Those TikTok videos of girls ragebaiting their's boyfriends with stupid questions got me giggling at the idea of asking those same questions to Ren/[Redacted] to pretend to be mad at them, although they remind me of a wet puppy when he is sad.
From "Would you love me if I were a worm?" to "Do you love me because you think I'm pretty, or I am pretty because you love me? or "Would you rather have never met me or cheat on me right now?"
Oh to ragebait this man at 1am on a random Wednesday.
āā„ā Sorry to say, he'd probably be hard to ragebait jdhsgjh
Ren would somehow have all the "right" answers to Angel's questions ("I'd still love you if you were a worm! I could keep you in my pocket and always have you with me!", "I love you for you, and I think you're pretty. You're the reason two truths can exist at the same time!", "I'd rather never to have met you if it meant I could fall in love with you for the first time all over again", etc.)
[REDACTED] would ragebait you back lmao ("If I asked to go through your phone right now, would you let me?", "If I died, how long would it take for you to move on and be in a relationship with someone new?", "Would you rather kiss the hottest person in the world for a billion dollars or kiss me for free?", "If I had a twin, would you find them attractive?")
Unrequited love is a quiet kind of agonyāuntil a twenty credit worth antique twig promises to fix it. You makes your wish: Make him love me. It works, but not without a catch. Life is full of surprises, after all.
fanart by @/ieririr on x
Pairing: Phainon / Reader
Word count: 13934
Contents: inspired by Obsession (yikes), yandere! Phainon, toxic co-dependency, mentions of suicide and self-harm, psychological horror, guilt, animal death, murder, coercion, dubcon, unprotected sex, missionary, extremely unsettling behaviour from Mr. Aedes Elysiae
... .- ...- . / -- .
I. The Weight Of Unsaid Words
The fluorescent lights of the video and record rental shop hummed with a low, steady vibration that you had long since learned to tune out. It was a Tuesday afternoon, slow and quiet, the kind of day where time seemed to stretch out like warm vinyl.
You stood behind the counter, holding a stack of returned indie films, but your eyes kept straying to the glass front doors. Every time the brass bell above the threshold chimed, your heart did a brief, involuntary leapāonly to settle back down into a dull ache when it turned out to be a casual customer or a lost tourist.
You were waiting for Phainon.
You had been waiting for Phainon, in one way or another, for nearly eight months.
It was absurd, really. You worked together twice a week. You shared the same circle of friends. You spent hours sitting in cramped booth seats at the late-night diner down the street, nursing lukewarm coffee while Mydei babbled on about music theory or local drama. Yet, whenever Phainon entered the room, you felt like a novice diver standing at the edge of a high cliff, terrified of taking the plunge.
"You're doing that thing again," a voice called out from the back aisles.
You blink, pulling your attention back to the stack of cases in your hands. Cyrene emerged from Row four, balancing a box of newly cataloged foreign films against her hip. She threw you a knowing, sympathetic look.
"What thing?" You asked, attempting a tone of total innocence as you began sliding the cases onto the display rack.
"The staring-at-the-door-like-a-victorian-heroine-waiting-for-her-sailor thing," she said, setting the box down on the counter with a thud. "Heās thirty minutes late for his shift, [Name]. He probably got caught up with his designs, again. You know how he gets."
"I wasn't staring," you murmured, though your cheeks warmed instantly. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, focusing intently on organizing the plastic cases by genre. "I was just... checking the time."
"Right. And the clock is conveniently mounted right next to the front door," Cyrene teased, leaning her elbows on the counter. Her expression softened. "Why don't you just tell him?"
You froze, your fingers resting on a worn copy of a French drama. "Tell him what?"
"Oh, come on. 'Phainon, I think you're incredible. Phainon, I've had a massive crush on you since the day you showed up to practice with grease on your chin and played the most beautiful melody I've ever heard.' Something like that."
"It wasn't grease, it was bike chain lube," you corrected automatically. She let out a soft, defeated sigh and sat down on the high stool behind the register. "And I can't just tell him, Cyrene. You know how he is. Heās... guarded. He keeps everyone at a subtle distance, even Mydei, sometimes. If I say something and he doesn't feel the same way, I lose everything. I lose the friendship, the quiet afternoons here, the way he looks up and smiles when I walk into the room."
"Or," Cyrene countered gently, "you win everything. Have you considered that? The guy looks at you like you hung the moon, [Name]. I watch him when you aren't paying attention."
You shook your head, a familiar wave of self-doubt washing over you. "That's just how he is. He's polite. He's a gentle person. He treats everyone with this quiet reverence... well, except when he's arguing with De about... which of them has the bigger biceps."
You reached down, your thumb absentmindedly tracing the smooth, dark surface of the disc.
"Besides," you added softly, looking down at your hands, "I don't even know how to bring it up. Whenever I try to steer the conversation into something more... personal, my mind goes completely blank. I get so guarded. I end up talking about movies or asking about his dog."
"Snowy," Cyrene smiled. "How is the little monster, anyway?"
"Phainon said heās been acting strange lately. Eating weird things, hiding under the sink. He said he was going to set out some pest traps because he noticed rats, but heās been so stressed with his final design portfolio that I worry heās forgetting to take care of himself."
Before she could reply, the bell above the front door chimed sharp and clear.
Your head snapped up.
Phainon walked in, brushing a damp strand of dark hair from his eyes. He was wearing his usual faded jacket over a charcoal sweater, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He looked exhaustedādark circles smudged beneath his sharp, expressive eyesābut the moment his gaze met yours, the tension in his shoulders visibly melted.
"Sorry I'm late," Phainon said, his voice carrying that familiar, low, resonant timbre that made your pulse flutter. He walked over to the counter, setting his bag down on the wooden surface. "Traffic near the campus was an absolute nightmare, and Mydei took twenty minutes just to choose a sandwich at the deli."
"It's fine," you said, offering him a warm, soft smile. "Cyrene was just keeping me company."
"I was actually just leaving," Cyrene said with a dramatic wave of her hand, grabbing her shoulder bag from behind the register. She flashed you a subtle, deliberate wink before turning to Phainon. "Don't let her work too hard, Phainon. Sheās been re-sorting the foreign section for an hour just to keep busy."
"I'll take over," Phainon promised, giving her a small, polite nod as she headed out the door.
Once the bell chimed again, a comfortable, heavy quiet fell over the shop. Phainon stepped behind the counter, hanging his jacket on the wooden hook by the back room door.
You watched him out of the corner of your eye. Every detail of his presence was intoxicating to youāthe faint scent of rain and cedar that followed him, the careful, deliberate way he moved, the slight furrows in his brow when he was lost in thought. You wanted so desperately to reach out, to smooth those lines away, to tell him that he didn't have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"How was your morning?" Phainon asked, pulling a stack of return logs toward himself.
"Quiet," you replied, leaning your side against the counter so you could face him. "Not many people coming in on a rainy Tuesday. Did you finish your rendering for the project?"
Phainon groaned softly, resting his forehead against his palm for a brief second. "Barely. My professor gave me a hard time about the structural proportions of the entryway. I stayed up until four in the morning redesigning the entire facade. It's still shit."
"You work too hard, Phainon," you say, your voice dropping into a tone of soft, genuine concern. "You need to rest. When was the last time you had a full night's sleep?"
He looked down at you, his eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, intense focus that made your throat catch. "I sleep fine," he murmured. Then, a rare, playful smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Though I'd sleep better if Mydei stopped calling me at two in the morning to pitch lyrics that sound like they were written by an angsty middle schooler."
You laughedāa bright, genuine sound that seemed to light up the dim corners of the shop. Phainonās gaze lingered on your face, watching the way your eyes crinkled, his expression softening into something so tender it made your breath hitch.
Say it, a voice whispered inside your head. Tell him right now. Tell him you want to be the one he calls at two in the morning. Tell him you love him.
You swallowed hard, opening your mouth to speak, but the courage vanished as quickly as it had come. The fear of ruining thisāthis perfect, fragile closenessāparalyzed you.
Instead, you gestured to the record racks. "Are you... fine being on your own later? I'd like to leave a little earlier, too. I've got... stuff."
"Yeah," Phainon said, his tone shifting back to its usual measured composure.
For the next two hours, you worked side by side in a harmony built on months of shared routines. You organized tapes, chatted about trivial things, and laughed over absurd movie plot summaries. To anyone looking through the shop window, you looked like two people completely in sync.
But beneath the surface, you were drowning in everything you couldn't say.
You looked at him while he reached up to place a tape on the top shelf, noticing the slight strain of his muscles beneath his sweater. You wanted to hold his hand. You wanted to rest your head on his shoulder. You wanted him to look at you, not just as a reliable coworker or a sweet friend, but as the only person he wanted.
Tomorrow, you promised yourself, clutching your skirt until the edges pressed firmly into your palm. Tomorrow, I'm going to tell him.
..Ā /Ā --Ā /Ā ...Ā ---Ā .-.Ā .-.Ā -.--
II: A Gift of Dust and Promises
The rain had settled into a steady, persistent drizzle by the time you had left. The streets downtown glistened under the amber streetlights, reflecting the neon signs of the late-night stalls and old bookstores like smeared watercolors.
You pulled your coat collar tighter around your neck as you walked down the cobblestone side street. Your mind was racing, your thoughts caught in a dizzying loop of anticipation and nervous energy. Tonight was supposed to be the night. You had spent the last two hours at the register rehearsing a simple, honest confession over and over in your head until the words lost all meaning.
āPhainon, I like you. Iāve liked you for a long time.ā
It sounded too plain.
āPhainon, youāre the most important person in my life, and I want to be more than just your friend.ā
It felt too dramatic.
You let out a breathy sigh, a pale cloud of vapor rising into the cool air. He likes simple things, you reminded yourself. Directness. Authenticity.
Hence, you opted to navigate the narrow (and creepy) alleys instead of heading straight home. Phainon had a quiet, almost childlike fascination with old thingsātactile remnants of the past that held history within their grain. His apartment was filled with vintage brass compasses, mid-century architectural blueprints, and worn leather-bound notebooks.
If you were going to tell him how you felt, you wanted to ground the moment. You wanted to give him something meaningfulāa token to anchor the memory, to show him that you truly paid attention to the quiet details of his life.
At the end of a dimly lit alley, tucked between a closed tailor shop and a shuttered bakery, sat Mire & Memory: Antiquities & Curios. It was an obscure, unmarked antique store you had passed a dozen times but never actually entered. Warm, dim light spilled from its dusty bay windows, illuminating shelves packed with bizarre glass bottles, stacks of parchment, and tarnished silver frames.
You pushed open the heavy wooden door. A brass bell overhead gave a dull, metallic clink, and the sharp scent of cedar, dried lavender, and aged paper immediately wrapped around you.
"We're closing in ten minutes," a dry voice echoed from behind a high wooden counter near the back.
You looked over. Sitting on a tall stool was an older woman with sharp, observant lavender eyes and brown hair swept under a huge hat. She was polishing a small bronze pocket watch with a velvet cloth, her movements deliberate and unhurried.
"I won't take long," you promised politely, offering a gentle smile. "I'm just looking for a small gift. For a friend."
The woman gave a short, imperceptible nod and returned to her watch, leaving you to wander through the labyrinth of crowded narrow aisles.
You browsed slowly, your fingers lightly skimming over the smooth brass surfaces of vintage pocket knives, intricate mechanical gears, and hand-carved wooden chess pieces. Everything was beautiful, but nothing felt right. A fountain pen felt too formal; an antique magnifying glass felt too novelty.
You turned into the rearmost corner of the shop, where the shadows hung heavier and the air felt curiously still. On a velvet-lined display shelf resting beneath a glass dome, something caught your eyeānot because it was grand, but because of how starkly simple it was.
It was a small, minimalist box made of smooth, unpainted white paperboard. It sat entirely alone on the shelf, completely out of place among the ornate brass and dark mahogany surrounding it.
Curious, you reached out and carefully lifted the glass dome. You picked up the box, turning it over in your hands. Printed on the front in thin, charcoal-gray typography was a single phrase:
ONE WISH WILLOW
Break with intention. One use only.
Wishes do come true. Be careful what you ask for.
You let out a quiet, breathy laugh. A wishbone made of wood. It was absurdly poeticāthe exact kind of whimsical, slightly melancholic oddity that Phainon would find fascinating. He would probably place it on his desk next to his architecture sketches, wondering what to wish for every time he looked at it, and in extension he would think of you.
You slid open the top cover. Inside, resting on a bed of dark green velvet, was a single, thin willow twig. It was pale, delicate, and looked utterly fragile, as if a single press of a thumb could snap it into dust.
"I wouldn't linger on that one," a voice spoke softly from right beside you.
You nearly jumped, holding the box close to your chest. The shopkeeper had moved with impossible quietness, now standing at the end of the aisle, her sharp eyes resting heavily on the box in your hands.
"Oh," you said, steadying your breath. "Is it an antique? It looks... remarkably modern compared to everything else."
"It isn't modern," the shopkeeper replied, her tone flat and measured. "It's old stock. Older than this building. People buy things like that thinking it's a game or a clever conversation starter for a coffee table."
"And isn't it?" You asked with a faint, amused smile.
"A wish isn't a game," the woman said, stepping closer. The dim overhead light cast long, dramatic shadows across her face. "Intent is a dangerous force when given a physical form to break. Most people who buy those come back eventually, looking for a way to mend the wood."
You looked down at the delicate twig resting against the dark velvet. The shopkeeper's dramatic warnings felt like part of the store's theatrical charm, but there was a quiet, chilling sincerity in the woman's eyes that made your throat go dry.
"I'm not buying it to use it," you say softly, your thumb tracing the clean edge of the box. "It's a gift for someone special. He appreciates... unusual things."
"Someone special," the shopkeeper repeated, her gaze narrowing slightly. "A man?"
You felt a faint warmth climb up your neck. You nodded slowly. "A friend."
The shopkeeper stayed silent for a long moment, watching you with a look that felt less like suspicion and more like deep, weary pity.
"Twenty credits," the woman said abruptly, turning her back and walking toward the register. "Consider it a fee for curiosity. There won't be any refunds."
You blinked, surprised by the sudden transaction. The shopkeeper wrapped the box in a layer of brown butcher paper, tying it with a simple piece of jute twine.
You hesitated. It was absurd. It was superstitious nonsense. You believed you were a rational archivist, and you spent your days indexing factual historical data. Magic twigs in velvet boxes did not alter human emotion.
Yet, as you remembered Phainonās polite, distant smile from earlier that afternoonāthe agonizing distance that separated you even when you stood inches apartāyour hand moved to your coat pocket for your wallet.
"I'll take it," you whispered.
"Remember," the woman said softly, sliding the package across the counter. Her voice lowered to a harsh, quiet whisper. "Desire makes people foolish. If you ever break that twig, make sure you are prepared to live with the exact words you utter. The universe has a cruel sense of humor when fulfilling a desperate heart."
..Ā /Ā --Ā /Ā ...Ā ---Ā .-.Ā .-.Ā -.--
The rain drummed heavily against the glass of your apartment windows. The flat was quiet, lit only by the soft orange glow of a floor lamp in the corner.
You sat on the edge of your bed, the lacquered box open on the table beside you. The willow twig was in it. After the ominous warnings, and your insomnia blurring your head, you felt it unsafe to gift Phainon such a thing. You could try using it, just to conclude it's genuine.
You simply wanted to satisfy your own burning curiosity.
You picked it up. The wood was coldācolder than the ambient temperature of the roomāand surprisingly heavy for its size. Its texture was slick and unnaturally smooth, free of any natural grain or bark imperfection.
"This is ridiculous," you murmured into the empty room. "I am a twenty-four-year-old adult sitting in my living room holding a stick."
You made a move to toss it back into the box, but stopped.
Phainonās face flashed in your mind. His calm, pale eyes. The quiet precision of his voice. The maddening barrier of his absolute self-control. What if you didn't have to spend years waiting for him to notice you? What if you could just... melt the ice?
You squeezed your eyes shut. You brought the white willow twig up between your thumbs and forefingers.
You pictured Phainon clearly in your mind: standing under the soft warm light of the archive lamp, looking at you not as a quiet colleague or a pleasant acquaintance, but with affection. Love. You wanted to be his priority. You wanted him to love you.
"I wish Phainon loved me more than anything else in existence," you mumble, your pulse hammering in your throat.
You applied pressure.
CRACK.
The snap was loudāfar louder than a twig of that size should have produced. It sounded like a sharp whip crack echoing through the small apartment.
A sudden blast of frigid air swept through the closed living room, causing the flame of the corner lamp to flicker violently. For a split second, you felt a bizarre sensation of weightlessness, as if the air had been vacuumed out of your lungs.
Then, silence returned.
The rain continued to hit the windowpanes. The lamp flickered back to a steady burn.
In your hands, the willow twig was broken cleanly into two jagged halves. The wood inside was strangely dark, almost charcoal-black at the point of the fracture.
You sat frozen for a long moment, waiting for... something. A sign? A revelation?
Nothing happened.
You let out a long breath, a self-deprecating laugh escaping your lips. "Stupid. Absolute scam."
You tossed the two broken pieces into the trash bin beneath your bed, shut off the lamp, and went to bed, thoroughly embarrassed by your own desperation.
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-
III: The Unraveling
The next afternoon, you arrived at the shop ten minutes earlier than your shift. The morning air was crisp, and the sky had cleared into a pale, brilliant blue.
Phainon was already there.
