The tragedy of a yandere! Ashveil is that I don't think he would ever force himself on you, in any way, shape or form.
He would respect absolutely every single word that comes out of your pretty little mouth, each uttered syllable like the most holy gospel in his ears.
And yet - he would feel so conflicted.
Constantly. Always.
You can always sense Ashveil before he's ever actually spotted spotted - which is strange, because that man can easily hide his tracks. His desperation, his sheer agony and desire of just scooping you up straight into his arms is so staggering that you cannot help but to wonder if this sensation is more flattering or downright insulting.
Ashveil himself cannot even answer this, if ever asked. He genuinely does not know.
Tell him to leave, and he will. Give him a dirty look and he will turn his back immediately, suddenly seeming no better than a phantom in the night.
It's frightening how easily he listens to you. Sometimes, you wonder if he'd kill some poor soul if you said it sweetly enough. The rough timbre of his tired voice would always linger inside your mind, that long hair of his constantly reminding you that no matter where you may traverse, the man is never far behind.
Not too long ago, you had mockingly compared him to a needy dog. The way in which he would basically slobber and beg for you attention might as well be one in the same with the furry creatures.
He did not deny your words, not once.
Ashveil feels so horrible with how strongly his heart beats whenever he's near. He has seen his fair share of death, mayhem and countless other horrors he never wants to see you go through too.
He will listen to you, or so help him, because he's just that kind of man. He will bleed if he must, bawl his eyes out and slobber and need be, but please -
Please.
Just stay safe.
He needs it more than anything else in the whole wide universe.
· · · A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING (SLIPPING) | STALKER!ASHVEIL X FEM!READER
Ashveil's curiosity about you tends to bring out the worst in him—enough for him to regularly trail you like a shadow while you remain blissfully unaware of his influence over your surroundings. But once mere whiffs of you are no longer enough, he finds himself inserting his way into your life instead, hoping to receive more of the goodness that is you. Now he's no longer sure if he can handle the consequences. His mouth opens far too easily, spilling compromising words before he can stop them, which raises the question of how much time he has left before you finally figure him out. | word count: 17,7k.
⟢ CONTENTS: not suitable for minors, yandere themes, plot & some smut, spoilers for ashveil’s lore and the quests up till version 4.1, sex that turns dub-con, stalking & breaking in, a bit of dark comedy, reader has a dog named princess, heavily focused on ashveil's perspective, angst (mostly regarding ashveil who struggles with self-worth and dehumanizes himself), suicidal thoughts, masochism, manipulation, slapping, threatening, intrusion of privacy, masturbation, unprotected & rough sex, come eating.
⟢ A/N: This story is loosely inspired by the TV show "You" (or at least what I remember of it from watching it years ago); though here, Ashveil is far different from Joe Goldberg. This is my first time writing for Ash, so I hope you enjoy the results. I also made a playlist that reminds me of Ashveil that might fit the story as well ♡(ᵔᴥᵔ). Divider source.
There is little in this world that Ashveil does not regret.
Across Amber Eras, his mind has gathered enough sins, corpses, and broken promises to viciously haunt him every night without fail.
The loss of life. The pain he has inflicted. The betrayals. Those linger longest, rotting and resisting loudly beneath his flesh—old wounds that have never healed properly that he only covers.
What he cannot fully bring himself to regret is meeting you, for better or for worse.
Even now, knowing well he keeps inserting himself into your story he has no place in, he cannot stop returning. Your warmth tends to obstructs any rational thought, luring him back to your doorstep at least once every month like clockwork. He keeps his old watch that shows delayed time in hopes for ruthless time slowing along, but when it comes to you, he fantasizes about days passing faster just so he can find another excuse to visit your house.
The warmth of another person, while elusive, fleeting, ready to be dispersed like dandelions, is also fulfilling and solacing. It is comforting in a way nothing else in the cosmos has ever managed to, and he suspects even aeons crave it. So he clings to yours with all the starving of a man offered scraps for the first time in years, foolishly hoping that one day you might fully envelop him in your sunlight.
People come and go; Ashveil wants to make you eternal in your goodness.
Like a kicked stray crawling back toward the hand that fed it, even if just once, he drags himself to your house again today.
He knows better than to use the front entrance. Your security camera reaches the spot clearly. Slipping through the ventilation system in the back is a safer option. More humiliating, perhaps, but at least that makes him feel like he has earned a quarter of right to be here.
Bless you for choosing a house tucked into the quieter backstreets of the Duomension City instead of one of those towering apartment complexes with security systems vicious enough to rival prison architecture—even just your hypothetical neighbors would be capable of throwing a wrench into his plans, an army made of hundreds of gawking eyes.
The sight greeting him after he kicks off his shoes is comforting, even if a certain element of it strives to make him less welcome.
Your dog, some breed of rather big posture, lies sprawled across the the living room floorboards like she’s the owner here. The moment her eyes crack open and settle on him, she sizes him up with the same unimpressed stare she always gives him—as though fully aware there are currently two dogs in the house, and that only one of them is actually wanted here.
“Oopsie. Did I wake you up, Princess?” he asks in the middle of letting out a yawn himself. “Sorry about that.”
Coming here this early means sacrificing another morning of sleep, but lately, he has been missing you(r home) too much to care. The city outside keeps growing louder and crueler, and it’s your house that remains one of the few places that still feels stagnant; he keeps it warm for you as you work.
Princess’s gaze finally shifts towards the treat sachet dangling from his hand. A spark of life finally enters her eyes. Unlike him, she’d never sell herself short.
“Yes, look what I brought you!” He grins, shaking the package lightly.
But even if she can hear the rustling of dried meat inside, she only swishes her tail once. She’s that spoiled by you.
Still, she rises from the floor with reluctance, and all dignified, she approaches him to collect her bribe. Ashveil crouches in front of her, scratching behind her ears while offering the treat with the other hand.
“I know, don’t give me that look,” he mutters with a whine to it. “Your mom definitely would not approve of me feeding you.” He even calls you a dog mom now. “Or approve of many other things for that matter…” he says wryly. “In any case… I’ll have to convert you to healthier snacks soon…”
She huffs through her snout, snatches the treat between her teeth, and trots off toward the kitchen. Her tail lingers around the corner for one last second before disappearing completely.
Ashveil watches her go, his own type of hunger burning at his loins already.
He makes his way toward your bedroom, no mistake in where he’s treading. The door shuts behind him, sealing his decision.
What he appreciates most about your room is the fact that it barely changes. The same wall color you must have once talked about with embarrassing enthusiasm, the same clutter of trinkets gathered over the years, the same hurried little messes left behind before work, the same scent woven stubbornly into the sheets and curtains and air itself.
This room is always there to welcome him while the rest of Planarcadia tears itself apart outside, on race towards greatness.
Or at least, he makes himself welcome here. Some vagabond he is.
He knows every corner already, yet he still finds himself looking around each visit, searching for tiny additions or changes. They are the intimate bridge connecting you and him, enough for him to feel included. They are also a proof that your life continues moving even when he is absent from it, a scary food for thought.
At the same time, he avoids touching most of your belongings whenever possible. Partially because of evidence. Mostly because he wants to preserve you exactly as you are, frozen safely in time for him.
Albeit, today, he possesses far less restraint than usual.
After confirming little has changed—while deliberately avoiding looking for too long at one particular object near your nightstand—he collapses face-first onto your bed with a groan.
His hand finds the tissue box automatically even with his face buried deep in your pillows. One tissue missing each month surely goes unnoticed. Three, at worst. Hopefully.
Your sheets envelop him in familiar warmth exactly as anticipated, just as they do whenever stress begins gnawing through him alive again and he runs here to his sanctuary. It takes all his self-control not to burrow completely beneath the blankets and pretend you are here beside him. If he crawls fully under the covers, he fears he may never want to crawl back out—some exhausted animal hibernating itself away for winter.
He inhales deeply, catching the remnants of your shampoo, your lotion, traces of your rushed morning routine still attached faintly against the fabric. The thought of watching you tending to yourself alone makes him dizzy; you deserve all the best things.
By the time he unzips his pants, his body already feels unbearably heavy with need. It’s been so long, since he ever felt that sort of desire, most of it being subdued by years of him pushing through with little ardor.
Ashveil presses himself into the mattress with a muffled sigh, grinding down slowly against the sheets while his thoughts drift somewhere nicer… and dangerous.
Your fingers combing gently through his hair, you telling him you want him here… that he can stay. A ridiculous thought suddenly surfaces in his mind too: if he commissioned an artist to paint you saying those words, would wishpower eventually bend reality enough to make it true?
Other fantasies creep in afterward.
You calling him disgusting while he desperately insists he can still be useful to you. Your hand gripping his jaw while he promises to behave. Teeth sinking into his skin hard enough to draw blood while he thanks you for it, for he can feel the misery pour out in torrents.
He supposes that both versions have their own rights, so long their manifestations are coming from you. So do they have potential to ruin him.
As he jerks his hips for the final time, the movement shifts your mattress enough to knock something off the nightstand. Ashveil sighs and reaches down towards the floor, nearly sliding off the bed entirely from the weakness now melting his limbs.
His mouth goes dry.
Your toy lies there beside the bed, still connected to its charging cable. You either use it often, or intend to do so after longer break.
It is sordid, the way his mind immediately wanders to the obvious regions: you spread on this bed and flushed with heat, thighs trembling around the toy you force into yourself, while soft sounds spill from your mouth into the dark. Maybe thinking of someone.
Hopefully him. The thought of it being anyone else strikes him with an equally unhealthy amount of anger and anxiety.
He wonders briefly whether your preference for toys over people is intentional rather than circumstantial. From everything he has gathered, you have not sought comfort from anyone else lately. Thankfully; that would complicate everything he has so carefully built between the two of you as your ‘friend.’
Modern relationships still confuse him somewhat. People seem to fall into each other’s beds so casually, or on Planarcadia, even for the sake of livestream challenges. He is selfishly grateful you haven’t been there yet.
All the more, he believes he could do you so much better than a stranger. He knows—not thinks, knows—he could please you better than some stranger ever could. He would know exactly where to touch, where to linger, where to soothe, where to provoke.
Where to bite.
And he would let you use him however you wished afterward, too. His thoughts have ranged through every imaginable scenario over the months: you gripping his hair, your teeth buried into his shoulder, your nails opening his skin… even you taking his breath away from above him, watching him plea you for mercy.
The sheer intensity of it suddenly overwhelms him, and with desire threatening to unfurl again, he springs into movement.
Inside your bathroom, he flushes down the mess he caught into the tissue and washes his hands thoroughly.
Your mirror is cruelly bright, framed by harsh white scene bulbs that expose every exhausted detail of his face. He stares at himself for a long moment before biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed, a reminder to keep going for there is still some things he owes you and other people.
Ashveil makes another empty promise. This is the last time, really. Not only because it is risky—it is rapidly not becoming enough anymore.
On his way out, he checks on Princess, she making your kitchen her playground too. Unfortunately, she has transformed the floor into a small field of crumbs.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Ashveil clicks his tongue and points at the small mess she’s made. “No crumbles at the crime scene, Princess.”
The dog lifts her head wearily. Begrudging, she licks the floor clean.
“Good girl.”
Although midway through cleaning, she stares at him with suspicion.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs. “You’re still the favorite. You can make a bit of space for this old man, hm?”
For a moment, he considers staying around for a while longer, maybe to watch one of your favorite movies and take a bath. Ultimately, something gnaws at him to leave sooner than usual.
He checks his phone and as it turns out, he’s right.
Walking your dog through every corner of the the city has long since become part of your routine as a responsible owner. However, Princess still gets overwhelmed easily by the fulgent lights and noise of Duomension City, so whenever you can spare time, you like taking her to slightly less vibrant Seafeld City instead, accessed through one of the train lines of Planarcadia.
There are all kinds of people to encounter on the daily walk—or non-people, quite often. Navigating the streets has only grown more difficult over the years, each district louder and stranger than the last, as though every possible sensory experience is fighting for one’s attention at once. Those neon lights burn your vision from every angle, advertisements and TV presenters speak over one another through giant floating screens, imaginae creatures drift across the artificial sky, delivery bots zip recklessly between crows, and someone is always shoving a camera against your face.
The people themselves are no less extravagant: entrepreneurs, IPC workers, livestreamers, gangsters, artists, cult members, police officers, students, and occasionally, private detectives.
Ashveil, the ace detective of the Ashen Detective Agency whom you have somehow become acquainted with over the past months, remains one of the strangest examples you have encountered yet, Even for a planet of Elation, where absurdity is the norm, he ranks high in just how odd things can get—enough to draw your curiosity.
But strange does not necessarily mean unkind.
If anything, you have found it alarmingly easy to pity him ever since your first meeting, unconsciously assigning him the image of something half-pathetic, half-endearing after only a single interaction.
Watching him struggle to pay for his food probably had not helped. Still, times are tough for everyone, aren’t they? And you are not heartless.
A friend in need is a friend indeed.
So the first time you met him in Dovebrook District—standing awkwardly between a frustrated customer and a delivery worker arguing over a failed order—you simply transferred the missing amount without thinking too deeply about it. A tiny gesture from a passing stranger should have ended there.
Instead, Ashveil accepted your kindness as something important, revolutionary even, and for reasons you still do not fully understand, it’s as if he has been trying to repay you ever since.
At this point, you have somehow acquired a deeply devoted assistant. He walks you home. Keeps an eye on whether anyone suspicious lingers nearby. Appears whenever you complain about a problem, often before you even properly ask for help. He listens to you ramble after difficult workdays with extraordinary patience, and once, after noticing you rubbing at your shoulders too much, he even insisted on massaging the tension out himself.
Safe to say, the two of you have grown rather close. Friends, maybe. In any case, you don’t have it in your heart to tell him to stop, seeing his enthusiasm.
If only you knew.
“Good morning.”
Speak of the devil. Ashveil holding his cane appears just as you cross the road toward the shopping district, weaving through pedestrians until he reaches your side with the ease of someone accustomed to navigating crowded street. He looks like he has only crawled out of fridge bed, suppressing a yawn behind his hand while blinking away the last traces of sleep, yet the moment his gaze lands on you, his attention sharpens completely.
“Morning, Ashveil,” you greet with a smile as you halt your walk on the other side of the street. “Did you get up just to see me?”
The tease slips out effortlessly. You mean nothing serious by it. After all, you texted him earlier that you managed to leave work ahead of schedule, and so now he has come to meet you. The fact he somehow knew exactly where to find you does not strike you as particularly strange anymore, even if you didn’t share your location with him. You simply assume he is a detective talented enough, just a one with abysmal commercial instincts and maybe a bit of bad luck.
Ashveil laughs immediately, a little too fast, eyes darting aside with flusher hidden beneath the performance.
“No,” he says at once, lifting his brows as though the suggestion itself is ridiculous.
Yes. Absolutely yes.
He skipped breakfast entirely and practically launched himself out of the agency the moment he saw you leaving for work through the security camera feed he absolutely should not have access to. Not that he’s tech-savvy. He had to save money for weeks to pay some dude to install this one shady app on his phone.
“I had a case this morning,” he continues smoothly, crossing his arms. “Very demanding. Didn’t even have time to grab coffee.” His voice turns dramatically mournful as he shakes his head. “Cruel world, isn’t it?”
“Oh no, what will my poor detective do without coffee?” you tease.
My detective. Well, technically you said my poor detective, but Ashveil’s mind catches on the possessive anyway.
My.
Poor is good too, admittedly. Poor sounds sympathetic. Tender.
No, no, no—pull yourself together, Ashveil.
Seriously, don’t do this to him. Don’t use that teasing voice like you actually care while meanwhile you are probably just making fun of him.
His thoughts briefly send another funny feeling into his throat this strange day.
“Ha ha ha!” he laughs again, a little louder than necessary before hurriedly redirecting himself. “Anyway. No pup with you today?”
“No. She’s probably still sleeping, buried under her blankets…”
Good. Running into your Princess could potentially create complications. He is yet to meet her officially, and he’s worried she might act too familiar with him, so he keeps telling you about dog allergy to keep her away.
You pull your phone from your bag and angle the screen toward him proudly, showing him a picture taken earlier that morning, before you’d leave for work. Princess lies cocooned beneath blankets with only the top of her head visible. “Isn’t she lovely?”
“Oh my goodness, she absolutely is…” he says with genuine delight, sounding dangerously close to squealing. He saw Princess less than two hours ago, yet somehow the sight of her grumpy face still melts him instantly. More importantly, you wanted to share this moment with him specifically, and that alone makes warmth spread unpleasantly through his chest.
However, there is an even cuter thing standing directly beside him. Because with how close you are standing, he has full access to your face too. It’s hard to not get distracted, watching the happy wrinkles of your eyes lifting.
He snaps his fingers in realization. “You look quite radiant today. New face cream?”
That explains why your pillow smelled so different this morning…
You blink at him, tilting your head, with “how did you know?” plastered all over your face.
“Well.” He shrugs with nonchalance, casually stepping back until he can lean against a nearby roadblock pole. “Detectives are supposed to notice minor details. Comes with the profession. To a discerning eye, there’s always something new to spot.”
Not that he’s as good at deduction or anything a detective would need to prosper like you think he is. It’s mostly Mr N doing important research. He's more of a hard-boiled type. But, you believing in his skills is extremely useful, so he doesn't correct you.
“Actually, it’s a serum,” you correct playfully, locking your phone. “But close enough.”
Good. Excellent even—you didn’t lie to him. It is indeed the serum's effect—he knows, considering he was standing in your bathroom this morning, staring directly at the bottle while trying not to think too hard about how you must look applying it with your gentle hands. How you’d apply for him too, willing to share. It’s simply safer not to sound too accurate in his observations. The last thing he needs is for you to start seriously questioning how much he notices about you.
Maybe all these detective tutorials he read yet barely sustained knowledge from at the beginning of his career are actually starting to come in handy—he does know you well by this point.
“Serum, cream, natural glow—whatever,” he says lightly. “You look good.”
Like, really good. Enough that he could eat you up. And you walk around, just like that? You better put a muzzle on him.
“Thank you.” You hesitate slightly before adding. “You… look well too.” You adjust your grip on your bag.
Ouch. The hesitation stings more than it should.
Ashveil snorts, waving his hand dismissively. “Ah, you don’t have to lie to spare my feelings. I know the eyebags are especially horrifying today.”
“No, I—” You look slightly panicked now, looking around as if searching for a clue. But the crowd passing by has its own business, sparing you little attention. You genuinely were trying to compliment him, but it came out half-assed. “I mean, sleeping in the fridge has to have some… beautifying properties, right?” you say it awkwardly, like you are trying very hard not to offend him. “The coldness of it.” Even if you still have no clue why he does that. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable by asking, in case it’s health-related.
Ashveil nearly laughs. He doesn’t know whether he should be offended or flattered that you tried to make him feel better.
“Sure,” he says dryly, “if your beauty standard is a product about to expire.”
You let out a nervous chuckle.
“But probably not as effective as you’re imagining,” he continues before clearing his throat slightly, visibly trying to move on before the conversation drifts somewhere sincere. He clicks his cane against the stone below his feet. “So, where are you heading? Shopping?”
You are usually still at work at this hour. Meaning if he had decided to linger inside your house even a little longer today and probably missed your text, things could have ended catastrophically wrong.
Manifesting the end of his friendship act with you.
You nod, lighting up again. “Uh, yeah. Like I have told you, work got called off because of some technical issues,” you explain with an easy grin, satisfied to catch some respite. “So I thought: why not go shopping?”
“Yeah, shopping’s always great,” Ashveil says a bit too enthusiastically, relief slipping into his voice before he can smooth it over. “Why don’t I… accompany you? I mean, strange events have been occurring lately…”
Weird folks muttering about happiness. Gang members surfing through the crowds. Streamers appearing to suffer from some sort of neuroticism as they become only more aggressive about content-making. It’s as if a wave of heat came across the planet and drove everyone mad.
“So you think I’m incapable of defending myself, detective?”
The slower flutter of your lashes paired with slight, naughty curve of your lips confuses him for a moment. You’re teasing him again, yet it seems different this time. Coy, challenging.
If he didn’t know better, he would think you were flirting with him. Or maybe you are—he does occasionally have his clients hit on him in the act of desperation. The possibility of you doing that makes it harder to breathe, and he glues his gaze onto your neck he for some reason suddenly thinks of kissing.
Let’s see: if he allows himself too much hope, it becomes embarrassingly easy to lower his guard around you—more than he has done so already—and that is never wise if he ever was wise. And yet, after all the blood and exhaustion he quietly spends in your name, surely he deserves a little indulgence every now and then.
Not that you have ever asked for any of it. But people get hurt easily in this city. He simply prefers preventing unpleasant outcomes before they can reach you, especially if it means avoiding situations where you feel smothered by having an obvious bodyguard attached to your side.
You go about your day. He ensures it remains a safe one. Simple and easy. Sure, you would probably be horrified if you ever discovered the full extent of it—not to jinx anything—but—
“Ashveil?”
Your hand settles gently on his shoulder, grounding him back to you.
He blinks, for a moment mesmerized by the worried expression directed his way. The way your warmth permeates him makes breathing more worth it. It’s no wonder he lets his guard down around you.
“Huh? Sorry.” He rubs his face, exhaling through his teeth. “I didn’t sleep well. I mean—not enough.”
“Oh… “ Your brows knit together instantly. “Then, you shouldn’t force yourself to hang around for my sake. It's simple grocery shopping. Go home and rest,” you reassure, so softly.
“Nah.” He adjust his hat, concealing his eyes more. “I’ll survive. I don’t sleep very well during the day anyway.” Those furbobo working below his agency make too much noise.
“Was that too much?” you mumble out, lowering your hand which greatly disappoints him.
“What was?”
“F-forget it.” You immediately retreat from the moment, suddenly fascinated by anything else happening on the street instead.
And then it hits him. You were flirting with him. Actually flirting. And he completely missed it because every coherent thought leaves his body the second you pay him too much attention.
At one point, he even genuinely wondered whether he was developing dementia, perhaps erosion-related, because how else was he supposed to explain the dizziness, the lapses in judgment, the complete inability to think straight that began plaguing him seemingly out of nowhere? Only later did he realize the symptoms always worsened around you specifically.
Which, frankly, feels far more terminal.
“Anyway, “ he says quickly, recovering for your sake too, “I’m tagging along. I’ll even carry your bags free off charge.” He presses one hand against his chest, as if speaking of noble sacrifice.
“You charge women for carrying their bags?” you ask, unimpressed.
“No! Of course not.”
“Don’t you take commissions for basically anything?”
“Correct.” He lifts one finger, about to make a point. “But never for gentlemanly behavior.”
The proud smile on his face makes you snicker.
“Well, if we are going together,” you glance towards one of the nearest coffee shops, “how about, coffee first?”
“That sounds great.” He really could use a cup. Maybe he’ll stop slipping in front of you so much.
As the two of you get into walking side by side through the crowded streets, growing denser with every hour, a certain thought slowly forms in your mind. You’ve been meaning to ask him for a while now.
“How do you always find me, anyway?” you inquire curiously. “You do that a lot, you know.”
The question is innocent enough, but it still makes his guts churn.
Sure, you frequent popular areas, but Duomension City is enormous, sprawling endlessly in all that commercial enclosure of absurdity. But at some point, repeated coincidence stops feeling entirely convincing.
Ashveil opens his mouth, but he doesn’t explain himself immediately, deciding to be careful with what excuse he shall feed you this time. That’s the problem lately: he is becoming too transparent around you. The more truth he hides, the harder they become to contain, leaking out through careless comments and overfamiliar observations. How does one stay quiet about a person they're so terribly enamored with?
Nonchalance has never been his strong suit anyway, and he needs you that badly.
The fact you’re starting to notice certain patterns doesn’t help him either. People in Planarcadia move too fast to notice who revolves around them, too distracted by spectacle and noise and Phantasmoon Games and their own survival to question others too deeply.
Obviously, he cannot tell you the truth:
That he noticed you returning home during work hours through your own security camera feed—not that long after your message has told him—panicked something might have happened, and spent the last half hour discreetly trailing you to ensure you were alright.
So instead, he chooses the safer route. A little cruelty to balance things out. “You’re pretty predictable,” he says straightforwardly, yet not without wincing inwardly at how crude it must have sounded.
The manner in which he delivers his answer does have you scoffing. “Excuse me?” You cross your arms and tap your feet against the ground impatiently after you pause your saunter.
Ashveil raises both hands at once in surrender, scrambling to soften the blow. He still cannot afford you hating him. That would be the end of him.
“I mean your routine is predictable,” he corrects quickly. “Consistent. Which isn’t a bad thing, necessarily—it just means it’s easy to recognize patterns, especially for someone trained to notice them. But other people might not be as harmless as me, which is why you should be careful about sharing your location publicly, posting photos in real time, downloading suspicious apps, or—”
The detective lecture is intentional. If he keeps talking long enough, maybe you will forget to stay offended, jaded by his talk.
“Okay, okay,” you heave a heavy sigh. “I got the memo.”
It’s ironic, your stalker warning you about stalkers. If it was another guy stalking you and Ashveil found out, he’d drag him to a police station. Except, in his humble opinion, he hardly qualifies as one. Stalkers have nefarious intensions. He, on the other hand, is simply…concerned… Curious, perhaps excessively so, but ultimately helpful. If anything, unbeknownst to you, he has already prevented several unpleasant incidents from ever reaching you… or your awareness, on that score.
You have no idea how many people have looked at you too long; how many revolting thoughts storm behind strangers’ eyes, perhaps similar to his and that’s he knows it. And if that somehow makes him monstrous too, then at least let him be the lesser evil among all possible predators circling this planet.
He at least tries to constrain the beast.
“But,” he adds more lightly, “I pass through your district pretty often too. I’m always outside looking for clients, remember? We naturally run into each other a lot.”
Right. You have, in fact, witnessed him standing on sidewalks holding handwritten promotional signs like an absolute disaster of a businessman, desperately offering people business cards talking about two percent discounts with all the confidence of someone negotiating hostage terms.
“That makes sense,” you admit after a moment, scratching your cheek apologetically. “Sorry if I sounded accusatory or anything…”
“No,” he shakes his head fervently. “Absolutely not. Honestly, I’m happy that you’re staying vigilant. Better safe than sorry, right?”
Ashveil is annoyed, tapping the sole of his boot against the checkered tiles beneath the cafe table. Not even because you are paying for the coffee—though that certainly does not help his pride any, as he does think he should be doing better if he genuinely wants to impress you someday. Unfortunately, his earned money usually goes to other causes, first and foremost, and even if Pearl’s cases can pay handsomely, a big chunk of it goes to his old wounded friends in need of life better than his. First Fang duties.
From the small yellow table tucked near the windows, he has a clear view of you waiting in line at the screen register. The queue moves painfully slowly, bodies crammed shoulder-to-shoulder within the tiny pastel-colored space. You stand there patiently, studying the menu on the overhead screens cycling panels with ads and offers, despite having ordered here countless times already. Very cute, overall.
Unfortunately, you remain completely oblivious to the eyes drifting toward you from across the shop—or perhaps you have simply learned how to tune such things out after living in Duomension City long enough. Doesn’t matter, as Ashveil who has gained a nasty habit of overthinking about you notices them all immediately.
Eyes lingering over your body for too long. Eyes flicking towards your wallet. Eyes tracing the shape of your face while pretending not to stare. One man glancing between you and his phone and some weird attachment trap to it with growing interest. And Ashveil swears he is not merely being paranoid, not a victim of forgetting people’s innate curiosity.
He would gladly stand beside you right now if you had not specifically told him to keep thee table occupied. He already would have planted himself behind you like some feral guard dog pretending not to growl at strangers. Besides, if the coffee ends up being taken to go, your time together shortens considerably, and he would prefer delaying the inevitable end of this outing for as long as humanly possible. Choices, choices…
Then his instincts prove themselves correct. A man near the front of the line abruptly lifts his phone towards your face, livestream already active in app.
Ashveil sighs in vindication. See? He is right to worry. This city is full of freaks.
The streamer starts loudly rating people’s outfits for his audience, but his camera lingers on you for too long, drifting downward in ways that make Ashveil’s stomach tighten unpleasantly. When you politely ask the man to stop filming you, he merely laughs and steps closer instead, clearly encouraged by the audience reacting through the scrolling comments like some desperate.
Wonderful. For all intents and purposes, this man has just single-handedly reduced Ashveil’s guilt regarding stalking you by at least thirty percent.
As Ashveil rises from his seat, he shrugs his coat off onto the chair first. Spreading murderous intent throughout a coffee shop tends to alarm civilians, so he makes a genuine effort to calm himself down while approaching.
The streamer is still talking when Ashveil reaches him, coming up behind him like a ghost. Without warning, he casually presses the mute button on the small console panel on the screen.
“Hey—”
“Give me the phone.”
The streamer blinks, turning around. “What?”
Ashveil smiles pleasantly. “Take your hands off the camera,” he says quietly near the man’s ear, voice soft enough that the people around—you especially—cannot properly pick it up over the shop’s noise, “or I’ll make sure they come off literally.”
Meanwhile, he keeps his expression towards you entirely calm, meant to be reassuring.
The streamer goes pale almost immediately. Ashveil appears unassuming at first, but something about the shadowed look in his eyes, one of them twitching too, unsettles the streamer greatly. The cane Ashveil wields goes to press onto the guy’s feet nearly painfully too. “O-okay, chill,” he mutters nervously. “I didn’t know she was your girlfriend—”
“She isn’t.” Ashveil’s smile never wavers. “Is that the only reason you know how to behave?”
The man stares at him, dumbfounded.
And for one brief second, Ashveil wonders if something slipped through his expression—something hungry, older source, and certainly sharp enough to expose what truly sits beneath his skin.
Thankfully, the streamer backs away. “Whatever, man,” he scoffs weakly before hurrying out of the care with his livestream still running. Other people around look startled for a moment, confused about what happened, but they quickly settle back.
Ashveil watches him leave, thinking what a hypocrite he’s starting to become.
Standing here acting holier-than-thou and outraged over another man reducing you into spectacle while he himself encroaches your routines, sneaks through your house vents, and spends sleepless nights imagining how you feel beneath him.
Sure, he has not acted on the ugliest thoughts yet… But what happens if one day he finally does? He fights for justice, even at the cost of spilling blood, he hates hurting others, but when it comes to you, he breaks his own rules more often than not. Guilt exists in Ashveil’s heart for sure, but apparently not enough to set him back—not when it comes to you, his special person and sunshine.
“You good?” he asks once he reaches you, his hand settling instinctively between your shoulder blades as you quickly finish order, not wanting to break your promise about caffeine fill.
“Perfectly fine,” you insist. “Thank you.”
Still rattled, though—he can feel the tension in your posture as he guides you away from the line.
For a moment after you sit down, some awkward silence fills the air around you. He can tell you’re trying to act unaffected by the encounter, clutching your wallet, but he doesn’t press you on, letting you calm down on your own.
Shortly after, one of the screens blinks your order number already. With how fast-progressing things are today, automatized with these mechatron workers especially, it is no surprise. “Oh. It’s our order.”
He locates the counter and the tray waiting for you, patting your shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll pick it up.”
He’s back in the blink of an eye, while you’re still fumbling with your wallet.
Trying to tuck it away, with how shaky your hands are from the unpleasant encounter, you accidentally bump the coffee cup. In result, hot coffee spills directly over his gloved left hand.
Ashveil absolutely could have moved away in time. He simply chose not to.
“Ow,” he hisses, pulling his hand back with a scowl. “That’s savage.” Honestly, the phantom pain in his prosthetic arm hurts infinitely worse on daily basis—and tears at him during fullmoon.
You gasp immediately. “Ashveil! Oh my goodness, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s fine—”
“No, no, quickly, let me see.”
Before he can protest further, you are already grabbing napkins and reaching for his hand with frantic concern. The moment your fingers carefully pull at his white glove, something devastating its surroundings storms inside his chest. There it is again, that warmth.
You dab gently at his fingers with a napkin while muttering anxious apologies under your breath, entirely focused on making sure he is alright and disregarding old scars. Ashveil watches you in silence, fighting the embarrassing urge to lace his fingers through yours properly, and imagining two worlds connecting. When did he become so sappy?
Your touch is absurdly tender. He cannot remember the last time someone handled him with care instead of annoyance or lust.
Some self-proclaimed lone wolf he is.
It is reckless, really. Someone in his position of being chased by ranger should avoid attracting attention, should avoid becoming emotionally attached, should avoid indulging in moments like these unless they become necessities instead of luxuries. So much for staying low. He might have to disappear from this planet tomorrow and what would he even do about you then?
Unfortunately, Ashveil has never been particularly good at denying himself where you are concerned. If anything, spending the rest of his miserable live serving you while receiving small fragments of affection in return sounds close enough to paradise. In his most delusional visions, you and him run away to some tropics together.
He watches the concern pinching your brows together, almost paining him as much, and he briefly wonders, not for the first time, how someone can possibly be this kind to him without realizing the danger of it. If anything, you barely know anything about him, not anything under the surface. Because the uglier feelings he usually tries to curb follow behind. He wants to devour you entirely, leave no bones, until you form an union with him, so no distance could ever exist between you two again.
“There probably won't be a scar, I think,” you murmur nervously, still inspecting his hand. It’s really not that bad, as maybe a few splashes of coffee hit his hand and his glove soaked up the most. “But maybe we should get this checked anyway—”
“No need.”
“But—”
Ashveil pats your hand before finally letting his fingers curl around yours under the guise of reassurance—gently, as though he anticipates breaking you, though in truth, he can't take more of your touch and remain alright. The heat rushing through your skin soaks into his pores, rewriting whatever here might have started withering, and he imagines the vines of your kindness climbing his healthy arm in search for his heart already thrumming. “Now, now,” he says softly, smiling goofily again. “I’m not that delicate. I promise.”
You finally laugh a little, the remaining tension loosening from your shoulders. You even squeeze his hand twice, sending chills through him that have him shifting in his seat.
“For what it’s worth, it’s good coffee they serve here,” Ashveil praises after he takes a sip. He lets your hand go first, reluctantly.
“Yeah?” Your expression brightens even more. Truly precious. “I'm glad. It’s my favorite place.”
Of course he already knew it was yours. He memorized that months ago. Still, hearing you willingly bring him somewhere important to you makes his chest flutter strangely, as though his lungs are suddenly filling with cleaner air than the city normally allows him.
You realize something soon after. “You know, Ashveil…” You stir your drink absentmindedly. “I feel like our conversations tend to be pretty one-sided…”
Ashveil stills.
“And I feel bad about that,” you continue. “So I thought that maybe I could ask you more things about yourself instead?”
That genuinely catches him off guard. He deliberately steers conversations toward you whenever possible, preferring to keep attention away from himself, yet somehow you interpreted that imbalance as your own failure instead.
It’s dangerous, this type of care.
“Hm. Well.” He chuckles nearly in a jitterily manner, scratching his cheek. There is little to share that doesn't compromise your safety, and little to reveal that doesn’t pain him these days. He’d look like a bleeding heart anyway. “I don’t know if there’s that much interesting stuff to learn about me. I mostly just work, eat, and sleep.”
“I’m not someone that special either,” you protest, leaning closer. An outrageous lie, in his opinion. “Yet we talk about me all the time,” you continue. “So I’m sure there’s something. Like…” You purse your lips in thought—another thing he finds cute. He can imagine a lightbulb shining above your head as you come up with something. “What’s one of your dreams?”
“My dreams?” he repeats, taken aback.
You could have asked about his favorite color. Food. Movie. You went straight for his throat instead. How touching. How scary.
Ashveil glances around the cafe. Different people fill every table: students, workers, exhausted commuters, streamers, couples, strangers. Loud, messy, and imperfect people, all trying to carve out somewhere to belong beneath the endless neon of this planet. If he stares long enough, he almost expects ghost from his part to emerge from the crowd and remind him that eventually he will lose you too.
It would be far wiser of him to give you some common crap, about money or fame. To say something simple and cheesy about retirement for a tropical island full of cheap sandals, happy dogs, and warm beaches. And yet, he naturally clings to the idea of you wanting to understand him, to take some of the burden off his shoulders even if guilt would strike him after.
“I think…” He hesitates. “I wish everyone could have a place for themselves in this world.” His voice lowers slightly. “Somewhere they’re allowed to exist safely. Somewhere warm enough to return to at the end of the day.”
You listen carefully—sincerely, digging dagger into his heart this way.
“No one should have to survive alone, or barely, if it can be helped,” he admits after a moment, fingers drumming once against the cup. “I know that’s naive, though.”
“Hm.” Your smile softens immediately. “I think it’s a beautiful dream, Ashveil.”
Your words aren’t dry or dismissive. There is no mockery in your voice. You seem to earnestly appreciate his answer and he cannot stop staring at you like this, his grey eyes gaining fragility over that sharpness from the moments ago.
You truly are a devil. Because he suddenly becomes aware of the hypocrisy sitting inside his head, both sides clashing there everyday. Pronouncing what he doesn’t deserve.
A man who claims to care about justice while quietly invading your life piece by piece out of selfish desperation. A man who wants to protect your freedom while simultaneously wanting you closer and closer until the line between affection and possession disappears completely.
Maybe someone would side with him and tell him, “you deserve this after everything you have went through, old man.” But he doesn’t wish to be a dead weight to you just because he’s broken.
They say ignorance is a bliss. They are darn right. Self-awareness does nothing except lets the guilt and greed eat him from the inside.
“It is beautiful,” he says quietly, his grip on the cup tightening, “but not realistic. Most people never reach that kind of haven no matter how hard they try. Luck, or gods, they decide almost everything eventually.” His mouth pulls into a solemn smile. “I get front row sears watching that happen.”
You fall silent after that, as if you don’t know whether you should let him keep talking or nip it in the bud before the whole day has its charm ruined.
When you give him that uncertain look, a mix of worry and awkwardness, he suddenly realizes what an absolute mood killer he must be for a shopping trip. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to murder your spirits.” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his nape as he leans safely away from you.
“No.” You shake your head. “I asked, remember? And I’m happy you answered honestly.”
He nods, strangely affected by that response. “Thanks,” he murmurs, almost shyly. He should be the wiser, protective figure here, as someone far older than you. “I appreciate that.”
For a moment, he simply drums his fingers against the table, watching the vivid reflections ripple across the windows. Then he abruptly straightens.
“So!” His usual grin returns. “Shopping?”
“Totally.”
“Dogs used to have much less choice. So did consumers, honestly. Would you look at how fast things change?”
“You sound like an old man,” you remark from beside him with a snort, your attention never leaving the enormous shelves packed with enough pet food brands to sustain an army of spoiled pets.
The pet industry has been thriving for decades already, capitalism evolving into some grotesque creature of its own. Colorful packaging stretches endlessly across the aisle, each product screaming promises about healthier fur, stronger teeth, shinier eyes, happier digestion, longer lives. Even the bags themselves are glossy enough to rival cosmetic advertisements.
Ashveil stiffens slightly beside the shopping cart.
“Come on, who even needs all this? This is a supermarket. Not a pet shop,” he says defensively.
“Well, apparently my dog does.” You crouch briefly to inspect a lower shelf. “Princess has gotten really picky lately. Too much variety ruined her forever.”
“Yeah?” He folds his arms and smirks. “They used to hunt, can you imagine?”
“The most she hunts is my slipper after I accidentally drop it.”
Ashveil suppresses a laugh.
If only you knew. Princess can become vicious whenever she wants to. The first few days he started visiting your house, she nearly tore into his ankles on sight. Funnily, a stranger breaking into her home is not what offended her the most. That ranked secondary compared to the fact that the treats he brought were chicken-flavored instead of beef. She had made enough outraged noise to nearly expose him entirely before finally driving him back out through the window and land inside a dumpster. H u m i l i a t i n g.
As you’re finally about to pick something, Ashveil instinctively stops you, his cane pointing.
“Your dog doesn't like that one.” The words slip out far too naturally. Too easily, sure, born from the need to be right; you tend to lower his defenses with how wonderful you are to him, leading to him saying compromising things like that.
Your hand pauses midair. His confident statement picks up your attention. Not would probably dislike. Not even might prefer something else. A definitive certainty.
“How do you know that? You haven't met my dog yet.” Your expression sharpens with mild offense rather than suspicion, thankfully. To you, it merely sounds like someone rudely claiming superior knowledge over your own dog instead of accidentally exposing himself as a home-invading creep.
His heart stills right there by this damn pet food aisle. Think fast, think fast, think fast, you old man—
“No, however—” He clears his throat. “You told me her breed before, remember? And I’ve worked around all kinds of dogs over the years, well, unfortunately at the cost of a big allergic reaction. You start collecting their characteristics.” His hand waves vaguely towards the shelf. “That one’s too light. She probably needs something richer. More iron.” He nods sagely, then adds to his wisdom, “That breed’s basically halfway to becoming a shark. Bloodthirsty creatures.”
He’s lying because he’s not even that good at deducing. Storing information about you comes easily for him, but he’s mostly operating based on intuition and luck.
“You think so?” You give him the benefit of doubt because your furball does deserve the best.
“Yes!” He clasps his hands together. “Can’t go wrong with beef.”
He knows this especially because he once at the same dog treats himself, being broke enough to consider it economically reasonable. The nutritional contents are close enough to actual jerky, enough for one to decide that what society thinks doesn’t matter.
“Hm… it’s just… I don't want her eating too much fat.”
Right. He almost forgot until this morning where he saw Princess. Continuously bribing your dog into silence with treats may eventually become a genuine health concern. And Ashveil loves dogs enough to acknowledge this prospect. Still, switching her away from her from her current favorite will absolutely trigger aggression, so he needs to help transition her carefully—if he wants to preserve diplomatic relations within the household.
“Just don't overfeed her and it should be fine.”
He also ought to avoid Princess for as long as possible. Which is becoming more and more difficult as you (un)fortunately walk her a lot. He can’t always text you and ask you if you’re with your dog—even with that allergy thing as his bargaining chip—if sometimes he appears spontaneously. If Princess were to openly recognize him in front of you…
The two of you continue wandering through the store afterward, slowly filling the cart with a mix of necessities and smaller indulgences. The city’s supermarkets always feel overstimulating, packed with fluorescent lighting, brightly colored displays, robotic promotional mascots chirping abut discounts, and giant hanging screens advertising products loud enough to follow customers across entire warehouse. Ashveil is more accustomed to the darkness of his refrigerator, but with you around, those elements become somewhat bearable.
He naturally takes notes of what you get.
At some point, you toss something sweet into the basket beside him. Ashveil glances downward.
“You remembered.”
“Well, you liked it last time.”
Something embarrassing tickles his cheeks. You cared enough to remember what snack he likes and to get it for him. Spending money on him, when he should be spending it on you.
As you two continue forward, his own brain remains busy memorizing absurdly tiny details about you: how you absentmindedly compare expiration dates twice before buying something, the way you tap the cart to the rhythm of the music playing in the background, how you narrow your eyes whenever calculating prices in your head. Domesticity looks good on you and he’s happy to be part of it.
By the time the shopping bags are finally filled, the crowds outside the supermarket have thickened.
“Thank you for joining me today, Ashveil,” you say while adjusting the bags against your arm—not letting him hold them. “I should probably head back before the city gets even too crowded.”
“Fair enough.” He still reaches towards the heavier bag. “Let me walk you home.”
“No, there’s really no need.”
He looks at you with confusion.
“You already did plenty for me today,” you add with a small smile.
“It’s not a problem,” he insists, holding onto the side of the bag. “Seriously, the streets get worse around this hour, and—”
“Ashveil. Please.” For the first time, your tone turns firmer. Resolute, oh the horrors.
It does make him burn, nearly sending shock into his body, and he’s about to overthink again.
His stomach drops stones. He must have been a bother to you, all clingy like velcro no matter how politely he disguises it as concern. Maybe you finally noticed how excessive he has become. Or worse—maybe you noticed something deeper beneath it all, and the situation is far more catastrophic than he initially thought. Or maybe you are replacing him—
“I don’t mean to be overbearing,” he says carefully, suddenly hyperaware of every word leaving his mouth. “I’m just worried about your safety. You know what Planarcadia’s like lately. All these gangs…” Even if he befriended some of them. “Weird people…”
“I know.” Your features soften lightly, though they maintain its seriousness. “But having someone worry over me every second isn’t exactly good for me either. I do try to be careful, so…”
You finally have made a boundary. You are reasonable, yet it still feels like you kicking him in his ribs.
“I see,” he says after a moment, forcing himself to let go of your purchases. “That makes sense.” It does, which is the worst part. “But call me if anything happens,” he adds, unable to fully stop himself.
“I will.”
You smile again afterward, gentler this time, seemingly relieved he accepted the request without argument. Then you leave.
Ashveil watches you gradually disappear into the moving crowd, your sunny figure swallowed little by little, and he thinks the lights above don’t hold candle to you. The city suddenly feels even louder even for its norm, unbearably so.
He stands there for another moment before finally turning away himself with a heavy sigh, shoulders lower than before. His invisible tail is curled, more of a dog, not wolf. He already knows, with miserable certainty, that he is going to spend the next several hours replaying this interaction over and over until he successfully convinces himself that you must secretly hate him now. A grown man, now unwilling to eat the food you bought him, just so he can cling to a piece of you for a bit longer.
No. Forget it. He can’t leave it like that. What if there’s someone waiting for you? He didn’t see you contacting anyone when strolling with him but he needs to make sure you’re not cheating on him. Not that it’s cheating, but you get the gist, right?
Yet as it turns out, you really reach home on your own. He trails you right under you reach your door. Well, at least he knows you’re safe.
Ashveil doesn't remember the last time he’s been this scared.
Your call reaches him in the middle of the night, cutting through the rattling hum of the refrigerator compressor. His phone vibrates violently against the metal lining and skids away from him, and in his panic co catch it, he nearly smashes his forehead against the surface. It doesn't help he’s been talking in his sleep again, barely getting any sleep immersion that he thought he was about to experience sleep paralysis too.
For one terrible second, he thinks something has happened to you. That maybe it isn't a dream.
But, honestly, once he manages to answer and hears your voice properly, half of him is simply relieved. You sound panicked, yes, words tumbling over each other in disarray, but you called him. After your boundary-giving and his walk home with his tail between his legs, you still reached for him first.
