybe it’s the way your features have softened in sleep, or how the dying light catches the way your hair falls over your face. maybe it’s because, just for a moment, you look almost delicate to touch.
his gaze traces your sleeping face, and something tender tugs at his chest—so achingly soft it almost hurts.
he really wants to call your name.
but as a knight, his loyalty belongs to the empire, and with that vow comes a line he’s sworn never to cross—one that makes love for a princess he serves forbidden.
wait, what was he thinking? he quickly shakes himself awake.
because if he lets even a sliver of that feeling slip through, he’s not sure he’ll have the will power to stop himself from crossing that line.
so instead, he shrugs off his cloak and drapes it gently over your shoulders, hands careful not to graze your skin.
he tells himself this is enough. it has to be.
by the time your eyes flutter open, he clears his throat.
“forgive me, your highness,” he mutters, his voice gently pulling you out of your slumber, “i merely wished to shield you from the wind.”
you blink up at him, still bleary with sleep; and the tips of his ears turn the faintest shade of red under the lazy, unfocused way you look at him.
“it’s quite alright. thank you, sir phainon.”
but his heart knows better than to believe it’s truly enough.
that night, as you lie beneath the silk canopy of your bed, eyes lost in the dim glow of the ceiling, your fingers find the necklace resting at your collarbone.
you toy with the pendant absently; you don’t remember when it was given to you, only that you’ve had it for as long as you can remember.
and as always, your thoughts drift to him.
your dearest childhood friend—whose hands were as soft and warm as summer. he’d reach for you, and you’d follow without hesitation, slipping past watchful guards into the wild beyond the palace walls.
you’d race through sunlit fields until your lungs burned and laughter spilled freely from your chest; lying beside each other as you chattered on about suffocating etiquettes in the palace, while he’d offer you pastries from stalls in markets you never get to visit.
being with him always smelled of freshly bloomed wildflowers and sun-warmed earth—the kind of scent that clung to your sleeves long after you’d returned to the palace, hoping no one would notice where the young princess had been all afternoon.
you remember the weeks after you woke from the coma; how every morning, you’d pull back the curtains and press your forehead to the cool glass, eyes sweeping the grounds in silence.
waiting for a glimpse of a familiar wave.
but no matter how high the sun rose, no matter how many mornings passed… that never came. and even now, you still find yourself wondering—
why didn’t he come back for you?
you pull phainon’s cloak a little closer around your shoulders. it smells faintly of wildflowers, just like those days you still dream about.
and somehow, that’s enough to lull you to sleep.
ACT III: WHY, YOU ARE THE APPLE OF MY EYE!
in the stillness of the royal infirmary, long after the palace has fallen quiet for the night, a young boy stands beside the bed of the unconscious princess.
a dark hooded cloak hangs off his small frame; even tucked beneath the fabric, the pale strands of his snow-white hair caught what little moonlight filtered in.
he lingers quietly, gaze fixed on her face, bruised and bandaged. his hands tremble as he reaches for hers, lifting it gently to his lips before pressing a soft kiss to her palm.
then, he tucks a delicate necklace into her hand and folds her fingers around it.
it is a modest thing, barely worth a glance to anyone else, but he had spent the last of his coins on it the moment it caught his eye at the market stall. a sun-shaped pendant. it reminded him too much of her—warm, bright, and out of his reach.
“wait for me,” he whispers. “i’ll be strong enough to protect you one day, no one… no one will ever hurt you again,” he whispers just barely above his breath. “i promise.”
he could’ve sworn her expression softened, the crease between her brows smoothing ever so slightly, as if his words had reached her in her slumber. in his hopeful haze, it felt real enough to believe the faintest smile on her face was meant for him.
taking one final glance, he slipped away the way he came, vanishing into the shadows before anyone knew he was ever there.
phainon, as it turns out, is surprisingly easy to talk to.
conversation with him flows more naturally than you’d imagined. he listens well no matter how trivial the topic is; and maybe it’s the cute way he tilts his head when he’s curious, or how he noticeably brightens just a little when you laugh—you can’t help but notice there’s something undeniably charming about him.
you learn this as the two of you walk through the outer streets of kremnos.
mydei had suggested you take time to acquaint yourself with the city beyond the palace walls, and you’d agreed without hesitation. a quiet stroll sounded like a welcome change of pace.
of course, you couldn’t exactly parade through the city without drawing unwanted attention.
so you and your knight both don simple cloaks over your usual attire, hoods drawn low to obscure your faces. from a distance, you look like nothing more than a traveler and her escort.
the narrow lane eventually opens into a quieter square where flower stalls line the street. a thought strikes you.
“sir phainon, if you had to choose,” you say, glancing at him from beneath your hood. “say, what would your favorite flower be?”
phainon blinks, “…a flower? my lady, i don’t think i’ve ever been asked that.” he sheepishly scratches the back of his neck.
“but surely you have one.” you insist, a small smile tugging at your lips.
phainon’s brows knit slightly as his gaze sweeps over the stalls. for a moment, he looks lost, till his eyes linger on a bouquet of sunflowers, their golden petals tilted toward the fading afternoon light. his gaze flickers briefly from the flowers to you, then back again.
“sunflowers, maybe.”
your smile widens. “is that so? i suppose sunflowers are really unique, especially their tendency to follow the sun wherever it goes.”
when you glance to the side to gauge his reaction, you realize he’s already looking at you. you almost miss the faintest trace of color dusting his cheeks as he squints slightly, as though he was looking directly into the sun itself.
“for your lady, sir?” the vendor asks brightly, holding up a single stem of sunflower.
phainon startles as though woken from a dream. his eyes dart from the vendor to you, and he straightens abruptly, clearing his throat. the faint blush that had lingered on his face deepens.
“she’s not— i mean— well, yes, if she wants, but—”
you can’t help laughing at phainon’s flustered reaction, taking the flower yourself. “i’ll take it then, thank you.”
he finds himself trailing just a step behind you as you skip ahead.
and it dawns on him; perhaps sunflowers don’t choose to follow the sun, but because they simply can’t help it. no matter how far its warmth drifts, they’ll always turn their faces toward the light.
and as he watches you from behind, phainon realizes he’s doing much the same.
ACT III: WHY I FELT A SENSE OF DÉJÀ VU
the dagger pressed cold against her throat.
“not a word,” the man hissed. his voice was calm unlike the tremor in the maid’s hands as she stood frozen, the tip of the dagger tracing the hollow of her neck. “do exactly as i say, and you’ll live.”
“p-please,” she stammered, lips quivering. “i beg, don’t—”
outside, the corridor was silent. most of the guards had been drawn away toward the western gate, distracted by a false report of intruders. the eastern wing, where the princess’s chambers lay, was almost deserted. just as planned.
the man’s gaze darted toward the far end of the hall. “where is she?”
“i— i don’t know. her highness said she wished for some—”
the dagger pressed deeper, drawing a thin bead of red beneath her chin.
“...in her quarters!” she gasped. “please, don’t hurt—”
“get me the oil,” he shoved the maid aside. make sure there are no witnesses, we’re here to assassinate the princess.
moments later, the corridors of the east wing filled with the faint scent of smoke.
the maid dropped the oil vessel and staggered back, horrified by what she had done; choking on her sobs as she fled down the hall. he watched her go until the sound of her footsteps faded, then tipped the lantern, adding fuel to the fire.
the flames leapt to life, devouring everything in their path.
you rise from your chair, a surge of alarm clawing at your chest. “is someone there?”
no answer.
by the time you reach for the door, the handle sears your palm with heat.
flames crackle as tendrils of smoke curl beneath the doors, making way into your chambers. just outside, unsuspecting attendants flee in panic, their screams muffled as they scramble through the palace.
you snatch a cloth from the table, and douse it with water, wrapping it around your hand before grasping the scorching handle.
but just as you brace to pull the door open, you freeze—dark streaks of oil begin to snake across the floor, seeping in from the gap beneath the door.
your stomach drops; in the next second, flames bloom like wildfire at your feet.
you instinctively take a few steps back. it claws at the edges of the curtains, the heat pressing in from every side as your lungs burn with each ragged cough.
a wave of icy dread crashes over you. every gut screams that this is no accident. the oil creeping deliberately under your doorframe leaves no room for doubt: someone did this on purpose.
could it be that they have returned for you, after all these years…?
your heart leaps when the window starts rattling violently; shattered glass and shards scatter across the floor as someone steps through the broken pane, hands bare and bleeding from the jagged edges of glass.
“sir phainon?”
the sight of him through the haze makes your heart stutter.
“what are you doing here? you should—” you cough violently, waving at the acrid air. “you should get out… it’s not safe here!”
phainon’s eyes dart toward the door behind you, where he knows other guards, dispatched the moment the fire broke out, were racing to reach your chambers.
but as he suspected, there was no safe passage leading to you. thus why he had to find an alternative as soon as possible.
without a second thought, he finds a way in himself, barely feeling the pain in his bloodied knuckles nor the scorching hot flames, driven by nothing but the need to reach you before it’s too late.
“forgive me, my lady, but i cannot obey that order.”
and though he says nothing more, the truth is written plainly across his face—
you are all that matters to him. and the thought of losing you again is something he can’t bear to even imagine.
“please hold on to me.”
you barely manage to question him before he sweeps an arm securely around your waist, pulling you close enough to feel the rise and fall of his chest. the fire devours what’s left of the room as he braces his bleeding hands against the shattered sill, blood smearing faintly across the glass.
“phainon—your hands—”
he grins faintly, “you can scold me later, princess, preferably when we’re not on fire.”
before you can respond, he lifts you through the window and out into the open air; instinctively, you grab at the front of his cloak, clutching the fabric to steady yourself.
the cold rush of wind hits you like a wave, stealing the heat and smoke from your lungs.
he lands hard against the grass outside, his body twisting to shield you from the fall. his hand finds the back of your head, guiding it against his shoulder as he absorbs the brunt of the blow.
the impact jostles you both; for a heartbeat, neither of you moves. you can only feel the rough fabric of his shirt beneath your fingers, the rapid, unsteady rhythm of his heart pounding against your palm.
phainon exhales shakily, his grip loosening just enough for you to lift your head. concern is written all over the beautiful face laying under you, but neither of you seem to remember how close you are.
“let’s get you somewhere safe, my lady.”
he kneels beside you, hands moving with careful precision as he dampens a cloth and gently wipes the dirt from your skin.
you notice the faint tremor in his fingers as he tends to the scrape along your arm, the subtle tension in his jaw; his eyes that flit over you… your face, your hands, your shoulders, as if searching for possible wounds you haven’t noticed yet.
“i’m not badly hurt,” you murmur, watching him.
he pauses, eyes flicking up to catch your gaze. “even so, my lady,” he replies, “it eases my mind to be certain.”
“thank you, i’m alright, really.”
he knows he has no right to act as anything more than your devoted knight, yet he tends to you with a fervor that defies norms. each careful touch, each lingering glance, speaks of a devotion that goes far beyond; protecting you has become a desperate, almost instinctive need for him.
his fingers brush a loose strand of hair from your forehead, lingering a moment longer than necessary, and for an instant the world outside the safehouse feels like it’s miles away. the closeness and the warmth of his hand against your skin, makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.
he clears his throat, snapping himself from the reverie. “i merely wish to ensure you are unharmed.”
you nod, “but what about you, phainon?”
phainon, phainon, phainon… how long had he waited to hear those two syllables fall from your lips? the sound rolls off your tongue like honey, enough to make him delirious off its sweetness.
you tilt your head at his lack of response, eyes lowering towards his knuckles; the blood may be wiped away, but the marks of the glass-cut injuries remain.
“…does it still hurt?” you ask softly, reaching for his hand before he can draw it back.
his hand is warm and rough in your grasp; you trace the edges of the cuts gently, thumb brushing over a faint streak of dried blood.
“you shouldn’t have done something so reckless,” you mutter, tearing a strip of cloth from your sleeve to wrap around his knuckles.
phainon watches in silence, gaze following the furrow of your brow, the faint crease of worry that doesn’t belong on your face.
and as your fingers tighten the makeshift bandage around his knuckles, his heart pounds loud enough that he’s sure you could hear it, if you only leaned a little closer.
unfortunately, this humble warehouse was built to house only one person at most, which explained the lone bed pushed against the wall.
at first, he stubbornly insists on sleeping on the floor, but you protest, unwilling to let a wounded man rest on the unforgiving floor.
in bed, he tries to give you most of the space, or at least he intends to… but with his broad frame, it’s impossible not to take up more than his fair share (despite his genuine best efforts).
so when your shoulder brushes against his, he stiffens, and you notice the subtle way his hand flexes around the sheet. the bandaged fingers of his curl involuntarily, white-knuckled, the muscle in his forearm trembling slightly as he wills himself to remain still, to restrain the urge to reach out, to pull you closer.
he convinces himself it’s the soreness in his knuckles keeping him awake, not the warmth of your body pressed against his side.
he stares at the ceiling long after you’ve drifted off (though he can’t help but sneak a few glances from time to time), listening to the even rise and fall of your breathing.
seeing you safe and here beside him once more, it’s the same comfort he remembers from long ago, like coming home after a long, restless journey.
after all this time, he finally has the chance to keep his promise.
the thought is enough to coax a small, unguarded smile to the corners of his lips.
INTERLUDE: WHY A PROMISE MUST BE REMEMBERED
his breathing was ragged, his steps uneven as he darted into the narrow alleyway behind the market. dust rose beneath his boots, mingling with the late-evening light that spilled through the cracks between the rooftops.
he hadn’t stolen anything. he swore he hadn’t. but when the steward’s silver ring had gone missing, and he’d just happened to pass by with his ragged appearance, that was all it took for them to put the blame on him. he learnt that explaining was futile when the haughty steward shut him up and called for guards immediately.
he pressed himself behind a crate, trying to calm his breathing. the echo of guards shouting carried faintly down the street.
“he went that way!”
...
“don’t let that rascal get away!”
just then, a figure in a pale dress peeked in, her gaze sweeping the shadows before landing right where he hid.
...!
he bit his lip, eyes squeezing shut, praying to whichever god was listening to him—that she wouldn’t call out to the guards.
“hello?”
his eyes snapped open and he swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. “…please don’t tell them i’m here.”
she tilted her head, studying the boy crouched behind the crate. “what’s your name?” she asked.
“...phainon.”
“phainon,” she repeated, as if you’re testing the sound on her tongue. “i like that name!”
“well i’m—” she began, but her words were cut short.
“your highness!” the guards called from behind her, relief flooding their tone when they finally spotted the young princess. “there you are, we’ve been looking everywhere! what are you doing here?”
she you blinked, casting a quick glance back toward the crates, before stepping away inconspicuously.
“nothing,” you said lightly. “i thought i heard something and got a little lost.”
“but it seems i’m the only one here.”
the guards exchanged uneasy glances, hesitantly, they inclined their heads.
“understood, your highness. it isn’t safe here, please let us escort you back to the palace before your tutors notice,” one said.
they turned to lead you out of the alleyway, but before you followed, you looked back.
snow-white hair peeked out from behind the crate. his lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound came.
you smiled instead, lifting a finger to your lips to shush him gently, then gave him a playful wink as your parting gift.
phew...
thank god they—wait. wait, did the princess of aedes elysiae… just wink at him?
you don’t see him again for several days, at least not until another quiet afternoon when you manage to slip past your attendants once more.
beyond the palace gardens, down a sloping hill and through the meadow, there’s a quiet spot by the riverbank where almost no one ever goes.
that’s where you find him again.
barefoot, sleeves rolled to his elbows, rinsing mud from his hands in the river. sunlight glints off his pale hair, the ripples painting silver lines across his face. he startles when he notices you standing next to him.
“…your highness?” he blurts, nearly stumbling to his feet.
“so you do remember me.”
there is something about the way he looks at you then, more so resembling the awe of someone faced with a miracle he never quite believed he’d see again. as some people are remembered as heroes because they save lives; while others, like you, because they give one a reason to keep living at all.
he straightens quickly, bowing his head, his hands still damp. “i didn’t expect to see you here, your highness. the palace is quite a ways off.”
you step closer until your reflection joins his in the water. “what a coincidence,” you muse. “i come here often, yet i’ve never once seen you. perhaps it’s fate, then.”
you tilt your head. “what are you doing here, anyway?”
“my parents’ field is nearby,” he says, awkwardly drying his palms on his trousers. “i was fetching water for them, your highness.”
you hum thoughtfully, glancing at the wooden buckets by his feet. “then i suppose i’ve interrupted your work.”
he shakes his head quickly, almost flustered. “no-not at all! you could never be an interruption, my lady!”
amused, you can’t help but giggle at his reaction. the sound makes him blink, unsure whether he’s said something foolish or funny (or both), he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, scratching at his neck before lowering his gaze again, a bashful smile tugging at his lips.
after that day, you find yourselves meeting there more often.
“my lady, are you sneaking out again?”
“maybe… but you won’t tell on me, right?”
neither of you ever spoke of your meetings to anyone. a young princess had no business secretly spending her evenings with a commoner, after all—what would the court say if they ever found out?
yet, despite the vast gulf of social status between you, you never treated him as lesser; and he finds himself drawn to you more with each passing meeting, until he can’t help but notice that his thoughts turn to you long before the day ends.
those little observations grow heavier in his chest as years pass, loving a princess is dangerous, but loving a commoner would be no less so. perhaps you both sense it; even the adults, if they ever knew, would likely dismiss it as nothing more than a fleeting childhood affection, a puppy love that simply, cannot last.
but looking at you now, you seem almost ethereal. is it truly selfish of him to wish you’d never leave? to hope you wouldn’t one day be wedded to some noble prince more fitting of your position?
to imagine himself there instead—if it were him standing beside you, would you look at him differently then?
he hates the way his heart dares to reach for something it has no right to want.
it is such an ugly thought, a feeling so unworthy of you, he fears it might taint you if he even dared to—
“then… when i grow up and become a princess who gets into all sorts of trouble—”
he blinks at you, as though the sweet sound of your voice had pulled him out of a dream. “all sorts of trouble?”
“yes,” you said solemnly. “you’ll come save me, won’t you?”
the boy paused, looking down at his calloused hands. the breeze rustles through the grass, carrying the faint scent of river water between you; he nods, surprisingly earnestly.
“of course, i’ll save you, no matter what.”
you smile brightly at his response, holding out your pinky toward him.
“then it’s a promise!”
he hooks his finger with yours.
“of course, i’ll protect you with my life!”
that day, the sun may be blazing brilliantly overhead, yet its light pales beside the radiant warmth of your smile, a light that touched his heart with a tenderness no dawn could ever match.
ACT V: WHY HE COULDN’T BEAR TO SEE ME SMILE AT ANOTHER
after a pleasant conversation with the knowledgeable lord anaxa, you slip out of the ballroom, and as always—phainon falls into step behind you the instant you turn away.
you push open the imposing doors leading to the balcony; cool night wind rushes in, brushing across your skin like a blessing after hours drowned under chandeliers. the music dulls to a distant hum as the doors ease shut behind you.
exhaling, you lean against the marble railing, letting the air fill your lungs. phainon steps into the moonlight, his gaze softens when it lands on your back.
“my lady,” he says quietly. “are you alright?”
jealousy doesn’t show easily on him.
usually, he’s a man with no need to covet. but nothing about you, or the way he feels for you, has ever been “usual” to him.
every time a noble leaned in too near, every fleeting touch on your arm as if they had any right to—
“yes,” you murmur, tossing a look over your shoulder and offering him a faint, tired smile. “i just needed a breath of fresh air.”
your gaze drops for a moment before lifting to him again. “thank you for staying by my side, phainon.”
it reminds him, cruelly, of the place he stands, of what he can and cannot reach.
a low hum trembles through the air before the first firework bursts into the sky, scattering gold across the night. you both look up instinctively, the sudden glow washing over your faces.
another follows. then another. soon the sky is filled with blooming flowers, each one painting your skin in shifting hues of amber and rose.
“look phainon!” petals of light drift downward, reflected in your awe-filled eyes, “it’s lovely, isn’t it?”
his breath catches at the way you grab his arm out of excitement (moving just enough that the warmth of you grazes against his side), the soft delight in your eyes, the way you lean forward slightly, lips parted in astonishment—
it coaxes dormant parts of his heart awake, blooming slow and treacherous like flowers touched by the morning sun.
“yes,” he says before he could help himself.
yet his gaze rests nowhere near the sky, but rather, on the spectacle that lives inside your gaze, the reflection turning your eyes into something soft and luminous.
he thinks that if there is beauty to behold tonight, it exists far closer than the horizon ahead.
and maybe that is why his next words sit so heavily on his tongue.
“my lady.”
“hm?” your expectant eyes meet his.
phainon swallows.
“in a week or so, i will be stationed at the frontlines away from the capital for some time,” he begins.
you blink, surprise flickering across your face, this is news to you. your fingers tighten on the railing.
you had hoped, more than you dared admit, to spend just a little more time with your beloved knight.
“how long?” you ask with a disappointment you try to swallow down.
“a few years.”
“i see.” a hollow ache blooms beneath your ribs, as if something dear to you is slipping out of reach.
his fingers curl at his sides, knuckles tense; every word he’s buried for years pushes its way up his throat before he can stop it. “and there is also something i have been meaning to say. my lady, i—”
a thunderous crack splits the sky above, drowning out the rest of his words in a blaze of gold.
you tilt your head, “sorry, what was it?” you call over the roaring cascade.
phainon’s mouth opens—then closes again.
“…nothing,” he turns his gaze away from you, “it can wait, my lady.”
and you, standing inches from him, remain blissfully unaware of the words he had finally dared to speak.
the ballroom is nearly unrecognisable once emptied.
you and phainon’s footsteps the only sound left in a place that had been overflowing with grandeur only an hour ago.
“a shame i didn’t get to dance properly tonight,” you say, half jokingly.
“is it?” he asks softly.
you shrug, smiling faintly. “i suppose so.”
“in that case…” he bows lightly, “if you’d allow me, my lady.”
“you know how to dance?” you ask, the hint of a smile tugging your lips.
he exhales a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting.
a flicker of playfulness ghosts across his face. “why don’t you see for yourself?” he returns with an unexpected hint of teasing gallantry.
you laugh and slip your hand into his.
his palm at your waist warms through the layers of your gown, its delicate threads woven by none other than the esteemed seamstress, lady aglaea.
he looks down, drinking in the sight of you—your flushed cheeks from the cold air, the soft part of your lips as you exhale.
for a man so adept at his weapon, his hands felt remarkably soft on your skin.
phainon’s breath caresses faintly against your temple as he spins you gently under his arm.
you both fall into a gentle sway, soft laughter escaping every once in a while.
he lets himself savor the moment, allowing himself this small indulgence: to believe, if only for tonight, you might recognize him in the same way he has always known you.