He wasn't working. He wasn't sorting the discs or checking the morning delivery. He was simply standing beside the door, his hands clasped loosely together, staring intently at the empty space where you usually sat.
"Phainon?" you call, startled as you hung your coat on the rack. "You're early today. Is there an issue with the morning delivery?"
Phainon turned.
The moment his eyes locked onto you, you felt a strange, electric shiver run down your spine. His expression wasn't his usual serene, polite mask. His eyes were wide, unnervingly focused, his pale irises bright and sharp.
"No issue," Phainon said. His voice was lower than usual, carrying a subtle, breathless cadence. "I just... I couldn't stay at home this morning."
"Why? Did your heating go out again?" You asked, walking over to the desk and setting down your bag.
Phainon didn't step back to give you space as he usually did. Instead, he remained standing right beside your chair, his gaze following your every movement with absolute, unwavering tracking.
"No," he said softly, his eyes sweeping over your face, taking in your eyes, your lips, the movement of your breath. "I woke up at four in the morning, [Name]. And the only thought in my mind... the only thing that felt real... was that I needed to see you."
You looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of a joke or teasing. But Phainonās face was entirely severe. There was no amusement in his eyesāonly an intense, singular focus that made the air between you feel terrifyingly thick.
"Phainon... are you feeling alright?" You whispered, your heart beginning to pound against your ribs.
"I have never felt more clear," Phainon replied. He took a single step closer, closing the distance between you until his knees brushed against the side of the desk. He reached out slowly, his fingers hesitating in the air before gently, reverently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
His fingertips were cold, but his breath was warm against your skin.
"I thought about calling you this morning," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a magnetism that made you forget how to breathe. "I thought about walking to your apartment in the rain just to see you. Then, I remembered you'd come to work today."
Your head reeled. A heady mixture of disbelief, wild euphoria, and a faint, subtle prick of fear rose in your chest.
"Phainon," you stammered, your voice trembling slightly. "You... you've never spoken to me like this before."
"I know," Phainon admitted softly, his thumb lightly stroking your cheekbone. The gesture was tender, but his grip on himself seemed remarkably fragile, like a dam holding back a violent flood. "I was blind before. I wasted so many months treating you like background music in my life. But when I woke up today... it was as if a veil had been torn away. You are the only thing that matters, [Name]. Everything else is just noise."
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-
The transition from Phainonās quiet admiration to complete, total fixation did not take months or weeksāit took less than forty-eight hours.
Phainon was everywhere. When you stepped out of your apartment building at eight in the morning, having skipped breakfast to catch a train to your college, he was already waiting on the sidewalk, holding a cup of coffee, wrapped in his dark wool overcoat against the morning chill.
"You didn't need to stand out here in the cold," you told him on the third morning, wrapping your scarf tighter around your neck.
"I didn't mind," Phainon said smoothly, taking your satchel from your shoulder without asking and slinging it over his own. His pale eyes searched your face with a quiet, hungry focus. "The apartment felt hollow after five. Waiting here is the only part of my morning that feels real."
You smiled, brushing your shoulder against his as you walked toward the train. "You slept poorly?"
"Not well," Phainon admitted, his gaze drifting from the cobblestones to the side of your face with a steady, unblinking intensity. "But it doesn't matter much anymore. Exhaustion is a small price to pay for a proper start to the day."
You shook your head, a soft, amused sigh escaping your lips. "You're melodramatic, you know that?"
"How about this? I know what it feels to spend most time counting down the hours until I see someone again," he replied smoothly, stepping closer so his shoulder brushed yours with every synchronized stride.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint, metallic scent of the approaching autumn and the rich aroma of the roasted coffee beans from the corner shop he frequented. As you reached the bustling station platform, the rhythmic clatter of the incoming commuter train drowned out the morning chatter of students and office workers.
Phainon guided you gently by the elbowāa polite, habitual gesture by nowāsteering you away from the edge of the platform toward a pair of surprisingly vacant seats near the center carriage. His fingers lingered against yours for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he pulled away to take the seat beside you.
"What are your plans for the afternoon?" he asked, resting his chin on his knuckles as he watched you take a sip. "Your schedule usually frees up by two, doesn't it?"
"It does," you said, glancing over with a raised eyebrow. "Are you planning to wait outside my lecture hall with a sandwich this time?"
A faint, self-aware smile touched the corners of his mouth, softening the sharp angles of his features. "Only if you forgot to eat lunch. Though... I was actually hoping you might want to visit that bookstore near the station. You mentioned needing a new textbook last week, and I found the registry."
.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-
Cyrene pulled you aside near the breakroom kettle the next week.
"Okay, what happened?" Cyrene whispered, leaning in close. "Did he drink something strange? Did he join a cult? Six days ago, he barely said three words to you without clearing his throat, and now he looks like he'd jump in front of a moving train if you accidentally dropped a pencil in the street."
You stirred your tea, your gaze fixed on the swirling liquid. "He's just showing how he feels, Rene. You were the one telling me he had feelings for me."
"I meant he had a crush, not that he was preparing to commission a marble statue in your likeness!" Cyrene hissed, casting a wary glance toward the open breakroom door as if expecting Phainon to materialize from thin air. "There's normal romantic interest, and then there's whatever... that is. The man memorized your class schedule. I saw him checking a color-coded laminated planner yesterday, and I'm eighty percent sure it was yours."
You stirred your tea again, watching the small whirlpool settle. "It's not laminated," you muttered defensively, though you had to admit the planner detail was a bit much. "He's just thorough."
"He's a golden retriever with the soul of a Victorian poet," Cyrene corrected, crossing her arms. "Just... keep one eye open, okay? Make sure he has hobbies outside of orbiting you."
"He does," you said, though you struggled to name a single one that didn't involve you as of lately.
Cyrene arched a single brow, waiting.
"He... reads," you offered weakly.
"Right. And what does he read? Historical accounts of people who stared at doors until their objects of affection walked through them?" Cyrene sighed, uncrossing her arms and patting your shoulder. "Just set some boundaries, alright? Before you wake up and find out he's legally changed his name to match yours."
Before you could defend him further, the kettle clicked off with a sharp snap, and the door swung open. Phainon stepped inside, his dark coat dusted with a light morning mist, his pale eyes instantly locking onto yours with the absolute gravity of a compass needle finding true north.
"There you are," he murmured, his expression smoothing into a soft, devoted smile the moment he reached your side. "I brought you that pastry from the bakery across the street. The one with the raspberry filling you like."
You glanced sidelong at Cyrene, whose expression was a masterclass in polite disbelief.
"Thanks, Phainon," you said, taking the small white bag. "You really didn't have to."
"It's no trouble," he replied smoothly, already reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. "Nothing is, as long as you're having a good morning."
.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.
Phainon feels like he's drowning.Ā Everything is muddled. It's like he's floating.Ā But he's not.Ā He can feel it. The scream bubbled up in his chest.Ā
Get out. Get out. Get out.
He sees it all through the eyes of another.Ā It's his voice, but it's not. It's not his movements. He couldn't.
He screams inside his head. He pounds harder.Ā He needs to get out.Ā
.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.
IV. The Glass Shatters
Loudly, you gasp and swoop downāfrightening Phainon only a littleāto smooth your hands over his dog's white fur. "Puppy!" you're borderline squealing in glee, and that's a new sight for Phainon, "So big!" You encourage the dog to pounce onto your lap with quick taps against your thighs.
"Snowy," Phainon clarifies (as if you could forget), leaning over your shoulder to scritch under Snowy's chin, grinning when he starts barking in your coddling hold.Ā
"I love you, Snowy," you whisper to the dog, and Phainon sits on the floor beside you after figuring the dog wonāt be moving on from you anytime soon. Youāve been looking forward to this since he'd promised to take you to his place, and somehow all your expectations have been exceeded. "Didnāt know you liked dogs so much, [Name], I wouldāve introduced you sooner."
"He looks like you," you keep your voice low as if raising it could startle the dog off, "And his fur feels so nice."
Phainon feels nauseous. His whole chest is tight with this unpleasant curdle. Quickly, he decides that he hates this feeling and wants it eradicated as soon as possible. Subconsciously, he must believe the solution is you because before he can really think about it, heās lugging you off the floor and towards his room. He lays you on his bed and falls into your side with his dog now locked outside the room. He wanted you to touch him like that. Rather than link his hand with yours like usual, he splays your fingers into his mess of white hair.
Turning your head so your cheek meets the feather plush of his pillow, you find Phainon's eyes boring into yours. You blink at him with your hand limp over the side of his head, "Do you want me to pet you?"
He nods, crimson overtaking his cheeks and sweat beading over his palms. "Okay."
You card your fingers through his hair, gently prying loose knots apart over your knuckles before tenderly dancing your nails along his scalp. He presses his head closer, cheek now smooshed on your shoulder and eyes flickering shut.
Shakily, he raises an arm and lays it across your stomach. You can sense his hesitation in how the weight of his arm is so light it's imperceivable, then you press your hand flat against the back of his head and pet there, too. His arm relaxes, fully settling the weight on your gut.
This feels right. Crushed and warm.
Everything is right in this instance, in this world. But he's not sure he wants to. But not wanting to isn't exactly his job. His job is to make you happy. "Iām going to kiss you."
You go limp in bed and allow Phainon's hands to wander. He sits up and untucks your top before gliding his hands under those and resting over your midriff. He clears his throat and finds a burning sensation at the back of his eyes, he tries blinking the fire away but it only makes the pain worse.
The vicious pain in his chest bites up to his head. "I don't want to..." Phainon's hands peel off from your body to stow in his lap. You shrink into yourself, shoulders coming to your ears as red-hot shame climbs up your neck, "What?"
"This isnāt it," he leans back with his arms outstretched behind him on the mattress. Hotter and hotter the burning grows until it's all wet, stinging heat in his eyes, "Youāre not into itā¦" he looks around his room and tries finding anything out of place (he was sure he made it perfect). The blinds are drawn. His door is locked. He sniffles and looks down, hoping you donāt notice the flooding along his lower lashes.
What if you finally do have sex and realize you never wanted him at all? What good is he doing then?
The statement comes off more monotone than intended, but you read in his everything: the slight twitch of his brow, the light sweat starting to form on his forehead, the way his sight flickers to your neck and eyes for half a millisecond.Ā
You furrow your eyebrows at the way he tilted his head, and the slight anguish painted on his features. "I need you to shut up." He breathes, desperately, but does not relent when your hands dig into his shoulders. "Okay."
.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.
That night, you tried to establish boundaries.
You let him walk you home, but insisted on sleeping at your own apartment alone, refusing his offer to stay the night. Phainon had agreed without argumentāhis absolute devotion meant he complied with your every command, even when it clearly pained him.
"If that is what you wish, [Name]," he had said on your doorstep, his voice strained and hollow. "I will wait outside."
"No, Phainon. Go home to your apartment. Sleep."
"I will try," he said softly.
At 2:00 AM, you woke up with an unsettling prickle of ice along your spine.
The bedroom was silent. The city outside was drenched in a low, gray fog.
You got out of bed, pulling your shirt down to hide your skin from the chill, and crept into the dark living room. You walked over to the bay window that looked out onto the street below.
Standing directly across the street, beneath the amber glow of a flickering streetlight, was Phainon.
He wasn't wearing a coat despite the biting wind and cold drizzle. He stood completely motionless, his hands tucked into his trousers pockets, his face angled upward toward your second-floor window.
He wasn't pacing. He wasn't checking his watch. He was simply standing in the freezing rain, staring up at your darkened glass, waiting for the precise moment you would re-emerge.
You gasp, pulling back behind the curtain, your heart hammering wildly in your chest.
You ran to your front door, unbolted the lock, and threw it open. You sprinted down the two flights of stairs in your socks, burst through the glass front doors of the building, and ran into the empty street.
"Phainon!" you screamed through the cold night air.
He stepped out from under the streetlight, his hair soaked and clinging to his forehead, his skin pale and translucent under the wet light. As soon as he saw you, a soft, beautiful, terribly broken smile appeared on his face.
"You came down," he murmured, walking toward you with quick, eager strides. "I knew you would."
"What are you doing?!" You cry, grabbing his trembling, ice-cold arms. "You've been standing out here in the freezing cold for hours! I told you to go home!"
"I tried," Phainon whispered, looking down at you with pure, unadulterated adoration. "I got to the end of the block, and my body wouldn't move any further. Every step away from you felt like ripping my own flesh open. It was easier to just stay here and look at your window."
"Fine," you choked out, wiping a tear from your cheek. "You can... you can sleep on the couch. But do not come into my bedroom, Phainon. Do you understand me?"
Phainon looked up, his smile returningābright, desperate, and empty. "I understand. I'll stay right there. I won't move an inch."
-.- - .. ... ... / -- .
V: The Anatomy of a Caged Bird
You did not sleep.
You lay in your bed with the bedroom door locked, the duvet pulled up to your chin, listening to the absolute, suffocating silence of the apartment.
Around 4:00 AM, you heard the faint sound of floorboards creaking outside your door.
You sat up instantly, your body locking with terror. You watched the narrow gap at the bottom of your door where the hallway light flickered.
A shadow blocked the light.
Then came a soft, rhythmic sound. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Phainon was pressing his forehead gently against the wooden door panel from the outside.
"[Name]?" his voice drifted through the wood, paper-thin and hauntingly calm. "Are you breathing?"
You held your breath, tears streaming down your face in the dark. What the fuck?
"I can't hear you breathing through the door," Phainon murmured softly. "Please just make a sound. Just let me know you're still alive in there. If something happened to you... I wouldn't have a reason to wake up tomorrow."
"I'm alive, Phainon!" You sobbed out quietly. "Go back to the couch! Please!"
"Thank you," he whispered back, his shadow remaining fixed against the bottom of the door. "I'll stay right here so I can hear you."
You buried your face in your pillows, trying so hard to catch the sleep that had completely evaded you.
-.- - .. ... ... / -- .
You'd asked him to go home the next day. "For Snowy," you tried to negotiate.
He called in an hour or two.
There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. When Phainon finally spoke, his voice didn't sound like his own. It was hollow, flat, and completely devoid of inflection, carrying an eerie, mechanical weight that sent a shiver straight down your spine.
"[Name]," he whispered quietly. "Snowy died."
The words hung in the space between you, heavy and unnatural, bleeding through the speaker of the phone with a strange, muffled resonance.
"[Name]," Phainon repeated, his voice dragging across the syllables like dry paper. "Snowy is dead."
For a long moment, you could only stare at the dark wallpaper of your bedroom, the shock of his behaviour last night instantly colliding with this cold, terrifying piece of news. Your breath hitched, your throat tightening as your mind struggled to bridge the gap between his earlier dismissal to your privacy and this sudden, tragic vulnerability.
"Phainon... what happened?" You asked, your voice trembling, all thoughts of your own humiliation washing away under a wave of sudden, aching concern. "I... I'm so sorry. Was he sick? Did something happen while you were here?"
On the other end, there was a long, suffocating stretch of silence. Phainon stood in the center of his dimly lit apartment, the cool glow of the refrigerator casting long, distorted shadows across the linoleum floor. He stared down at the small paper bag resting at the bottom of the kitchen trash bin.
He didn't tell you about the pest control pellets he had scattered across the baseboards after coming home, entirely consumed by his spiraling thoughts of you. He didn't tell you how he had found the small white dog curled rigidly on the cold bathroom tile, his jaws slightly parted, or how the bitter realization of his own jealousy had hit him with the force of a physical blow. He didn't mention the numbing efficiency with which he had wrapped his small body in a towel and disposed of him, burying his own guilt beneath a rigid wall of silence.
"I... I don't want to talk about it over the phone," Phainon said finally, his tone flattening into something dangerously controlled. "Can you come over? Please. I... I just need someone here."
The vulnerability in his voiceāso rare, so stripped of its usual guarded armorāshattered whatever hesitation you had left. His rejection to have sex with you from a day ago felt like a distant, irrelevant memory.
"I'm coming," you said immediately. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
When you arrived, you let yourself in with the spare key Phainon had given you months agoāa gesture that had once felt like a quiet milestone in your friendship. The apartment was uncharacteristically dark, save for a single lamp glowing dimly in the living room.
Phainon was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. His hair fell forward in disarray. He looked hollowed out, drained of color and energy.
"[Name]," he murmured, not looking up as the front door clicked shut.
You hurried across the room, dropping your bag on the floor, and knelt down right in front of him. Without a second thought, you reached out, gently placing your hands over his cold, rigid fingers.
"Phainon, I am so, so sorry," you whispered, your voice thick with empathy. "I know how much he meant to you. You don't have to go through this alone."
Slowly, Phainon lowered his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were wide, dark, and hyper-focused. There was no grief in themānot the kind you expected, anyway. Instead, there was a raw, burning intensity that made the hairs on the back of your arms stand up. It was a look of absolute, desperate fixation, as if he were a drowning man who had just broken the surface of the water and locked eyes with his only lifeline.
"You came," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.
"Of course I came," you said softly, offering a sympathetic, reassuring smile as you squeezed his hands. "You called, and you're hurting. I'm always going toā"
You didn't get to finish the sentence.
Phainon moved with sudden, startling velocity. He leaned forward, catching you by the back of the neck and the small of your back, pulling you directly against him. Before you could process the movement, his lips crashed against yours.