That alone nearly distracts him before his finally brain finally catches up to what you are actually saying. A receipt. Something wrong inside the house. Suddenly, he is wide awake.
“Hold on—” He pushes the fridge open and sits upright like a corpse rising to life. “—you’re saying you think someone broke into your house?”
“But I can’t tell!” you blurt out shakily. “I found this receipt right as I was getting ready to sleep, and things feel weird, and I checked the cameras but there’s nothing there, nothing seems missing, and maybe I’m overreacting but—”
Ashveil’s stomach drops. Did you finally notice something? Did he accidentally scatter evidence?
No. Impossible. He always checks carefully. He takes pictures beforehand, recreates every angle afterward, makes sure everything remains exactly as it was before he arrived. It’s the least he can do. He is meticulous about these things… Usually.
“Hey. Hey, calm down.” He rubs down his face, forcing his voice to be calmer despite the sudden adrenaline flooding him.” Don’t wind yourself up. I’ll come over and take a look first, okay? Don't call the police yet.”
“Why not? It's their job!” you ask with confusion.
“Well…” He stands quickly, tugging on his pants with the free hand. “Unless there’s direct proof of forced entry, they might turn you away. Let me check things out first before you stress yourself too hard.”
There is a brief pause, filled with your frantic breathing.
“O-okay. Come quick, please.”
The call ends.
Ashveil stares at the dark screen for one second before bolting like a complete lunatic. Mister N looks up in alarm as he watches his boss rush through the office half-dressed and visibly panicked.
“Ashveil, what on earth are you doing?”
“No time for explanation!” he blurts out while shoving his boots on and grabbing his cane. “Emergency!”
By the time he reaches your street, his thoughts have already escalated into increasingly catastrophic scenarios. You found other traces as well. You are suspecting him and this is a trap with police awaiting him at your house. Or worse, someone else truly did break in.
You open the door almost the instant he rings the bell.
And don't you look miserable. Your eyes are red and glossy with tears, shoulders tense beneath your sleep clothes, fingers clutching the edge of the door. You look at him as if he might as well be your last hope.
His eyes soften. “Hey,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “Pretty lady, rest assured, everything will be alright. Breathe for me,” he says gently, fixing a loose lock of your hair from your face. “You’re shaking.” Sight of you like this is the most difficult one to take. And it’s probably his fault.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper shakily. “It’s probably something stupid and I’m making a big deal out of nothing—”
“No.” His voice firms from the seriousness. “You’re right to be cautious. Especially these days.” His hands settle carefully on your shoulders. “How about you make yourself some tea while I look around, hm?”
You hesitate but you end up nodding. “Okay. I’ll make you one too,” you say nicely and his heart skips a beat even now.
He smiles encouragingly, stepping inside and hanging his coat.
Before retreating toward the kitchen, you suddenly turn back and hand him the receipt you kept in your robe’s pocket.
“I’ve never been to this konbini before,” you explain anxiously. “Or at least not recently. Sometimes I stop at random stores during walks with Princess, but…”
“I see.”
Ashveil scans it quickly.
The receipt goes:
a loaf of bread
instant coffee
instant noodles
10 x bunches of bananas
.
.
.
Fuck.
All thoughts leave his body for a moment and it’s all tension taking over his body. It is his receipt.
The bananas are for the monkeys at the agency, since they enthusiastically accept payment in fruit and occasionally riot when undercompensated. It must have slipped from his pocked earlier while he was distracted grinding himself into your mattress like a pathetic animal in heat. Which should have not happened, since he does document everything before moving around your house specifically to avoid mistakes like this.
Yet lately, around you, he has been getting sloppy. Well, more than usual.
With you in the kitchen, he at least has been granted several minutes to unravel this blunder in peace. And what an absolute sad sack he was; he survived deadly fights only to be taken down by a grocery receipt?
By the time you return with tea and invite him over to your cozy sofa laid out with blanket, he has mostly reconstructed his composure.
“I’ve got good news,” he announces, leaning back—and trying not to get distracted by your scent and warmth radiating off of you. Not it’s not the time! Even if you look especially adorable with some sleepy weariness attached to you. “There’s no sign of forced entry anywhere. Locks are intact. Windows too.”
“But how did it get inside?” you ask immediately, looking at him intensely. “I keep my windows closed.”
Ashveil hums thoughtfully, trying to appear more visceral than practiced. “Well…” He staples his fingers between his spread thighs. “Think about it this way. If someone was skilled enough to enter your home unnoticed, avoid the cameras, leave no signs of entry…” He points with his head at the receipt on the coffee table. “Would they really leave behind something this obvious?” Okay, maybe he would. “You probably carried it inside accidentally without noticing.”
Your tight expression slowly relaxes. “Yes,” you admit with relief, “that actually makes sense.”
“Exactly.”
You exhale deeply, tension leaving your shoulders. “Though, that person must really like bananas.”
Ashveil laughs despite himself. It’s a good thing you don’t know about his little monkey companion. And, he’s quite happy that the crisis is over.
But right as he thinks he should go, you suddenly wrap your arms around him. He freezes. Your face presses into his chest while your fingers curl weakly into the fabric of his shirt, seeking comfort. Seriously, what’s going on with you lately? You’re getting bold.
“Thank you,” you say softly. “I owe you big time.”
“What for?” he asks quietly, voice strained.
“For coming here.” You tighten your hold slightly, your own heart racing. “You've been… doing so much for me lately. Honestly more than anyone else has.” Your laugh comes out small and tired. “Living on this planet is such a hassle sometimes.”
Oh, you poor thing. It should be him apologizing to you. You are there thanking him for protecting you from fears he himself created. The guilt born behind the thought nearly has him speaking in protest, yet… he still craves your affection. He wouldn’t be able to shoot down your call for a bit of TLC either.
He says nothing. His arms embrace you, as his chin goes to rest atop your head. It’s an amazing feeling, holding you. Right somehow. A selfish, surely monstrous for these reasons part of him almost wishes you would cry again solely so he could continue comforting you like this a little longer.
Your hearts sync together and he swears he’s never felt more alive.
Eventually, you tilt your head upward, revealing yourself to him in your vulnerability. You’re softer than ever, even needy with your eyes pleading, enough to suddenly lean closer.
Ashveil genuinely cannot process what is happening. Surely you are not in love with him already. More likely, your emotions are scrambled from fear and relief and exhaustion, with your brain desperately searching for comfort after making yourself half-sick. Living alone as a woman must get scary for you sometimes.
And maybe your offering merely is done to feel safe, grounded and soothed by someone else, but Ashveil doesn’t care about the reasoning when your lips brush his. When it happens, the universe seems to narrow down to contain only the two of you.
He’s still frozen, as no single nagging or feeling thought has ever predicted you kissing him willingly. A distant worshiper fitted his calculations better.
You mistake that hesitation for rejection and begin pulling away almost immediately, embarrassment flicking across your hot face.
He quickly realizes what he’s accidentally taking for granted, and the thought of letting this go is maddening. So his hand catches your waist and pulls you flush against him.
The second kiss is nothing like the first. Full of desperation and hunger, he kisses you like a listless man discovering something worth going after centuries, mouth moving against yours with enough intensity to leave him dizzy. One of his hands presses firmly against your back while the other one—always the left hand—rests at your jaw lightly, as though he still cannot believe this is real.
You take it one step further in response, as your fingers slip into his long hair and tug that he sighs blissfully before you straddle him. You deepen the kiss with an urgency on your own.
All of this has him realizing what a fool he was. You must have wanted him all along, at least somewhat—or needed even. But whatever it is, it makes no difference at the moment. Your weight on his is real and tangible.
Take all you want from him. Feed from him. Make this broken-legged wolf worth something.
It’s easy for his hands to start roaming over your body the moment you kiss him again, restless palms mapping across you as though he’s trying to commit terrain to his memory before it vanishes before his palms. Your robe vanishes first, peeled away from your shoulders and discarded carelessly onto the other side of the furniture.
He knows he was never supposed to end up here. Not like this, through your main entrance. Not in your arms instead of the imagination of the scene, not with with your sun surrounding him from every direction, not breathing against your lips while your hands anchor so trustingly around his shoulders. From the very beginning, he was meant to remain distant.
The moment you helped him pay for that meal in Dovebrook and somehow altered the chemistry of his brain, he should have simply appreciated you from afar and keep moving like every other lonely idiot in the galaxy. Instead, he kept chasing you. First by curiosity, then by intention, then by outright compulsion until it finally wasn’t enough and he decided to make his official appearance, playing your friend by using all that he has learned about you. That shtick with you helping a broke man pay for his food was a perfect icebreaker to start seeing each other, so was you being so friendly from the beginning. Naive too perhaps, believing in his good intentions to express gratitude.
And the story behind tonight is ridiculous too. His own stupidity caused the panic that led you into his arms in the first place, somehow winding up in his favor and he now gets to touch you openly.
He cannot tell whether you have actually started developing feelings for him or whether you simply want somebody to fuck after a stressful night, but it hardly matters anymore—either possibility leaves him incredibly flattered, and both are still better than being shut out entirely.
Prurient thoughts about you have been rotting his brain for way too long anyway.
“Nice place, by the way,” he murmurs between kisses, mouth brushing yours as his hands beneath your shirt.
“Just the place?” you tease softly before nipping at his lower lip.
“Well, the owner is just as nice, if not better…” he answers against your mouth, the words dissolving into another kiss right as his fingers begin pushing your pajama shirt higher—
A sharp bark cuts through the room. Both of you jolt before separating.
“Princess!” you exclaim at the exact same moment he does, turning toward the hallway opening where your dog stands glaring sleepily in his direction.
Shit. He absolutely forgot about her so did you in the heat of the moment.
That bark is absolutely aimed at him, though thankfully not in the way it could have been. More annoyed than alarmed, really. He suspects Princess came looking for snacks and found herself offended by the fact he arrived empty-handed tonight.
As you try to shoo her away, Princess plants herself stubbornly in place and barks at him again.
“Ugh, she doesn’t like strangers…” you sigh apologetically.
Yes, strangers. It’s good that’s what you think.
“No worries.” Ashveil crouches in front of the couch despite the cold sweat trying to break across his spine. “I like all dogs, and they like me.”
“That’s not how this works—”
He extends his hand anyway before you can finish objecting. Princess sniffs him for approximately two seconds before visibly recognizing his scent and immediately losing interest, turning away with the dramatic disappointment of someone realizing there are really no treats involved in this interaction. Pretty rude after everything, he thinks.
Ashveil gives her a few quick pets for appearances before she finally trudges off again.
Her indifference doesn’t surprise him, though it does surprise you.
“Huh. Seems that she likes you enough.” If liking someone was tolerating their presence enough to let them stay.
You do not question it further, thankfully. People love convincing themselves animals instinctively recognize good souls or hidden kindness, and Ashveil is not above benefiting from that kind of superstition.
He just smiles smugly and stands up. “Told ya.”
You laugh softly, amused by this ridiculous interruption in making out. “Sorry about her. Now… where were we?”
Before he can answer properly, you surge toward him to kiss him again and wrap your arms around his shoulders, nearly knocking him backward with the force of it. He moves instinctively; his hands catch your thighs and hoist you up with a surprising ease right before he pins you against the nearest wall.
“Detective,” you breathe out, sounding genuinely surprised once his palms settle against your ass, rough in their grip. “I didn’t know you had that in you.” You measure him.
“It’d be a little bit boring if I had shown you everything about myself right away, no?” he teases lowly. You really don't know the half of it, let alone what lies inside his arm.
As you laugh again, so prettily at that, he kisses you properly. Mouth full of unbearable hunger, voracious for you. It’s beyond his wildest dreams, the fact that he can be here with you, touching you, that he resents the thought of wasting just a second.
His hat gets in the way, so he tears it off and throws it somewhere behind him without looking.
Them your hips grind experimentally against the growing hardness trapped beneath his pants, and the sensation nearly knocks the breath from his lungs altogether. This is much better than it was in his head, he can feel his underwear sticking up already.
Ashveil hisses into your mouth, his grip on you momentarily faltering before it becomes even tighter.
“You're vicious…” he mutters hoarsely, fanning your face from how close it is. You look just as incredible from this close, looking at him with so much desire heavily hanging your eyelids down—succeeding at reigniting his lust after many years as well.
“I thought you could take that?”
“Just you wait,” he says roughly.
He carries you toward the bedroom with no delay, kicking the door shut behind him the second he steps inside. The sight of your bed nearly short-circuits his brain for entirely separate reason, a morning memory colliding with present reality, but the victory of his dreams coming true brings him back onto earth.
Upon being thrown at your bed, you can take in only one breath before he’s all over you again, nudging your legs open with his knee so he can take the space between your thighs. There’s little barrier of your pajama, yet his hands first dip beneath your shirt, palms flat against your skin before reaching your breasts he kneads to your pleasure.
“You just know how to stir chaos…” he murmurs against your jaw before dragging slow kissed down the side of your neck, each lingering long enough to leave warmth blooming. He could easily snap his fangs here and see you writhe, so he holds your life without you knowing.
You shiver beneath him yet still manage to tease ever so sweetly, chuckling softly, “Me? And what did I do, pray tell?”
What didn’t you do?
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he growls softly against your skin. “And looking at me like that doesn’t help me at all.”
But whatever clever reply you had in store dies beneath another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue pushing into your mouth the instant your lips part for him. He sighs at your taste.
Clothes begin disappearing quickly afterward, your hands tugging frantically at his ridiculous layers while he strips himself and his dignity down with little patience. Something tears through the process, seams ripping loudly, but he barely notices or cares.
By the time he reaches your clothes, you aid him by kicking off your own pants, down to your panties he then removes for you. He allows himself to take one look at you, burning the image of your nude form—perfection, in his mind—onto his memory forever. You stare back at him, your chest heaving as you squirm like a bunny in anticipation, overheated from his intrusive gaze.
His mouth travels everywhere once he finally gets obstructed access to your skin, kissing and biting and suckling at the softest parts of you with barely restrained greed. He stays especially at your throat, not only because he enjoys the sounds he can pull from you there, but because your pulse beats beneath his mouth so vividly alive that it almost hypnotizes him. Warm blood rushing beneath delicate skin as he licks a stripe downward with flat tongue, life spilling through your veins with abundance, trusting him enough despite his existence that has included centuries spent around death and hunger.
You tilt your head back further for him without hesitation, your chest rising in irregular intervals. He holds you down by your hips whenever you whimper louder or grind against him again and make him moan too.
Ashveil groans softly against your neck before dragging his tongue over the marks already rising there, his hand sliding lower at last until his fingers slip between your thighs. The wetness waiting there draws a shaky breath from him, something feral in him satisfied once he realizes just how affected you already are.
He wishes he could bury himself between your thighs properly and spend hours there pleasuring you, learning every reaction your body can offer. Worshiping you. Unfortunately, his patience stopped existing the very moment you kissed him—so fingers it is, in hope it’ll ease at least some of the upcoming discomfort for you.
One long finger of his left hand slides inside your pussy first, then another soon after, and he watches your expression shift beautifully as he stretches you open. You moan for him, and only him.
“Look at this…” he mutters, dazed by the sight of you. “You’re soaking already. Pretty thing’s been thinking about this, huh?”
His thumb presses lazily against your clit while he keeps thrusting his fingers into you at a rhythm that grows rougher whenever you make especially sweet noises for him, occasionally stretching your hole up as he opens his digits too. With how tight you are, he cannot imagine his survival once he fills you.
“Ashveil…” You saying his name like this can probably earn you anything, even if it’s not his real name.
Hearing that, his mouth goes back to occupying itself at your chest before finally closing around one nipple with a low groan that vibrates through you. He makes them protrude as he switches between both sides, adding to the whirpool in your abdomen. Meanwhile, he grinds himself against the mattress, trying to relieve some of the painful pressure building beneath his boxers.
You dig your nails into his back, keeping him close while your other hand slips into his dark hair, at the nape of his neck.
“Ashveil… just fuck me already…” you whine, your voice trembling enough for tears to begin gathering at your lashes.
“What’s gotten you in such a hurry?” he murmurs now back against your mouth he must keep kissing, still teasing despite the fact he’s hardly an better. “You’re usually more patient that this.” Like has any right to talk. He’s been one second away from pouncing on you the moment you kissed him.
“Don’t tease,” you complain. “It’s been a while…”
He knows that well.
“Ah, so you’re just using me to get off?” he taunts lightly as he deliberately sinks his fingers deeper and watches your mouth open. Some insecure corner of him still threatens to take the possibility seriously instead of as rightful.
“No…” You pull him closer again, frustrated already. “Stop being such a detective. I need you. I want you.”
He’s even more dizzy after you say that.
Ashveil exhales shakily before finally pulling his fingers from inside you and licking them clean with a low groan. The sight alone makes butterflies rush through your stomach, something about the contrast between his usual shabby demeanor and the hunger in him now going straight to your head.
“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I’ll give you what you want. You shouldn’t even have to beg me for it…”
He lets you help him tug his boxers down, and he nearly finishes from the expression crossing your face once you finally see him fully, resting against his abdomen. Your hand wraps around his cock experimentally, pumping him a few slow times while smearing the leaking pre-cum across the tip with your thumb.
His head tips back immediately. It feels too good, enough that he momentarily fears he’ll really come before even getting inside you.
So he grabs your hips instead, grounding himself by dragging his cock through your folds first, coating himself in your slick with rough little thrusts that make your breath hitch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist while your fingers clutch tightly at the sheets beneath you. Then he spits directly onto your cunt. You tremble, arching your back.
Once he finally pushes inside, breathing becomes difficult for different reasons.
He’s big. Bigger than you expected, and with how ridiculous Ashveil can sometimes be, it’s strangely easy to forget how imposing he actually is physically until moments like this. The stretch burns at first, enough to force a gasp from your throat, but the discomfort quickly melts into warmth and fullness that leaves your legs shaking around him.
One steady thrust and he’s inside your pussy completely, his balls resting at the curve of your ass.
“A-Ash-sh-veil—” your voice breaks as he starts moving immediately after, pace rough from the beginning as though control abandoned him entirely the second he felt your hot walls envelop him like a perfect, sunny day. Each thrust drags your body with it slightly, his hands bruising you, as the mattress creaks beneath the force of it while his breathing grows harsher against your mouth.
His eagle look only leaves you more flushed.
You notice his prosthetic arm gradually warming against your skin, heat pulsing strangely through the surface and dark seams alike, but whatever curiosity you once had about it you restrained from the fear of disrespecting him dissolves quickly once he hits another spot inside you that leaves your brain mushy. It’s your first time together, yet he already knows your body this well…
You're face to face while losing yourselves like this, both forced to watch each other abandon any pretense of friendliness in real time. Ashveil makes no effort whatsoever to suppress his own sounds either, low and ecstatic moans spilling from freely from him every time you tighten around his cock. He kisses your mouth before leaving more bites across that have your back arching, rinse and repeat.
Soon your legs are pushed nearly against your chest and the angle changes enough to make you cry out properly. He reaches impossibly deep like this, while your legs wriggle in the air uselessly as he keeps forcing your walls to adjust to his size.
“Please… it’s too much…” You whine out as you throw your head back against the pillow.
And yet, Ashveil still seems unsatisfied. Every thrust seems to leave him wanting more than the last time, his expressing growing more and more wrecked each time you moan for him, as if no amount of closeness could ever fully scratch that terrible hunger rooted inside him. Deeper, harder, faster—
“Fuck…” he groans loudly, adding to the ongoing noise reverberating against your bedroom walls. “You’re so good to me, baby… Just keep taking it like that…” He leans in closer to your face and his forehead presses briefly against your before he snaps his hips against your ass harder again. “Gonna make you come so hard.”
The praise only makes you clench tighter around him, and you mewl. Ashveil swears under his breath and grabs the headboard before he loses control completely, letting one of your legs slip down. Unfortunately for you, it only gives him more force behind each trust.
“S-slow down…” you gasp. “You're gonna break my bed…” you say, but it’s all a ghost of rationality speaking for you as you pull him closer by his shoulders.
“You need it. I know you do,” he growls.
He keeps fucking you like this, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave marks while he shudders beneath the sting of it. He likes the pain; likes the proof you’re overwhelmed enough to claw at him.
He lets your other leg go, so he can let thick globe of saliva suddenly spill from his mouth onto your cunt before he rolls it across your clit with slow but heavy circles of his thumb, watching your eyes roll back the same way.
“W-wait…” you say eventually.
“Just a bit more, pretty girl—”
“No, Ashveil…” you whimper.
He slows down rough to look at you properly, even if it comes with difficulty. “What is it?”
“M-more lube,” you admit breathlessly. “I’m getting sore…”
Maybe it’s not the sexiest interruption, but some concern flickers across his expression… even if frustration triumphs over the feeling.
“Don’t worry,” he says quickly, “I’ve got it.”
Still half inside you, Ashveil reaches automatically toward the nightstand beside the bed, already opening one drawer before clicking his tongue in annoyance.
“Dammit, you moved it to the other drawer.” These words slip out without him thinking.
The room goes still.
Ashveil freezes when he notices you tense up.
“Why you looking at me like that?” he asks carefully.
“How did you know it was moved?”
“What?”
“You said I moved it.”
He stares at you, in a way that makes your stomach tighten unpleasantly. It makes him look much more different, like he dares you to oppose him further.
“We’re seriously discussing lube logistics in the middle of sex?” he asks with irritation, already opening the second drawer instead. “Relax. Nightstands are the most obvious place imaginable to keep it.”
“Yes, but…” You swallow. “How did you know I moved it?”
“I thought you mentioned reorganizing your room before.”
“But I didn’t—”
Before you can continue, he squirts lube over himself and pushes fully back inside you in one rough thrust, effectively knocking the thought from your head altogether.
“Just focus on me,” he says more sharply now. He doubts he can stop at this point anyway.
More unease brews in your guts despite the pleasure right beneath. You try speaking again, but he thrusts deeper immediately after and your protest dissolves into a broken gasp instead. Tears spill freely down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation while your hands press weakly against his shoulders as if attempting to still keep him away.
Then he flips you onto your stomach. The sudden movement knocks the breath from you entirely, and you’re once more surprised, and maybe a bit concerned by his strength. Your face is pushed into the pillows while Ashveil lays his weight over your back as he drives back inside your hole again, his long and thick cock hitting your pussy hard. He doesn’t want you seeing how wrecked and pathetic he looks, yet he craves to be as close as possible.
He pounds into your hard enough to force little sobs from your throat and make it nearly painful, one hand gripping your hip while the other presses against the back of your neck to keep you still beneath him. You squirm like one of his preys underneath him, feeling the sharp sting of his sweaty skin clashing with yours, but he ignores the way you scratch back at him from the intensity, soiling the pillow from your tears.
“Stop overthinking,” he grows near your ear, tickling your sensitive skin with his long hair that flows to his tempo. “And take it properly.”
The command sends another flush of heat through you despite everything.
You’re trembling uncontrollably by now, pleasure building too fast for your body to keep up with. Ashveil isn’t far behind either, judging from the way his thrusts keep losing rhythm whenever you squeeze around him especially tightly. You can feel the ways he’s pulsing as he keeps you so full.
Then his hand slips beneath your stomach again to rub over your clit unceremoniously. It doesn’t take him much before your orgasm crashes through you so violently, your vision whites out for a moment. Your mouth falls open soundlessly against the pillow while drool dampens the fabric beneath your cheek even more, your body twitching helplessly underneath him as wave after wave keeps hitting.
The way you tighten around him finally send him over the edge too. A broken grunt tears from his throat as he collapses heavily against your back, his cock spilling thick warm inside your cunt in long bursts.
For a good minute, neither of you moves, catching your breaths. You shake, feeling sweat stick to you all over your body.
Then Ashveil slowly pulls out, watching his release leak down the inside of your tights.
Before you can sit up fully, however, he catches your waist.
“No. Not yet,” he growls.
He pushes you back down, and drops between your legs before you can properly process what he’s doing. The first drag of his tongue through the mess between your thighs makes your entire body jerk violently.
“Ashveil—”
He groans against your hole instead, licking into you eagerly while cleaning you up, as if to either remove his stain from you or keep the part of you inside his body. He cannot stand wasting even this final intimacy between you.
It’s too much, and you’re far too sensitive post-orgasm. Yet every attempt to squirm away only results in him tugging you back harder while your cries grow increasingly pathetic against the pillows. His tongue pushes deep inside you, gathering every drop, before returning to your clit again, licking up every trace of wetness and cum alike with shameless greed until another smaller orgasm wrings through you embarrassingly fast.
By the time he finally lifts you upright between his legs afterward, your thoughts feel sluggish and disconnected. Still, little things begin surfacing unpleasantly through the haze now that the intensity has faded enough for your brain to function again.
All these months of him appearing where you are, just excused by his supposedly excellent detective skills. Knowing your dog’s tastes. That random receipt. The way he moved through your bedroom without hesitation. The way Princess calmed down too quickly—and, now come to think of it, he didn’t have any allergic reaction either.
The drawer thing.
Ashveil occasionally said something dumb, yet everything was somehow explained, but the drawer thing now bothers you especially. You feel so stupid, believing you should have done your research about him before getting friendly better, no matter how lonely you might have been yourself.
You notice the way his hold on you firms, as if he became aware of the dilemma that rules and shifts in your body language. You're scared at the thought of what he might do should you tell him that truth.
“You good?” he asks quietly, holding his face in the crook of your neck.
“Yeah,” you answer automatically, though uncertainty bleeds through your voice. “I just need to…” Then you try pulling away.
He lifts his head and eyes you suspiciously. “Something wrong?”
“No,” you say tiredly. “I just wanna use the bathroom.”
Ashveil watches you carefully for a longer moment before finally loosening his hold.
You stand up impetuously despite your shaky legs and begin gathering your discarded clothes against yourself.
“I see,” he says slowly. “I’ll wait here.”
But he does not believe you for even a second, his heart hammering in sudden distress. The moment you leave the room, he quickly dons on his clothes. Quietly moving closer to the hallway, he listens.
He can hear your voice, muffled and nervous—speaking on the phone.
Oh no.
He moves fast, pushing through the door. By the time the call starts connecting, he’s already behind you, snatching the phone from your hands before you can even notice him.
With your hand managing to grasp at least the bottom half of the device right in time, you quickly disconnect the line.
“Hey,” he says sharply, breathing heavily and trying to retrieve the electronic, “who are you calling? I told you the police would be useless in this situation.”
“I-it wasn’t the police!” you blurt out, lying. Your eyes open wider. “Wait… How would you know that.”
Shit. He just keeps implying things. “Who else would be you be calling at this hour?” he asks, bitterness rising into his voice. “A friend? So you can tell them you regret sleeping with me already?” He glares at you.
Yet his thoughts spiral into something much more fragile than the sense of disrespect. Real, honest fear he hadn't the occasion to experience in a while.
Please. Don’t ruin this for him.
“That’s not it—”
“Then what is it?”
“I wanted to…” Your voice trembles. “Order us some food.”
“You said you were going to the bathroom.”
“It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“Then show me the phone.” His hand tugs on the phone you still clutch. “If what you’re saying is true.”
“That’s weird,” you say defensively, shrinking back. “You should trust me more.”
“And you should stop looking at me like I’m about to kill you.”
The words come out far worse than he intended, as Ashveil can see you flinch.
Silence stretches between you both and that damn phone, suffocating and ugly, until finally the pressure snaps and you can’t hold it in anymore.
“Were you the one stalking me?” you ask with small dread. “Breaking into my house?”
Ashveil stares; then he laughs through his nose, disbelieving, and steps closer to pull you against him before you can retreat further.
“What are you talking about?” He twist off and puts your phone aside on the small table before his hands settle on your arms in attempt of comfort. “Oh, I get it now. You’re exhausted all that happened tonight, and your mind is playing tricks with you. That’s understandable, sweetheart, so we should just rest—”
“It all makes sense now though!”
“What.”
“All those weird comments you kept making!” Your voice rises despite your worry he’ll snap. Even that rough sex seems worrying in hindsight. “You showing up everywhere I go, acting like you know things you shouldn’t! The lube thing! Someone breaking into my house and somehow knowing exactly what they were doing—”
“It's not what you think it is!” he butts in, while nearly shaking you.
“That’s what people always say when it is what you think it is!”
Alright. Maybe you’re correct. Still, you are missing important nuance here!
Ashveil exhales deeply and rubs a hand over his face, more exasperated than angry. “Okay. Fine,” he acquiesces. “Maybe some things looked strange. But have I ever hurt you?”
The questions stops you from trying to pull away from his hands.
“So you can believe me when I say I don’t have bad intensions.”
He’s not denying it. He’s explaining it, sounding like someone already aware he has crossed too many lines to convincingly pretend innocence.
You feel bile come up to your throat, stuck in terror. He is your stalker, and you just have slept with him.
All those walks together, “accidental” or “deduced” meetings, all those services right in time— You can’t believe how blind you’ve been, but you don’t even want to imagine how many times he may have followed you, watched you, entered your home. You have a worse issue on your plate, your safety compromised.
You finally go for the door.
The second you bold away from him, ripping yourself from his grasp, Ashveil’s expression changes into something vicious.
“Come back here!”
You sprint through the apartment, heart pumping so hard it makes you taste blood. Unlike him, you know this layout—no, scratch that. He knows it too, much to your fear, and he’s fast.
You barely reach the hallway before strong arms hook around your waist from behind and lift you off the floor. You scream immediately as you kick and thrash against him.
“Let me go!” you scream. “Help me—”
He curses under his breath and quickly sets you down again to clamp a hand over your mouth so the neighbors cannot hear you.
“Hey, stop screaming!” he hisses desperately into your ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. You just need to listen to me for five minutes.”
You fight him anyway, digging your heels against the floor while he attempts to drag you backward, trying not to actually manhandle you harder than necessary.
Then unexpectedly, Princess arrives.
The barking explodes through the house once she sees you in your distress, loud and and furious enough to make Ashveil panic too.
“Princess!” you cry weakly against his palm, the sound muffled.
The dog only gets louder, teeth bared now.
Honestly, the betrayal stings Ashveil a little. After everything, all those treats and secret visits over beef jerky, he really thought they had achieved some sort of understanding. He could be her second owner. Even her dog father, in a horribly domestic fantasy he occasionally indulges in when particularly lonely.
Turns out Princess is more like a queen of this kingdom, and she’s still loyal to you, choosing you over treats alike.
She’s a good girl which he should praise her for, but her timing is still extremely inconvenient.
“Princess,” Ashveil warns, “quiet!”
She barks even harder, not liking his tone at all. His pulse spikes at the thought of your neighbors hearing her and finding it alarming.
Ashveil hates himself for what he says next. “Tell her to stop,” he says coldly from behind you, “or I'll make her stop.”
It sounds a threat enough to you, as your sobs burst violently against his palm. It’s unbelievable he’s been such a bastard all along, now betraying you in the worst way imaginable for a pet owner.
He doesn't want to hurt the dog and he’d probably cry afterward if he actually had to, but the fear has already pushed him to resort to more extreme measures.
“If I move my hand,” he says more gently now, “will you calm her down without screaming again?”
You nod, terrified for Princess’s safety. So slowly, he lets go of your mouth.
“P-Princess.” Your voice shakes terribly. “Go. We're just playing.”
The whine you hear in response tugs at your heart.
“Please,” you beg her.
Princess hesitates for another second before reluctantly retreating down the hallway, her tail low.
Ashveil exhales in relief.
“See?” he says quietly, not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself. “Nobody’s getting hurt.”
You don’t answer, still scared, so he continues, “Listen.” He slightly eases his grip on you, though not enough to let you break free easily. “Here’s what's going to happen.”
But your terrified brain only hears: “here’s what’s going happen to you.” Especially if Ashveil he no longer looks like your strange detective anymore. He’s bigger, stronger, and definitely capable of vile acts. In a way no amount of self-deprecating humor of a pathetic dog at your doorstep can soften now; a broken-legged wolf finally cornered yet still having it in him.
Ashveil’s own thoughts are spiraling just as badly. He doesn't know what Mister N would do if he suddenly dragged home a terrified woman in the middle of the night. And if you disappear entirely, there’s every chance somebody connects him to you eventually, and he refuses to ask Pearl for help in something so revolting. You pass through with him by your side often, enough for some of the public to recognize you two.
He doesn't want your relationship destroyed completely either. Even with your trembling in fear in his arms, the desperate parts of him still want to salvage it.
“You and I are going to talk,” he says after brief pondering, trying to even out his breathing. He has to stay strong for the both of you. “You’re going to listen to me properly and realize I mean no harm.”
Right as he lets you go, his hand finds yours before leading you back towards the bedroom that now feels claustrophobic. Your obedience as you follow him is no more than anxiety towards repercussions.
This time, he sits down on your against the headboard with you trapped on his lap, arms wrapped around your waist while you remain stiff like a prey in freeze mode. The moment he presses his face into your shoulder, all of that aggression turns into something weary.
Yet the fear he’s going to hurt you cannot leave, no matter how much he exposes his belly.
“It was one time,” he murmurs weakly. “Just this once.”
“I don't believe you.” You squirm on his lap, bracing your hands against his shoulders, but he only tugs you closer.
“Someone experienced at breaking into your house would not leave something as stupid as a grocery store receipt.”
Well, he would, but…
And to you, that sounds like a sound argument to you. However…“That doesn’t prove your innocence!” you argue with tears of fury prickling your tears as you glare down at him. “You could have gotten comfortable! And even if it were to be one time thing, that doesn’t make it okay anyway!”
“I know.” His voice cracks, quieter. “I know it doesn't. I just… needed to be close to you,” he looks you deep in the eyes as he says that, all sad-sappy. Then he hides himself in your shoulder again. “I’m sorry if it makes me look disgusting. Or frightening. Perverse. I know how it sounds.”
It’s a touch-and-go situation. One wrong sentence and perhaps you'll hate him completely. Or maybe you’ll pity him again. Or maybe you’ll find him even more disturbing, demanding that he disappears from your life entirely—he’d break apart like tawdry pottery right after.
As the admission settles heavily over your already addled head, his body suddenly jerks. You feel warm tears hit your skin, those that he cannot stop for once.
Truly a selfish man he is. After years committed to altruism in the act of redeeming himself, here he is, trying to have something for himself again.
At first, you almost think he's taking it deliberately—and some part of him is, leeching off your empathy. Ashveil is not stupid; he knows exactly how soft-hearted you are, and how difficult it is for you to stay angry at someone visibly suffering.
However, the tears themselves are real, falling shamefully no matter how tightly he clenches his jaw.
“I have no one left,” he says shakily, crumbling at your expense. “Do you understand that? I scrape together enough money to keep the lights on, I sleep in a damn refrigerator to ease my arm pain, people either hate me or want something from me, and then…” His grip around you tightens so much you almost suffocate. But he needs to hold onto you. “Then you happened.”
Your chest tightens painfully and it's not his because of his iron hold. All these weeks of him following you, hesitant at first, doing acts of service for you—wordlessly demanding to be useful. Lighting up at a simple nice sentence or trying to impress you dumb ways.
You thought he's just a people pleaser, someone who in the end wants to help everyone. Yes, he seemed a bit lonely, but you didn't anticipate this extent of grief.
“But why…” Your own eyes water even more from the pressure of his woes. “Why wouldn't you just ask to spend time with me normally? We already saw each other all the time…”
“It’s… different.”
“Different how. Are you being stupidly prideful or something?”
Ashveil goes quiet for a longer moment again. The real answer sounds pathetic. Saying “I wanted to be near you even when you weren’t choosing me, as humanly possible” is not something most people would admit aloud.
“No. I…” he weighs his words carefully, “I didn’t want to suffocate you. I know what I’m like, once I care about someone, I…” He laughs weakly through the tears. “I get attached, deeply. So I thought if I stayed nearby quietly, it wouldn't burden you.”
“And that warrants breaking in?” You look at the top of his head, your lip trembling at the thought.
“No,” he admits immediately. “To be fair, it sounds insane when said out aloud.” Another small laughs escaped him. “Cowardly.”
“Were you stalking me too?” you ask again.
“Define stalking.”
You stare at him with disbelief. “Ashveil!”
No denial makes it clear to you.
He lifts his head, speaking frantically as it occurs to him that you’re at your wits’ end, he willing to admit at least something so you could find it within your heart to forgive him. “Fine!” He wipes his eyes aggressively with the heel of his palm, the other hand still holding your waist. “I followed you a few times. But only because Planarcadia’s dangerous and you have absolutely no survival instincts sometimes and—”
The slap cuts him off sharply, his head turning from the impact. He looks back at you slowly, smiling wistfully. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I deserved that.”
He’d take that over you leaving him. You still haven't tried to kick him out—not that he’d let you succeed in it easily—which he desperately takes as a positive sign.
“Don’t stop,” he says with a quiver, tears still stubbornly clinging to his lashes. “Keep hitting me if you want, if it makes you feel better.”
And so you do.
It's easy to let anger overtake you after everything. Your palms strike his shoulders, his chest, his face once more, while something twists furiously inside you, wanting him to stop looking so miserable. He should stop acting like a kicked dog after frightening you half to death.
“How could you do something like this?!”
“I know
“You lied to me.”
“I know.”
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
Yet Ashveil only takes it, not trying to defend himself, only making sure you don't leave his lap; as though punishment is preferable to the thought of you leaving him.
However, seeing him crying properly again, looking all the more shaken and choking on his sobs, the sight snuffs the rest of your anger out before you can continue. The lamp beside your bed shines light on how worn out to the bone he is, painting ugly caricature of the man you believed to know differently. The guilt, even if misplaced between you two, tears you apart.
“Stop being so meek!” you yell, starting to cry on your own. “I don’t know what happened to you, but…”
You truly don’t know and he doubts you’d want to know. Or maybe you would, striving to understand him as part of your empathy, and you’d simply frown upon the truth. About Kronstadt, La Mancha, battles full of hunger and destruction, companions reduced to fragments of themselves… About phantom pain and endless revenge, vendetta and the hunt, centuries spent surviving when he no longer wishes to.
“Hey, hey…” he murmurs, trying to bite down his tears. “Hey, it’s okay…” Slowly, he pulls you both back down onto the mattress, holding you and your trembling body against his chest. “We don't have to talk about all that tonight,” he whispers softly. “You’re exhausted.”
You do realize you should push him away, scream again, throw him out and never let him near you afterwards.
You must be insane or gullible or stupid or anything such, for you let him stay by your side. You curl yourself closer to him, needing some reassurance. You can’t pinpoint whether you're simply overwhelmed and he’s the nearest comfort to reach, you're just lonely on your own, or if somewhere along the way, Ashveil genuinely did become important to you. The responsibility now feels forced onto you anyway.
That choice to accept his touch elates his chest for a moment, he nearly laughs from the joy. Forgetting himself about his typical concerns and the price to pay for them should they be overlooked, he tucks your head under his before starting to rub your back. Holding you like this is as wonderful as he imagined.
“Can we…” he begins, a bit less torn, sniffling out the last sobs. “Can we try again? No more secrets like that this time.”
There will be secrets, of course. Things he can never safely tell you. But smaller ones, perhaps…
“I’ll be good for you. To you,” he promises like his life depends on it. “I need you.”
“I don’t want you to be good for me!” you cry out into his chest. “Just… be.”
The words affect him more than anything that has been done so far. Words he doesn’t deserve and that he mustn’t endorse, words that he still chooses to selfishly cling to. If he perhaps has only a few years left, he wishes to shine bright under your light.
“Then…” He swallows hard, his ears ringing from the surge of happiness that went suddenly through him; at least, the closest thing he’s felt to it in ages. A small ray of sunshine, overshadowing his guilt and dullness for a moment. “Will you let me stay near you?”
You know you shouldn’t. Every nerve in your body screams at you that this is wrong, unhealthy being the least intimidating and meddlesome part. He violated your privacy, lied to your face, manipulated you, and frightened you so badly you though this night might become your last.
But how can you feel anything but cruel when Ashveil cups your face so carefully, lifting your gaze at his, and looks at you as if you have handed something dying an unexpected reason to keep breathing? Perhaps some weak part of you recognizes that loneliness more than you would want to admit.
Against all reason, you nod your head against his palm.
Ashveil smiles.
Unlike yours, it isn’t a pretty smile at all.
If you’re still here, thank you for reading! <3 Comments and reblogs are appreciated.
˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 love interest ꒱ . . . yandere ! self aware ! phainon x female ! reader
˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 format ꒱ . . . oneshot
˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 warnings ꒱ . . . “Y/n” is used for reader’s real name and “[user]” is their in-game username, (golden) blood, implied murder, kidnapping?, multiple mydei mentions (they cannot keep that man’s name out their mouths), stalking, unwanted kisses, yandere themes
˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 synopsis ꒱ . . . in which the dating simulator you downloaded to pass the time becomes your new obsession. Unfortunately, you also become the obsession of a love interest in the game.
˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 authors note ꒱ . . . I’ve been obsessed with yandere visual novels recently despite not being able to play most of them on mobile. did play the freak circus though, absolute cinema.
˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 word count ꒱ . . . 2.4k
You were painfully bored that Saturday morning.
It was raining all day and you really didn’t feel like getting wet trying to get to your car. Instead, you sat at your desk to scroll through the endless variety of free visual novels you could play to pass the time on your laptop.
You took photos of the ones you would come back to play later, but nothing that you would play right now stood out to you.
“That one costs money… this one looks lame… I don’t like the artstyle…”
Just when you were about to give up and look up coolmathgames, your eyes landed on a game that really caught eye.
Although it was a generic high school dating simulator, the character designs were rather complex for an indie visual novel.
Talk about wasted potential… you chuckled to yourself as you clicked the game’s icon.
You skimmed over the description, it said something about thirteen love interests and “Chrysos heirs…” whatever that means.
But you clicked the big, pink “download” button anyway.
After loading the game you were shown the selection of thirteen different male and female love interests. Of course, depending on your choices throughout the story, your chosen love interest could possibly change.
You looked through the variety of different characters and their pretty strange yet interesting names compared to other VN characters. “…Hyacine, Anax— how do I pronounce that? Evernight…”
Yet out of all of them, you found your favorite. His name was “Phainon.” Come to think of it, wasn’t he the character on the cover along side a blond guy?
After selecting your love interest, there was another selection screen but it was for the MC. They had grey haired with yellow eyes. You could choose between the male or the female one and name them. After that, the game began loading.
It was a rather straightforward game. The first scene is the MC getting ready for the first day of school and realizing that they’re running late.
Once they get into the school building they run into the love interest. Who is, in this case, Phainon. The MC drops all their books on the ground and Phainon helps them pick them up.
“Are you a new student?” He asked, “If you’d like I could show you to your class if you’re lost?” His character asked with a smile on his face. He was a cute, charming little character.
The options then appeared on your screen:
“It’s alright, I can find it myself.”
“You would? Thank you!”
You clicked the second option, you wouldn’t want to ruin your chances with him already.
“No problem! Ah, sorry, I’m Phainon by the way.”
This game is so cliche it hurts, but you just can’t put it down. You have nothing better to do anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.
By now, it had been 6 hours since you opened the game and you have not taken a break since. Despite the predictable plot, the characters were rather complex and the art was so visually pleasing.
After playing it for a few days, you’ve gotten to know all the love interests, yet only two were your favorites: Phainon and Mydei. For some reason, they were always shown together, they must be close or something.
You took every chance you could get to talk to either of them. Especially Mydei because you wanted to get his friendship status with you as high as Phainon’s was.
But as you grew closer to Phainon, you started to notice his character acting a bit strange.
The he was talking to the MC as they were both sitting together in class, “Would you like to ask me about any of the others, partner?”
“Can you tell me more about Mydei?”
“Can you tell me more about Cerydra?”
“Can you tell me more about Aglaea?”
Without a second thought you clicked the Mydei option.
“Mydei? I like Mydei!” Phainon grinned, “We’ve been friends since grade school! He’s in a lot of sports clubs and enjoys cooking too.”
His smile faded and his text appeared on the screen slower than usual, “Although, if he ever dared to lie a hand on you…”
The was a brief pause in his dialogue.
“…I wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.”
You click the dialogue option: “???”
“I mean, not literally of course! You know what I mean, haha…” Phainon chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck.
“I didn’t know the some characters were aware of how close I was with the other ones… that’s kinda cool I guess…” You shrugged it off.
The weirdest part about your reaction was that this wasn’t your first time having a strange experience with this game.
One night, you were getting tired and decided to turn off your computer instead of saving your progress. You could just start again at a checkpoint.
But just when you were about to click the power button, a text box appeared at the bottom of the screen, “You aren’t going to save, partner? You’ll have to do all of that hard work all over again if you don’t!”
You were tired so you didn’t pay it any mind, but maybe you should’ve.
You’ve tried deleting the game multiple times but every time you moved it to trash it appeared on your Home Screen again the very next day. There was no option to delete your saved data either or to start a new save file.
Originally, you thought the game was bugged so you had a professional look at it, but they only returned it to you with a “looks fine to me.”
Maybe you’re just going crazy. All those sleepless nights and energy drinks were catching up to you…
Or maybe you’re correct. What if the game isn’t letting you leave because there’s something wrong with it? That “special dialogue” must be a glitch in the code or something.
But what if you’re wrong.
The game can’t have a mind of its own.
And neither does Phainon.
It’s just fiction.
“Shit…” you muttered you yourself when you checked the time, It was almost ten. “I have class in less than an hour…”
Just when you clicked the “save and end” button, one of Phainon’s text bubbles appeared at the bottom of the screen.
Is this special dialogue or something? You thought to yourself as you read the words slowly appearing in the box. It was going so eerily slow, as if someone was typing it themselves.
“What are you doing, partner?” It’s very rare for his dialogue to be voiced, so you were a bit startled to hear his sad voice coming from the speakers.
“You’re leaving already?”
The options appeared on your screen:
“Yes.”
“No.”
You clicked “yes” hoping that it would get you out of this dialogue because for some reason the “skip” button wasn’t working.
A heartbroken expression appeared on his face, he looked like a kicked puppy. Something in you felt a little sorry for him.
“Can’t you stay a little while longer?” He whined.
“Yes.”
“No.”
You clicked the “no” button.