ACT VI: WHY I WAS JEALOUS OF HIS 'SECRET LOVER'
phainon almost never left you unattended, but mydei (of all people) was someone he trusted without hesitation. and today he had been ordered to train the troupe preparing for the frontlines, leaving you in the prince’s hands for the afternoon.
left alone with mydei, you slipped into your chairs across from one another with a glass of wine in hand (while he sipped his familiar pomegranate juice).
he regales you with stories of past misadventures, a surprising number involving phainon when he first came to kremnos; the image was so endearing you found yourself laughing, unable to picture that small awkward boy beside the tall composed figure you knew now.
“so how did phainon earn a place among the royal knights? seeing as he’s not of kremnoan blood and all.”
“oh? and what makes you say that?”
you lift a hand in gentle surrender. “only a feeling.”
that earns a soft laugh from the prince. “you’re right. he’s from aedes elysiae.”
aedes elysiae… huh. you knew he feels familiar somehow, especially that scent of fresh meadow he carries that reminds you so fondly of the grassfields back in your homeland.
“he arrived at the palace gates back when we were barely teenagers,” mydei begins. “walked right up to me, introduced himself, and challenged me to a duel on the spot.”
you blink. “a duel?”
“my thoughts exactly,” he says, amused. “he declared that if he won, i would have no choice but to let him join the royal training ranks. insufferably confident, even back then.”
your brows shot up. “and?”
“the duel ended in a tie,” mydei admits with a wry smile. “which, frankly, was the only reason father agreed to it. that old man said any boy who could match me blow for blow deserved at least a chance.” he pauses, swirling the juice in his glass. “we became sparring partners after that. i suppose as a warrior, it was impossible to ignore his determination.”
“in that case,” your gaze drifts toward the empty doorway where phainon had stood earlier, “i should thank that past version of him. had that duel ended differently, our paths may never have crossed.”
“so you’re saying you’re glad i didn’t best him?”” mydei arches one brow in mock offense.
you huffed a soft laugh. “…i wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
he shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. “unbelievable.”
“well whatever the outcome of that duel might have been,” he says with unusual gentleness, “i have no doubt he would still have found his way to you.”
you blink, then let out a short incredulous laugh. “really? what’s that supposed to mean, your highness?” you wave it off as a jest, half flustered.
to hide the warmth rising in your cheeks (which now, is much more obvious than the pomegranate tint in mydei’s glass), you clear your throat and reach for the safest refuge you know: changing the subject!
“anyway,” you say lightly, though your heartbeat has yet to settle, “do you happen to know why phainon wanted to be a knight in the first place?”
the prince hums, tapping a finger absentmindedly against his glass. “well, it would’ve been a waste not to put all that talent to use. but,” he leans back, eyes narrowing as he sifts through old memories. “truth be told, he mentioned it once. during a rather… heated match, of all times.”
you perk up. “he did?”
“he said he wanted to become strong enough to keep a promise he once made to an old friend.”
…an old friend?
“it seems he’s cherished that person above almost anyone else.”
you let out a quiet laugh, though it tastes oddly bitter in your mouth.
but before you can press mydei for more—
“talking about me?” phainon steps through the doorway, his eyes flicking between the two of you with a lopsided smirk tugging at his lips.
soon the three of you settle around the table, drinks in hand. laughter spills as easy as the flow of river; stories and playful jabs make the hours slip by almost unnoticed.
“so, almighty mydeimos! pray tell, does her highness know about the time i landed ten perfect strikes on you in a row?” / “even she knows that’s a generous exaggeration, captain…”
"—i demand a rematch! it's not fair, you wear way less than me-" / “wait so… when you said ‘heated’ match you actually meant… a sauna battle?”
rain spills from the sky without so much as a whisper of warning, chilling you to the bone in seconds. without a word, phainon shrugs off his heavy overcoat, lifting it above your head as a shield while the two of you hurry toward the carriage mydei had summoned.
inside, the carriage is dim and quiet, the only sounds are your uneven breaths and rain drumming against the roof.
when you arrive, phainon steps out first and offers his hand, guiding you to your chambers.
the warmth of the room hit you as you sway while fumbling for a towel. “i… i can manage.” you frown slightly, digesting the aftermath of the wine lingering in your system.
“with all due respect, my lady… your alcohol tolerance is abysmal.” his voice carries a chastising tone as he steadies you by the waist before you can tilt forward again.
you ignore the comment, turning your body to face him directly.
“now what are you d—”
his unfinished reprimand dissolves the moment your fingers slip into his hair. snowy strands cling damply to his temples as you gently pat his head, droplets gathering on your fingertips with every ruffle.
phainon goes completely still.
his hands remain at your waist, tense as if he can’t decide whether to retreat or hold you closer. you don’t know what came over you—but the more his ears redden, the more your hand (and your heart) insists on continuing.
and gods, the thought flashes across your mind before you can stop it:
he’s… kind of like a drenched puppy.
a really, really cute one.
phainon swallows hard, collecting his words. “…my lady, it’s getting late. you should rest. i’ll take my leave—”
he steps back to excuse himself, but you catch his hand before he can reach for the door.
“phainon.”
your fingers tighten around his wrist. “do you…like me?”
the tipsy haze in your veins makes every flutter in your chest impossible to ignore.
“of course i do, my lady,” he says quietly. “ there is no one i am more devoted to, my loyalty has always belonged to you.”
“then…” you swallow and lift your gaze to his, wavering. “do you like your ‘old friend’ more than me?”
phainon blinks, taken aback. “my—pardon? what do you mean?”
you push on, unable to stop the words tumbling out, soft and slurred with hurt you didn’t realize you were holding.
“mydei told me you seem to like them a lot,” you insist. “so much so that you even came all the way to kremnos just to train your best for their sake.”
you aren't sure what kind of reaction you expected. defensiveness, denial, irritation, anything—but certainly not the way his expression melts.
“...you really don’t remember, huh,” he whispers under his breath.
gently, he pries your hand from his wrist only to place it against his still-damp chest, right over the rapid thrum beneath his skin.
“you know,” he murmurs, eyes lowering. “every time you say my name,” beneath your palm, his heart hammers against his chest at a rapid pace. “this place becomes a mess.”
you can feel the tremor beneath his skin, sense the heat radiating from him as he lowers his mouth near your ear, breath warm against your neck.
“i like… no, i love you. always, and only you.”
a warmth blooms in your chest, hot and dizzying. you let out a small, hiccupping laugh, words catching in your throat. “i—” you falter, leaning into him just as his hands come up to steady you.
phainon’s eyes meet yours again, the subtle lift of his brows showing relief that you don’t pull away just yet. “but please… get some rest now, my lady.”
his tone is tender, as if he fears staying too long might make leaving impossible for him.
not that you’d mind if he didn’t.
(your head is a total mess the next morning. phainon was right, your alcohol tolerance really was abysmal.
amid the dull pounding behind your eyes, your thoughts flit between your childhood sweetheart… and then, to phainon.
a part of you wonders, if maybe the two aren’t so different after all. could it really be that the one you’d always held dear is the same person standing beside you now? something about him makes your chest tighten in a way that feels… eerily familiar.
you can only hope to make sense of your own muddled feelings soon.)
ACT VII: WHY HE FEIGNED IGNORANCE (UNCONVINCINGLY)
there's a saying that once fear finally cracks a man, the truth often spills in fragments; grudging and ugly.
the warehouse reeks of iron and damp rot, the kind of cold that settles into the deepest parts of the bone.
the assassin is long past any condition to resist.
he hangs slumped against the pillar he’s been chained to for weeks, wrists swollen where the iron has scraped in too deeply. dark bruises bloom along his jaw; while dried blood crusts the corner of his split mouth.
a blade slides beneath his chin and tilts his face upward.
the wielder does not speak. he stands enshroud in shadow, his pale hair catching what little light the warehouse offers.
the assassin’s eyes flutter open to meet the cold, unwavering gaze before him. “i already told you everything i know.”
the white-haired man remains motionless, sword still pressing up beneath the prisoner’s jaw. “so she was nothing more than a tool to you.”
a hoarse, mocking laugh crawls out of his throat. “you’ve kept me here long enough,” he mutters. “don’t tell me you’re a coward, captain.”
turns out provoking him was a bad idea.
“if her highness had died in that fire,” blue eyes almost delirious looking as they fix on the man before him. “you wouldn’t still be breathing right now.”
the truth is, phainon had arrived late that night because he’d first cornered the assassin, swiftly knocking him unconscious, and dragging him here before sprinting back to the burning hall to reach you in time. barely in time.
and to think he has come so close to losing you again, was an outcome he simply could not accept.
it disgusts him, tending even minimally to the prisoner chained before him. every scrap of bread, every cup of water—it all but fills him with revulsion. a man complicit in the attempt on your life, merits no mercy.
“but you’re right,” the knight says at last. “i won’t forgive anyone who lays a hand on her highness.”
the assassin stiffens. “what…”
“was i unclear?” phainon’s gaze does not waver, “your time’s up.”
“no—nonono… wait!” his chains rattle as he jerks to the side, narrowly avoiding the sharp blade now dangerously close to his neck. “i told you everything! everything you asked for. you said—you said you’d spare me if i spoke. you promised!”
he promised… he promised… he promised…
phainon lowers his gaze, pale eyes devoid of heat as they drift away from the now pathetic man trembling at his feet. for just a moment, they hold the same softness they do when they rest on you.
“i did,” he says.
relief washes over the assassin’s face. “s-so you are a man of your words! i knew you’d—”
“but understand this, she did nothing to deserve what harm you brought upon her. and while she begged for her life all those years ago, you refused to listen for your own gain.”
phainon swears to fulfil every promise he makes…
“so i see no reason to listen to you either.”
—to you only, of course.
a princess killed on foreign soil would more or less be an open act of war; most likely have triggered a major political crisis, straining relations between the two kingdoms and their respective allies.
the knight knew that much the moment the truth spilled from the assassin’s lips.
if the attempt had succeeded back in aedes elysiae, the damage would have been just as detrimental. a kingdom already seen as weak due to the lack of military strength—what faith would its people have left? panic would surely have spread, leaving its people gripped by fear and uncertainty.
the assassin stammers, panic shredding what little composure he had left. “but she’s still alive, isn’t she? that’s what matters, right? i mean, nothing happened in the end, so—”
his breath cuts off abruptly mid-word, collapsing into a sharp, broken gasp. he convulses, coughing violently, eyes locked on the hilt of the blade pressed against his abdomen, each rasp growing weaker than the last.
“her life is not yours to bargain with.”
ignoring the man now bleeding and sputtering before him, phainon picks up the cup lying on the floor, whatever liquid remains inside sloshes weakly against the rim.
without a word, he tilts it over the assassin’s head. letting the cold liquid slowly cascade down, dousing his hair and clothes.
a hoarse groan escapes the man as the acrid sting of the liquid hits his senses. the sharp, unmistakable scent of gasoline makes his stomach knot with dread.
he had assumed it was just water when phainon brought it earlier as he always did, but now, with the familiar tang burning his nose…
as if to confirm his dreaded suspicion, phainon lights a match.
the tiny flame dances, casting a flickering glow across his sharp blue eyes. and for a fleeting instant, it reminds him of that night, vividly; the smoke, the heat, and your terrified gaze. it grates against every fiber of his being, seeing you in pain.
trapped in the inferno, the assassin is left to face what he set in motion himself.
through the haze, he sees it—that unsettling smile of a man who would burn the world down without hesitation, if it meant to keep you safe.
the fire spreads quickly, the knight takes his leave not long before the flames close in and the wooden beams collapse. surely by dawn, nothing of this place will remain but ash.
out of the corner of your eye, you catch a tall figure moving stealthily past you.
nowadays, you can recognise your white-haired knight anywhere, even from a mile away. but still, your heart gives a small, irrational leap.
“phainon?” you call out.
he freezes for a moment as if he was caught in the act, glancing over his shoulder before his eyes finally find yours. he jogs toward you as if nothing’s amiss, but you can tell that something’s off.
as soon as he comes fully into view, though his uniform is perfectly neat, you notice the strong smell of iron that clings to him anyway.
“phainon… are you okay?” you can’t stop yourself, concern spilling out as you step closer to inspect him. “what happened? did you get into trouble?”
he tilts his head, then flashes his signature grin. “i’m fine!” he says, “my lady, you know i’m really strong, you don’t need to worry about me.”
given his habit of deflecting whenever the topic turns to himself, you’re fairly certain he’s just trying to avoid whatever it is. nevertheless, you can’t shake your concern—what if he’s hiding an injury again?
“uh my lady…?” he can tell you’re not planning to let it go anytime soon; your gaze is firm, a slight pout forming as your worry fuels your refusal to back down so easily.
before you can press him further, he steps closer and wraps you in a sudden hug. “see? i’m not hurt.” he murmurs, his tone unusually gentle, as if sensing the depth of your concern.
you stiffen at first, hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. “phainon—” you protest, trying (and failing) to sound stern. you give his chest a light push, but he doesn’t budge. instead, he loosens the embrace just enough to look at you, eyes soft, almost wounded, like you’d just kicked a puppy.
“…did i do something wrong?” he asks quietly.
your shoulders slump in defeat.
perhaps realizing it was futile to even attempt to stay mad at this big, stubborn puppy, you sigh and give in, ruffling the edge of his hair and patting him on the back.
he leans just slightly into your touch, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, clearly satisfied with having “won” this little battle.
though the way his arms remain around you suggests he never planned to let go so easily in the first place.
today is the day the knights are to be stationed outside the capital for the upcoming war against the black tide. the courtyard is alive with farewells from families and friends, but no matter how far you search, you can’t seem to find phainon among the crowd.
just then, you catch sight of someone moving off to the quieter edge of the grounds. there he is—alone, kneeling by his greatsword and polishing the blade with meticulous care.
“phainon!” you call, your voice cracking slightly despite your effort to stay composed.
he stops, turning in surprise. for a brief instant, there’s that faint flash of shock in his eyes—but it vanishes as quickly as it came. slowly, he sheaths his sword and bows politely in greeting.
in the brief space between you, you raise your hand, trembling slightly, and reach up to his face.
“you idiot, were you going to leave without telling me?”
he freezes for a heartbeat, a faint chuckle escaping him before his fingers curl gently around your wrist. please forgive him, he couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye to you once more.
he lifts your palm to his lips, pressing them softly against your skin—tender and reverent. just like it was when he kissed your hand all those years ago.
“i’ll be back before you know it.”
you slip the necklace from around your neck, the chain sliding free with a soft clink before you place it gently into his open palm.
“don’t lose it,” you say with a teasing lilt. “you’ll have to return it to me once you come back safely, alright?”
phainon’s fingers close around the familiar pendant, and a small, almost helpless smile tugs at his lips. “as you wish, my lady.”
“then i suppose i’ll just have to wait for you this time, phainon.”
what a ridiculous demand from such a cruel princess—not because it was impossible, but because it left him no choice at all.
the thought draws that same faint, almost incredulous smile to his lips.
there was never a world in which he would not do his utmost to return to you.
ACT VIII: WHY HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
it’s been two years since you last saw him. having returned to your homeland to visit your parents a few months ago, you find yourself wandering the familiar grounds of aedes elysiae.
the fields are fragrant with late blooms, and the warm sun filters through the leaves, dappling the ground with light.
ever since that night, when the truth finally dawned on you, the memory has clung stubbornly to your thoughts: his infuriatingly handsome smile, the way he presses your palm to his lips, the beating of his heart, his whispers in your ear—it all replays in your mind whenever you even remotely think about him.
it has to be him…
overwhelmed by nostalgia, you let your feet carry you almost without thought. soon, a familiar sight comes into view: the shimmer of lake water and the golden wheatfield you’ve returned to countless times as a child.
you stand at the edge of the bank, closing your eyes and letting the wind brush across your face, a bittersweet feeling arises deep in your chest.
but a sudden rustle comes from the stalks behind you, pulling you from your reverie. you peel your eyes open just as a shadowed reflection ripples across the surface of the lake.
your heart leaps. instinctively, you spin around…
“...phainon?” a familiar face greets your vision.
“so you do remember me.”
your knees almost go weak, your chest tightening at the sound of his voice as you take in the familiar tilt of his head, and the way the sunlight catches his hair just like you remembered.
and a rush of emotions—relief, joy, longing—crash over you all at once.
“you… you’re really here.” you step towards him, until the space between you is pretty much non-existent.
“i promised i’d return,” phainon murmurs, leaning closer. almost hesitantly, his earnest gaze flickers to your lips before returning to your eyes.
he waits patiently for your nod, and when you finally do, he closes the last of the distance between you.
you’ve missed him terribly.
you melt into him, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as his hands settle gently on your waist, drawing you closer.
but beyond all else, you love him more than anything.
this closeness—the undeniable press of your body against his—is all he has ever longed for. it makes him feel light-headed even.
holding you close, he savors the soft exhale that mingles with his own.
his world is finally back where it belongs.
maybe things would’ve been easier in another life, maybe the gods would take pity and give you both a kinder story.
but to phainon, it makes no difference. not this life, not the next, not the thousand before or after. because he has loved you in every one of them. in every form, his heart always finds its way back to you.
he remembers the warmth of your hand even when he’s born without one. he dreams of your voice in lifetimes where he never learns your name.
even if you so cruelly forget him again, if he must live through it all, he would. again and again.
because this is the most terrible truth of it all: it is the most human thing he’s ever known, to helplessly love you, despite it all.
he loved you, he loves you still, and he will keep loving you—for as long as the sun continues to rise, his heart will belong to you.
as surely as yours is his.
before the assembled court, the king rises.
“for your service to the realm of aedes elysiae and castrum kremnos,” the king declares, voice carrying through the grand hall, “you are hereby granted a title befitting your deeds. from this day forth, you shall stand among the highest of my lords.”
phainon inclines his head in a respectful bow. “thank you, your majesty.”
“your actions have greatly strengthened the enduring bond between our kingdom, and kremnos.”
“so brave hero,” the king continues, “you may name your reward. gold, estates, influence—whatever you desire shall be yours.”
“i’m honored, your majesty.” he adds, “but i ask for none of those things.”
the king inclines his head, curiosity evident in his expression. “then what is it you wish for?”
phainon lowers himself to one knee. “may i have the hand of the princess of aedes elysiae?”
EPILOGUE: WHY WON’T THE CHARMING PRINCESS MEET MY EYES?
first gifted by your beloved knight in your childhood, to countless days through battles, then at last all the way back from the frontlines—the necklace’s once-shimmering metal had lost its luster, spots of rust crept along the chain and the pendant bore a few small chips.
you had told him a hundred times over it didn’t matter, insisting that it was fine just the way it was. you really didn’t mind, it was the thought that counted.
but phainon, being the ardent lover that he is, believed otherwise.
“here you go, young man,” the old lady says, holding out the carefully mended necklace. its chain gleamed faintly now, polished and whole again.
“this is amazing! thank you so much, ma’am.” grinning, phainon takes the necklace from the goldsmith’s hands.
“it’s my pleasure, dear. come by anytime, okay?” the old lady replies, the wrinkles on her face deepen with her smile as she gently holds both of his hands in hers.
“of course ma’am!” phainon nods politely.
you giggle. well there he goes again, stealing the hearts of every elderly he comes across.
slowly, he lifts the necklace from his hand and clasps it gently around your neck. the cool metal brushes against your skin, and for the first time in so long, it finally rests where it belongs.
“there we go,” he says softly, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. "all yours again."
perhaps not used to such public displays, you feel your cheeks heat up. you find yourself unable to meet his eyes, staring instead at the necklace, your fingers fidgeting nervously with the chain.
phainon notices immediately and can’t help but take the opportunity to tease you more.
his hand deliberately brushes your shoulder, then trails down to adjust the necklace, fingers grazing your collarbone ever so slightly.
that cheeky bastard… you can almost see the curve of his smirk from the corner of your eyes.
the sun rises behind you, painting the world in a mesmerising dawn. but in phainon’s eyes, you are the most ethereal sight of it all—because you are his sun.
with a mischievous grin, he tilts your chin upward, coaxing your gaze to meet his.
please allow him to be selfish just this once. he wants to fill your memories with him, to leave traces of himself in every corner of your life, ensuring you’ll never forget him again.
a man so terribly in love with you, phainon only has one wish:
that is you’ll remember this moment—not just today, but tomorrow, and for all the days that follow.
so that he may always keep you in his sight, in his thoughts, in the quiet corners of his heart where no one else can reach.
won’t you promise him that, his lady?
extended author’s notes / fun facts: here (soon)
thank you for reading !! reblogs are appreciated <3
╰┈➤ summary ; you were nervous to say the least. Your dearest owner, idrilla insisted on you staying at their friend, nanook's place for 3 whole months while they are away for a business trip. Kinda suspicous dont ya think??? You would've been fine by it, but the problem is... nanook owns 3 dog hybrids.
( @ ) Triplets au inspired by @box-artist and hybrid au from @podokrys
( ✎ ) My horny ass has been fantasizing about phainon and his other version of himself, and I haven't seen many fics about them, so I'm gonna write a fic WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS.
CHAPTERS
CHAPTER I — ❝I DON'T WANT TO GO!❞
CHAPTER II — ❝FIRST MEETING❞
CHAPTER III — ❝IS IT JUST ME OR IS IT GETTING HOT IN HERE?❞
CHARACTERS (SEPERATE ENDINGS)
I. PHAINON samoyed — submissive phainon , knotting , breeding , mating press , marking , slight yandere behavior , cockwarming
II. FLAME REAVER wolf dog — soft sex , slight angst , knotting , breeding , lots of kissing , comfort , marking , aftercare
III. KHASLANA great pyrenees — brat taming , marking , rough sex , knotting , breeding , different sex position , possessive khaslana , cockwarming
SPECIALS
❝AT THE SAME DAMN TIME !❞ — foursome , NSFW , Double penetration , double knotting , blowjob
( ✎ ) Well as much as I love all 3 of them being a samoyed, I kinda want to change it a little. ALSO, keep in mind, there might be some changes in this post, especially the description of each characters! EXPECT SLOW UPDATES (SORRY)
my husband suddenly became love"sick"?! ft. phainon
basically regressor au bc he lowkey fumbled in the past lifetime (and you died) so he pulled the uno reverse card and highkey turned back the time (pt2)
WARNING/S: yandere, obsessive behavior
EXTRA:
heh so uhh,,, i lowk rushed ts chapter because I was mad sleepy (i was planning on including more context like how the union is what's literally keeping yn alive: oops spoiler alert) but ehhhh,,, hope ya'll like it tehee, adios
summary: something has been lurking in the shadows and waiting.