It wasn't a tentative or gentle kiss born of a mutual, unfolding romance. It was fierce, possessive, and suffocatingly desperateādriven by a manic undercurrent that felt less like affection and more like an anchor thrown into a storm. His fingers tangled frantically in your hair, pressing you closer, as if he were trying to physically melt you into his skin to fill the cold, hollow space left behind by his own catastrophic mistake.
You froze for a fraction of a second, your heart leaping into your throat. His behaviour over the many monthsāsubtly stating that he didn't feel that way about youāflashed violently through your mind.
He doesn't like you, a small voice whispered. He didn't feel that way.
Yet, here he was, kissing you with an intensity that bordered on frantic, trembling as though the world would end if he let go. The confusion was dizzying, but the warmth of his mouth, the familiar scent of his sweater, and the overwhelming desire you had harbored for months eroded your resistance. Your eyes fluttered closed, and slowly, hesitantly, you kissed him back, lifting your hands to rest against the solid wall of his chest.
When his shirt pulled free and up over his head, you ran your hands along the broad slopes of his shoulders and down dips and angles of his chest. He was cut, here and there. "What happened to you?"
His belt dropped and you hooked your legs around him, pulling him closer. His body pinned yours to the table. "I fell." When his hands found your back, you slid your legs apart, letting your dress scrunch above your waist. You quivered when his cock brushed heavy against you. "That's from a knife, Phai. What the fuck?"
He was rough and quick inside, and you arched into him, finding his mouth once again. His hands were at your back, your hips, your thighs and you felt something uncoiling inside of you. Something deep in your belly that made you clutch back at him as desperately. So long had you ached for warmth, for touch, for the tightening of your body against his.
Snowy died. And Phainon was hurting himself.
You came trembling around him, and he pulled back to watch you as you did. You laid back onto the table, open to him, his eyes locked on everywhere your dress no longer covered, even has he pushed into you over and over.
And then he pulled away.
"What the fuck? Get away from me," Phainon whispered, his voice breaking entirely as he stood up, and moved back, sliding down against the side of the wall until he was sitting on the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest. He didn't look at you anymore. He couldn't bear to meet your eyes.
You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs, staring down at the man you lovedānow curled in a heap of self-loathing and terror on the floor. The warmth of the room was gone, replaced by a chilling, absolute cold.
.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-
VI: The Fracture in the Archive
Saturday morning arrived without sunrise, drowning the city in a dense, leaden fog that pressed flat against the glass of Phainonās apartment windows.
Inside, the silence was absoluteāheavy, atmospheric, and terrifying.
Last night was one way to lose your virginity. The absolute worst.
You stood at the threshold of his bedroom, your hand trembling as you slowly turned the brass doorknob. The lock disengaged with a sharp, mechanical click that sounded like a gunshot in the stillness.
Phainon was sitting on the floor directly outside the door.
He hadn't slept. He hadn't moved to the sofa. He sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, his back resting against the wall, his eyes fixed on the exact spot where the door met the frame. His hair was slightly disheveled, a few strands hanging over his forehead, and his sweater was wrinkled. Yet his posture remained remarkably erect, devoid of the natural slouch of fatigue.
As soon as the door swung open, his gaze snapped to your face. A violent, brilliant flicker of relief flooded his expression, as though he had spent eight hours underwater and had finally broken the surface.
"Good morning, [Name]," he said. His voice was raspy from disuse, but his tone was smooth, almost melodious.
"Phainon... did you sit here all night?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. You kept your distance.
"Yes," he replied simply, leaning his head back against the wall to look up at you. "I wanted to stay close so I could hear you breathing."
"That isn't staying close, Phainon. That's... you sat on the floor outside my bedroom like a dog."
Phainon didn't blink. He offered a small, serene smile that sent a shiver down your spine. "A dog is loyal because it knows no other reality. I sit here because there is literally nowhere else in this universe I wish to be. Is that so shameful?"
He pushed himself up off the floor with effortless grace, stepping toward you. You instinctively took a step back into the room, but Phainon stopped at the doorframe, respecting the boundary you had drawn, though his pale eyes drank in every detail of your face, your messy hair, your tired eyes.
"I made coffee," he murmured, nodding toward the kitchen. "And I bought fresh pastries from the bakery three blocks down."
You blinked, surprised. "When? I didn't hear you leave."
"At six in the morning," he said. "I ran the entire way there and back so I would only be gone for five minutes. I didn't want you waking up to an empty flat."
The sheer, terrifying efficiency of his devotion made your stomach turn. It was terrifyingly calculatedāevery action, every thought, stripped of self-preservation and redirected entirely toward serving your existence.
"Phainon, what the fuck? We can't not talk about your dog dying! And we had sex! And then pushed me away like I forced myself on you! Not to mention you've been slicing at your skin for God knows how longā"
"I didn't mean to scare you," he stammered, his usual composure shattering into raw, desperate panic. He sank to his knees right there in the center of his living room, clutching his head in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, [Name]. Please don't hate me. If you hate me, I'll kill myself. Just tell me what to do. I'll do anything to make you happy!"
.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-
Monday morning arrived with the suffocating weight of an impending storm. The air beneath the Grand City Archives was colder than usual, smelling faintly of damp limestone and stagnant rainwater that had seeped through the ancient brick foundation over the weekend.
You stood at the bottom of the iron spiral staircase, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag until your knuckles turned white. You hadn't slept in nearly two days. Every time you had closed your eyes over the weekend, the image of Phainon kneeling on his apartment rugāhis pale eyes wide, empty, and entirely focused on youāhad burned behind your eyelids.
He was already there.
Phainon sat at his long oak desk, surrounded by towers papers. But he wasn't reading them. He wasn't cataloging, writing, or cross-referencing. He sat completely still, his hands resting flat against the dark wood, his head angled toward the staircase as if he had been tracking your approach long before your feet had touched the stone floor.
When your shadow fell across the archway, his entire posture shifted. The terrifying, flat stillness melted away into a expression of sheer, desperate relief.
"[Name]," he breathed, rising from his chair so quickly that the heavy oak legs scraped sharply against the stone.
He stopped barely an inch away, his presence immediate and overwhelming. The sharp, clean scent of cedarwood and faint rain drifted off his coat. He reached out, his long fingers hovering just shy of your sleeve, as if he were exercising every ounce of willpower not to pull you into his arms.
"You're four minutes late," Phainon said softly. His voice lacked any reprimand; instead, it was laced with a quiet, breathless panic. "I thought you had taken a different entrance. I thought... I thought you had decided not to come."
"The train was delayed, Phainon," you said, keeping your voice as flat and measured as possible. You forced yourself to step past him, setting your coat and bag on the desk. "It's fine. It's just four minutes."
"Four minutes is two hundred and forty seconds," Phainon replied, turning with you, his eyes tracking every movement of your hands. "Do you know what happens in two hundred and forty seconds, [Name]? A person's heart beats over two hundred times. A thousand thoughts pass through a mind. And every single one of mine was wondering if you were abandoning me."
You felt a cold knot form in your throat. You looked up, searching his face. There were faint, dark shadows beneath his eyesāproof that he, too, had barely slept over the weekend. Yet his skin was unnaturally pale, almost luminous under the warm desk lamps, and his eyes burned with an intense, unblinking focus.
"Phainon, you need to step back," you whispered, looking nervously toward the main reading room. "Mr. Anaxa will be here any minute. I only came because you said you needed me to be supportive."
"Let him come," Phainon said instantly, without a moment's hesitation. "Let the whole world come. They mean nothing to me. If Mr. Anaxa rids of me today, I will sit on the front steps of your apartment building until you come out. It makes no difference where I am, as long as I can see you."
"Stop it!" You hissed, grabbing his forearm and pulling him into the shadows of the alcove. Your fingers dug into the fabric of his suit jacket. "Do you hear yourself right now? You are a scholar, Phainon! You spent four years getting your degree, you have three published papers, you care about this project more than anyone I know! You can't just throw your life away!"
Phainon looked down at your hand on his arm. A small, chillingly beautiful smile touched his pale lipsāa smile devoid of all his former pride and intellectual dignity.
"I didn't throw it away," he murmured, leaning down until his forehead almost rested against yours. "I traded it. I traded a meaningless life of paper and dust for the only thing that actually matters. You gave me a reason to exist, [Name]. Why would I care about ancient history and arts when my entire universe is standing right in front of me?"
Before you could respond, heavy footsteps echoed down the stone corridor.
Mr. Anaxaāa severe man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glassesāstepped into the central hall, holding a thick Manila folder. Behind him came the head architect, who carried a stack of catalog cards. The moment they saw you standing so close together in the shadows of the alcove, his eyes widened in deep concern.
"Phainon," Mr. Anaxa's voice boomed softly in the quiet vault. "A word, please."
Phainon didn't move. He didn't even turn his head. His pale eyes remained locked on your face, completely ignoring the head of the department.
"Phainon!" Mr. Anaxa repeated, his tone sharpening. "The board reviewed your quarterly report this morning. Or rather, the complete absence of your quarterly report. It was due on Friday afternoon. This is entirely unlike you."
You gently nudged Phainon's chest, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Go," you whispered frantically. "Please, Phainon. Just go speak to him."
Only at your command did Phainon finally tear his gaze away from you. He turned slowly, his expression shifting in an instant from desperate adoration to an icy, deadened indifference that made Mr. Anaxa freeze mid-step.
"The report is unfinished," Phainon said, his tone entirely flat.
Mr. Anaxa blinked, taken aback by the complete lack of professional deference in his most senior assistant's voice. "Unfinished? Phainon, that report dictates our funding for the entire wing! Youāve had three months!"
"Then revoke the funding," Phainon replied smoothly, stepping out of the alcove with his hands tucked casually into his pockets. "I am no longer interested in managing the wing."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the archive. You gasped softly, your knuckles turning white against his hand gripping yours. Mr. Anaxa stared at Phainon as if the younger man had suddenly begun speaking a foreign language.
"Are you out of your mind?" Mr. Anaxa managed to say, his face darkening with anger. "If you walk away from this project, Phainon, I will have no choice but to place you on administrative leave immediately!"
"Then place me on leave," Phainon said without a single second of hesitation. He didn't sound angry, or defensive, or sad. He sounded entirely unbothered, as if Mr. Anaxa were discussing the weather. "I'll pack my desk now."
"Phainon, no!" You cried out, stepping forward, unable to contain yourself. "Mr. Anaxa, please, he isn't feeling well todayāhe's been under a tremendous amount of stressā"
"Do not apologize for me, [Name]," Phainon interrupted gently, turning to look at you with that terrifying, radiant warmth returning to his eyes. "If I am on leave, I don't have to spend eight hours a day doing useless art. I can spend all eight hours taking care of you."
Mr. Anaxa looked between the two of you, his expression morphing from anger to deep, unsettled pity and confusion. "Phainon... step into my office. Now. [Name], stay here."
"No," Phainon said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously firm. "She stays where I can see her. I am not entering any room without her."
.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-
By noon, the disaster was complete.
Phainon had been formally suspended pending a psychological evaluationāa directive he had accepted with complete, terrifying serenity. He had packed his few personal belongings into a single cardboard box within ten minutes, spent another five minutes waiting while you tried to compose yourself, and had ultimately been escorted out of the building by security when he refused to leave without you.
You spent the rest of your time in a state of quiet shock. You couldn't focus on anything; the letters blurred into dark, meaningless scribbles. Every few minutes, your eyes would dart toward the heavy iron doors at the top of the stairs. You knew, with absolute certainty, that he was standing right outside on the rain-slick pavement, waiting for you to come out.
"He's still out there," Mydei said softly, walking up to you with two cups of tea.
He set one cup down in front of you and took the seat beside you. The usual sharp, sarcastic energy that he carried was completely gone, replaced by a quiet, brooding concern.
"How long has he been standing there?" You asked, your voice raspy.
"Since twelve-thirty," Mydei replied grimly. "It's pouring rain, [Name]. He doesn't have an umbrella. He's just standing by the fountain, staring at the basement window. Anaxa threatened to call the police, but Phainon didn't even react. He just told Anaxa that the police couldn't legally keep him from standing on a public sidewalk."
You buried your face in your hands, a jagged sob catching in your chest. "What have I done... Oh God, De, what have I done?"
Mydei leaned in closer, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean, [Name]? This isn't your fault. Phainon has completely lost his mind. Heās acting like a textbook stalker. I don't know what happened to him over the weekend, but he is dangerous right now. You need to go home with me tonight. You can stay at my place until he gets help."
"I can't," you whispered through your fingers. "You don't understand, Mydei. If I go to your place, he'll follow us. He won't leave your doorstep. He'll ruin your life, too."
"Then we call the police."
"The police can't fix this!" You pulled your hands away, your eyes wild with terror and guilt. "You don't understand what's wrong with him!"
Mydei stared at you for a long moment, sensing the deep, incomprehensible panic in his friend's eyes. "Then explain it to me, [Name]. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like a man who snapped overnight."
You opened your mouth to tell himāto tell him about the antique shop, the lacquered box, the willow twig, and the terrible, irreversible wish you had made in the quiet of your room. But as you looked into Mydei's practical, sensible eyes, you realized how insane it would sound. To the rest of the world, Phainon was experiencing a sudden, tragic psychotic break. Only you knew the horrifying truth: Phainon wasn't sick. He was cursed. And the cursed entity controlling his mind was your own foolish desire.
"I have to leave," you say abruptly, pushing your chair back and grabbing your coat.
"Wait, [Name]! Don't go out there alone!" Mydei called, rising to follow you.
"Stay here, Mydei! Please!" You pleaded, your hand on the staircase railing. "I need to fix this. I'm the only one who can fix this."
You bolted up the stone stairs, pushing through the heavy oak doors into the cold, rain-drenched afternoon.
The moment you stepped outside, you saw him.
Phainon was standing in the center of the stone courtyard, entirely soaked through. His silver-gray hair was plastered to his forehead, rain dripping off the tip of his nose and chin. His dark suit jacket was drenched, clinging to his broad shoulders. Yet he wasn't shivering. He stood as straight and still as a marble monument, his pale eyes locked onto the main entrance.
When he saw you, his face lit up with that dark, breathtaking radiance.
"[Name]," he called out, his voice cutting clearly through the roar of the rain. He took long, sweeping strides across the courtyard toward you. "You came out early. I knew you would."
You didn't run. You stood on the top step, watching him approach like a ghost in the storm. "Phainon... look at you. You're freezing. You're soaked to the bone."
"It doesn't matter," Phainon said, reaching the steps and looking up at you with complete, terrifying devotion. "The rain doesn't matter. The cold doesn't matter. Nothing hurts when I'm looking at you."
He reached up, taking your trembling hands in his ice-cold fingers. He pressed his lips to your knuckles, his breath hot against your skin.
"Where are we going now?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours with a pleading, childlike absolute trust. "Your apartment? Or somewhere else? Wherever you go, I will follow."
You looked into his eyes, feeling the crushing weight of your own guilt pulling you down into the abyss. "We're going to a shop," you whispered, your voice breaking. "We're going to find a way to fix you."
ā¦. . ā / ā. .. ā¦ ā / ā. .
VII. The Echo of the Antiques
The rain turned into a blinding downpour as you dragged Phainon through the narrow alleys on the edge of the city.
Phainon walked beside you obediently, matching your pace perfectly. He held your left hand in a grip so tight it left red marks on your skin, but whenever you tried to pull away, his fingers would clamp down even harderānot out of cruelty, but out of a desperate, instinctual refusal to let you create a single inch of distance between you.
"Is this where you wanted to walk?" Phainon asked quietly as you turned down the narrow street lined with vintage storefronts. "It's dark here. We should go back to your apartment. I can lock the doors, and we can stay inside where it's safe."
"Just two more minutes, Phainon," you breathed, your chest aching from the cold air. "Just two more minutes."
You slammed your hand against the wet glass of the shop windowāMire & Memory: Antiquities & Curios.
The shop was dark. The stained-glass lanterns were off. hanging in the small glass pane was a wooden sign flip-turned to red: CLOSED.
"No... no, no, no," you gasped, grabbing the brass door handle and rattling it frantically.
The heavy oak door was locked tight. You leaned your face against the wet glass, peering into the shadowy interior. The velvet displays, the antique clockwork, the dried herbsāeverything was still inside, but there was no sign of the woman in the big hat.
"It's closed," Phainon noted calmly from behind you. He pulled you gently away from the glass, his large hands resting on your shoulders, drawing you back against his wet chest. "It doesn't matter, [Name]. Whatever you were looking for in there, you don't need it. You have me."
"I need the shopkeeper!" You screamed at the door, hammering you fists against the wood until your knuckles ached. "Open the door! Please! Open the door!"
"Hush," Phainon murmured softly into your hair, his arms wrapping around your waist, locking you in an embrace that felt less like protection and more like a gilded cage. "Don't yell, my love. It's just an old shop. Let me take you home. You're wet, you're crying... it hurts me to see you like this."
You sagged in his arms, your forehead pressing against the cold, wet wood of the shop door. The bitter truth washed over you like the freezing rain soaking through your coat.
Even if the shopkeeper were inside, what could she possibly do? The warning had been written on the typed card in plain, unyielding English:
Wishes granted without condition cannot be revoked.
There was no magical counter-curse. There was no secret ritual to un-break the willow branch resting at the bottom of your apartment trash bin. You had asked the universe to alter a man's soul, and the universe had obeyed with absolute, indiscriminate precision.
Phainon gently turned you around in his arms. His face was inches from hers, his pale gray eyes shimmering with an intense, unholy clarity in the dark alleyway.