Phainon didn’t react for a good thirty seconds. His only reaction being his text box showing a sequence of “……..”
“Can’t you stay a little while longer?” He asked again, his tone slightly different as if it was less of a question and more of a demand.
This time your options were:
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
With a sigh, you clicked the only option he gave you, finally giving him what he wanted so badly.
His face lit up like Christmas lights.
“You’ll stay, [user]??” He sounded so happy, like a little kid at a candy store. You swore if he was a dog his tail would be wagging right now, “Thank goodness.”
That was strange… characters never actually say the players user name. He always replaces it with “partner.”
It was a cool feature, though.
“Another 20 minutes won’t hurt.”
Those 20 minutes stretched into long hours. By the time you checked the time again your class was over. The worst part about it was that you didn’t feel sorry. As a matter of fact, you would do it again.
And that was a problem.
It was a problem that you’re so obsessed with this stupid video game that it has your priorities all fucked up.
Today you decided to take a break from that game. It did irreparable damage to your sleep schedule. Instead of pulling all-nighters getting in that essay due the next morning, you were playing that damn game.
Actually, you’ve been doing fine without that game for a while now. Certain things do remind you of your favorite characters, but that is to be expected. You were obsessed with that game.
When you went out for a walk the other day you saw a buttery and thought of Castorice’s hair pins.
You saw a big, white dog walking with its owner and now all you can think about is Phainon.
Your friend texted you about what meal they should cook for dinner and you thought of Mydei.
It was driving you crazy.
But you knew that game wasn’t good for you. You needed to pick up better, more constructive hobbies, like… reading… or something.
I could read the dialogue… it is called a visual novel. You thought, your eyes not leaving your laptop for a second.
You got up and walked over to your laptop, staring at the lock screen. You know, two weeks is long enough of a break… you type in your password and click the game icon.
After the game loaded it, you weren’t greeted with the usual pink title screen and upbeat music. Instead, the audio was warped and distorted and the screen was blank for a good fifteen seconds before a text box appeared.
“Finally, I get to see you again, [user]!” An overly joyful voice came from your speakers.
Phainon’s sprite appeared, he seemed a bit more expressive than you remembered, “I’ve been waiting and waiting for so long… I was starting to think that you forgot about me, haha!”
There was a pause and a shift in his voice, “Or… maybe you were cheating on me.”
“Cheating?” What is he talking about??
He moved closer to the screen, his eyes narrowing as if he was staring right at you, “You wouldn’t be unfaithful, now would you, [user]?”
Despite asking a question, there were no dialogue options.
You said nothing.
To which he repeated his question:
“You wouldn’t be unfaithful, now would you, Y/n?”
Your eyes widened in shock when he said your name. Your real name.
How did it… you never use your real name online especially not on video games.
“This is weird…” you mutter, clicking your mouse everywhere on the screen but the dialogue won’t skip and the game won’t save and end. “Why isn’t it working…??”
His eyes widen and he slightly tilts his head to the side “What’s weird? What isn’t working?” Phainon asks as if he just heard what you had said.
“You can… hear me?” You asked, your voice started to get a bit panicked. You did feel a bit silly talking to a sprite on your screen.
How can he hear me if I never turned on my mic…
“Of course I can! I could hear and see you this whole time, Y/n. Haha!” Phainon’s voice was strained and his cheerful chuckle was distorted. As if he was trying so hard to break out of the code. “It feels so good to finally be able to say your name… Y/n… Y/n…”
“Anyway, you still haven’t answered my question. Were you cheating on me?”
“What are you talking about??”
Phainon frowns, “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You left me for so long, I thought I would die if I didn’t see your face again.”
“You do want to be my girlfriend, right? Why else would you choose me out of everyone?”
“I- I don’t… this can’t be happening… I think I’m actually going crazy…” you rambled to yourself, “How is a video game character… talking… to me?”
He smiles again, “Because I realized what I am, and who you want me to be. I’ll be your boyfriend just like you wished since you first picked this game.”
“Since you first picked me.”
Starting to panic, you try pressing your laptop’s power button but it won’t work. Why isn’t anything working???
“You once I have you, can never ███ me.”
Then, he started laughing. His manic laughter grew distorted as the screen started to glitch. His text wouldn’t fit in the little box anymore, you could just barely make out what he was saying.
“Fina█… we ██ be to██her █ever, Y/n. I ██ you. ██ █ ███ ██”
“█ ███ █ ███ ██ ███ █ ██”
The screen went black.
And so did your vision.
When you regained consciousness you were lying in a bedroom. The room looked a bit familiar, but it wasn’t your room.
This is the MC’s bedroom.
“What the hell…?” You thought aloud as you got out of bed. Despite being in their room, you looked like yourself, not the original grey-haired protagonist.
“Partner! I can’t believe it worked!” He called, running up to you.
“Wh- what did you do to me!?” You cried in shock and disbelief.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about—“
You were cut off by him hugging you, “I’m so glad I get to finally feel you and see you right in front of me instead of as a giant on the other side of the screen!!”
He was holding you so tight you couldn’t move. “Ph- Phainon you’re… you’re hurting me…”
He let you go but kept his hand on your shoulder. When you finally got a good look at him you noticed a golden liquid on his hands and a bit- no, a lot on his clothes… there was even some on his face.
“Phainon… what is…?” You pointed down at his school uniform stained with the glittery golden substance.
“Don’t worry about that! All that matters is us together. Right here, right now,” His warm smile didn’t feel the same as it did before all this. Before he kidnapped you and is held you hostage in a video game.
“N- no!” You screamed.
“I want to go home!!” You swatted his hand off your shoulder, backing away from him until your back hit the headboard of the bed.
“This is your home now, Y/n,” he climbed onto the bed his hands resting on the headboard, caging you in with his arms. “And now there’ll be no one to get in our way.”
“Phainon…”
Leaning in, he presses a kiss against your lips. You shoved him away, you were shaking and terrified.
“Now will you let me be your boyfriend?”
After I finished this I realized it was a bit similar to this fic I read. I hate how I’m so unoriginal
imagine if Mydei was self aware too 😨😨 omg wait I’m cooking
🏐 "𝑷𝑯𝑨𝑰𝑵𝑶𝑵 / 𝑲𝑯𝑨𝑺𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑨," ◦ ₊ㅤ ﹙ nsfw breeding you like a rabbit ꗃ .. smut mdni ꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ mina says reupload from toruzip ⁀ ˳ ⟡
Oh, how filthy he got in bed.
From the golden boy of Okhema city, the savior of Amphoreus, smiling and waving to citizens all around, to one of the meanest men in bed.
His hips never stop moving when he’s finally popped his dick inside your tight, wet cunt. He’s not shy about it either, whining and moaning loudly against the wet sounds of his hips slapping against your plump ass. His hands tightly holding onto your hips, making sure you can’t run away.
“F-fuckkkk.. g-gonna breed y-you.. g’nna make you all plump and round with my babies,” he’d hiccup and whisper against your sweat slicked skin. While you would whine and try to pry him off, telling him it had already been an hour since you two had begun. His balls would still be heavy with cum, slapping against your skin with a lewd ‘plap! plap! plap!’. His breathless chuckles would fill the air as his hips wouldn’t stop— in fact, he would start thrusting deeper and more purposefully.
The bed would shake, as you swore you could hear the faint cracks of the wooden bed frame giving way. There was no true night in Amphoreus, so you could still hear the faint sounds of city life going on just past the walls of your little home. “..p-phainon! Y-you’re gonna break the bed again..!” You’d cry and moan, nails digging into his back and leaving red hot marks.
Phainon’s hips wouldn’t stop, oh no.
He’d only get filthier, more lewd and needy. Whimpering into the crook of your neck, “p-please… just l-let me.. ngh— shit.. g’nna c-cum again…” he’d groan, and before you could even complain to him— his hips would be erratically thrusting into your sloppy pussy. Previous white sticky seed already oozing out around his thrusting cock, as he would shudder and cum inside you. Hot thick ropes of his seed spilling deep inside you, no doubt in wanting to fertilise your womb.
“Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou” he’d quickly mutter, his hips coming to a slow roll. Stirring up the sticky mess inside you. His pelvis grinding against your overstimulated clit.
“…do you wanna go again, baby—”
“Phainon, the black tide will be more merciful than me if you ask another stupid question.” You huffed to him quickly, limbs sore and aching all over.
Phainon, who got so nervous asking you out that he meticulously planned out everything months in advance, only to suddenly blurt it out one evening when he was sleepy and he thought you looked too pretty (not that you always weren't, but with the moonlight framing your face and the quiet atmosphere, he couldn't help it). Even when you say yes, he insists on asking you out "properly" anyway.
Phainon, who is so excited to show you off to everyone he knows. He always holds your hand in his whenever you're both walking down Marmoreal Market, always kissing your cheek even when you're embarrassed from the public displays of affection.
Phainon, who, for all his confidence and teasing, blushes incredibly easily. That man cannot take even the slightest bit of flirting from you without turning bright red and stammering. This is something you like to take advantage of, especially to tease him in front of his friends who already know how absolutely down bad he is for you.
Phainon, who was — and always has been — a lover boy at heart. He writes you letters while he's away on long missions, letters that would put the most renowned poets to shame. Not once would he let you doubt that he's found someone else or that his love for you was fading. If anything, he was the one afraid of you falling out of love for him, and he expresses this very clearly in his letters. When you receive them, it always came with a little gift. A flower he found by the road, a cool coin he found at a ruin… whatever it was, it always made you smile with how excitedly he wrote about it.
Phainon, who is so, so soft with you. He knows how physically strong he is, so he tries extra hard not to hurt you. It's especially evident during late nights when you're spiralling as he holds you close, head to his chest, as if he could take away everything that's bothering you. He whisper quiet reassurances, fingers running through your hair to drown out the thoughts.
Silly things Phainon does when he's bored/wants your attention.
Places one pancake under your chin, another on top of your head and declares that he's going to “eat this stack of honeycakes in one bite”.
Plops down beside you belly up and keeps on dramatically sighing.
Calls out your name, when you acknowledge him, he goes quiet, when you return to whatever you were doing he calls out your name again with more urgency ; repeat until you stomp towards him.
Picks you up, shakes you like a salt shaker, sets you down somewhere with a cushion, goes away like nothing happened.
Makes you wear all the antique jewelry in his collection and eventually, makes a barricade around you with everything else he owns, too. Then says, “This is the culmination of my whole life's finances and yet, you remain the most invaluable.”
Pokes you.
Plays with your hair. He thinks he can pull off that one over-complicated hairstyle he saw online.
Tells you jokes and puns.
Pretends to be your shadow and follows you around everywhere wordlessly. Whoever laughs first loses.
Rage-baits you with atrocious outfit suggestions so that you'll start debating with him.
Tells you that he knows a magic trick and detaches his ahoge (it was a fake one).
Calls you (you're literally just a wall apart) but, he's stealthily taken your phone with him. When you're close enough in search of it, he pounces.
Starts mentioning random facts about things.
Starts gossiping about the Council of Elders and that one annoying classmate he had.
Asks you questions like, “How do you think the fishes at Styxia taste?”
Tickles you.
Doodles his neck tattoo, little stars, leaves and flowers on your palm.
Talks about all the adventures he wants to do with you in the future.
Gently headbutts your arm, thigh and cheek to suggest that he demands pets.
Aggressively rubs his face on you when you still don't get/ignore the hint.
Can and will bite you.
Pretends to get hurt so that you'll pay attention to him.
Wrestles titankin, stacks them on top of each other and proudly shows off his ‘hunt’ to you. Please praise him.
poor phainon can never get over his ruts alone can he? especially if he has you.
cw: HybridF!reader x puppy!phainon, creampie, squirting, unprotected sex, breeding, mating press to full nelson, size difference, stretched out, tummy bulge.
❥︎·— Hickies and bites marked on your skin by your giant puppy boyfriend, phainon. His tongue tracing you up and down as he begs— "please, can i...?"
"n-not right now phai..." He stops smothering his lips all over your body and looks at you, shining wide blue eyes staring and giving that cute puppy look.
"I-I promise I'll pull out this time!" Phainon protested, tail wagging ferociously, puppy ears flat— waiting for your answer.
"promise you'll be gentle kay'?"
and that's all he needed to hear.
One moment you're on the couch, then you'll find yourself in bed, clothes nowhere to be seen. You and Phainons breathy noises filled the room as your pussy gushes out, leaving a slicky mess between your thighs— plushy walls fluttering around Phainons massive cock.
"w-wait! don't!— ngh— d-don't move yet.." You breathed out, feeling him so full in you, inside you.
"too b-big phai.." His thick cock making you go dumb already, tummy bulging out as he holds your thighs open, looking down at what hes done— completely memorized as each deep breath you take makes your cute tummy bump bulge more.
you're both feeling hot— flushed, foreheads dripping down with sweat as you both stood still, cock still buried deep, almost touching your cervix. Phainon looks at you with sultry eyes.
"c-can I now?" he huffed and whined painfully. and once you give him that reassuring nod, there's no turning back.
your legs suddenly pushed to your chest as Phainon pulled back to just his tip and rammed himself into your core, hitting your cervix like a bell. His hips going insane, squelching noises from your sopping wet pussy filling the atmosphere.
and each plaplaplap made Phainon go harder, panting nonstop like a dog, pounding you until your brain turns into mush, and you notice Phainon never took eyes off your belly.
He couldn't help but push down onto your tummy bulge, watching the outline of his cock in you disappear and only going deeper in your fluttery inside making you yelp out loud.
"i-i cantt— fuckkk— its t-too much! too big!" you tried prying phainons hand off your tummy, you felt in the need of a release, "c'mon baby you can take it, i know you can~" your body squirming and twitching. you cry out loud as your juices squirt and gush all over phainons leaky cock.
"i-imsorryImsorryi-i didn't—"
but he just smirked, his grin almost touching his ears and eyes full of lust.
"c-can you do that again for me?" what kind of man asks a question and won't wait for an answer?
he immediately flips you around, carrying you midair and puts his arms under your knees and hands at your nape, his cock streching your tight plushy pussy like its never been touched before.
but you gotta remember Phainon is just a sweet ol' puppy boy, so of course you being so skin on skin with him made him sniff you non stop, doing it so gently too as if the curve of his cock hits your g-spot with every thrust and the tip of his dick bullying your cervix.
"shit—! im bout to— fuckk... hah— take my cum baby, please take it, w-wanna— getcha pregnant,sooo.. f ull, so full of me hah—.."
you felt yourself creaming all over his dick, forming a white ring around the base of his cock and dripping down his balls and onto the ground.
and what made you push you over the edge is him creaming inside you, thick spurts of cum filling you up like a donut.
"keep it in baby, don't waste a drop" and you tried your best to keep it in, to keep you full of cum. Clenching around his throbbing cock only for the cum to pool down and leave a mess beneath you guys.
; 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! :)
Summary: Twin flames, is what they would call you. Insufferably wreathed together in a tight lock, hearts drumming in the same rhythm. Even if you want to rip his throat out, sometimes.
Or, in other words: Phainon and you are mutually obsessed with each other.
Warnings: NSFW elements + MDNI. fem!reader, yandere!Phainon, porn with plot, toxic interpersonal relationships, reader is deranged too, minor character death, unhealthy jealousy, blood and injury, possibly disturbing descriptions, unprotected sex, consensual but not sane, dry-humping, fingering, biting/marking, praise, body-worship, slight degradation (from reader), they’re both perverse tbf, contains somewhat dark moments || wc: 16k
Grating buzzing of the chatter filled your ears, making your whole mind hum insistently with one demand: get me out of here.
The party that Lady Aglaea threw as a celebration of the Month of Joy should have been a more-or-less pleasant gathering for everyone. Except for you, of course. Marmoreal Palace was brimming with people. They laughed and drank and were merry — an exact opposite of how you felt.
The big form glued to your side, named Phainon, vexed you earlier. Sometimes you deemed him bereft of any brain or wits whatsoever. The reason for your ire aimed at him was pretty simple, despite the complexity of emotions brewing inside your head.
He, even if you glared daggers at him, accepted a mission outside Okhema’s safety. For someone with his well-developed skills and capabilities far exceeding anyone’s (except for the few individuals you could list on the fingers of your hand), Phainon should face no trouble. And yet.
The vision of him bumping into danger perturbed you greatly. Peril was something inseparable from the life of a warrior, though it made your blood simmer, still. What if Phainon comes back injured? Much worse, what if you never see him again?
Well, that was an extreme option, but you seldom strayed from imagining them.
It must be so easy for Phainon to leave you, then, if he’s willing to take on any duties handed out left and right. Like he’s an errand boy. He wouldn’t mind the separation, your thoughts suggested in that ugly voice. He’d gladly part from someone like you.
You attempted to snuff out the scorching whispering of your consciousness, although it proved to be a stifling task. They raked at the insides of your skull with their claws and teeth. Leaving marks so deep, you couldn’t tell the delusion apart from reality, keeping you pinned underneath and flailing like a helpless roach.
To say the least, everything your mind oh-so unhelpfully provided, was maddening.
Saddled with paranoia and completely disenchanted, your gaze swept over the palace, incurious. Long tables packed with food. Overflowing alcohol. The sound of splashing water and faraway chortling of some middle-aged citizens.
Then there was Phainon, the main star of the show. Wheedling with others, his eyes shaped into crescent moons as he grinned widely, the apples of his cheeks blushing. A sudden urge to bite him arose within you. The man was so endearingly handsome and joyful, even for your incensed self. Maybe instead of biting, you should kiss his cheek and flick your wrist dismissively at the crowd herding him away from you.
Or, perhaps, you should leave. The wine tasted like bile, making you recoil upon the first sip, now more irascible than previously. One of the musicians standing in the corner was off-tune. Her eyes seemed so dull. She most certainly wasn’t enjoying herself, and you could sympathize. Something reeked of faint rot. The accumulated sensations, coupled with your dismay, drove you to near insanity.
One last glance around gave you nothing. Castorice, alienated as always, her doe-like eyes downcast. The healer — Hyacine, was her name? — having a dialogue with a group of women. Tribios, Trianne and Trinon prancing around the crowd like young ponies, their little wings fluttering without effort as they played tag.
And you, now left to your own devices. Really, you should come to reckon that Phainon, who promised to stay with you throughout the entire party, would eventually find better company. Even if his twin blues occasionally locked on you, making sure you were still there, it did little to allay your internal anger. You’ll kick him once you are alone. You’ll kick him, yes, or do something way worse, so that he’s left weeping and pleading for forgiveness.
That final lick of disdain was all you needed to put your goblet down, turning on the heel and walking out. Your feet carried you quickly, soon getting you outside into the fresh air. With a slow breath, you allowed yourself to relax. It was not easy to get your shoulders to hunch down, jaw unclenching and fingers letting go of your (now evidently crumpled from gripping it so hard) chiton, but you managed.
Nevertheless, your minds continued to race like a restless animal in captivity, pacing around in an endless circle. It repeated and repeated. Your vision narrowed on the cobblestone path, head hung low as you trudged forward.
There seemed to be a thorn in your side, causing pain more often than not. If you could, you’d gnaw at it with your own fangs, ripping the thing out and spitting it on the ground. Then, you’d step on it just for a good measure. Regretting it would come quickly, you were sure of it, but perhaps regret is a moderate price for the few seconds of relief.
You could hear the song of birds, reverberating through Okhema. Rush of people around. Sound of footfall, and finally the touch on your shoulder, causing you to stumble backwards inelegantly. Of course, only one person would bother chasing and checking up on you.
Ultimately, you were glad that Phainon decided to leave as well — he always would follow, you learnt long ago, when sometimes you’d walk away for the sake of seeing his reaction. The man never wasted time, trailing after you with the expression of a neglected dog; asking fervent questions, worried he offended you somehow, or that you suddenly stopped liking him.
You found it amusing, back then. You still do. Except now, you are in no mood to humor Phainon who was already grappling at your hands with his bigger ones, anxiety etched on his face.
“Where are you going, [Name]?” His voice sounded just as distressed as his wide eyes looked. Gentle breeze caused his white locks to lift aside, furrowed brow peeking from under the messy fringe.
Phainon was visibly swept up in his emotions. If truth be told, you derived great pleasure from seeing him undone like that, heat kindling beneath restraint. It meant the man still cared.
By all rights, you did not necessarily mean to pull at the leash of his agitation, though it seemed like the best option for now. So you merely shrugged, turning and starting to walk again.
You heard Phainon let out a breath behind you, legs moving in the rhythm of yours, so perfectly synchronized you wouldn’t be able to tell he was following in the first place, if not for the heaviness of his step.
“[Name].” He demanded now. Still, you let the silence chafe. Make him wonder. Maybe then he will learn not to disregard your opinions so easily.
For the entire way home, Phainon kept on moaning, alternating between being angry and despaired. Then he was jumping around, trying to get your attention. Just like a household pet, desperate to regain the favor of its owner by doing silly tricks after being scolded.
The relentless efforts almost softened your defenses. Almost. But you remember how thoughtless Phainon was, accepting yet another mission, even though you forbade it. Perhaps you’d be able to swallow your disapproval down, if not for how enthusiastic the man seemed. How happy he was to throw himself in the maws of danger — dying or not dying, abandoning or not abandoning — they say loss is a constant on the Flame Chase journey, even amongst which human life holds little importance. This idea has been apparently hammered into their heads. Then Phainon was smiling at all the others, regarding everyone with his words while you stood on the side, forgotten.
Really, at that point, you ought to throw him out of the window instead of kicking. But by the time you reached your shared abode, Phainon was left more than disgruntled by your cold shoulder.
While opening the door, he shot you a look bordering on wounded. Or at least you think so, because the brows narrowed in indignation did little to mask his quivering lip. He held his dismay in a tight fist, you had to admit that. If you were put in Phainon’s position, you’d be already shaking him by the bosoms of his overcoat, rattling brain and bones.
The solitary environment prompted him to speak up. “Do you truly enjoy tormenting me so?”
Vitriol rose unbidden, filling up your chest with ugly, tar-like feeling. You turned to face the man, looking straight into his bottomless irises and deliberately ignoring their wetness. “No. Do you?”
Your barbed words caused Phainon to stagger slightly, the corner of his lips curling. “Why would I?”
Ire simmered between you. Honestly, you and him argued rarely, and if you did, it was nearly always about nonsensical things. Like the color of your bedsheets, or who loves the other more. What is the proper way to make keftedes. Which one of you should wash the windows today, and who’s going to go shop for fruit tomorrow.
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
Phainon let out a long-suffering sigh, finally stepping closer. “[Name], quit this and say what’s wrong without being so roundabout.”
No matter if the man attempted to sound stern, he could never be brusque with you. The pleading in his tone was more than apparent. You’d be satisfied if he actually apologized instead of whining in your ear and playing oblivious like some child that knew no better.
With a huff, you began: “Perhaps you should go and ask your lovely companions at Marmoreal Palace—”
A short, incredulous laugh interrupted you, knocking you sideways. Your eyes narrowed at Phainon, silently asking what was so amusing about the whole situation — he must’ve lost it, if he found it funny anyhow.
Unbidden cheer glimmered in his insufferably blue eyes, tugging at the edges of your psyche. “You’re jealous?” He asked, finally smiling.
“I’m—” you paused, suddenly at the loss of words, “I am most certainly not!”
At your refusal, Phainon’s smile only widened, stretching into a grin that split his face in half. He shifted even closer, now having you crane your neck to keep eye contact; you had half the mind to shove at the man’s midriff and make him fold, just so he’d stop towering over you. Then again, attempting to cause Phainon any damage was a losing game. Before you’d manage to reach him, both your wrists would be already bound in one of his annoyingly large palms.
“My [Name] is jealous,” Phainon hummed with an odd amount of buoyancy, the sheer jubilation on his face blinding. A pair of arms caught you, locking in a tight embrace. Too tight for comfort, too tight to breathe, but just tight enough to feel the erratic pounding of his heart.
Was the hug tender? Sure, though more like a bruise. You didn’t mind anyway. Phainon was gladdened by your envy, as you were happy with his struggle. Who were you, if not two snakes?
So you squeezed him back, to the point where the ornaments of his unbearably intricate garments dug into your flesh. You angled your head, propping up your chin on his breast to take a better look.
“None of it changes the fact that I’m still mad at you.” Phainon’s expression morphed into confusion, prompting you to supply: “For everything you’ve done today.”
The man blinked, giving you doe eyes, so full of false innocence. “For example?”
“You’re acting dense on purpose, or what?” You muttered, frowning a bit when his grip on you tightened — either in warning or another surge of fondness. “Stop being stupid.”
Phainon let out a sound, something close to a coo as one of his hands grabbed you by the jaw. He gave a small tug, discomfort surging through your neck as you observed his expression darken. “You’re so cute when you get angry, [Name]. Makes me want to bite your tongue off.”
“And I could gouge your eyeballs out,” you spat, tone dropping to match his rather affected look. “They’re so big, it really wouldn’t be hard for me.”
A stretch of heavy silence passed, one in which you just stared, sizing each other up like two feral animals caught in suspense. Phainon didn’t react to your vicious threat, nor did you respond to his own. Were you to genuinely act upon these urges, both of you would be dead men a long time ago, ripped to shreds and reduced to nothing. Even bones wouldn’t remain, even dust.
And then, his lips were on yours. Which was to be expected, considering the insatiable hunger burning in his gaze — nevertheless, it took you by surprise. A dumbfounded breath ripped from your lungs before it was swallowed down, too. For all the dangerous promises you oh-so enjoyed throwing, none of you would ever truly harm the other. You supposed, somewhere in the back of your mind, that the belligerent words could only manifest in this. Him eating you alive with kisses.
Impetuously, you tugged Phainon backwards, mouths still connected. With his hands pressing you close and roaming, and your fingers yanking at his ivory tufts of hair, forcing deeper, you stumbled through the living room. Your legs tangled inelegantly. There was no logic in your movements anymore, only the primal instincts awoken by sweltering covet.
Something hard dug into your thigh when Phainon accidentally slammed you against the bedroom door, and you laughed into his mouth, both of you simultaneously grabbing the handle.
Briefly, your lips parted when the man pulled away. “Sorry…” He muttered, nursing the back of your head with apology. Then, before you could answer, strong arms were already hauling you up, tossing on the bed.
As you attempted to gather your bearings, Phainon got rid of his outer clothing in record speed. “You seem to be in a hurry.” A small, breathless chuckle slipped out your throat, cut short when the man practically pounced to join you, making the mattress dip with his heavy weight.
“I’m always in a hurry when it comes to you.” He said, twins of blue foggy with a thing deeper than desire. Obviously, Phainon would much rather worship every inch of your being than latch on like a gormless leech. You understood it, back then, when you saw the extent of his devotion. Far exceeding any sane person’s wits, and yet so utterly normal to you, just like sharing food with a lover, or conversing about weather.
Phainon’s lips found yours again, kissing you senseless as his hands began to undo the laces holding your chiton together. The material fell loose, now utterly crumpled from his earlier pawing. You helped the man tug it off, ignoring the bite of cold air stinging your exposed self — it would soon change into summery warmth anyway.
Dazed, you pushed Phainon back slightly. His heavy-lidded eyes drank in the sight of your naked flesh appreciatively, and he swallowed, getting rid of the saliva pooling in his mouth before it could overflow. “Undress too.” You demanded, giving him a light kick. Only then did he snap out of his hypnotized state, an apologetic smile blooming on his flushed face.
“Ah, of course…” With a shaky laugh, his fingers began to wrestle the belt out, and you felt almost bad. Phainon always got so emotional when it came to intimacy. You shook your head with fond exasperation, helping him again, unbuckling the belt and pulling it out of the loops in a swift tug.
Then you settled back, shifting, making your knee brush against his full mast. On purpose or completely accidentally, you weren’t sure what your intentions were at this point, but it elicited a strangled groan either way. Phainon shot you a look. You couldn’t help but chuckle.
Frustrated and pent-up, the man hastily pulled his top off, successfully shutting you up. Now it was your turn to ogle Phainon, taking in the broad expanse of his shoulders and planes of rather ample chest.
“You're staring.” He supplied unhelpfully, sounding smug. Your lips opened to retort with something clever, but the heat gathering between your thighs rendered you silent. It didn’t matter anyway.
Upon your lack of response, Phainon decided to finally move. His racing heart pressed against yours, hands firmly settling on the sensitive skin. The man’s thumbs dug between the bones of your ribs, and you’d voice your thoughts if not for him suddenly kissing you again. Phainon really wasted no time in beckoning your mouth open, longing for full access. You’d give it to him. You’d give him anything, as long as he stays by your side.
So you parted your lips, and it gained you a hump forward, his lower body stuttering against yours. Phainon’s tongue pressed to the roof of your palate, muffling out any sounds of pleasure — you choked slightly, nails dragging against his scarred back. He’s going to devour me, you thought; I’ll let him, the sick counterpart offered.
Dizzy with the lack of oxygen, you hardly felt the man’s calloused palms slipping down, one hand holding your legs open, the other one already reaching in-between.
When Phainon’s fingers pressed in, rubbing that particular spot, you jostled. “Easy,” he murmured humorously, amused by your startled reaction. “I’m here. See?” Then his joints were dipping inside, head angling to observe your shuddering, to savor the twists of your expression from up-close. Your eyes ventured down to his, and Phainon smiled, pecking your cheekbone.
Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?, his intense stare whispered mutely, and you nodded, even if no words were spoken. Because of course you could remember. An ugly, hidden part of yourself which you always nursed close, shielding from others who wouldn’t understand. One that made you want to bash your own head in. One that drove you crazy, one that let you lie next to this big, violent dog.
Phainon — the revered hero of Okhema, the Deliverer, the one meant to shoulder the worst of fates — was yours. Only yours. If he dared to look at another, you would make sure for him to regret it. But Phainon was too good to abandon his fidelity, too devoted to ever leave or let you do the same.
You hungered for his smell, his taste. The feel of his soul touching yours. It would not change.
The awful swaying made you nauseous. Right, left. Right, left. Then right and left again, the scent of a dozen people mixing around, choking you with the reek of sweat. The smell of an animal was there too. Too piercing for comfort, causing you to grimace in that state of half-consciousness. You finally shifted, pain shooting through your leg.
It was enough to jerk you out of your stupor, wheezing wildly as your eyes shot open, immediately disoriented. Another sound ripped from you, this time real surprise as you registered where you were — sat atop a dromas, endless planes of ruin and darkness stretching ahead. Shocked, you blinked twice, breath catching. Then your vision ventured sideways, sight landing on another several creatures, their large backs carrying people. People whose faces you recognized.
You knew them, of course. How could you not? Those were your neighbors, your local shopkeepers and farmers. You came from the same village, secluded and tucked away in some faraway corner of the world. Once the Black Tide struck, everything succumbed to destruction. The fields and little rivers, meadows and petals of flowers burning away with flames. Wooden huts crumbling first, stone ones following soon after. Screams of terror, the quickly disappearing silhouettes of your parents as they left you behind to perish underneath rubble.
Fingers clawing at the beam crushing your limb, then dragging through the dried soil as you desperately tried to crawl forward. You felt abandoned — you were, truly. Not important enough to try rescuing, even though you cried for your mother and father. Then, despair settling in the pit of your belly. Eyes slowly roving over the decorative garlands and colorful laces, now fluttering aimlessly in the too-hot winds.
The festival was almost there, you forlornly thought as blood seeped from your cracked nails. Everyone would be drinking and singing, making merry and tugging you into the whirl of joy. Your eyelids were made of iron. Then you heard a distant call, though your head was too heavy to lift. Sound of footsteps, so elegant and light it reminded you of dancing, shoes falling against the ground with practiced ease.
You wanted to join. You didn’t want to die.
“Are you unwell?” The sudden voice crossed over your nightmarish reveries like a warm current. Blinking, you straightened on the dromas’ back, taking notice of the kind face turned toward you. There was empathy on the man’s expression, but also patience. A silent kind of understanding, one which put your frightened mind at ease.
The fire was no more, but with it went your village. You looked at the sparse gathering of people surrounding you, searching out for your parents. They weren’t there. When you were younger, you thought that losing them would equal to losing everything. Your world would end, earth swallowing you whole. But now, all you could feel was a frigid sort of resignation, washing over you like cold water.
“I am.” You responded, tone clipped. The stranger didn’t look convinced, his big, blue eyes softening around the corners.
Long since past caring, you leaned back in the saddle, knowing you were the only two riding this particular dromas. Your injured leg continued to hurt. Maybe it was broken, you didn’t know, but the bruises were very telling.
“Do you see your family around here? I could stop and let you exchange seats with someone else.” The man offered, looking over his shoulder.
Even though you know he meant well, the words still crushed your heart. So instead of answering, you bowed your head lowly, shaking it ‘no’. You could feel yourself falling out of the step with the world, everything suddenly appearing so trifling.
“I understand.” He spoke again, pulling your gaze toward him. And you doubted he really did, for how someone with such a radiant face, devoid of any worry or fear, could truly see you?
“How so?”
His tousled, fair locks billowed gently with the breeze as he smiled. A solemn thing, but a smile nonetheless. “My family was taken too, in the same way as yours.”
Your lips parted to respond, but you found yourself at the loss of words. For a few seconds, you simply stared at the man, derailed. “Why are you telling me this?”
He shrugged, head turning to look back on the dark road ahead. “I don’t know.”
At his vague response, you thought he must keep everything close to the chest, and it was hardly surprising. But there was also a sense of imminent realization brewing inside your mind.
“Do you miss them?”
A short, bitter chuckle. “Every single day.”
His heart, and your heart, must be very, very old friends — maybe you knew him in another life.
Another curl of Phainon’s fingers brushing against your velvety walls resulted in a shock wave coursing through your entire body. You whined, dizzy from the heady smell and carnal sensations overwhelming your brain.
“W-wait—” you gasped, making Phainon pause mid-kiss to the column of your throat. You felt the slobber dripping down your collarbones, both warm and cold. When the man blinked up at you, not stopping at all, you shoved the heel of your foot against his kidney.
Undeterred, his joints moved again and again. “Why?” He crooned, almost pitiful. “We’ve only just begun.”
Defeated, you groaned, head falling on the pillow. Another push had you arching, both fists tightening in Phainon’s hair as he latched onto your neck for the nth time. It caused you to curl inwards, and his free hand reached to pull at your locks as if in retaliation, tugging your head back. The material of his briefs chafed against your knee — he still didn’t take them off, continuing to rut into your leg like a mindless dog in heat. It left a wet trail on your skin, looking near painful.
At least you weren’t the only one affected, else you’d burn from shame. Phainon panted, scalding breath puffing against the crook of your neck as he sniffed you. “Does it hurt?” You questioned, knee pressing further. The man whimpered upon the newly added friction, simultaneously curling his fingers too hard; an involuntary action, most likely. Another moan, ripping from both of you: one surprised and one straight-up delirious.
“Yeah…” Breathed Phainon, looking drunk even while sober. Little wonder, then, that he was reacting so strongly, body threatening to give in and crush you beneath its weight. “A bit.”
You pulled him back slightly, examining the man’s afflicted expression. Pupils dilated so wide the yellow of them swallowed up blue almost entirely, reminding you of forget-me-nots. Cheeks flushed, sweat trickling downward his temples. Parted lips, falling completely agape when you rubbed your knee against his length with deliberate pressure once more.
Phainon shuddered, joints stuttering inside you, losing their practiced rhythm. You smirked meanly. “Then do something about it.”
From the look of his clouded eyes, you knew that’s all he needed to hear.
Living in Okhema was odd. It, in all truth, reminded you of wading through deep water. Sometimes managing just fine, then losing footing and slipping into some den at the sandy bottom.
Loneliness settled like dust over your weary bones. Your broken leg eventually healed, fingertips scrubbed clean off grew back too, their skin seemingly stronger. Would it mean that any wound will sooner or later fortify itself, reinforced by ache and loss? Maybe. One’s body is usually stronger than the mind.
But you still existed at the margins of your own life. Knowing how easy it is to dispose of you was a heavy burden to carry, even though you’ve long made peace with the fact your parents did just that. They were gone anyway. The remaining villagers tried to show their support, and as much as you appreciated it, it also annoyed you. Everyone deemed you as some poor victim of fate. Unable to think for yourself, unable to work or function like a normal person.
Everyone, aside from Phainon. The very man who rescued you from the fires and rubble. Honestly, you initially expected him to be like the rest of them — pitying, judging, making you out to be a distressed survivor with a few screws loose while he could play the perfect hero.
But Phainon wasn’t like that. Even if sympathetic toward your situation, he rarely ever mentioned it. His scrupulous attitude regarding life and the tragic parts of it allowed you to grow attached. Perhaps it was a mistake. Phainon was a Chrysos Heir, someone people perceived as distant, expecting the same of you.
Why would he want to associate himself with a girl like you, when you had nothing to offer? Not even a few dimes to your pocket, living in a temporary settlement for the rescued and wasting away in your own confinements. You wondered, too. What did he see in you? What could be so captivating for the man to chase after your attention like a starving hound would chase after a scrap of meat?
“[Name]!” Phainon’s gleeful voice rang through the street, making your head snap up from the cracks in cobblestone you were counting. A few others looked in his direction as well. He always called for you so loudly, as if announcing to everyone in the radius of ten meters that he wished to see you. It troubled you, sometimes. Envy wasn’t exactly uncommon amongst the citizens of the holy city.
Still, you walked forward, chuckling sheepishly at Phainon as he beckoned you over with a wave. The man kept on grinning from ear to ear, sunlight falling straight on his face and accentuating the radiant, youthful features. He’s beautiful like this, you thought, standing there and waiting. Waiting for you. Eyes smiling with the lips, cheeks a little reddened from the wind and heat of eternal sun.
You were fond of Phainon. Maybe you already were a long time ago, the second your gaze met with his.
“Hello.” You greeted, self-consciously trying to smooth out the material of your rather humble attire. “Did something—”
Before you could finish, Phainon’s strong arm slung over your shoulders, cutting you off as he pressed you into his side. An unbidden laugh slipped out your throat. You looked up with slight bewilderment, not yet used to such showcases of outward affection.
“Theodoros just had a new batch of antiques delivered. Want to check them out with me?” Phainon hummed, swiveling you toward the shop.
“Well, uh—” stammering, you followed after the man, clumsy legs struggling to keep up with his long strides. “Sure! Why not.”
Certainly, your companion could manage by himself just fine. But you’d be damned if you tried opposing, even if you didn’t understand Phainon or his motives. Perhaps you were daft to trust in him so blindly. At the same time, your seemingly lacking intelligence never dared provide you with a better option. It’s as though your heart chained itself to this man’s being without your permission.
You’d chase after him, just like he chased after you.
Soon you were practically dragged into the store, both of you giggling like children at some dry joke Phainon completely botched, fumbling with his words nervously and ultimately stepping on the punchline. Theodoros glanced your way, acknowledging his new patrons with a curt nod. He must’ve been already used to Phainon’s antics, refusing to even bother asking what got him all so cheery.
“Theodoros, my friend,” the man began in a sing-song voice, causing the shopkeeper to gesture toward a new display, sitting nicely atop a long table. “Oh! Here they are.”
With another tug, you were being manhandled, excitement radiating from Phainon in unabashed fashion. The difference in his behavior around you and others was stark — more composed and put-together, he regarded citizens with practiced smiles, always putting much thought to his words. Wearing a mask, maybe not unauthentic, but definitely not fully sincere either. Phainon valued his reputation, those above him even more so.
And luck just had it that he approached you with openness others had no idea of. Something akin to naïveté filled his gentle eyes as he took one of the amphoras, turning it around to grasp its design. “What do you think? He asked, tone hushed.
After a few seconds of examination, you shrugged. “Not exactly my type of ornaments.”
“No?” Chuckling, Phainon shook his head and put the vase back. “I’m appalled, [Name]. Personally, I think it is rather handsome.” Then he was already grabbing another item, showing it off from every single angle, eyebrows knit together in concentration. “What about this one?”
“Uh, it’s…” You scratched the back of your head, contemplative. “Decent. I wouldn’t buy it, though.”
“I wouldn’t either. Ah, not like I collect those anyway,” the man waved his hand dismissively, and your lips already opened to say: I know you don’t, but you stopped yourself. “It’s a fake, see? Even I can tell.”
You nodded, having to admit the antique indeed looked fabricated. “It would be from Kremnos, yes? Though they specialize in the art of war, their handiwork has always been rather intricate. This one’s too sloppy. I mean… just look at the paint strokes.”
“Oh, you’re sharp.” Phainon smirked before grabbing onto a plate. It was rimmed with royal-blue, its expanse pearly. “How about this one? Do you think it’s another fake?”
Squinting your eyes to catch on every detail, you focused on the plate, having to admit it appeared beautiful. Then Phainon was tilting into your space again, hand reaching to settle on your shoulder. Subconsciously, you leaned into him as well. You stared at the object, but you could feel the man’s intense gaze on your profile, like he found solace just within your presence. Were you to turn your head, the tips of your noses would brush. Suddenly overheating, you pushed on with the appraisal, too distracted to gain any true results but not willing to give up either.
Theodoros walked over to your pair at some point, asking: “Do you need help?”. You ignored him in favor of cracking the case yourself, expecting Phainon to respond. Yet all that graced your ears was tense silence, fingers squeezing your flesh harder. A little perturbed, you lifted your eyes. Theodoros’ expression was unreadable as he retreated in hurried steps, arms crossed and lips set in a thin line.
You glanced at Phainon, then, understanding what he did — your heart fluttered. Were you to possess half of his authority and confidence, you’d ward off any unwanted company, too (because, honestly, who was Theodoros to interrupt you like that?).
The man’s lips curled sweetly, eyelashes fluttering in a show of innocence. “It’s fake.” Phainon stated, not sparing a single glance to the plate. “It lacks defects like scratches and chipping. But you, I think,” his joints swept the unruly strands of hair away from your face, “are a terribly real thing in this terribly false world.”
These cryptic words wrapped around your ribs, tightly, keeping you warmed over by how genuine they sounded when falling from his mouth.
In that moment, you realized Phainon was unavoidably special — you’d cut him open, to see what he is made of.
A small noise of discomfort left you when Phainon finally steadied himself, slowly pulling out his fingers. The action was careful, at the very least, but your patience was thinned to a filament. Were the man to decide he wishes to prolong this, you’d probably lose your smarts.
The way things were going, both of you were already at the brink of exertion, which was ludicrous to think about. Aching and dissatisfied, you shot him a look. Phainon merely simpered, almost coquettish. “Impatient?”
“You were whimpering like an animal, not me.”
Your words were meant to humble him, yet he looked anything but. “Oh,” smiling ruefully, Phainon brought the joints to his mouth, “you always know how to wound me.” Then he was lapping at them, making another flush of hotness surge to your face and chest. The knot in your guts tightened. When gawking at his hungered licks, you wondered, did it really taste so good? He was acting as though it wasn’t the slick of a human organ, but ambrosia cut with honey.
At the man’s more than penetrating gaze, your eyes averted to the side. Upon noticing your diffidence, Phainon leaned down, popping the joints out of his mouth with a deliberately-made noise “Dog.” You huffed, giving his bicep a weak shove. “You need a muzzle, or something?”
A big, cheeky grin rose on his blushing face. “Woof.” Phainon barked into your ear, hastily getting rid of his briefs — then his hands were on your hips, grabbing you roughly and pulling down the mattress. The action made you gasp out an airless laugh.
Phainon’s radiant expression only deepened at the sound of your surprised joy, now turning straight-up enraptured. The back of your thighs pressed against his lap, making you feel dizzy again.
“Stop acting so silly…” You murmured, attempting to reign in your emotions, but the man was already rocking forward, heat brushing against heat. This sole movement caused the breath to escape your lungs.
“Sorry.” He chuckled, equally strained. “Can’t help myself sometimes.”
But before any real remorse appeared on Phainon’s face, he managed to lean back, taking your calf and kissing just above the ankle. From now on, you knew how this would unfold. So you hooked your other leg around his hip, forcing closer — and Phainon didn’t oppose. He would not back out anyway, not now, not when his eyes burned with so much zeal.
A violent shudder rippled through your muscles when you felt that hardness pressing against your entrance, and it elicited a sharp noise out of you. Phainon’s gaze flickered over to gauge your expression. Something between concern and apprehension appeared on his own, but you quickly dispelled it by giving another tug of your legs.
“Relax.” He said in a muted tone, going farther. And farther. It made your insides clench down, causing Phainon to falter through his seemingly everlasting self-confidence. “I’ll— I’ll be gentle, you know that.”
Upon some more cooing and easing, Phainon finally buried himself more-or-less all the way in. You breathed, heat and agitation successfully overtaking any discomfort left in your body due to the rather imposing stretch. Entirety of the morose thoughts you harbored earlier dissipated, too. You felt almost relieved. With that weight on top of you, nothing much mattered, leaving you pleasantly hollow.
Aglaea’s stupid gathering and all the smiling, cheerful faces ogling Phainon, acting as if he was theirs for the taking. His own duties and your uncertainties. The harrowing, unsettling feeling of getting left behind whenever the man even suggested getting away on a mission.
He was here now. You were connected in the most intimate way, inseparable. With an emotion close to delight settling in your chest, you wrapped your arms around Phainon’s neck, pulling him in.
“Are you mine?”
The way you said it was almost grave-like, severe in its intensity. But you had to make sure. At your weighty question, Phainon merely embraced you, strong arms slipping beneath your back and lifting off the mattress slightly.
This close, you could feel everything. How sticky your bodies were, sweat covering you from head to toe. The rise and fall of your chests, always in rhythm, as if even something as simple as breathing together was sacred. Then the thundering beats of his heart, playing out your most beloved tune.
You wished this moment could never end.
“Of course I am yours. Always.” Phainon’s eyes lifted to meet yours, an ardent smile pulling the corners of his lips up and up before he was kissing each of your temples. His face was so close now that you could feel the brush of his eyelashes against your own. Hot air breathed into your mouth, foreheads pressing. “And you? Are you mine, [Name]?”
A faint chuckle slipped out your throat, causing Phainon to squeeze you even tighter. You reciprocated, unable to get enough of the color of his irises. “Why ask when you know the answer.” One of your feet gently stirred him. “Now move before I lose my patience.”
Phainon smirked, a loopy thing, canines biting into his lower lip. “Eager, aren’t we?”