[BETTER READING EXPERIENCE ON PC]
content warning: (non-canon compliant timeline) both phainon and reader are implied to be in their mid-to-late 20s // reader was an ass to phainon (for a very good reason) // phainon breaks up with reader // slight ooc!phainon for the sake of the plot // implied talks about how marriage for women is a prison (loss of the woman's individuality and autonomy) // sleep paralysis (irontomb) // (nsfw) fingering // (nsfw) penetrative p-in-v sex (phainon) // (nsfw) creampie (phainon) // depictions of vision and auditory hallucinations (irontomb) // something is wrong with this house (irontomb) // descriptions of an eldritch entity (irontomb) // mentions of the devil (irontomb) // uncanny valley (irontomb) // reader might be the problem // (minor) references to numerology and tarot cards // reader's vulnerabilities and fears coming true (the loss of autonomy) // (nsfw) reader and irontomb!phainon fuck nasty crazy style kinda // intentional blurring of settings and events to reflect reader's mental state // reader beats the shit out of irontomb!phainon
word count: 8.10k
author's note: was inspired to write some phainon horror after reading the fic promtheus complex (yall know which fic im talking abt, if you don't, please read it like right now im so serious lock in on peak) listened to the whole EDAABP album and 2000s club music on repeat writing this and uhh after im done writing this im going to try and beat that stupid boss from chapter 4 from fuckASS Limbus Company AGAIN and if i fail AGAIN FOR THE 13TH TIME I WILL KMS. also yes, i drew that floorplan of the house because autocad is fucking expensive like im not joking it's crazy ex and my company just happens to have a license so of courseeeee im going to use it for my own stuff duh!!!! but lol also can you imagine being an old jaded man working in construction and so close to retirement and you look over to see your new-hire architect writing full blown phainon smut during lunch on the work pc...
references: main thematic inspiration/references — Silent Hill f, The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson, including the 2018 miniseries by Mike Flanagan of the same name, the light novel/manga The Strange House by UKETSU and the webnovel/webtoon Welcome to the Rose Mansion by Lee Daran. // other minor study materials (writing style, narrative voice, books i wanted to recommend just because) — Butter by Asako Yuzuki, Tokyo Sympathy Tower by Rie Qudan, The Memory Police by Yoko Ogawa and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.
[18+ NSFW CONTENT BELOW, MINORS DNI]
[PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY TRIGGERS CAUSED BEYOND THIS LINE]
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the four-pointed star.
the compass rose that guides one home, always pointing northwards even as one's feet leads them to where the west wind ends, the ever faithful compass will point north to navigate you home.
this compass, embellished in gold with intricate patterns painted on its surface in sky blue enamel, much like the colour of your ex-lover's eyes, was the final gift he had given you before the both of you had parted ways. it had been amicable, at least it was to the eyes of the holy city.
but behind closed doors, it was another story. for a child who has never not known love like he did, how could he ever understand how you could have been so apathetic to his devotion? he had cried as he said goodbye, how he still loved you, about how it hurt him to keep loving you because it was, in his words — as though i was throwing rocks into a bottomless pit that could never be filled up.
for the deliverer of all people to say that, phainon must have been at his wits' end with you.
with that, he had left, taking all that was his away with him. your home, once warm and full of life, was now left in its bare bones, emaciated with only the most basic of furnishings still standing.
you sit at the foot of your once shared bed — staring past the open doors towards the long, empty corridor. though the holy city has never seen the night, the sun's rays gently flitting past the thin gaps in the walls and hanging tapestries to cast languid shadows across the marble floors did little to ease that uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach.
you hadn't been keen on moving into this house.
exactly eight years ago, when you and phainon had begun making plans to start living together, he had brought you to a viewing of this place. the ride there had been pleasant, though you noted how the roads leading to the house had been oddly quiet, a rather uncharacteristic trait despite it being located within the holy city. your lover had teased back then that the desolation made it perfect for the two of you, for whenever certain curtain-fall activities transgressed, and he was pushing you to be more vocal.
you, of course, had hit his arm for his shamelessness. gods know how embarrassed out of your mind you were then. only to have him chuckle at you lovingly in response, leaning over to kiss you on the apple of your cheeks apologetically.
the address of the house was stated as such:
816, 15th Street, Eternal Holy City, Okhema, Amphoreus (81303)
at first glance, one would be reasonably led to believe that the property was auspicious — after all, if one were to draw a straight line linking every historic monument of the titan kephale, this very house would be right smack in that path. and especially for phainon, wouldn't this bring about more blessings for his future duties as that very god's successor? though when you had asked phainon about it, he had grown bashful, scratching his cheek with his finger and doing his best to not look into your eyes.
actually i was hoping this would be the our forever home... you know after the wedding and maybe a few kids...
our... your eyes grew wide. oh phainon, you swooned at his shy confession of wanting to start a family with you. it was at that moment that you felt your life was finally made whole.
by this point in time, you had already achieved every milestone an okheman woman of your age should reach. first was a world-class education at the grove where you graduated at the top of your class. after which you worked as a humble entry-level mid-rank civil servant at the council. gradually gaining more accolades over time. you would meet phainon through a particular work event afterparty and after many lunch outings and late night drinks, perhaps even a few risque moments that transpired in-between. you eventually started a loving and enviable long-term courtship with the chrysos heir himself.
and now you had entered the final stages of that list of milestones, all that was left was the engagement announcement, preferably done in fall, following that was a fashionable waiting period of maybe two winters at most. and then, the actual wedding preparations will begin in earnest, and you would go from being his fiancee to being his wife before the end of the the following year's spring.
< and when you become his wife, it won't be long before you would be expected to leave that cushy job and that hard-earned position in the council, and settle into becoming his obedient little housewife that he has at his beck and call. >
huh. what was that?
you could hear a voice whisper in your ear for a moment, snapping you out of your reverie. your lover was off to your side, enjoying the passing view and was most certainly not talking to you. the air was still, with nary a breeze passing by. and yet. that voice had to have come from somewhere. you weren't stupid enough to mistake the thoughts in your head with whatever this was.
the dromas promptly came to a halt in front of an unassuming iron gate. the numbers eight-one-six engraved on a metal plate hanging above the gate's arch glinted dully against the ever-present sun. you were at the right address, that's for sure.
phainon, ever the gentleman, hopped off from the mount and jogged over to your side to help you down. you giggled at you lover's antics, hand finding solace in his fluffy hair as you ruffled it affectionally. he whined in faux sadness, grumbling about how his hair was all messy now, and yet he still smiles as he peppers your face in soft kisses as he settles you back on your feet.
so, what do you think?
he holds your hand as he gently leads you towards the gate. from where you stood, the house looked... unusual. the entry façade, for one, was not designed in the traditional okheman style of white limestone blocks neatly stacked into rectangular blocks two to three stories tall, four if the owners were more wealthy. this... house if you were being liberal looked more like an abandoned temple.
shall we go in?
the iron gate creaks open, the screeching sound echoing through the still air ominously. phainon holds out his hand towards you, gesturing at you to follow behind.
and right away, the moment your foot passed the threshold to the property, you could feel a chill run up your spine. you had looked over to phainon, alarmed by the sensation. yet your lover remained ever so unperturbed. if anything, he seemed to not even know what just transpired.
is something wrong?
he asks, a boyish smile laying easy on his handsome face. as usual, he never held a twinge of worry on his expression — even when you knew very well that the duties he held would more than not have kept him up at curtain-fall hour.
no. nothing's wrong.
you reply, keeping your answer curt. you had decided early on in the relationship that if this man would only let you skim at the surface of who he was, you will not pry. you had trusted that one day he would open up, he would let you into his world instead of keeping you at a metaphorical arm's length.
< how long has it been since then? oh you poor thing! you and him will be engaged soon but he still won't open up to his future wife? >
your arm link with his, stepping carefully on the barely visible paved road that had been covered under the overgrown grass — so tall that it was almost at the level of your chest. phainon chuckled at the sight, amused at how you'd almost looked like you were about to drown into your surroundings.
with a soft, excuse me, he lifts you into his arms. like a groom would his beloved bride, as his long legs carried you across the front lawn right towards the ornate marble staircase leading up to the house itself. this house, built as though it were a temple, was elevated by a mere three steps that wrapped around the perimeter of the structure. tall, towering stone columns flanked the sides, at a distance of what you assumed were approximately four arms length apart, held up the simple marble roof high above your heads.
a door made out of thia wood served as the entry point into the building, and it stood at a reasonable height — something you found a little surprising, given the massive scale of this structure otherwise.
from the doorway looking back, you could see the overgrown grass, yellow from the dry spell of this past month, bowing it head and swaying it's body to the non-existent breeze sweeping across the lawn. it was almost like you were looking at a field of —
wheat fields... like the ones in aedes elysiae...
beside you, phainon murmurs under his breath. his face wistful, eyes gleaming with a longing so desperate you wished that you had been chosen to as a chrysos heir that would one day inherit oronyx. maybe then, you could have turned back time to bring your lover back home one more time.
ah... nevermind. shall we go look inside?
can't you tell me more about aedes elysiae?
of course you just had to go off and do it. you had sworn to never pry into your lover's past and yet what did you do? you felt panic settling into your bones, wondering if it was too late to play it off as a slip of your tongue.
and yet, phainon smiles down at you as he caressed your cheek with the back of his fingers. eventually leaning down to place a kiss against your furrowed brow.
sure. i'll tell you more next time.
there it was. that dreaded phrase.
it was always a next time when you tried to grow closer to him. it was never a sure i'll tell you more now. it was never your chance to learn more about your lover. how long has this been? eight years? how could you have let this go on for so long?
sometimes you wonder if phainon had decided to draw a hard line between his time before arriving at okhema and the day he picked up the mantle as the deliverer. or that he had drawn that line between the man he was before and after meeting you. and if that were so, were you a fool to hope that you were more than just the woman he goes home to at night?
back in the present day, you swing your feet off the bed and stood up. you were getting thirsty, and besides, it wasn't yet time for that to happen. taking one last glance at the door, you finally make your way out of the bedroom.
this house, or rather, this temple. yes, you have finally decided that this accursed structure was that of a temple that housed some nameless god or perhaps it housed something that was not a divine being at all — seeing how that lives under this roof together with you as well.
feeling the ridges and bumps on the wall, you exit to the right of the bedroom, down the short steps to an enclosed corridor. you walk down along the path where the arched doorway led into the next room — a modest storeroom that used to house the artifacts your ex had collected over the years. of course, it was empty now, he had been meticulous to leave nothing of himself behind.
the room after held a long oak table, mismatching chairs littered around it's edges. in it's heyday this room would be the centerpoint of lively gatherings that he would host for his fellow chrysos heirs, food and drink aplenty as your lover's arm hung loosely around the shoulders of the prince, probably annoying the poor man with his drunk ramblings as he usually does in the day.
phainon was no longer your lover. it was still hard for you to make that change. the almost ten-year-long labour of love all down the drain just like that, was there anyone who could move on that quickly?
past the dining room was the first kitchen, and just behind it was another kitchen. you had mostly used it as a pantry, even if it had been equipped to work as a dry kitchen. you were too peeved by what lay inside, one wall over.
anyone would be peeved. if they too knew what comes out of that little square room every night.
you hadn't been keen on moving into this house.
one week after setting in — with the furniture set up, and belongings put into their proper places, you had decided to take a nap in the new bed you and phainon had went to pick out together. the mattress dipped under the weight of your knees as you climbed up towards the array of pillows you had carefully laid out.
the bedroom was built in a way that made it completely enclosed towards the rest of the house, anybody looking in from the outside won't even catch a glimpse and the ones in the room won't even have a clue to whatever happens beyond the room's walls.
sleep came easier than it had the previous nights. from the day you had stepped into the threshold of the property, there were eyes from countless directions boring into your being, watching your every move. at least you could have brushed it off back when it was the house-viewing. who could have thought that your lover would have settled all the arrangements and signed the deed to the property?
without even asking me about it?
you asked him, incredulous, and frankly — you were hurt that he hadn't made this life-altering decision with you. was it something that you did to lead him to act on his own? but no, the phainon you knew would not have moved on his own on something that involved you as well! yes, that explains everything.
yes, you concluded. that it was simply not phainon. that it had been someone else who made that decision in his place and making him act weirdly lately. yes, that explains everything.
< oh, but does it? >
you awaken to pitch darkness, flat on your back with your face facing up and your limbs slightly spread out, as you try to lift your hand to your face it occurred to you that you could not move. your body felt numb and heavy, save for the tingling sensation at the tip of your fingers. your eyes dart around helplessly, as though finding out were you were could ease your racing heart — pounding as though it would jump out of your ribcage at any moment.
and then you felt something cold on your ankle. no, it was on your thigh now, you can feel the shape of five distinct fingers splayed across your flesh, the thumb rubbing circles as though trying to soothe your flighty nerves.
this was not phainon.
phainon's body usually ran hot, and his hands were warm and calloused from the years he spent training and fighting on the battlefield. this imposter, whose hands were far too soft and smooth and whose skin on yours felt akin to the ice in aidonia. and yet! it was the unmistakable shape of his digits — sculpted perfectly to be long and of an adequate thickness, with the skin sitting on his bones unblemished and taut.
this imposter, with their ice-cold hands that were far too smooth and too similar to you lover's started moving up your thigh, under your robes and closer to your hips.
you shiver, from dread or from the cold, who was to say?
those same ice-cold fingers slowly made their way down the dip of your pelvic bone towards what lay between your thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin in its wake.
it stopped just short above that sensitive bundle of nerves, now burning and begging to be touched. it was terrible! and by gods, you were so ashamed of yourself. soaking wet with want from just a little touching from an unknown figure that was not your lover, you willed yourself to stop for everything to stop.
< hm, poor girl, keening to be touched... >
the cold that touched the tip of your clit had you choking back a cry. the smooth pads of its fingers slowly rubbed circles into you, setting a languid pace, slow enough that you began to wish that it would go faster and get you off properly.
< patience is a virtue, did no one teach you that? >
the voice spoke lowly in your ear, without so much as an exhale. a second, equally cold hand came up to cup your breast — the little nub that was your inverted nipple getting pinched and pulled and rolled in between its thumb and index finger with nothing but the sheer fabric of your negligee as a barrier, the fingers on your pearl now moved down the curve of your nether regions coating itself with your slick. a middle finger traced back up your slit, before ultimately prodding at your entrance. never pushing inside completely, always stopping at the first knuckle before pulling out and circling around the rim in featherlight touches.
you needed more, you wanted more. so please, put that damn finger inside already —
ahn!
you awoke, once more, this time with the sun's rays pouring in from the skylights in the ceiling. or perhaps there were small gaps in between the walls and the roof. it was hard to tell from down where you lay.
right next to you, with an arm under your head and the other slung over your waist was your very much topless lover, fast asleep. your head fell to the side to look at his peaceful expression, ever so youthful and handsome — was this a blessing of the titan kephale or was this just how he was naturally?
shifting closer, you bury your face into his voluptuous chest, finding solace in the warmth melting away the cold in your bones. he smelled like the first rays of sunlight and the fading scent of dried wheat carried in by the west winds. it was homey and for a moment you let yourself fall deeper into your lover's embrace.
mmh...
phainon stirs, and your hand finds itself cupping his cheek as his arm on your waist pulls you closer, enough where you wonder if he could feel the dampness between your legs from the remnants of last night's incident.
hm... g'mornin my love...
soft kisses fall on the crown of your head, and on your palm cradling his cheek. he pulls you up from where you'd buried your face in his chest to level with his face. to which he then peppers your face with another barrage of kisses and then some on your lips — once, twice, thrice perhaps even till a tenth or more, though you surmised you might have lost count.
hello gorgeous, fancy seeing you so early in the morning.
there was still a slight rasp in his voice, as he greets you yet again. you let a huff of laughter escape you, still feeling shy from his generous compliments even after all these years.
it wasn't long before the innocent kisses grew heated, his thick hand heavy on your hip moves to grind his palm against your bare cunt, already soaked once again from a reignited desire. you could hardly hold yourself back as you gasp into his kisses, your hands gripping onto his shoulders as he dips a finger inside you, the calloused pads of his fingers rubbing against your soft gummy walls, trying to find that spot.
you know.
he mummers, a thumb circling around your clit as his two fingers now thrusted in and out of your hole sloppily, an obscene squelching accompanying his movements. you whine helplessly, opening your legs wider and grinding down into his fingers, trying desperately to chase your own high.
when i came back home last night, i think i heard you having a rather naughty dream about me. you were so whiny and restless... oh sweet girl, did you miss me that much?
you nodded, leaning in to kiss him.
phainon chuckles giddily as your lips met his, the arm under your head curling up to keep your head in place as he picked up the pace. his fingers now went in and out of you rapidly, scissoring you to open wider. the roughness of his movements had your mouth gaping open as you let out silent cries of pleasure. this, this was what you just needed after that stupid dream from last night.
with one final push inside, his fingers curling, knuckle pressing on that sweet spot so deliciously you instantly gushed around his fingers, vision growing white as the tight coil in your abdomen finally snapped loose.
shh... it's okay love... i got you. i got you.
your lover kissed away the fat tears sitting on your lashes, tears that you didn't even know had started to form. you hiccup as you tried to form words, but gods, that might have been the most intense orgasm that phainon's ever pulled out of you so far.
you loosened your grip on his shoulder, wincing a you saw the deep crescent indents on his skin. he only smiled and told you he was more than happy to carry battle scars of this kind, so happy in fact he might even show it off — whatever that meant.
well, let's get you cleaned up—
aren't you forgetting something?
confused, phainon looks back at you. you pointed your gaze downwards and raised an eyebrow. the tent in his pants only seemed to grow larger at the attention.
he sputters, embarrassed and growing increasingly flushed at the revelation. this was not the first time either of you had a morning romp in the sheets, but something about seeing you come undone more than usual had the blood rushing to his dick. he flips you on your back, gaze unfocused and hazy with the immense lust he was feeling at that very moment.
please, can i...?
you nod, arms wrapped around him, pulling him in for another kiss, this time deeper with your lips parted wide enough for his tongue to prod and curl against yours. in a swift move he pulls down his pants, his cock springing free — his thick and heavy length slapping against your bare thigh, precum already leaking from his tip and smearing onto your skin.
his lips left yours, travelling across your cheeks and along your jaw before latching onto the thin layer of skin behind your ear, earning him a series of shivers while you gasped lightly at the contact. his hands were just as busy, riding the hem of your negligee up your torso so that your entire lower half was completely exposed to him.
he lifts himself off to take a good look at you — having to hold back a groan at how turned on he felt looking at you lying on your back with glossy eyes and disheveled hair, a thin sheen of sweat forming on your skin from the heat, legs pushed apart to reveal your glistening pussy and throbbing hole, just begging for him to get inside.
phainon wraps a hand around his dick, swiping his tip across your sensitive bud, flicking at it sideways, ecstatic at your whines for more! more! and yet never letting up on his teasing. so mean in fact, he would even slap that heavy cock of his against your leaking hole until you were crying, begging, your back arched off the bed to hopefully catch the tip of his length in your entrance somehow.
phainon clicks his tongue at your desperation, one hand pinning your hip against the bed as he finally lines himself against your opening, pushing it all in one go. you were sure you had gone crazy then, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, ankles locked on his lower back — your lover only laughs as he kissed up your neck, wet and sloppy just like the way your bodies slapping against each other at his every thrust did. your walls clenched around his cock, never getting used to his size no matter how many times you had sex with phainon.
the large hands palming your ass, lifted you a little higher and then — right there! you could feel him thrust even deeper into your cervix, the dull head of his penis rubbing against that spongy spot over and over again, your tummy felt hot, that familiar coil growing tight in your abdomen.
phainon... phai...
he kissed you, smiling.
are you close my love? it's okay, it's okay i got you, yeah? ah... shit... i think i'm cumming too... hold on a little longer for me? let's ah... let's come together? please? can we do that?
your walls clamped down even harder in response to his request, making him hiss as a whine escaped his lips. his head buries into the crook of your neck, nibbling and sucking on whatever skin his mouth could reach. he thrusts grow more ragged, shallow. his dick started twitching inside you, the telltale sign he was close.
but, even in your haze of immense pleasure, you couldn't help but notice that the door at the foot of your bed had creaked open. and even though you know that there wasn't anybody there, you could have sworn you saw a hand peaking out —
and waving at you.
your thoughts broke when phainon thrusts into you, harshly, your ass slapping against his hips. you could feel the thick ropes of cum fill up your womb, the sudden warmth had your walls spasming around his length, your clear fluids mixing with his release, the translucent and viscous blobs of cum overflowing out of your pussy and down onto the sheets. and somehow, phainon was still rock hard and twitching while slotted snugly inside you. you giggled and placed a kiss on his nose, already knowing what he was going to ask next.
oh phainon...
you hadn't been keen on moving into this house.
six months into living at the temple, you and phainon had been going at it almost everyday and every hour since that morning. it drained you, really. you were no superhuman demigod chrysos heir like your lover was. there was only so much stamina you had. and yet, when phainon would look at you pleadingly for a quick session, you would fold and let him take you there and there — it didn't matter if that was on all fours in the baths, hanging off the kitchen counters, bent over the dining table, on splayed on the floor of the study or even out on the corridors pinned against the round towering pillars. phainon never seemed to mind where he had sex with you as long as he could make you cling onto him as the both of you came over and over again until it would all spill out of you and onto the marble floors below.
and bless his heart, he would always take care of you after. giving you something to eat and drink, washing you clean and spoiling you rotten with kisses, though he would still slip his fingers into your cunt to clean the cum out properly.
it was strange, you note.
it was strange that you and phainon were having this much unprotected sex and you weren't even pregnant yet. there was no way you were infertile. you had regular checkups with the twilight courtyard, and you were always cleared with a clean bill of health!
the only respite you had from phainon was when he was out and about in okhema to fulfill his duties. or when you went to work.
actually. when was the last time you clocked into work? you had been calling in sick so often in the past month you would be surprised if the council hadn't fired you yet.