"Look at me, [Name]," he commanded softly, though his tone was entirely tender.
You slowly lifted your eyes to meet his.
"Why are you so afraid?" he asked, his thumb gently wiping away a mixture of rain and tears from your cheek. "I haven't hurt you. I will never hurt you. I exist entirely to protect you, to love you, to give you everything you could ever dream of. Isn't this what you wanted?"
The question struck you like a physical blow.
Isn't this what you wanted?
You had pined for him for nearly an year. You had laid awake at night wishing he would look at you with passion instead of polite professional courtesy. You had wanted to be the center of his world. And now you were. You were his god, his ruler, his sole anchor to realityāand in making yourself his entire world, you had destroyed the man he actually was.
"Yes," you whispered, your voice hollow and defeated. "This is what I wanted."
Phainon smiledāa radiant, beautiful, terrifying smile that did not reach his cold eyes. "Then stop fighting it. Let me love you."
ā¦. . ā / ā. .. ā¦ ā / ā. .
By midnight, the rain outside your apartment had settled into a steady, rhythmic tap against the glass.
The living room was dark. You sat on the center of the sofa, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. You stared at the small wooden coffee table in front of you. Resting on the polished surface were the two broken halves of the One Wish Willow, retrieved from the trash bin and placed side-by-side like a corpse waiting for a burial that would never come.
Beside the table, kneeling on the carpeted floor, was Phainon.
He had changed out of his wet suit into a soft gray sweater and dark trousers. He didn't look tired. He sat on his knees, his hands resting on his thighs, his head turned slightly toward you. His eyes remained fixed on your face, tracking every rise and fall of your chest, every flicker of your eyelashes.
"You should sleep, [Name]," he said softly, his voice a low, melodious hum in the dark room.
"I can't sleep," you murmured, your voice stripped of all emotion.
"I can sit right here all night," Phainon offered, reaching up to lay his hand gently over yours on the blanket. His skin was warm now, but his touch carried the immutable weight of an iron chain. "I won't close my eyes. I will keep watch until the sun comes up."
"And tomorrow?" You asked, looking down at his hand on yours. "What happens tomorrow, Phainon? You don't have a job anymore. You don't have your research. You're going to get evicted from your apartment if you don't pay your rent."
"I'll sell my books," Phainon replied smoothly, as if discussing buying groceries. "I'll sell my furniture. I don't need an apartment, [Name]. I can move into your living room. Or I can sit on your balcony. As long as I am near you, material things have no meaning."
"And your friends? Your family? What happens when they come looking for you?"
Phainonās expression flickered with a brief, chilling detachment. "If they try to separate me from you, I will remove them from my life. It is very simple."
You closed your eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
You looked at the broken willow twig on the table. The dark, charcoal-like core of the fractured wood seemed to stare back at youāa silent, permanent reminder of your own hubris.
You reached out with your free hand, picking up the two broken pieces of wood, and pulled them into your lap beneath the blanket. You had wished for his unconditional love, and you had received it in its purest, most monstrous form: an affection stripped of reason, humanity, and choice.
"Phainon?" you whispered.
"Yes, my love?" he answered instantly, leaning closer, his eyes shining in the dark.
"Did you... Did you kill Snowy?"
The apartment seemed to hold its breath. The steady, rhythmic tap of the rain against the window glass was the only sound left in the world, stretching out the silence between them like a tight wire.
Phainon didn't blink. His dark eyes remained locked onto yours, completely devoid of the hesitation or shame that usually accompanied a shameful secret. The terrifying purity of the wish held him in a state of absolute, unbending transparency before you.
"Yes," Phainon answered, his voice smooth, quiet, and disturbingly casual.
A cold shudder rolled down your spine, despite the thick wool blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You stared down at the two halves of the Wish Willow resting in your lap, their jagged edges pressing against your palms.
"Why?" you whispered, your voice barely carrying across the dark living room. "Snowy was your dog. You loved him. How could you just... how could you do that?"
Phainon shifted slightly, moving closer until his knees pressed against the edge of the sofa. His touch was tender, yet it carried the chilling weight of absolute detachment from everything outside of his singular focus on you.
"It was the day after you came over," Phainon explained, his tone conversational, as if he were recounting a minor inconvenience on his way to class. "I was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to focus on my design layouts, but my mind wouldn't quiet down. I kept thinking about you. I kept thinking about how easily you slip away when the day endsāhow you go back to your own house, how other people get to talk to you, how much of your life is spent entirely out of my reach."
He paused, his thumb softly stroking your knuckles.
"Snowy kept whining," Phainon continued, his gaze drifting toward the kitchen as though he could see right through the walls. "He wanted to go outside. He wanted attention. He was loud, and he was taking up the space in the room that should have belonged entirely to the thoughts of you. He was a distraction from my purpose."
You felt a sickening knot twist tightly in your stomach.
"That, and you liked him," Phainon scoffed gently, looking back up into your eyes with an unsettling, beatific smile. "Everything that demands my attention away from you, and yours away from me, is an obstacle. That afternoon, I had left those pest control pellets on the counter. It took only a moment to crush a few into his food bowl and mix it with some meat. He ate it without hesitation."
He spoke of poisoning his own pet with the same chilling indifference one might use to describe throwing away a piece of trash.
"And when he died?" you asked, your voice trembling as hot tears prickled behind your eyelids. "Did you feel anything at all?"
Phainon tilted his head, considering the question honestly. He reached up, his warm hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear that had slipped down your skin.
"I felt nothing," he murmured softly. "Except a sudden, wonderful quiet. The apartment was finally silent. And I could think only of you."
You pressed your eyes shut, the horror of the confession washing over you in heavy, suffocating waves. You looked down at the broken willow in your lap, realizing with terrifying finality that the monster sitting before you was entirely your own creationāand there was no waking up from it.
... .- ...- . / -- .
VIII: The Weight of the Room
Three months elapsed in a heavy, unnatural rhythm.
Autumn had settled over the city, striping the trees along the boulevard in shades of rust and decay, but inside your apartment, time had ceased to move. The days no longer possessed distinct boundaries. There was only the low hum of the refrigerator, the rain washing against the double-paned glass, and the perpetual, motionless presence of Phainon.
He had given up his lease entirely by the end of August. He had not gone back for his belongings; he had simply allowed the landlord to declare the unit abandoned, leaving behind his extensive personal library, his heirloom furniture, his winter coats, and the framed photographs of his family. None of it held any reality for him anymore. His entire physical universe had shrunk to the four walls of your apartment.
"You need to take a few steps, Phainon," you said quietly, your voice sounding raspy from disuse. You sat at the dining table, staring down at an untouched plate of toast. "Youāve been standing by the hallway arch for four hours."
Phainon turned his head toward you. His movement was fluid, yet eerily deliberate, like a clockwork mechanism that had been freshly oiled. He wore a simple black turtleneck and dark trousersāclothing you had ordered online for him because he refused to leave the flat even to buy garments.
"I am perfectly comfortable, [Name]," he replied smoothly. His voice was low, devoid of any harsh rasp despite his near-total silence throughout the day. "From the archway, I can monitor the front door, the fire escape window, and the table where you are sitting. If I move to the armchair, my line of sight to the hallway is obscured by three inches."
"No one is coming through the hallway, Phainon," you whispered.
"We cannot know that with absolute certainty," he said, taking two quiet steps toward you. He stopped precisely at the edge of the rug, his pale gray eyes searching your face with that wide, terrifying clarity that had never once dimmed since the day you snapped the twig. "And as long as there is a fraction of a percent of risk to your peace, my vigilance is required."
He knelt beside your chair, placing his long, cool hands over your knee. The gesture was outwardly affectionateāa posture of deep, reverent submissionābut the pressure of his fingers was firm, an immovable anchor binding you to the spot.
"Eat your toast, my love," he whispered softly, his thumb tracing a small circle against your fabric. "Youāve lost weight this month. I counted your calories yesterday. You are three hundred calories below your recommended intake."
You felt a cold prickle of sweat trace your spine. "You're counting my calories?"
"I keep a log in my notebook," Phainon said, gesturing vaguely toward the small leather pad resting on the sideboard. "Your sleep cycles, your water consumption, your temperature, the number of times you cry when you think I am in the bathroom. I record all of it. It allows me to anticipate your needs before you even experience them."
You stared at him, a sudden wave of suffocating vertigo making the room tilt. "Phainon... that isn't care. That's... that's a inventory."
"It's love," he corrected gently, leaning up to press a lingering, soft kiss against the side of your neck. His breath was warm, smelling faintly of mint and iron. "A inventory implies I intend to trade you. You are my absolute. One does not trade an absolute."
... .- ...- . / -- .
The quiet was shattered at 2:00 PM by the sudden, abrasive buzzing of the apartment intercom.
The sharp sound cut through the silence like a blade. You flinched violently, knocking your knee against the table.
Phainon didn't flinch. In a fraction of a second, he was on his feet, his body shifting into a low, predatory posture between you and the hallway. His gray eyes narrowed, all warmth vanishing instantly, replaced by an icy, deadened hostility.
"Stay behind me," he said. The instruction was not loud, but it carried a terrifying, absolute authority.
"Phainon, it's probably just the building managerā"
"Stay behind me," he repeated, his hands coming up to guide you gently but forcefully into the corner behind the dining hutch.
He walked to the intercom wall unit, pressing the button with a single, clinical movement. He didn't speak. He simply held the line open, listening.
"[Name]?" Cyrene's voice crackled through the cheap speaker, tinny and distorted by static. "[Name], are you in there? Please pick up. Itās been three weeks since you called in sick. Boss officially filed the termination paperwork yesterday, but I don't care about the jobāI'm worried about you. Your phone is disconnected. I brought the building super up with me. If you don't open the door, we're going to use the master key."
You gasped, taking a step toward the hall. "Reneā"
Before you could reach the speaker, Phainonās hand locked around your wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absoluteālike a steel vise padded in soft leather. He pulled you back behind his shoulder effortlessly.
"Phainon, let me talk to her!" You pleaded in a desperate, panicked whisper. "She has the manager with her! Theyāre going to open the door!"
Phainon looked down at you, his expression entirely calm, almost beatific. "They won't open the door."
He released your wrist and stepped over to the entryway closet. He opened it quietly, reaching up to the top shelf where you kept a heavy brass tool set. He selected a heavy six-inch steel deadbolt bar he had purchased online two weeks prior, along with a cordless driver.
"Phainon, what are you doing?" You breathed, horror mounting in your throat.
Without a word, Phainon walked to the heavy oak front door. With smooth, practiced efficiency, he positioned the steel bar across the frame, alignment perfectly straight, and drove three heavy masonry screws through the steel bracket directly into the door jamb. The sharp whir-click-click of the power tool drowned out the sound of key turning in the lock outside.
From the hallway outside, the sound of a key sliding into the tumbler echoed sharply.
The lock turned. The door shifted inward a fraction of a millimeterāand then slammed brutally against the newly installed steel barricade.
"What the...?" the building managerās voice muffled through the wood. "The safety bar is thrown from the inside! Hey! Is someone in trouble in there?"
"[Name]!" Cyrene screamed, pounding her fists against the heavy oak. "[Name]! Speak to me! Is Phainon in there with you? Did he do something to you?!"
You opened your mouth to scream, to cry for help, to tell them to break down the doorābut Phainon turned to face you.
He didn't brandish a weapon. He didn't make a threat.
Instead, he slowly lowered himself back onto his knees right in front of the barricaded door. He took a small, silver folding knife from his pocketāthe one he used to trim loose threads from your sweatersāunfolded the thin blade, and held it vertically against his own throat. The sharp point rested directly over his carotid artery, pressing just hard enough to draw a single, pinpoint bead of crimson blood.
"Phainon!" You shrieked, your hand flying to your mouth.
"If you call out to them," Phainon said, his voice entirely sweet, calm, and conversational, "if you tell them to break this door down, I will press this blade three inches into my neck before they can clear the frame."
"Phainon, please! Put that down! Put it down!" you sobbed, dropping to your knees a few feet away from him, your hands raised in absolute terror.
"I am not threatening you, my love," he explained gently, his eyes shining with an intense, crystal-clear devotion. "I am simply informing you of the physical realities of my existence. My mind, my heart, and my body only function to serve your sanctuary. If they breach this door, they will take you away from me, or take me away from you. In either scenario, my existence ends. The knife is merely a formality."
Outside, the manager was kicking the bottom panel of the door. "I'm calling the police! We're getting the fire department up here with an axe!"
"[Name]! Answer me!" Cyrene wept through the wood.
You looked at the single drop of blood trailing down Phainonās throat. You looked into his pale, serene eyesāeyes that held no fear, no doubt, and no humanity, only the absolute, unyielding execution of your own wish.
You swallowed your own scream, strangling the voice in your throat until it died.
You took a ragged, trembling breath, wiped your tears with the back of your hand, and stepped up to the door.
"Cyrene!" You called out, your voice unnaturally loud, tight, and rigid.
The pounding stopped instantly. "[Name]?! Are you okay?! Is he hurting you?!"
"I am fine, Rene," you said, staring directly at Phainonās unblinking eyes as the knife remained pressed against his neck. "I... I am completely fine. I am not sick. I am not being held against my will."
"[Name], your voice sounds terrible! Let us in!"
"No!" You shouted, your voice trembling slightly before you caught yourself. "No... please. Go away. Phainon and I... we just want to be left alone. We don't want to work at the archive anymore. We don't want visitors. If you call the police, I will tell them you are harassing us. Please... just go away."
A long, agonizing silence descended on the hallway outside.
"[Name]..." Cyrene's voice was broken, small, and filled with a profound, terrifying grief. "...what did he do to you?"
"Nothing," you whispered against the painted wood of the door. "He didn't do anything. I asked for this."
Footsteps slowly receded down the carpeted hallway. The sound of the elevator doors opening and closing echoed faintly, followed by absolute, suffocating silence.
Phainon waited five full minutes after the hallway fell silent.
When he was certain they were truly gone, he folded the silver blade with a soft click and slipped it back into his pocket. He reached up with his index finger, dabbing the single droplet of blood from his throat, and looked at it with mild curiosity before wiping it onto his shirt.
He rose to his feet, stepping over to where you remained collapsed on the floor, your cheek pressed against the cold hardwood, your body shaking with silent, exhausted sobs.
"You were wonderful," Phainon whispered, crouching down beside you. He gathered you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly from the floor and carrying you toward the sofa.
He sat down, placing you in his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist, and resting his chin atop your head. He began to rock you gently, back and forth, back and forth, with the slow, rhythmic cadence of a pendulum.
"Now no one will disturb us," he murmured into your hair. "No friends. No jobs. No archives. No opinions. Just you and me. The world outside can burn away, [Name]. We don't need it."
You didn't pull away. You didn't have the strength left to fight. You lay limp against his chest, listening to the heavy, steady, unhurried thrum of his heartāa heart that beat not out of life or passion, but as a mechanical clock counting down the endless seconds of your self-inflicted sentence.
You looked across the dark room toward the small side table.
Sitting on the velvet cushion of the open lacquered box were the two broken pieces of the One Wish Willow. The charcoal-black center of the fractured wood seemed to glint faintly in the gray afternoon light filtering through the blinds.
You realized then that the horror was not that Phainon had become a monster. The horror was that he was still Phainonāhis voice was still smooth, his touch was still gentle, his face was still exquisitely handsomeābut the soul inside him had been replaced by a singular, unyielding directive.
He loved you. He would always love you.
He would love you when the food ran out. He would love you when the electricity was cut off. He would love you as you sit together in the pitch-black living room, surrounded by steel deadbolts and sealed windows, watching each other fade into nothingness.
Phainon leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath cold and sweet.
"I love you, [Name]," he whispered, his gray eyes shining with an absolute, bottomless light that would never go out. "Tell me you love me too."
You closed your eyes, letting your tears soak into the gray fabric of his sweater.
"I love you, Phainon," you whispered into the dark.
And as his arms tightened around youālocking you so closely against his chest that you could barely draw breathāyou knew that you would be saying those words forever.
ā¦. . . -.. .ā. / ā . ā¦
Additional matters I'd like to address:
Yes the shopkeeper is Madam Herta. How she got her hands on the one wish willow is a story for another day </3
I was contemplating making Phainon kill either of Mydei or Cyrene (but we don't follow canon storyline of course (get it?)) and settled for Snowy in the end (not funny)
He off screens Cyrene for attempting to invade on y'all though (CANON)
It would make sense either way: Phainon using the wish on you or you on him because the former wouldn't be likely I feel like. Phainon's definitely not that type of guy in my opinion (I learnt nothing from watching the movie. In all seriousness, Nikki's behaviour is valid /j)
All breakers (?) are morse code for the real Phainon crying for help because I decided to be a little extra!
premise: after a bad encounter with a witch, anyone you date is cursed to become obsessed with you. you don't really believe that kind of thing, so you continue to go on dates like usual. oh, you quickly find out that you were very, very wrong.