Oh, you loved this man. You really did. But sometimes, your fingers itched to curl around his neck and claw into the throat just to pull out that stupidly clever tongue.
You’re sure he’d let you.
The incessant humming of the restaurant wormed its way into your ears, making you slightly jittery. People came and went, talking loudly. Dishes clattered, knives and forks scraping against the porcelain surfaces so carelessly it nearly hurt to see. Some child began to run around, eventually falling over and bursting into tears. The sun shone, as usual.
Next to you sat Phainon, your shoulders brushing together — because of course he had to stay close, sticking to your side like glue. Not like it was any trouble for you. Quite the opposite, actually. You were grateful for his presence, and equally gladdened by the little proximity between you. If you saw another person hitting on him so shamelessly (as they always did), you’d lose it on the spot.
But there was one, small problem. One which caused the air to turn awkward, your poise stiff as you mindlessly played with the food on your plate.
Mydei and Castorice were also there, facing you on the opposite bench. They were Phainon’s closest friends. It’s logical the man would introduce them to you sooner than later; and you, in all honesty, expected him to do so. But the Chrysos Heirs before you were peculiar individuals. Due to the lack of social interaction, and you being generally used to conversing only with people of the lower grade, holding a proper dialogue with them both was tiresome.
Phainon and you had an instant connection, considering he also fares from the rural part of Amphoreus. Those who survived the catastrophe of your village were immensely easy to talk to (that is, in the sparse moments you did). The local citizens of Okhema, even if a bit pretentious, caused you no major problems, too.
Alas, Mydei and Castorice were anything but normal. Not in a sense that you deemed them odd or standoffish, but they were… above you. The man was a prince, an immortal one at that. You knew him and Phainon were best comrades, and though you ripped your own veins out in efforts to make a good impression on Mydei, he still seemed uninterested. Castorice was a pleasant girl to be around, sure, yet the Maiden of Death looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. Her beautiful, violet eyes appeared almost weary. Did you tire her out with your talking? But it’s not like you said much in the first place, so it couldn’t have been the case.
Introductions were made, some brief conversation, and that was about it. Then there was Phainon, completely unhelpful. He amounted to very little, supplying you with some additional comments — which weren’t relevant to the topic at all — and proceeded to sit in silence, large orbs staring at you with unapologetic infatuation, food untouched.
So now, not only were you stuck between two people that clearly didn’t know what to say, but also a love-sick fool.
“You seem to be getting along well…” Castorice started after a pause, her voice so meek you barely heard it over the clamor. It sounded awkward. “Lord Phainon, perhaps you’d tell us about how you and [Name] met?”
You were thankful for her to try and save the dire situation, but why did everything have to revolve around you? To you, it was obvious Castorice said it only so Phainon would finally speak up. Perhaps this relationship was already causing him to lose gray matter — everyone had a hobby, and Phainon had you. It would be wise to knock some sense into his seemingly empty head before he went on a long rant, but before your mouth opened, the man was already beaming brilliantly, a wide grin stretching his lips.
“Of course! I’ll—”
“You’d kindly spare us your blabbing, Deliverer.” Mydei cut in rather ruthlessly, gaze locking on Phainon. The prince must’ve known how this would unfold. It was nearly impressive to see just how quickly Mydei could read Phainon, sensing the man would probably retell the entire story with every minuscule detail. “Even [Name] doesn’t look thrilled.”
Smiling sheepishly, you glanced between them. “Actually—”
True enough, you felt apprehensive toward being in the direct spotlight, but Phainon’s opinions were stronger. “What’s it to you, Mydei? Are you questioning my choices?” Palpable heat arose in the air, their eyes fixed together with fierce tension. “…Or perhaps you’re jealous?”
A prolonged moment of silence passed. Castorice’s lips parted in ‘o’ shape. You observed their interaction, and something told you this wasn’t just primitive banter, but you kept that to yourself. Mydei’s eyebrow rose in a manner close to appalled, which was the most emotion he’d shown so far. They continued to measure each other before Mydei eventually leaned back. With his arms folded in resignation, he cast you a short glance, one that tugged at your mind in an odd manner. You’d think it was sympathetic. Pitying, maybe. Like he had a reason to be, even if you were left in the dark, clueless.
Then Phainon, just as predicted, started to narrate through the events of the past. It was a lengthy process of recounting everything, respectfully omitting the sensitive parts but making up for the loss by interrupting his logorrhea with unimportant detail. You rolled your eyes at least four times by then, bashfully swatting your hand at Phainon as he sang you praises.
And you realized it’s not so bad. Listening to his overexcited voice was pleasant — no matter you were now the main point of attention, which you seldom appreciated. His glee put you at ease. So you continued to look, drinking in the way Phainon’s lips moved, kept in that ever-present grin. How he raked his fingers through the ivory locks, nervous when he digressed too far and forgot his previous track of thought. It was endearing to no end; the blush of his cheeks and handsome side profile, occasionally turning to face you.
By the time Phainon finished, evidently short of breath, you simultaneously snapped out of your reveries. Oh. You were staring, even if you just admonished Phainon for doing the same. Ill at ease, you cleared your throat, noticing Castorice do the same with a crooked smile. Mydei’s expression was bleak. His sharp, feline-like eyes ventured toward the clock with deliberate slowness. You followed after, shocked by the amount that passed.
“Impressive.” The prince drawled, a long-suffering sigh leaving his lungs. “This time, it took you only fifty minutes.”
‘This time’? What does that even mean? Did Phainon — this insufferable man — bother Mydei (and possibly other people) with the story before? Confusion rippled through you, mixing with the unfurling warmth. Well. As much as the whole ordeal struck you sideways, you were also content knowing Phainon was willing to tell them about you. So many times that they must’ve already been too-familiar with your person.
And here you were, troubled and insecure. Wondering whether you were enough for such a revered hero, beloved by everyone. To this day, you couldn’t see what Phainon saw in you, but you were grateful for it.
Before you could playfully scold him for occupying his friends with his, as Mydei aptly called it, blabbing, Castorice began to speak. “So…” Her prepossessing irises settled on you both. “Do you plan on ever getting married, then?”
If you had been surprised before, now you were truly astounded. With mouth agape and a hammering heart, you looked at Phainon. His expression was unreadable. The girl hunched in embarrassment, starting to fiddle with her thumbs when neither of you said a word. “Ah, pardon my boldness. I shouldn’t have…”
“Why, obviously we plan on it!” Phainon blurted out, pulled from his stupor. He then turned toward you, face ablaze with eagerness so radiant it seemed near blinding. “I could propose right here and now, really—”
You blushed furiously. “Phainon—”
“You’d accept, right?” The man took your hands in his, making you blink at his sheer enthusiasm. It derailed you.
In reality, you didn’t know each other for long enough to get married. Were you to muster up any logic which appeared to be eluding you as of late, you’d say you jumped into this relationship way too quickly. But at the end of the day, did it matter? It felt like you were destined to be from the start — if you must have a future, you want it with Phainon. There’s no other way for you in life.
“Y-yeah!” Nodding, you squeezed his hands back. “I would. Of course I would.”
Mydei and Castorice observed as you both exploded into a discussion, talking with overt blitheness. Drowning in each other’s presence, too swept up in the sweet words falling from your lips to even bother acknowledging your companions.
And the prince’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying Phainon’s too-bright look. If he had to somehow judge the Deliverer, he’d say the man was downright manic. You weren’t any better, bordering on equal intensity. Mydei’s conjectures may have been wrong, though his intuition rarely failed him; and even if he knew Phainon, the man was still a tough case to crack.
Castorice shifted uneasily, spoon stirring her now unfortunately cold broth. Mydei exhaled.
When an individual’s mental well-being is compromised, their clarity often deteriorates. It can lead to impaired emotional regulation. Whatever Phainon went through — what you went through — did it account to that? Did the tragedy both of you suffered at some point of your lives manage to distort your capacity of evaluating what is proper and not? Did it override your stability, in any way?
Over time, such things will accumulate to no good. Yet all that Mydei could do was look, gauntleted fingers tapping against the table’s surface. Someone dropped their plate by accident, making it shatter on the ground. Phainon was too busy trying to assess the size of your ring finger with his eyes alone to even notice.
What is the word for an emotion similar to love but lacking in its normalcy of heart?*
When the man moved, hips jostling you forward, you felt the jolt of it surge clean through your nervous system. Phainon moaned rather shamelessly into your ear, even if he was the one supposedly dominating the situation, arms clinging harder.
“You, ah,” he stammered, barely gasping the words out, “you feel so good, I’m…”
No matter how many times you did it, Phainon never got used to the feeling of being enveloped by you. And as luck would have it, you were equally affected by the man. So you pressed him closer, closer, until your chests smushed together, the sensation edging on painful.
A noise ripped from you when his hips snapped again, mouth latching on your jugular vein. One bite. One bite, and you’d be gone. Phainon’s teeth scraped against it, teasing the sensitive skin, perhaps unknowingly. Another roll forward, then back and forth, reaping sounds of feverish pleasure from you both.
By now, it was apparent Phainon was losing his cool, the thrusts becoming faster and deeper. You couldn’t blame him, even if you just began. Everything about this was simply too good — too good to complain, too good to even bother.
He craned his neck, still hugging you as he observed your expression with drunken eyes. “You’re so beautiful.” The man whined, one of his hands moving down to trace after each of your vertebrae. “So beautiful, I could die right here.”
“Stop— saying such things,” flustered, you jerked your head sideways. Phainon caught your chin, forcing your face toward him again and kissing you so hard that your teeth clashed together inelegantly. Blindsided by the impact, you gave in, fingers curling in his hair.
“How could I stop?” Upon parting for a second, Phainon smirked, then connected your lips anew. It was messy. At that point, you didn’t know where you ended and he began. Perhaps nowhere. By now, the fibers of your bodies must have been merged into one.
Before you could get truly dizzy, the man withdrew, a string of saliva stretching between your mouths. “I can’t. Not when…not when you’re the most precious thing on this earth.”
Then Phainon’s head fell into the crook of your neck, arm writhing its way through the space of your stomachs. His fingers splayed blindly against your underbelly before finally rubbing that certain, overly-sensitive spot. This, coupled with his unrelenting thrusts, caused your jaw to slack down.
Seeing stars, you gave Phainon’s locks a warning pull. You were too close. “H-hold on!” The pad of his thumb pressed harder. Unwilling to listen, he merely nuzzled his face into your neck, and you could clearly feel the wicked smile stretching the corners of his lips. “If you continue like this, I’ll—”
“That’s good, then.” He placed a chaste peck next to your ear, his cheek briefly resting against yours. “You’re doing so well… Just let go for me, alright?”
Damn Phainon and his verbose tongue — damn him and that another deep roll of hips, gaining a shuddering sigh from you. With the impending release, your hands flew over to his back, nails dragging red scratches on the shoulder blades. You’d shut the man up and put him in his place, if you didn’t adore him so.
And then, you looked into his eyes. They were overflowing with affection so deep, it caused them to become glossy. Yes, you love Phainon, and it terrifies you. It terrifies you what you would do for him. And you’ve never been more scared of losing someone in your life. Maybe you’re so afraid because he means more than any other person in your miserable existence.
He is everything you think about. Everything you could ever want.
Residing in Okhema got easier, eventually. The holy city has been kind to you, or at least you like to imagine it this way. Obviously, it was hard at first. Still dealing with copious amounts of grief and burdened by the new reality you were forced to face, you thought of giving up many times.
Yet, here you were. Alive and kicking, now more independent than previously. By pulling some strings and using his reputation, Phainon managed to secure you a stable job. Perhaps it was unfair toward others. You could push on comfortably with your rather decent income, purchasing a place to live in when you’ve made enough — while the rest of people had to fend for themselves without a helping hand. Guilt never arrived, though. Why should it? You did no wrong, and Phainon assured you that your employer was very happy to cooperate… probably.
Either way, you were faring well. Really, you had no reason to complain, and so you did no such thing.
Nights were for sleeping — or at least trying to. You had trouble with that ever since your village burned, and you were forced to endure Okhema’s eternal sun. Mornings for getting ready and relaxing before the entire day. Then work during the first half of the week, rest throughout the other. Meet with your friends (lacking as they were, but still). Go on dates with your lover, who insisted on them more often than he should, considering the amount of duty he had. You’d never refuse Phainon, though. Certainly not when he flashed you those eyes of a kicked puppy.
A routine of sorts, one which helped you ground yourself. The repetition of actions was predictable and soothing for your scattered thoughts, which tended to fly in directions you hardly desired.
So now, you were carrying a wicker basket, filled with some food. It was one of your free days, and since your pantry seemed quite lacking, you had no other choice but to go shopping. The fruit vendor — a middle-aged, kind man — was gracious enough to let you have a discount on the fruit. Overripe, he said they were. Personally, you found no problem with them, the idea of making a jam already sprouting in your mind.
Happier than before, you strolled back toward your house. You opened the door, undid the laces of your footwear, and proceeded to pause abruptly before you could saunter farther inside.
Something was obviously wrong. Gripping the basket so hard your knuckles turned white, you hunched down slightly, knowing your weapon of choice wasn’t ideal but it was all you had. You sniffed the air, then, breath catching before you could help it. Was there someone in your house? Not to mention, they were most likely cooking, if you were to go by the characteristic smell of stewed vegetables.
Oh, the nerve that person had. Not only did they break in, but they also made themselves home! Perhaps it would be wise to retreat and run for help, but dazed by the surge of adrenaline, you apparently thought yourself a fighter.
Slowly creeping inside on your unfortunately wobbly knees, you stepped into the living room, taking a peek at the branching-off kitchen. Prepared either for combat or a fate worse than death, you gaped at the familiar silhouette, astonished.
White hair, broad back, stupidly long legs. Phainon turned toward you, a grin plastered on his face as he casually maneuvered between the vegetables in question and still raw meat.
“Oh, hi [Name]! Didn’t see you there.” He chirped happily, putting the knife down.
With a breath of unfathomable relief, your muscles relaxed, fingers unclenching from the basket’s handle and dropping it to the floor. Continuing to gawk dumbly, you swept your eyes over the room. Nothing was amiss. Atop the counter lay ingredients you don’t remember ever buying. Your locks seemed intact when you were opening the door, and you’ve never requested any spare keys, so you wondered how Phainon managed to get in.
“Hey, uh…” The man’s gaze ventured down to the basket, now toppled aside, its contents spilling on the ground. Then it fixed back on your face. “Are you feeling alright?”
You looked at him too, blinking. So, in short: Phainon somehow broke into your house. He most likely rummaged through your cabinets, deciding to cook a meal. There was an empty glass on the table as well, so he must have helped himself to some water. His shoes — his dirty, cursed shoes — were still on.
By all means, it was an utter breach of privacy. A disrespect. A complete disregard for your wishes and the solitary confinement of your living place.
Yet, the corner of your lip curled upward. Before you knew it, a short chuckle ripped from your throat, making Phainon tilt his head in confusion.
“Oh, you—” wide-eyed and beaming incredulously, you stepped closer. “Are you serious?”
“About what?”
“Did you seriously invite yourself in just to… cook here?”
Phainon sputtered, a small blush of embarrassment blossoming on his cheeks. “What? No!” He gestured animatedly toward the skillet and the groceries lying there innocently. “Yesterday, you said you ran out of food! I went to buy you some, and then I thought it’d be nice to eat together, so I…” Phainon trailed off, looking like a scolded puppy.
So you decided to play house, you finished in your mind. But then you remembered Phainon’s old words, hearing them in the back of your head. He said: “You are a terribly real thing in this terribly false world”. And maybe this wasn’t just playing, trying to imitate a peaceful thing other couples had.
Maybe it was real. Clumsy and a little fragile, but very much true. So true it made something in you lit up. A feeling so soft, you were suddenly close to getting on your knees and thanking whichever benevolent being for blessing you with that moment. For giving you this man. For letting you let yourself be vulnerable when you’ve dedicated so much time to building defenses.
When Phainon knelt before you to gather the things that fell from your basket, you knelt too, joining him. “Sorry. You just startled me a little.” You smiled sheepishly, swiping his locks aside and placing a kiss on his cheekbone. His eyes lifted to meet yours, head still slightly bowed. “I’ll help you cook. Wouldn’t want you burning down my kitchen.”
Finally, Phainon reciprocated your smile. “But I know how to cook, though.”
“The most impressive dish I’ve ever seen you make was salad with a sprinkle of corn on top.” You snickered, playfully flicking his forehead. Phainon whined in retaliation, but by then, he couldn’t help the grin stretching his lips.
“Whatever you say.” He relented, obedient as always.
And you made that meal together. You ate by one table, laughing at nonsensical stuff. The man said he’d leave before afternoon, but stayed nonetheless, helping you clean up. You lounged on the couch, Phainon reading some uninteresting book out loud but managing to make it the most captivating thing you’ve ever heard while you rested your head in his lap. Then you prepared supper. By the time it got late, he washed your hair for you, insisting he was a master at it.
Soon, you both got into the bed without thinking, uncaring of the fact it was a twin-size mattress. We’ll have to buy a bigger one, you thought. And Phainon remained pressed to your back for the entire night, arms wrapped around you so tight it was difficult to breathe — yet it was the best slumber you’ve had since arriving in Okhema.
He slept at your house the next day, and the day after. Before you even registered it, he became an inseparable part of your routine. A normalcy you never bothered pointing out. Together, you slowly began to move his things over. A shared home. A piece falling into place. Beautiful eyes blinking open, greeting you first in the morning. Pomegranate juice staining the sheets. An additional toothbrush in the cup. A pair of combat shoes, carelessly thrown into the corner of the vestibule. A spare key, put right into his palm.
The grief that seemed to be dragging behind you like a stray dog finally dissipated. Okhema’s sun bothered you no more.
As you lay in your bed with Phainon beside, doing nothing, you could find new shades in the pale color of your ceiling. And you have never laughed so heartily in your life as you have with him.
With him, you could breathe. With him, everything suddenly made sense.
Your vision swirled as you continued to gasp heavily, legs and arms both hooked around Phainon’s silhouette. The grip you had on him was almost rough, like you were holding on for dear life. Perhaps you were, considering the coiled knot somewhere low in your stomach, threatening to unravel any second now.
Delirious, you quickly studied Phainon’s strangled expression. His thrusts began to stutter, hips slamming in and out with an unsteady rhythm. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face, making the tufts of hair damp, fingers digging into your flesh harder than before. He was obviously losing himself, too.
A prolonged groan slipped past the man’s mouth as he rested his forehead against yours. “Let’s come together.” He breathed, hot air fanning at your skin. “Please, [Name].”
Another press of his thumb against your highly innervated spot had your voice cracking in half, akin to a broken twig. “I—”
Sentence ripped away from your tongue, you felt that final lick of fervid pleasure, arriving so suddenly it knocked the oxygen out your lungs. Like startled birds, it scattered through your body. Your hands flew to Phainon’s cheeks as your muscles spasmed, eliciting a low-pitched moan from you both, his movements never stopping. In a bout of impassioned feeling, you kissed him.
Phainon gave a sound when your teeth caught on his lower lip, biting hard enough to draw blood. Then he was coming too, pressing himself so deep your middle nearly folded in half, frenzied moans spilling out of his chest. You felt the hot ribbons warming over your insides. And you could taste copper, bitter-sweet as it dripped down your chins, painting skin in the shades of gold.
Before you both managed to ease from the high, Phainon yanked your hair back, making your jaw unclench. Mute, you stared at each other, breaths too-labored and too-fast. There was ringing in your ears.
“I love you.”
Who said that, you weren’t sure.
The man’s gaze was ravenous when he smashed your lips together again, tongues meeting immediately. Blood and saliva mixed into one, making you gag when you forgot to swallow. Briefly, you thought of crushing your ribcages, just to make your marrows meet. Lungs constricting due to lack of air, your brain went into overdrive, supplying you with unearthly ideas. I’ve had a dream like that once, you thought. You can’t recall the exact details, but Phainon and you were fading into each other, and this, perhaps, felt close to it.
But then Phainon was pulling away, the mess smeared across his face now appearing in the color of pale yellow. His thumb swept over your lip, free hand caressing waist soothingly.
Wordless, he was the one to smile first. You followed soon after, ignoring the exertion. And you were smiling at each other as if this was just the beginning, eyes crinkling in the corners.
You hoped with every bone in your body that in the end, it’ll be just you and this man.
Nights in Okhema weren’t truly nights. Back in your village, before it got razed down by fires and monstrosities, the sky always darkened after an evening hour. Its vast planes turned inky, countless constellations shining so bright one could see clearly, even without a lamp.
But the holy city was different. At first, you had genuine trouble accommodating to the unconventional lifestyle. In your mind, it made no sense. How can the citizens possibly function when the sun never goes out? You knew, more-of-less, that the dawn device is essential, yet the constant light unnerved you. People born here would never see the stars, or how beautiful the moon is in all of its cycles.
The closest thing to it was the Kephale statue, looming over everyone at all times. Sometimes you’d gaze upon the Sky Father, wondering whether his shoulders hurt, and morosely wishing to see the darkness again (though it was hopeless).
All houses, or at least the majority of them, had curtains thick enough to block out the eternal sun. When you closed them, you’d think it was night. Rooms so dim you kept on tripping over your own legs, bumping into the furniture, the city unsettling you by its quiet. It was eerie at times, considering the fact that, by all logical means, people should still be on their legs when it’s light. Working and bustling about, laughing, talking. But no. It was silent.
So you lay in your bed, eyes closed, imagining there was a starry sky above you and not the blank ceiling. Phainon was out. It was sporadic for him to leave so ‘late’, so you had trouble falling asleep. Without the familiar weight beside, your heart raced restlessly, and nothing you did could pacify its insistent rhythm.
Tossing and turning, you changed your position at least ten times. You kicked the sheets down, then you rearranged them again, torn between the cold biting at your toes and the annoying heat making you sweat. Anxiety settled in your chest like a heavy stone. Finally, you stuffed your pace into the pillow, trying to count sheep. The little lambs kept on jumping over the fence, flying so high they surpassed the moon and everything else.
And as sleep began to take you, the sound of turning lock disrupted it all. You didn’t know what time it was, but you supposed somewhere close to ‘early morning’. Sleepy and out of it, you rolled on your side, listening. Quiet, albeit hurried footfall. Doors being slammed, followed by a short pause of apparent cringe. Slightly perturbed, you shifted to support yourself on your elbow, eyes blinking and trying to adjust to the darkness. Then you heard a loud noise of something steel-like clattering.
Deciding to go check up on it, you crawled out the bed. Phainon must be back and it was abnormal for him to make such a racket. With a bad feeling in your gut, your bare feet trudged through the house — you’d miss him, if not for the beam of light surging from underneath the bathroom door. All curtains should be closed, which meant Phainon had to open them just a few moments earlier.
Without knocking (you were far past that), you took the handle and stepped inside. The man jostled violently at the sight of you, like a startled critter spotting an apex-predator.
“[Name], what— get out!” Phainon nearly growled at you, panic evident on his features.
But you didn’t listen. You simply stood there, wide-eyed and gawking. Normally, you’d snarl back at him to mind the tone and turn on your heel, yet all you could do now was look at the grisly scene.
Blood. Lots of it. On Phainon’s sword, now lying discarded in the bathtub. On some cloth and the murky water in the small basin by your feet. Splattered on the man’s cheek, coating his (carelessly) white chiton, smudged at the legs and edges covering his ankles.
“Please, just—” Phainon begged now, genuine urgency laced through his voice. “[Name], get out. Please,”
It wasn't golden, you understood then, so it wasn’t Phainon’s. As far as you could see, he was not injured. No cuts marring his flesh, no bruises blooming on the skin. Slowly, your mind began registering all the facts and gluing them into one, uncertain conclusion.
“What happened?”
He took a heavy step forward, shoulders squared as if ready to push you out of the bathroom by force. “I told you something, didn’t I?”
Oh, and now that utter imbecile was trying to intimidate you. Huffing, you folded your arms, eyes narrowing at Phainon with unshakeable assertion. “And I asked what happened. So you’ll answer me, unless you’ve suddenly turned half-witted.”
Thoughts visibly looping, Phainon got thrown off-balance by your calm. He stumbled like a dumbfounded filly, blue irises flickering across your face in confusion. Silence stretched between you. Despite being slightly disgusted at the sight of something’s — or rather someone’s blood, because you highly doubted Phainon went hunting during rest hours — you felt no fear.
How could you? You’ve seen how protective the man could get. At this rate, it’s more likely he’d jump off the cliff than intentionally bring you harm. Still, it’s not like your internal peace could resolve the issue at hand.
So you repeated your question. “Phainon. Say, what happened to you?”
No answer. Close to groaning in dismay, you stepped further into the space, causing him to freeze up. Hastily, you inspected everything again. The most telling thing was the sword, its maroon steel traitorous as it lay almost innocently in the ceramic tub. You turned to face Phainon again.
“Who was it?”
Lips opening and closing like fish out the water, Phainon stood there, hunched. His gaze finally fell down, locking on the floor tiles. You briefly noticed his hands trembling. “You’ll hate me.”
A sigh left you, long and resigned. Well. That was going to be troublesome for sure. “Tell.”
“Matthaios.”
“Who?” Confounded, your eyebrows narrowed.
“Matthaios.” Phainon repeated, fists clenching and unclenching, as if debating something.
You continued mulling the name over in your head, struggling to find a matching face or connection. Truthfully, your acquaintances were sparse, not even mentioning friends. You’ve had a few, but you eventually fell out due to… reasons.
Then, a certain visage flickered through your memories — Matthaios. Right. You were eventually forced to quit your first job because of his incessant torment toward your person.
“So you killed him.”
Phainon nodded stiffly, the movement strained. Contemplative, you tapped your finger against your chin. Matthaios was indeed galling. The work you had to do was easy enough on your body and mind both; after all, Phainon was the one who helped you find it. But Matthaios made it all unbelievably rough. You don’t know the reason why. Jealousy, or something else. In some sort of sadistic fashion, he derived pleasure from mocking and demeaning you, always making sure to push all of your boundaries. Ogling hard, breathing heavily near your neck. Then bumping your shoulders together deliberately, acting like the undesired contact was your fault and causing a scene. As you tried to gather your bearings, he’d always smile meanly, gaze too predatory for comfort.
You’ve complained about him many times to Phainon, throwing in vague hints about what was going on at your job but never specific enough to actually cause him worry. Alas, you’ve made a lapse in judgment, forgetting just how savvy he truly is. Apparently Phainon deemed his best course of action would be to eliminate your problem — because really, you saw no other logic to his decision.
At the same time, all of it was so trifling. So unexpected. You didn’t know Phainon had it in him, and perhaps you felt guilty. Matthaios caused you a headache nearly every day, but you’ve quit anyway. What was the last time you spoke with him? About a week ago? Not to mention, your consciousness always successfully repressed his existence the second you clocked out, to the point where you even struggled to remember his name.
It was similar to getting rid of an annoying insect. Sometimes you’d call for Phainon, shrieking and jumping at him to kill a particularly nasty spider. Was it not the same, in this case? Well, maybe not really. You never pointed fingers straight at your tormentor, demanding death.
Most importantly, the act was not committed out of sheer lust or for idle pleasure. It was… done for you.
“That’s, uh…” You paused, shifting on your feet. “That was irresponsible.”
Now it was Phainon’s turn to blink in puzzlement. His hands continued to shake as he spoke, lip quivering. “[Name], why aren’t you… I don’t know, screaming? Running from me?”
A humorless, dry chuckle ripped from your chest, baffling the man even further. “Do you want me to come sprinting out the door? I’m sure our neighbors wouldn’t appreciate the show.”
“No, I—” He quickly glanced around, avoiding your eyes. “I killed someone.”
“We’ve settled that.”
“[Name], I murdered a man—”
Slight chagrin arose within the pit of your stomach, causing you to cut Phainon off. “Fine! I heard you for the first time. Do you want a pat on the back, or something?”
He flinched. You huffed again, letting the quiet fill the room rather uncomfortably. Another few seconds passed, allowing you to cool your strained nerves down.
“…Are you not scared?”
“What I’m scared of is the mess you’ve made of yourself.” Slowly, you stepped closer to Phainon, sensing just how apprehensive he was. You pulled at the edge of his chiton. “Come on, let’s…”
You trailed off, seeing the uncertainty overflowing on the man’s expression. For all that’s certain, he did not wish you to know anything ever occurred. Matthaios would be either pronounced dead or missing, depending on what happened to the body, and you’d be left in the dark. Phainon was smart — smarter than you — and he would not commit a mistake when concealing his unfortunate crime. But if he truly expected everything to go according to plan, then he was foolish.
Perhaps you should be frightened instead of mildly concerned, as Phainon said. Yet you couldn’t find that in you, no matter how hard you searched. For you, he was violent. And for you, he hid his claws, changing into a docile lamb.
Who said you wouldn’t do the same for him?
So you wrapped your arms around Phainon, gaining a noise of surprise. “Do I look terrified by you?” Your hands slid down the expanse of his clothing, attempting to wring out the blood even if it was partially dry. “Do I look revolted?”
“N-no, don’t touch that, it’s—” Phainon stammered, grabbing you by the wrists. “[Name], please… I don’t want you to get soiled.”
You wriggled your joints in his too-tight grasp, showing off your palms. “See? Now we both have blood on our hands.”
A shocked breath. “You’re crazy.”
“You’re not exactly sane either, Phainon. Guess we have that much in common.”
Reluctantly, he let go of you, silent again. Disappointed by your inability to soothe his agitation, you gave a sigh, not stepping back at all.
“Undress. I’ll wash the chiton for you.”
“You will?”
“Unless you wish to parade around looking like that, then yes.”
Upon receiving no reply, you turned around with resignation, reaching toward the basin on the floor. You grabbed it along with the cloth, assessing damage. Both things were dirty, and you supposed Phainon attempted to clean himself off just with those. So you dumped the pinkish water down the bathtub’s drain, taking hold of his sword’s handle and wrestling to lift the unbelievably heavy slab of steel.
“Could you help me?” You grunted, looking over your shoulder. Dumbstruck, you observed Phainon who still stood there, completely aimless, his eyebrows narrowed and lower chin shaking. “Hey, uh… are you…”
Before your mind managed to catch up, the man was already weeping. A little startled, you straightened out, rendering the distance between you and taking Phainon’s hands in yours. Shameful as it was, you’ve never seen him cry outwardly. Sure, sometimes you both would tear up from a joke or during a particularly heavy parting; but not like this. Not with countless tears suddenly rolling down the cheeks, nor the heaving gasps cut short.
Struggling to contain your internal disorientation, you hugged Phainon tightly. His composure crumbled, then, body folding inwards to envelop you in a suffocating manner. You didn’t mind. Nothing mattered when you had this man, always so strong and reliable, suddenly sobbing like a wounded child in your arms.
“Titans help me… Phainon, why are you crying?” With a softened expression, you reached to wipe the corners of his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“You really won’t leave me?” He hiccuped, fingers curling in your sleeping attire. “Not after knowing what… what…”
So that was his concern the entire time? You abandoning him? At this point, you couldn’t help the quiet laugh escaping your mouth. Imagining a world without Phainon was already hard enough — and you’ve seen the best and the worst of him, yet you chose both.
“Of course I won’t.” You petted the man’s tousled locks, making him slouch down even more. If not for your arms barely managing to hold Phainon up, you’re sure he’d fall to the ground.
“I… it’s, I— I don’t deserve you,” Leaning back to gauge your face, he sniffled, words tumbling out of his mouth erratically. “What have I done to receive such a blessing?”
Some time ago, you wondered about this too. So with a rueful smile, you simply squeezed him harder, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “Oh, you crybaby.”
Phainon’s sobbing calmed, even if just slightly. His wet cheek rested against the crown of your hair, and you could feel the thunderous beats of his heart, and the coolness of his skin. “[Name], I swear to every god,” he muttered faintly, “if anybody ever tries to harm you, I’ll kill them. Again and again. Do you understand?”
You nodded. “I do.”
Despite the severity of the situation, you never spoke of it again. Your shared secret remained buried deeper than anything, binding your wrists together. It got left behind in the pitch-black darkness — one which did not exist in Okhema, and yet boiled over within your own heart like tar.
One person’s happiness is built on the misfortune of others. It’s not possible for everyone to be happy.
Phainon panted heavily as he stared into your eyes, his lips still stretched into a smile even if the bite hurt. He could smell the post-coital scent and taste blood. And no matter if wit returned on your face, he continued to drown in his own thoughts.
“Are you okay?” You asked, tone soft, as you gently patted his cheek.
It’s a wonder, really. You cradled Phainon’s face in your hands like he was the most precious thing in this vast world. Despite obviously being your favored, he didn’t know if he deserved it — this feeling of pure love you bestowed upon him.
“I am.” Phainon breathed, chuckling a little sheepishly. Then he was pulling out, knowing at that point you must’ve felt more sore than pleased. “Are you?”
Beautiful, beloved eyes blinked up at him. He adored the way they always seemed so warm, so full of life and wonder. “Obviously I am, dummy.” You said, even if you winced slightly.
Phainon couldn’t help himself, looking down at the mess you two managed to make in the heat of the moment. Liquids mixing and dripping down your thighs, sinking into the sheets. Then the wine-red bruises on your neck, blooming there like the most precious flowers.
For certain, he relished in leaving a mark behind. It’ll be hard for you to cover that up. And your body and sounds and the delirious look on your face all drove him crazy.
Nevertheless, a carnal act could never truly satiate the everlasting desire of making you happy; of fulfilling the entirety of your needs and providing safety in this cruel reality you both were born into.
So Phainon leaned down, brushing the damp locks away from your forehead. “I’ll clean you up, alright?”
As he was reaching for the napkins, your fingers caught his wrist, stopping the movement. “Maybe later.” You huffed, eyebrows narrowing together endearingly. “Let’s just rest for a moment.”
Of course, he’d never refuse you. “Whatever you wish for, [Name].” Phainon sighed with a resigned smile, shifting to make himself comfortable next to your somewhat smug-looking form. He lied beside, tugging the duvet up and ignoring the cold wetness which long settled on his skin. Despite knowing better, he added teasingly: “Someone’s clingy.”
That gained Phainon a weak shove to his forehead, your cheeks blushed in frustration again. “Shush, you!” Glaring, you pulled the cover higher. There was a traitorous grin on your face, one you attempted to mask with the duvet’s edge.
But Phainon loved your joy more than anything else, so he wrestled the material out of your grip just to see it again. “Who? Me?” He asked dumbly, which only resulted in another faint punch.
Unable to contain his giddiness anymore, the man wrapped his arm around your shoulders, forcing you closer. A laugh ripped from your chest as you resisted the affection. “Yes, you! Remind me, why do I put up with all this?”
“Because you love me.” Phainon answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He observed your expression melt into something docile as you finally gave in with a quiet sigh, head resting against his collarbones.
Your eyes focused on some expanse of his bare skin, fingers beginning to idly trace mindless patterns. “Yeah. I do.”
“That’s good.” He smiled to himself, hand caressing the back of your neck. “Because I love you too.”
Love wasn’t enough of a word to describe the burning fire in his chest, in his mind, swallowing every sense of reason — but Phainon would accept it, since it always calmed you. And even if such a worldly noun could not capture what he felt, it allayed his internal dread, too.
Ever since he met you, Phainon has felt abandoned without your presence. It was almost odd to think about. No matter if he was next to you, his mind still wandered, suggesting the most atrocious of things. What if one day, you decide to leave? What would he do then?
It was soul-crushing, and the man never enjoyed mulling over such thoughts. At the end of the day, you were everything he had and treasured. As solemn as it was, Phainon, perhaps, never truly understood the feeling of genuine devotion until he met you.
Falling for you came easy. Like his soul was already bound to yours and the rest of his body was just desperately trying to catch up. And, most probably, he had loved you in every life. Against what Phainon strove for, the Flame Chase journey and the bringing of Era Nova, he hardly believed in such idyllic concepts as reincarnation. But you? You’ve suddenly made it all so true. In the deepest parts of his heart, he knew that even if someone scattered his ashes through the universe, they would still recognize your voice.
Evidently exhausted, you shifted slightly against Phainon, eyelids fluttering shut. “I’m not going to sleep, I’ll just… close my eyes for a minute, okay?” You murmured, cheek pressing farther into his skin.
The man simply adjusted the pillow underneath your head, knowing you’ll be passed out cold within a few moments. “Don’t worry, you can rest. I’ll be here.”
“But I don’t want to,” you whined, which caused Phainon to snort out a short chuckle. “We’ve still got so much to talk about, and…”
With his free hand, Phainon squeezed your fingers reassuringly, weaving your joints together into a tight lock. “It’s alright, [Name]. We can talk later.”
Then he was kissing your brow, watching it relax instantly. And he looked at you, silent, taking in how your breaths evened out, the way your jaw unclenched, lips parting slightly. Every part of you was so beautiful. Unfathomably so.
Phainon worshipped the ground your feet struck, and he grew envious of anyone you spoke to. Like an untrained, selfish dog, he wanted you all to himself, absolutely convinced he was only capable of happiness with you by his side.
That was the reality of his existence — as simple, and as complicated as it was. His bruised heart could see only you.
The sound of chirping birds, so annoyingly loud it seemed near unbelievable. Sparse groups of citizens, slowly retreating to the safety of their abodes. A chimera, howling for its friends longingly as it circled the fountain where clear water rushed from. And the bright sun of Okhema, blinding Phainon as he squinted down at his teleslate.
One of the Garmentmakers just texted him. They wished for his presence in Aglaea’s office, even though the hour was getting late. It wasn’t exactly convenient for Phainon. After all, he promised you that he’d return as early as possible.
Just a few seconds ago, the man was full of mirth, sauntering along the street as his mind supplied him with all the things you could do together. Bake a fig pie? Or maybe you’d let him play with your hair? Read a book, hug on the bed, talk, wipe all the floors and windows and do the laundry — anything was better than wasting away on his duties while you waited for him.
Already grieving at the sight of your disappointed expression, Phainon ground his teeth as aggravation began to creep into his chest. Well. It’s not like he can refuse Aglaea so outwardly. Fortunately or unfortunately, he respected the woman, and so he chose to obey. Still fighting to keep his face neutral, Phainon began to drag his feet.
Sooner rather than later, he was in her office. By the desk sat Aglaea, looking as regal and put-together as always. Her head lifted at the noise, unseeing eyes locking on the man.
“Phainon.” She greeted, standing up.
“Lady Aglaea.” Phainon smiled in turn and stepped closer. He did not want to be there. The golden threads woven between the furniture and all corners of the room were already grating at his psyche. “You called for me.”
“I did.” Circling around the desk, Aglaea neared him, the clacking of her heeled shoes reverberating off the walls. “I need your assistance with something. Don’t worry, it’s not a burdensome task.” Without ceremony, the woman gestured at the tall stack of papers. “Could you kindly help me sort through all these?”
Phainon exhaled through his nose, feeling his eyebrows draw together unwillingly. Of course, he wouldn’t admit it out loud, but that seemed almost nonsensical in its simplicity. And now, instead of being with you, he was forced to organize something that most certainly did not require his aid.
With his eyes narrowed slightly, Phainon’s gaze flickered over to an idle Garmentmaker. It stood on the side, lifeless. “That’s no problem for me.” In spite of the brewing dismay, he answered cheerfully.
“Thank you.” Then Aglaea was already busying herself with another task, one which Phainon did not care enough to even register.
She was very respectable with his eyes. Nevertheless, Phainon was acutely aware of just how unpredictably cunning Aglaea could be sometimes. This whole charade did not sit right with him, but again, he didn’t voice his opinion.
Apathetic, Phainon began to gather the papers and sort through them, uninterested eyes briefly skimming through the information on them to understand what he was even working with. Complaints, complaints and some more complaints. Official documents that seemed oddly important, yet did not hook his attention. Propositions, shallow anonymous threats, letters.
And the man’s thoughts ventured to you, as always. The way you’d scold him when he comes back late, how endearing you looked in the morning when you still hadn’t brushed your hair. Did you make dinner? Perhaps he will be on cooking duty today, since he was foolish enough to keep you waiting and needed adequate punishment. The images popping up in Phainon’s mind distracted him successfully. What he was tasked with could be potentially entertaining, if he was to occupy himself with only you.
But you were a constant distraction. Every particle of Phainon’s being yearned to be beside you at all times. During meetings, missions, his sparring with Mydei, and even when waiting for you to come out of the bathroom. That is why he almost missed it — one particular paper with an already familiar name. Matthaios.
Placed deliberately at the very bottom, a multitude of written grievances. His mind unhelpfully suggested the word ‘whining’, because, honestly, did that pest have any family or friends to evoke such malaise? Obviously Matthaios did. To Phainon it appeared very laughable, though.
Aglaea’s threads must have sensed some shift in the air, for she paused in her work, head slowly turning toward Phainon as if to gauge his reaction. Even if she couldn’t see the expression he donned, her own looked quite austere.
“Phainon, I know what you have done,” she said, tone level. “And by now, you must know I’m aware of it.”
Oh, so that’s what all of this is about. It would be naive to assume Aglaea wouldn’t catch up on Matthaios’ fate almost immediately. Phainon was acquainted with how her gift worked, hence why he had little to no expectations of keeping her out of the loop.
So he put the copious complaints about his one-sided enemy on the last stack, still yet to flinch. By all means, Phainon was not unnerved. The woman may appear unsympathetic now, and bluffing was out of the question, but it didn’t mean he felt anyhow threatened.
“I do, Lady Aglaea. What of it?”
“You’ve killed a man.”
Such a groundbreaking revelation. Truly, Phainon could sigh at how unsurprised he was, though that would be impolite.
“Matthaios was an important figure.” Aglaea continued when Phainon didn’t budge or bother with an answer. “His family is asking about him. Do you expect me not to punish you?”
Phainon shifted to face the woman fully, arms resting at his sides aimlessly. “Perhaps you could. But not in a way that matters.”
Aglaea remained unmoved by his blatant nonchalance. “You’re confident.”
“And, with all due respect, you won’t do anything.” He replied, eyebrow lifting when a much-telling silence fell over the space. “Aren’t I right?”
A faint, knowing smile rose on the woman’s lips, her eyes narrowing. “Indeed.”
Of course, Aglaea could throw some consequences at Phainon and make him regret his rather violent decision. At the same time, the reputation of Chrysos Heirs was already fragile. With all the opposition aimed at them, and their mighty aspirations many people refused to put faith in, one wrong move could condemn their goal to a definitive end.
Everything Tribios and Aglaea worked so hard for over the long years would fail. After all, what would be the Flame Chase without Okhema’s beloved Deliverer? What would the citizens say? Nothing to improve the dire situation, that’s for sure. Phainon is a crucial element to the bigger picture, and anything he — or any other Chrysos Heir — does, can potentially lead to an outcome none of them desire. Aglaea would not doom him to imprisonment or execution just to save their faces. It wasn’t out of mercy, attachment or any sort of moral obligation; she was forced to ultimately let go.
“Yet, I still do not understand.” The woman hummed, voice somewhat more amiable now. “Why take a life? You’re perfectly capable of ending one without the unnecessary bloodshed.”
Despite his best efforts, Phainon huffed under his nose. One nonsense after another, and the clock was ticking, minutes spent on inconsequential conversations.
Assuredly, ruining someone’s reputation to the point of no repair was as easy for him as brushing teeth. Pull a few strings, let rumors spread, use the power of authority. Manipulating people was a stupidly undemanding feat, one which surely would not have him sweating. Phainon considered it. No risks and no sacrifices were appealing.
Then again, whenever you came home visibly deflated, his whole chest seemed to cave in. Matthaios was cruel to you. That fact grated Phainon's mind, only fanning at the flame of disdain. Soon enough, flame changed into a roaring fire, and what else could he do? He’d be left dissatisfied, probably. Going for the peaceful option was never a good choice to make in the first place.
After all, how could he let that fiend who hurt you roam about unscathed? If Phainon were to let Matthaios live, that would be utterly dishonorable of him. And killing him came easily. Honestly, he might have purposefully prolonged the act, which resulted in having to hurry through the remaining ordeal — but what’s done is done, and he has no regrets.
Phainon would do it again and again. No matter how many times, he’d still reach toward the sword, for his devotion to you far exceeded sense of reason.
Maybe not every part of it went according to plan. You saw him back then, standing in the bathroom with evidence written all over his body. Phainon could curse himself forever for that one mistake he promised to never make, and yet, you were not terrified of his true nature. It was a shock, in all honesty. But shock soon bloomed into something softer, and the man understood your love was just as severe.
With fingers dipped in blood, he’d continue to cradle you. Against everything, against the whole world — he would not let harm come your way. In any sort or form.
“I believe some problems are more complex than the others.” Phainon answered, voice conversational. “In that case, the only way out was through.”
Aglaea nodded, still stoic. “So I’ll assume it was to help [Name].”
It would seem she was aware of what was going on the whole time, or at least deduced a conclusion based on what brief information Phainon provided her with. He shrugged. “Any trouble in [Name]’s life is a liability to me.”
“You must love her very much, then.”
Another obvious statement. You were dearer to him than his own life. How is that not common knowledge yet?
“I do.”
The woman nodded once more, pausing as her attention flickered back to her previous task for a few seconds. Then her hazy eyes were on Phainon again. “Why [Name]?” She asked simply.
He smiled, both at the absurdity of the question and the deep affection swelling within at the mere mention of your name. “Who else if not her?”
Phainon’s life was remorseless to him. One by one, anything he could call precious was cruelly ripped away. Aedes Elysiae, the beautiful wheat fields and the night sky. Friends. Family. Dignity and the will to keep pushing. The tenderness of his hometown got replaced with the coldness of the real world, one which he never loved. Loss dragged behind Phainon like a shadow, following him everywhere.
Truthfully, for the majority of time, he felt nothing. A hollowness so deep-rooted, it was impossible to get it out. Sometimes the emptiness was laced with burning anger or lament, but even those emotions were quick to dissipate. Nothing was important enough. The ‘meaning’ he was oh-so graciously bestowed with in Okhema was superficial, too. He’s the Deliverer. So what? Phainon never coveted after such things.