< you are already on your way to leaving your old life behind for this man. >
you shake your head. no! you were not going to become one of those women who threw themselves into servitude at their husband's feet. were you? truthfully, you doubted yourself, your actions so far, is it not like the women you condemned in your mind? will you too be cursed to live out your days like they did?
the reflection you caught of yourself from the bronze cutlery was not pretty. a haggard visage, you looked like you'd aged ten years in the past six months. a heavy weight on your shoulders and in your eyes, a deep tiredness laying waste in your bones.
you looked away, unable to bear that image any longer.
when your lover came home that night, you sat him down, intending to have a serious conversation about your life, your lives, an actual solid roadmap about your future with him. that you cannot give up on your job, that you were really, really scared about a forever with him and what it would look like in a worst-case scenario. but the thoughts in your head jumbled together and confused you, overwhelmed you so much that the only sentence that tumbled out, one you managed to string together was—
i'm going back to work tomorrow.
phainon blinks, suprised that you'd been acting so serious over something like this.
yeah oaky! do you want me to take you ther—
no! no... that's...
you retorted, louder than you'd wanted, wincing at your own volume. fustrated that he was not getting your point. that he had thought that you were being this agitated over something trivial. ugh! frown deepening, your hands find their way to your head, pulling at the roots violently, trying to get yourself to focus. when did you become so dull? the voice of your father, ever so distant, sounded in your ear. you mother's voice comes in not far behind, it's because of all that debauchery she's been taking part in. your fingers tighten around the strands even more, practically ripping them out of its roots. you could hear a dull noise in your ears but you just weren't there to —
hey, hey! stop it! don't do that, please... my love? won't you at least look at me, please? oh, my sweet love...
phainon, the poor man, his voice cracked in sorrow, beating himself up over not knowing what caused your inherent distress. he was now on the ground where you had curled into a ball, his hand under your forehead, keeping you from bashing it into the stone floor, while the other was gently tugging your fingers out of your hair — in a snap of a finger, you came back to your senses, almost as instantly as you had lost them. the fog in your mind cleared up, and you were now sitting upright as you looked over at a kneeling phainon, terror filled your eyes, horrified by your own behaviour.
phainon... i think there's something wrong with me.
your feet slipped and you tumbled out of the outhouse and onto the dirt floor beneath. visions of the past long gone dissipating into a mist around your peripherals.
the one man you had loved was no longer by your side.
he was no longer by your side, and it was all your fault!
pained cries, low and guttural ripped from your throat as your hands found anchor in your sea of matted tresses one more, nails digging into the scalp deep enough to draw blood, the roots of your hair getting pulled so hard it was ripping off. your body curled into itself, your forehead pounding against the dirt, over and over again — except that this time, there were no warm and loving hands to shield your self-inflicted onslaught.
you were going to burn this damn house down, even if it was the last thing you'd do! damn it all! damn it all! damn it—
< my love >
your head snapped up. wild eyes searching for that disembodied voice mocking you, mocking your lover. how dare that imitate him, after all the torment that had put you through, the gall of it all!
behind the outhouse was a hill, it's slope gentle enough for one to walk down it easily. though it was a different story for those that wished to climb up of it. the fence at the edge of the drop was all but completely gone, numbs of what used to be there remained, wards of an unknown origin broken down and fraying. at foot of this hill was an empty field. and tonight, that field was filled with white, luminous five-petal flowers in full bloom, the sweet cloying scent carried by a breeze of no origin brushes past you. you gagged, though it had no real substance behind it.
it was not phainon that stood among the flowers.
it was that, wearing your lover's skin and flesh like a coat, letting it sit comfortably on it's bones as though it were that's own. and yet, it could not sit right. it would never sit right. how could it? how could your lover's likeness ever sit well on anyone other than himself?
the dullness of his snow-like hair, the smile that wasn't pulled at the right angles, and of course there was no way you could mistake that for phainon. not when phainon had sky-blue eyes and that's looked like the red of a world coming to an end.
yet, as the imitation of phainon stretched out his arms to the sides, beckoning you to come running into his arms, you still willed your feet to move — tumbling down the gentle slope of the hill, across the flowers, bare feet kicking up dust as you ran, still so hopelessly in love, right into the arms of a creature that wore the face of your beloved.
the imitation calls your name in his disembodied voice, still just as loving as the original had sounded. you laugh, that had learnt about your beloved's mannerisms rather well, it seems. your face buried into his imitation uniform, the body cold and stiff, nothing like the real phainon who was so full of life and so full of love.
oh love...
you rasp, cupping his cheeks, cooing at the way those not-blue eyes gazed down at you.
won't you kiss me, please?
with a practiced ease, he cradles the back of your head, leaning down to capture your lips in his. it was chapped and thin, nothing like the full and plump lips your phainon had. still, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling that deeper into the kiss. something cold began to fall out of his face, as though the void behind that layer of skin had finally seeped out. the sensation enveloped you, as his face melted onto yours, as that's body began to morph, tugging you closer to the swirling abyss within.
you no longer had the energy to make sense of the situation. body growing lax as your legs were dragged into the void that opened up in that's chest. the numbness eating you up from the tips of your toes then up your ankles and calves, ticking up your thighs finally stopping at your hips. he falls to his knees, your upper torso falling backwards and landing on the flowers, hard. enough that you felt the air knocked out of your lungs, but his lips never once left yours — if anything, the kiss deepened and your arms clung to his neck even tighter at the intensity. somewhere in the madness, your robes were taken off your body and discarded off to the side. the hands cradling your head now moved to your waist keeping it still in a bruising grip as your body was moved in and out of the gaping void of his chest. each thrust rough and fast, making you cry into his mouth at how hard your breasts were bouncing from the movements.
as numbness gradually gave way, you groaned, the tantalizing sensation of your cunt being stuffed full with what you'd assume was his cum, as your clit was continuously getting stimulated, a wet tongue-like appendage spread your pussy open wider for a second round.
you were flipped to your front, your face now eating the dirt beneath you, arms folded in an odd angle, your breasts pressed down under the weight of your body. his hand took position back on your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh as your body began to move backwards once more into the void. except this time, you could feel everything that was going on in there.
a dull tip pushed past the ring of your cervix, the sheer size of that's member was inhumane, threatening to rip you in half yet somehow, you were able to have it fit in you, filling you up so well that the every thrust had your toes curling in pure bliss, your walls spasming and gushing all over repeatedly. without missing a beat, he pulled your body up, your back flushed against the cold void behind you. his hands found new grip on your plump breasts, fingers twisting and flicking at your inverted nubs, palms guiding your mounds in circles as you were continuously pushed down to take that in over and over again.
you've lost count on how many times you were taken by him. though he mustn't have stopped or took a break with you once, seeing as how you had been brought back into the house from the flower fields. past the very corridors and rooms you once inhabited with your beloved. the searing memories came flooding into your mind, tears falling down your face in utter regret and immense heartbreak.
you hadn't meant to let things end the way it did, you knew something was wrong with you, yet somehow no medical professional was able to pin down a diagnosis.
they always told you to rest more, or get more fresh air, or go lose weight, or quit your job! even phainon had begun to parrot their suggestions. he once told you to just stay at home, just let him take care of you. but you had been indignant and detached yourself from him, refusing to listen to his pleas. poor phainon, he never managed to come to terms mourning the loss of a living, breathing person.
for the first time in his life the golden boy of okhema had no solutions to his conundrum. he could not save you, his beloved from your own mind and in an act of uncharacteristic selfishness, he left you all alone in the very house that had heralded all this suffering.
it's your fault.
you hiss, pulling on the imitation's hair, the line between you lover and that blurring in your mind, you blamed your lover for abandoning you to fend for yourself against a mind you could no longer control or understand, for trying to help but failing anyway, for even being stupid enough to buy this damned house without asking you once.
you hadn't been keen on moving into this house.
ever since you stepped foot in this place you could feel eyes following your every move, no matter the time of day and no matter what you did there was something watching your every move. you could be eating and feel a presence walk behind you only to turn and find nothing there. or you could be in your study and books would fall over. worst was either during baths when you're alone and your head would be shoved under the water only to come up and find no one there or at night when phainon wasn't home — you would feel eyes boring into your sleeping figure, and you, terrified out of your mind at every creak or shuffle that was not your own.
once, on a full moon, you awoke to the doors at the foot of your bed swinging on it's hinges. someone having opened them, yet again. the moon illuminated the otherwise dark corridor, the silvery light flitting in through the thin gaps of the walls onto the walkway.
this corridor was a complete dead end. you did not know if there was an opening there in the past that got the person into the kitchen or the baths. but now this corridor was sealed off from the outside world completely.
the four pointed star, ever the guiding light shimmered at the end of this corridor. in your sleep-addled state you had not questioned much about why it had led you to follow that shimmering light.
it was stupid of you to bend over to peep through the tiny hole carved into the wall, the peepholes lining up to show you the view of the flower fields behind your house. and oh! it was breathtaking. beautiful luminous white flowers blooming across the expanse, bobbing their little heads in the breeze.
and a lone figure standing in the middle of it all.
you gasp and moved away from the hole. the image of the figure, all skin and bones standing as tall as a four storey building and without a head — in it's place instead, was a glowing red four pointed star.
you steeled to take one more look. just to make sure.
a single red eye stares back at you from the other side of the peephole.
you fell back, a silent scream forming in your throat, feet kicking against the floor you scrambled back up, tripping over your own feet in the mad rush to run back into the safety of your bedroom.
the door slammed behind you and you tumble into the sheets, pulling your blankets over your head, burrowing into the warmth of your pillows —
your fist connected with his face.
your hands hurt, your knuckles had grown bruised and blue from the continuous barrage on his face. you were not one to retort to violent of this caliber, and yet you felt a thrill you'd never felt before — every punch you landed on the imposter's face, the more convinced you were that you could rip the skin of this crude imitation off with your bare hands.
what a scene.
your bare, naked, used body still leaking with that's fluids, looming over him manic with a desperation to pay it all back. that lay beneath you, utterly still and devoid of life and yet not dead. that took your hits, no protests no fight-backs. and as one punch landed, crack! the sound of his nose broke, red blood unlike the gold ichor of a chrysos heir gushed out and pooled around his head. another punch landed and, crack! something in his skull gave way.
you are not him, you are not him!
a shallow laugh escaped the imposter's lips, cracked and bleeding from the injuries you just bestowed upon it.
< and yet you wished that it was him beneath you now, don't you? >
the imposter sits up, not caring for the blood dripping onto his imitation clothes. his hands wrap around you and pulled you in lovingly, just like the real phainon would have. rubbing your back as though to soothe what he deemed as your temper tantrum.
< don't worry my love, you will have everything you want here. >
the disembodied voice of the imposter finally managed to start sounding like your beloved. the hold he had on you tightened and you felt it getting harder to breathe. the scent of almonds and rotting flowers permeated your nose, almost knocking you out cold, the imposter smiled against your shoulder, his low voice humming a long-forgotten lullaby as you finally feel yourself slipping into unconciousness.
you hadn't been keen on moving into this house.
phainon wished he had noticed your apprehension earlier. the morning after his abrupt move, he wakes up from the couch he had slept on, graciously given to him by mydeimos after crashing into the other man's abode for the night.
phainon missed you terribly, he hated that he had been so brash at your apparent distress. he wished he had been more patient with you, it wasn't true what he said to you in the heat of the moment — that loving you had felt like throwing rocks into a bottomless pit that could never be filled up.
but, when he goes to find a ride to the house on fifteenth street, all the dromas handlers gave him a puzzled look. there was no such street, they all say. he posits that perhaps everyone was a little confused today, and decides to go look for the house himself.
and yet, no matter what turn he took. there was only ever fourteen streets. no hidden alleys he missed, no secret doorways he couldn't pass through that would have blocked him from that fifteenth street.
snowy, okhema never had fifteen streets, ever!
the little red-haired seer furrowed her brows, deep in thought. racking through her thousands of years of memories in the chance that she might have thought wrong.
snowy, i think you're not feeling well. you should go back home.
defeated, phainon drags his feet back to his friend's house, only to find the said man waiting for him at the doorway.
you know she's not here anymore right?
huh?
phainon could not believe his ears! just till yesterday, he had held and kissed you so what did mydeimos mean that you were gone? you were gone, and had been gone for the past year, and he had been moving things out of your house because it pained him to live in a place that still felt like you were alive. that's why he was crashing on the other's couch, don't you remember? ah, one year. the exact time the both of you had lived in that house! it did not make sense, had his fellow heirs not come over in droves to feast with him in that house? had he not glanced at you over all the food and haze of alcohol during those night?
what face did you wear?
what even made him sign the deed to that house on fifteenth street?
he recalled you offhandedly mention how the house looked like a temple, a temple with overgrown dried grass in it's lawn almost like the golden wheat fields of aedes elysiae.
fifteen, the devil. this card represents the darker inner world of the one who pulls this card, most times it's something out of one's control but not something that will take over your life, unless of course you fall into the devil's taunts and charm. in it's reverse, it's a good thing that means the person is fighting back!
in the non-existent fifteenth street, the stood a tall white temple. it was a house, but it sure did not look like it. the place was empty, cleaned out of the previous owner's belongings. if one were to walk past the entryway and enter the bedroom via either side to the openings, they would find a long corridor with a dead end. upon closer inspection one would see a hole in the shape of a four pointed star carved into the wall. looking through it one might first notice that it is an enclosed square room. and if one were to look through the second peephole at the opposite end of the wall, one might catch a glimpse of the beautiful white blooms littered across the empty field behind the house.
be careful when one moves to leave. in case a foot accidentally kicks over or steps on a compass lying nearby, though somewhat bloodstained, it is brilliantly embellished in gold with intricate patterns painted on its surface in sky blue enamel, much like a certain deliverer's eyes.
Here you go, the most requested profile by far! That being said, I sincerely hope that this piece in particular lives up to everyone's hopes. Enjoy the feast! (≖ᴗ≖ ✿)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CONTENT WARNINGS INCLUDE: Dark content (dead dove), cisfem!Reader, the general stuff that comes with yandere content (possessiveness, obsessiveness, imprisonment...), one bone breaking, (a lot of) forced non-schmexual touching, manipulation, a little blood, manhandling, pet names,
NONCON, coercion, overstim, rope, fingering, oral on reader, brief anal, manhandling, the ult form, rough and feral boombayah, he's horny as shit, praise, size kink, marks, pet names.
Disclaimers can be found in my pinned post. The template is heavily inspired by @/cinnamonest!
S-FW
˗ˏˋ ★ 1. General look: How are they like? How do they behave around the darling? Are there any warning signs?
”Phainon of Aedes Elysiae”, he introduces himself to you.
Obviously, you know who the guy is. Even if you were drunk out of your mind on mead, you would be able to recite his full name from the top of your head. Though, you can’t help but think that for him to still greet you like a new acquaintance is sort of an endearing gesture — or it would be, if you weren’t pretty sure that he just pushed you over on purpose.
You’re a bit bemused by the entire situation. One second, you were walking down the street without a care in the world, and the next, none other than the snow-haired Chrysos Heir has ”bumped” into you and sent both you and your grocery bag flying to the side of the bustling road. You could pass it off as being an accident if it wasn’t for the fact that you saw him eyeing you for a good while before he essentially sprinted at you. You thought it was strange; there should be no reason for someone of his status to show any interest in a regular dweller such as yourself, but apparently, the guy takes pleasure in bothering your kind.
For an uncomfortably long moment, you’re unable to get a single word out as you watch how your fresh loaf of bread rolls along the cobblestone pavement and stops at a random passer-by’s feet. Not only has your food gone to waste, but the incident has attracted a lot of attention from the onlookers, and you feel countless pairs of eyes on your back.
You look at your lap, then at him, then back at your lap. There’s a piece of debris stuck in your hair, and it’s dangling at the top edge of your field of view. Your clothes have been soiled by bright red pomegranate juice, the bottle of which now lies in a million pieces beside you. Countless shards of razor-sharp glass swim in the sweet-smelling puddle, and so do your arms after having landed right on your elbows. Looking at the slightly darker shade of liquid leaking through the gaps between your fingers, you become aware of how your left hand throbs with pain. As you bring the limb to your face, you spot the deep, three-inch gash that travels from your wrist to the root of your index finger and the piece of glass that sticks out of the skin. Without thinking, you pick the shard out, only to have more blood trickle out of the wound.
The culprit, Phainon, is on your side without a second’s delay. In his boyish, upbeat voice, he starts rambling about how ”he’s so sorry”, ”he didn’t mean it”, ”it’s his bad”, before they turn into ”ah, you’re hurt!”, ”oh no, your hand!” and ”hold on, let me see!”. The performance is so believable that you have to wonder if you’ve somehow ended up in one of those prank shows with a hidden teleslate recording you somewhere. Invading your personal space without a single bit of hesitation, one of his hands rubs up and down on your juice-stained shoulder while the other cradles your injured limb like it was about to fall off. Whatever words were on your tongue die out the second he suddenly weaves his fingers through your hair, picking out the piece of trash with way too much skin-to-skin contact for your comfort.
Being much too stunned to speak, you don’t exactly fight him when he slides one of his arms on the underside of your knees and the other around your upper back, paying very little mind to how the sticky liquid covering your skin dirties his pure white overcoat. Too much is happening in a way too short of a time, and instead of giving the guy a piece of your mind for his zealous behaviour, you only yelp out in surprise as he picks you up from the sidewalk like you were a damsel in distress. He packs a ridiculous amount of strength for how gentle he appears: He hoists you up and into the air as if you were made of feathers.
As your mind finally catches up with the situation, you plant the palm of your intact hand on the side of his face, demanding that he puts you down this instant, but instead of listening to your complaints, he cuts you off: ”Hey, it’s okay, I don’t mind at all!” he reassures you, as if he didn’t understand the actual sentiment behind your words. You glare at him like his words were the most ludicrous thing you have ever heard, but even so, he merely tilts his head to the side and gives you a bright smile.
Under the judgmental eye of the crowd, he whisks you away, caring very little about how you flail your legs and try to get him to put you down. The mess you made on the street is left to be cleaned up by somebody other than you as the man makes his way out of the site of crime, disappearing into a back alley with you in his arms.
He carries you to some remote corner not far from the Chartonus Smithy. There, he sets you down on a wide railing, making sure you’re able to find your balance before he lets go of your body. Immediately, you start questioning him, spouting out queries at a speed that leaves no room for him to chime in at all. At this point, your best guesses are that either you have somehow done something worthy of the Heirs having to step in, or alternatively, the man has lost his mind in the span of a single night: Just the other day, you saw him going on about his business like normal, entertaining a bunch of older ladies with his sword tricks and whatnot.
You’re interrupted by the screeching sound of fabric being torn. You look down just in time to see him rip a strip of silk off of his dark blue cloak. He then buffs out his chest in a sort of charming show of confidence before grabbing your arm. With a smile on his face, he ties the piece of cloth around your injured hand, wrapping the wound up and finishing the work up with a neat bow at the top.
”There, all better”, he beams at you, reaching for your head to presumably pat it, but you duck away from the gesture, dodging his touch before he can land it. Still feeling like somebody might jump out from behind the corner to yell ”ha-ha, you fell for it” at any second, you shake your head in discontentment. You pull your hand to your chest with your brows knitted together. Just as you’re about to open your mouth, things get even more bewildering.
Out of nowhere, he smiles fondly at you before making an incredibly ill-timed attempt at wooing you: ”Forgive me for being so direct, but I’m kind of distracted by your beauty, heh”, he says, rubbing the back of his head, acting as if he were the male lead in a sappy romance series. Then, right after, he has the audacity to suggest a round at the market: He could make up for the groceries he ruined, and you could stroll around with him for a bit, he suggests! What do you say?
Your jaw falls ajar. With all the thoughts that are swimming through your head, you’re only able to mumble out a single word. ”No...?”, the answer comes out as more of a question than a resolute rejection. You look at him, down at your hand, back at him, and in the same breath, you mutter a ”sorry, I gotta go”. You hop off the railing and head in the direction you came from. Behind you, you hear him draw in a gasp of air as if he’s about to say something, but ultimately, he doesn’t end up shouting after you — the odd encounter ends in equally confusing manner as it began.
Well, that didn’t go as planned, is what’s going through Phainon’s mind. He gazes at how your silhouette grows smaller and smaller as you make your way back to the main street. With his torn cloak still in his hand, he wonders if your first proper meeting did more harm than good.
”Proper” in the sense that he has been going after you for quite a while now. You’re a tiny bit too imperceptive for your own good, you know. He doesn’t think you’ve ever managed to catch him eyeing you until today: Truth to be told, pretending to bump into you was a split-second decision, and he realizes now that he got a little too excited. He seems to have driven you away from him, somewhat.
The moment he saw you a month or so ago, he knew in his fragmented soul that you were the one for him. In the millions of cycles he has gone through, no people have managed to capture his interest in the way you have. It’s love at first sight, he insists to himself: You’re the cutest, prettiest, most amazing thing he has ever laid his eyes upon! The way you move, the melody of your voice, your colourful personality — what is there not to like? He would be a fool not to fall in love with such a person. Finally, finally, he has found something that he really, truly wants to have all to himself!
His relationship with his own emotions is warped, somewhat. While he still holds onto what little humanity he has left in him, simultaneously, he’s aware that the feelings he holds towards you aren’t exactly at the healthiest end of the spectrum. Yes, he recognizes the initial awe and excitement, but if he were to dive any deeper, he would find a much more sinister side of himself. As much as he likes to lie to himself and say that his psyche doesn’t suffer from a specific kind of deterioration, it's not the truth: Things look much more black and white to him than they are in reality. There is only either-or when it comes to you — either he has you completely, or he doesn’t have you at all. There’s no in between.
His. He wants something to be completely and utterly his. Something that can’t be taken away from him; not by the Black Tide, not by Nanook, not by anything in the entire cosmos. In a world where everything nice and warm has been ripped out of his bloodstained hands, you’re the one, singular thing he decides he’s never going to let go of.
He didn’t have a thought-out plan at the beginning, but now that the two of you have officially met, he starts considering his next course of action. He understands that you weren’t thrilled about his initial approach, but instead of moving on, he only tries harder. In a way, he entertains a girlfriend fantasy of you in his head. He sees the world through rose-hued lenses when it comes to you: Everything you do is cute, elegant, pretty, mesmerizing, and so on, and somehow, he twists it in his head that your rejection isn’t actually a hard no. Similarly, whatever you do is somehow directed at him, in his mind: Oh, you dressed nice today, it must be because you know he’s looking at you, and that sort of thing.