(yandere! honkai star rail x reader) (modern au)
nsfw, dark content minors dni
"from now on, any man you date will forever be enamored with your very being."
if anything, those witch's words might've been a jinx.
she wasn't necessarily a witch, but a fortune teller that you had passed by one day on the way to work. it'd been such a passing phrase that the moment was immediately forgotten.
except, you can't help but remember them now.
for the first half an hour, the only thing veritas ratio (or "dr. ratio," he adds snidely) talks about is his job. you don't even know why he wanted to go on this date in the first place. he seems like he'd rather be at his job.
so much for a good first impression.
he doesn't say anything unless it's related to academia, research, anything related to his work. he doesn't say much, but when he does it's filled with so much ego it's honestly draining.
you don't know why, you feel like it's your job to fill the silence by rambling about whatever topic comes to mind. perhaps it's something close to first-date etiquette or your fear of the awkward quietāattempting it making small talk. but he doesn't even engage.
he just eats his food quietly without giving any kind of reaction. so you just give up. you talk about all sorts of things: your occupation, your hobbies, the tv shows you watch, sometimes even the occasional complaint about someone you know. it doesn't even count as small talk at this point. it feels a lot more like you're ranting.
you're not embarrassed at all, though. you don't even plan on seeing him after this. so why bother?
after what feels like forever, you two finally decide to head out. he offers to walk you home, and since it's late and you don't live very far, you accept. the walk is silent, but at that point, you're too mentally drained to try to fill the quiet. it's not like the walk is long anyway. you just want to say goodbye and never seen him again.
while you're unlocking your door, you turn to thank him for the gesture out of politeness. however, your words are quickly swallowed up by his mouth on yours.
he lets out an uncharacteristic groan upon contact, almost as if he was waiting for this. caught off guard, you let out a gasp, which he takes advantage of. his tongue creeps into your mouth, caressing and flicking against yours sensually.
"i've been looking forward to this all night," he sighs into you.
you don't think on his words too much.
while you hate his personality, you don't hate this. first dates may be a little iffy, but you have nothing against a hookup once in a while, especially with someone so conventionally attractive.
so you hook your arms around his neck and tug his hair softly. he lets out a breathy moan you weren't quite expecting. you can physically feel him shudder under your touch.
with one hand crawling up your shirt, greedy to feel your skin against his, he leads you back into your own house and smoothly closes the door behind him.
sex with him is good, taking you by surprise with how sensual he is. you feel every fingertip of his trace your skin, drawing lines between all your blemishes and beauty marks.
he trails kisses from your throat down to your breasts, maintaining eye contact with you the entire time.
"you're so beautiful," he whispers, "like a brand new discovery. a fresh miracle the universe created just for me."
even though he's been an ass all night, you feel warm.
when he's inside you, he rocks into you in a steady, but quick pace. you arch your back in pleasure, to which he encourages with his hand pressing you closer to him. you grind into him instinctively while he buries his face into your tits and moans against your skin, breathless.
but as good as he was in bed, though, you don't really see yourself pursuing anything exclusive with him. however, it seems as if dr. ratio has other plans.
he keeps texting you, hoping to set up another date. he'll ask you what you're up to, if you're interested in going out again soon, and tell you that he misses you.
the attention feels nice, but he's not want you want. so you block him without regrets and move on with your life.
even after three weeks, dr. ratio still hasn't give up on you, it seems. every time you block him, he just changes his phone number, his social media handle, and you're starting from square one.
maybe he's a little pushy. but you've handled people like this before. they'll get bored soon enough, even if it is a little tiring to go through.
so when you run into dan heng at the local supermarket, it's like a breath of fresh air.
you used to date once, a couple years back. you liked how despite his cold exterior, he was a kind soul. conversations between you two just felt natural. you never felt like you had to read in-between the lines to understand what he meant.
throughout your relationship, he never hounded after you about where you were or who you were with. he never blinked an eye when you had other plans or were having a one-on-one conversation with someone else. although you're exes now, you broke up on good terms. so you don't hesitate to say hi.
he smiles, but he doesn't seem surprised. "it's nice to see you here."
you grin in return. "it is! how have you been?"
the two of you agree to get a cup of coffee (or tea, in dan heng's case) together. you meet up at a cafe that the two of you used to frequent together, the smell of freshly baked goods and coffee beans bringing in old memories.
though you haven't talked to each other in a very long time, it's like you two saw each other yesterday. dan heng's relaxed as always, and for a second it feels like nothing has changed. you two catch each other up on your respective lives like a pair of old friends.
"so, have you been seeing anyone?" dan heng asks nonchalantly, bringing his cup to his lips. the question comes out of the blue.
"hmm," you consider, "no, not really. i haven't gone steady with anyone in over six months. have you?"
you might be seeing things, but dan heng almost looks pleased. he takes a long, slow sip of his tea before saying anything. "no, i tried, but i couldn't."
he brings his cup down, staring at his drink thoughtfully before bringing his eyes up to you.
"but no matter what, i couldn't stop thinking about you."
his words bring warmth to your cheeks. dan heng's never been one to embellish or lie, so he must be telling the absolute truth.
he leans forward, a contemplative look on his face. "i... know i seemed detached when we dated. you were my first girlfriend, my first love. i had a lot to learn about loving someone. but... i'm better now. so, would you ever reconsider falling in love with me again?"
...
"are you...alright?" dan heng's brows furrow, a small, confused frown curling his mouth. "perhaps, i didn't say anything wrong, did i?"
you're quick to recover from your shock. "oh, no, no, not at all. i just wasn't expecting that." it's very much different from the dan heng you knew, who seemed to barely send you a second glance unless you explicitly asked for it.
it feels...nice to hear his words. for some reason, it gives you some closure. a comfort to the old you who was hurt by his indifference. but you're older, and you're two different people. it might feel gratifying to finally feel wanted by the man you once loved, but you broke up for a good reason.
"ah, i see." he looks more contentful now. "i hope you don't take this the wrong way, but i've been... preparing myself for you. i'm a changed person now who can love you the way you deserve. i just can't stop thinking about how you looked like when you were seeing that researcher and... and iā"
the smile he gives you looks innocent, but the intention is unsettling.
"i just... knew i had to see you again."
your blood runs cold.
"really?" you supply, despite your loss for words. "um, i appreciate that, i really do. i wish i could stay and talk with you more, but i just realized that i'm meeting up with my friend soon."
you take out your wallet and grab a handful of money and carelessly slap it onto the table.
dan heng gets up with the most desperation you've ever seen him have. "oh, that's a shame. if that's the case, i can give you a ride and we can talk more on the way there?"
"no! no, it's okay. don't mind me. it was nice seeing you again, dan heng."
you turn away and don't look back.
okay, maybe your "dates" have been a little wonky recently. dr. ratio won't stop texting you or calling you. he's even sent the occasional bouquet of flowers to your house. dan heng's not any better, because you keep seeing him everywhere you go.
you're starting to think that this "jinx" may not only apply to people you're currently dating, but people you've previously dated. but other than dan heng, no other ex has tried to reach out. so, with so little data to work with, you're not really sure what's going on.
so you stay away from dates for the time being. no mixers, no blind dates, no nothing.
but one-night stands are different, right?
the first thing phainon tells you is that he's not looking for a relationship. it's almost too perfect.
when he lets you into his apartment, the first thing he does is kiss you. it's raw and greedy and it sends butterflies fluttering in your stomach.
every time you part from each other, he takes in a deep breath like he's mentally preparing for when your lips lock again.
"you're so good," he murmurs. "so fucking goodāi can't stop."
you're feeling gutsy, so you reach down to palm the heat of him, relishing in how much he's enjoying you.
"then don't," you reply with a laugh.
he pulls away to look at you, his gaze so intense it makes your pussy tingle.
despite the countless signs of the universe to stop, no matter how small, you can't help but chase the feeling of being embraced, being paid attention to, being loved. perhaps there's a pit of loneliness you're trying to fulfill. but tonight, you're not here to uncover all of that.
tonight, he holds onto you like you're his lifeline.
he presses a kiss to your ankle, your legs hauled over his shoulders. you clench the sheets as he pounds into you. every time he pulls out, he slams back into you with impressive stamina like he can't bear to be not be inside of you.
phainon's groans are low and guttural, sweat dripping down from his chest onto your stomach. you've lost track of time of how long you've been entangled with one another. every time you think it's the last round, he surprises you with another hard-on.
and yet no matter how hard he rails you, he won't bring himself to lose eye-contact with you. it feels personal. intimate.
"that's right, keep moaning for me, don't stopāhah."
you can feel him in every inch inside of you. every time you look away from him, he grabs your chin to bring you back to earthāback to him.
if it wasn't stimulating enough, phainon brings a hand down to your clit, rubbing it so adoringly it makes you see stars.
"i need this pussy, nngh! i love this pussy, i love you."
you're so overstimulated you can't process the things he's saying.
"āneed this pussy wet and creaming for me. you have one more in you, right? please?"
it feels like phainon's fucking into you with so much emotion. like he's letting out all of the pent up emotions, frustration, anger, sadness, envy, want, love, into fucking you senseless. he's unfurling everything that he's been wanting to express (to the world, you think) in this one moment, wrapped up in your warmth.
"please?"
it becomes all too much, and you can feel your orgasm coming in like a flood.
"yes! yes! i'm cumāing!"
you can feel him cumming with you, his dick steadily pulsing as your walls twitch around him. he holds you tight against him, kissing you endlessly.
when the two of you finally finish, you let out a desperate gasp of air. the both of you are out of breath and exhausted. yet he doesn't hesitate to crawl down to your pussy and admire the spillage he's caused. his cum leaks out of your in dribbles, the sensation of it dripping causing your pussy to twitch.
"wait, i'm dirtyāaaah!"
phainon licks your pussy, drinking up your cum and maintaining eye contact with you all the while. he's eating like he's been starved this entire time. you can't help but moan as he continuously cleans you out with his tongue.
after, once both of your are fully cleaned up and sated, his arms coil around your waist and tugs you into his chest. he buries his face into your neck and sighs, appreciating your warmth.
"to be honest, i thought i wasn't ready for a relationship. i always thought that i had things to sort out first, and that it would be unfair of my partner to unpack it all for me. but... laying with you... like this.. i think it'd be easy to love you," he murmurs sleepily into your skin. "i wouldn't mind seeing you again."
you've been looking at this man all night, but this is the first time you're processing how he's looking at you. you'd mistaken hornyness for genuine attraction. it's as if he's had some sort of revelation literally overnight. maybe he really was letting out all his emotions through sex.
"i don't want to date right now," is all you can muster.
"that's fine, we don't have to date. we can just fuck each other, i'm fine with that." his grip tightens. "as long as you don't see other men. i feel like i would hate that. i think i'd get angry enough to kill someone."
you don't say anything and just lay there in silence, waiting for him to finally give in to the exhaustion.
it scares you so much you're gone before dawn breaks.
at this point, you're starting to thing this whole curse thing might be real. thus, you take it upon yourself to avoid anything remotely romantic or sexual in nature like the plague. you no longer go on blind dates or mixers, have hookups, or even think of pursuing anything with anyone.
you've tried countless times to search or contact the person who supposedly cursed you in the first place, but it's as if they disappeared off the face of the planet.
so instead you opt to stay at home, where it's safe.
but it's lonely, you realize. you used to go out so often and now you've just gone cold-turkey. it's isolating.
so when one of your best friends takes notice and invites you to the club to celebrate her birthday, you agree.
while you're getting ready, you promise yourself to turn down anyone who so much as looks at you. you're not going to get caught up in some passerby, you're not going to pursue anyone who catches your eye. you're just here to celebrate your girl and reconnect with some friends.
right?
it's loud. it's loud and extremely crowded. but at least ruan mei and serval are having fun. as for march 7th, she's at the bar fooling unsuspecting men into drinking contests they can't win.
you're having a good time around when aventurine slides up to you from behind.
"i haven't seen you here before," he almost shouts over the loud music.
you turn to face him, scowling. "yeah, let's keep it that way."
"aw, don't be like that."
"i'm not looking for anything."
he grins. "it doesn't have to be anything. just fun."
you huff and turn away, but aventurine follows. "oh, come on."
"i've heard that plenty of times before."
you let yourself get lost in the crowd to get away from him. you've met plenty of guys like him before. the interaction with aventurine reminds you of the witch's words, eliciting an unsettling feeling in your gut. but today's serval's birthday, and you don't want to be a downer. plus, you haven't even pursued anything with this man. you just met him. so you don't say anything and just set out to avoid him for the rest of the night.
an hour or so later, you're a little bit tipsy. serval twirls you around with a laugh, to which you let out a surprised squeal. the room is spinning a little, and in the midst of regaining your balance you lose sight of the girls.
it's right then that you suddenly feel someone pull you by the waist and grind against you.
"looking for someone?"
you reflexively push aventurine away from you. "i'm...looking for my friends."
he spreads his arms, a teasing smile on his face. "aren't i a friend?"
you don't dignify that with a response, turning away to look for your friend. aventurine grabs your wrist before you can leave.
"don't be like that. don't you want to take a little gamble with me? i promise it'll be worth it."
"no thanks," you scream at the top of your lungs to make sure that he can clearly hear it.
you tug away, but he still doesn't let up. instead he pulls you with enough force for you to fall right into him.
"aw, and here i was hoping you'd change your mind."
you raise your fist to hit him to let you free, but he grabs that too and pulls you closer. you can feel his hardness press into your inner thigh.
"but i always like the riskā"
somewhere in the crowd, you hear someone shout your name. serval pushes through the throng of people with an impressive strength until finally reaching you.
upon serval's arrival, aventurine finally lets go of you, holding up his hands as if he was ever harmless.
without another word, serval takes your hand and leads you away from him. "come on, we're leaving. that guy's bad news."
you're heart warms at the warmth of serval's touch, grateful for her intervening when she did.
you, serval, ruan mei, and march 7th suddenly decide that maybe drinking the night away at serval's house even when gepard was there maybe wasn't such a bad idea at all.
when you wake up later with a hangover (and you definitely will have a hangover), you'll curl into yourself as you recount last night's events.
as serval had dragged you away from that creepy guy, you couldn't help but look back. he'd been smiling so disturbingly, as if he knew something you didn't, with a small wave. hopefully, you never see him again.
ding!
your phone on the table lights up a new notification. with bleary eyes you crawl over to grab it and turn it on. it's a text from a new number.
why are you avoiding me?
you slam your phone on the table with newfound resolution.
that's it. you need to find that witch.
part 2: when all of your dates are addicted to you
read the kinich, neuvillette, wanderer, wriothesley ver. !!
warnings: not proofread (except for xiao's pt, THANK YOU @melodead & @perpetualcynicism !!), graphic depictions of violence & blood, use of "[name]", established relationship for diluc's (& living together with him), reader is an adeptus in xiao's pt.
notes: THIS WAS SUCH AN ADVENTURE I HAVENT WRITTEN XIAO OR KAZUHA IN GENUINE YEAAARRRSSSSS
Desire.
Xiao will not speak of desire; he likens this trait to the wishes that mortals have, the ones they hold close to their chest, never daring to utter its enormity lest it doesn't manifest as a result.
Thoughāhis gaze for, but a moment, flickers towards youāthere are some things that betray himself. Xiao will not speak of desire.
But he will look.
(They say that eyes are the window to the soul.
(Like flashes of the sun; the molten heat; the rupturing bursts; the stroke of the light.
(Xiao spares you a glance, once, twice, thrice. Andāthroughout all of the minute looks, the quick aversions when you return his attention, the wisps of the wind which seem to shift in accordance to his reddening earsāhe believes sight to be wanting.
(To see everything and to hold nothing. Truly, the eye is the most pitiful organ of all.
(You return his gaze with the slight tilt of your head, the widening of your lips as you smile, not-so sincerelyāhe can tell you're going to use this against him, somehow, sometimeābut the gesture tugs at him. Like tendrils wrapping around his heart, contracting alongside the changes in your expression. The raise of a brow; the blink of an eye; the bareness of teeth.
(Your lips part to say, "Wanna fight? If I win, you have to take over all of my patrols for a month!"
("When have you ever patrolled?"
("Are we overlooking my good deeds during the Archon War?"
(Silence.
(Xiao stands, jade spear manifesting in his hand, the other remaining outstretched, allowing you to take it and rise yourself. You do. Gloved fingers tightening over your knuckles, he pulls you up, your smile unwavering, its mirth meeting your eyes. You glow.
(Like a wish unspoken; like a manifestation of all he's ever dreamt and all he's ever devoured; like an existence that his eyes cannot tire of.)
"I'll be back in three days!" you told him, holding up your fingers for emphasis. Your person was devoid of any supplies except for a performative lunchbag which swung across your figure. Xiao raised a brow at the sightāadepti do not rely on food for sustenance. What was the point of this act?
Still, he had nodded, arms crossed and all, seeing you off at the border to the sea as you had departed on a flimsy-looking boat for Inazuma. Even though your element is Hydro. Even though you can teleport. You insisted on taking a boat; Xiao believes such a compulsion can be attributed to the fact that you like pursuing random quests and experiences.
It has been five days.
Not a word of your return. Xiao finds himself loitering around the Wangshu Inn, most particularly, the front desk, where letters are delivered. Although he does not ask to see any himself, Verr Goldet has, ever so conveniently, splayed the envelopes out in such a way which allows him to see the names of each sender and their intended recipient. Your name is nowhere to be found; neither is his. He checks once, twice, thrice. Nothing again.
With nowhere to place his anxieties, Xiao finds himself toiling away at more monsters than before, clearing hilichurl camps and Ruin Guards at unprecedented rates, his pace constant, interludes arriving in the form of his return to Liyue's docks at night.
The moon's light splits the sea, and Xiao stares. Arms crossed, wind rustling through his clothes, sending shivers down the spines of passerby as they hurriedly rush home, the ocean wind and the night's chill posing an uncomfortable burden for most mortals. But Xiao remains as he is: waiting.