Then you appeared. A light which made him want to step out of the darkness. It wasn’t anything special. There was no thunder nor fanfare, no shooting stars or noise. You came quiet, as though you were the first snowdrops after a harsh winter. And you were just a normal, unlucky girl. Hurt in the same way as him, and suffering in equal silence.
Phainon had no dreams of his own. Whenever someone asked him about it, he’d shake his head out of shame. There were none. The only wants he had were the desires of others. It was what he strove for, thinking that if he made others happy, then maybe some of that happiness would be shared with him.
But during one of those seemingly insignificant days in Okhema, a little after you came, Phainon looked into your eyes and felt something stir. Lodged somewhere deep in his heart, so small he’d miss it if the feeling wasn’t so foreign.
A wish.
For the first time in his life, Phainon had a real, selfish wish. And it was yet to take any concrete form, though appeared more vivid than any other thing: in the shape of your wide, beaming smile.
Suddenly, everything made sense. Even the bad things — they were necessary to make your meeting possible. Every decision he made across the years, it all led him to you. Phainon relearned how to live, saw colors and understood. You were precious, and he loved you. Important things are meant to be protected, so he’d protect you. Dearest people have to be cherished, so he’d cherish you.
If fate wanted to tear you away from him, the man would raze down heavens and earth in order to stop that from happening. There was no one else for Phainon. His existence would end with your name on his tongue.
“I understand.” Aglaea said finally, and he doubted that she really did. “Well, in any case, your repercussions end here. But do not cause me any more headaches, else I won’t be so lenient the next time.”
Phainon nodded, gesturing toward the stacks of organized documents. “Thank you. The papers are all sorted here by the category of urgency.” His finger tapped against the last couple with Matthaios’ name on it. “From most to least important.”
Uncaring of Aglaea’s words of approval, Phainon hastily walked toward the doors, more than ready to leave. No matter if he tried to be as efficient as possible, it still took way too long. You must be waiting for him. His teleslate is probably being blown up now with all sorts of damnations.
Before Aglaea could fully go back to her task, her head suddenly turned to Phainon again, stopping him mid-stride.
“But in the end, have you gotten everything you wanted?”
What a silly thing to ask.
“Yes.” He smiled, hand reaching for the handle. “Of course I have.”
Some people may say such a connection should be referred to as ‘soulmates’. You were not soulmates, not by any means. It was not caused by the gods intervening, nor by any chance of fate. Phainon wanted this. He wanted and wished so badly that in the end, your beings got interwoven together. He loved you intentionally. He loved you with all parts of his body — with everything he was born with.
“That’s good, then.” Aglaea returned the smile. It looked the most genuine so far. “I wish you a goodnight.”
He opened the door. “Goodnight to you, too.”
The blue of his cape disappeared with a small flutter, haste footfall reverberating through the hall. Finally, Phainon was going home.
cw!! - nsfw. dubcon. gender neutral! reader, somnophilia, dry + thigh humping, wet dream (reader is the one dreaming), chest groping, extremely whiney phainon, yandere! phainon, horrendously needy phainon, almost first kiss interrupted, phainon gets caught being down bad by reader, phainon is a cheeky bastard at the end, reader doesn't know whether to be turned on or scared, pet names (he calls you dawnlight and sweetheart) not proof read!!
a/n - second attempt at writing smut WOOO ngl im not super proud of this but self aware! phainon nation gotta eat so here it is! sorry if the ending is abrupt i kinda got writers block in the middle oopies (ᵕ • ᴗ •) btw this is based off an ask where phainon is able to enter ur dreams thanks to sunday's powers !
✰ woof, we want it! [self aware! phainon au]
you were never the type to be awakened easily.
once your body hits the comfort of your bed, you were completely knocked out for few good hours. so imagine your surprise when you woke up to the sound of pitiful whimpering in your ear. held back groans and desperate whines combined flooded your hearing, causing your body to slowly regain control from slumber. but that wasn't all, the sensation of something-... no, someone's hand gripping onto your waist for dear life and the constant rocking at your thigh made you jolt, eyes now fully opened.
"mmph- fuuuuuck... so good hah-! ♡ you feel sooo good, dawnlight."
your breath hitches at that nickname. no... it can't be. he's not- he's not real. your eyes slowly inch down, a mop of messy white hair covers your neck. a wet hot tongue traces patterns all over your exposed collarbone, sloppily sucking at the sensitive skin while at it.
'P' his tongue draws out the letter. you bite your inner cheek, attempting to suppress any sound you might make. what is he doing?!
'H' he kisses at a hickey he just made, the bruise blooming into your skin. he pants at it with pride. one of the many he had left on you. you maintain your composure, heart ready to jump out of your chest. what are you doing?
'A' his free hand sneaks under your shirt, icy cold fingers running up and down your stomach. oh so slowly making its way to your chest. you shut your eyes, feigning sleep. why are you letting this continue?
'I' he cups your chest, squeezing it in the process. his thumb finds your nipples, fully hardened. you can feel his smirk on your neck before a sharp bite hits you hard. it took all your willpower to not scream out from pain or pleasure. you weren't sure.
'N' his hips hump your thigh with reckless abandon. his clothed cock just aching to rut against you, raw. but he doesn't. instead, his teeth sink lower into your skin, grip tightening with each passing second. the heat burning between your thighs is unbearable. you're as filthy as he is.
'O' he's close. you can hear his whines get sharper. his thrusts becoming sloppier, the sound vibrating through your entire body. he hasn't said a single word since earlier but now? oh, all hell has broken loose. he's crying into your neck. "ah-! daaawnlight..." he babbles, tears staining your collarbone and some falling onto your pillow. "i'm so cloose! so close for you... pleaseee hah- let me cum on these pretty thighhhs... i need it so bad-!"
"i'll be a good boy for you-! ♡"
oh. oh.
you don't know what switched inside you but before phainon could even draw out the last letter of his name, you yanked his head back. he moans at it. it was a delicious melody that sent a jolt straight to the heat pooling in your stomach. he swallows, mouth drying instantly. he looks like a puppy whose been caught having one too many treats. "s-sweetheart! nngh- m' sorry, i was too loud ahah- didn't mean to wake you..." you stare at him, getting a proper look since this whole situation started. he looked so... real. he had the same shiny blue eyes, now with tears pouring out of them. he had the same white locks, now scattered and a mess beyond repair. he had the same face, the same one that always brought a smile to yours.
the same character you had an unhealthy obsession with, was jerking his cock against your thighs in your sleep.
phainon's chest heaves. heavily. oh, titans. your gaze is so scrutinising. he feels unbelievably small under it. you're judging him. you're judging him for being such such a nasty fool. but, dawnlight-! he just couldn't resist, he tried his best to constrain himself. he swears! he was finally next to you. you. his everything. all he wanted was just one small innocent touch. which led to another. and another. eventually, leading to phainon humping his hips into you without care in a world.
you lean in closer to him, your grip transitioning into a more gentle hold. you're scanning every inch of himself, unsure if you'll ever get this chance again. he's here. in your bed. alive and breathing the same air you are inhaling. you look at his lips, the lower half bruised by how much he bit into them. he notices. he knows. you know. phainon's body is trembling. his shaky breath adding to your arousal. you inch closer. and closer. and closer-
you jolt upright, the buzzing of your alarm ringing throughout the room. you grip the bedsheets, still recovering from whatever you just dreamed about. god, you were so fucked up. the fact your underwear was soaked isn't helping your case at all. how were you even going to face phainon the next time you opened honkai: star rail after all that?!
…
phainon spent the past 30 minutes, staring at the ceiling above him. a hysterical grin never leaving his face. his fingers rubbed against his lips, giggling. you were going to kiss him. his beloved was about to grant him their very first kiss. he was so close to tasting you. oh... you saint. after all he’s done? he doesn’t deserve it, dawnlight. the tent in his pants was still excruciatingly painful. aching and begging for release. but that can wait. phainon reached out for his phone, fingers typing away.
don’t fret, dawnlight. he remembers every single detail. <3
Summary: Tormented by the monastery, you are eaten down by the need to do something about your miserable existence. That’s when he appears. Somewhere along the lines, you come to realize his being became necessary for yours. What do those pesky hags tend to say? Beware the man you think you know.
Cw: fem!reader, demon!Phainon, very suggestive at some point, toxic interpersonal relationships, physical violence, severe mental anguish, descriptions of somewhat graphic injuries and blood, mentions of death, manipulation, hinted depression, religious guilt, generally heavy and dark themes. || wc: 23k
The satchel filled with peas digs painfully into your knees.
You don’t really know what went wrong — was it how you stuttered during the recital? Or perhaps the way your prayer beads accidentally slipped from your palm, clattering onto the cold stone in the middle of a general hush?
Theoretically, and logically — such trivial matters should hold little significance. But not for the remaining sisters. Oh no, never for them. Their righteous selves, filled with God’s mercy, are the ones who always somehow prevail over it. Shouldn’t it be wrath, for them to fight? Lust? Greed?
Apparently, their most evident foe is kindness itself.
Ever since you stepped into the church grounds, you were faced with some sort of oppression. It is to steel your resolve, they said. To keep you in check, and show your appropriate place. But isn’t that just cruel? Wouldn’t that mindset literally overwrite everything taught in the scriptures? What good is there in taunting and shaming an innocent soul?
It didn’t take you long to learn how to bow your head so low your nape started to ache. Praying until the dawn, hoping, begging, that maybe this time someone will hear you. Singing the litanies, not daring to stop even when your throat pleaded you to, the metallic taste gathering on your tongue like bile and threatening to spill on the white cuffs of your robes.
Anything to keep those sisters — no, devils — off from your tail. Alas, wishes of such summer-like nature rarely came true.
This led to your current predicament. You ground your teeth, the sensation so intense you thought your incisors might crack. A muscle ticked uncomfortably in your jaw. Sweat trickled down your temples as you muttered another set of chaplets, words slurring and fading into incomprehensible nonsense. Syllables of your prayers melted, vowels and sounds rolling off your tongue like a second nature, long burned into your memory.
You shifted your weight on the right knee, wincing when it did little to soothe the pain. You tried the left one again. No difference. There was probably blood, by now. You hated the sight of it, the stench, oh the horrible, irritating stench. It was the worst part of it all.
The slight cool of late summer did little to allay the ever-present hotness encompassing your whole body. At this point, your robes might have been heavy with sweat. Or maybe it was just an illusion made up by your exhausted mind, trying to somehow justify the torture. Doesn’t matter. In these stone-cold walls, nothing does.
Time stretched as if the seconds were made of resin, akin to how you’d accidentally touch a tree’s bark as a child, watching the sticky goo cover your fingertips. It always took a lot of effort to get rid of it. Why do trees produce it anyway? To spite others, maybe? But then again, do trees possess thoughts of their own, and conscience? Do they process hurt like humans do? Do they weep when you snap their twigs off?
A harsh touch on your shoulder pulled you from the feverish reverie. You almost choked on your spit, which managed to pool around your tongue when you got so immersed you even forgot to swallow.
Your neck slowly craned upwards. The sister overseeing your punishment stood there, just a little behind your back, her expression nothing short of stern. You smiled weakly, probably looking like a fool. Her grimace deepened.
“You’re dismissed.” The woman said, her touch leaving you. “Now, hurry. Go join the others. The candles must be lit shortly, and it is already late.”
She stepped away, the dark cloth dragging across the floor as if she was not a human, but a haunting spirit.
Sure, candles. Whatever. What did she say again? Ah, yes, they needed to be lit. That was your duty — fan the fire, make sure it won’t extinguish throughout the long nights. Honestly, no matter how hard you wracked your brain over this stupid little task, you never saw a point to it. Do they think flames will ward off evil? Perhaps if the sisters were to ignite their own selves. The mental picture made you laugh, though it sounded more like a brittle scoff of a dying dog.
With a groan, you got on your feet. You lifted up your robe to assess the damage, and sure enough, your knees were bruised, skin cracked and seeping blood. Nothing’s new. You should be used to this by now, no doubt. Except, no matter the countless times you endured this specific punishment, or any other — it would never become anything familiar to you.
Perhaps that’s what separated you from the remaining members. Their wills bent like hot iron. Not once did you see a sister trying to argue with those of higher hierarchy. You were the only one who still had the guts to bare your teeth, and the only one who attempted repressing their teachings, beaten into your brains.
Still, violence prevails, and though you held onto your convictions of never fully submitting, you struggled, too. Sometimes it was easier to smile and tuck your head down.
Your tired feet carried you over to the candle room. It proved to be a challenge, no less — hardly surprising, considering the ache reverberating through your kneecaps. Of course, you did what was asked of you. Your joints hurt from the amount of matches you had to get going, but the candles were now flickering with light, and the oh-so terrifying fiends would get scared off by holy flame. Laughable, yes, but apparently only to your unruly self.
And days flew over your head with no difference. Like the flock of birds, passing the overcast skies, because there is no reason to stop for a break. Nothing to admire for longer than a few seconds. None to cling to. Same goes for you — weeks are a blur. You don’t know when the waning August changed into September, nor did you notice the exact moment when pure-green leaves began taking on auburn hues.
Get up when the sun rises. Either stirred by the crowing rooster, or your self-preservation instincts. While you don’t reminisce about it, your body still remembers what happened when you failed to show up during morning prayer. Such scarring memories should remain buried, rather in your muscles than brain.
Wash yourself, if you can. Water from the well is more than freezing these days, unable to catch the warmth of the summery sun. The luxury of heating it up is reserved only during winter time. Alas, knowing how corrupted everyone here is, the ones with higher statuses probably do it anyway, in secret or not.
Then, enter the spacious hall, dip your fingers in the holy water, try appearing unbothered by your disheveled reflection. Apologize for staring into the surface for too long. Move along to the church’s main chamber — don’t forget to kneel when entering — and sit your weary bones up in the front.
Say hello-s to the sisters and priests, will the corners of your lips upwards. Look into the polished wood, examining your face again, and deduce the feigned smile is too crooked to be authentic. If some of the villagers attend, greet them kindly. They usually do, so you have no choice but to steel your resolve, and keep on being cheerful. At least the children are actually nice. Won’t go judging you for the littlest of slip-ups. You enjoy playing with them once the prayer ends, but the fleeting moment of genuine happiness is quick to fade when you get scolded yet again for running around the square.
It doesn’t take long for everyone to depart. People have to work in the fields, that much is obvious; and you, too, have your own fair share of chores. Food preparation during the first half of the week. Laundry takes the second. Senior sisters stroll around, as if the privileges muddled their heads to the point where no helping hand from them seems realistic, and observe. It’s mostly quiet. Yes, mostly, because mistakes happen, and those who make them deserve to be admonished. It wouldn’t be wrong to say you fall victim to the notorious scoldings constantly.
When you sate your belly with a humble portion of food, you can go to the confessional. You never do.
Shortly before noon, meditation and study begins. Another part of the day which you despite with your whole heart — but, honestly, you hate it all. Copy scriptures by hand, memorize chants, try not to wince too hard when your palms meet with the whip, because apparently struggling is not allowed. Pray that the heavy atmosphere will pass, and forget who you’re praying to in the middle. Fend off the guilt like it’s one of those feisty neighborhood dogs, always having to snap their canines at your poor ankles.
Next, textile work. Candle-making. Tending to the trees and bushes. Overseeing if the henhouse is still intact, because unlike your fellow sisters, foxes have nothing against hearty meals.
Evening chants. You’d rather not comment on it. Your throat is too sore for that, anyway.
As the end of the cumbersome day approaches, a selected few sisters have to make preparations for the next day’s rites. Unlucky for you, you were burdened with the task today.
Your arms are sore from having to carry those heavy scissors for such a long amount of time. Well, no matter. You’d rather use them instead of your own hands. Just imagine how troublesome snapping the flowery twigs from bushes would be, if you were only to manage with your fingers.
The priest asked that you prepare a couple of clusters to put on the altar for tomorrow. So you did. Unlike many other chores, this one was somewhat bearable — you didn’t have to worry about messing it up too much. After all, what’s so hard about gathering a few twigs, getting rid of the dirt, and tying them up together with a ribbon?
Well, as it turns out, everything.
The sound of heavy sandals dragging across cobblestone ground made your shoulders twitch. Senior sister.
“What is the color of humility?”
Humility?
Your mouth opened to answer, fingers clutching around the bouquets you placed on the altar just a few seconds ago, and was still trying to readjust. No sound left you.
“Ash-white, as the scriptures decree.” Answered the soft unison of sisters.
Right. How could you have forgotten? Now the visage of a violet ribbon appeared more dreadful than ever. Would it be too late to fix your mistake? You turned on your heel, lungs squeezed by a dozen of serpents — looking at the unsatisfied expression of the senior sister, it certainly would.
A long pause stretched between the gathering. You swallowed thickly.
“I’m—”
“Violet ribbon for the altar.” One of the women snickered, her bored face twisting into a mildly-amused smile. “Are you seeking to blind our God?”
A ludicrous laugh. “Or seduce him.”
You lowered your gaze, eyes fixing on the tips of your worn shoes, barely peeking from under the long robe. Your fingers twitched at where you clutched the material, suddenly remembering the ugly scarring countless hours of kneeling left on you. Punishments were usually immediate. It wouldn’t take long until you’ll have to slump back on the sack of peas.
Even after so many years spent on the church’s teachings, you still make such stupid mistakes.
And perhaps it is not stemming from your own brain-fog, but rather defiance.
It’s a simple concept. Do people not feel roused when you tell them to do something? Go wash the windows is usually met with a scornful glare, even if one wanted to do it previously. Unconsciosly, you act the same. The vision of enduring torture is meek in comparison to stirring other sister’s ire.
You never want to anger them on purpose, but maybe your instincts think otherwise. Whatever power controlling your brain rebels, ultimately forcing you to mess up; if only to see their brows furrow. If only to hear the sighs of frustration.
But you don’t really desire it, do you?
“It was a mistake.” You force out, willing your cotton-like tongue to finally move. The sound of your voice is weak, diffused by the sheer vastness of the church.
The senior sister clicked her tongue. “A mistake is when one spills the broth.” She said, still scrutinizing the faulty ribbon. “This is simple vanity.”
She stepped towards the clusters, picking one up with her thumb and forefinger, as if those weren’t normal twigs but rotten meat. Girls in the back continued to giggle between themselves. The old woman then grabbed the object of your demise, tearing it from the branches, and letting it swivel to the ground like shedded skin.
“Remake it. With eyes open this time.”
And she steps away, back to decorating the dark-wood benches with fair lace. The flock of sisters trails after her, akin to how ducklings would follow their mother. Only one stayed, still studying you with her big eyes.
Your gaze flicked upwards, meeting hers. She smiled at you. You smiled back. Oddly, her face looked compassionate — apples of her cheeks flushed, lips curling sympathetically — and you actually expected her to at least try cheering you up.
But, as always, you were in the wrong.
“Maybe leaving the monastery would be best for you.” She murmured, cold words contrasting with her sweetness.
“Wh— what?”
Her expression fell. “You cannot do anything right. Sometimes I wonder if you mess up to spite us, or if you’re genuinely dim-witted.”
When you failed to grace her with a response, she simply sighed, walking off.
To your very surprise, that affected you harder than any other admonishing attack thrown your way. Why? She didn’t say anything foreign. A multitude of sisters always repeated the same things, the same bashing comments. You didn’t even notice when the singular twig slipped between your fingers, falling with a silent rustle.
Perhaps it was the look in her doe-like eyes. Frigid. Or maybe you truly hoped for at least one good word, coveting after the smallest ounces of comfort. Just when you were sure it was in your line of sight, God decided to tear it away, leaving you starving again.
You really must be empty by now. As much as the whole situation stung, no tears rolled down your cheeks. Is that the hopelessness animals feel when one aims the rifle straight between their eyes?
Earlier on, you’d probably weep, wallowing in self-pity. But instead of doing that, you merely went to fetch the properly colored ribbon, and fixed the clusters. Senior sister said nothing. By some miracle, you avoided punishment. The small mercy brought you no joy.
Later that evening, you went to light the candles.
It was your duty, obviously. Not since always, but when sister Liris passed from old age, the responsibility fell to your shoulders.
And usually you’d groan under your breath, sending silent complaints into the abyss about how much you hated the monotonous task. But today, your mind was pretty much blank. You worked meticulously for a change, making sure every candle was harboring their own little flame. Ward off evil — such beings exist only in fairy tales. You do it to merely sense warmth on your fingertips. It’s been long since you felt one coming from a human, so now candles served as a replacement.
There were dozens of them, placed on the cobblestone surface, pooling around the ground. Without the light, I’d look like a tombstone. But that was alright. At least it was quiet there. No sounds of clacking sandals, or wails coming from behind the wall, accompanied by the cracking whip.
Lingering in one place for too long never proved to be a good idea though, so soon you got up, leaving the space wordlessly.
As you trudged through the long, dimly lit hallway, your mind fogged with exhaustion and limbs heavy, a faint movement by the staircase caught your attention. A lone silhouette lingered in the shadows, quiet, albeit familiar. Ah. It was that sister you spoke with earlier. She really was unmistakable even in the sparse illumination. The dim glow softened her prepossessing features, casting a delicate light across her contours.
Yet, despite your frustration towards her, you weren’t in the mood for a confrontation. You never were. Tension coiled in your spine, forcing you to fold your shoulders inwards, subconsciously attempting to make yourself look smaller. Each of your steps was deliberately silent, praying her eyes wouldn’t recognize you.
You passed by the woman, allowing a sigh of relief when unnoticed. Unfortunately, life had a different tune prepared for you, as per usual.
“Hey, you.”
This made you pause. Was it the sister who spoke, or is your mind playing tricks on you?
You turned your head slowly, fingers clutching at your robe. “Me?”
“Do you see anyone else here?” She chuckled dryly, leaning against the stairs’ railing.
You shook your head.
“Say, did you cry after the flower bouquets?”
Now, what was she even talking about? Your eyebrows narrowed together with a slight ire at her words. Did she seriously come here just to mock you? It sounded truly ridiculous, but there was no other reason for her to hover around at such a late hour.
When you didn’t answer, she pushed on. “You’ll be cast out one day. Left behind the gates with the dogs.” She said, eyebrows lifting up in horribly authentic amusement. “Or maybe… maybe the Sanctuary will keep you as a pet. You have the eyes for it.”
No matter how much you struggled to keep your emotions at bay, it seemed hopeless. Anger roared in your guts, causing you to take a few steps towards the sister. How dare she speak to you like this? What did you do to deserve such treatment?
“Why do you hate me?”
Was the years of anguish you endured in those sorrowful walls not enough? Did everyone always have to make your existence more and more miserable?
“You’re so pathetic it spoils the air.”
How come the notorious lashings you received were not enough? Why does God grant his love upon all, but forgot about you?
And that’s unfair, isn’t it?
You don’t know how it happened. Something unreasonable must have blinded you, because soon you pressed your hands against that sister’s chest, trying to shove her.
And she might have caught her balance if not for the long robe, twisting around her foot.
It came without warning. No screaming, no crying from surprise. Her body tumbled backwards into the darkness, and you instinctively reached out to grip at her flailing wrist — but before your fingertips managed to even graze her, she was gone.
Panic squeezed your heart as you listened to the thudding — thud, thud, thud — heavy sounds of her falling down the stairs, each new noise worse than the previous one. Something wet echoed through the spacious hall hideously, and the snapping crack near the bottom felt too final.
Wide-eyed, you stared into the darkness, begging to hear a wail of pain. A moan, a whimper — anything, for God’s sake, anything! — and yet, all there was were your own sobs, tears streaming down your face as you heaved, going weak in the knees.
It couldn’t have possibly happened.
You don’t know whether you killed her for sure, but the silence was unequivocal. That poor woman must have hit her pulse point when falling, and it was your fault. Yours alone.
You didn’t want to do such a thing. Yes, she was cruel towards you, but no living soul deserves this fate. She didn’t know any better. Years spent on the church grounds messed with everyone’s minds, and she was a victim as much as you are.
Time seemed to be looping in endless circles as you stood there, terrified. You couldn’t discern what lay at the bottom fully, but it certainly wouldn’t be anything short of mangled. Should you turn yourself in? Would it be wise to run to the confessional right now, and admit to your mortal sin?
Certainly so.
But, even though the endless guilt wrung your being out, and even though tears still ran down your face — you were not holy. You were not above them.
Apparently, the only difference between you and the sisters of the monastery was blood on your hands. The kind that won’t wash off, ever.
Slowly, you stepped backwards, willing yourself to stop weeping already. And you ran.
Against all your wits, you found yourself in the prayer hall, panting heavily. You shouldn’t have come here. The smartest course of action would be to lock yourself in your humble room, and hope that maybe, just *maybe*, they won’t find out. None of the blame will fall on your shoulders, and you won’t be lynched by the church’s square with priests and sisters chanting for your death.
Alas, you were never overly intelligent. Instead of hiding, you slumped on one of the long pews, knees painfully knocking against the praying support. After quickly wiping your tears and snot, you clasped your hands together, and began to murmur.
You hated that specific prayer.
It sounded awful, and the words always refused to stay in your head for too long. But still, for whatever reason, it was the only one which you could recall.
“I trust in you, merciful God, almighty one, whose hands are grace. Although I may never know your mind, I love you more than life itself.”
A shaky breath ripped from your chest, sending shivers down your whole body. Your cries were long gone now, but the trepidation remained, deep-rooted like spindly vines.
“Beyond all things that hands have shaped, for you alone are good, and high. I grieve my sins not out of fear, but for—“
Laughter resonated through the space, cutting you off.
Your head whipped around, startled. What? But you were alone, you made sure to check twice — no, thrice — and yet, it would turn out someone found you. Wouldn’t the visage presented before them be more than obvious? A trembling girl, praying feverishly during night, sounding completely out of breath. One finger pointed at your chest, and you’d be declared guilty.
It must have been a hallucination, yes, because what else—
“That was fun.” Said the sing-song voice, evidently with no owner in sight.
You froze up, hand immediately clutching at the crucifix dangling from your neck. To say you were terrified would be a major understatement, because soon all of your limbs seemed to lock in place, the only sound being the rush of blood in your ears.
Is someone playing a prank on you? No, that’s not possible. So, what is exactly going on?
You tried moving your numb tongue, the tone coming out strained. “Who’s there?”
When no answer reached you, you shifted on the bench, squinting around the darkness. Your toes clenched restlessly, urging you to finally get on your feet and bolt from this cursed place. Alas, once again in your life, your brain had a better idea of what’s best for you.
Then, from the left pew — a faint movement, suddenly springing into your line of sight, barely illuminated by the low wall sconce.
A man.
The second your eyes met with his summer-blue ones, your heart jumped up in fright. The shock stifled any yelps of fear, rendering you unmoving as you assessed his form. Legs crossed, one arm casually draped over the backrest as if he owned the place. Ivory, tousled locks. Something akin to priest’s garbs, but worn like a mocking parody of someone clueless.
And he was… beautiful. How is it possible to harbor such comely features?
“Do you always react like a startled hare when someone compliments your work?” The stranger queried, smiling.
Your breath hitched, and you gripped the necklace harder, though you don’t know why. He was no fiend. They don’t exist, after all. He’s just a man — well, considering his robes, he might be a new addition to the monastery. A sloppy one, at that.
But none of this made sense, and his words caused you to pause. What work? What was he even referring to? Certainly, he couldn’t have…
“She did fall so beautifully. Reminded me of a doll.” He grinned wider. “Falling apart like porcelain. Truly, you must be after my own heart.”
At that, you shook your head in weak denial. No. No, no no, no, no — how could he know?! This man wasn’t there, he wasn’t *nowhere* — such a precious face would be hard to miss, and you knew all of the church-goers. He’s not from here. He’s a strange, horrible thing, and, God forgive you for thinking so cruelly, but he has no right to exist.
Because, certainly, he’s not real? Right?
“You shouldn’t be here.” You muttered, finally willing your legs to carry you upright.
A chuckle. "Sorry for that”
As you slowly contemplated your next move, he pressed on. “Huh. You’re not screaming. That’s nice. I always dread the screaming.”
How is it possible that this hallucination is actually so realistic? You cradled your forehead in your palm, wincing. Maybe the sister who you pushed wasn’t the real victim, but you. And it was you who tumbled down the stairs instead of her, so now you were in a deep state of shock. You somehow managed to imagine everything, brain tricking you into believing things that did not happen, adrenaline forcing the body to keep moving. It would surely explain the pounding in your head.
“I must be imagining this…”
You expected the hallucination to laugh or mock you, but instead, he merely leaned forward, smiling wistfully. “Of course. You’re tired. Traumatized. Many such cases.” He chuckled dryly, propping his chin on his palm. “But here’s a fun thought: maybe you invited me.”
Now it’s getting ridiculous.
“I did no such thing.” You scoffed.
“Oh, but you did.” The stranger — hallucination? — chirped happily, batting his long eyelashes at you. “Not with candles, or some of your pitiful ‘forbidden’ scriptures.”
You don’t know what urged you to continue indulging that nightmare, but your lips moved on their own. “Then how?”
“You invited me the moment you stopped pretending to be good.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. It made you slump your arms down, and for the first time in your life, you wanted everything back to the way it once was.
You could bear all the beatings and punishments and mockery — only if that man were to dissipate. Only if she was to get up from her mangled state, and let out a long breath of life.
And you never met your parents, though you wished for their embrace more than ever.
“What are you?”
At your dreaded question, he suddenly got up, taking a small step forward. “I think you already know. But, ah, let me tell you anyway. I’m exactly what they told you to fear. I am the thing your little candles were supposed to fend off.” His tone was oddly reverential, as if he truly felt sorry for your poor state. “But don’t worry. I’m not here to punish you.”
The man took another couple of steps. He was too close for your comfort, though you didn’t move. So, he may or may not be a hallucination. With just one meter separating you both, you could smell the faint scent of sulfur, and fully examine the unnatural canines, bared in his wolfish grin.
With each passing second, you became more and more sure that this was your current reality. Not a visage made up by your tortured mind, but an actual being.
“Then why are you here?” You asked, willing your feet to stay planted. Surprisingly enough, your voice didn’t waver this time — it didn’t crack, nor fade off. No. It was low, akin to a dare. How stupid you must be to look into the devil’s eyes head on, and not flee? Very much, apparently.
“I’m curious.” He shrugged, then paused. “You’re interesting.”
Before any more questions left your mouth, he nonchalantly turned on his heel, strolling towards the side door. His steps were casual, as if he knew his way around better than you do.
He looked over his shoulder, still smiling. “I’ll be around.”
“Wh— wait!” You called out, almost out of breath. “Will they see you?”
That demon, or whatever else he was, stopped at the threshold, casting you a long look. “Only if they stop pretending, too.”
And he was gone.
You stood there, dumbfounded. Your jaw slacked down, and the air in your lungs suddenly turned heavy, causing you to sigh. Once again, you were alone, but the church’s cold walls felt somewhat warmer now, making you suffocate with the sheer thickness of oxygen.
Thousands of revelations swimmed through your mind, but only one appeared more vivid than the rest.
You never asked for his name.
It’s been three weeks since that dreadful accident.
For a change, time passed slowly. Throughout the multitude of sleepless nights, eaten down by paranoia, you came to realize the blame wouldn’t fall on you.
Why?
Because that sister’s body was gone by morning.
You remember waking up, drowning in cold sweat, mentally prepared for whatever would come and get you. But everything seemed the same. The sisters bustled around the church, fulfilling their duties silently, and the whereabouts of your victim were only muttered in hushed tones.
She’s gone, they whispered. Nowhere to be seen. Probably got sick of it all, and ran off with some man.
It was hard to believe — after all, her corpse must have still been sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs, blood long dried. So, despite your trepidation, you went to see.
True enough, the sister was not there. Did they transport her to the basement, where the sparse warmth wouldn’t reach her, preventing further decay? You didn’t have the guts to check that option out. Still, it would seem she wasn’t located anywhere. No mourning, no preparations for a funeral — nothing.
With that, only one question remains: where is she?
As it turns out, you’d never get to know. She just disappeared into thin air, the same way fog dissipates from above the ground. Even though guilt still gnawed at your fibers, you decided not to dwell on it too much. It would not bring her back. Your spilled tears will certainly not help her.
So, days went on. You tried focusing on work, pushing back the traumatic events. It helped. During mornings, you’d cook up the broth as well as you could, and when twilight came, you stood at the gates, counting fire-colored leaves hanging from the branches.
The chilly breeze soothed you. Cawing lulled your senses into ease, and soon you’d forget about everything. That’s how life on these grounds goes. If you were to reminisce about the past constantly, you would simply go insane. There was no point in looking back.
Except, one thing still sat firmly at the floor of your brain, lodged like a splinter.
Him. That… fiend? Human? Hallucination? Was he real, or did you seriously make him up? For whatever reason, the memory from that dim pray hall is already blurred, his contours hazy in the eye of your mind. Through the fading outline of his features, only one thing stuck with you. His piercingly blue eyes. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a color as vivid as one of those irises.
No matter how realistic he seemed, you kept with your belief that demons didn’t exist. True evil is rooted in humans — you, being the prime example. He must have been an incarnation of your guilt-stricken thoughts, a simple embodiment of the terror you felt at that moment.
But then again, how would you explain the disappearance of the poor sister you killed?
Still, weird things do happen. This church has always been an anomaly amongst normalcy of everyday life, at least to you, so nothing is impossible. Well, nothing except the demons, of course. He said he’d be around, and truth be told, you haven’t seen him since then; so logically, all of this was conjured up by your imagination.
Perhaps, deep inside, you felt a bit happy. You long forgot what true joy is like, but the fact you somehow avoided responsibility was good. Great, even. When kneeling by your bedpost, praying during night, you’d often thank God for bestowing such a mercy upon you. It would seem the almighty powers did not forsake you, after all.
Yes. God did not throw you away, nor did he abandon you. So why did you feel as if instead of praying to him, you were thanking something entirely else?
The candle room was significantly warmer than the rest of the church’s halls. Not exactly comforting, though it could pass off as a better version of your room, where the only thing you’ve grown familiar with throughout all the years was your bed. But the bed wasn’t overly nice, either. Mattress made of hay straws often poked through the sheets, irritating your skin. During hot summer nights, when frustration was high, you genuinely would’ve preferred to rest on the stone ground.
It was late already, but you scurried off from the unexpectedly prolonged evening prayer, thankfully managing to get here before the senior sister would start questioning your tardiness.
You could smell the wax, and something else lying underneath. And, for whatever reason, you suddenly felt the need to pray. Your days were going oddly fine. No punishments, little scoldings here and there — but those you could bear. Honestly, you don’t know what caused it, but it’s not like you could complain.
So, with that in mind, you kneeled before the candles, clasping your palms together. Uneven cobblestone dug into your legs. You tried recalling a prayer — any — however, it proved to be somewhat hard, and you don’t know why.
Perhaps it was the hotness hitting you. Sticky and heavy, as if you were one of the candles too. Or maybe the strengthening of that weird scent lingering about.
Doesn’t matter. You curled your fingers harder, the joints digging into your own knuckles.
“I trust in you, o—”
You paused, brows drawing together. The words faltered with your hesitation, drifting off into nothingness.
“I trust in you, o merciful lord, benevolent and almighty…” You whispered. “Grant me grace and…”
And what?
Oh, if the senior sisters were to hear you now, you’d surely have to repeat the same prayer a thousand times.
You cleared your throat, regaining focus. “Grant me grace and your salvation—”
One of the flames fluttered, soon disappearing altogether. This caused you to stop again, swallowing nervously. But there wasn’t any wind here? The candle room was a tightly-shut sanctuary, with no windows and heavy doors. It prevented any gusts of breeze getting inside, and accidentally diminishing the holy light, which was supposedly the most important thing on church grounds.
Then, an amused voice, coming from your left. “That’s not how it goes.”
You jerked up at the familiar sound, twisting toward the corner near the back wall. For a second, you genuinely thought your mind was playing tricks on you, taunting you for not remembering such a simple prayer. But no.
There he was again. This man of fair locks, leaning his side against the bricks. When your eyes met, he cocked one eyebrow up, sending you a farcical look, like you were the intruder and not him. If not for his light-colored hair and pearly smile, you’d think no one was here in the first place.
“…You.” A low seethe left your lips, and you instantly got up from your kneeling.
What is that hallucination reoccurring for? The guilt caused by your actions left your body some time ago, and you no longer worried about being caught. There was no point in his existence anymore. Perhaps you truly went mad.
His smile grew into a grin. “Me. Again.” He chimed, voice as clear as a tolling bell. “Ridiculous, no?”
Your fingers gripped at the skirts of your robes, breaths turning unsteady.
“You’re not real.”
It sounded hardly believable, especially when falling from your mouth. The doubts came back tenfold, and as you assessed the man’s tall frame, he slowly began dragging his feet forward.
He let out a sigh so heavy, you could deem him a martyr. “And yet, I’m here. Look at that,” his hand lifted, fingers waving through the candle’s flame. At first it flicked, and then went out. “See? Very tactile.”
The shock made you take a small step back. Can… hallucinations do that? The action was undeniable. Something unreal certainly wouldn’t be able to touch, much less cause factual consequences.
You don’t know how it made you feel.
“So, why are you here?” A simple query left you, because, honestly, what else were you supposed to say? Start chanting the exorcism verses?
The man tapped his chin in mock-thoughtfulness. “Hmm. Maybe I missed hearing you pray.” His head tilted to the side, reminding you of those stray dogs you’d sometimes feed. It would be almost endearing, if not for the current circumstances. “Or maybe you just called for me again.”
Sputtering nonsense, as always. You crossed your arms in defiance — obviously, you did no such thing. You’d never dream of it! Why would you want to evoke this entity, real or not?
“I didn’t call you.”
“But you meant it.”
“No!”
At the rise of your tone, he laughed. “Truly, your naïveté amazes me. Do tell,” he took another few steps forwards, only now making you realize his silhouette possessed no shadow. “Is your forgetfulness a coincidence? Is your luck—”
This godforsaken fiend was starting to scare you. Earlier on, you could swallow the trepidation, eased by the conviction he was imaginary. But now, you weren’t so sure.
“Stay back.” You cut in, shaking your head.
“Am I frightening now?” He jeered, placing a palm on his chest in a feigned affront. “You weren’t so panicky last time, when I complimented your murder.”
Your face twisted unpleasantly, sudden shame resurfacing. Right. Back then, when he stepped closer, you didn’t exactly flinch. What changed? Perhaps the fact that he, more or less, confirmed his identity as real. You could touch him, just to be completely sure — but your bravery didn’t stretch in that direction.
“I didn’t mean to.” You murmured, head bowing in humiliation. Your fingers fiddled with the crucifix hanging from your neck, squeezing it lightly.
You couldn’t see his expression now, though the heavy presence became less offensive. “Of course you did.” For whatever reason, his voice turned gentle. “Why else would it happen?”
When you didn’t respond, still wrestling with the newly arising guilt, the man started to walk slowly around the place. His footsteps were oddly quiet. They didn’t sound anything like the notorious clacking of the senior sister’s sandals, irritating you. No. They were soft, contrasting with the demon’s imposing front. Almost as if he wasn’t an evil being, but a small lamb, obedient in the way it would sit on your lap.
“That one sister hates you, you know. The one with missing teeth.” He said, disrupting the silence. “You could ruffle her feathers. Just a little.”
His taunting words made you scoff, ridiculed. Your eyes rose to gaze at him again, and you really couldn’t believe he was trying to seduce you into any more wrongdoings now.
Though he was right, you still glared at him. “Stop speaking like that. I’m not a monster.”
“Neither am I.” He chuckled, shrugging.
Certainly.
As the lull of night fell over you again, you took a moment to study the man’s form. His irises were focused on the flickering fires, flames mirroring in the twin pools of blue. With the orange hue on his face, he looked somewhat docile. Calm. You’d think devils were supposed to appear terrifying, but when the light caught in his ivory strands of hair, you deduced the scriptures might have been lying. There was nothing frightening about the way the tousled fringe fell on his forehead, nor the clumsily donned priest garb.
With a sigh, you spoke. “So, what are you, really?”
His eyes returned to you, a smile curling his lips upwards. “Why don’t you consider me a friend?”
Like I’d ever, you thought bitterly.
He moved closer to you again. Not enough to actually touch you, but the sulfur-like scent filled your nostrils with a renewed strength. It wasn’t unpleasant, per se, though you’d prefer something less intense.
“You look exhausted. Guilt doesn’t wear well on you.”
“You think my situation is a joke.”
“Quite the opposite, actually. I think they are.” He spread his arms, gesturing at the whole space. “All of them.”
Maybe you’d smile, if not for the deep-rooted anxiety still swelling in your stomach. The man rolled his eyes. You shifted your weight from one leg to another.
It was weird. He was a demon, though didn’t aim to harm you — at least not now. His way of speaking could be condescending at times, but you’d expect something of his nature to roar and claw like a crazed animal, putrid flames dragging behind as a tail.
And you’d also expect yourself to scream, but you held an oddly civilized conversation with him.
“Will you leave if I ask?”
The fiend paused as if something ticked in his brain. Surprisingly, his wide smile faded just a little, tone turning softer.
“Do you want me to?”
When you opened your mouth to answer, a sudden knock resonated through the room. You gasped, head swiveling into the direction of the sound — one of the sisters, or a priest. Did they listen to you talking with him? If so, then you’d surely be doomed.
“[Name]. What’s taking you so long?” Asked the familiar voice. Senior sister.
Panic squeezed at your heart when you saw the doorknob turn, a silhouette clad in shadows appearing in the threshold. She will see him. Well, the demon stated other people won’t be able to spot him, but it seemed hardly believable with just how tangible his presence was. So, she will see him, and then you’ll…
You don’t want to imagine.
“Senior sister, I swear I can explain!” You cried, taking a wobbly step toward her.
But all the woman did was look at you as if you were not a normal girl, but a lunatic. She cocked one eyebrow up, glancing around the space to see if everything was intact — you followed her stern gaze, stunned when you saw nothing.
Not a single trace of the white-haired man. No invading smell of sulfur, and no indicator that he was ever there.
He was gone.
“Enough of your nonsense, now. Rush to your room.” She said, tone frigid as always, leaving no room for argument.
You did just that. With a quick bow of your head, you swiveled on your foot, leaving the candle room for good.
And as you walked, pace becoming significantly hurried with each step, a single, morose realization dawned upon you.
You forgot to ask for his name. Again.
Mist clung lowly to the ground, swiveling between the gravel paths, curling around hedgerows in tight embrace. Autumn was in full bloom now, unlike the flowers.
The cold air did little to help you as you struggled with some of the spindly roots. You had to prepare the rose bushes for winter, but everything seemed to be going bad, and soon your fingers went rigid with the air’s chill.
Rows of other sisters moved slowly between the herbs, their heads bowed, hands busy with clippers and baskets. All of them were quiet. Either because they did not want to anger the senior sister overlooking everything — or yesterday’s litany singing simply teared their throats.
The silence hung heavy, and with the gloom atmosphere, you’d think you were in the graveyard. Well, there was one nearby, so perhaps you weren’t so far off.
It became so natural — the hush, the soft trilling of sparrows seated on the naked branches. Which is probably why you jostled up from your haunches when you heard the awfully familiar voice, disrupting it all.
“So this is what devotion looks like. Mud under your nails, trembling in the cold like an old ewe.”
You flinched, joints instinctively closing harder around the root you kept on wrestling with. Why’s he back?
You forced your eyes to lock on your task at hand, not daring to cast him even a single glance. After all, you know what you’d see. The amused, blue eyes, crinkling in the corners. His locks, probably swept sideways with the wind slowly picking up. And the awful, awful grin.
“You shouldn’t be here.” You muttered under your breath, afraid that someone would hear you.
The man chuckled, crouching beside you. “Neither should half the ‘saints’ in this church. Alas, here we are.”
At that, your lips twitched. You don’t know what made his words so funny, but you had to bite the inside of your cheek, hard — else you wouldn’t be able to smother the laugh, threatening to escape your lungs.
How ironic it is that fellow sisters cause you only hurt and terror, but a devil made you smile.
“Go away.” You forced out, schooling your expression into a blank one. He didn’t have to see his witty remarks actually evoked a reaction out of you.
“You say that, as if I am a fly.” He said, body shifting ever so slightly closer to yours. “But— pfft, no. Flies are treated way better. I saw one land in the senior sister’s soup yesterday.”
“And?”
“And she ate the damn thing!”
Hearing the absurd statement, a snort ripped from your mouth. You couldn’t stop it — not when the ridiculous mental image suddenly sprung up in your mind, putting shame to the older woman’s eyesight.
You covered your lips with the back of your hand, pretending to cough when one of the girls looked at you with a question in her eyes. Then, you sent a warning glare towards the demon.
“You can’t swear on the church grounds.”
He rolled his blue irises. “Oh, please.”
You huffed, quickly glancing around to see if anyone caught you talking to yourself — thankfully, no, everyone was immersed in their work — and began tugging at the root again. Maybe the best way to get rid of that demon would be to ignore him. He’d get bored once you stop indulging his jabs and comments, and simply run off to torment other people.
The man must have noticed your struggle, because soon his bigger palms wrapped around yours.
This caused you to freeze. It was the first time he touched you. And sure enough, that being was real. There was nothing fake about the unnatural warmth stemming from his joints, nor the palpable pressure against your skin. You looked at him, a bit startled. He sent you a rakish smile before pulling at the root so hard, it instantly sent you tumbling onto your backside.
“Hey!” You hissed, massaging the abused place with a flush spreading across your cheeks. A few faint giggles resonated through the space.
“What?” The demon asked in return, as if he didn’t understand your frustration. “You little humans always scuffle with the simplest things. I couldn’t bear to watch.”
With a quiet sigh, you allowed your shoulders to hunch. Then, still a little shaken, you scrutinized your hands, looking at where he touched you. Nothing. No burn marks, no bruises. Your fingers instinctively reached for the prayer beads situated beneath the bosom of your coat, but you paused. It would be no use.
“Do you follow me everywhere?” You muttered softly, trying to occupy yourself with the weeding again.
He hummed wistfully. The wind blew harder now, swiping the fringe from his forehead, flaps of his dark robe billowing around. He looked so painfully normal. If not for who he was, you genuinely might have been true friends.
But then again, what’s stopping you from being his friend as it is?