He starts ”running into you” more often, to the point that he can see on your face that you’re not buying his excuses. The first time after your initial meeting, he catches you at the market and offers to pay for your purchases — you know, to make up for the last time? It’s less of an offer and more of a demand, though, and despite your protests, you end up with a huge pack of free groceries in your arms. The next time, he appears at your job’s doorstep when you’re leaving work, a bouquet of flowers in his hands, offering to take you home. It’s out of sheer luck that there are almost no people around, because you’re not sure if you could take the public humiliation of having to turn down the beloved Chrysos Heir’s advances in front of an audience — again. Even as you put up a serious front and tell him that "he needs to stop with all of this", something in his expression tells you that he doesn’t exactly stomach the answer. You sense the way his eyes bore into your back as you walk away from him, and truthfully, the feeling evokes mild terror in your heart.
Though, he understands the notion now. You’re clearly not interested in him in that way, but it’s merely a stepping stone in his journey of conquering you, is it not? Despite his further attempts at trying to woo you, the result seems to be you pulling away further and further: The gifts aren’t working, you jump away like a cricket when he makes the tiniest attempt at touching you, and you clearly hide behind people when you spot him in the crowd. It’s a fruitless effort trying to court you in the classic way, it seems.
So, the perfectly reasonable next step is for him to start stalking you. It’s not on the lighter end of the scale, either: It’s basically an every-day and every-hour thing. He dedicates nearly all of his free time to finding out things about you, and even when he’s on other business, it’s difficult for him to think about anything else than you. It’s to the point that his fellow Chrysos Heirs start noticing the strange behaviour and even calling him out on it. Mydei, for example, has to continuously remind him to focus on the task at hand, whether it’s sparring with him or taking care of another job, but regardless, Phainon’s eyes are always straying, trying to find you amongst the masses of people. It gets a little irritating; his companions feel like they never have his full attention.
Your interests, your schedule, your relationships — he figures out every single bit of you. He writes things down, pays attention to the smallest of things, investigates until he knows which side shoe you put on first. It’s all very fascinating to him, too. The only thing he has yet to find out is where you’re staying: He knows the approximate location, but due to your place of stay being a part of a complex, it’s a bit difficult to pinpoint the correct door out of the many. He hasn’t attempted invading your living space yet — as discreet as he has tried to be, you appear to have caught on to his endeavours. Even when you don’t actually see him, he notices the way your eyes are darting around as if wary of something. You’re spending less and less time outside, and Aeons forbid if you catch even a single glimpse of him in the crowd; you’re gone quicker than a chimera with a stolen treat.
You’re stuck in nothing short of a mindfuck. It feels like no matter what you do and where you go, he’s there. At the start, you thought that maybe it could all be a big coincidence, but the longer it goes on for, the more certain you become: The man has lost his marbles. If his presence wasn’t unnerving at first, it sure as hell is now.
In your anxiety, you end up confiding in a friend. She’s not exactly your closest acquaintance, but even then, you trust her enough to share your worries with her. Still, despite how you sigh, having planted your forehead against the table you share, her initial reaction is much like everyone else’s: ”But isn’t that a good thing?” she asks, tilting her head to the side in confusion. You know that’s what it seems like — that you’re playing hard to get, that anybody would be lucky to be the target of the Heir’s affections — but your heart does nothing but loathe the attention. The friend, fortunately, understands your feelings after a bit of an explanation, but even then, you get the image that your concerns are not taken very seriously.
You can’t stand the way everybody else acts as if everything is normal. People idolize him, and so did you, to a certain degree, but all of it has gone out the window days ago. You don’t want anything to do with the guy. The faint scar on your hand feels like it’s torn open every time his snow-white hair appears in your sights, regardless of if it’s actually him or not — the paranoia is starting to get to you.
Making the decision to protect your own psyche, you start going out less and less. The older ladies on the street start pointing out how your skin isn’t as vibrant as it used to be, how the dark circles under your eyes have sunken, how you always have a knit between your brows. You start wearing clothing that makes you stand out less, covering yourself up despite Okhema’s heat. Making trips to the market is starting to look like an impossible effort. It’s like you’re slowly losing pieces of yourself.
Even after all of your suffering, it doesn’t stop — he doesn’t stop. One day, after the Curtain-Fall Hour has already struck, when you’re least expecting any visitors, you hear a knock on your door. The sound would be alarming enough on its own, and taking the past few weeks into account, you’re not exactly thrilled to answer the call. Still, tiptoeing across your home, you make your way to the entrance and press your ear against the wall. With a bit of hesitance, you yell out to the person, inquiring for their identity. Despite your initial dread, the tension leaves your shoulders the very moment the person answers; you recognize your friend’s voice. So, without a second thought, you unlock the latch.
”Please don’t be mad”, are the first words that come out of her mouth as the door slides to the side, revealing not only her form, but another person’s as well. Your mood goes from relief to utter disbelief to whatever is left of your wrath as you make sense of the sight: At your doorstep, with his silhouette looming behind your friend like the gargantuan boulder on Kephale’s shoulders, stands none other than Phainon himself.
As the puzzle pieces click together in your mind, you almost point an accusatory finger towards the presumed snitch, but judging from the planet-shattering, millennia-ending, all-devouring eye-roll she performs, she doesn’t exactly seem to have been roped to the duty out of her own volition. Pursing her lips together, she mouths you a silent ”good luck” before turning on her heels and walking down the stairs, exiting the scene.
With your mouth ajar, you’re left to stare at the sight of him, wondering how hard you would have to punch to send him flying off the balcony and down the street like he did to you that one time. Though, he doesn’t give you much time to ponder: Instead, your body freezes in both fear and rage as he lodges his foot in the doorway before you can even think of closing the thing in his face.
Where you should be angry more than anything, you’re only able to feel fear. The two emotions blur together into one, and you explode in his face: Spitting all kinds of profanities at him, ranging from how-dare-yous to personal insults, you try to kick at his leg, telling him to ”get the fuck out of your house”, but he weathers it all without much of a reaction. He tries to get a soft word in here and there, but due to how passionately you spew hatred on him, he decides to stay quiet for the most part so as to not provoke you further. There doesn’t seem to be anything that could wipe the stupid smile off his face — even when you straight up slam the door on his toes, he doesn’t budge.
It’s only when you threaten to call his colleague, specifically Aglaea, on his ass, there seems to be a tiny shift in his expression. Making a complete one-eighty, he suddenly lifts his hands in front of him as if in an act of surrender before backing away from the entrance. You seize the opportunity without a moment’s delay, and even before he gets to finish his ”sorry”, the latch has clicked shut.
You sink to the floor, planting your forehead against the cold tiles, trying to will yourself to come down from the surge of adrenalin. Even as you squeeze your eyes shut, clench your teeth together and beat your hands against your temples, you’re unable to rid yourself of the image of his stupid face.
It’s the last straw, both for you and him. Unbeknownst to you, yet very much known to him, the two of you are in the exact same situation, just at different ends of the stick: It’s a never-ending, morbid game of push and pull, and despite your best efforts, you haven’t been able to get the upper hand.
Though, let it be said that even if you had taken the struggle to the ends of Amphoreus, he would have followed you; you were never destined to win. When it comes to the warning signs he offered, he provided you with plenty, but ultimately, you can’t escape your fate — at most, you could have postponed the inevitable.
Even as he’s left standing behind your door, alone, he can’t help but feel a strange sense of victory as he sees what he has reduced you to. It’s a sick feeling of achievement — he is the one, the only one that could have affected you so. It’s for the best that you cave in early like this, he muses.
˗ˏˋ ★ 2. Securing: How will they abduct their darling? When, where and how?
You find yourself running out of options: The one card up your sleeve used to be the fact that even if everything else failed, he wouldn’t know where you live, but now, even that has been taken from you. There’s nowhere you can turn to anymore, not even the solace of your home. Suddenly, the walls of your own room feel terribly cramped, like they were closing in on your distressed mind, trapping you in an imaginary prison you’re unable to escape.
Not long after, you come to the realization that you have a decision to make: Either you need to alert the other Chrysos Heirs, or you’re going to have to move out if you want the torment to stop. Neither of the options sound particularly appealing: You’re not exactly acquainted with the bunch of higher-ups, and seeking audience with them could be a multiple-week endeavour — you’re not sure if you can last that long.
The choice is a hasty one, though in the present circumstances, you’re not sure if it could be even called one at all: It’s more like the only viable route. Having a few acquaintances in a city a good distance away from Okhema, Milios, you decide to start packing your bags and arranging a long holiday in a completely different part of the planet.
It’s not ideal, of course. It took a good while to convince your friends of the situation’s urgency, and you’re not pleased about the fact yourself, but with your hands tied, there were only so many scenarios to consider. With a heavy heart, you start the preparations for your departure.
He notices your intentions, of course. Even in his excitement, he knew to expect something like this eventually. You were bound to want to leave his clutches, after all. They all do.
Nevertheless, it’s not like he’s going to let you flee just like that. As soon as he finds out about your plans for leaving the city, he gets to work without even a moment’s hold-up.
Of course, the first matter to tackle is that you need a place to stay if he’s going to keep you with him. His current place isn’t exactly fit for the job since that would draw way too much attention, and it certainly can’t be just any closet at the back of Castrum Kremnos, no: You need ample space and all kinds of things to make you comfortable! What sort of a partner would he be if he gave you a room which you would be beyond miserable in?
In the limited time frame that you have granted him, he spends the entire day and night fashioning a little, abandoned apartment at the very edges of Okhema into a cute little prison for you to live in. Not many people know it even exists: The lower you go, the thicker is the fog that rests over the ground like a large blanket. It’s off-limits to the normal folk, which makes it a perfect place to keep you — plus, your screams won’t carry to the city from there. Yes, the building is a little worn, but minor details, minor details.
A bed (big enough to fit both of you comfortably!), a couch, a few shelves... The essentials are all there, what else do you like...? It’s safe to say that he gets a little carried away with the furnishings: He was going for a relatively simplistic outlook, but now, the room is cluttered in all kinds of trinkets and decorations that he thinks are to your taste. The entire wall is lined with books, there are multiple, pretty pillows on the divan, the table is lined with flowers, and the sill of the single, large window is crammed with colourful pots. Whatever your preferred hobby might be, you can be sure that a corner of the room is dedicated to related paraphernalia. He deems the fruits of his work to be a success, and now, all that’s missing is the owner.
For you to leave during the quiet hours of the night is both smart and incredibly stupid of you. The former because he himself would need to sleep under normal circumstances, and if he wasn’t aware of your plan, he would have missed you — and the latter because there won’t be any witnesses for what’s about to go down.
Cracking your door open, you first take a cautious peek at the surroundings. People have gone to bed ages ago, and even the revellers have calmed down for the night, so there’s nobody around but you. Clutching the straps of your backpack, you step out of your apartment and close the door behind you. You tiptoe down the stairs of the complex, heading for the street where you’re going to make your way to the dromas caravan. The silence of the night is nearly haunting, and you can hear every single sound distinctly. It feels nearly electric — almost like the air itself is anticipating something to happen.
You arrive at the street. Out of habit, before crossing it, you look left, and right, and one more time-
He’s right there. The moonshine illuminates the pristine white of his hair, the cloak, and the bouquet of flowers in his hand. For a good moment, you think you must be hallucinating.
He greets you with a wave of his hand. The smile on his face is the same as always: Pure, gentle, and inciting an unimaginable sense of terror in you. However, you have been a victim of his games for far, far too long, and instead of entertaining his whims for even a millisecond longer, you bolt back up the stairs of your home as fast as you possibly can.
Though, you don’t get much further than the first few steps before there’s a hand yanking you backwards. Even as you rid yourself of your backpack in hopes of gaining a few-meter lead, it’s no use fighting him. With a firm grasp, he pulls you down and against his rock-solid chest. In the next moment, there’s a hand on your mouth, prying your lips open. A flour-like substance slips past your teeth and into your throat.
He’s saying something. No matter how you try to focus on the sight of his face hovering above yours, you’re unable to fixate your gaze on anything. Whatever he gave to you has taken effect in a matter of seconds, and soon enough, the edges of your vision close in on themselves. The last thing you see is the blurry image of his soft features.
It was really considerate of you not to throw a fit in the limited time you had between noticing him and the present moment, he thinks. Your neighbours wouldn’t have liked to be woken up by a ruckus, after all. The drug seems to have worked wonders as well: Your body has gone completely limp, and if he didn’t know better, he would think you had just suddenly fallen asleep. The handy thing about being in his position is that nobody dares to question what he needed to buy sedative powder for.
It’s not that long of a walk to the prison he has built for you, so through the quiet Okheman alleys, he carries you on his back, all the way to the edges of the city. The two of you even pass a few people on your way, but they’re much too intoxicated to even pay attention to you. At most, they laugh as if an unconscious person being dragged across the road was the funniest thing they’ve ever seen. Your backpack sells the performance further, even: It just looks like the beloved Chrysos Heir is helping another tippler make their way home after a heavy night of partying! Additionally, even if somebody were to raise a brow at the sight, he trusts his natural charm — nobody would believe them if they were to tell on him, anyway.
He carries you down the rubble around the city’s outskirts, taking care not to get a single scratch on your precious body. Your head lies limp against the back of his shoulder — he can feel the faint breeze of your breathing on the side of his neck. It reminds him how he used to carry Cyrene around back in Aedes Elysiae, and simultaneously, he becomes aware of the fact that having someone be so dependent on him could very well be the most euphoric feeling in the entire world for him.
When he gets to your new home, he carefully sets you on the mattress of your soon-to-be shared bed, cautiously rests your head on one of the pillows, and that’s where you’re going to be waking up from in a few hours time. He lies down with you, gathering you in his arms like his most prized possession, greedily inhaling your scent. He’s a weak man, he thinks.
˗ˏˋ ★ 3. Life: What is it like to live with them? How do they treat the darling?
Considering the alternatives, it could be much, much worse. Much like Mydei, the way he goes about keeping you captive is taking you somewhere so far away from the rest of the world that providing you with a somewhat lavish place to live doesn’t prove to be an issue. Nobody is going to find you, anyway, so there’s no reason not to go above and beyond to make sure you’re comfortable. He did his fair share of planning and setting things up before your capture, so when you rise from your slumber, you can be sure that everything is the best you could ever possibly have hoped for: He even picked the colour of the curtains while thinking of you!
Needless to say, your initial reaction to the change in scenery isn’t all butterflies and honey and baby chimeras. In fact, it’s not even close to those things: For the first half an hour or so, you dart around the room in a fit of hysteria, all the while you scream at him from the bottom of your lungs. You run to the door, discover that it’s locked, run to the window, back to the door, and finally, you back yourself into a corner, your knees buckling and tears shimmering at your lashline. It doesn’t help that the entire time you run about, he trails behind you with his arms open, talking all sweet and trying to catch you into a hug.
It’s like he expects you to step into your new life without much of a strain. From day one, on surface level, he behaves as if all that has gone down is perfectly normal. Sure, if you push him enough, you’ll get a ”hey now, don’t be like that” out of him, but that’s about the extent of it. He talks to you like his usual self, still acts like he was trying to woo you. It’s unsettling in a sort of reverse way.
He wants to protect the sense of normalcy when it comes to your daily life, meaning that however much freedom he’s capable of granting you without you making an escape, he’s willing to give to you. He has his responsibilities, but whenever he’s not tied to them, he spends all of his time with you. He chats with you, encourages you to make use of all the stuff he has gathered in your room, he makes you food, he showers you in affection... There’s hardly any moments where you can have a moment to yourself when he’s around.
You get to go outside about as much as you want; given that he’s with you, of course. Your hand needs to be in his, and certain directions are off limits, obviously, but other than that, he lets you explore. The general surroundings of your new home aren’t exactly the most thrilling: The mist obscures the view, and even if it didn’t, there wouldn’t be much to see other than a bunch of ruins. Still, it’s better than being holed up in your room all day.
Furthermore, everything you do, you do with him. Eating, sleeping, bathing, all of it is with him around. Bathing, especially, is an activity that suits his tastes. He quite likes soaking in warm water with you: You notice that he seems to insist on washing you a little more than necessary. In the beginning, you thought that he has a neat-freak streak in him, but with time, the real reason becomes apparent to you: He gets to hug you, skin-to-skin, without you complaining that much — albeit it’s always a bit of a struggle to get you in the tub since you’re not a fan of stripping in front of him.
When it comes to taking you anywhere outside of the general area of your prison, he’s a little iffy on the matter. Something like that would obviously require taking a heavy risk of you escaping, and so, he’s quite hesitant about it at first. Though, with time, he might grow to trust you enough to allow trips to the city. Much like Mydei, the one place he is likely to go for are the Chrysos Heir Baths: The area is secluded enough, especially at nighttime, and so, if you beg him enough, you could earn yourself a nice, hot bath in a proper location. Though, the privilege is going to be revoked the second you show any signs of defiance, so it’s safe to say that you’re on your best behaviour whenever he takes you to the Temple.
Lastly, you have a routine, sort of. He’s especially particular about your mealtimes and you getting enough of sleep, but outside of that, you’re free to do as you please. He would prefer it if your activities included him somehow, but alas, it’s more important for him to see you even remotely happy than to involve himself in everything.
˗ˏˋ ★ 4. Rules: What kind of rules do they enforce? How lenient are they? How do they keep their darling in check?
He doesn’t want to set any rules out for you in the sense that he would speak them out loud. Restricting you in any way is obviously a risky thing to do if his aim is for you to like him for even a fraction of as much as he likes you, and so, he sticks to telling you what not to do when you’ve already technically crossed the line.
He doesn’t take kindly to you disobeying him and doing irresponsible or malicious stuff, but then again, he knows that occasionally, it’s good for you to blow off some steam. Whether that’s at the cost of breaking furniture or hurling every available item at him, he understands your feelings! It must be difficult for you to adjust to the sudden change in your life, after all. But he’s here to help! He can-, hey, you almost hit him in the head with that one. Realistically, though, you can beat him all you want — he doesn’t really mind it. You’re sort of cute like that, too, he muses: It’s adorable that you think you might be able to cause any damage to him.
Though, just about the second you have ”settled” into your new home, he lets you know right off the bat that escaping him is not an option. He beats around the bush when talking about it, possibly in an act to save your feelings: He doesn’t directly want to say that he’s holding you captive — he tries to frame the thing as him ”preferring that you’d stay with him” — but eventually, after enough verbal prodding from your end, he admits that, yeah, he’s not going to let you flee, nor are you allowed to go outside without him, and there will be consequences if you try to. He airs the threat with an ominous lack of seriousness in his voice, almost as if he himself couldn’t truly comprehend the weight of the situation. He even puffs out his chest, proudly stating that ”he’s fast enough to catch you in less than five minutes” before laughing the entire thing off like he had been joking (he is not kidding).
Obviously, you don’t take the restrictions well, nor do you like his attitude regarding them. Immediately after he’s done talking, you proceed to point a finger at him and call him all kinds of names, cursing him into the deepest pits of Thanatos’ realm and back. He listens to it all with a compassionate smile on his face before assuring you that he’s going to do his utmost best to make you happy with him.
Not even an hour later he has to unexpectedly make up another rule, though: Namely that you’re not allowed to lock yourself in the bathroom for more than half a quint at a time. You’re better at this protesting game than he initially thought, it seems.
Oh, but there’s one thing he doesn’t compromise on at all: Don’t hurt yourself. For the love of everything good on this planet, don’t hurt yourself. This includes indirect damage, too — if it looks like the furniture is beating you more than you’re beating it, he has to take you somewhere you can’t damage yourself. Often, it ends up being in his arms as he holds you down with his body weight in a pose that would appear suggestive if in any other context. That being said, because of the aftermath, the rule isn’t one you’re breaking regularly.
˗ˏˋ ★ 5. Consequences: What kind of punishments will the darling face? How do they punish different offences?
Much like he is with the rules, he’s not overly keen on punishing you. Of course, there are bound to be certain instances where he has to remind you that your actions carry consequences, but at the same time, it makes you sad. He doesn’t like seeing you distressed or downcast or anything like that, so his punishment-trigger isn’t particularly loose.
Often, the worst extent of his consequences is him telling you off (albeit more often than not, he can’t even do that before falling victim to his own softness), or he might take things away from you. Though, the stuff he confiscates is almost always only the things you use to be difficult, so unless you attempt to beat him up with a book, he won’t seize your means of entertainment, for example. Then again, if you were to use the mundane items for the wrong purposes, he’s going to have to snatch those away.
However, trying to escape is the one, singular thing that will manage to make him so mad that you’re not sure if you’re dealing with the same person anymore. This includes anything that could even remotely be connected to getting yourself out of your prison. He’s a bit neurotic about it, even.
He has a particularly unfortunate habit of going overboard with trying to catch you, too. There are bound to be instances where he mistakes completely innocent things for malicious intent, too. For example, he has, at least once, sent a fork flying into the wall from your hand, thinking it was a weapon and that you were about to stab him. You’re left staring at the man in utter bewilderment with your fingers still clutching the imaginary shape of the utensil, looking back and forth between your meal on the table and the fresh dent in the stone. It doesn’t take him long to realize the situation, and as he does, he tries to sort of play it off, but he isn’t exactly trying to hide the actual reasoning behind his behaviour. You would find the entire thing at least a little comedic if it wasn’t for the subtle yet very prominent threat behind it.
The worst thing you could do is, well, succeed in escaping — or rather, almost succeed. As nice as it is that you technically have plenty of opportunities and open windows to execute your outbreak, the weight of his wrath is not to be taken lightly.
You can’t help but think he’s quite naive for leaving you with so much freedom whenever he’s away. Not that you’re complaining, but if the roles were reversed, you would know not to give him access to any tools that could potentially be used to break anything down. It took you quite a while, but you have managed to cut one of the metal bars off the window. With a considerable amount of physical effort, you wedge the thing in the narrow slit in the middle of the sun-shaped lock on the door. The material is old and worn, and it only takes a few wrenches for the symbol to shatter.
Your clothes are covered in a layer of dust as you squeeze yourself through the crack in the door. The rough edges scratch your skin, but you couldn’t care less about the pain. Your gaze is fixed on the sight of the staircase that leads down to the abandoned streets of outer Okhema. Rushing your way down, leaping three steps at a time, you nearly fall to your death as you slip on the marble. Landing on your back, you hiss out in pain — however, there’s no time to waste. With one of your legs hanging over the edge of the railingless stairwell and your heart in your throat, you have no choice but to compose yourself, get back on your feet, and continue on, despite the throbbing between your shoulder blades.