He has been waiting since the day you left. The first three days, he waited without any expectationsāhe had nowhere else to spend his time, and there was nothing wrong with surveying the sea.
(He wanted to be there in case you had decided to return early. You have always been a creature full of whims, after all.)
The fourth day, he waited a little longer than usual. Even after the moon began to settle across the opposite horizon, even when the sun's first light started to slice through the atmosphere, setting the obsidian sky ablaze, he waited. And no boat bore your presenceāthe glow, the radiance, the incomparableāand, he thought, maybe you had found something so interesting that made you stay in Inazuma a little longer.
Or maybe the return trip you had taken involved swimming instead of boating. Xiao wouldn't put such an outlandish idea above you, considering your adeptus status seems more like a suggestion than a fact.
And, if there were anything wrong, you would call him. You've always called him, whether it was for real danger, or to eradicate a handful of Hydro slimes.
The fifth day. He waits. Day breaks, and still, there is nothing. He looks around, noticing the many boats on the horizon, all departing but none returning, and he thinks that, really, you've always been cruel in this regard.
Time is not something that immortals are bound by. And to you, three days could mean anything: a couple minutes, a couple weeks. Xiao knows you to be particularly terrible at keeping him updated during your travels, and he knows you're the type of creature to get lost in your own endeavors, so enraptured you forget that the world beyond still exists.
Xiao is not fond of stillness. He values movement, whether it be the dance of his spear, or the press of his fingers over the pieces of a flute, and, truly, he cannot find it in himself to wait any longer. The bustle of the port has begun, and there is a duty he must uphold.
(But he manages a quick stop at the Inn. Verr Goldet, expecting him, has already laid out today's batch of delivered letters; again, your name and hisāa pairānowhere to be found.)
And so begins his routine. He makes quick work of the surrounding area, clearing camps and rogue slimes, ensuring that the trail for visitors remains untouched. Only when he sheds his mask does Xiao allow himself to look at the skyline. At birds, who fly in two; at the mountains, which tower above; at the dip of the hill, where the harbor remains, and where he was just a couple hours ago.
You will call him if anything happens.
With that thought, Xiao retires to the Inn's balcony, surveying the wide expanse of the land, the golden and orange hues, the blooming trees. He wonders what you're up to now, what matters are so pressing to have kept you for so long, what smile must be worn on your face as you mingle with humanity. Waiting; wonder; radiance. Xiao has learned to familiarize himself with these ideas when it comes to you.
Desire.
He supposes it must taste like a sweet dream. And it must look likeā
You.
"Xiao!"
The warm air shifts, contorting into a swarm of turquoise and black, dissipating to give way for the pelting of rain, the slam of thunder, the burst of lightning as it ricochets throughout the air, the ground rumbling from the impact. Inazuma. Donning his mask, Xiao fights.
Everything appears as a blur to himābefore he can even register what he's tearing into, the only thing that appears before him is a mangle of corpses, the iron sting of blood which wafts in the air, the elemental energy which emerges as a consequence of an adeptus's wound. He turns, ridding himself of his weapon, his mask, and he crouches down, the rain seeping through your clothes, your breaths coming out in gasps as your hand presses against the side of your neck.
"Hey," you manage to say, the slight tug of a smile contorting at your lips. Xiao reaches for your hand, peeling it from your neck, eyes narrowing at the gash which runs across your skin, just barely missing your vital points.
"You should've called me," he mutters, his words adorned with an indescribable heaviness, cradling your ruined body with both of his arms, bringing your head closer to his chest, the rampage of his heart threatening to burst through his ribs, desperate to reach you. It doesn't. But you grin and it nearly does.
"I did, though?" you reply, still as frustrating as ever.
"Earlier," he says. "You should've called me earlier."
You cough. Xiao brings you closer to himself, his hands coming to support your back while the other hooks under your knees. Tendrils of turquoise and black swarm around your figures, the thundering sky shifting to a grand blue. Liyue.
Verr Goldet says nothing about the sodden floors as a result of your appearance. She gestures towards a room, eyes wide at your state, and Xiao disappears behind the door, your figure still in his arms, your face pressed against the breaths of his skin, rising, then falling.
"That was so embarrassing," you remark, the shakiness of your voice not matching the tone of your words, your limbs limp as he rests you onto the bed. He thumbs at your face, wiping the rain, covering your eyes with his gloved palm. It's dark.
"Rest," he says.
It's dark. But even when sleep takes you, and when your labored breaths ease into normalcy, Xiao never once leaves your bedside. He remains, scrutinizing your every expression, the state of your wounds, its gradual healing over the night.
Desire.
His ribs curl inwards, his hands clasp around the hilt of his spear, his face wants to shrink into his mask. Desire. Xiao hopes it never takes this form again; the kind of form that exists in the midst of your absence, the kind of form that exists at the idea of your demise, the kind of form that makes him feel as though he must first die in order to live.
Desire.
It must taste like a sweet dream, it must feel like a warm body in his hands, it must look like you.
When you wake up, he's there, in the corner, arms crossed and leaning against the wall, eyes closed. You stir. He wakes. From his spot, he remains unmoving, head tilting slightly as he asks, "How do you feel?"
"Not good," you reply. Only when you try to sit up does Xiao meet you, his hands coming to your shoulder, opposite of the side your wound is on, and he presses you back into the mattress.
"Rest," he says, again. "You must heal."
Despite the steadiness of his voice, his expression betrays him. It's in the frantic movement of his eyes, tracing all over your skin, checking for wounds; the furrow of his brows, its vehemency forcing his lips downwards, the stir of his heart palpable.
Like flashes of light, flickering through crevices, dappling the ground, its radiance appearing as spots.
"I'm fine," you state.
His gaze tears from your neck to your own, wholly unconvinced.
"Have you no concern for your own wellbeing?"
"I know you're not the one telling me that right now."
Silence. It's broken by your laughter, your hand raised to wipe at forming tears as you congratulate yourself on being the funniest creature known to man. Xiao wonders if mankind lacks humor.
(But he would listen to you forever if he could.)
Desire; it must sound like this.
It's not often that Diluc returns to Dawn Winery at a reasonable hour.
"Has [Name] returned?" he asks Adelinde, lingering at the doorway, shrugging his coat off of his shoulders before hanging it on the rack. She looks up, lips drawn into a thin line as she shakes her head.
"Not yet, Master Diluc."
"Alright then. When they do arrive,"āhe speaks with utmost certainty, leaving no room for doubtā"let them know that I will be in the library. Also, hold off on serving dinner until then."
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you, Adelinde."
And so he retires to the shelves, thumbing through the many books of which he must finish reading, its piling stature next to yours. There's a stark contrast between the media you two consumeāyour books are all light novels from Inazuma, with titles so long they adorn the entire spine, whereas his are blank and devoid of any covers or titles at all. Still, they take up a substantial space of the Winery's library. He hasn't moved them since you slotted them there.
Why would he?
The Winery has reinvented itself, the walls shifting in accordance to the duration of which your gaze sweeps over their wooden frame, the chandelier lights aflame, brightening when you pass under their embrace, your face aglow.
It was a cold place following the death of his father; it found warmth again when you arrived. It's in the light novels which line the shelves, the drawings from Klee which you've hung up in the halls ("She said it's us!" you exclaimed, pointing towards a paper with two figures, both looking like disturbing phantoms), the dinner table, its length larger than life, once set for three, then one, and now, two.
Two.
Two coats on the rack, two pairs of shoes by the door, two stacks of books, two chairs by the fireplace. Like how the break of dawn bids farewell to the moon, making place for the sunālike how, as the first light pierces through the darkness, there is, most wonderfully, two. Two.
Diluc quite likes two.
What an odd title, he thinks, fingers dancing over the spine of one of your light novels, reading, "I Reincarnated as a Powerless F-Class Summoner, Until I Ate the Hair of the Number One Hero, and Became the King of Curses!"
... Huh?
Finding his seat, Diluc thumbs through the pages, finding where he last left his mark. Out slips a paperāa measly thing, reallyāwith an abhorrent drawing of what looks to be a man with red hair. Apparently, it's him.
You gave it to him following a contest with Klee, in which the two of you tried drawing with your non-dominant hand. Klee won, for reasons he thinks is glaringly obvious when he gazes upon whatever abomination exists amongst the pages of his book. Still, he peels the paper from its place, setting it down onto the table, carmine eyes lingering on its peculiar look for much longer than it probably took for you to create it.
He smiles a little. Truly, you should stick to your dominant hand.
Diluc only tears his attention from the words when he hears a hurried knock. He rises, slotting your gift back in between pages, running a hand through his hair as he opens the door, sleeves rolled towards the crease of his elbow.
"Master Diluc, forgive me for the interruption," Adelinde says, dipping her head. "But Master [Name] has yet to arrive."
He glances at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, a brow raised upon realizing that it's about to strike midnight; you're not one for late outings, often preferring to spend your weekends at home, toiling away at random quests, or hatching new schemes to terrorize Jean.
"That's odd," Diluc remarks, gaze returning to Adelinde. "I will search for them myself, then. Please prepare dinner while I am away."
She nods in responds. Diluc returns to the coat rack, occupied by one, before swinging the fabric over his shoulders, donning his gloves, peering past the window before realizing it's raining. He narrows his eyes at the sight; you loathe this type of weather.
They must be back at the city, then, he thinks. You'd rather take shelter than venture out in these sort of conditions. Regardless, in order to ease his own nerves, Diluc will meet you there. He brings an umbrella with him, just in case you'd like to return to the Winery tonight.
He does not bother using it for himself.
Or, maybeāhe unfurls its materialāhe should, considering all the times you've furrowed your brows upon seeing him soaked with rainwater, hurling profanities at him for letting his hair get all tangled. He doesn't care much about it; you do. For that reason alone, he raises the umbrella above his head, the sound of rain pelting against it as he walks outside.
The walk is peaceful. There are no hilichurl camps, no rogue abyss mages, no slimes to whack. With that, he allows his mind to wander adrift, to settle on a familiar subject, one that he often thinks towards whenever he finds interludes like this. You. Two.
He thinks of your incredulity when you see him again, pointing at him accusingly, cursing him for walking out in the rain and for getting his boots muddy. He thinks of your laugh when he tells you about that one peculiar light novel he saw on the shelf, how your words quicken when you explain its outlandish plot, how the title is actually important, how it's the pinnacle of literature. He'll purse his lips at your declaration, and you'll shoot him a glare. That'll fix him quiet.
And when you turn away, attention now belonging to one of your many hobbies, he'll continue to stare, long after the conversation has found its silence, long after your gaze departs from his. And it will be, most wonderfully, two.
The city in now in sight, Diluc's relaxed pace quickens a little, the familiar gates looming ahead, fingers tightening around the hilt of the umbrella. You'll be there, no doubt. You hate going out in the rain. Maybe you'll be in the Tavern, and the two of you can walk home from there. By the time you get back to the Winery, all will be prepared, and the two of you can eat together, and perhaps a little reading can be done by the fireplace, andā
"Get the healers!" a voice yells. There's commotion on the bridge, a handful of knights swarming around an unknown figure, one of them parting from the group to run back inside the city, searching for a nurse. Diluc raises a brow, but approaches the group anyway, umbrella in hand, asking a knight what happened.
"Oh, Diluc! We were just about to send someone your way! Actually, we found [Name]ā"
He shoves past the jostling bodies, eyes grown wide, umbrella forgotten to the floor as he makes his way towards the zenith, unable to contain the spasm of his chest as his stomach lurches at your mention. Though it is dark, Diluc can make out your figure, crumpled on the floor, blood seeping into the pebbles, the scent sickening.
Sometimes, life can change in an instant.
These words resound all throughout Diluc's mind as he crouches down, ripping his gloves off, checking for your pulse. It's there. He gathers your body into his arms, bringing you close to his chest, his movements quick yet steady as he carries you into the city, heading towards the cathedral.
Not again.
Diluc looks at you. In between your shaky breaths, you manage to peer through the rain, skin soaked, clothes even more so, and you return his haunted gaze with one full of wonder. He doesn't deserve such a look from you. He was late. You're bleeding out. He should've searched for you earlier, instead of wasting away at a book which will exist forever.
But what of you?
You exist within his arms in a manner unlike the one you take in his mind. You've always been a creature so full of light, the burn different from his ownābut the heat which once emanated from your skin now exists as viscous blood, seeping through his fingers, the redness sickening. And it feels as though you may disappear at any moment, the colossal vitality of your soulāradiant, inextinguishable, wholeānow fragile, ephemeral, and so terribly mortal.
Sometimes, life can change in an instant.
But, Diluc thinks, remembering his father's words, pressing your figure closer to himself, racing up the stairs towards the cathedral, not like this.
Despite it being midnight, a healer is quick to reach your side, elemental energy seeping into your wounds as your labored breaths ease over, one of your hands encased by both of Diluc's as he remains by your figure, never to be parted, not even by death.
"They've made it through the worst of it," the healer says, the light emanating from their hand coming to a halt, their head craned towards him. "All they need now is rest."
"Thank you," Diluc breathes, unable to contain the tremble of his hands as they tighten around yours, the shakiness reaching his voice. "Thank you, so much."
"It's no problem," the healer replies, rising to their feet, bidding Diluc a kind farewell with the dip of their head before retreating into the general prayer area, leaving the two of you within private quarters. Hunched over, his hands never part from yours, carmine eyes blown wide as they frantically retrace over your figure, gazing upon your bandages, the rise and fall of your chest.
Not again.
Many hours pass, and eventually, the sun reaches your room. To think the person made of light is now submerged in it; Diluc considers the sight to be sublime, like a reminder that dawn will always break, that there will always be light after darkness. And the worst of it has come to pass. And Diluc holds your hands within his, and he utters his thanks, over and over, trembling, genuflecting, overwhelmed with the enormity of an emotion that has existed as so many flames before.
There will be two.
There will always, always be two.
Hazily, your eyes peer open, slicing through the abyss, the universe now beholding light. And Diluc leans even closer towards you, the distance impossible, his thumb reaching to brush your face, tracing over the bone of your cheek, the curl of your lips. He looks you once over again, and then, he whispers, "How do you feel?"
"Like shit," you manage to say. He hands you a glass of water, one that he kept by your bedside, lifting it up to your lips and allowing you to drink. Swallowing, you then add, "That was embarrassing."
He doesn't find mirth in that remark. "What happened?"
"I was leaving for the winery, but halfway through,"āyou cough, and Diluc's eyes grow wide, hand now rubbing circles into your shoulder, unable to contain the fear which claws at his faceā"I got ambushed."
His expression darkens. "Who?"
You shake your head. "Don't know. But I'm fine, now!"
Tucking that knowledge away for later, Diluc finds it in himself to nod, to force a smile, though not reaching his lips, it comes easily to him whenever you're involved. And he grasps your hand within both of his once more, and he brings your knuckles to his mouth, and, across a thousand flames, across all the distance of which light must travel throughāa kiss.
Featherlight, yet his lips lingers there for longer than the action existed, serving as confirmation that the warmth he feels is yours. That the light remains inextinguishable, the colossal vitality whole, his soul complete.
Two.
There must always be two.
If it were up to him, Alhaitham would live a life of routine. The disruption of order results in the proliferation of problemsāconsequently, headaches for him to clean upāand, for the sake of his unbothered life, he'd prefer things to stay as they are.
This philosophy can also be applied to Alhaitham's perspective on socialization. With a life more comfortable than most, he has come to learn that being social is no necessity, and, in order to maintain his unbothered life, he would much rather keep the impression of him from others to be "unapproachable" and "difficult to get along with." Such titles work in his favor.
If it were up to him, Alhaitham would live a life of routine.
(The trick here is: "If it were up to him...")
With you on the loose, there is no such privilege as a routine. Alhaitham, your primary victim, feels this fact most tangibly in his frontal lobe, manifesting as a raging headache that he cannot get rid of. One day, you're dragging him along to check out some nonsensical weed you found, and the next, you're leaving stacks upon stacks of paperwork on his desk because you didn't follow protocol accordingly.
Still, he toils away at those papers (after downing a couple cups of coffee, and outsourcing half of the work to one of his assistants), and he makes no effort to swat your hand away whenever it encases his wrist. There is no use wondering why he lets you lead him astray; the answer is terribly obvious.
He likes you.
("So, why don't you tell them, then?!" Kaveh exclaimed, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair, damn near tearing it from his scalp as Alhaitham thumbs through the pages of his book, uncaring.
("They never asked."
("You're supposed to tell people that you like them! You can't be serious right now..."
("I think my actions are sufficient evidence," Alhaitham stated. Who else could keep him despite it not being working hours? Who else could drag him so carelessly, it feels as though he's some dog on a leash? Who else could talk his ears off, yet not once prompt him to reach for his soundproofing earpieces?
(Who else, if not you?
("Because they won't know unless you tell them!"
("Then, that's for them to discover later.")
Despite being renown for your novel discoveries, pioneering your field, leading lecture halls and developing new theoriesāyou have never once picked up on any of Alhaitham's favoritism towards you. While Alhaitham does acknowledge that book learning alone is not enough to cultivate intelligence, you're in a different category in itself. You're just oblivious. There's nothing he can do about that.
It's because of that fact that Alhaitham's turquoise eyes linger on the clock for longer than he usually doesāyou wouldn't know that he favors you over others, so you wouldn't know that he would wait for you despite being thirty minutes late to your appointment.