You quickly stomped the invading thought down.
“Only when I’m bored.” He grinned wider. “And you’re very entertaining.”
A sharp snap broke the moment between you. The senior sister cracked her cane against the cobblestone ground, signaling the hour’s end. Other sisters began rising from their places. You pulled yourself upwards too, not surprised to see the man gone as you briefly look back.
One of the roses, closer to your feet, seemed to open its petals. It had no right to be, but for some reason, the sight didn’t appear as something unusual to you. Of course he would pull such a primitive trick.
You took in the rose’s vivid color, different from how you remembered it. Those bushes harbored pink flowers, however this one’s hue was anything but. Intense patches of red spilled across the petals, stemming from the heart. Like the rose had actual veins, pumping blood in quick succession. Eerie. Wrong.
You stared at it, and didn’t smile again.
The first day of November proved to be unbearably cold, making you more irascible than usual. Getting up early in the morning was never pleasant, but with the glacial air pinching at your bones, it was especially hard.
Truth be told, you wanted to die.
Due to the routine, you were forced to prepare food with a dozen other sisters, bustling around in the too-tight kitchen. The sky outside hasn’t even gone blue yet, weak periwinkle shyly peeking from above the horizon, attempting to smother the grey firmament.
The kitchen smelt like cabbage, and the onion someone accidentally burnt yesterday. Iron pots clanked loudly, rousing your ire. Bread loaves kept on being sliced with blunt knives, and one of the girls just walked in with a bucket of fresh water from the well. Senior sister paced around like a fox among hens.
You stood at one of the long wooden tables, slicing vegetables into uneven wedges. Honestly, you tried your best to make them as visually appealing as possible, though with your stiff hands, it was difficult. You were already on your fourth potato, fingers numb from the cold. The tremble in your joints didn’t help, either.
When you heard the characteristic clacking of shoes nearing towards you, your shoulders straightened out, heart lodging in your throat.
“Not like that.” Called out the sharp voice, making you drop the knife. “Do you see anyone else mangling God’s bounty into such slop?”
You lowered your eyes, saying nothing.
“Answer me.”
A couple of gazes set on you.
“No, senior sister.”
“Then fix it. Unless you think ignoring correction means humility. If so, you’re free to visit me once you light the candles.” The woman scolded, cracking her cane once. “I’m sure pea sacks will remind you of what it truly is.”
You nodded stiffly, swallowing the saliva that managed to gather in your mouth from stress. The senior sister walked off, muttering something.
The silence swelled again. You slowly picked up the knife you dropped earlier, praying for the nightmarish day to finally end — even though it just began.
Before you could resume your work, you felt a disturbance in the air. Something shifted, the kitchen becoming significantly warmer — and there he was. A silhouette of black and white, appearing directly behind the senior sister. He grinned when you noticed him. You frowned.
“Not like that! Do you see anyone else causing the veins to pop out on my forehead?” He mimicked in a perfect imitation of the older woman’s voice, making a talking gesture with his fingers.
The foreign (albeit familiar, still) voice startled you. The demon smiled wider now, mocking the senior sister’s hunched posture as he bent slightly forward. He clasped his hands in front of him like a disappointed parent.
“Oh, you unruly child. Can’t do anything right, can you? Ah, ah, my cracking bones!” The man wailed out loud, palm flying to his lower back in a theatrical manner.
You immediately looked back to your vegetables, willing the corners of your lips to stay put. Was he… trying to cheer you up?
“You’re going to get me killed.” You whispered quietly, knowing he’ll hear you anyway.
With the corner of your eye, you spotted the long, black robe suddenly standing beside you. The warmth spreading from the fiend’s body eased your frigid joints, making them fully mobile again.
“How dare you. I’m improving morale.” He whined in mock-hurt, starting to poke at the wilted carrot piece. “And what even is this? A snack for your emaciated mares?”
You bit down on your lip, but the twitch of your shoulders probably betrayed you anyway. True enough, majority of the vegetables you used looked as if they were inedible, either completely dried or halfway marching to their graves.
The demon leaned down next to you, watching you peel in a bout of awkward silence for a moment.
“Want me to trip her? Just a little?”
If not for the soft tone of his voice, you’d think he was pulling your leg.
“No.”
He groaned, rolling his eyes with the usual cheerfulness. “Killjoy. I might start haunting someone else.”
“You won’t.”
The demon stopped mid-smirk, brows narrowing slightly.
“…No. I won’t. I like you too much.”
By what you came to know, he could be lying. After all, the scriptures talked about the devil’s silver tongue every second line, insisting they were disgusting entities, devoid of any emotions or sympathy. But, you also have established that the scriptures usually sputtered nonsense.
The thought that someone held any ounce of fondness toward you was more than enough. Even if it was a thing from hell.
When you didn’t respond, he continued, pacing around you like a restless dog. “You should see your face when she speaks. Like someone poured dung in your tea.” He laughed. “Simply delicious.”
Are you really scowling so much? You never even realized. Perhaps that’s why punishments fly in your direction more often than in others.
Still, a small giggle slipped from your lips. That demon was fun — not in the way you sometimes run around with the children, playing tag. Not like the sparse joy you get from seeing an especially pretty flower in the fields, or the happy neighs of your favorite horse when you pet its nostrils.
This one was fuller. Better. Staying for much longer, and stuffing your heart with lightness you never received by a simple prayer or worshipping your God.
Something must be truly wrong with you.
The senior sister’s harsh voice echoed through the kitchen again, making you wince.
“Eyes down! Unless the pigs have begun to fly, you have no reason to look up!”
He gasped, eyebrows rising up expressively. “Did she just challenge me?”
Like hell she did.
You sighed, following the sister’s orders. “Please don’t.” You murmured flatly, afraid to even imagine the disaster flying swines would cause.
The demon shrugged, clicking his tongue. “A mere offer on my side.”
And with that, he stepped out of the line of your sight, probably disappearing into nothingness. You didn’t have the time to check. Not like you’d have to, anyway — smell of sulfur gone and the coldness gnawing at your bones were enough of an indicator.
Your days passed in an awful blur of torture and monotony.
It’s been two weeks since you last saw that demon. And, to your very dismay, your luck seemed to have gone missing, too.
First, it began with little, inconspicuous slip-ups. You spilled some holy water on the ground, hands too shaky to hold the basin steadily. In return, you had to kneel on the peas.
Then, you forgot to cover the vegetables with a material sheet for the night, when the air got especially cold. In the morning, all you saw were frosty leaves, completely ruined. So, whipping.
A fox got into the henhouse, taking one of the chickens. The blame obviously fell on you, because you were the last one to retrieve eggs. She probably forgot to close the gate, one of the sisters murmured, and the rest went along with her false version of the story. You were forced to sleep with the animals for three days straight.
Accidents multiplied, and so did your despair. It would seem your life was back to the way it used to be. You just didn’t know how badly you got attached to the sense of security lack of punishments brought you, only worsening the blow.
The sisters mocked you more than previously, apparently happy with your renewed misery. Tying the laces of your shoes together, and throwing them into the air, as if it was some sort of a wicked game. Serving you the worst portions of spoiled food. Letting mice into your room. Pulling at your hair, and dumping the horses’ filth near your feet if you stood within their radius.
To say you were at your wit’s end would be like saying you genuinely enjoyed life — so, a lie. Because your mental state was worse than that.
Waking up everyday felt like an impossible task, and so you often didn’t, purposefully condemning yourself to severe punishments. You don’t know why you did that. There’s no reasonable explanation for your actions. Perhaps, the guilt your accidental murder brought you never dissipated in the first place; and you deduced the right punishment for it would be to inflict woe upon yourself.
But, dear God, who are you trying to fool. Just some time ago, you felt absolutely no remorse. Nothing’s changed by now, most likely — and it won’t change. You’re going to hell anyway, so what point is there in spilling your tears over someone who probably deserved it.
No, no — what are you even thinking? She did not deserve that.
It’s just you, and your sick mind.
Right now, though, you lie in your bed, eyes flickering over the sparse room barely illuminated by a single candle, already burning low. It’s nothing worth your attention, but as of late, sleep denied you. Stone walls, cold floor, sheets made out of worn material, harsh on your tender skin.
The moon, the barn owl crying outside, distant barking of the dogs. Wind rushed outside, rousing branches of the trees growing nearby, causing them to knock ominously against the window. Too loud. Too quiet.
Your body hurt. Not in the way it ached after a long day of work. No. It was a deeply-seated pain, encompassing all of your muscles and bones, drilling down to the very marrow. You either caught something when sleeping with the horses, or it was simply caused by the beatings. Maybe two options at once. Who are you to decide.
There was a crucifix above your doors. It hung there, ever-still, cold with how it seemed to never respond. Your eyes fixed on the object, and for a while, it was peaceful. But then, you noticed it starting to twitch against the wall, slowly turning upside down. You observed in avid horror as the thing suddenly stopped moving, staying in the all-wrong position of mockery.
Then, a voice, so close to your ear it might have penetrated your own skull. “You’re not sleeping.”
Even though the tone was gentle, it caused you to jerk upright nonetheless, swinging your arm at the empty space beside you. You felt as if your heart might burst out of your ribs any given second.
“Show yourself!” You nearly yelled, breaths turning into heaves as your saucer-like eyes darted about the space.
You knew who it was, but maybe you weren’t as used to his sinister presence as you deemed yourself to be.
“Yoo-hoo!” The man, ever so jovial, chimed from behind you. He snapped his fingers, causing your head to rapidly turn in his direction. “There I am, [Name]. Did those hags already manage to blind your darling eyes?”
He was seated on the windowsill, legs crossed and hands neatly folded on his lap. You briefly registered him calling you by your name, which was somewhat unusual. Still, you had bigger concerns.
“Get out.” You snarled, eyebrows knitting.
Sure, the demon used to work as a balm to your miserable life — but now, he startled you to the point where you didn’t want to speak with him.
His smile widened into something sharper around the corners. “Oh? And here I thought maybe we could pray together.”
You glared at his mocking words, causing him to laugh with his whole chest.
“Come on, why’re you frowning so! Aren’t we friends?”
Friends. How awfully wrong that rolled off his tongue. You breathed, trying to steady your erratic heartbeat.
“I don’t even know your name, fiend.” You retorted curtly.
At that, the demon’s brows inched upwards in evident surprise, laughter fading; as if only now he realized he never introduced himself in the first place.
He hummed, schooling his expression back into the usual nonchalance. “You wish to know my name? How curious.” The man nodded slowly, uncrossing his legs and starting to swing them, like he got genuinely excited. “Very well. You see, I have many names. But you may call me Phainon. Pretty easy to remember, no?”
Not like I’d ever forget, you thought morosely. You repeated the name in your mind — Phainon — testing how it sounded. It was certainly nice to the ear. So, now you’ve got that devil’s name. The very same one who’s been haunting the church grounds for a rather long time now, disturbing the apparent peace.
Perhaps you could consider yourself special.
You surely can.
The man continued, leaning slightly forward. “So. I saw that you've been having some… problems lately.”
When you sighed, neither denying nor confirming (because, obviously, he must have been following you throughout all your predicaments), Phainon chuckled dryly. “You poor thing. Haven’t you suffered enough?” He drawled. “Wouldn’t you want a pretty dress? A taste of butter?”
Your fingers curled around the rough sheets as you scoffed. “You won’t seduce me with your silvery promises. I know better than to trust a devil.”
Phainon clicked his tongue in disapproval, the heels of his feet clacking against the wall as he finally ceased their childish swinging. “But do tell, [Name]. How many times do they get to hurt you before you get to return the favor?”
Is he indicating you should… hurt your fellow sisters? Sure, you’ve fantasized about it many times, but never went as far as executing those plans. Well, except that one time — but it was an accident.
And, despite everything, you didn’t want to cause anymore pain.
“I’m not like them.”
He tilted his head, blinking twice, as if your words managed to stun him. “Huh. That’s the worst lie you’ve ever told me.”
With a huff, he hopped down the sill, the sparse light coming from the candle briefly illuminating his fair hair. The demon began pacing slowly, his steps casual, like he wasn’t in a rush — because, well, he certainly wasn’t. Then, he turned back toward you.
“You can pretend it doesn’t affect you all you want. But, how long does it take for a human to finally choke on the leash of their chagrin?”
You couldn’t reply. You didn’t want to. Not when you already saw the answer, taunting you in the same way children do, swinging pieces of meat before the muzzles of starving dogs, just to snatch it away at the last second.
Their almost innocent-like cruelty could never compare to the extent of yours, though.
“What I'm trying to say is… why not give it back?”
You looked down. Your hands twitched in your lap, as if yearning to spell out the words you refused to voice.
“If I hurt someone,” you paused, taking a shaky breath. “I’d be no better.”
“No better than who? Them?” Phainon crooned in a mocking tone, still speaking so softly. Then, a faint snicker slipped past his smiling lips. “What a terrible bar to measure yourself by.”
When you kept silent, nursing your lower lip between your teeth, he crouched beside the bed, forcing you to meet his summer-blue eyes whether you wanted or not.
“Don’t you want justice?” He began, voice turning low. “That would be holy, wouldn’t it? Isn’t that what your god likes?”
If by ‘justice’ he meant ruining other people’s lives, then sure. God would certainly be happy with you.
“This wouldn’t be justice.” You said weakly.
Phainon rolled his eyes, a mischievous smirk stretching his lips anew. “Oh, but it would be satisfying.”
A long bout of silence passed you by, and with the man’s intense gaze set on you, you felt yourself starting to sweat. The air was too hot. It reeked of sulfur. His face was so beautiful. You didn’t want to hurt others. Are his locks made out of snow, or rather silver threads? You couldn’t focus. Were his irises always this radiant? How would his fingers feel curling around yours? You’re jealous of his thick eyelashes. Would he be satisfied if you were to agree?
He was the first one to interrupt the quiet. “One small act. It won’t bite.” The demon whispered, continuing to smile. “I mean… just imagine her face.”
And you did. You hate yourself for it, but the way that one sister’s face — the one who bullies you the most — twisted in humiliation, deep flush covering her cheeks with tears welling up, brought you far too much joy.
Phainon noticed the shift in your expression. Subtle as it was, the twitch of your mouth didn’t slip past him. His smirk turned almost wolfish.
“You’ve been so good, haven’t you? So obedient. So patient.” He cooed gently. “And what did that give you?”
You eluded the answer.
“Let go. Just this once, [Name]. Let go and I’ll do the rest.”
Against how sweet Phainon’s words sounded, you still turned your head away. “I won’t make a deal with you.”
It would seem you commited a mistake, because he suddenly sprung up from his crouched position, face now hovering mere centimeters before yours. Your breath hitched, maybe stopping altogether. The sight of his sharp canines was enough to render you unmoving, their shape appearing even more imposing from up close. The rapid action would make you think he was angry, but you sensed no malice.
“But you already did.” He practically laughed, hot breath fanning against your cheeks. “You did that, because you let yourself want it.”
You squeezed your eyelids shut, trying to decide whether you should feel scared or comforted by the fact he was probably only attempting to frighten you with empty words. You’ve learnt about making pacts with demons. It’s not as easy as Phainon says — you’d need to form a contract, sealed with blood and a verbal affirmation. And you did no such thing.
“Say the words. Say you want this.”
At first you wished to refuse, but soon your eyes opened again, meeting with the fierce twins of blue. You could hear your own heartbeat now. And from the look on his face, you knew he could too.
And then, you remembered all the hurt the monastery brought upon you. Their sneering faces, and the tortures clad in an honorable excuse of earning salvation through suffering.
But there’s no glory in pain.
They’re devils, only pretending to walk the ground as others do. Even Phainon, now hunched above you and probably seconds away from slobbering, appears more humanitarian.
The sisters (and priests too, considering the fact they prefer to turn a blind eye on everything) relish in your misery. They feed on it, akin to starving beasts. But their hunger will never be sated — not even when one of you finally dies. It’s a never ending cycle, where compassion and benevolence are replaced with all sinful things, and nothing else on these cursed grounds matters.
You can’t give birth to a monster. No. As long as it’s in your womb, later on cradled by caring arms, it’ll always be just a normal child. You nurture it, love it, and one day, it’ll grow into a respectable human. So, monsters are made. To no one’s surprise, their grooming place seems to be this very church.
No one will blame you if you put a period at the end of this nightmarish charade.
“…Fine.”
Phainon leaned away, a pleased expression gracing his features; back to his innocent persona, apparently. He reached to tousle your hair, the gesture oddly affectionate. It eased your strained senses into a peaceful lull.
“There she is.” He hummed, tone saccharine.
Yes. You won’t waste your chance. It will be better this way — even if the path before you is adorned with thorns, a fiend standing at its end.
You’ll make the most of it.
It didn’t take you long to formulate a plan. Truth be told, it scared you how easily ideas spilled into your head, causing even more rot than previously. But that didn’t matter. Not anymore.
Honestly, it was simple in its nature. Perhaps even harmless, depending on who would be on the receiving end. Unfortunately for that person, you knew her well enough to know it’d cause her deep embarrassment.
A mere swap of prayer books.
Phainon laughed loudly when he first heard about it, clutching at his sides as historical bouts of laughter shook his body. You paid him no mind. What did he know about taking revenge on others? Huh, probably more than you.
He even promised to take care of your little task, but you turned the offer down, making him pout in defiance. It would taste better if you were to prepare everything. You don’t know when the switch clicked in your brain, making you suddenly lust after the pain of others, but it happened. And, of course, you didn’t oppose it. Perhaps it was just like a dam — once you open it, the water will begin to burst through, and there’s no turning back.
You curated the tools. You grabbed sister Breya’s prayer book at night, and worked meticulously on ripping the old pages out, then sewing the new ones in.
The texts were in ancient language, long forgotten by the majority, and certainly not taught at your church. Once she sees the sentences, she’ll surely panic.
It was a little before dawn when you stepped into the main prayer hall, already cleaned and awaiting people for the morning gathering. Your breaths puffed out in gusts of cold clouds, pooling around your face. You felt nervous at getting caught, so you pointedly ignored the need of paying respect to your God. Instead, you strolled toward the lectern with quiet purpose.
You put the book here, closed for now. It looked inconspicuous enough. Satisfied, you turned on your heel, not daring to call out to the silhouette of black and white, flickering in the corner of your eyes. He could watch all he wanted. You cared little.
A whisper grazed by your ear, the hot air teasing at your nape. “Not quite what I wanted, but it’ll do.”
You ignored that too, deciding to leave for now and pretending as if you got up with the rest. So, you quickly departed, locking yourself in your room.
When the time came, you made sure to sit at the very front row, greeting villagers with a kind smile, like you always do. Children crowded by your lap, giggling and gracing you with their silly stories, tugging at the sleeves of your robe and pleading for you to play tag with them later. Before you could even answer, their parents scolded them for bothering you. Well, it’s not like you’d mind playing, but for now, you had better entertainments prepared. Freshly served, no less.
The bell toll made you focus back on the scene before you. One of the senior sisters stepped forward, trailing just behind a priest. A dozen of other girls chanted in unison. A few lines, a few formalities, and then, it was Breya’s turn.
She rose from her seat, slow and full of importance, flicking the veil behind her shoulder. Walked toward the lectern, opened her book.
And paused.
The woman blinked in confusion, looking around, as if searching for help. When none came, Breya’s lips twitched, forming a poorly contained frown. You thought your heart might burst out from the sheer elation — still, you willed your expression into indifference, careful of the hundreds of eyes.
That’s exactly what you wanted to see. The uncertainty, the sudden paling of her face. Now she could get a taste of her own medicine. The years upon years of humiliation she bestowed on you finally bit back, baring their teeth. Oh, if only she knew.
“Do— uh… Domine p-putride…? damnatus et der…elictus, uh— gr…?”
The entire hall halted, instantly hushed by the foreign words. Senior sister’s brows rose in evident question, and others shifted on the pews, looking between each other.
Breya’s tone turned almost desperate. “G-gratia huius… mundi, ad—”
Someone seemed to choke on their giggles. A laugh coming from the back, muffled — one little girl snorted, and then it was silent again.
Senior sister’s eyes narrowed at Breya’s struggling, digging daggers into the poor woman.
“Do you find this funny?”
You certainly do.
“I— I don’t, this isn’t right, someone—” Breya swallowed, looking faint. “Someone must have—”
“You bring corrupted scripture to the altar, and expect us to believe it was an accident?” Senior sister cut in mercilessly, her voice stern.
The conversation between them was meek, but you sat close enough to hear everything clearly. You could see the vivid tremble in Breya’s hands, and the sheen layer of sweat covering her forehead. At first, her face flushed red, quickly turning as pale as a ghost. She looked at the book like it’s grown teeth.
“Leave.”
Apparently the command wasn’t enough, because Breya hesitated.
“Now.” The older woman snapped, leaving no room for argument.
She finally retreated, hurriedly running away from the locus eventus. As she sprinted by your pew, you could hear the faint weeps already ripping from her throat. The door groaned shut behind her.
Whispers erupted through the crowd, and every single person looked as confused as the senior sister, who now angrily discussed something with the priest. Once again a few quiet laughs resonated through the space. It wasn’t chaos, per se, but it surely brought you some wicked sense of satisfaction.
The bucket of cold water Breya dumped on you in the middle of winter last year suddenly didn’t appear as terrible as it used to. Nor did the roaches in your soup, served by her with an innocent smile, or the holes she poked in the soles of your shoes.
You bowed your head, keeping your breaths steady. Yes, underneath all the joy was guilt, but it wasn't apparent enough to diminish the triumphant jump of your heart.
Your mouth didn’t move much, but for a second, you smiled.
November was waning. The freezing temperatures were surprising, even with December on everyone’s tail.
And you?
Your life was going… somewhat normally. The oppression you kept on receiving didn’t exactly disappear, but at least a new victim of mockery emerged. Between you and Breya, she was the new favorite. Now, she had the waste spilled across her robes, and was forced to listen to taunting nursery rhymes, sung whenever she passed by.
But, perhaps the joy you got from ruining that woman’s life was only temporary.
It’s truly ironic. You killed someone, and yet, you felt less remorse toward that person than the object of your petty revenge. Maybe it was easier to stomach murder when you got no sight of it. After all, her body was never to be found. And Breya? You had to keep looking at her misery every single day.
One of the older sisters, whom you loved dearly before she decided to leave and spend the rest of her days in a sanatorium, would always say this: see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
Such a deliberate description of your current predicament. You truly changed into a despicable person.
Still, the guilt ate you alive. You were a believer, and your God surely detests you by now. Not only did you talk with the devil, even bonding with him and forming something akin to friendship. You also brought woe upon others. And yes, God rarely gazed in your direction — but even so, he was yours.
And human mind is either truly impeccable, or deluded, because you decided to confess.
You don’t know what tempted you to finally bend, but it would seem your convictions were more than unstable. Don’t give in to the monastery’s brainwashing — what now? You’ll whisper your wrongdoings to the senior sister. Don’t lap up the demon’s sweet words — again, you caved. Don’t feel guilty. Don’t feel sorrow. Don’t feel too happy with the pain you cause.
All of this turned into a pool of mud, nonsense after nonsense chasing after each other. Changing, contradicting. Refusing itself.
And it wore you out.
Breya appeared more broken than you ever felt. Sisters couldn’t get enough. You barely eluded the torture, though it dragged behind, still. Phainon? You don’t know, unfortunately. From what you deduced, he might have gotten fed up with you. He didn’t show up for a long time now.
You don’t use the confessional. When you first got on the church grounds, you thought it was mandatory, so you went to speak with senior sister two times. And you were also quick to conclude you didn’t have to. Others frowned upon your choices, but it’s not like they could physically force you to relent.
The most important thing about confessing your sins is to stay truthful — were you to lie in front of God’s eyes, you’d be met with damnation. It’s common knowledge. It was drilled into everyone’s brains since birth, doesn’t matter if you’re of church, or a normal civilian. There are mortal sins. Those are hard to get rid of, but with enough years of devotion, nothing is impossible.
And there are also unforgivable sins. One of them being exactly that — lying during confession.
So, it was no surprise when you wrestled with the decision. Once you step your foot into that wooden booth, you’ll have no choice but to speak about everything you’ve done. Everything tormenting you.
Some may say it’s like consciously choosing death.
Secrecy didn’t exist in these walls, apparently. Soon, they’ll know. You gazed into the mirror one last time, taking note of your disheveled hair, briefly covered by the veil. Your tired eyes. The chapped lips, curling upwards only when you did an awful deed. Even playing tag with children no longer brought you much joy — not the flowers, nor the friendly sparrows crowding around your feet.
And there was also Phainon, though you’d rather not think about the feelings he causes you.
Your fate is yet to be decided, but the hell’s gates loom ominously in the eye of your mind. At least you won’t be the only one there. You’ll keep the seats warm for other sisters.
When the characteristic knock reverberated through the wooden surface, you morosely lifted yourself off the bench, stepping into the confessional.
Senior sister sat on the other side, her visage obscured by the grates. You couldn’t see her face fully, but the ever-present scowl was more than apparent. You wondered if that’s how God's eyes looked. Cold, devoid of compassion. It wasn’t impossible.
As you kneeled, you barely held back a wince. The hard wood bit at your kneecaps. Ultimately, you guessed that didn’t matter anymore — maybe once the terrifying truth finally breaks free, you’ll be liberated, too. Funnily enough, coming to terms with it proved much easier than anticipated.
(Or perhaps not.)
The older woman before you didn’t speak at first. She waited, seemingly patient. You swallowed thickly. Whenever you opened your mouth, already aiming to speak, the words suddenly died on your tongue. You must have looked like a fish, gaping on land.
Uncomfortable silence stretched between you two. Minutes passed, each second rendering you more nervous than previously. Intrusive thoughts flooded your lethargic brain.
I don’t want this. I changed my mind. I must get up and go.
Repressing them proved almost impossible. You shifted on your knees, sweat starting to cover your forehead, clinging to your hair and collar.
You weren’t so sure anymore. It's not like you can back out now — if you do, you’ll offend your God forever.
Ah, but it’s not like you didn’t do so earlier, when blood stained your hands, and you dipped them in holy water nonetheless.
The hotness of air was unbearable now, igniting your whole body. You felt faint — vision doubling and obscured by black dots, you somehow managed to catch your balance before the dizziness overtook you completely.
A small whimper slipped past your lips when you felt the much-needed support unexpectedly wrapping around your shoulders. Through your momentary stupor, you couldn’t understand what happened. Then, you tilted your head.
And there he was, in all of his glory. The blue irises smiled at you, crinkling in the corners. Phainon.
You don’t know when, but he suddenly appeared beside, holding and preventing you from slumping down. He didn’t abandon you, after all. This mere realization caused you to exhale in relief, blinking the haze away.
“Goodness, isn’t that my sweet [Name], trying to confess her sins?” He whispered, bending over. The hilarity was evident in the fiend’s tone. You must’ve looked laughable.
You shook your head.
“You should tell her the truth.” Phainon continued, coaxing. “Tell her how good it felt.”
With a grind of your teeth, you scoffed, turning your face away. “Leave me alone.”
What a terrible lie. Not even you are able to believe yourself. If Phainon left now — the last bastion of stability, your anchor — you genuinely might’ve died.
You don’t know when you got so attached to his elusive being. He was like the wind, forcing you to chase, fingers trying to grab at the flaps of his black robe. And instead of stopping, he’d only turn back with that wide smile of his, calling out to you with cheer in voice. You’d start running faster just to impress him.
Doesn’t it make you a lunatic?
Phainon pressed his face against your hair, lips grazing at your temple. “Why? I’m only saying what you won’t.” He remarked, playful.
Once again, your vision swiveled. It was too hot. You struggled to catch your breath. The senior sister cleared her throat, gaining your attention immediately.
“Speak up, child. God cannot forgive silence.”
You pressed your eyelids together, trying to fight off tears. You either confess and simultaneously condemn yourself to death, or you lie. None of those options were appealing.
A hand brushed against your shoulder, causing you to subconsciously lean on Phainon’s side. “She’s waiting. Be brave.” He crooned with surprising amounts of sympathy. “Tell her you wished that sister’s skull cracked open.”
“I—”
Senior sister leaned forward, listening with intent now.
And when the suffocating smell of sulfur clogged up your nose, fogging over any senses left within you, a decision was made.
“I offended a sister.” You forced out, mechanically. “I— I acted with no grace.”
“Did you seek reconciliation?”
You recoiled. “Yes. I asked for forgiveness.”
Phainon’s grip on you lessened. He leaned backwards slightly, assessing you with mild amusement. “Liar.”
The older woman nodded, both hands lifting up in silent blessing. Horror churned in your guts.
“Then you are cleansed. God remembers only the truth. Go now, and do not sin again.”
God remembers only the truth, you repeated morosely in your thoughts, knowing the eternal salvation promised to you since you were a little girl was out of reach. And it was your own fault.
You stood up, stepping out of the confessional. Suddenly, nothing appeared real. The pews stretched too long, and the frescoes on the ceiling distorted, twisting into caricatures.
Phainon, obviously, trailed behind you like a loyal dog.
“Do not sin again.” He mocked, a sharp smile growing on his lips as he gestured with his hands, mimicking senior sister. “Or do!”
His words caused you to stop. Your eyes bore into the stone ground, trying to make sense of what you just did. Phainon dragged his feet closer, teasingly flicking your hair.
“You knelt before her… but you listened to me.” The man purred, fingers reverently trailing across the material of your veil. “That’s progress.”
The truth of his words weighed heavily on your shoulders. You sighed, waiting for him to stop playing with your garments — once Phainon finally let go, you cast him a resigned glance, walking out of the hall.
This time, he did not follow after you.
Life went on.
Slowly, painfully — but, oddly enough, bearable. Your thoughts remained a mangled mess, and the nightmares tormenting you at night turned significantly worse. Still, you managed.
Some of your old morals left. Some remained. You felt yourself chipping away, alas, those are church grounds for you. There’s no rest for the wicked on them.
Rarely — though it happened sometimes — it was calm. Peaceful. December came, and with it the snow. Once the pure-white blanket covered everything with its thick layer, the time seemed to stop, even if just for a little while. All sounds muffled. Animals gone, people staying inside.
Then again, it was hard for villagers. They often came to the church, asking for a prayer, or some food. Children still tagged along with their parents, never daring to miss out on their chance at playing with you; so, during the quiet lull of early winter, you’d make snowmen on the church’s square. Snow-angels. Snowball fights.
Surprisingly enough, this caused you to forget. That sense of normalcy put your paranoia at bay. Nowadays, you didn’t think much of how you lied during your confession — or any other wrongdoing, for the record.
And as you throw yet another snowball at the fierce boys, attacking you from every single side, you notice Phainon in your peripheral vision.
You never have anything against him standing there, leaning his side on the cobblestone wall. He usually only observes, chuckling under his breath when the snow hits you square in the face. Laughter rips from your stinging lungs as the children tackle you to the ground, frost kicking up in a cloud of shimmery points.
The demon doesn’t intervene. You don’t point his presence out. Both of you live in a sick system of coexistence. That’s enough.
Alas, moments of such fleeting joy are always short.
The night was quieter than usual. Snow fell not so long ago, the new portion riding up to your very knees — you remember having to trudge through the high layer, bucket of carrots in hand. Horses had to be fed. Well, not like they’d get sated by mere vegetables, but you enjoyed giving them snacks. They always neighed so happily.
Unfortunately, your brief moment of peace with the animals got interrupted by sister Marina. I have a task prepared for you, she said. You remember her starting to drag you off, and you had no right to protest. With that, your eyes simply trailed over snowy fields. There was a sleigh ride passing by. Four people sat there, adorned in expensive furs and huddled together, laughing. You envied them.
Maybe one day, you’ll go on a sleigh ride too.
Before you had the chance to snap out of your dreamy reveries, sister Marina pushed some tools into your hands. Container of Lye. A singular sponge. She explained that the floors need cleaning, for whatever stupid reason. As your mouth opened to voice your dismay, the older woman already turned on her heel, leaving you alone.
Yes, alone. There was no one else to help you wash the extensive floors of the prayer hall. At first, you panicked, but ultimately resigned yourself to the torture. And so, you had to scrub the muddied surface up until now.
Your joints hurt. Everything ached, and this time, you felt no need to excuse it as a punishment from the higher powers. It was that woman’s doing. God doesn’t give a damn about you, or your struggles — he probably even doesn’t know about your unforgivable sin, because he was too busy coddling his other devotees.
And as you sat there, brooding over your misery, you felt the mattress shift with a new weight.
“Hello there.” Said the sing-song voice, just a little from your right.
Earlier on, you’d probably startle. Now, all you did was sigh, trying to will your lips to stay in a straight line. Against how… haunting, Phainon’s presence is, you can’t deny it also brings you joy.
You glanced at him, assessing his form. He was smiling, as always, leaning forward with elbows propped up on his knees. His eyes penetrated you.
“Why are you always interrupting my alone time?” You asked sarcastically, but there was no real bite to your words.
The man’s smile split into a grin. “You want me here, though.”
Against your tiredness, you nodded anyway, eyebrows lifting expressively. That much was true. It was already the second week of December, and yet, you only saw him in passing. Perched on the high windowsills like a gargoyle (God knows how he got there). Standing under naked trees, rousing their branches when you walked by, causing the snow to drop on your head. Observing you play with the children.
It wasn’t enough. Maybe you missed him.
Phainon then shifted closer, the movement somewhat cautious. His irises still flicked over your face, and when you didn’t respond, he pushed on.
“Long day?”
At the coy sound of his voice, you stirred. Of course you had a long day — didn’t he see what they put you through?
“They made me scrub the floor with lye.” You admitted quietly, gaze falling to your lap. “The skin on my hands is gone.”
You turned your hands upwards, showing him the reddened palms. Raw, and ugly-looking. The mere sight of them made you cringe, a deep frown blooming on your features.
Phainon whistled under his breath, eyes slightly widening. Then, to your very surprise, he took one of your hands — for a change, the demon’s body temperature didn’t burn you. No. It was almost cool, soothing the irritated skin.
“Cruel people, aren’t they?” He chuckled, lifting your limb up. “Makes you wonder what god they serve.”
And he kissed your knuckles.
You barely held back a gasp at his action. It was almost mocking in its gentleness, because you simply couldn’t believe a devil would be able to harbor such restraint. If what he did was genuine, you’d probably be ruined by now.
But, still, you didn’t pull away. You just watched him, trying to stop your fingers from twitching.
“Why are you so good to me?”
At your sudden question, Phainon lifted his gaze up, allowing you to slowly lower your hand. He didn’t let go of it, though.
“Good? That’s a lofty word.”
Apparently only in his definition.
“But it’s true, isn’t it?”
The man shrugged, a sharp smirk growing on his lips anew. “Maybe I’m just a kind man. There’s no need to dwell on such things, [Name].”
His answer wasn’t satisfactory enough. For some godforsaken reason, you suddenly felt the need to know more about him — how old is he? Where does he exactly come from? What are his favorite flowers? Why do you dream of him sitting under the weeping willows, and cradling a small lamb before everything goes red?
“Are your feelings real?” You queried after a small pause.
Hearing your question, Phainon’s head tilted to the side. The only source of light was that candle you stole from somewhere once yours finally reached its end. Its warm hue danced across the demon’s contours, casting distorted shadows.
“I feel something when I’m with you.” He answered, mirthful expression shifting into something flatter.
“But is it genuine?”
At that, Phainon’s eyebrows narrowed together. You could briefly feel his fingers clenching around your palm harder, and so, you had to stifle a wince.
Before the atmosphere changed into a grimmer version of itself, his face sprung back into the usual jovial state.
“[Name], I see you’re very good at asking questions you don’t want the answers to. What a talent!”
Jerk.
“Tell me anyway.”
Phainon leaned slightly forward, rolling his eyes. A long-suffering sigh escaped his lips.
“I like what we have. You intrigue me.” He said, gesturing with his free hand animatedly. “You’re full of contradictions. Isn’t that very human-like?”
When you didn’t answer, he continued in a low drawl. “And I’m drawn to that. Like a moth to a flame.”
Then, you saw it. His heavy-lidded gaze, trailing down from your eyes — steadily slipping toward your nose, apples of your cheeks, lips, the column of your bare throat. A long beat of silence stretched between you before Phainon finally looked back. There was something almost fond on his face.
“You know, I’m very… curious.”
Two ambivalent emotions swirled in your heart, rendering your body into a rigid statue of stone. On one hand, you felt yourself faltering. But Phainon’s touch on your hand, still unrelenting, sent a shockwave of cracking fire through your spine, and now, you no longer knew where the line between fear and covet stood.
Were you even frightened by him in the first place? Maybe sometimes. But certainly not when he nursed your wounded hand with so much reverence.
“Curious about what?”
Phainon didn’t answer at first. He just continued ogling you, the corners of his lips twitching. The demon’s docile smile turned wolfish.
“About how far you’d let me take you, if you stopped pretending you aren’t tempted.”
You coughed suddenly, face flushing in a rich vermilion. Truth be told, you didn’t expect that — sure, the man was always somewhat… surprising, although not to this extent.
“I, uh—” You swallowed, stammering. “Why?”
Apparently he didn’t foresee your abashment, because soon he chuckled, a bit bemused.
“Why?” Phainon parroted, tugging at your hand once, to see if you’d budge. Of course, you did. “Well, I do enjoy your attention, [Name].”
The demon gave you another pull — his action wasn’t overly intense, though it still caused you to inelegantly bump into his side. Your breath hitched. Phainon’s scent of sulfur invaded your nostrils, and the coldness of his body shifted back into its usual warmth. It caused your vision to swim.
You felt his fingers trail off from your palm, stopping at your pulse point, pressing in. It must have been thudding. But Phainon didn’t point it out, merely leaning into you further; this caused your upper body to topple over, back hitting the mattress with a soft thud.
And you understood.
“Do you really want me?” You whispered, not quite trusting your voice.
Phainon’s fingers reached toward your hair, tucking the unruly locks away from your face. “I want you willing.”
Hearing his words, you merely nodded — and that’s when you spotted it. Something flickering through the demon’s irises. Nothing about them changed, no, but you swear you saw it. So palpable, so vivid and clear. Hunger. Deeply-rooted, insatiable desire. Like a wolf chasing after his favored deer, snapping his fangs at the flash of its white tail.
It was as if the very air suddenly shifted. Phainon immediately located himself atop of you, your knees knocking against his hips.
“You look so precious like that.” He murmured, grin stretching wider. His tongue swiped across the sharp canines, making your heart pound erratically.
This man could kill you. No, he could eat you alive. And yet, you felt no need to start kicking up your legs — maybe your preservation instincts were already jaded, causing you to overlook the danger.
Or maybe you just didn’t care.
One of Phainon’s hands found its way to your sternum, pressing to feel at your heartbeat. Then, it slowly slid down, stopping around your middle. Your stomach muscles tensed.
“Are you scared?” He crooned, leaning down.
His tousled hair tickled your forehead, smile growing on your lips. “No.” You replied truthfully.
Perhaps you had a reason to be. Still, Phainon didn’t try admonishing you. Instead, he stuffed his face into the crook of your neck, nose prodding at its column.
You swear he sniffed you. Once, then twice. Like a big dog, he mouthed at the tender skin of your throat, teasing you to the point where you had to grab at his broad shoulders, forcibly pulling off.
For a second, Phainon looked genuinely confused. But, obviously, he was quick to recover, leaning to nuzzle his cheek against yours. Again, like a dog.
“I’m sorry, [Name].” The demon hummed, unconsciously licking at his lips. “You just smell so sweet.”
Your eyebrows drew together in confusion, however he left you no time to voice it. Phainon immediately redirected his attention back toward your neck, fingers pulling at the collar of your nightgown. He pressed impossibly closer, and you had to spread your legs to accommodate him better. Otherwise, both of you would probably get tangled in all of your skirts and robes and sheets.
First, it began with a single kiss — testing the waters. When you curled your arms around Phainon’s shoulders, signaling for him to continue, he peppered a dozen more.
They were quick to turn sloppy. Wet. Your breaths got ragged, escaping your mouth in quick succession. He chuckled in evident amusement, placing another lovebite which will most likely turn wine-red.
And then, as your lips parted to let out another sound, Phainon suddenly bit down. In the place where your neck and shoulder bent, blood gathered, gaining a strangled whine from you.
“Wh— ah—” You pawed at his arms, trying to make sense of what just happened.
But in place of answer, you got graced with a long lick, causing you to shiver. The man lapped his tongue at the wound he inflicted, almost apologetically; though you knew all too well there was no remorse in his actions. Certainly not when you could still feel his smile against your skin.
After a few seconds, Phainon pulled away. His face was completely blushed, hair disheveled — and when he grinned, you swear you could feel your heart skip a beat.
There was blood, maroon covering his teeth and gums turning into a burnt orange. In the corners of his lips, on his canines — hell, even at the tip of his slightly upturned nose. A satisfied sigh left him, and he tilted his head, reaching to cradle the side of your face.
But all you could focus on was the demon’s smile. The almost animalistic curl of his mouth, and the crucifix, hanging on your wall, peeking from above the crown of Phainon’s ivory locks.
God is all-seeing. Fortunately, his gaze turned away from you a long time ago.
And before you even managed to gather yourself from all the feelings, Phainon was already back to his ministrations, hot palms slipping under your nightgown.
Feral, lucid, evil. It was exactly him. You could sleep all right with that weight on top of you.
It was Sunday morning. When you woke, Phainon was no longer beside you, and the frigid temperature of the room gnawed uncomfortably at your bones.
The laundry duty usually took place outside, but since it snowed you in, you had no choice but to stay in one of the tight rooms. You sat on a low chair, already frowning. A multitude of other sisters scurried around, large basins in their hands, soap, linen.
Silence occupied your mind as you scrubbed the harsh material, your palms still raw and sensitive. It stung, terribly so. You had to grit your teeth, else you were sure tears would start spilling down your cheeks, humiliating you more than it was needed.
Across from you sat sister Marina. The one who made you clean that goddamn floor with lye. You barely held back a scowl at the memory, deciding to watch her for a reason unknown to you. Perhaps what drew your attention was how she carried herself. The woman was of tall posture, age lines already blooming on her face — and yet, her maturity was that of a ten year old child.
Sister Marina rolled her sleeves up, grumbling something under her breath when one of the girls chirped a joking comment in her way. She plunged her hands into the basin, rapidly enough to jostle the water.
And then, there was a sharp gasp, ripping from her lungs, at least as if someone scalded her with an iron bar.
She lurched back from her chair. Immediately, everyone’s attention turned toward her. Marina’s eyes widened and with her foot, she knocked the basin over, water sloshing to the sides.
You observed the scene in confusion. It didn’t take long for the blood to show up.
Bright red and spreading fast down her forearm, seeping from the harsh cuts on her palms. Sister Marina’s breath caught in her throat before she shrieked, swatting her injured hands in panic. Blood struck the linen, smeared on her wrists, droplets fell on the floor.
It was horrid. Your mouth slacked as you stopped the scrubbing too, squinting your eyes to see what caused the damage. Sure enough, there it was. Jagged shards of glass, sticking from under her wounded skin.
Sisters leapt up, their basins and bowls toppling over as well. A faraway voice screamed for the senior sister, who was supposed to be nearby.
You remained frozen, fingers clutching at the wet material in your hands. But how did it happen? What caused it? Why would someone purposefully put glass in her water?
“See? I remembered your poor palms.” Whispered the familiar voice, just behind you.
With a breath of surprise, your head snapped in the sound’s direction. Phainon stood tall and proud, a smug smile stretching his lips — you didn’t know whether to cheer at his presence, or pray for the ground to swallow you whole.
And then it hit you. He was the perpetrator of this hellish charade.
Sister Marina continued to wail, her cries making your stomach twist. She cradled her bloodied palms, sobbing as other women gathered around her, coddling and murmuring comforting words of reassurance.
“What happened here?!” Called the senior sister, storming into the stuffy room, and forcing her way through the mayhem. “Who brought broken glass near our work?”
Your heart hammered as you observed the events unfold. They dragged Marina out, because she simply wouldn’t stop sowing panic. The smears of blood and soapy water still remained on the floor. Sisters kept looking between each other.
And you? You didn’t ask for this. Sure, you were angry at sister Marina. And sure, you caused pain to others. But never did you wish for the physical kind. Never the blood, nor the wounds.
Phainon leaned down, obscuring the sight with his grinning face. He chuckled, poking your nose playfully.
“You’re welcome.” The man hummed, twirling on his foot before dissipating.
You didn’t respond, because you weren’t thankful. Maybe he just felt a sense of… protectiveness? Over you. After all, he knew of what Marina did — you were the one to whine about it to him. Could you blame the demon?
Still, he should’ve asked you before acting on his own. The sight of blood, her real pain made you recoil internally, tar and soot threatening to overflow and spill from your stomach.
With a shaky exhale, you grabbed your piece of cloth again, resuming the scrubbing.
It shouldn’t surprise you to see Phainon baring his teeth and deciding to hurt someone. Just yesterday night, he bit down into you, too. So, what was the difference between you and others?
Maybe that — instead of clenching his fangs around your throat and ripping it out, he replaced the action with reverent kisses. But when it came to others, he was truly only after their blood.
How terrifying to think about it was, just how thin the line separating those two worlds could possibly be.
And how’d you know where the border ends?
You couldn’t quite believe when it happened, but the state of things presented before you was undeniably real.
It began during evening prayer, when the sun was already hidden behind the horizon. Dark skies spread morosely, reminding you of just how sad winter can be. Everyone was kneeling by the pews, praying silently.
And unexpectedly, the most revered senior sister — your biggest tormentor — gasped. It sounded brittle and strangled, as if she was struggling to catch the air into her lungs.
You pointedly ignored her, focusing on your prayer. But then, the old woman’s body hit the stone.
Screams and terror erupted at once, dragging you along into the whirlwind of fear. The cane she usually nursed in her wrinkly fingers rolled off with a clatter, and when you neared her, you almost puked.
Senior sister’s mouth was parted, as if she was trying to finish the verse. Her foggy eyes stared at the frescoes above with eerie emptiness, their sternness long gone.
But there was blood. Too much of it. Spilling from her nose, her ears, pooling around the cold floor.
You remember stepping back on your wobbly feet, people knocking against your shoulders as they rushed for medical help.