Even with the large pillars holding the building up, you feel like it’s on the verge of collapsing. Lush vines and other vegetation climb up the foundations, snaking up the walls and covering the ground, so much so that it’s difficult to get through them. Hopping over the rubble and making your way past a fallen statue, you head straight for the first open passageway you see: A large window lining the entire southern wall of the base floor. As a faint breeze travels through the area, you catch the scent of the fresh outside air. It’s not exactly one that’s unfamiliar to you — you often get to wander around the premises of the place — but this time around, you get to experience it all alone for the first time in what feels like forever. It invigorates you, sends a rush of adrenaline into your bloodstream, and with the surge of strength, you sprint for the opening and leap right through it.
The ruined street is completely empty, as it is always. Dense fog conceals your surroundings, and the skies have long since turned dark: You don’t know whether the Parting Hour has already ended, but judging from the lack of lights dancing in the city above, the Curtain-Fall hour can’t be too far away. Realizing the implication, you swallow down the lump in your throat before choosing your next course of action. Due to the mist, it’s difficult to determine which direction leads up to the heart of Okhema: You look left, right, left, right, but even as you’re unable to make sense of where the road travels, you decide that making it as far away as possible is much more important than the risk of getting lost.
You bolt down the road. Even as your legs ache from the strain, you don’t stop for a single moment to catch your breath. It’s difficult to breathe: Clouds of dust rise from the ground in your wake, and though you hack out, the feeling of your airways clogging won’t leave you alone. Trying not to let the panic get to you, you hasten your pace, despite every step on the cobblestone path requiring an immense amount of strain.
The haze obscures your vision. The only thing you’re able to see are the vague shapes of run-down buildings and abandoned, broken chariots. Though you’re doing your best to keep your imagination at bay, you can’t help but wonder if something far more terrifying is lurking in the depths of the fog. You’ve heard tales of Nikador’s abandoned kin wandering into the area, and thinking of the possibility sends a mean shiver down your spine. You’re not exactly equipped to fight anything — at least not in your current state — and besides, it would be quite mortifying for your escape to end in such a gruesome scene.
However, every last horror scenario that plays in your mind pales in comparison to what you think you see in the distance. Uncertain if your mind is just playing tricks on you, you slow down your pace until you stand completely still in the middle of the road. Completely silent, you squint your eyes and stare into the depths of the fog in front of you.
A vague shape of something looms amongst the shadows further down the path. At first, it looks like a short light pole, then it morphs into what looks like the outline of a Furia. Still, with your feet frozen against the ground, you don’t move until you truly understand what you’re looking at.
A silhouette of a man.
In a split second, you turn on your heels and bolt back down the road, right in the direction you came from. Even as you hear the footsteps of another chase you, you don’t hesitate to run as fast as your legs can carry you. In your head, you pray to any deity that’s listening, anyone at all, that one, just one miracle would be granted to you, but to no avail. In mere seconds, he grasps the back of your top, and your body is slammed against the cobblestone with so much force that the air is knocked out of your lungs.
The feeling is debilitating, and for a moment, you’re sure you’re going to throw up. Your vision is blurry, but even then, the bright blue of his eyes is difficult to mistake for anything else. You hear him talk — something about how ”it’s thoughtful of you to try and make your way back by yourself” — but the words don’t really register in your brain. Even as he picks your body off the ground and throws it over his shoulder like a sack of fruits, you don’t make a further effort at fighting him. Though he’s keeping up the facade like he always does, it would be impossible to miss the way his arm trembles with what you assume to be sheer rage.
He carries you all the way back to your room, stepping over the ruins and making his way up the stairs without as much as getting out of breath. He breaks through the crack in the door with a single kick, sending debris flying everywhere, but it doesn’t seem like he’s the least bit bothered by it. Some of the detritus lands in your hair, and while under normal circumstances, he would gently pick the pieces off of you, at the moment, his kindness seems to have run out.
In complete contrast to his other actions, though, he gently sets you back on the ground beside your bed, making sure you have a solid footing before stepping away from you. It takes you all of your willpower to look up at him, and as you do, you’re faced with the sight of his blank expression.
You swear you see a strange shimmer in his eyes. For a second, you’re certain that the bright blue is replaced by glowing gold, but the hue is gone as quickly as it appeared. His hands then land on your shoulders in a sudden, rapid movement. Squeezing both of your arms in a shaky grip, he remains as is for a good minute. His behaviour is so dissimilar to his usual demeanour that even in your frightened state, you have to wonder if you managed to make the man short-circuit. Despite your best efforts, you’re unable to detect any hints of emotion on his frozen features.
Then, he smiles. The change in expression is so absurd that you can’t help the way your mouth falls ajar. Simultaneously, he lets go of you and allows you to stammer backwards as you put as much distance in between the two of you as possible. He shakes his head if trying to rid himself of a thought or two, following the action with a gentle laugh that fails to convey a single bit of joy. He then takes in a deep gulp of air, holds it for a few seconds, and exhales in a slow, steady blow. With careful steps, he starts making his way towards you.
The sympathetic guise on his features does nothing to convince you of his seemingly virtuous intentions: You’ve been with him for long enough to know that he wears it for purely performative purposes. Conversely, to your horror, you know to expect that something terrible is about to go down in the very room you’re trapped in.
A violent shiver rakes your skin as he starts talking. He sounds normal, yes, but there’s a certain undertone in his manner of speech: It’s like he’s trying to hold back unimaginable volumes of unadulterated fury. Still, it’s not the voice itself that’s the cause for your dread; it’s the words.
”I’m sure you know that I can’t leave this attempt unpunished”, he says, sighing as he gazes down at you in what you assume to be an attempt at pity. Your eyes widen at the implication, and before he can even think of starting a new sentence, you try to slip under his arm and dart for the unlocked door. The endeavour is short-lived, of course: He snatches you back by your shoulder with minimal effort, sending you toppling over your bed with the sheer force he puts into the movement. He’s doing his best to keep up the relatively nonchalant facade he has got going on, but the beads of sweat that line his neck are prominent enough to be seen by a bare eye. Though, it’s not like you’re in any better of a state: Whatever bits of courage you were still holding onto go astray as he presses you down against the mattress.
You’re not entirely certain what he’s going to do — not until he opens his mouth again, anyway. As if reminiscing a fond memory, he closes his eyes for a moment. ”Do you remember what I said about trying to run?” he asks you, looming atop of you with an unintelligible, tight expression on his face. Unable to recall anything specific, you hold your breath and hesitantly shake your head. He sighs. ”I said that if you tried to escape, I’d have to make it so that you can’t”.
As soon as the words leave his mouth, you start flailing, trying your hardest to wiggle your way out from under him, but it’s no use. He catches your hands in his own with a single, swift movement and a little ”oops”, spoken like your struggling were but an accident on your part. Tears spill out of your eyes as the panic reaches your mind: You no longer try to fight the way your lungs strain from the urge to gasp for air, and even though you scream at him, beg him to reconsider, promising that you’re never going to run away ever again, there’s nothing you can do. He looks at your pitiful attempt at reconciliation, marvelling at the sight of your sudden vulnerability, before he repositions himself. In an awkward manoeuvre, he lets go of your hands and instead sets his knee on your chest, effectively forcing you flat against the bed. His weight feels nearly excruciating, largely due to the fact that you’re hyperventilating, but the terror doesn’t truly peak until you feel him caressing your bare ankle.
His fingers glide over the area, idly feeling around, tracing the shape of your bones underneath the skin. He then moves to the other leg, repeating the same process as if pondering something. Due to the way you’re positioned, you’re unable to see his expression, and truth to be told, it might be better that way.
He exhales deeply. As he turns his attention away from your feet and back to your tear-stained face, there’s the same, horribly pleasant smile on his features. ”You can decide which leg”, he says. Your eyes fly as wide as saucers, and again, you attempt to wrestle him off of you, but it’s a futile effort. Titans, you have come to despise the overly compassionate expression he wears, even as he’s speaking the cruellest of words without missing a single beat.
As you don’t answer his question, he gently nudges one of your knees, urging you to speak. However, you’re only able to weakly shake your head, staring him down as if you could pin him in place with only your eyes. Barely coherent ”please don’ts” spill out of your mouth, and your hands tremble wildly where they’re pushing against his thigh.
Due to you not offering any input on the matter, he starts monologuing to himself, speaking his morbid thoughts out loud. ”This is the one that was hurting before, right?” he strokes his hand along your left ankle. His fingers stop by the dip of your instep where the area is still sore from you having hit it against the table leg a couple of days ago. ”It should be this one, then? That way, you’ll have one perfectly fine leg, heh”, he continues, gently pressing his thumb against the mound of the bone that protrudes out of the inner side of your foot.
His brows flatten in a commiserating expression as he looks down at you. You must be afraid out of your mind, he thinks, idly petting your leg. He makes an attempt at comforting you, assuring you that ”he’s going to be careful about breaking it” and how ”he isn’t going to snap it in half, just a small fracture”. He brings one of his hands to your face, briefly caressing your wet cheek before sliding it down to your mouth. He presses it against your lips, letting you know that “you can bite on it if you need to”. Simultaneously, you feel his fingers wrap around your ankle. ”It’s gonna be over in an instant, don’t worry”, he promises you. ”On three, alright? Ready? 1... 2...”
You hear the sound before anything else registers in your brain. However, as the searing pain shoots up your leg, the only thing you’re able to do is sink your teeth into the side of his hand as it muffles the hair-raising shriek that erupts from your throat. The taste of his golden blood is bitter in your mouth: It floods onto your tongue, spills past your lips and onto your chin, dyeing everything in the hue you have grown to hate so much.
He’s saying something, but you can’t make out the words over the buzzing sound in your head. A blur grows at the edges of your vision, and for a good moment, you think you’re about to pass out. Though, perhaps, that would be a preferable outcome: You’re not sure if you can withstand the weight of your current reality. However, it would be an act of mercy much too great to be bestowed upon you, it seems.
The hand in your mouth moves to your cheek. His blood smears all over your face. ”It’s all over now”, he tells you, tenderly cupping your jaw before leaning down to plant a kiss on your lips. Immediately after, a broken sob erupts from your mouth, and a myriad more soon follow. Distantly, you’re aware of the excruciating throb on your ankle, but it’s difficult to truly concentrate on anything anymore. Every last bit of your body aches in one way or another, but what wounds you even deeper is how the spirit you had mere moments ago has been shattered in millions of pieces, beyond repair. The only thing you can do is lie on the bed and wail as he gently cradles your form in his arms.
In the end, after all has been done, he can’t bear to look at the sight of you limping around. You wince out with every step, and even as he carries you around, the deep, melancholic frown won’t disappear from your face — he can’t bear to look at you like that.
It only takes him a day or two to cave in and take you to the Twilight Courtyard’s pink-haired physician. It’s at the quietest hour of the night: The poor girl is already in her nightgown, and after explaining the situation in very vague terms, he makes her swear to secrecy with the sweetest smile on his face. Needless to say, even though she talks to you in a cheerful tone and looks at your broken limb with pity, you can see the way her hands tremble the slightest bit as she heals you.
All in all, it’s going to be a good while until you conduct your next escape attempt. He needs to take a few days off his duties to figure out what he’s going to do about the broken door, and besides, you get the feeling that most importantly, he doesn’t want to leave you alone for even a second. Even though his punishments are mild in general, you learn that past a certain line, there’s a side of him that you don’t want to get acquainted with.
˗ˏˋ ★ 6. Emotions I: How do they show love? How do they attempt to make the darling love them?
... So, there is a lot. Showing his love to you is, like, his thing. It’s like he gets his life force from seeing a smile on your face.
Firstly, he seems to be allergic to calling you by your own name. He has a rich list of petnames he uses in its place, and no matter how loud you scream at him to cut it the fuck out, he’s not going to stop. Each one is sappier than the other, and with time, they become so mundane that you don’t even have the energy to get mad at him anymore. ”Darling”, ”Baby”, ”Honey”, ”Sweetheart”, ”Cupcake”... Not only are they horribly embarrassing, but there’s also the fact that they are names one would use with a lover. More often than not, hearing them from his mouth tends to make you more dejected than anything, and he needs to tone it down a bit.
In addition, a particular detail is that he adds ”my” at the start of them, too. It’s always ”my darling” and ”my baby”. It seems to be wildly deliberate on his end, too: He puts an unnecessary amount of emphasis on the first word, sometimes to the point that it sounds unnatural. Even if you bring it up, he won’t stop doing it — on the contrary, it only appears to fuel his fire. You are his after all, so what’s with the hesitance?
Though, it should be mentioned that calling him by one of the aforementioned words is a sure way to get him to give you anything you want. The moment the first syllable of ”honey” leaves your mouth, he’s practically on his knees in front of you, wagging his imaginary tail like an overexcited puppy. If you’re thinking of gaslight-gatekeep-girlbossing him, it’s a good place to start.
Secondly, in a way, he likes to play the role of a knight in shining armour for you. It manifests in multiple aspects of your life: For example, he never lets you lift any heavy stuff, he likes to carry you around bridal style to an unnecessary degree, and he helps you get things from places that are too high for you to reach (he makes an effort to place items out of your reach). Moreover, he likes to do really sappy stuff like suddenly push you over and dip your body so he can kiss you like you were a freshly married couple.
It gets ridiculous pretty fast. It’s like he doesn’t let you do anything without him being there to save the day. Whatever you’re trying to do, he will conveniently slip right past you, saying ”let him handle it” and cracking his knuckles, and whatever task you were occupied with has been completed in a heartbeat.
Then there’s the physical aspect. He’s, unfortunately, incredibly fond of touching you. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing — or what you’re supposed to be doing, anyway — he has to have his hands on you at nearly all times or he will riot. He’s the epitome of the ”where’s my hug at”-guy, but it’s to the point that you have to wonder if the rumoured illness where one dies if they don’t get to experience the touch of a woman is a real one. He sure is talented in acting as if an hour or two without your skin against his could make his flesh rot.
Be careful with your words, because he latches onto the tiniest chances of getting to touch you. You complain that something is hurting? Aww, come here, he’ll kiss it better. You can’t reach something? Oh, he’s got it, let him lift you by the waist. You’re cold? Here, here, get in the bed, he’ll cuddle you until you’re warm again. You want to take a bath? Don’t worry, he can wash you. Literally anything you say could be used against you like you were in some fucked-up court room with him as the high judge. Sometimes it’s so obvious that you have to resist the urge to actually smack his hand away. He might, for example, insist that there’s something on your face and pick the imaginary crumb off the corner of your mouth — multiple times a day.
Don’t forget the general affection. He hugs, kisses, caresses, pats — and everything in between. Every time he passes you, he rests his hand on the crown of your head, stroking your hair. Whenever he comes back from his duties, the first thing he does is find you and give you a hug so tight that you fear for your ribs. Whenever you’re occupied with something, he likes to throw his arms over your shoulders and prop his chin on your head. His presence, on the best of days, is suffocating. On the worst, it’s unbearable. You don’t think there’s a single square inch on your body that hasn’t been touched by him.
He has a bad habit of spoiling you in the material realm, too. Or, “bad” for him in the sense that if you so wished, he would drop everything the second you asked for something from him, whether that be a specific item or for him to perform 33 550 336 consecutive backflips for you. He would most likely see the latter through if you gave him a really convincing “please”.
It’s not only if you ask, either: Whether you want it or not, he’s going to bring you so many gifts that you don’t even know where to keep them past a certain point. If you ask him about it, his answer is going to be something along the lines of ”he just likes to make you happy”, but you’re sure that, to a certain degree, he’s trying to buy your affection. He doesn’t exactly realize it himself, but when it comes to certain things, the guy has a bit of a manipulative streak in him.
The stuff he gets for you would be endearing in any other situation but yours. His gifts range from flowers and snacks to all kinds of trinkets — plushies, for example. He seems to have taken a liking to gifting you stuffed animals, specifically, even though your bed is already lined with them. There are multiple chimeras, a plump dromas, one that looks suspiciously like the fat unicorn of that one healer he took you to, and finally, the one he’s the most fond of: A fluffy, white dog. Whenever you’re acting grumpy, he likes to pick it up and drag it across the bed, pretending as if the toy was walking and hopping around. He makes little barking noises while at it to really sell the immersion, bumping the thing’s snout against your arm or thigh. The act would be cute if it weren’t for the fact that you’re doing your best to hide a lockpick under your thigh.
Lastly, he insists on cuddling you while sleeping, and that’s stating it very lightly. It’s not only that he gets whiny if you refuse: He pretty much won’t let you sleep anywhere else but in his arms. With someone like Mydei, you could be able to evade his touches if you were to protest by sleeping somewhere else — the floor, namely; there’s a limit to how much the Prince can be bothered — but with Phainon, the tactic doesn’t work in the slightest: He will literally chase you wherever you go, and if that means the both of you will be sleeping under the dinner table, so be it. He also tends to be very smug when you finally give up your efforts at resisting him. There’s a complacent smile on his lips as he tilts his head down to smooch your hair while embracing you.
His favourite cuddling position is whatever tickles your fancy, essentially, as long as he gets to touch you. He doesn’t want you to be uncomfortable in his arms, so he lets you decide where you want his hands. Often, it ends up with you being loosely spooned, but the previous statement is a little bit of a fraud in the sense that he’s going to get bored of the minimal skin contact quite quickly. Not even ten minutes in, he’s going to start quietly whining in your ear, pleading with you to turn around and hug him properly. By that point, you’re usually done with trying to rebel against his antics anyway, and in favour of finally getting some sleep, you allow him to pull you flush against his bare chest.
He’s like a human-sized puppy. Finally having achieved what he wants, he lets out a pleased hum, nuzzling his cheek against the crown of your head. His arms wrap tighter around your back, and suddenly, he squeezes your body like you were a squeaky toy. Consequently, you let out an ”ack” at the unanticipated gesture, beating your hands against his ribs to have him give you some space to breathe. He loosens his hold, sighing out an apology through an airy chuckle, but something tells you that he’s not truly sorry at all.
˗ˏˋ ★ 7. Emotions II: How do they deal with the darling’s emotions? How are outbursts handled? How do they attempt to comfort the darling?
Phainon is a highly receptive person when it comes to other people’s emotions. He himself is quite sensitive, and it’s easy for him to get drawn into your feelings as if they were his own; he’s an empath, if you may.
So, he hates to see you cry. It’s on his list of top most painful things, right below his eternal suffering and whatnot. The only way he’s capable of being deliberately mean to you is in a light-hearted manner. The moment he sees actual tears glimmering at your waterline, though, he’s swift to change his tune, and he starts de-escalating the situation to the best of his ability. His smile drops, his hands are on you in a split second, and words of consolation slip out of his mouth at a record speed.
”Oh, honey, honey-honey-honey...”, ”Hey, shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay” and ”No, hey-hey-hey, don’t cry, don’t cry” are just few of the things he repeats to you as your frown deepens. More often than not, though, his relentless fussing over you only manages to make you feel worse, and the situation quickly falls apart in his hands.
His solution, more often than not, is to engulf you in a hug so tight that you can barely even breathe. It’s like he’s trying to squash the sadness out of you, but even with his best efforts, the method doesn’t seem to be working. Besides, most of the time, your tears are not born of gloom but anger, and so, your outbursts involve yelling more than sobbing. He weathers those without much of a reaction but makes it known that the second you ask him to, he’s going to be there for you. The one thing he won’t do is leave you alone, even as you scream for him to do so: Though you don’t like it, he stays right beside you, making sure that you don’t hurt yourself or destroy the place too badly.
Still, there are bound to be times when you simply have no energy to lash out at him anymore, and that’s when he takes the chance of consoling you to the best of his ability. He has a naturally cheerful, calming presence to him that, even as you put your best efforts at resisting it, it draws you in.
He kneels in front of you or sits beside you, whichever is more convenient. Silently, waiting for any sign to go in, he patiently lingers by your side, gazing at your tear-stained face with a sympathetic smile. If you don’t make an effort to push him away, he starts inching closer to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders or placing his hand on your knee. If you start sharing your troubles, he listens intently, and if it’s something he can fix, he promises you a vast amount of different things: Taking you to Okhema, to the Grove, to meet some of the other Heirs, even, if you manage to convince him enough. More often than not, he also sees his word through, too.
After you pour your heart out to him, he subtly coaxes you to lean into him. He faces you with open arms, telling you things like ”he’s not going to think of you as weak if you were to give in” and ”come on, here, let him make it all better”. Finding no more power to ward him off, you allow him to envelop you in a tight hug which he greedily indulges in. Seizing the opportunity, he gently picks your form up and moves you over to the bed. Carefully, he tucks both you and himself under the blankets before gathering you against his chest in a close embrace. He presses his face against the crown of your head, muttering out all kinds of praises like ”my pretty baby”, ”you’re alright, you’re alright”, “I’m gonna keep you safe right here”... You eventually drift to sleep listening to the endless stream of sweet words from his mouth.
˗ˏˋ ★ 8. Thing to exploit: What are the darling’s best chances at escaping? Are there things the darling can use to their advantage? How can the darling make things easier for themselves?
It’s technically not that difficult to escape from him when talking about the breaking-out part, but executing the rest of the plan might be a tricky endeavour to see through. He has this strange trust in you that surely, you’re not going to try and flee from him if he leaves the routes open, so occasionally, the door won’t even be locked. The main threat is the guy himself: You don’t dare to attempt an escape with him in the general radius of your enclosure since he would be on your tail in a heartbeat, regardless of the distance between you.
He is, however, somewhat susceptible to manipulation. He’s not exactly the easiest target, no — especially not if you didn’t know him too well yet — but luckily for you, you hold an extra special slot in his heart. Because of that, he’s much more credulous when it comes to you.
Sulking, or rather, pretending to sulk is a ridiculously effective strategy with him. In his heart, he knows that you’re putting up an act, and it doesn’t truly manage to fool him, but the frown on your face is a much more pressing matter than the sincerity of it. Besides, no matter if it’s real or not, there’s something that you’re unhappy about, so what sort of a partner would he be if he didn’t try to fix it? Things you can get this way are basically any items you could ever wish for (although those you can get even without going the manipulation route, anyway), more time outside, more time alone (he promises to try his best), or even more complicated stuff like a pet, if you wanted one. Be careful, though, because the more you use this strategy, the less effective it becomes. Eventually, even if you were in actual distress, he could think that it’s just one of your ploys again.