He doesn't rule out you forgetting that the two of you were supposed to meet; you've always had a bad habit of letting things slip your mind whenever you get lost in your own research. Your brightness serves as a double-edged sword in that regard. Still, Alhaitham thinks, tearing his gaze from the clock, opening his book, drifting across the lines. This is taking longer than usual.
Thirty more minutes, then.
The tavern is bustling with people, the cacophony unheard by his ears as he dons his earpieces. Every so often, Alhaitham glances up, attention fixated on the door, waiting for it to slide open and to reveal your figure. Nothing. He returns to his book. The cycle repeats a couple times over, but eventually, Alhaitham shuts his book, and he prepares to retire home for the day. You probably forgot.
Taking the last sip of his drink, Alhaitham rises from his seat, weaving in between the drunken bodies, the heads thrown back into laughter he cannot hear. Then, the door he's approaching swings open, a figure heaving for breath, hunched forward, as they loiter at the door. Alhaitham raises a brow at the sight.
"You're late," is all he says. You glance at him, still catching your breath, and your lips part to say something, but Alhaitham doesn't quite grasp at what you're talking about. The world is still silent, yet he observes you thoughtfully, eyeing you once, twice, thrice, before settling on your moving lips.
How troublesome. He shoves any thoughts he's having down his mind, and he lifts the soundproofing from his ears.
Still, your lips move, and he hears nothingājust a quiet pop! from the action.
Why does he bother with you, again?
(Oh, that's right, he thinks. It's because he likes you, and you always slip in between the fingers of his philosophy, forcing through the order with chaos, prying him from solitude to listen to your rambles. You're troublesome. You're disorderly. This begs the next question: Why does he like you, again?)
You grin upon seeing his exasperated look, exclaiming, "I was saying nothing this whole time!"
(But then you grin that grin of yours, the curl meeting your eyes, head tilting, expression so utterly impressed with yourselfāand Alhaitham thinks that, really, there is no question at all. You've made a lover of him. Troublesome, disorderly, loud.
(And yet, he remains as he is. Yours.)
"How hilarious," he states, voice remaining completely neutral.
You laugh, and Alhaitham notices the way your brows furrow a little, the way your hand curls, raising slightly towards your abdomen before retracting. And you turn away from him, retreating into the tavern, trusting he'll follow without the need to look back for confirmation, and Alhaitham notices the awkward pace to your gait, the way you prefer one foot over the other, the way you wobble despite being sober.
He just blinks. There are no other tells in his expressionāa trait which he can attribute to your obliviousness regarding his favoritism towards youābut, there is the way he matches your pace, the way his eyes linger over your form, tracing the familiar, settling on one spot upon much consideration, condensed into a couple seconds.
Your abdomen. Something happened.
Alhaitham is not one to flower his speech with rhetoric; speaking factually and simply has always been his preferred form of communication.
You sit down. He sits across from you. Before you can even order a drink, Alhaitham asks, "What happened?"
You spare him a guilty glance. "Nothing."
"You're hurt," he then states, leaving no room for argument. "Why?"
As if such an observation flipped a switch, your eyes begin to lose their focus, your fingers tightening around the edge of the table as if to stabilize yourself, head lolling forward slightly, stopped only by the quick jolt of your figure. You sit up straighter. You don't look him in the eye. You crack a nervous laugh. He is unfazed.
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"Are you saying I look ugly?"
"I'm saying that you're hurt."
Only you could ever make him repeat himself. But his patience can only run so far. Alhaitham damn near reaches for your shirt himself, ready to figure out whatever it is you're hiding, but before he can, your head lurches backwards completely, your hands parting from the table as you fall from your seat.
He stands, figure leaning over the table, arm outstretched to catch you, your eyes half-lidded as you stare at the hanging lights without any form of response to such a bright stimulus. With this, Alhaitham reaches your side, crouching to bring you closer to the ground, your back still supported by his arm as he peels your shirt from your abdomen.
Bandages. Blood. You've done a messy job at cleaning up, it seems, for the gauze is unraveling and the wound seems to pulsate underneath. Alhaitham does not wince at the sight, and his lips remain slotted into their line, but his eyes meet yours, darting to and fro, the movement quick and, laced in between the speed, is frenzy.
His mind is racing, possibly outpacing his heart, possibly affecting the curl of his fingers as they tighten around your arm. And he gathers your body into his arms and he leaves the tavern without a single moment of hesitation, rushing you to the hospital, forgetting all about the bill or the rumors which will spread unfavorably about him because of this. People may start saying that he's a kindhearted soul; people may say that he has a soft spot for you; people may consider him to be reliable.
He doesn't need these facts to be revealed to the public, to affect his prospects at a comfortable, unbothered life. But then again, Alhaitham wonders why he's even fathoming such an idea when it's you he loves. Troublesome, disorderly, loud.
The door to the hospital slams open upon his arrival, and he wastes no time getting you to the physicians, watching your body get carried behind doors he cannot enter. He remains standing for a while, before realizing that there are seats, and he finds his spot there. Waiting.
In order to deter people talking to him, he pulls out a book, and he puts on his earpieces. But he remains acutely aware of the door where he last saw you, waiting for it to slide open, to reveal your figure, whole, and that grin of yours which he believes to be akin to some sort of hypnosis spell.
Thirty minutes. An hour. Two hours. Alhaitham waits.
Then, the door slides open. He stands. The physician tells him the wound has been infected, and he just nods at that, thinking that, with the shabby bandages you had wrapped, it's no wonder why such an outcome would arrive. But that doesn't make him worry any less. No, if anything, it only makes him even more concerned.
"So, how are they?" he asks, wasting no time on pleasantries or answering the questions that the physicians have for himself.
"They're doing well now," a doctor explains, "but, we will be prescribing them some medication. It must be taken daily, for two weeks, before their first meal."
"I'll handle that," Alhaitham states, hand outstretched, receiving the pill bottle. He doesn't think you'll remember your own schedule. He also thinks that this sort of incident should be avoided from now on; and so, the only logical decision is for him to monitor your intake on your behalf.
A couple moments later, you're discharged, and Alhaitham walks you home. His pace is considerably slower, his earpieces unworn, his hand supporting your waist as you watch your steps.
"Why did you try to hide your wounds?" he asks. Though you don't point it out, Alhaitham notices the slight widen of your eyesāyou must've felt the way his fingers curled tighter around your side at the question. He doesn't make any effort to do anything else with that fact. You'll figure it out eventually.
"I was late to our appointment," you reply, scratching the side of your face. "I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer."
Alhaitham exhales a noticeable breath. He'd wait for you long past working hours, into the depths of the night, in loud and bustling environments which he finds no pleasure ināthere's no need for you to do such reckless things.
Don't you know that you've already garnered his favor?
(Oh, that's right, he thinks again. You don't.)
"Is it that, or were you just desperate for a drink to ward the pain away?" he queries. You swat him with your hand. He doesn't budge at the action.
"Why're you speaking like I'm some alcoholic?!"
"I never said that,"āhe eyes you over thoughtfully, noticing the way you don't clutch at your abdomen, the way you don't wince upon swatting him awayā"and, if you said it, that must mean you've thought it many times before."
"What?! That's not how it works!"
"It's called a Sreudian Flip."
"Ugh, enough with your big words!"
"If you think that's a big word, then I have some bad news for you once you graduate from elementary education."
You swat him again, hexxing him under your breath. Alhaitham, terribly unmoved and terribly terrible (in your words), bears the subtlest of smiles, the usual line of his lips morphed into a shape that, really, feels as though it belongs to you.
He'll figure out what happened later; for now, just this is enough.
All that a samurai needs is wine, song, and a blade.
Kazuha considers his life to be quite full in that regard. With a disposition dependent on movement, Kazuha considers himself to be quite whole while he's wandering. Meeting new people, seeing new horizonsāhis already-full world somehow makes space to become even larger, fitting more memories, remembering more names.
All that a samurai needs is wine, song, and a blade.
ButāKazuha looks at you, your gaze casted downwards, eyebrows furrowed as you weave blades of grass together, the intricacies forming a checkered pattern, the shape making a basketāwhat a samurai wants is different.
("We'll be making a pit stop at Liyue," Beidou announced a day earlier, gesturing towards the many crates, full of deliveries from Inazuma. "Prepare for a two-night stay!"
(The sailors, a majority of which hailing from Liyue, rejoiced. They celebrated so vehemently during the stillness of the night, that their singing voices accompanied the lap of the waves, water kissing the boat, Kazuha's legs dangling overboard as he tried to tune their peculiar melodies out. He could not.
("Must they always be so loud?" he muttered, not really for anyone to respond. But someone laughed. He looked over, surprised despite knowing you were already thereāyour presence is unmistakable, after allāand you pat his back, head tilted to the side.
("You mean to tell me that this isn't music to your ears?"
(Kazuha returned your smile with his own, its meaning adorned with a different tinge.
("Not quite."
(Your smile has always existed as the inevitableālike the promise that the sun will return, like the promise that the wind will passābut to him, it is not so simple. There are lots of things to smile about in this world. When Kazuha looks at you, though, it feels as if all he needed was one.
(Joining him by the ledge, you leaned forward, gazing upon the sea. Kazuha admired the ocean through your irises, wondering what you sawāhe thought it to be quite poetic, seeing beauty admire beauty.
("You won't hear their voices anywhere else," you remarked, wind tousling your clothes. You never once tore your gaze from the water. Kazuha never once tore his gaze from you.
("Perhaps that is for the better?" he suggested. You laughed again. That sound stayed with him for much longer than it did in the air.)
"Do you have any plans in Liyue Harbor, Kazuha?" you ask, setting your grass basket down, sparing him a quick glance before your gaze settles itself onto your handiwork once more.
"Not much," he responds. "And you?"
You beam. "I'm so glad you asked. I'm going to go make some kites, and get some materials for some more grass baskets!"
Kazuha nods along, the image of you harvesting blades of grass tugging at his lips a little, the subtlest of smiles sweeping across his expression.
"Mind if I join you?"
"Not at all!"
Perhaps there'll be a nice, sunny rock for him to nap on after picking some grass. It's been a while since he last got an afternoon break in; traveling via ship has no lack of maintenance, after all.
Upon arriving at Liyue Harbor, and anchoring The Crux, deboarding various sailors and cargo as you and Kazuha slip in between the masses, escaping the dock swiftly, your gaze fixated towards the market.
In Liyue, Kazuha thinks you shine gold.
It's in the warm lights which illuminate your skin, the crinkle of your eyes when you recognize the kites you've been dreaming of, the slight curl of your fists as you weave through the crowds, chatting to the vendor as if you've known them your whole life.
Warm.
You tell Kazuha you'll be here for a while, and he nods, letting you know that he'll do a round of the marketplace before returning to you. Without giving him a chance to wave goodbye, you return to haggling with the vendor, pointing at various fabrics, asking about their material and their advantages.
Warm.
Kazuha spares one last glance at you before turning away, glancing to and fro, observing the lanterns above and the reinvention of Liyue Harbor in preparation for a festival. It's quite pretty, he thinks. It's nice being here with you.
While admiring some jades, he notices a faint ripple in the wind, its gentle breeze more akin to a gust as it wisps past his face, the ferocity unusual. Head tilted towards the sky, Kazuha mulls over his thoughts, departing from the ore vendor and returning to where he last saw you, with all the kites, face adorned by that grin of yours, eyes blown wide as if set ablaze.
He emerges from the crowd. Nothing. The kite vendor is gone, and so are you. His brows furrow a little, but the pace of his gait remains steady, sifting through the many people as he searches for a trace of your light, existence tangible in bursts of radiance.
The wind races past him again; if he wasn't nervous before, Kazuha feels it beginning to creep on him now. It's in the chill which follows the breeze, the goosebumps which ripple throughout his skin following the wind's kiss across the length of his arm. He feels the familiar hilt of his blade under his hand despite not holding anything at all.
Where are you?
Kazuha's senses are keenly attuned to this world. He can hear the giggles of children, the rustle of the trees, the shouts of vendors as they advertise their goods. He can hear the quickened footsteps, the hushed murmurs, the frantic gasps followed by a pulsating light. He follows it, the brilliance, and it takes him out of the Harbor, where rolling fields of grass overlook the sea and where the indents of footsteps can be discerned from the dirt.
It's getting warmer.
Then, the clash of blades. Kazuha draws his sword and he runs. The wind channeling into his feet, giving him a burst of speed, he follows the line of light until he can make out a familiar figure, weapon in hand, cornered and in front of two civilians as they cower from a Stonehide Lawachurl, its enormity unfathomable, forcing him to crane his head upwards as it hurls its arm back.
Kazuha knows you to be a formidable fighter; the two of you have crossed blades a handful of times, your prowess unmistakable whenever the duel draws to its zenith. But he also knows you to be terribly selfless. It's a trait that he finds serves your radiance well, drawing moths to a flameābut, there will always be a burn.
Always.
The warmth is no different from heat, after all.
He's too late. The wind can only get him so far; the swing of the Lawachurl's hand slams forth, and you shoulder the impact with your Vision, channeling energy into your weapon, your body a shield in front of the two civilians, sight devoured by the Lawachurl's body.
He can't make out your face, but he can hear your breaths, the rhythmic tempo of the wind, channeling your heartbeat to his own. You're alive. You survived the worst of it.
He rushes forth, wind drawn into his blade, and he pierces the monster's back, taking its attention for himself. In between the roars and the emergence of rocks from the ground, Kazuha's eyes find yours, those minute seconds serving as enough for him to continue onwards. You're alive. He's late, but he made it. You're alive.
Warm.
The feeling eats away at him while he's fighting, dulling his senses as his mind is preoccupied with that haunting image of your face, brows furrowed, jaw clenched, free hand clutching onto your side as you hunch forwardāhe should've left earlier. If he had been a couple seconds faster, if he had listened to the wind just moments before, if he had kept an eye on you and not lost himself in the beauties which only pale in comparison to your own, this could've all been avoided.
But Kazuha no longer wants to be the type who dwells on what's already done; journeying with The Crux has taught him to keep moving forward, to wear his experiences but not to let them weigh him down. And so, he fights.
The scent of your blood, the sound of your voice as you usher the civilizans away, the uneven rhythm to your stepsāKazuha recognizes it all. With the final pierce of his blade through the Lawachurl's heart, its Geo shield long gone, it dissipates, leaving nothing but a couple of masks and bones, his breaths haggard as he glances in the direction of the light.
You're there. The civilians are gone, but you're not.
He withdraws his blade, racing towards you, crossing the expanse of the field, the distance of what feels like a thousand years shortened to but a few seconds. His hand reaches for your face, as if to confirm your existence. Then, he glances towards your abdomen, brows furrowed, eyes narrowing as he examines the wound, the iron sting in the air, the crimson which seeps through your clothes.
"We need to get you to a doctor," he mutters, removing his scarf, tying it around your side. "Can you walk? How do you feel?"
The wind shifts, as if to convey the extent of his worry. Kazuha has often been described to be rather mellow in terms of whatever life throws his wayābut when it threw you, a star, what else can he do but to wish upon it? To catch it, to grasp at the light which emanates from his palm? To feel its warmth, the colossal heat, the reminder of vitality which extends far beyond himself, beyond the world!
"I'm fine. We need to get the others back to the hospital, first." you respond. He blinks, almost in disbelief that you'd lie so blatantly, but also, acceptance. Frankly, he expected that sort of response from you.
"Why don't we all go together?" he suggests.
You nod. "What a genius idea."
He finds it in himself to laugh a little, the sound relieved, settling over the ferocious rampage of his heart as it threatens to burst from its cage of ribs. The image haunts him still; he scent of blood is so terribly potent. But you're here. He dips his head, swinging your arm over his shoulders, his hand wrapping around your waist as he ushers you towards the Harbor, the sound of your breaths overshadowing the beat of his own life.
Warm. His gloved fingers curl, letting the heat seep into his gloves, the vitality aflame.
(The sun has set, the bustling Harbor quieting into a gentle lull.
("Kazuha?" Beidou calls, a hand on her hip as she observes him thoughtfully, patting him aggressively on the back after her examination is complete. "What're you doing here?"
(Kazuha wrinkles his nose a little, the scent of alcohol overpowering his senses. Just how much did she have to drink?
("I'm waiting for [Name]," he replies, his back leaning against the walls of the hospital, arms crossed as he stands guard over the entrance. Beidou likens him to a bouncer. He doesn't deny the comparison.
("Did something happen to them?" Beidou asks, eye growing wide. She doesn't miss the slight curl of his fingers at the thought. Still, his voice remains steady as he speaks.
("They were attacked on the outskirts of the Harbor," he explains, quietly, as though speaking loudly would accrue bad luck. "They're fine now, though. The physicians are tending to their wounds."
("Must be rough, huh," Beidou remarks, her contorted expression dissipating upon hearing that you're doing fine now. "I hope you're not taking it too badly though, Kazuha. I know you have a habit of bearing burdens. Let it go, yeah?"
(Kazuha nods, but the sentiment is easier said than done. The thought nags at him, the wretched idea of being just a second earlier, the decision he made to survey the marketplace instead of staying by your sideālots of things could've turned out differently. But he did what he did; he can't go back. All he can do is look forward.
("It must be rougher though, knowing that it involves [Name]," Beidou says, chuckling a little. "Young love, huh?"
(Kazuha's gaze parts from the captain to stare upon the sea. Its rolling waves, the glow of the moon, the scent of salt, the absence of seagulls. He smiles a little, the haunting now replaced with that of irrevocable radiance.