When it comes to getting help from outside, there are a few options for you to try. The fortunate thing about being captured by Phainon in the circumstances that took place is that a lot of people saw you and knew you by name before it happened. The only thing that’s stopping the crowd from looking for you is the assumption that you’re currently living in another city far away from Okhema, and so, they have no reason to suspect foul play. Still, there are bound to be some that know to doubt the story’s credibility.
Mydei is one of them, but it’s best not to get your hopes up about him helping you. If anything, he’s just as bad as Phainon when it comes to his ethics regarding the world of darlings. Then there’s Anaxa: It doesn’t require much brainpower for him to deduce that you didn’t exactly make it where you were supposed to, but the problem with him is that he couldn’t care less. In his humble opinion, his former disciple can do whatever the hell he wants with his life — including keeping a person in some abandoned building against their will. Aglaea, silently ignoring the wild tilt on her moral scale, decides to turn a blind eye to your suffering: The boy has endured enough, and if having you around is a relieving factor to that, she’s willing to look past it. Cipher, siding with her found family, is also out of the question. It’s like you’re stuck in an inescapable web of blame-shifting; there’s an awful lot of people who refuse to help you out of indifference.
However, there are a few people who would cast their fondness for your captor aside and help you instead. Namely, Tribbie, Hyacine and Castorice.
Tribbie is most likely aware of Lil’ Snowy’s schemes: It’s clear as day to her that you never managed to get out of Okhema. For the time being, she has refrained from getting involved since she doesn’t exactly know where you’re being held, but she knows you’re somewhere. It’s a bit of a gamble whether she decides to take matters into her own hands or not: It would be going against her fellow Heirs’ wishes — Aglaea, for example, allusively tells her not to press the matter any further — but still, if you were in a particularly bad state, she might try to help you out. Whether Phainon likes it or not, due to him having been less than careful about the circulating rumours, information about you is going to be shared among his peers. If someone like Hyacine manages to spill more details of your plight to Tribbie, she’s much more likely to take action.
Hyacine herself is, of course, a probable ally. The more Phainon brings you to her in need of a healing, the more she takes sympathy on you. Though, she’s faced with the same problem as Tribbie: There’s a voice in her ear (in this case, Anaxa’s) telling her to stay away from the matter, but there’s absolutely no way she will. The Daughter of Skies is much too kind-hearted to allow you to suffer in silence.
If possible, she will do her utmost to help you in your escape. The only tricky thing about her is that in order to see her, you have to get yourself hurt, and not just any minor injury is enough for Phainon to consider taking the risk of bringing you to the Courtyard. It’s a knotty situation, but if you’re willing to go all-out in your efforts, it’s not that big of an obstacle. If you manage it, not only will she provide you with lots and lots of information, but she might give you supplies, too: For example, if you were to plan on throwing Phainon’s original abduction plan right back at him, she could mix you a sedative. Though, it’s a thin line she has to walk, because everything she does could be tracked back to her in a heartbeat, and she has long since had the feeling that Phainon isn’t exactly the most mentally stable person.
Finally, there’s Castorice. She’s more of a silent observer than anything, not swaying in either direction, but deep inside her, she can’t stand the idea of someone being stuck in a situation such as yours. It reminds her of her own past, and despite not daring to go up against Phainon, she would still like to extend her hand to you in her own, macabre way.
You find a letter on your window sill one day. Your assumption is, of course, that it has been left there by your captor, but you decide to open it regardless. Though, as soon as you lay your eyes on the handwriting, you understand that it's not the case. In charming, cursive letters, the paper reads ”If the weight of existence ever becomes too much for you, I am willing to offer you my services. Please find me. -C.”
The text is beyond cryptic to you. Even after a few reads, you can’t make much sense of the meaning behind the words, but regardless, you decide to slip the piece of paper between the pages of a random book on the shelf. You have a hunch that it’s for the best if Phainon doesn’t ever get to know about its contents.
˗ˏˋ ★ 9. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes? What unique qualities do they possess?
He will, no doubt, present his beautiful darling, you, to Mydei at some point. Whether it’s only a week or two into your capture or if you’ve been jailed for a good while already, one day, he returns home from his duties and informs you that ”he has a little surprise for you”. As the lock to your room clicks open, you come to see that not only does he have a massive bouquet of flowers in his hand, but there’s another person standing in the doorway.
You know the guy, of course; Mydei is difficult not to recognize, not only due to his status but also because of his striking looks and imposing aura. Gazing down at where you’re sitting on the bed with a frightened look in your eyes, he folds his arms and lets out a deep sigh. The expression on his face is unreadable: You’re not sure whether it conveys pity, confusion, disappointment, amazement, or all of those at the same time.
Not letting the silence stretch on any further, Phainon leads Mydei further into your room, gushing to him about you, telling him to not be alarmed, and that you’re ”just a little shy with new people”. Obviously, the statement couldn’t be further from the actual reason for your mistrust — you’re just not particularly fond of being captive — but judging from the subtle look Phainon sends your way, you decide that it’s for the best to keep your mouth shut for the time being. Instead, you stay put, pulling your knees to your chest and turning your face away from the two.
After setting the bouquet in an empty vase sitting on the window sill, your captor makes his way to you, plopping himself on the mattress with so much force that the impact nearly sends you into the air. In the next moment, he wraps one of his arms around your shoulders, pulls you to him and plants a kiss on the crown of your head. He then proceeds to formally introduce you to Mydei, simultaneously ruffling a bird’s nest out of your hair.
Though the situation would already be uncomfortable enough without the spectator looming beside the door, the atmosphere skyrockets to record levels of tension as the lion of a man raises his brows at you in something akin to disinterest. Contrary to everything that would be a reasonable reaction to the sight, not only does he gesture towards you with an expression that says “right, what’s all this then”, but his main source of disappointment seems to be how his pal couldn’t pull a woman in the normal way, not the fact that you’re a victim of an abduction.
Moreover, you don’t feel a single ounce of sympathy coming from Mydei’s direction, and the way he looks at you is... off. Truthfully, he isn’t any better than Phainon: The two do a lot of things together, competing against each other in the most bizarre of ways, so there’s really no reason why darling-hunting wouldn’t be one of the activities. With this in mind, in such realm of things, there would be no greater feat than managing to snatch the other’s treasured one away. It’s best to stay on your guard.
Another thing about Phainon is that, unlike what you might believe initially, he’s not delusional. Not like somebody like, say, Argenti is, anyway — but damn, sometimes he can’t help but wonder if things would be easier if he was. Occasionally, when he sees you all teary-eyed and trying to resist his advances with every inch of your being, he’s hit with an inconceivable, crushing sense of guilt. He understands that he has taken something precious away from you: Your freedom, your social circle, your entire life, basically. Besides, you almost never look at him with anything less than unadulterated detestation. Deep inside him, he knows what he has done, what he does, is wrong, but he can’t bring himself to stop. You’re much too precious for him to lose.
That said, sometimes, you catch him gazing at you with this sort of a forlorn expression on his face. If you question him during these moments, he merely gives you half a smile before going right back to staring. However, as strange as his behaviour is, you can’t help but look forward to having him in such a mood: Whenever he falls into the depths of the spiral that is his own mind, you have a few hours all to yourself. He won’t ever really touch you when he’s feeling sombre, so it’s a good opportunity for you to take a bath by yourself, for example. For once, he won’t chase you into the bathroom with his shirt already off.
NS-FW
˗ˏˋ ★ 10. General look: How does their sexuality manifest? What does sex mean to them? How horny are they?
Phainon is not particularly reserved when it comes sex. Not that he’s at the other extreme, either, but his attitude towards it isn’t puritan, by any means. He’s confident in the sexual part of himself, and so, at the start, before anything more severe goes down, you can expect little things from him that sort of point in the sexual direction: Suggestive whistles when you take an article of clothing off, lingering touches on areas that are bordering the line of being risqué, a few innuendos here and there, and the fact that, for one reason or another, he really likes being shirtless around you. ”It’s just a little warm” and ”the clothes are getting sweaty” don’t exactly convince you anymore: You see the way he subtly flexes his muscles when he catches you looking.
However, he isn’t horny-horny in the sense that he would only think with his dick when it comes to you. He understands that while he’s crazy about you, you’re going to need a little warming up before he can start pestering you about any bedroom activities. That won’t stop him from ogling at your dips and curves at every possible moment, though.
He has a somewhat high drive. He’s a man in his sexual prime, and so, it’s no surprise that having you around is an amplifying factor to that. Before you came around, he used to engage in a little bit of ”guy-talk” with Mydei: Conversations about sex in general and whatnot weren’t that rare of an occurrence, and besides, it’s quite normal, isn’t it? (Comparing dick sizes with the homies is a common male experience, right?)
Due to his libido, he tends to jerk off quite a lot. Sometimes, one moment, he might be lying on the divan with you in his lap, and the other, he has to excuse himself to the bathroom to beat one out. For your sake, he tries to be discreet about it, and it doesn’t take that long for him to get it out of his system since he has a fresh memory in mind of how your lower back rubbed against his crotch. Though, if you were to press your ear against the bathroom door while he was at it, it would be difficult to mistake the practice for anything else. You try not to think about it.
It’s ridiculous how desperate you make him, really. Dreams about having you start plaguing him nearly every night, and you have woken up to his clothed dick nudging against your thighs more than once. If you weren’t already fearing for when he might step over the line, as more signs pop up, your concern rises through the roof. He notices the way you seem to be plotting for an escape even more intently than usual.
You come to understand that it won’t take long until his hand isn’t enough for him anymore — he will need the real thing soon enough.
˗ˏˋ ★ 11. Limit: How long does it take for them to have the darling? What is the first time like? Do they care about the darling’s willingness?
He really wouldn’t like to take you against your will, but it’s starting to look like you’re not going to give him another choice. He has tried his best — he has attempted gently initiating the act in every scenario possible, but you’re not showing any response to his advances. There has been plenty of time for you to come to him out of your own volition, but for now, it appears that if he ever wants to get that part of you as well, he’s going to have to take it himself.
It starts as relentless, around-the-clock pestering. You may be trying to sleep (in his arms, naturally), bathe, eat — anything, really — and suddenly, he’s behind you, hands grabbing both sides of your waist and slowly inching towards the curve of your breasts. Of course, you turn around in an instant and yell out a crisp ”what the fuck?”. It’s enough of a response to have him pull his hands back with a half-assed apology, but each time, it takes him longer to withdraw. In the back of your mind, you realize that the man is only testing the waters for now, and the more you give in, the further he will go. That being said, his advances result in you backing away from any physical contact, including when you’re supposed to be cuddling him while he sleeps. Out of fear for what he might do, you start insisting on sleeping in the narrowest part of the bathroom, right behind the tub, where it’s difficult for him to reach you. He must have been a tiny bit too upfront about his intentions, he muses.
The equation is a tricky one: He understands that there’s no going back if he indulges in you, but then again, the tent in his pants is driving him in a completely different direction. So, he starts reasoning with himself. Sex could bring the two of you closer together, right? Orgasms release a bunch of feel-good hormones for women, so if he makes you come a plenty, you’ll be more bonded with him! Or hey, what if you’re just playing really hard to get and you actually want it?
The latter thought is so preposterous that he has to beat himself up for even trying to delude himself into actually believing it. It’s obvious: You’re not going to respond to his advances, no matter what he does. It’s a frustrating place for him to be in, but as even the tiniest glimpse of your skin is enough to nearly have him bust in his trousers, he understands that there’s only one way out of the situation that doesn’t involve him slicing his dick off.
One day, a month or so into your captivity, when he arrives back from his duties, he catches you red-handed in yet another escape attempt: You have a metal instrument in hand, and you’re trying to cleave off one of the bedposts. You look at him like you had just seen a spectre, eyes widening before you resort to your usual course of action. You drop your current task and immediately head for the bathroom. Though, this time around, instead of letting you go through with your plan, he stops you in your tracks. With your fingers just short of reaching the handle, he slams his hands on both sides of your head, trapping you against the door. You wince at the loud sound, and naturally, you attempt to duck under his arm, but before you can do so, he lodges his knee in between your thighs.
Right then and there, he lets you know that you have two options: You can either agree to have sex with him right here, right now, or he’s going to take you by force, no matter what you say. Essentially, both routes lead to the same conclusion, but he’s giving you the choice of whether you want it nice or harsh. Your cute little mouth falls ajar, and though you try to conceal it, he can see how your knees buckle. Your eyes dart around, trying to think of a more favourable solution to the proposal at hand, but to no avail. Still, as usually is with you, you refuse to go down without a good fight.
In a sudden movement, you whisk your head to the side and bury your teeth into one of his hands. In the brief pause of shock it grants you, you bolt for the door like it’s the last thing you’ll do in your entire lifetime. Nonetheless, unfortunately, getting away from him isn’t nearly as simple as that: In a split second, he catches up to you and rams your back against the wall with so much force that your skull nearly bangs against the stone. He’s still smiling, but something about the expression seems terribly strained: It looks like he’s fighting his own psyche, more than anything.
Before you can do anything else, he lets out a joyless chuckle, picking you up and hoisting you over his shoulder. No matter how you scream, kick, and beat your fists against his back, he doesn’t budge the slightest bit. With surprisingly tender movements, he walks over to the bed and sets you on the mattress, taking care to settle your head on the pillows like you were made of glass. Of course, as soon as his touch leaves you, you attempt to roll off the opposite side of the mattress. You’re much too slow with it, though, because before you can even truly set the plan into action, he catches both of your wrists in one hand and forces himself in between your legs.
For a moment, he remains still, catching his elevated breath. He looks down at you with dilated pupils and a deep flush travelling down his neck. The heat emanates from his body, and the sun-shaped tattoo on his neck is glowing. You’re not sure where you should look: There’s no place your eyes can land that isn’t his form. He’s all around you, caging you into the bed with his own frame. Desperately, you try to wriggle yourself free from his grasp, but it’s no use — his grip is as unforgiving as the steel of his blade.
You’ve resisted the urge to look down until now, but finally, you allow the morbid curiosity to take over. Your eyes trail down his chest, his stomach... it’s there. His hard-on is straining against his pants like it’s about to burst right through the fabric. Though, you don’t get much time to stare at the thing as your sight is obscured by him leaning down to catch your lips in a kiss. He tries to tenderly hold your face in his free hand, but you’re making it quite difficult to do so with how you’re whisking your head in every possible direction.
He huffs into your mouth. Yes, he would like to keep the experience gentle for you, but since you insist on throwing every available wrench in the works, it seems that he needs to give you a bit of a rougher time than he originally thought.
So, without a warning, his fingers latch around your throat. He doesn’t exactly squeeze, but the notion behind is enough to have you settle down, even for a bit. You don’t dare fight him further when he slips his tongue in your mouth nor do you try to knee him as he begins humping himself against your clothed crotch. After a while, his lips leave yours, and he hides his face in the crook of your neck in favour of planting open-mouthed kisses all over your shoulders and chest. He hooks his fingers under the neckline of your top to reveal more of your skin. He licks, sucks and bites like you were the last meal he was ever going to have.
Detaching his hand from your neck, he slides it down to your stomach. Tugging your shirt up, he grabs a handful of your bare breast and begins rolling it around, using his thumb to circle your nipple. Oh, he so wishes that he could use his other hand, too, but with the way your arms are shaking from the exertion of attempting to break free, he abandons the idea. He’s trying his very best to keep himself in check, but admittedly, you’re not making the job very easy: You don’t have the faintest idea what sensations your sweat-clad skin and your ragged breaths instill in him. As his fingers leave your breast and instead slide down your bottoms, he wonders how long he’s going to last.
You spew hateful words at him. Even as tears have begun slipping past your waterline, you don’t give up your tough front. You’re obviously vexed, he can understand that much, but for you to still put up so much resistance when he already has you where you are? You truly manage to surprise him sometimes. Despite your responses, he only speeds his actions up: His fingers search around in your underwear until they find your bits. Having little to no patience left, he slips them right into your entrance.
You’re not too wet, he notices, to his dismay. It’s not your fault, of course: The entire ordeal was a bit of a surprise for you, and he has understood that you don’t exactly get in the mood at the same pace as he does. Even so, he puts his attention on dragging his digits in and out of your cunt, rubbing his thumb over the general area of your clit, trying to coax as much lubrication out of you as he’s able. You let out terrified yelps and pleas for him to “at least slow down”, but going by your bodily reactions, he doesn’t think he’s doing that poor of a job, and so, your grievances go on deaf ears.
However, all of his movements come to an abrupt halt as certain words leave your mouth. ”I’m scared”, you whimper between all the insults and protests. It’s like you don’t even realize what you said at first, but when his ministrations pause, your voice dies down. He looks down at you as if you had just punched him in the gut, but quickly, he composes himself. ”You don’t have to be”, he then assures you, releasing your hands for a moment in favour of petting your head — a complete contrast to his tight grip mere seconds ago. ”I’m not going to hurt you”, he continues, smiling down at you. Simultaneously, his fingers pull out of your cunt and instead go for your clit where he circles the pearl in slow, steady motions. ”Doesn’t that feel good?”
You lunge at him, reaching for his face, he assumes, but he’s quick to catch your wrists right back before you can even graze him. He tries to shrug the thing off like it hadn’t affected him at all, but at the same time, the hand in your bottoms becomes more aggressive in its motions, plunging back into your hole. You hiss at the sudden stretch, but he doesn’t give you much time to complain about it. Instead, he uses his weight to force your thighs against your upper body. With a bit of a struggle, he yanks your lower garments up and off your legs, revealing your cunt to him. By this point, he’s panting like a dog in heat, and his movements mirror the same impression: Hastily, his hand goes to his pants where he fiddles with the button for a moment before pulling his dick out.
Immediately, your flailing resumes. He holds you down with minimal efforts, all the while he lines his cock up with your bare entrance. He tries to comfort you, telling you that while he would really like to prep you a bit more, ”he just can’t take it anymore”: It’s much too late to think of taking off his own clothes or any other trivial matters. His tip nudges against your cunt, and with a final promise to ”be as gentle as he’s able”, he pushes into you.
You don’t get much of an adjustment period. He gives you a good ten seconds before he goes straight for fucking you into the mattress. His pace is vigorous, uncoordinated and, most prominently, so deep that you feel like his thrusts are knocking the air out of your lungs. You make the mistake of taking a look at his face through your lidded eyes: His mouth is wide open in a licentious expression, and his eyes nearly roll back into his head as he grinds into you. He moans out incomprehensible strings of words, praising you for ”how good you feel” and thanking the skies for giving you to him. You would be dumbfounded by the show if it weren’t for the fact that you’re mostly concentrating on biting into your lower lip and withstanding the force of his plunges.
There isn’t much more you can do than weather the storm for as long as it lasts (and it lasts a considerable while). When he’s done with you, you enter the awkward after-phase where you cry while he leans his forehead against your bare chest, spilling out apologies through his ragged breaths. After he has gathered himself enough, he’s going to take care of you, but for a moment, he needs to linger in the afterglow of his climax and bear the crushing weight of the post-nut clarity that’s hammering on his conscience.
˗ˏˋ ★ 12. Preferences: What is sex with them like? What sort of stuff are they into? What kind of kinks do they have?
Phainon likes it passionate, loving and intense. Or, perhaps “fervent” would be a better term to describe his preferences: There’s really no instance with him where you wouldn’t end up needing a good few hours to compose yourself after having sex with him. He would rather have it that way, too: You look awfully pretty in your afterglow, after all.
Good old wannabe-vanilla and praise
He likes intimate, gentle sex — or, more specifically, the gentlest he can make it for you, given the fact that you don’t seem to be a particular fan of his advances. ”Gentle”, to him, means the act of taking care of you sexually, whether that’s against your will or not. In the times that his self-restraint allows him to, he likes to focus all of his attention on you, showering you in loving touches.
He loves fingering you. Whether it’s with him lying on your side or with you trapped under him, he loves the way he can reduce you to a whining mess with just his hand. It must feel so good for you when he slides his fingers into your cunt over and over again, curling them right against your sweet spot without mercy. He makes sure to give your clit plenty of attention, too: He has already figured out the best patterns to make you melt. He isn’t having any of the struggling — you can pretend all you want that you aren’t on the brink of heaven at the moment — but he knows just how to unravel you.
He tends to get a bit messy with it, too. Your essence will be smeared all over your thighs by the time he’s done. For good measure, he brings his hand to his mouth and licks the remainder off with a heavy blush on his cheeks. You always find the act horribly embarrassing, but it does nothing to deter him from doing it. He offers it to you as well, telling you how ethereal it tastes, but going by your reaction, you don’t seem too convinced by his words.
Eating you out is another thing he’s a particular fan of. It’s even more intimate than using his hand on you! Your thighs slam shut against his head, almost like hugging him, trying to push him off of you, but there’s a meal right in front of him and he’s a man on the brink of starving. You can either give it to him as is, or he can fold you in half and eat you like that. It’s your choice.
Then, when it comes to any and all sexual acts, for the life of him, he’s completely unable to shut his mouth. It’s like he needs to use his vocal cords as much as he needs to breathe, and he’s a generous moaner, too. When he isn’t grunting or huffing or groaning, you can be sure that praises for you are spewing out of his mouth like a mantra.
”You feel so good”, ”you’re so pretty”, ”you’re doing so well” and ”you’re being so good for me” are just a few of the things that he chants while pleasuring you. He tries encouraging you, too: ”Come on, I know you can do it”, ”there you go, give it to me, give it to me”, ”yeah, that’s it, my beautiful darling”, he speaks directly into your ear as he feels the telltale spasms of your cunt preceding your climax. Using his words, he guides you through the entire experience, not staying quiet for longer than a single moment that it takes for himself to come.
Physical power imbalance and manhandling
He’s a knight, a hero, a warrior at heart — and that comes with the desire to test his strength, to spar, to hone himself physically until he has reached the peak of perfection. That being said, he also takes pride in the fact that he’s so physically capable: Outside of the bedroom, he already likes to carry you around, to lift heavy stuff for you, to utilize his height due to you being shorter than him in stature, so why wouldn’t he enjoy the same things when it comes to sex?
You’re so pretty, so frail, so helpless compared to him. It’s kind of cruel of you to deprive him of treating you like the princess you are (read: merging you with the mattress). There’s something so divine about seeing you under him, completely at his mercy: It’s difficult to explain in words, but he thinks it must be the way you make him feel so... trustworthy. You make him feel dependable, capable of taking control of the situation, even though he knows that you don’t exactly perceive him that way. It’s more what he himself would like to think, anyway. All of your pleasure is in his hands, and you can be certain that he’s going to give you all you need and more; much, much more.
So, he holds you down, he bends you in all kinds of positions, he holds you up in the air, he fucks you with an insane amount of strength. It’s not necessarily that it hurts, but the vigour which he thrusts into you with is unparalleled. Can you really blame him, though? It’s not his fault that you’re so easy to throw around. Comparably, he also likes the size difference the two of you have: As stated, he truly relishes the sense of capability he gets from being the one to ”guide” you through pleasure. When he grinds into you, he has a habit of caging you between the bed and him in a protective manner. In one way or another, it soothes his mind: You’re not going anywhere from here, is the core thought he has. As well as shielding you from the world, he shields the world from getting to you.
His strength also unlocks the option of the most bizarre of positions. Holding you up against the wall requires basically nothing of him, and he would dangle you off the window sill with your upper body off the edge and fuck you if you asked him to. It’s truly a shame that you won’t.
Then, finally, he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but he gets hard from seeing you struggle under him. Something about the way you strain so hard against his hold, put your best efforts into getting him off of you, how you scrunch your face up at the exertion… It gets him going. The way you clench your teeth, how you squeeze your eyes shut... The implication is clear as day, but despite it, he can’t help but shudder as the word ”sadist” pops into his mind. He doesn’t identify with the term at all, yet still, he can’t deny how exhilarating it is to see you in such a state. It’s a love-hate relationship.
The ult form
For the very first time he brings the idea up in advance, you think he’s joking. Or, it’s not that he outright suggests it, but more warns you about the fact that sometimes, once he gets thrilled enough, his looks might change a bit. You don’t think much of it before it actually happens, putting the remark in the same pile as his other ravings, but you do understand what he was talking about when his appearance, in fact, does alter a bit.
He’s in the middle of fucking you when out of nowhere, you see a golden glimmer in his eyes. Though, it becomes the least of your worries as you notice something poking out from behind his back. Out of instinct, you push your hands against his chest and call out to him, but instead of his normal response to such reactions, he plants his palm over your mouth. In a much deeper voice than normal, he tells you to “stay still and take what’s given to you”.
In a single moment, his entire demeanour has changed. Compared to his usual, gentle self, the air is now crackling with fiery energy and a strange sense of danger. Suddenly, he seems to carry an overwhelming aura of dominance, forcing you into obeying him with the mere weight of his gaze. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls your chest flush against his. Aligning your hips so that they’re glued against his, he grinds into you so deep that you swear you can feel him in your lungs. His grip is so tight that it nearly hurts, but something about the circumstances tells you that there’s no slowing him down.
One of his hands forces itself in between your thighs. His fingers find your clit and begin rubbing the pearl up and down with so much strength that you can’t decide if the pleasure is overshadowing the pain anymore. His teeth dig into the juncture between your neck and shoulder, gnawing a bright red mark on the untouched skin. When he’s satisfied with the bite, he moves on to another spot where he repeats the same process. You lose track of time faster than you want to, all in favour of staying conscious in the face of his vehemence.
There’s only one issue he faces when it comes to fucking you in this form, though, and it’s the fact that almost always, you’re in a deplorable condition afterwards, both physically and mentally. Of course, he tends to use a bit more of his strength when he’s in his alternative state, and it translates into red patches on your skin and faint bruises where he grabbed you. Those heal in no time, however, so when his high wears down, he’s much more concerned about your mind.
The strain of the Destruction that inhabits him must have been quite a terrifying experience for you, is a distant thought in his head as he looks down at your rapidly heaving chest and listens to your desperate sobs for him to stop, even though he pulled out a good moment ago. It takes time for him to get you to calm down afterwards, and so, there’s always a promise that “he’s never going to go as far again”, that “he doesn’t have to do it anymore if you don’t want to”, but you can be sure that that promise is going to be broken sooner than you would like. No matter how tightly he hugs you, how gently he weaves his fingers through your hair, in your panicked state, you can hardly focus on anything else but the way the other-wordly smell of Khaslana still lingers on his skin.
He never goes all the way in this state, however — if he can help it, that is. He leaves his transformation halfway, sort of: The wings grow out, his eye colour changes, but to save you from worse injuries, he has to keep himself in check and not give you the full experience. Though, it’s not like it won’t make an appearance eventually: If you manage to make him mad enough, he might snap, and you’ll get to see his other form in its full glory. Albeit enthralling, it’s not exactly something to look forward to: He’s capable of being much, much harsher in that condition than anything what you’re used to.
Overstimulation
If you’re not shaking from pleasure with tears in your eyes and a deep red blush covering your entire face by when he’s done, he hasn’t done his job correctly. Sex very rarely ends in a single round for him, and so, it’s no wonder that, combined with his lack of self-control, relentless overstimulation is on the menu quite often.
Yes, you came already, he knows, but you can still take a few more, can’t you? It would be an awful waste not to enjoy the sight of your flushed, sweaty body for some time longer, wouldn’t it? Besides, he doesn’t need to be fucking you to keep going, you know? That being said, to prolong your torment, he likes to finger you, give you head, and use other means of pleasuring you to keep you going way past your limit — with zero breaks, of course. You’re the most sensitive after a good few orgasms, too, he notes.
He could go at it for hours on end. The better half of your day could be spent with you coming so many times that you can’t even keep count of your climaxes anymore, nor can he. Not that he even tries to: His attention is focused on keeping them coming rather than congratulating himself on achieving each one. He doesn’t even resort to fucking you, most of the time: He may jerk himself off, but it’s way more difficult to rub the peaks out of you if one of his hands is occupied elsewhere. Plus, he needs to restrain you, so the work ergonomics proves to be a bit of a hassle, anyway.
The one downside is that he has to put extra effort into making sure that you don’t wriggle out of his grasp, as mentioned. It must feel quite intense for you, going by the way you writhe and flail under his grip. Still, despite that, his mouth is going to stay glued to your cunt, and his fingers will remain inside of you for as long as he wants them to. Your only job is to take all he gives to you. Besides, overloading you with the maddening sensation is what will ultimately bring you closer to him, no? That’s how it works — in his mind, anyway.
Experimenting
Another thing about him is that unlike some of his alternatives, he likes to experiment quite a bit in the bedroom. Sure, he has a few things he’s particularly fond of and won’t compromise on, but other than those, he’s intrigued by all kinds of diverse things, and with time, he would like to try each one at least once. It keeps things interesting and you on your toes.
One day, he might present you with a coil of golden rope. When you ask him about it, he claims that oh, yeah, well, he took a trip to the city and thought that it looked nice, before suggesting that he could tie you up immediately after. It’s not even a question, though, because in a few minutes, you’ll be bound on the bed with your arms above your head and your thighs flush against your calves. He climbs on top of you with a way-too-exhilarated, loving smile before diving face first into your cunt.
He delves into the fascinating world of toys as well. Whatever Okhema has to offer, you can be sure that he’s going to bring it home. With you already secured against the mattress, the rope adorning your limbs, he pulls something out of the bedside drawer and brings it to your face. It’s a deep blue, phallic-shaped crystal around the size of... well. He excitedly tells you where he got it: Yeah, he hasn’t exactly used one of these before, but Cipher told him that ”the chick you have in the ruins would probably like it”, and so, he got it for you! And look, it also does this! He flicks the toy with his finger, and the rock whirs to life, vibrating. Throwing it in the air a couple of times in an idle manner, he redirects his attention towards you.
”Alright”, he hums determinedly as he gets in the bed beside you, settling on your side with a smile and a much-too-obvious bulge in his pants. Even as you yell at him to stop whatever he’s about to do, he proceeds to drag the crystal over your lower stomach for a bit, giving you a small taste of the feeling. Then, after a few moments, he gently splits your folds with the tip and presses it right against your clit. Judging from how your thighs clamp shut around it and how you throw your head back, his fellow Chrysos Heir was correct.
Then, finally, let him stick his cock in your ass, will you? “No”? Okay, what about his fingers? The toys? Come on, he’s sure that he can make it feel good for you. It’s really close to your cunt, and knowing even a little bit of the female body, it should be given that it’s quite a sensitive area. He promises he’ll be careful with it! Besides, he already eats your ass whenever you’re not kicking at him too much, and you always squeal out when he does that, so-, you throw a chair at him.
Huh, the rope really is handy, he thinks as he pulls the thing taut, securing your legs to the bedposts. With you unable to resist, he leans down to your bits, lubes his fingers up in his mouth before aligning them with your rear hole. You yelp and whine against the make-shift gag he fashioned out of his thigh strap, but there’s nothing much you can do against him when he sets his mind on something. With a determined huff, he presses two of his digits against your ass, carefully breaching the entrance. Simultaneously, his other hand comes up to your clit and rubs it in a slow, calming motion, as if trying to soothe your worries. It does nothing to placate you, however, and you put up so much resistance that he has to climb on top of you and hold your hips down with his weight. Still, the reactions your body grants him seem to be to his liking, and you have a creeping feeling that this is not the only time he’ll end up using his newly discovered trick.
˗ˏˋ ★ 13. Punishment: What do their sexual punishments look like? What methods do they prefer?
If you asked him about it before it happened, he would swear up and down that he would never use sex as a means for punishment. That promise holds for about as long as you don’t drive him over the limit — which, admittedly, requires quite a lot — but once it has been crossed, punishment sex becomes something akin to a routine, almost.
He’s a tolerant person — at least in the sense that it’s difficult to truly anger him to the point where he needs to put conscious effort into suppressing his nastier side. He knows that if he were to unleash his wrath upon you, he would not only risk the chance of having no darling afterwards, and the possibility that you might, with a considerable likelihood, never recover or forgive him for what he did. However, it’s bound to happen sooner or later: You have a habit of trying his patience with your spite, and as much as he would like to say that it doesn’t affect him, it very much does. So, after you poke the wasp’s nest with long enough of a stick, it’s really no wonder that he snaps.
The thing about his sexual punishments is the unfortunate fact that his other form comes out nearly every time. After all, his powers are driven by Destruction; born of aggression, wrath and recklessness. As much as he loves you and wants to keep you as happy as possible, you sometimes tickle the part of him that he would like to keep as hidden from you as possible.
Maybe you’ve been particularly resistant and snide with him, rejecting his touches, locking yourself in the bathroom, trying to escape. His usual, lesser punishments aren’t working, and even after he has been holding you down in his lap for the best part of an hour, you still haven’t given up on trying to sink your nails and teeth into any part of him that’s available. He gives you a good few warnings, letting you know that his patience is wearing thin, but you simply won’t give up the fight.
Though, when a strange scent hits your nose, you pause your struggling. Tilting your head up to look at him, bewildered, you come to find that he’s staring right back at you with wide eyes and a terrifyingly blank expression. In the span of a single moment, the ocean blue of his eyes morphs into striking yellow, his hair grows more dishevelled and warmer in tone, and most alarmingly, large, wing-like structures seem to be spreading out of his back.
He slams you down on the bed, on your stomach, with so much force that you fear for yourself as much as for the bedframe. In the split second you squeeze your eyes shut for, he has climbed on top of you, straddling your form with you pinned underneath him like a nymph on a board. The air seems to have grown warmer around you, charged with the very same, spine-tingling energy that comes out at his worst moments. Without a warning, one of his hands comes down on your head, smushing your face against the mattress without much of a care for your comfort. Any and all complaints you may have had before die on your tongue as he warns you in a deep, chilling voice: “Don’t move.”
Your bottoms are ripped off of you. Your yelp is muffled by the sheets, and the hand on the back of your neck is unbudgeable, but even then, you make an attempt to push yourself up. He doesn’t take the act of defiance kindly: Yanking both of your arms behind your back, he constrains you in a nearly painful position. You wail out at the stress, trying to strain your neck to look at him and hopefully evoke even a bit of sympathy in him with your eyes. It’s difficult to see him with how you’re situated, but despite that, you’re able to catch a tiny glimpse of how sharp, golden cracks line his now bare chest. It’s like you’re with an entirely different man. Rather than dwelling on the matter, though, you’re much more focused on how something is poking against your cunt.
His dick starts pushing into you. With horror, you realize that the shape doesn’t match his normal one: The tip feels to be an unantural shape, and as he attempts going deeper, your cunt resists him more than usual — he’s much bigger. Nonetheless, he doesn’t seem to be the least bit bothered by it, and in a leisurely thrust, you feel every single rib and curve of his cock as it sinks into you with a squelch. The sensation is painful, almost, and your lower stomach fills with scorching warmth. Bordering the line of hysteria, you start pleading with him, promising to behave, but your olive branch is met with a clawed hand digging into your scalp. ”Shut up”, he hisses in a low, harsh tone.
With that, he starts fucking into you with fervour you have never seen from him before. He didn’t prep you a single bit, and the stretch burns in your lower half, hitting places so deep that you didn’t even know they could be touched. If the moment wasn’t already intense enough, there’s something about his presence that induces a fervent sense of panic in you: No matter how you try to talk to him, your words are met with him pushing you further against the bed with an unforgiving grip, all the while he repeatedly spears you on his cock. At some point, you start sobbing out your distress, but he doesn’t seem to be the least bit concerned with your pain. It’s not meant to feel good, he makes known to you with his actions alone.
The torment continues on and on, all the way until he gets his fill. By then, you’ve been lying limp on the bed for a good while, barely responsive. Even as he pulls out, the searing heat of him doesn’t leave you. Though, he seems to have had enough for the time being: His wings sizzle up into thin air, the cracks in his upper body seal shut, and as he leans down against your trembling form, you notice that he has gone back to his original form. Distantly, you hear the way he starts frantically apologising for his actions, telling you how sorry he is, sounding like he himself is about to burst into tears, but in your worn mind, you can hardly make sense of his words. It’s not long until you give into the insistent pull of slumber.
He’s in quite a bad state afterwards, ironically. While it was his own fault, he battles with guilt so overbearing that he wonders if he should burn the entire planet down right then and there. He takes in the sight of you, resting still with dried tears on your face and bright red marks all over your body; the view makes him sick to his stomach. In that very moment, he promises himself that you’ll never get to see this side of him again, but you can be certain that the vow only holds as long as you don’t manage to tick him off — which, alas, isn’t for that long.
˗ˏˋ ★ 14. Aftermath: What does their aftercare look like? Is there any?
It’s very important to him. After all, the only condition he has for taking you to his pleasure-hued purgatory and back is that he does his utmost to take care of you afterwards. In his philosophy, the more intense the sex, the more thorough the aftercare should be, but the only issue he faces with it is that the sessions are always beyond intense for you. Whether it was a mere few rounds of missionary, or if he lost his cool and channeled his inner Nanook again, you’re not going to be able to move much when he’s done.
First off, he takes a moment to come down from his high. He leans down against you and tenderly cradles your head to his chest, planting kisses in your hair in between his ragged breaths. He whispers out varying things, ranging from ”you did so well” to ”don’t cry, please don’t cry”, depending on what sort of a state you’re in. Occasionally, if you’re in a particularly bad condition, the tristesse tends to hit him quite hard, and so you won’t get his hands off of you in a good while. He needs his cuddles, both for your and his sake: If you weren’t so insistent on taking a bath, he would fall asleep right then and there.
The bath in question is a must-do: Both of you are covered in sweat, his marks litter the entire upper part of your body, and every last one of your muscles ache from the toil. He usually has to carry you to the bathroom himself and sit you down in the tub since you don’t tend to move around much after having to tolerate his ardour. Still, he insists on the act: It doesn’t matter if you’re still sniffling — you yourself said that you can’t possibly go to bed covered all dirty, didn’t you? So, with great care, he washes you all over, rubbing his hands along your shoulders in comforting motions, brushing his fingers through your hair, and soaking in the pleasantly warm water with you. Though, be careful, because if you don’t look pitiful enough, he might attempt to go for another round.
Finally, sex with him has to end with sleep. It doesn’t matter whether it’s in the middle of the day or past your bedtime, you’re going to sleep. It’s like he doesn’t even consider the alternatives: It’s either overnight or a nap, there are no other options. He hoists you back into the bedroom from the bath and plops you down on the freshly changed sheets. Any and all of your complaints and suggestions are met with a gentle smile and an insistent arm around your waist. As usual, there’s no escaping from his grasp, and truth to be told, sleep sounds like a preferable plan to you after what he made you go through. For as long as he has the will to remain awake himself, he plays with the baby hairs on the nape of your neck and scratches your lower back in pleasant, unhurried circles. He holds your head against his heart where you can hear the steady beat, and within minutes, the sound is enough to lull you into a temporary sense of security.
Honestly speaking, the entire thing is a sort of a calming-down ritual for him. As mentioned, he tends to go overboard with sex more often than he would like to admit, and so, the aftercare is more or less convincing himself that he didn’t hurt you that bad and that you’re alright, you were just a bit scared. He deludes himself into thinking that he wasn’t all that rough and that it felt really good for you (which he, frankly, makes sure of), and so, the cycle repeats as many times as his lower half desires.
For the aforementioned reason, you also get a plethora of apologies from him as he holds you. In a hushed tone, as you’re already half-asleep, he mutters hushed strings of ”sorry-sorry-sorry” into the crown of your head, promising not to go that hard on you ever again, telling you that ”he understands if you hate him”, and so on. He gets a bit cynical, putting up a small pity-party for himself, and the worse your state is, the more dramatic he gets. His emotions are quite messy, for the lack of a better word. Though, as he gently scrapes his nails against the back of your head, it’s good for you to remember that at least he takes care of you in general.
˗ˏˋ ★ 15. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes sex-wise? Are there any unique aspects to them?
If he’s pent up enough, everything becomes about sex to him. It’s like he uses the carnal as a solution to every small problem you might present to him. ”It’s chilly?” Alright, let’s warm you up then, he claims as he unzips his trousers. You’re mad or frustrated at something? Okay, let’s finger that one out of you. You’re hungry? Hey, he knows, he has something better than food that he can fill your insides with!
It gets beyond ridiculous. Though, compared to his usual habits of wanting to touch you at every possible moment of the day, it’s really no wonder that it would extend to this side of him as well. You could be in the least sexual situation possible, and he could come up behind you, grab you by the waist and bring you to the bed, and it’s just another ride from there. Due to his drive, he needs quite a lot to keep himself satisfied in the long run, so an occurrence like that is more common than you would like for it to be.
Though, let it be mentioned that sex is also a somewhat good way to get him to give what you want. For example, if he’s in the mood but you’re particularly resistant, he might cave in and promise to take you to Okhema tomorrow night, if you just let him have you for a bit, please? As is with his vows usually, he makes sure not to disappoint you, too.
Then, unlike some of his peers, he’s actually incredibly concerned about how certain things feel to you. Note that it’s only in his twisted logic, though: He will absolutely do all kinds of things that feel bad to you — that hurt you, even — but he tries to do them in a way that’s not as distressing to you as they could be. Yes, he grabs you by the neck and holds you in somewhat unpleasant positions, but he takes care to make sure that you’re getting enough air, that nothing is breaking or tearing, and that he doesn’t leave any lasting scars. You’re way too pretty to be ruined by something like that! Moreover, as he’s inflicting pain on you, he makes sure to rub your clit, to suck on your nipples, to caress every available inch of you in an attempt to steer your mind away from the bad things. Yes, yes, his dick is splitting you apart, but here, doesn’t that feel nice? Just focus on that and let him do his thing.
Oftentimes, after a particularly rough time, he might squeeze in an extra round of sex in favour of leading you down from the harsher world and back into his gentle arms. It usually consists of him fingering you or eating you out at a leisurely pace: He makes sure to hit all of your best spots (he knows them by heart!), to stroke his hands along your thighs while he plants sloppy kisses along the side of your thighs or your face and your ear. It’s a bit of a challenge for him not to get excited all over again, but since it’s for your sake, he restrains himself. He takes pride in being an attentive partner, after all.
He’s going to be a little offended if you refuse the bonus round, as he calls it, though. It’s supposed to be the bridge that connects the rough and the nice, so he doesn’t quite understand why you would reject him. He would hate for you to think that he doesn’t care for you! Though, after a risible amount of whining, he usually gets his way with this matter as well. You’re playing a losing game.
Finally, as a smaller detail, he’s not that much keen on getting his dick in your mouth. Of course, if you were to ask for it yourself, he wouldn’t say no (he’s extremely desperate), but in general, he doesn’t really get a kick out of it. It doesn’t feel as intimate as being inside of you does, and besides, it’s a little difficult to make you feel good that way! He almost feels guilty at the idea of receiving pleasure from you while you’re not getting any. It’s in his people-pleasing nature — though, something like sixty-nine is obviously on the table. It’s just that you’re usually unable to hold it for long since he tends to get really passionate about devouring you. It’s like he sets it as his goal to get you so spent that you can’t even suck his dick anymore, and only then he’ll deem the act a success. It’s an odd set of rules that he plays by.
A/N
I hope you had a good read! (づ｡◕‿◕｡)づ
This one was kind of heavy in dialogue, now that I look at it. Originally, my idea was that the profiles wouldn't have too much "live" scenarios, but alas, I've been driven in that direction. I don't actually mind it that much now that I've been going that route, plus with some characters (the professional yappers like Aventurine, Boothill, Argenti and such), dialogue and their manner of speech is an important tool in conveying all their quirks and whatnot, in my humble opinion. Plus, I myself like reading the live stuff more than passive language, and I hope it's that way for the majority of you ( ¯ ³¯)
I took quite a few creative liberties here, as you might have noticed. Truthfully, I don't have the slightest idea if he can actually just go back and forth between the regular form and the Karna-from-Fate-looking-ass form, but I made it so that he can. Technically (though I was unable to find anything on this), it's only for when he fucked up a cycle and all, but then again, you know, why he kindaaaaa, so I ended up granting him the ability go in and out at will, sort of. Even though he's out, there's so much we don't know about him yet. How nice of Hoyo to leave the diabolical cliffhanger at the end of the 3.4 quest.
We'll see if this profile loses its canon-accuracy when the next patch rolls around. I'm glad I waited until his release to write this piece; I'm not sure what I would've done if I had the profile ready and then got hit by the simulation plot immediately after. For the same reason, there's no mention of Cyrene in this one because I don't know if her ass will be resurrected or not :skull: Then again, if Phai gets an earth-shattering character arc that changes his lore forever, it only opens a window for a profile part II, but we'll see, we'll see. For the next profile, you can expect Anaxa, AE-Sunny, Argenti or Ratio, I'm not quite sure yet. Stay tuned!
And also, taglist, yippee! Comment or send an ask to be added, either one is alright (ㅅ´ ˘ `)