(He doesn't respond, but nature speaks on his behalf. The tide ebbs and flows, the lanterns flicker on, and warmth returns to the Harbor with the slide of the hospital door, your figure stumbling through. Kazuha turns to you, Beidou too, and you smile, the mirth anew.
("Sorry, did you wait long?" you ask. Beidou laughs, saying she just got here, but that she'll give you two some space. Kazuha shakes his head.
("You're just in time," he replies, hand outstretched, receiving yours, interlacing, the crevices in between your fingers just large enough to fit hisānature's thoughtful intention, he surmises.)
; yandere phainon, modern au, not proofread, implied age-gap (older woman/younger man), female (y/n), some coercion in the end, freak internnon....
the newest intern, a third-year college student named phainon, has taken a liking to you the same way a baby chick does to its mother hen. quite the sight considering his tall height and broad shoulders.
he often waddles not too far behind you in the office as he holds stacks of documents close to his chest, if you turn around, you'll see his big, blue eyes looking up at you in wonder and guidance. his mouth runs amok, firing question after question, inquiring about any spreadsheets that needed fixing or if you wanted a pastry from the nearby cafe.
he was quick to attach himself to you during his first week of internship. when you questioned him, he earnestly said,
"well, you're the department head... i wanna learn as much as possible from you, miss!"
anaxa, whose cubicle was close enough to hear the younger man's voice, hummed in amusement, "looking for brownie points, most likely."
phainon squawked at him, frantically telling you again and again that the older man was sorely mistaken. you merely waved him off, telling him to go back to his own cubicle, and went on with your day.
regardless of the actual reason, he's become an extension of yourself. wherever you go, in and out of meetings, flitting to and fro, checking up on employees' progress, phainon is there with you. a self-assigned assistant - standing upright, notepad in hand, and incredibly eager to work.
he's a clingy intern, you'll admit. miles better than the slacker and negligent employees under your department, however, so you let him do as he pleases.
phainon arrives early to work just to ensure he'll be first in line at the cafe, securing your preferred pastry and beverage so he can dutifully deliver it to your office. it's done out of his own volition, scoured from his own pockets, so even as you accept it with gratitude, you still say your mandated line,
"thank you, phainon, but you don't have to do this."
he's only an intern, after all. a temporary addition to your department. but his sunny smile never wanes, just waves off your reminder and assures you that it was no problem for him. he'll exit your office, not before picking up the pile of documents on your desk, telling you that he'll distribute them around himself.
you thank him once more right before the door closes. your work resumes, still accompanied by him through the pastry and coffee given.
any time you exit your office, phainon rushes to stand up from his chair to resume his place by your side. his overzealous nature prompts a remark from you during water break,
"if it's anyone you should be sucking up to, doing favors for the ceo would do more wonders. not me, phainon."
phainon, mid-sip on his paper cup, frowns at you. "i'm not sucking up to just anyone, miss."
he looks down and adjusts his collar, though you surmise it's just a nervous habit of his, "i like working for you because you're a good boss."
he says it like you're the only 'good boss' in this company. aglaea, for all her cold front, is one of the department heads who springs to the forefront of your mind when thinking of a 'good boss'.
it's truly hard for you to understand how your intern's mind works, so you give up on understanding him altogether.
you nod, chucking your paper cup into the trashcan, heels clicking as you return to the office, "i see. thank you for your kind words."
he beams up at you with that signature sunny smile of his, obediently following after you. he pays no mind to how he's unanimously perceived to be the office's 'sunshine boy' - puppy-like in his mannerisms and heart frighteningly sincere.
phainon couldn't tell a lie even if it cost him his life.
your naive intern made the ignorant decision of staying behind to accompany you on your overtime work. a puzzling choice on his part, considering the extra work won't be accounted for in his internship hours. you brought it up to him, unable to see why the internship seems to be the last thing on his mind.
all phainon did was smile boyishly and told you, "i want to look after you, miss."
you quirk your brow. still, you leave him to his own devices.
later on, when you inevitably part ways in the parking lot after he had insisted on walking you there, you're halfway through sitting down when you hear him gasp in realization.
"what is it?"
"sorry miss, but the last bus left hours ago..."
he's sheepishly scratching his nape and avoiding eye contact, roses sprouting on his cheeks and ears, looking every bit and part of the college intern that he is.
you sigh, gesturing to the passenger seat.
you'll be driving him home.
your intern, commendable work ethic he may have, still causes you headaches in the most unorthodox ways. the sight of him bowing his head in shame, looking so guilty, as you drive in silence reinforces his title in the office as 'sunshine boy'.
you supress your laugh with a cough.
three weeks before his internship ends, phainon grows erratic.
he was inseparable before, but he clings like a parasite now - bringing you your daily pastry and beverage isn't enough, he must be there in your office to watch you work and eat. as you down the last remnants of your beverage, you can't help but feel like an animal on display.
he sticks close to you during celebration dinners, too. a submission passed onto a different department usually warrants a meal at one of the nearby restaurants, and phainon, the overgrown parasite that he is, never lets you stray from his vision. not even for a second. he holds the restaurant door open for you, makes sure to sit next to you, and ensures that the majority of your conversations involve him in some way, shape, or form.
just like the first time, phainon always stays behind when you're required to work overtime despite your suggestion for him to go home. he has several excuses on his sleeves, each one showcasing his sincerity and genuine wish to look out for you.
it must be lonely being the only employee on this floor, miss...
some shady employee from the other department might find out that you're alone... so think of me as a guard dog!
i can help with the spreadsheets, miss! i wouldn't want you to overwork yourself.
are you hungry? i can make a quick trip outside if you'd like, miss.
haven't you heard of the ghost stories popping up recently? wait, are you superstitious?
despite his overbearing presence, you acknowledge the zealous nature that comes with being an intern - the drive to appeal to your temporary boss to maximize the results. if you dig around your memories, you can recall the time when you were similar to him. wide-eyed and tripping over your feet, hoping that your subservient nature will land you a permanent spot after the internship ends.
reluctantly, you let him stay behind, and you agree to drive him to his apartment complex each time.
a day is shaved off his internship, and the parasite known as phainon continues to spread throughout your body, clinging and clinging, as if he knows nothing else. he no longer walks behind, but beside you.
plainly passing by anaxa's cubicle brings forth a remark from him,
"another centimeter closer, and the two of you will be merged together until the next prophesied era nova."
you click your tongue but stay silent.
you begin to understand why marketing department head aglaea holds such a grudge against him - you might too, if he keeps this up. you continue your usual routine of checking up on your employees' progress, ignoring the hulking figure known as phainon breathing down your neck.
while going around the office, you encounter employees who praise you for taking such great care of the intern. but their perspectives are limited, unseeing of how tightly he's come to cling, so their words are ultimately discarded.
but phainon is only an intern, a temporary addition. you can hold on until his contract ends, until he goes back to his college.
on the drive home, an employee's words get stuck in your head,
phainon is a scarily optimistic intern, i wouldn't mind him becoming an actual employee in our department once he graduates!
... you hope not.
on the last day of phainon's internship, tears are shed. employees all around the office are mourning the loss of their 'sunshine boy'. they're out there hosting him a miniature farewell party, imparting their wishes and good luck's onto the soon-to-be ex-intern.
you chose to stay in your office, coming up with a lie that your ceo tasked you with urgent work. you know it won't abate him forever, but you still savor the brief moments of solitude. the parasite attached to your skin will be forcibly ripped away, allowing you to breathe in air and walk through the office without a second shadow.
you, for one, couldn't be any happier.
the sun is beginning to set by the time he knocks. you expected him, so you tell him to come inside without missing a beat.
standing a few feet away from you is the intern who has been hellbent on being with you every waking moment inside this skyscraper building. he's dressed in his usual white button-up, blue tie, and black slacks. he closes the door behind him with a soft click. then he strides over to you.
"i'll be going today, miss." he announces the obvious, blue eyes boring into yours.
"i know, phainon." you stop typing, looking up to give him a microscopic smile, "i'm grateful for all the time spent with you. i wish you good luck with your studies."
phainon smiles, eyes slightly crinkled. he cocks his head to the side and asks, "is that so? how grateful, miss?"
he looms over your desk and continues, "grateful enough to give me a goodbye kiss, perhaps?"
he's blatantly flirting, you note with apprehension; his last day here seems to remove any inhibitions he previously had. it confirms the theory swirling around in your mind for weeks now.
while you initially agreed with anaxa that phainon's behavior was for his internship rating, that speculation fell apart the moment he willingly stayed behind during your overtime shift. you appreciate the admiration, however,
"you know i don't think of you that way, phainon."
it's a clean cut rejection, leaving no threads behind for hope to sprout. not too harsh, not too lenient either.
but phainon is persistent - a characteristic repeatedly shown throughout his internship. it's shown in how he stubbornly stuck to your side, waiting for a bone that will never come to be tossed his way. it's shown in the way he's still standing here in your office.
he advances an inch forward, hungry in a way you've never known. when he pleads, it's a borderline whimper, "please?"
you shake your head, "phainon."
he truly whimpers now, brows pinched together as if physically pained by your refusal. taking a deep breath, he leans over your desk, startlingly close enough to beg into your ear,
"please, miss. i don't want you to be some far-fleeting dream... please."
phainon inches away only to survey your stupefied expression. he waits, then, when he sees you intending to move away, his hand cups your face to render you still.
"phainon, let go." you hiss out, anger beginning to build. you're in the middle of scratching at his forearm when he solemnly speaks,
"i didn't want to do this, miss," without much effort, he towers over you, blue eyes seeming to glow, "but i'll report you to the HR."
you freeze, frowning up at him, "what?"
"i'll tell them you came onto me," he relays it to you with no sympathy in his voice, knowing full well what this will do to you, "i'll tell them that you demanded me to kiss you if i wanted to pass my internship."
his blunt nails dig into your skin, yet you're numb to any pain he might inflict, not when he dangles your future like a carrot on a stick, "i'll tell everyone partying out there that you've been blackmailing me to be your errand boy, that you've been forcing me to stay with you during overtime. i'll tell them everything if you won't kiss me."
phainon is the perfect picture of a naive and flawless intern, devastatingly so. they'll believe him - he knows this, too.
he licks his lips, mouth salivating at what comes next. drooling like he knows he has you hook, line, and sinker. so close to slobbering all over your face and blouse like the dirty mutt that he actually is.
"so please," he leans down, intent on meeting you halfway. "i'm begging you, kiss me."
aka intern phainon's guide to combating power imbalance... just turn the tables on your department head, duh! :)
Warnings: noncon, MDNI, rough sex, cumming inside, unprotected p in v, forced relationship, slight breeding kink if you squint, creampies, yandere, captivity, dd:dne, if you're uncomfortable with such content, filter the tags or block my blog, stay safe!
do not romanticize or normalize dark content irl.
Yandere Boyfriend! who's so vocal when he's nonconning you, he just cannot shut up because you feel too good!!
His loud moans echo off the walls as he drills his cock into you with a frantic pace, biting his lips and shutting his eyes tight at the way your walls clench around him.
āFuck baby, fuck, you feel so good.ā He'd praise you, grabbing your hips as leverage and pressing his forehead against yours, he'll hold you tightly so you don't have anywhere to escape or back up.
Lewds gaps and whines leave his mouth with every thrust, lips quivering all while he whimpers, feeling the pleasure course through his spine.
You could be crying, trying to push him away, but he'll simply pin you down, before leaning down and whispering nasty things into you ear.
āYou act like you don't want it butā fuck oh! babyā you squeeze me so tiiiight.ā He'd gasp, staring at you with a gaze so sweet it makes you want to throw up.
Every moan, gasp, and whine of his feels like a mockery to you, and his words and praises just rub salt on the wound.
āGoshā ah! *plap* you're taking me *plap* so well.ā He'd coo, pressing kisses to your neck, leaving his marks and bites all over you.
He'd be looking so flushed too, like he's pussydrunk, you swear you could see literally hearts form in his eyes after he spends a few seconds buried in your cunt, staring at you with such neediness.
You really hate it when he gets to your clit, he doesn't have a hard time pressing into the certain spot that makes you gasp before he's rubs fast circles on it. You hate it because he always knows how to make you feel good, even if you're a crying mess, he will still rip an orgasm out of you forcefully.
Because he wants you to be his crying mess who's also cumming over his cock <3
He will make sure you always cum first before he does, why? Because he loves to see the way your eyes widen when your orgasm is near, internally trying to fight it, yet you fail so miserably, with your back arched as it finally hits you like a big wave.
He loves to see the effect he has on you, just like he loves to show you the effect you have on him.
And when he finally cums, it's followed with the most pornographic moan a person could ever let out, only that it's so genuine in his caseā the loud moan would break into small whimpers as he rides his orgasm out, slowly sliding in and out of you while his cock twitches and spurts his cum into your walls.
He'd pull out with a gasp, missing your warmth so much, he wants to be buried inside you forever if he could, he wants to be so close to you :(
He'd scoop up his cum that would be leaking and and push it inside you again to knock you up as soon as possible, before licking his fingers clean, loving the taste of your essence and his mixed together.
āI love you so so so much.ā He'd cuddle into you, wrapping his frame around yours as you lay there, staring up at the ceiling.
A few more minutes of recovery before he's up and energetic again, you tense up knowing what's coming, it's only the beginning, every session needs a minimum of three rounds for him, or it just feels incomplete for him!
ā yuta okkotsu, gojo satoru, choso kamo, izuku midoriya, kylar the loner, sydney the fallen, mahito (idk why I put him in here), yuji itadori, + feel free to imagine any character you like!
(sorry for mistakes, English is not my native language)
Hello, please forgive me, but if possible, can I receive a birthday greeting from LI?
Of course!! They would both text you in the morning before you wake up.
Nalis:
Thaumo:
Iām sorry this is a little late! I was on call after my shift & ended up staying pretty late at work. Happy birthday from the developer as well, & I really hope you get to do something fun today!!
What kind of romantic dates do Thaumo and Nalis like to go on?
Nalis already loves going on friendly trips to the arcade with you, but heād love going as a date too! Nalis would also enjoy watching a movie together (especially horror or something that would make you cry). Heād enjoy a laser tag date too (know that he would look for every excuse/opportunity to corner you during this).
Thaumo doesnāt go out very often (unless heās stalking/ācoincidentallyā running into you). Heās extremely cuddly & would consider just cuddling at home to be a perfect date. When you do want to go out he would enjoy an aquarium date, or something like getting ice cream or crepes together!
hiii! i played the rough demo and i loved it <3 i love nalis sm (and thaumo too unfortunatelyā¦)
i donāt know if this has been asked before but how would the two of them react to a mc that is very physically affectionate? i am pretty sure thaumo would loveee it and get more greedy with the affection but how would nalis feel about it?
Iām so happy that you enjoyed the rough demo!! & liking either of them is unfortunate šš
Iāve answered something similar for Thaumo, but not for Nalis yet!
Nalis is just now realizing that heās even capable of developing feelings. A lot of this is very new to him and heās kinda slow with this stuff lol. Nalis wouldnāt realize that he wants physical affection until it happens.
Heād be stunned at first as his brain tries to catch up and process the fact that he really really likes something he never even considered before. Heād be very caught off guard by his own feelings.
ā¦And that makes Nalis more dangerous. The more he realizes he likes you, cares about you, and wants things from you, the less in-control he feels over his emotions. And that scares him and makes him want to find other ways to steal that control back.
So donāt hug him or youāll send him into an identity crisis that leads to even worse yandere behavior lol.
I wanna have the Mario Kart experience with Nalis, Thaumo, and Tremo. What characters would they choose to be and what would playing with them be like?
Nalis would play as Bowser. If youāre decent at Mario Kart youāll have some really close, competitive, and fun games together. Nalis gives it his all every race, but he actually prefers losing! Nothing gets his heart racing like a close game that he loses last minute. His favorite map is rainbow road (any/all versions) (he also likes chooses mirror maps) š¤¦āāļø
Thaumoā¦ š¬. To start heās going to pretend he has no idea what heās doing so youāre forced to teach him how to play. Then heās not even going to play it right- his goal isnāt to win, itās to drive as close to you as possible while keeping other races as far from you as possible. Heād also make it his goal to āaccidentallyā sabotage Nalis whenever he can. Heās really more like a guard dog than someone to race against. I think heād play as Metal Mario, or heād pick a character that matches/goes well with whoever you choose.
Tremo would play as Waluigi because heās tall & purple like she is lol. Sheās the type who would blankly stare at you if you hit her with a shell, but not even acknowledge you as she hits you with a shell. Her favorite map is Walluigi Pinball.
If i take them to the movies what would they want to watch? What snacks are they getting?
Nalis would enjoy monster movies like Godzilla! I think heād like some sci-fi & horror movies too, especially the more creative & weird ones. He doesnāt like slow/āslice of lifeā type movies, but as long as he can joke with you during the movie heāll have fun and be happy to spend time with you. Heād get popcorn, but heād squeeze lemon on it.
Thaumoās main goal when watching a movie is to make you hold his hand or cuddle him, so heās most likely to choose movies based on that. His constant need for your attention just doesnāt have an off switch. Heād also enjoy movies about people trying to escape a location or situation - he likes thinking about how heād get out of those situations (and also taking ideas to corner/trap you if needed.) Heād either get a cherry or blue raspberry ICEE or something to share with you!
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