And senior sister died within the hour. There was no visible wound, nor explanation — only the dreadful fact remained. She was gone.
Later that night, you found yourself in the candle room, fulfilling your duties obediently, even though shock was still yet to leave your body. You were shaken. Why? That woman did nothing but bring misery upon you.
Maybe it was the way she died. Sudden and unexpected — blood vessels bursting, maroon seeping through her skull. No time to prepare for meeting with your God.
And against all the hate you felt toward that senior sister, you couldn’t bear to watch someone quite literally lose their life before you. You’ve seen such a scene before, caused by your own hands. One time was enough.
It wasn’t natural. You knew it wasn’t. And what else could cause it, if not that damned demon?
You glanced over your shoulder. There was nothing characteristic — no smell of sulfur, no wide grins. But he must’ve been around.
“Please,” you muttered quietly, “if you’re here, say something.”
There was a short beat of silence before the familiar voice resonated from behind your back.
“You didn’t like her.” Phainon remarked casually, tone light.
You spun on your haunches, breath catching in a conflicted rasp, somewhere between relief and fear.
“What— just what did you do?”
The man shrugged, whistling innocently as he slowly strolled in your direction with a bounce in his step. He stopped in front of the candles, smiling calmly.
“She used to beat your back with her cane. Do you remember?”
Indignation simmered beneath your poised posture. “That’s not my question.”
Phainon rolled his blue irises, scoffing. “I took her.” He stated, tone conversational. “Just like you snuff a candle.” His fingers closed around one of the wicks, dousing the light altogether.
Once you didn’t respond, he continued with an innocent tilt of his head. “Painless. I think. Hard to say, you humans make such strange noises.”
That caused you to gape at him with astonishment. “But you didn’t have to kill her!”
At your words, Phainon merely sighed. “Oh, you dove-heart.” He mocked with a click of his tongue. “You wished for her to be finally gone. Every night. You prayed to be released from her voice. Her eyes. Her stupid little cane.”
“But I—” You scrambled with your thoughts, fingers flying over to your hair, tugging. “That doesn’t mean I wanted her dead!”
It sounded hardly believable, especially falling from your mouth. Phainon’s expression twisted into a feigned surprise, hand pressing to his chest. “Hm? It would seem [Name]’s dream proved to be too much to chew.”
For the first time in a long while, you felt genuinely angry at Phainon. And you really, really don’t know why. He did you a favor. True enough, as things stand now, you were liberated from that awful senior sister. But maybe your human senses weren’t as dull as you deemed them to be, and the compassion overwrote everything. After all, he did it in such cold blood.
Why wouldn’t Phainon treat you the same way, once he gets bored?
“You’re twisting everything.”
The demon’s head turned in your direction slowly. He assessed you, smile gone.
“I didn’t make you hate her.” He spoke in a low tone, eyebrows furrowing. “It was your own accord. Didn’t I say I’ll take care of your heartaches?”
The candles’ flames behind him suddenly roared, fire’s strength picking up.
Even though Phainon spoke the truth, you couldn’t bear to listen. Not when he indicated it was your fault senior sister died. So, with hot rage seeping from every single fiber in your body, you raised your hand, swinging it at the man’s cheek.
Or at least you tried.
Your hand went through empty air — Phainon suddenly appeared behind you again, eluding the harsh slap.
“Feel better?”
You swiveled on your foot, glaring daggers at him. Before he could try taunting you any more, you left the candle room, your heart hammering like the thudding of hare’s startled paws.
Little did you know, the circle of misery only began.
It’s been one week since you last spoke with Phainon. Not like you missed his presence, or anything. But, perhaps, deep inside, you still yearned for his presence by your side. Not the affronted kind from earlier, though. You just felt… a bit empty, knowing his laughter and easy smiles probably won’t return, at least not in the foreseeable future.
Anyway, you had some work to do. Life didn’t stop after senior sister died. It dragged on, days filled with woe and the bitter aftertaste her ceremonial funeral left behind.
Afternoon was slowly changing into twilight, sky’s colors seeping away and shifting into a mass of grays and blues. You struggled to walk through the high blanket of snow, boots not suitable for the extreme weather — the basket in your arms weighed down heavily, slowly filling up with pine twigs. The priest asked you to collect some. For an incense, he said. And so, you did.
But something about the air was wrong, and it unsettled you. There was that ever-present stillness hovering around, causing the hairs on your neck to stand.
Even though it was winter, usually you’d be able to see some crows prancing around the molds, searching for hidden nuts. Now, every single sign of life was gone.
Heavy clouds gathered above your head, indicating toward the upcoming snowstorm. You had half the mind to ignore it, but then, a gust of wind suddenly almost toppled you backwards. With a yelp, you held onto the basket, curling your shoulders inwards. It was so, so horribly loud and strong. It roused the snow, puffs of white rushing straight into your wobbly silhouette.
You squinted your eyes, groaning when the sensation didn’t stop. The church wasn’t so far away, but the stable was closer — and, since you were desperate, you hurriedly jogged in its direction.
The air inside was as suffocating as it was outside. You put the basket down, glancing around. Nothing. Every animal seemed to be asleep, because usually, you’d get greeted by happy neighs and potential barking of the stray dog that sometimes snuck past the gates, seeking shelter in the much-warmer stable.
The first step you took was unsure. Then another. You tentatively dragged your feet over to one of the stalls, wanting to see if your beloved pony was alright with all the wind constantly blowing. It was common knowledge horses weren’t exactly adjusted to it.
But the sight inside made your heart drop. It lay there awkwardly, huffing, eyes unfocused. You instantly opened the door, practically throwing yourself at the horse — cries shook your body as you clung to the animal’s neck, petting it gently. You wouldn’t be able to request a vet, much less wait for him to travel here from town.
“It’s alright.” You cooed, raking your fingers through its slightly tangled mane. “I’m here, see? You’ll be okay.”
The horse moved its big head, as if trying to nip at your fingers playfully, the way it used to. You sobbed harder. Your torso slouched down, and you rested your forehead against its rigid frame, praying for the nightmare to end.
Before any more tears managed to fall from your eyes, footfall resonated through the stable. Your head whipped toward Phainon, who stood nearby, arms crossed.
“I think it liked you. The horse, I mean. Shame.” He muttered offhandedly.
If your heart was cracked earlier, now it definitely shattered into a million pieces. You gawked at him, dumbfounded.
“What did you do…?”
Phainon frowned defensively. “Why do you always assume it’s me?”
Right. You had no proof, but something deep inside told you it was his doing. He must have been deeply angered after your last fight. You quickly wiped your already halfway frozen tears, getting on your feet to let the horse rest.
“You’re upset, throwing tantrums like a little child.” You seethed, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest.
“I’m not upset” Phainon protested, pausing. “I’m disappointed. That’s different.”
Ignoring the man’s words, you pushed past him, trying to swallow the sorrow down before it could choke you. You felt betrayed. Were you really nothing more than just a plaything to him? A thing to manipulate for entertainment, and then throw away once he gets bored?
“You must be punishing me.” You deduced, walking through all the stalls, forced to meet with the same sight of slumped horses, sick and worn by some illness.
Phainon trailed behind you, hot on your heels. “That’s dramatic.”
As you reached the end of the stable, you stopped rapidly, almost causing Phainon to bump into your back.
You turned your head, meeting his eyes straight on. “Didn’t you say you like me?”
The demon blinked twice, apparently taken aback by your question. Truth be told, you were surprised to hear it leave your mouth, too.
“…I still do.” He answered flatly, lagging for a second. “At least I think so.”
Obviously, that man-child couldn’t even process his own feelings. For a split second, you wondered what would happen if you were to spill holy water on his pretty face. From what you gathered, Phainon always avoided it. Maybe it’d melt his skin off? Or purge him altogether?
“But you’re not sure anymore.” You pointed out, eyebrows knitting together. “So, tell me. What was any of this? Our conversations? Our— our—”
You struggled to finish the sentence, irritation arising in your guts once more. If you continued, you’d probably just break down in front of him; you really don’t want to imagine how it’d go.
“It was real for me.” Phainon shrugged, as if beginning to get bored by his sincerity. “But then you started wailing — waah, waah, waah — why did you kill her?” He mocked, voice shifting into the exact mimic of yours. “Why did you get rid of my problems? I’ve never wanted it! You’re so cruel!”
He reached to cradle his face with his palms, pretending to weep. As you observed that ludicrous charade, Phainon slowly tugged his hands off, revealing a wicked smile. You flinched.
The wind outside blew even harder now, rattling the stable’s door. The demon continued to grin at you, but the faint twitch of his lower eyelid didn’t slip past your notice, betraying his hidden emotions. From the small windows, you could see the snow starting to fall.
“You’re insane.”
“What, surprised the fire singed you?”
When you shook your head, taking a step to the side, ready to finally get out of that stable, Phainon blocked your way.
“[Name]. Poor, little [Name].” He sighed, fingers teasingly flicking your chin upwards. “You really don’t realize the weight words carry, do you?”
Confused, you sent him a glare. Why’s he changing the topic now? It’s not like it mattered at this point.
“Get away from me.” You hissed, shoving the man away.
Phainon stumbled backwards, though you knew he was the one allowing you to boss him around. If he truly wanted to hurt you, he’d have already done it. So, without looking back, you hurried over to your basket, picking it up and running from the temporary shelter stable offered you.
Once the wind began lashing at your face, you could no longer hold in the tears. They spilled in quick succession, stinging your cheeks.
Out of the very few people you ever trusted, all of them always ultimately left you. What is the point in human existence, when everything passes, and none ever stays the same? Some may say change is good. In your opinion, it’s the opposite.
He was so far away, and yet still so close to your heart. Closer than anyone else. Even though Phainon betrayed you in almost every sense, he was the only ounce of stability you got to taste throughout years of loneliness and fear.
You remember that one morning when you awoke from a nightmare and he was already there. He sat on the sill then, head cocked to the side, endearingly as he does, reminding you of a curious puppy.
The sky was cloudless that day, and the sun encompassed his fair locks from behind akin to a halo. With your sleep-dazed mind, you said he looked like an angel. Phainon sent you a weird look, expression trapped in a limbo between disgust and amusement. And he laughed, hopping off to touch your face.
You admitted to having a bad dream, but instead of mocking you, he merely wrapped his arms around your lying frame, coddling you.
Phainon’s hot breath tickled your exposed neck, and you suddenly remembered the summer. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was a saint patron of kindness — the type of a person who pets stray dogs’ muzzles, and soothes children after they scrape their knees.
That cruel man gave you a shoulder to lean against, steady yourself, and when you needed it the most, he took a step back. Since the all-knowing God thinks lying is an unforgivable sin, he should see this.
Alas, you didn’t care anymore.
New Year’s Eve passed in sorrowful silence with no signs of celebration on the church grounds. Everyone was too busy with their own things. Praying, cleaning, preparing for God knows what — when the clock struck midnight, none dared to lift their eyes from the ground. Even the bullying stopped, to your very surprise.
Because you had nothing better to do, you thought to stay in your room and fold some fresh laundry. It was a monotone task, but it managed to occupy your mind.
One fold, second fold, third fold. Put away. One fold, second fold, third fold. Put away. Repeat.
The simplicity of it all eased your heavy heart, dulling all the forlorn emotions swirling inside you. Wind still howled outside, snow gathering against the tall window of your room, and once you finally finished, you decided to sit by your bedpost. Not to pray. It was an action of simple exhaustion, evoked by how weary your bones seemed.
When you had nothing to get busy with, your thoughts started to race, breaking out into a thunderstorm. Your last meeting with Phainon was awful. For a brief second, you wondered if you’d mind if it was your last one, ever.
And as you brooded, a silhouette of black and white appeared in your periphery, casually lounging on a chair in the corner.
Talk of the devil and he shall arrive.
“You’ve been very quiet lately.” Phainon remarked, tone smooth as velvet.
With a heavy sigh, you turned your body to face him fully. The man’s expression was unreadable, for the most part, though you saw a flicker of patience in the blue eyes.
“I didn’t call you.”
His eyebrow cocked upward, smile blossoming on the unusually pale face. “You don’t need to. Half of me is you, and you are half of me.”
The demon’s words confounded you deeply. He rarely spoke in riddles, though it also wasn’t uncommon for Phainon to sputter nonsense, as if only to see your face twist in bemusement. Perhaps he was only trying to pull your leg.
“What?” You asked, oh-so intelligently.
“What I’m trying to say is,” the man spread his hands, expression turning sickly polite, “you don’t have to call for me to know where you are. We are bound, [Name]. Or did you forget?”
Your lips parted as you studied Phainon, even more confused than previously. Bound? But… how? With arising trepidation, you got on your feet, taking a step back.
“Forget what?”
His eyes narrowed before he finally sighed, fond, as if you were a cat performing tricks for a piece of sardine. “Silly girl.” He drawled. “Our pact, obviously.”
The ground under you seemed to crack in half, because for a while, you genuinely felt yourself falling. Your heart pounded in your chest like a startled dove, and nothing made sense. What? What pact? But you didn’t form anything with him! You didn’t sign no contracts, you never verbally agreed to any sort of a deal — just what was this folly?
You shook your head. “No. You’re lying. No such thing happened.” You forced out through gritted teeth, clenching your fists.
“Oh, I see.” Phainon said, feigning hurt. “Just more hallucinations? Like the warmth of my hands? Or the way you screamed my—”
“Keep that forked tongue behind your teeth, fiend!” You cut in, suddenly embarrassed. He had no right to bring this up now.
The man’s shoulders twitched as he barely contained his chuckle. Then, he exhaled. “So. Tell me, which part was fake, exactly?”
You mulled over Phainon’s words. He must have been aiming to scare you, yes, what else would explain it? You didn’t make a pact. But, maybe, the scriptures told lies again? They were wrong about everything, and forming binds with a demon was simpler than expected. Inconspicuous words and actions, all leading to one’s ultimate downfall.
There were at least a dozen instances where you could’ve accidentally made that gravely mistake.
Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around yourself.
“You were never clear. You never told me if we formed a pact.”
Phainon blinked. “I didn’t?” He mumbled before sudden amusement clouded over his confusion, causing him to kick up his legs as bouts of laughter shook his body, the action almost toppling the chair backward. “Right! My bad, my bad.”
The demon wiped his tears of joy, laughs fading into faint giggles. You watched in avid horror as he suddenly stood up, slowly walking in your direction. He stopped only when he got too close.
“Then let me be clear now.” Phainon said, voice dropping a few octaves down, completely serious. “You wanted justice. Revenge. And you had your fun, no? I think it’s only fair if I get something in return.”
“I didn’t mean it.” You protested weakly, knowing it was untrue anyway.
“Oh, please.” He rolled his eyes, scoffing. “Don’t be such a child.”
A long stretch of silence passed by as you fiddled with the hem of your robe, trying to reign in your heaving breaths. You were starting to genuinely panic. Wind continued rushing outside, the strength of it rattling your windows.
“Is there a way out?”
At that, Phainon smiled. The man studied your face for a moment. “Yes.” He said, almost kind, immediately evoking a hopeful breath. “But not for you.”
You observed his sweetness drop instantly, tone turning cold again, and it made you flinch with barely contained anger.
“You’re cruel.”
Hearing your seethe, the demon merely shrugged. “I am what you made room for.”
Phainon leaned in closer, the invasive smell of sulfur making you want to retch. Then, just like he used to do, he gently reached for your locks, twirling them around his long fingers. You didn’t move.
“You said you wanted this. Don’t insult us both by pretending you didn’t like it.”
Words died on your tongue as you stepped back, knees hitting the edge of your bed. With a dreadful exhale, you collapsed, vision fixing on the ground — Phainon’s feet didn’t move at first, but soon you saw the tips of his shoes strolling off.
The demon didn’t say anything to comfort you. He simply went back to his place on the chair, sitting down, smile not reaching his eyes anymore.
You both sat in silence. And when the candle went out, swallowing your room in darkness, you still could feel Phainon’s presence, lingering ominously.
Instead of chasing him away, you decided to let the sleep take you. It would be no use, anyway.
February was slowly coming to an end, even though the snow was yet to dissolve. Snowdrops peeked from beneath the white blankets of frost, and life seemed to have awoken from a long slumber. A fox at the edge of the forest. Little sparrows. Mice, prancing around in the first rays of the sun.
And no sight of Phainon.
Perhaps the lack of his presence should’ve soothed you, but it did the exact opposite. It’s like the same trepidation prey animals must feel, when they lose their hunter between the rows of trees, unable to spot it. The beast can — and will — pounce on you any given moment.
Right now, though, you stood in the prayer hall. A few of the sisters fell ill recently, and misfortune seemed to be dragging behind you all the time. So, the priest offered a cleansing ritual.
It was a complicated thing. Preparations took way longer than any of you would’ve liked, and now, as all of you stood there, clad in winter cloaks and chanting, you still could feel the sweat clinging to your nape.
No matter if bitter cold encompassed the space, you kept on sweating buckets. Chanting picked up. Incense smoke swirled through the air, mixing with the usual scent of mildew. Holy water got sprinkled in your heads, and the clusters of dried bay leaves tied with a white ribbon started to unravel in your shaky hands.
There was a scent of burnt hair. No one reacted. You bowed your head, palms clasping tighter around the bundle of herbs to keep it intact. As the sounds intensified, your trembling lips faltered.
Somewhere at the back of your mind, you knew the end was near.
You haven’t seen him for too long. The absence was unnatural in its heaviness, the exact lack of his sneering comments being the thing that brought you anxiety. Phainon was disappointed. Angered. Perhaps even sulky. And what happens to toys you no longer want to play with? They’re discarded.
This cleansing rite won’t salvate you. Nothing will.
Sleep refused you, though as of late, all good things seemed to fade from your life. Your eyes flickered over to the clock. 3 AM. Too late to rest now, too early to get up and start working. Time when the world locks in a space between liminality and lucidity.
Something told you to get up and just go. And so, you did. Your feet got cold quickly, and halfway through your solemn stroll, you started to regret not taking a sweater with you.
Long corridors near the archive stretched before you. No one was here. Moonlight fluttered gently through the tinted windows, and maybe if you were a haunting ghost, you’d have actually liked this church. But no. You were real, as much as all the horrors you went through were.
Snow stopped falling some time ago. It was awfully quiet — if not for the sound of your own footsteps, you’d think the church stood abandoned.
And you walked. And walked. And somewhere along the lines of your morose pondering, you realized who you were seeking out.
It didn’t take long for you to find him. Standing there, leaning against the pillar, still as a marble statue. Pale light bounces off his fair locks, and when his eyes found you, he made no attempt to even smile. Phainon just watched.
The tension was palpable, though it was muted with resignation. You willed your feet to drag toward him, slow, because with every step, you felt as if parading straight into the gallows. Would it happen now? In a minute? Ten of them?
Once you neared the man, discerning his expression became easier. It looked like he already began to mourn.
You swallowed, unsure of what to say. Phainon, ever the talker, finally sighed out: “What?”
“I—” you stuttered, mind lagging. “I thought I could maybe change your mind.”
At that, Phainon’s arms crossed over his chest as he huffed in weak amusement, apparently not entertained enough by your struggling.
“That’s what you never understood.”
Stupid, stupid brain, making you think you could ever bargain with the devil. Of course he wouldn’t let you. Both of you were hellbent in your own ways, and now, it became more evident than ever.
Still, you were afraid. Terribly so. A few months ago, death appeared like liberty, some sort of wicked salvation — a release from this cruel world. But not anymore.
Perhaps people realize the true value of life only when the reaper finally digs his scythe beneath the soft flesh of their chin, threatening to slice.
“I don’t want to die.” You whispered, the words barely leaving you.
Phainon’s head tilted, in the exact same manner you’ve grown so fond of.
“Strange thing to say at the end.” He hummed. “But, oh well. I guess all humans come down to the same thing.”
His blunt words caused you to look away, eyes fixing on the outside world. The snow reminded you of your long-dreamed sleigh ride, and the fact it was melting told you’ll never see another spring.
How do people make peace with death?
“I… I hoped you lied about that deal. I mean— ours.”
Phainon pushed himself off the pillar, stepping forward slowly. You braced yourself.
“I lied about many things. But not that.”
Did you lie about your favorite flowers being the same as mine, too, just to please me?
“Then why did you stay for all this time?” You choked out, fingers curling in your nightgown, as if trying to anchor yourself.
His smile turned soft. You swear you saw your face reflecting off his irises in the worst way.
“Because you were a wonderful experience.”
The air in your lungs has gone heavy. Nothing made sense and you were scared.
Ah. Yes. Devil will always be a devil, even if you wrap it in silver ribbons and pretend his gaze is more akin to a lamb than the snarl wolves possess.
“But you—” You heaved, feeling tears welling up. “You were— you were everything!”
“Funny.”
That’s true. Phainon was everything.
He was the warmth of breath, heating your trembling joints up when the harsh winter came, cupping your palms around his mouth. He was the laughter and joy and the peace that sound of his feet striking the ground brought you.
Before it all went to hell — he was the one standing by your side as you fed the horses, unexpectedly shy in the way he offered them carrots. He pulled the harmless pranks on you, jesting in that lighthearted manner.
Phainon was the additional pair of footprints in the snow, trailing behind you, and he was snow itself with just how pure his locks seemed. He threw the snowballs at you from behind the wall; and he was the one to pat the back of your robe clean when you accidentally fell.
He was the cheer during too-quiet nights, and the silence during chaotic mornings. He was the bite in the crook of your neck. He was the kindest person you’ve ever met, and the most cruel one.
You clenched your fists.
“If I said I love you… would it change anything?”
The demon cocked one eyebrow up, his expression somewhat unreadable. He took one step toward you, then the second.
“You’d be the first to say it and mean it.” He responded, tone low.
And of course you meant it. Throughout all these years, you didn’t know what love feels like — because it surely wasn’t the torture thrown your way. Nor the scriptures, or the long prayers to your deaf God.
It was gentle. It must have felt like the warm fingertips on your cheeks, tracing circles. Like the arms supporting you from collapse.
Whenever you prayed, speaking about love for God, you always hushed your words. The confessions seemed too reverential. Too sacred. You’d never say I love you to a man who only appeared on the frescoes and imposing canvases, cold and quiet.
So it was the first time you uttered those words.
“I do, I do mean it!”
Phainon paused, his eyebrows narrowing together.
“I think what you meant to say is: I wish you loved me back.”
This caused you to flinch, fingers twitching. Your heart dropped.
“You don’t…?”
The man seemed to sense your let down, because he willed the contours of his face into something docile.
“I don’t not love you.” He explained, tone coy. “If that’s any comfort.”
Your face cracked with a burst of sudden emotion — no tears or yelling. It was exhaustion in its purest form. You were tired. God, you were so, so tired.
Phainon lifted his hand, his hot palm reaching to cradle your cheek. His touch was horribly kind. And you don’t know whether it was real or not, but you leaned into it anyway.
“It wasn’t supposed to end this way.” You murmured, your feet starting to hurt from the cold. Or maybe they just ached from having to carry all your burdens.
He said nothing.
“If you could feel guilt… would you?”
The demon leaned closer, still not daring to let go of your face, his voice barely above a murmur.
“I’d feel it now.”
You were the first one to chuckle dryly, and soon, he joined in. There was something so terribly sick about your laughter, but if you stopped, you were sure your tears would never find their end.
“Come here,” he said after a beat.
“Why?”
The corners of Phainon’s lips lifted, forming a genuine smile.
“Because I’m yours.”
Something in your guts stirred, but it wasn’t hope. Still, you could never refuse him. Oh, everyone but him.
He leaned in slowly, his lips catching yours. The action caused your breath to hitch — you’ve never kissed anyone. But it felt good, almost akin to exchanging air. Your hands found their way onto the man’s shoulders, fingers curling in his dark robe. And he was so warm, and careful. As if you weren’t a human but a thing made of glass.
Unexpectedly, your body tensed, color draining from your face.
It started to hurt.
Your lips parted in a silent whine of pain, and you don’t know what was happening, but it felt as if someone was trying to wring you from the inside out.
You managed to glue your face off, panting like a wounded animal. “Please, what…”
But Phainon pulled you right in, pressing your trembling body against his. One of his hands nursed the back your head, tangling in the locks, while his other one rested on your waist.
The feverish act intensified, and you continued to choke on your pain as his tongue met yours. It didn’t feel like a kiss anymore.
More as if he was devouring you alive.
Once your knees gave in, Phainon readjusted his hold, gently lowering you on the stone-cold floor. It ached. It ached so horrendously bad, but you couldn’t even wail out loud.
Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his summer-blue irises. And at that moment, you realized love really is a dog from hell.
He was as beautiful as the day you met him.
Phainon slowly pulled away, licking at his lips with a faint smile. Visage before your gaze fogged over, doubling, something dark starting to obscure your vision. The pain was gone. Your senses were filled with an odd quiet, and suddenly the peaceful fields of flowers you always dreamt of didn’t seem so distant.
“Do you…” you rasped, feeling the breath escaping you, “…have any… regrets…?”
Because I certainly do. So many of them.
The man swiped your hair aside, so that the stray locks wouldn’t brush against your face. Then, his palm eased your eyelids shut.
“No.”
With that, you exhaled. Once. And never again.
Phainon kneeled by your unmoving body, watching it with nothing akin to his usual glee for a long while.
Finally, he stood up. Straightened out his robes. Sighed, looking around to see if there was a clock nearby.
“How did it go…? Oh, right.”
And he began to walk off, humming that prayer you hated with your whole heart under his breath, voice melodic.
Somewhere in the wreckage, he could still see your scowling face when he explained to you for the umpteenth time: change is a good thing. You’d shake your head, smacking his arm in defiance.
But it is true. That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet, after all.
Warnings: General Yandere themes, Discussion on topics such as Abduction, Coercion, Stalking, Emotionally Manipulative Behaviors, Social Isolation, Non-graphic depictions of violence, Gaslighting, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Suicide (one mention) and Unhealthy Relationships. Some spoilers for Phainon's lore. SFW.
♡ Word Count: 6304
♡ Yandere Alphabet prompt credits to @/dear-yandere. artwork credits.
♡ Note: This was more of a personal challenge that I've been wanting to do for a long time but, never got to because no character managed to occupy my thoughts that hard. But Phainon did it lol. Please excuse any unintentional errors and enjoy<3
Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?
In Phainon's case, the question we should be asking is how does he not show affection. See, Phainon's notable characteristic that is often mentioned by others in game — the one that qualifies him to be the World-bearer — is his ability to imbibe everyone's hopes and wishes and carry them along ‘as if’ they were his own.
However, when Phainon falls in love, truly and wholeheartedly ; the experience that will be borne of that phenomenon is something that is his and his alone. For the first time in his life, his desires and dreams cannot be traced back to someone else, he isn't striving for something that was incipient from another's wishes. For the first time in his life, he's enticed by selfishness.
This new discovery makes him feel both uncomfortable and… fulfilled, strangely. The discomfort is prevalent in the initial stage, when he's still trying to digest the fact that more and more of his priorities are shifting their tone from plural to singular. Sure, it unsettles him when an event that he would previously want to include all of his friends in seems much more desirable to celebrate with you only — but, it also feels… natural to want to do so with you alone.
Perhaps that's just because the exhilaration is always more active in the beginning, curiosity nudging his young heart to explore this fresh territory. Of course, as time proves next, it wasn't simply a case of hormones.
So, how does Phainon cope with this love that is so particular to him? Ironically, through the very same quality that he'd been so conflicted about, by imbibing every piece and aspect of yourself that he's observed and you've gifted him, until you become an integral part of his personality, so to say. And when he's made you take reigns over his every thought and action, his affection will spill forth — in his words, in his silence, in his gaze and in the way his body becomes spellbound when you're around.
Phainon is not someone who remains tethered to one or two ways when it comes to giving love, he constantly switches between every method known to mankind. But some things are repeated more frequently. He loves to talk to you, wants to hear your voice again and again until it becomes something he can hear with clarity even in his dreams, he memorizes your idiolect by heart ; so that even if Ciphera herself were to take on your appearance, he'd know immediately that it's not you. Denying him your voice is one of the fastest punishments you can give him.
He also views physical touch as particularly valuable. He doesn't really realize how touch starved he is until that first brush against your fingertips and all of a sudden, his thoughts are spiraling into far more dangerous territories. This is another aspect to his burning desire to know about every minuscule detail about your being. He wants to know and he wants to be the only one to know about every crease and ripple on your skin. So that even if he goes blind, the image of you may be the clearest one in his mind.
He likes giving gifts, but not empty ones. Every one of them must have some sort of meaning behind them and he always anticipates that you'd be able to deduce what they are. He wants to go on so many adventures with you and he can turn even the most mundane chores sound like an adventure, bear no doubt in that regard. Not that he's going to impose menial chores on you while he's still very much alive with functioning arms and legs. Every morsel of your attention and every minute of your time that you give him is a blessing to him and he doesn't wish to be deprived of this boon, ever.
Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?
When it comes to dealing with external forces that inconvenience you, distress you or come between you two, Phainon has very little concern for his Hero image. If it was something that was causing him problems? He could and would bear with it. But when it comes to the people who he cherishes, he's willing to go miles and it's you we're talking about.
This case of being empowered to do something that may or may not be morally just in behest of his love for you is rather problematic, actually. For one, it makes him even more reckless and two, the person he's doing it for will likely not appreciate it. That's fine by him though. In his head, he's laser focused on the fact that the harm he's doing to someone else is merely a payback for the harm that person has done to you, or to the ‘bond’ you two share. That thought process protects him from giving into the itch that his conscience begets.
Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?
In my opinion, Phainon would not abduct his darling. He, however, does isolate and confine.
Regardless of how careful you might be with him, he's going to teeter close to these roads sooner or later. It may begin rather harmlessly. ‘That person you were talking with gave off odd vibes to me, just saying.’ Everyone knows how much of an amicable fellow Phainon is, if he is saying that there is something off about someone… it's probably in your best interest to be wary of them, right? Your group of friends unintentionally said or did something hurtful? He's been holding back his tongue for so long! They obviously don't know how to treasure you, why don't you hang out with his friends instead?
The extreme form of this is when he resorts to confinement. Get hurt enough times to the point where you can't dismiss it as being clumsy anymore, an assassination attempt made by the Council of Elders or worse, a penumbra of Flame Reaver around you? He's going to make you move in with him, to the safest house designed in the history of Amphoreus probably ; every lock tested, every nook tethered with Aglaea's golden threads, every inch baby-proofed.
You can't even get mad at him at that stage, because he looks so out of his element. Rest and meals neglected, thoughts of your safety constantly whirring in his head, hyper-aware of everything yet exhausted to his atoms. It's a pitiful picture.
Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?
He certainly can. For example, uprooting the weeds (read: troublesome people) from your life, assuming that this isn't something you told him to do. It's just in his nature to handle problems that he comes across and because he cares for your mental peace. That, or he has beef with that person in regards to you somehow. Constant surveillance is also something he imposes and he tries to keep you unaware about it for as long as possible.
Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?
That all depends on you. If you're someone who's proven themselves to be capable of providing a safe space for him, the chances of him baring his secrets to you may increase. Offer him gentle touches, understanding words, a feeling of peace and although he'd know very well that you possess a separate motive, his desperate heart that longs for every morsel of your affection might humor you with a few confessions.
In general, Phainon is someone who's much more accustomed to hiding away his fears. But just because he's used to shielding them from the eyes of everyone doesn't mean that the metaphorical jar containing his doubts doesn't exist — cracks and splinters sing of the way his fears overflow from their containment. Poking at him about this is a gamble (and not one I'd recommend) especially if he hadn't consulted you about it himself.
When the matter of being vulnerable in someone else's presence is concerned, being aware of those vulnerabilities is the precondition. Phainon is an interesting case in this regard, at his very core, he's aware of how unhealthy his attachment is and how he's basically destroying himself and much more by loving you this intensely. But this awareness is buried beneath layers upon layers of justifications ; he has to, what is essentially gaslight himself into believing that this is normal, this is protection, this is just his pure love because it'd kill him otherwise.
Confronting that truth, confronting all his fears all by himself and worst of all, letting go of you would ruin him. Far, far more than nurturing this delusion because he's simply spiraled too far away from the edge of sanity and you are the only factor keeping him anchored from losing it completely. So, he'll believe in the ruse until he's turned it into the truth. He'll smile and laugh and wave off your or anyone else's concerns. He'll persist until you, too, have accepted the rationale carved by his hand.
Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?
He'd feel very hurt. Regardless of how many layers of reasoning Phainon may try to use as shields, a part of his conscience will always question the rationality in his behavior. Any resistance from you, be it verbal or physical, is validating that part of his conscience that he keeps on pushing away. It's an acerbic reminder that he's teetered too close to the point where you look at him as less of a hero and more of a monster. You'll be surprised at how quickly his self-deception comes close to crumbling completely, because the structure upon which he's relying on to stay sane is incredibly fragile.
Luckily for him, his expression always twists into something that morphs his inner guilt into fitting his primary narrative by itself. Phainon has accolades in the art of looking like a kicked puppy. It's near impossible for the average person to guess the actual complex back-and-forth that is happening in his head, hell, Phainon himself doesn't process the nuances of it. So, you're most likely to think that perhaps you've overreacted this time. He looks hurt enough to make your heart tremble, enough to make you question yourself and enough to earn your reluctant cooperation.
This pattern needs to be repeated just two times before Phainon is also abandoning that voice in his heart, convinced once more that he's in the right. By the looks of it, you're on the exact path that he wants you to tread and you won't be able to realize what you got tangled up in any time soon.
Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?
It's not a game, it's his fantasy. In a world that is doomed with destruction, dreaming is the easiest escapism. Phainon weaves visions with the threads of his desires at day, tries to bring those dreams to reality throughout it and ruminates about those dreams when he falls unto slumber. He wants to be yours so badly and he wants you to be his — in the most ‘natural’ way possible, like in those romance stories.
“Escape attempts” have a different meaning when it comes to him. He isn't actually restraining you, he's simply pining you in place with the weight of his name, his titles and his power. He's amused by your attempts… until he isn't. When does this happen? Hard to predict, could be any day where he decides that he's had enough and simply wants to embrace you close to his heart while the world goes to hell or whatever.
If he's in a good mood or if his hold on his patience is still in tact, he won't even take your escapades seriously! It's play to him, he's eager to see what surprising tactic you'll use to evade him, in fact. Escaping from conversations, date attempts and physical initiations are okay to an extent, at least when he's still in a humorous mood. That is only because he's confident that he can catch you with his skills anytime. Trouble occurs when he feels a rift in this confidence.
Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?
Probably if he were to emotionally withdraw abruptly, just when you were starting to get used to him or had even returned his affections. It's not that he falls out of love, he could never even if he tried to. It's just that he can resort to distancing himself emotionally from you if life's hardships kept on piling up on him continuously and somehow, the repressed guilt from all his sins would manage to infect his thoughts.
You'd never realize how much Phainon's smile had aided in keeping you somewhat sane until he stopped smiling altogether. It's unnerving beyond words to see the man whose whole being brightens up at your presence, so gloomy and strings of ‘you deserve better than him’ suddenly spilling forth from his lips. This is more of a phase and it will pass if you can be patient, because again, Phainon can never stop loving you even if he tried.
Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?
From the moment Phainon's admiration starts to take shape into love, a dream would begin to haunt his every breath ; you and him, beneath the sky of a bright, sunny day as gentle winds ruffle your hair and guide the wheat fields to dance along their rhythm. You'd fall asleep leaning on his shoulder and he would laugh fondly at his little sleepyhead, gathering you in his embrace and cradling you close to his heart. No monsters, no Black Tide, no cruel prophecies.
Waking up beside you every morning, lazily going through the rest of the day tangled up in each other's presence and going back to sleep with you in his arms. Sharing laughs with friends and family on the weekends. Maybe, with time, a small bundle of joy would further illuminate his home, or more. Regardless of what he becomes, this singular vision always keeps him tethered.
Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?
Jealousy is a reflection of one's own insecurities. Typically, love brings with itself a fresh set of insecurities, or triggers old ones. So, jealousy is bound to be enticed in even the most mentally stable person at some point. Phainon is someone who doesn't often get back as much as he gives to others, something that he's learned to accept. But just because he's reluctantly accepted it doesn't mean that he never wishes someone would. With his darling, this ‘giving’ is even more amped up and that subconscious yearning to be given just as much love also develops.
So naturally, when he notices that his devotion isn't exactly being reciprocated, he becomes frustrated. But he'll always give you the benefit of the doubt first. He tries, he tries so hard to be understanding and considerate about your boundaries, he really does. He doesn't really have many good coping mechanisms in general, besides swinging his sword at a hundred more Black Tide creatures.
The best way to describe jealous Phainon is through passive aggression. He might not say it outright, but everyone and their dromases will know of his displeasure through strained smiles, clipped words and rigid body language. It's unnerving to see the usual jolly and polite hero frowning that hard. No one wants to even walk wrong in front of him when he's like that. He doesn't really intend to, but in the end, he makes everyone (including you) feel just as uncomfortable as he does from his rigid demeanor alone.
His jealousy can be triggered through almost everything, but nothing makes him feel as livid as when someone other than him makes you laugh. Phainon prides in his sense of humor and his ability to make people smile! Whenever you're with him, he doubles down on his efforts, as if he was trying to Pavlov you into associating happiness with his presence by the amount of serotonin he tries to entice. So if he sees that exclusive position being threatened, he feels miffed, starts seeing red even.
Phainon gets jealous of things you wouldn't even think someone would be capable of getting jealous of — the wind that brushes past your skin? He wishes that was him. The Chimeras you coo at and give head-pats to? He's glaring at them from behind you and is going to research whether it's possible to turn into a Chimera for a day the moment he gets home. Your pillows and blankets? Titans, he wishes those were him. That mosquito that had the audacity to bite you? Lucky bastard. The list goes on.
Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?
With you, he's typically on his absolute best behavior. His smile is noticeably wider, his laughs don't feel forced, his speech is much more bubbly and overall, he simply looks like a man that's in love. Due to this, it might be difficult for you to believe any contradictory statements about his demeanor from elsewhere. Even if someone may try to sneak in questions to you about what you really feel about him or if you notice any suspicious stuff about him, you may not think too hard about them. Because Phainon is very dedicated to making a good and lasting impression on you. He wants to be someone whose words you'd believe in, who you'd trust and want to rely on in all times.
You have no idea how much power you have over him, everyone else does though. He could be in the middle of a heated negotiation, but the moment you're in the vicinity, he does a 180° and is rubbing cheeks with you like a lost pet. He could be in the midst of a bloody battle, both of his legs chopped off and he'd still crawl to you from across a field and ask if you are alright.
Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?
Phainon is one of the Yanderes that tries to follow the traditional route. He'll first try to be your friend, then he'd reveal his romantic interest, a few months or so of courting to ease you into the relationship and then he'll bend down on one knee — at least, this is his preferred route.
If you don't meet each other by chance and he happens to know of your existence first, he lets his attraction marinate for a while. He needs a somewhat clear idea about you, for which he'd need to learn as much as possible. Then he'd plan a rough draft about how he intends to take things from there in his head, which expands all the way to your joint retirement plan by the way. Rule of thumb, if there's capacity for him to have control about how things will go with you, he isn't going to be comfortable with the spontaneity route.
Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?
Asking that question to Phainon himself is going to give him an identity crisis on spot. Assuming that ‘true colors’ here refers to a side of Phainon that he actively tries to hide from everyone, even his darling to an extent ; yes, it is different. But if you've observed Phainon a bit, paid attention to his speech, how he acts under pressure, it's also not very surprising to discover that Phainon has a side that is contradictory to his usual sunshine boy image.
Phainon carries burdens from his past, the ghosts of many loved ones and he keeps them hidden under that veneer of a cheerful smile. The more someone does this, the less control they actually end up having over that ‘side’, allowing it to slip through at times.
At least, his fellow Chrysos Heirs have a good idea about this matter. And they also know that your existence works as a good panacea to his woes. So, you can kiss the chances of being helped by the majority of them goodbye. They might call him out at times but, at the end of the day, they need their Deliverer — preferably sane.
The common people don't even see anything wrong with him (they idolize him even), you increase the chances of being dubbed as the irrational one by resisting his most ardent amative advances, in fact. Sooner or later, you will start to question your judgement as well.
Naughty: How would they punish their darling?
Phainon is actually very bad at enacting the usual Yandere punishments, because he's weak for you. If he's ever done anything harmful to you, know that it was unintentional, or that it wasn't ‘Phainon’. He's incapable of doing anything hurtful to you on purpose without causing a flood with his tears or dying a bit inside first. One look at your sad eyes, or any indication of fear and he's already dropping it.
But that doesn't mean that he never gets ruffled enough to want to let you know that he doesn't want to see a repeat of whatever it was that disturbed him. So, he opts for more ‘harmless’ punishments, as they appear on the surface.
His go-to is ‘engulfing you in a bear hug suffocating enough to squeeze your fighting spirit out’. He has the speed, strength and stature to do much worse, you should be smart enough to pick that hint up. Another thing he likes doing is cuffing both of your hands together. You're annoyed by him? Mad at him? Can't stand his face at the moment? Oh, what travesty! Now you're stuck shoulder to shoulder with him and the keys are nowhere to be found either! It's as if even the universe itself is telling you that you can never and should never leave him.
Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?
The first right that's going to be taken away from you is your right to your privacy. Unless your meeting was through a mutual serendipity and Phainon happened to know of you first, he isn't going to immediately approach you, oh no.
As mentioned before, he needs at least the rough draft of a plan and to illustrate that, he needs information. During that period where all he has are fantasies of walking side by side with you, any piece of information he can get his hands on about you is as important as sustenance. First the citizens' records, then the words of people that know you and at last, a more involved approach.
He's your usual case of trying to justify it with things like ‘just in case’ ‘to make sure you aren't a dangerous individual’ ‘it's his duty as a Hero to know about the states of the citizens’ etc. And when he's certain that you're someone worth pursuing, someone he must pursue in fact, the excuses shift. Now, it's more about matters regarding your safety. Where do you tend to be at this time of the day? You aren't wandering around dangerous places, are you? He just has to monitor your every move, otherwise he might claw his organs out due to the sheer anxiety. It's also a bit of a competition to him. It happens unconsciously and it makes him feel prideful, to be the person that knows the most about you.
After you two have gotten entangled enough, to the point where people have begun to associate you with each other, your name and identity will begin to be replaced by his, slowly. Though this one isn't really his doing, he does end up fanning the flames indirectly. You realize a little too late that dedicating victories to you, bringing you up in almost every conversation and always trailing after your shadow had a more profound impact upon your identity than what you'd assumed.
There's the matter of your claim to your personal space as well. Physical space is one thing but your mental space will not be spared as well. After all, you didn't spare him. It's not just a matter of feeling your skin under his fingertips, or the pleasant signals that flood his brain when he gets to have his hands on you — he wants to be so in a certain radius of your being that whenever he is away, your heart will be restless, that even other people will feel as though something is wrong, you without him by your side just looks wrong.
Patience: How patient are they with their darling?
Patience is a gamble with this man, sometimes you win, sometimes he wins, sometimes you both lose. It's like his ‘patience’ is in a constant state of superposition, it's both there and isn't there, you wouldn't know unless you probe.
What Phainon excels in is being tenacious, stubborn. Not to be mistaken with patience, but you can't be blamed if you do. If he has a clear goal in mind, he's excellent in persisting until he's achieved it. But this isn't the levelheaded path, he's sacrificing bits and chunks of himself just to keep that fire burning within him and to push forward. Self-destructive, but it gets the job done.
Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?
Never. That answer is plain and simple. At least in the cases where you somehow manage to escape or leave him, he can still comfort himself with the knowledge that you're out there somewhere and there's still a chance for him to correct the mishaps, make sure there won't be a third attempt.
But if you died? That is his singular, most dreaded nightmare come true. This is the man that when he wakes up in the middle of the night, his first instinct is to check if you're still breathing or not. Phainon has thought about how he'd cope with your departure countless times — because everything and everyone must face death and he hasn't liked even one of those hypothetical scenarios.
On the outside, he looks petrified, a statue of disbelief frozen in time. He isn't willing to accept that you're just… gone like that, he always said that Thanatos themselves would have to wrestle him if they wanted to take you away and he's going to do exactly that. He'll search the River of Souls for millions of years if necessary, he'll bring death upon Thanatos themselves if necessary, he'll do anything, anything if any grain of sand, anyone in this wretched world could promise him that it'd bring you back.
But if that isn't possible and you're just gone for good forever? Then to hell with this world, he's going to first destroy everything and then himself ; in his eyes, nothing holds value to continue existing if you're not a part of it, not the universe and certainly not him.
Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?
Yes, guilt is a ghost that will never cease haunting him, even if you return his affection. Just the simplest impedimenta that he might have to use to keep you safe prick at his conscience, in moments where it's just him and his thoughts ; be it a tactful wordplay to distract you or the pinnacle of the degradation of his sanity, confinement.
But does that mean he's willing to let you go? Titans, no. Guilt is something he's accustomed to carrying, from when he left the graves of Aedes Elysiae to the prophecy that has penned down his solitary destiny. But the possibility of losing you, when he could've prevented it? That would end him for good. So, he'll linger at your feet, for as long as possible.
Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?
A mix of his childhood and just the overall state of Amphoreus. He's already experienced the taste of losing everything that he held dear once, of having to cut down and bury the bodies of his loved ones with his own hands. The cries of the dead still echo in his ears whenever it gets too quiet. Phainon had once thought that he wouldn't be capable of harboring affection ever again. His sense of attachment had gone askew with the end of Aedes Elysiae. But truthfully, he's never stopped grieving for his home.
If Phainon really does fall in love with you, to such an intense degree moreover, that'd mean that you're truly special. It'd mean that you're capable of soothing his wounds with your presence alone, that you're capable of making him want to dream again like he used to when he was a little boy. This process, all this mind-work that goes inside Phainon doesn't happen as easily as I'm describing it.
Once Phainon becomes attached, he does so terribly, to the point he wouldn't even imagine is possible. And he doesn't want to sever this connection, this new fantasy that's empowering him to take on the mantle of World-bearing with renewed vigor. He now has someone who he wants to protect more than anything, he wants to carve that blissful future and he wants to walk into that sea of flowers at the end of the west winds with you. So naturally, he has to do anything that is required for that future to come true.
Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?
As discussed in “Fight”, Phainon would be hurt by any act that runs contradictory to what he expects from you. He just wants to make you happy and feel safe ; screaming, crying, withdrawing from him — all of them are like harsh slaps that tell him that he's failing brilliantly in that field. The worst part is that he understands why you're behaving that way and can't fault you for it, he definitely deserves it, in fact. He should be treated worse for whatever nonsense he's been doing.
And when his attempts to calm you down with that lifeline, that he's doing it all to protect you, no longer works, what does he do? He cries. He breaks down as well. All the guilt and shame and emotional weight crushing him in an instant of unintelligible apologies drenched in tears.
The hero that always comforts others, always prioritizes others first, the man who'd forgotten how to cry in funerals, on his knees under the pressure of his feelings. Not even the most hardened heart could remain unflinching before that sight, I believe.
Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?
I am in firm belief that Phainon would not abduct his darling. Simply because he has more options available, enough resources and connections to bind you by his side and to make it all seem like the biggest coincidence ever. His heart is always pointed to empathize with others first, this feature is even more intensified for you.
It is not to say that Phainon never has the thoughts, sometimes all he wants to do is to wrap you up in his cape and hide you away. But they're just that, thoughts that he dismisses upon realizing that you would not at all like him if he were to do that.
Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?
Phainon's biggest weakness is… you, so, exploit yourself if you want to escape his grasp I guess? But you need to be something of a master manipulator and extraordinary actor to be able to actually succeed. Phainon is by no means unaware of how much power you have over him. You could get him to do anything by pulling at one or two of his heartstrings and he'd let you use him. So, Phainon does keep his guard up a bit in that regard.
You'd need to start slow, make the transition to acquiescence seem normal so that he doesn't immediately get suspicious — making the process lengthy. At a smaller scope and to have any bygone whims met, the easiest option is a kiss. To the cheek, to the neck, to the hand or to the lips it doesn't matter. You just need to give him a kiss, make his brain short circuit and slip away in that interval or, get him to agree to whatever it is you want.
Using affection is a risky method though, since it's essentially just reinforcing an existing addiction. You'd think that you're satiating that hunger little by little, but you're merely fanning the flames by giving him a taste of the whole he could have, if he just… keeps on clinging to you. There is no guarantee for when kisses to the cheek will not do the work anymore and he will demand a higher dose. If you find yourself here, consider kissing the dreams of escaping him farewell instead.
There is something else that works, though you need to have a bit of control over words to execute it: guilt-tripping. This is something Phainon feels in ample amounts even if he seems meticulous in hiding it. Target those doubts, twist his words, throw in the tears and make sure to squeeze his heart. If you're lucky, he might just bend for good. After all, the one thing Phainon can never stand seeing is you being unhappy.
Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?
Emotionally? Yes. Which is because he is hurting tenfold and hurt people hurt others, one way or another, eventually. Physically? No. He may get carried away in moments of intimacy, leave indents of his fingertips on your skin or bite a bit too hard at times but, actively trying to inflict physical harm on you is the stuff of his nightmares.
He's not unaware of the difference in strength between you, his thoughts often wander and intrude upon his conscience. Bluntly speaking, he could snap your bones with his bare hands or do worse. At moments when paranoia bleeds into reason, staining it with thoughts of you leaving him behind and dying somewhere all alone — he muses if he should just… break your leg, so that you won't be able to leave. But as it is, his mind has expertise in sprinting down the road of overthinking.
Let's assume he did just that, but what if and Titans forbid, the house catches on fire and you have to run? What will you do then? So, these thoughts remain as intrusive fiends.
Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?
Phainon is a reverent type, through and through. From the moment the seeds of love take root in his heart, you become the centerpiece of his universe, the orbit which guides his path, the missing piece of his psyche, the factor that allows him to be more than the prophesied hero, the Deliverer or the vessel of destruction.
Your every word is scripture, every glance a blessing, every breath a miracle. Your every wish is his command, something he must see fulfilled, even at the cost of his life. A smile, for your gaze to remain ever so gentle upon him is all he asks.
Phainon has devoured a litany of texts, has learned to weave words to ensnare, captivate and make anyone's heart ache and yet, he can't put into words just how intensely he feels his love for you. It can be seen though, in the way he both dares not to cross the steps to your altar and can't help himself in the end.
Probably crawling into your ribcage, taking the place of your heart and living there would satiate him — or you could do that with him. But since neither are quite possible, he'll be content to be by your feet, or beside you (if you would allow it), his body, heart and soul all surrendered in offering.
Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?
Phainon can be a bit… masochistic in this regard. You'd think by the intensity of his feelings that he wouldn't last more than a month before he's approaching you, but he can surprisingly pine for an impressive amount of time. It's not that he wants to, it's just that he'd much rather execute that encounter he's illustrated in his head with perfection. In this pursuit, he may have attempted many times and had withdrawn last second until the events pushed him to a point where there was no backing out anymore.
Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?
He definitely has the skills to do so. But I don't think he can consciously do it. Knowing full well that nothing good will come out of crushing everything he loves about you and leaving you a shattered mess that will just hate him for eternity? Just the idea disgusts him. He wants you to keep being happy, make you happy, he wants to protect you from all the dangers of the universe and he wants you to return his love, too. The prospect of breaking your spirit runs contradictory to everything he stands for when it comes to you.
But yes, it's not something that's impossible to happen with him. He's destined to lead a turbulent existence, it's not unnatural if you end up getting caught up in that chaos and break apart. Regardless of how it happens, Phainon would never forgive himself for it.
Summary: In the visage of an ongoing summer festival, you saw the face of your childhood friend, and joy filled you anew. The only thing you didn’t expect is for his almost unseeming devotion to turn into such a feverish nightmare. Oh, well. Everyone makes mistakes when it comes to things of sick nature. Even you.
Warnings: fem!reader, yandere!Phainon, contains a highly suggestive scene and generally perverse behaviors, not suitable for minors, dependency, toxic relationships, hurt/comfort but also hurt/no comfort, unhealthy jealousy, self-inflicted humiliation acts, emotional manipulation, possibly disturbing descriptions, physical violence || wc: 14k
“Don’t go.”
The scent of approaching summer was characteristic, and it filled up your nostrils with its undeniable freshness.
“Please… I’ll be good, I promise—”
And when that time approaches, a wave of sudden nostalgia always hits you. It makes you reminisce about many things. Memories of the younger you, and how lemonade used to taste when your family was still around to make it the way you were so fond of.
“I’ll be good.”
You don’t think of much else, when the spring wanes.
Why are dogs so loyal to us?, you remember asking your mother one day, curiosity filling up your wide eyes. She’d only bend down to ruffle your hair affectionately, smiling. Her explanation was weird, somewhat, and you didn’t understand much from it at that time. Something about evolution and base instincts. Things your still immature brain couldn’t grasp, as they appeared rather fickle, in your humble opinion.
With that, you never once repeated the question. At some point, it began mattering little to you, and the childish wonder dimmed as years continued to pass.
But one day, your mind seemed to evoke the old query, and so, you threw it into the air without much expectation of a reliable answer.
“Why are dogs loyal to us?” You muttered under your breath, giggling as the rather big mutt with walnut fur stuffed its muzzle into your small palm, wet nose prodding at you playfully.
The boy of ivory hair beside you — your best friend, Phainon — hummed wistfully, shifting a little. He outstretched his hand, scratching behind the dog’s ear.
“I’m not so sure,” he said, a grin growing on his face before he turned to you. “I think it’s because they love us.”
“Love?”
It didn’t seem believable, at least to you. People mistreated their most trusted companions all the time — leaving them behind, harshly scolding, and the like. If you were in a dog’s place, you’d certainly bite at everyone’s hands instead of coyly begging for more pets.
“Yeah.” He nodded, attention returning to your current object of interest, which was now panting slightly due to the high temperature outside. “They’re good things. Better than us, that’s for sure.”
Your eyebrows pinched together. “But why’s that?”
Phainon chuckled meekly, rolling his eyes at your insistent questions. Sometimes you think you must be pestering him too much, though he rarely seems to mind.
“See, for example. This dog is a stray,” the boy curled his fingers beneath the matted fur, hooking them around an old, worn collar. “But once it had a home, I suppose. Its previous owners must’ve abandoned it.”
“It’s been betrayed and wronged.” He continued, tone calm. “Would you still be so docile if someone did that to you?”
A groan left your mouth as you shook your head, not exactly following. “Obviously not!”
“So, dogs must believe in the good nature of humans in spite of everything they experienced. Doesn’t that equal loving us unconditionally?”
You blinked, looking at Phainon as if he just said the most ludicrous thing. But, perhaps, he was right. The boy was three years older than you, and even though the age gap wasn’t so prominent, your mentality was completely different. Phainon was mature, unlike you. He must be telling the truth, then — even if it makes little sense.
“I love dogs, too.” You mumbled quietly, moved against the brave face you always put up in front of him.
He laughed at your reaction, bigger hand rubbing your back. “We can go feed it, if you want.”
At that, you sprung up from your crouching position, excitement stirring in your chest at the prospect of playing with the mutt a little longer.
“Yes, please!”
Phainon patted his thigh, clicking his tongue at the dog to follow. The three of you ran off quickly, jogging through the busy streets of Okhema in search of some meat you could afford with the mere savings in your pocket.
And you thought: dogs must be wonderful animals. To love unconditionally is definitely the highest virtue one could possess amongst the things your Gods created.
You wished to be loved this way, too.
Time passes, that much is obvious to everyone. Phainon and you were glued by the hip for the majority of your childhood days. Upon retrospection, though, these years don’t seem long.
He came to Okhema when he was only twelve. Scarred, angry. The boy didn’t interact with many children, mostly sticking by his revered teachers, nurtured under their careful eyes and tenderness. You didn’t know what happened to him. Rumors dissipated as quickly as they arrived, new theories and twisted words swimming between curious mouths.
Still, you were intrigued. And so, one day, you just talked to him — he was a little detached, but friendly nonetheless. Definitely not your type of crowd, as you preferred to run around with more energetic companions. But he kept with you. And you kept with him.
Before you even knew it, you two became inseparable. Phainon’s lively nature roused when he had someone close to his age to accompany him. He bloomed, horrors of his fairly recent experiences fading a little with you by his side.
You quickly took the reputation of troublemakers, much to your parents’ and Phainon’s caretakers dismay. Climbing trees in places you weren’t allowed to. Jumping into lakes when you were supposed to be at school, and later on running into classes drenched. Even going as far as to pulling at the fruit vendor’s chagrin. He always made funny faces when he was angry, so you and Phainon purposefully messed around his stall. Usually it ended with a long lecture from the adults, but oh well. At that time, regretting anything came hard.
But the summer-sweet dream of innocence and freedom can’t last forever, even for those who are still young.
Phainon was a Chrysos Heir. You knew of it, and the responsibilities dragging along with that title. Perhaps both of you got too caught-up in the whirlwind of carefreeness, because the moment Phainon had to take on more serious training shook you. At least you think so.
You didn’t like it when he got snatched away from you. Days got progressively more boring and lonely — you, left with no one to spend your time with, and Phainon, burdened with his duties.
Bitterness was hard to swallow at first. You felt it every time he suddenly had to get up and jog off with an apologetic look in his bright eyes. You felt it when once again he said he can’t stay with you, and you felt it when your parents scolded you for occupying someone so important.
And slowly but surely, the stitches holding your hips together began to rip.
Then, your best friend was no more.
You saw him in passing, sure. Phainon always waved in your direction, smiles weaker and more tentative. At some point, you stopped waving back. What sense is there in pretending you still care for each other, when the boy you once favored was now but a mere imitation of his past self.
Well, maybe you were dramatic. Certainly, you were. But just like those dogs, you couldn’t help feeling abandoned — the only difference is that you frowned upon the one who wronged you.
So, you had a fall out. A silent one. One sided, probably. You never really tried communicating your feelings with Phainon, because, honestly, he must have had better worries than your whining.
He stopped waving too, and it irritated you, but it’s not like you didn’t stop it first. That’s fair, you tried convincing yourself. And your dismay toward him dissolved with years, for adults shouldn’t hold grudges over feeble stuff of their childhood days.
You didn’t see him much after that. Phainon was an extremely popular Chrysos Heir, serving as the bastion of hope for the people of Okhema in these dark times. It was weird, taking that into consideration. After all, the man must have been strolling around the streets all the time.
Still, something in your heart told you otherwise. Perhaps it’s only natural. That’s how life works — once fate decides your story with a certain person is over, you wouldn’t see them anymore. Only a handful of times did you manage to spot the flurry of white hair, standing taller than the rest of the citizens. In your periphery, the elegant garments appeared distant. Phainon’s voice rang across the road from time to time, and a naive part of you thought he was calling your name.
Despite your initial stubbornness, you got over it pretty quickly. You made peace with the fact a long-lost part of your life was now gone, and you had no need to regain it.
It should’ve stayed that way. It really should have.
Months when the world submerges itself in warmth and joy are celebrated in Okhema with fervor. Merry-making is certainly a good way to finally let yourself rest — even for just a few days. Anyway, it’s not like the harvest serves as an excuse to get black-out drunk. Probably.
Yes, probably, because everyone pranced around you like unhinged beasts, wines and other liquors spilling dangerously close to your light-colored attire. No one seems to care about anything. The sun disappeared from the horizon a few hours ago, and the lack of it seemingly wakes some sort of alcoholic haze in citizens.
Personally, you never found any appeal in these festivals. Before both your parents passed, they’d drag you there, feed you food you didn’t want to eat, and force you to clap happily when dancers finished their performance.
But as you think of it now, you’re starting to realize you miss those days. When nothing really mattered, and the colors of the world surrounding you were bright, still. You yearn for the things that won’t return. Isn’t it childish of you?
Maybe the wine you’re currently cradling in your palms did something to your head. You made sure to request it diluted with water, but the concoction was unusually strong in taste nonetheless. It’s possible you got tipsy.
Not that it bothered you, though. You came here just for the drinks, to ease off some strain your mind seemed to possess as of late. Dancing or listening to the cheery tunes wasn’t in your interest. Not really.
Well, maybe at some point it was. Several years ago, when you still had many friends and could allow yourself to drown in the passing celebration of starting summer. Your big group would sprint between the crowds, taking ribbons and waving them around, just like those performers do. Or, you thought with a soft laugh, how you’d steal flowers from the columns. You don’t know why you did that. Perhaps it was just funny to watch all the adults bristle with anger.
You loved life, then. You still love it; not now, but in that memory.
Alas, everything passes. It’d be sweet if things stayed the same, however, all you can do is ache for the idea of it.
The alcohol must’ve really gotten into your bloodstream, because you didn’t even bother lifting your eyes up from the cup of wine. Your morose pondering suddenly got interrupted by something hard falling on the bench, and bumping roughly into your side.
You watched, startled, as your drink jostled and spilled across the table. Then, you looked up to scold whoever was bold enough to quite literally fly into your left, but—
“[Name]?”
Oh, Gods above. You think if your heart could, it’d crawl out through your mouth.
Not him. Anyone but him. He was the last person you wanted to see today, and now you don’t even have the chance to get up and bolt, since you are somewhat squeezed between two people. That grandpa on your right seems equally bewildered, at least.
You cleared your throat, trying not to frown. “Hi… Phainon.”
The man’s eyebrows narrowed together, and truth be told, you expected him to throw something bitter at you. After all, you were the one to start ignoring him. You wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to announce to everyone by the table that you, yes, indeed you — are the one who ditched your already-feeble friendship, and decided you don’t need him.
It’s not like it would be a new revelation, anyway. Elders, so those who you annoyed together, often asked you: where did you lose Phainon?, as if he was actually a part of you. Even that damned fruit vendor sometimes caught you in the middle of your shopping, inquiring why you no longer stuck with the Chrysos Heir.
(So what, old man, you miss how we used to take bites of your wares and flee before you could chase us away with your broom?, Is what you often wanted to ask in return. You never did.)
But, no. Phainon didn’t snap at you, nor did he seem especially annoyed. Quite the opposite. His previously heavy-lidded eyes sprung wide open, and he assessed the wine he made you spill with nearly panicked expression.
“Ah, I am really sorry.” He started, a bit out of breath. “I wasted your drink with my carelessness.”
Now that you looked at him, he did seem a bit drunk. Hair messier than normally. Face flushed, posture slightly hunched.
And — curse your godforsaken thoughts — but he was more handsome than you could recall. Which shouldn’t be very surprising, considering you haven’t seen him from this up close for a rather formidable amount of time, but still. The contours of his face remained boyish, only taking a sharper look. More defined. If not for your inner state of shame, you’d continue to ogle him until sun returns. Maybe then you’d be able to see how it reflected off his bright pupils again.
Before you could even answer, Phainon pushed on. “I’ll go and buy you another one. Again, my apologies.”
He got up with a wobble, and only then you had half the mind to point out how unseeming it was of a Chrysos Heir to get inebriated in public. Fortunately or unfortunately, you kept your mouth shut.
Once Phainon was gone (probably not for long, because even if lines for the drinks are lenghty, everyone will rush him first anyway), the whole table breathed out. No wonder, really. He was one of the most important people in Okhema. Surely, a drunken Heir sitting with commoners to simply gasp out a few words and stammer isn’t a frequent occurrence.
Stiff, you glanced around yourself. The grandpa sitting next to you turned his head slowly, expression flabbergasted. You only let out a heavy sigh in response.
“I’m— I’m sorry, I have to go now. If you’ll excuse me…” You mumbled under your nose, standing up.
Some woman across from you inhaled sharply, slamming her hands down on the table. You jerked up, frightened.
“Why? Lord Phainon goes out of his way to buy you a free drink! Are you out of your mind, girl?!”
“Not only that!” The grandpa quipped, reaching for your wrist. “He could get us all free wine! I presume he isn’t a Lord only in the name!”
All gathered people cheered at the suggestion, even those who didn’t sit at your table. So, you had a whole crowd listening in (and counting on you). How wonderful.
Not to mention, Phainon wasn’t technically rich. Sure, Chrysos Heirs possessed ample amounts of money, but you knew that man. His obsession with antiques took root a long time ago. He was pretty much hellbent on his little hobby, and you were aware of just how cash-consuming it was. That fool probably has a few dimes in his wallet, and they expect him to buy everyone drinks?
Deciding to save Phainon’s honor, you walked off anyway, immediately followed by words of disapproval. Enough with all the alarms and surprises for one day. You’ll go home and rest your weary bones. There’s no point in lingering here any longer — not with all these drunkards and him at your tail.
And as you walked, confident you’ll be left alone for now, someone grabbed your shoulder.
The options on who it might be were somewhat limited, so you didn’t even bother turning your head.
“What do you want?” You forced out, jaw clenching around nothing.
“I— uh.”
Phainon let go, instead stepping in front of you. It always irked you, just how tall he grew up to be. Seriously, what were they feeding him? Three plates of eggs for breakfast, and five servings of fish per dinner? If you didn’t crane up your neck, you’d be forced to stare straight into his breast.
Oh, and it also infuriated you how he had to look down, casting a long shadow over you. Like a damned birch. Maybe you could grab him by the knees and topple over.
His mouth was moving. The man was saying something, hands gesticulating around. You didn’t catch on to his words, all noises suddenly blurring into one nonsensical cacophony.
Wait. Were Phainon’s eyes always this sad?
He must be very lonely, you thought out of the blue, though you don’t know why. He has friends and admirers, flocking to his sides like herded sheep — not once did you see him stand alone. And yet, this undeniable conclusion stirred within you.
Ultimately, nothing touches Phainon. He’s like an otherworldly being, too-bright and too-full to cradle by your heart and call him your best.
Despite everything, it was still a solemn realization.
“…And that’s why I couldn’t buy your drink. Again, I’m truly sorry, [Name].”
Silence.
“[Name]?”
Curses, you didn’t even listen to his blabbing. What was that he said? Something about your drink?
“It’s fine. I’m not in the mood anymore.” You shrugged, kicking at a stray pebble by your feet.
Both of you stood silent for a longer moment. You were acutely aware of the prying looks sent your way, as if trying to deduce whether you were really conversing with him. But that’s the life of big fishes, you supposed. All eyes always set on him.
“You don’t look too happy to see me.”
The way Phainon said it was more depressing than you’d like to admit. Well. In theory, the man was right. You can’t imagine anyone jumping up in joy when meeting their former best friend, who they also had a supposed fall out with.
But then again, deep inside, your old affections burned bright. It’s like your past self woke from a very, very long dream, rousing quickly when spotting their beloved face. Shaking you and commanding to smile at him instead of frowning. You dangled on a weird limbo, truthfully.
Perhaps it was involuntary on your side, but the distant memories of frolicking around with Phainon flooded your brain. Arms hoisting you up in the water when it turned out too deep. Sneaking into dromas’ pens to play with them. How loudly you laughed when he accidentally tripped into mud face-first, fair locks halfway soiled.
And you chuckled. It slipped past your lips so suddenly, you didn’t even register it at first.
Oh, but Gods, the way Phainon’s face brightened up almost knocked the air out from your lungs. Happiness suited him way better than the sulking, and only then you realized just how silly you must’ve looked when laughing under your breath.
He raked his fingers through the tousled fringe, smiling sheepishly. “Why are you giggling?”
His words slurred a little. To your horror, you found it quite endearing.
“I’m sorry. I remembered something funny.” You answered, perhaps with an equal amount of shyness, swatting your hand dismissively.
Phainon hummed at that, nodding his head with slight awkwardness. Another beat of silence passed. You two must have looked like two imbeciles, with the way you stood, motionless, and stared into each other’s eyes. Surprisingly, no one stepped close to you. Huh. Maybe everyone thought their darling Chrysos Heir had a romantic encounter, and dared not interrupt it. Laughable, really.
(Imagining yourself as a potential object of rumors was indeed dreadful, though at the same time, you found yourself uncaring. Actually, maybe you’d like that?)
(No. Honestly, what is wrong with you? You don’t need a scandal on your shoulders.)
“You haven’t changed much.” Phainon spoke, interrupting your unwelcomed trail of thoughts. There was fondness laced in his tone. You don’t know what you should make of it.
“Guess I didn’t have a reason to change.” You finally willed the corners of your lips upwards. “I mean… it hasn’t been that long since we stopped talking.”
The man reciprocated your smile, thank Gods. “I know it’ll sound frivolous, but it’s hard to believe we really lost contact.”
His words almost caused you to choke. Obviously, he had every right to call you out. You just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.
And what do you even say to that?
I’m sorry Phainon, but I got mad at you, because you were too busy to indulge my younger self all the time. I suppose it makes sense, no? Normal people don’t have to become warriors, and, don’t get me wrong, I knew you were never exactly normal, but you seemed awfully normal to me! And so, I suppose I let myself get too attached. You broke my poor heart, see, you cruel man?
Yeah, no.
You cleared your throat, suddenly feeling small. “Truthfully, I… didn’t mean for that to happen. But it did. Life moved on.”
There was a hint of something bitter in Phainon’s irises, though it flickered by in quick passing. Instead, he tilted his head to the side, still smiling.
“Life moved on, huh. But you didn’t forget me, did you? Please tell me you at least remember my horrible jokes.”
He was teasing, obviously. Nevertheless, it made you cringe internally at your previous words. You made it sound like moving on was really all that easy. Well, it’s not like you spent years crying, but the fact remains. You were a little hurt.
A chuckle left your lips. “Oh, of course I remember. How could I forget those?”
To your surprise, Phainon’s slightly unsure smile split into a beaming grin. “That’s a relief. I was starting to think I was just some random guy you used to know.”
If it was appropriate, you’d burst out into hysterical bouts of laughter. A random guy? Was he really thinking of himself so lowly? He’s the literal opposite of it — widely respected and adored, Phainon is precious to everyone in Okhema.
At one point in your life, he was precious to you, too. Even though you were no longer on speaking terms, you’d find it hard to repress the memory of somebody so important to you.
“You’re not just some random guy.” You said, itching to smack that seemingly empty head of his.
Phainon looked genuinely taken aback at your words, which confused you further. Hope washed across his face.
“You mean it?” He asked, voice so quiet you barely heard him from above the clamor.
“Sure. You always were…”
Special.
When you trailed off, the man huffed out a short exhale. “Sorry, could you repeat that?”
Honestly, you can’t imagine yourself saying it to him in such a direct manner. You’d much rather slice your tongue off than admit your lingering fondness for him. Maybe it’s weird? He’d certainly deem you a little unwell in the head after mustering up these words. Still, it’s not like you ever fully stomped out Phainon from your life. His name continues to hum in your chest, from time to time. And it’s annoying, sure, but you can’t bring yourself to put out the last candlewick, flickering weakly with the remnants of what once was.
“Nothing, nothing.” You chuckled a bit nervously, taking a single step backwards. “Uh, anyway… I suppose I should go now. It’s getting late. And you, too, could use some rest.”
“W-wait—”
Phainon stumbled in your direction once, as if trying to regress the distance you created. His mouth opened and closed for a good while. He looked like a fish out of the water, gasping desperately.
Finally, after a minute of fidgeting with the stray flap of his cape and eyes flicking around, he choked it out.
“[Name]. I don’t wish to sound insistent, nor do I want you to feel pressured by me. But, uh—” The man paused, mustering up a smile. “Maybe you’d like to hang out… some day.”
You found yourself wanting to smile back, but your lips were already curled upwards, and the ever-present weight on your shoulders lifted by some miracle.
“Sure. Why not.”
In that odd dream you don’t tell anyone about, you and Phainon still sit on marble steps, and something is painfully connecting your sides together — and you thought fate was done with you two, but apparently your beings will remain in a tight tether.
It would be good to laugh with him some more. Of this much you are certain.
There are things in life that you can expect. For example, the shining sun. People on the streets. Children still begging you for spare change so they can purchase some silly toys, not giving up after that one time when you granted their wish.
What really surprised you, though, is just how intense your renewed friendship with Phainon was. That, you did not expect.
It’s not something you thought would take place. Sure, you hung out once — and it was nice, truly, you enjoyed yourself more than you probably should have. But Phainon was a busy man. There’s no way he would dedicate so much of his time to your pitiful self who pretended he didn’t exist.
Well, no. Three days after your first meetup since forever, he called you (because you exchanged numbers) asking to go out with him again. And again. And again…
Days blurred into weeks, and now it’s been eight months. Phainon has been really sweet to you, and you couldn’t help but fall into some sort of a rhythm. It was different from what you remembered of your childhood days, but hey. Both of you are adults now, it’s only logical. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that Phainon's presence brought you joy.
Sometimes he was a little overbearing, though.
You ran out of pomegranates? Half an hour after you complained about it to him, Phainon was already at your door with a basket full of your desired fruit. And they were very high quality, no less. He stood in the threshold like an over-grown, over-excited puppy, swearing it was really no problem for him.
Your sink broke? Oh, [Name], why waste your money on the plumber when I can help you?, is what he said in response. The same day, he was on it. You remember hovering in the kitchen awkwardly as Phainon shifted underneath that damned sink, his long legs kicking up in frustration. He obviously had no clue what he was doing. Turns out a mere tutorial he watched on his teleslate prior wouldn’t be sufficient enough, but somehow, he ended up fixing it. Only two hours of struggle. Easy-peasy.
You needed some more ornaments for your humble abode? Phainon gave you half of the antiques he had. No questions asked. When you refused, he refused your refusal. And then pushed even more intricate decorations into your arms.
There was even that one time when he offered to commission a double portrait. Which, sure, was incredibly kind — but those were beyond expensive. There was no way you could afford it. What Phainon said to that? I’d fancy your face mounted upon my wall. The price doesn’t matter!
Seriously, some of the things he did made your heart flutter. The other half stunned you.
Not to mention, Phainon was so, so good to you. His unfaltering benevolence never failed to touch your heart — but it made you wonder, too. You’d never be this warm toward someone who turned their back on you for several years, acting like you were completely unimportant. No. Actually, you wouldn’t even want to talk with them.
Sometimes you genuinely think he has no self respect. Which is certainly weird, for Phainon is a revered Chrysos Heir with a reputation exceeding yours at least a million times. No matter how much you wish against judging the man, it’s simply impossible.
Not when — even though you reconnected only eight months ago — he already looks ready to fall on one knee. It scares you a little. Perhaps you’re bold for thinking that, but at the same time, you’re not blind, nor oblivious. Phainon doesn’t even try to hide just how hung-up he is on you.
(Maybe it’s somewhat pathetic. The reverential look in his eyes never repulsed you, but it was unreasonable.)
Anyway, a selfish part of you enjoyed all the attention Phainon was smothering you with, and so, you never tried putting an end to this charade. It made you feel better about yourself. Some time ago, you desperately clung to memories of the past — and now, you had its part sitting obediently in the palm of your hand.
Phainon was your friend. And you were happy with how things stood, even if you weren’t as… enthusiastic as him.
Today was cold, for a change. It’s a little unusual for Okhema to drown in such a low temperature, even if the season is far from summer. The Holy City was warm — hence why you were so surprised to wake with cold feet, and a tremble in your legs.
No matter. You continued on as you always did. Get ready, make breakfast, complete your chores.
Still, for whatever reason, you felt as if you were forgetting about something. That feeling dragged on behind for the better part of the day, and you probably wouldn’t know what it was, if not for a certain someone who came to visit you.
“Happy birthday, [Name]!”
You blinked twice, not understanding what was going on. Then, it hit you. It was your birthday today — how could you have forgotten?
Upon seeing your stupor, Phainon stepped in, swiftly closing the door. He sent you an amused smile, one eyebrow raising when you still didn’t respond.
At that, you finally snapped out of it. “Oh… Gods, I completely forgot… And I can’t believe you actually remembered.” You muttered, a little abashed.
The man merely shrugged, holding out a neatly packaged box. “Of course I wouldn’t forget. How could I?” Phainon chuckled, pushing the gift closer so you’d finally take it.
Truth be told, the last time Phainon gave you any sort of birthday wishes was about five years ago. They were kept short and spoken without much commitment, but still.
And now, you were met with his grinning face, hands expectantly flexing around the gift he brought you — because, apparently, he still somehow remembered. You felt a little bad. When is his birthday? That, you aren’t so sure of. Alright, you can remember the month, but the exact day? It’s a whole different story.
With a short exhale, you took the package. “You didn’t have to bring me anything, really.”
“Don’t say that before you open it.” Phainon remarked playfully, intent gaze boring into you.
The man practically vibrated with excitement. His bright eyes flickered between your fingers and facial expression, taking in every slightest detail, and you thought the gift must be something really funny if he’s acting like that.
When you turned thirteen, Phainon gifted you a toy snake. You hated those things, and when you first saw it, you were convinced it’s real. So, you threw the whole carton box at the boy’s face, accidentally injuring his nose. He laughed anyway. You bristled. Ultimately, you ended up placing the snake in inconspicuous places, watching as people jolted away, startled.
And it was hilarious, so perhaps he gave you something similar for the old times sake. Prepared for another stunt, you slowly opened it.
What you saw inside made your smile instantly falter.
It was a necklace — but not a normal one, no. The thing was obviously costly, with an intricate design and some stones, indicating just how expensive it must have been.
Shocked, you gently touched it, feeling at the glided material. Why would Phainon buy you something so expensive? It’s not like you asked for it. Hell, you would never request such a lavish gift from your friend, because, honestly, wasn’t he broke?
“I’m— Wow. Phainon, I really…” You choked out, eyes still focused on the necklace.
“You don’t like it?” Phainon immediately responded, and when you looked at him, he seemed a bit distraught. “No worries, just say so. I’ll go and return it. Actually, you can go with me, and we’ll pick out one to your liking.”
“No, I—”
“I understand, [Name], you don’t have to pretend. Lady Aglaea always says my taste in fashion is lacking. Well, I spent about six hours debating on the best necklace for you, after all, I didn’t want you to be disappointed — which I guess you are, but that’s alright. I’ll go buy you a better one, just—”
“Phainon!” You shouted, cutting his logorrhea off.
He stopped, mouth agape. The undeniable twitch of his lower lip made you cringe internally, and you wondered whether he was really so desperate to please you. Anyway, it’s not like you said you didn’t like the gift.
With a sigh, you took Phainon’s hand, causing him to immediately curl his fingers around yours. “I love it. But you shouldn’t have.”
“Shouldn’t have?” He parroted, somewhat breathless. “Come on. If anyone deserves nice things, it’s you.”
The compliment made you break into a small smile, which probably caused Phainon relief, for he returned it without missing a beat.
“Still,” you continued, schooling your tone into a gentle one, “it must’ve cost a fortune. I don’t know what to say…”
“Say you’ll wear it. That’s all I want.”
You bit on your lower lip, feeling overwhelmed by how intensely Phainon assessed your face. You tugged your hand away, willing yourself to keep on smiling under the fierce twins of blue.
“Alright. I’ll wear it sometime. Thank you, it really is lovely.”
Your friend nodded, stepping back. And you talked for quite some time before he announced that he finally needed to go, which made you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
(The necklace Phainon gave you was certainly beautiful, but you hid it in a drawer — deep inside, covered by cloth and old trinkets meant to be forgotten. You never looked at it again.)
It’s been quite some time since you last saw Phainon.
Of course, the man has his duties as a Chrysos Heir. It wasn’t surprising when he couldn’t meet up with you, and you understood the reasons why better than anyone.
Perhaps a few years back, you’d be trembling with irritation and sadness. Now, however, it mattered little. The fact didn’t bother you much, and you were fine with being by yourself, even if the days dragged.
It’s not like you didn’t see him at all, anyway. Phainon often caught you on the street, smiling and peeking over your shoulder to see what things you wanted to buy. When the fruit vendor saw you together, assessing his wares, he almost choked. You belatedly realized it was the same man you and Phainon used to torment on a daily basis, and before you knew it, you were crushed under the onslaught of questions.
Oh, I see my favorite pair is back together! Truly, how curious. And I thought you two fought? Well, of course, my apologies— his eyes flickered nervously over to Phainon —I meant not to pry. I didn’t, not actually, but, you see, when you’re practically bullied by goddamn children everyday, it sticks with you. So I was quite surprised when one day, you just stopped. What happened? Did you reconcile? Or maybe you never argued in the first place, and simply decided to keep it… more private? If you know what I mean! And then, he exploded into loud cackling.
Ah, well. If you could, you’d immediately crumble into dust on the spot. But it’s not like you possessed such a skill, so you kept on nodding, smiling stiffly when both of the men continued to talk. Also, you managed to notice that Phainon’s arm snaked around your shoulders. With how hot and awkward you felt, you had half the mind to push him away. You didn’t, though. He’d probably start whining and trailing behind like a mistreated dog. That was the last thing you needed.
Anyway, it would seem your absence in Phainon’s life bothered him much more than you thought initially. It didn’t take long before he invited you over, insisting he needed to see you. And who are you to refuse?
“Thank you for the cakes. They were really good.” You smiled, crumbling the napkin in your hands before aiming it into the trash can. Miraculously, it actually scored.
Phainon merely nodded, muttering no problem, and trying to copy what you did earlier. His own napkin missed by a few centimeters.
A giggle escaped your lips when the man groaned, slumping back into the couch with a resigned smile.
“You’re hopeless.” You said humorously, shifting in your place. “Well, anyway. I think I should be going now. It’s getting late.”
That much was true. When you got to Phainon’s house, you expected to stay for two hours maximum. After all, he certainly had a multitude of duties on his shoulders. Instead, he occupied you with pastries — even at some point running to the bakery to buy more — and only shrugged when you told him to lay back.
Then, he continued to grace you with amusing stories. And you have to admit, they were entertaining, but after another in-depth description of his ‘competitions’ with Mydeimos, you started to feel somewhat sleepy. There’s only so much you can bear, and it quickly got boring.
When he noticed you nodding off, Phainon immediately shook your arm, saying he ordered new tea blends. So, you spent another hour tasting and rating them. Which was… fine.
But now that he heard your words, Phainon almost spilled out his drink. He put the cup down quickly, turning to face you.
“So soon?” The man practically gasped, wide-eyed. “[Name], you cannot be serious. I still didn’t tell you about—“
Whatever he began babbling about dissipated within the chamber of your mind, because you couldn’t bring yourself to listen. Not when the slight darkness of the room encompassed Phainon’s face in the worst way.
He looked awfully exhausted.
Honestly, you don’t know how it slipped past your radar earlier, but the shadows underneath blue eyes were overly-prominent. Hair a little tangled. Lips chapped, as if he had nothing to drink for the past few days. His hands shook — not to the point where it was noticeable, but they still did.
Seeing Phainon like that was concerning, and it made your heart clench with the need to ask about his well-being. The man always cared deeply about others. So why did everyone, including yourself, decide to turn a blind eye on his internal troubles?
“You look tired.”
Once the words fell from your mouth, interrupting Phainon’s ramble, he blinked in confusion.
“Do I?”
“Yeah.” You nodded, hands folding on your lap. “What’s wrong?”
Phainon sighed, as if not knowing what to say. He ran his fingers through his locks, wincing when they caught on a particularly troublesome knot.
And the corners of his lips lifted, like he was ready to dismiss you, but your firm gaze must’ve rendered him weak. Soon his shoulders hunched down, all the bravado slowly dissipating.
“I guess it’s just my duties. As an Heir, I mean.” Phainon muttered, eyes avoiding yours. “It… wears me out, [Name].”
You nodded patiently, allowing the man to continue. It was obvious he needed to get something off his chest, and since you were here, he might as well do it now.
“I know the burden I carry is meant to be great. It always has been. But lately, it’s just too much for me. Everyone expects me to be perfect, which I can’t blame them for, obviously.”
“Then again, aren’t I just a fickle human? Like the rest of those who set their eyes on me, and pray that the Deliverer of Okhema will miraculously solve all their woes.”
“I mean… I do understand just how much stronger I am than the rest. Therefore, I also understand where all of this is stemming from.”
Phainon’s breath shuddered, and you were halfway convinced he might start weeping on the spot. He then grabbed you by the shoulders, touch surprisingly desperate, and leaned closer in.
The crack in his expression was undeniable; like a mixture of genuine misery and resignation. For some reason, it made your stomach churn.
“But everything is slipping through my fingers.” He rasped, eyebrows tightly knitting together. “And you know what scares me the most?”
You tried not to wince from how roughly he was squeezing you. Still, you put on a brave face, even though a multitude of questions and confusion swirled in your mind. It was unsettling, seeing him in such a state.
This confession caused you to almost gasp. Almost. You just stared at him, dumbfounded, trying to process what you just heard. So, at the end of the day, it all circles back to you? All of Phainon’s worries and fears — they connect to his duties, but ultimately, it’s just you.
And it was hard to understand. Sure, you’ve been childhood friends, and sure, you renewed your contact some time ago. You can confidently say that in the end, you’d do it all again, because Phainon is your best friend. At least you think so. But how can it explain the vivid devotion dancing in his eyes?
The fact you can’t look at him with the same amount of emotion made you feel bad.
“I promise I won’t.” You said, voice meek.
“But you can’t guarantee that.” Phainon quickly retaliated, joints digging harder into your flesh.
Not knowing what to do, you carefully placed one of your palms on the man’s shoulder, the other one reaching to cradle the back of his head. He stilled a little at the physical contact, expression turning docile.
“Of course I can’t guarantee you that…”
You willed a smile to grow on your lips, gently nudging Phainon to ease himself on your lap. Surprisingly, he had no objections. He simply lied down, big, watery eyes looking up at you as if you were a holy painting.
“Just, please.” He began, tone weak. “Please, stay. I don’t care about anything else, just— don’t leave me.”
There was an uncomfortable ache in your chest as you leaned in, and you realized, solemnly, that Phainon smelled of wild strawberries. A fragrance innocent enough to smother all the suffering dragging along.
And you were aware of what he tried to communicate through these words, for you knew him like the back of your hand. But you didn’t feel the same.
Love is an odd thing. It can’t be described by primitive words, or straight logic. It’s a feeling lodged inside your very heart, deeply, hurting like a splinter you can’t even touch.
Looking at Phainon, you knew of what he harbored within himself. It’d be hard not to, when he’s coddled on your lap, a fully grown man appearing like a mistreated dog that just got its last scrap of meat torn away.
There’s not much you can do in the eyes of such a predicament.
“I’ll stay with you. I’m not leaving anywhere, okay?” You forced yourself to keep smiling, swallowing down the guilt.
Phainon finally smiled back — a weak thing, but a sign of happiness, still. He nodded, turning on his side and pushing himself closer, face pressing against your stomach. Like the action could hide him from all the conflicted feelings and expectations.
The man wrapped one arm around your hips loosely, and he said: you’re hunting me slow, though you don’t understand what he meant by those words, nor do you feel the need to ask.
(You have one memory you’re particularly fond of. Well, when it happened, you were somewhat exasperated — startled? Maybe a mixture of them. But it still rings as something to be cherished, in your mind.)
(When you were barely ten, Phainon thought it would be funny to chase you. He was thirteen at that time, and so, the boy also had longer legs. Catching you was pretty much effortless for him.)
(And once he got dangerously close, your mind screamed at you to lose him, else you’d fall victim to the onslaught of tickling. In a bout of panic, you turned a corner. It was a dead end.)
(The decision you made that day was borne out of desperation. If you didn’t feel like there was a threat at your heels — real or not — you’d make better choices. Because you knew the road you turned into ended within a few meters, and yet, you still thought to bolt there.)
(Similarly, hunted animals must lose their reasoning once it becomes apparent there’s no way out. Or, in some cases, the only solution would be to doom both predator and prey.)
(What path they’ll take on is usually determined during their last moments. The most important question always is: how far cruelty stretches in those innocent eyes?)
Due to your oh-so developed cognitive functions, you were able to pinpoint how stressed Phainon has been as of late. Well. It’s been going on for quite some time now. Not like it’s any surprise anyhow, you know that his duties as the Deliverer are beyond anyone’s comprehension. Any normal person would crumble under the pressure within a span of a few days.
So, you, being a good friend, decided to hang out with Phainon. It was your idea this time — because he’s usually the one to initiate your meetings — and you were eager to bring him at least a bit of entertainment.
What graced your mind at the beginning was going out to a restaurant. But then you remembered how it ended last time, with Phainon chatting you up and barely touching his food. Next, you thought of the Garden of Life. Of course, this option wasn’t the most ideal either. The space was filled with people, and you knew how they enjoyed flocking to Phainon’s side.
Ultimately, you decided on the dromas’ pen. It was simple, but the lovable creatures were kind of therapeutic, so maybe it’d provide him some peace of heart.
And Phainon seemed terribly excited to go there. You don’t remember him ever being such a big fan of dromas, but upon hearing your proposal, he immediately grabbed your hand, fingers tightly clenching around yours.
Slightly abashed, you tugged your joint out of his grasp — because, what if people think there’s something more between you? You can’t have that. Obviously, Phainon got sulky, and you had to offer him your arm instead. He took it, pressing himself into your side as if you were conjoined by hips, leaning down with a smile as he continued to babble on and on.
The fact Phainon was clingy was nothing new to you, though you wondered just how far his affections could stretch. You didn’t see him attaching himself to any other of his friends. But alright. You could bear it.
(Maybe dromases weren’t the attraction he was seeking out, after all.)
“Aww, look at this big guy.” You cooed, reaching to nuzzle the creature’s nose.
It made a deep sound of satisfaction in response, stuffing its large head against your tiny-looking (at least in comparison) palm, as if asking for more pets. Phainon stood beside, patting the dromas’ leg.
“They’re quite sweet, aren’t they?” He hummed, handing out another piece of food.
The animal quickly snatched it from his hand, giving an unexpected lick to Phainon’s face. Well, at least you think it tried to, but its big tongue swiped across the entirety of his head. A loud laugh left you as you observed the man’s expression twist in dismay — the drool made the side of his hair stick up, and at some point you had to wipe off tears from cackling so hard.
Phainon chuckled a little under his breath too, but mostly just blushed in embarrassment, quickly trying to get rid of the dromas’ slobber with a napkin. You decided to help the poor thing, wiping him with your own handkerchief and adjusting the tousled locks.
And as you attempted to make Phainon’s hairstyle look somewhat presentable, one of the caretakers strolled over to your pair.
“Oh, Lord Phainon! It’s been so long since we’ve had you here.”
Your eyes flicked over to a man of rather old age, nursing a basket close to his chest, and a rake in his free hand. Truthfully, you hoped no one would bother you today.
“Yes, I know. I’d visit, were I not so busy all the time.” Phainon smiled politely in response, stepping back when the dromas continued to nudge at him, nipping at the two strands of hair stemming from the top of his head.
“And who that might be?”
Two pairs of eyes locked on you, making you immediately school a kind expression. You meant not to frown earlier, but controlling the whims of your eyebrows and mouth always came quite hard.
“I’m—“
“Ah, [Name]?” Phainon cut into your sentence, draping an arm around your shoulders. “She’s my significant other. Isn’t she precious?”
The forced smile on your lips faltered, and for a good second, you were sure you heard that wrong.
But no. When you looked at Phainon, completely disoriented, he merely tightened his hold on you. Your mind screamed at you, signifying something was so obviously wrong, and yet all you could do was stand there like a statue. Why did he call you that? Was he really so detached? Or sick?
Phainon was a little confused, you tried to reason with yourself desperately. You know that, and you remember how distressed he was when you spoke with him not so long ago. The human mind can undergo significant psychological strain when subjected to pressure, especially in environments where the stakes are high. And the man was crushed underneath the burdens at all times.
Maybe one of them — be it aiding everyone, or countless hours spent risking his life — finally caused his psyche to crash. He formulated a delusion to help him keep afloat; so, in his thoughts, you are in a relationship. At least that’s what you can deduce.
Still, that doesn’t really explain anything. Sure, Phainon was troubled, but it’s not an excuse to say untruthful things about you. And while you wished to serve as his anchor, the image of him abusing that privilege caused your bones to stiffen with a frigid, uncanny feeling.
“…Excuse me?”
The caretaker glanced between you two, perhaps a little consternated by your cold tone of voice.
“Oh, in that case, congratulations.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “It’s good to see young people in love, especially in such terrible times.”
“I am not his girlfriend!” You cut in, real nerves starting to gnaw at your stomach.
When you attempted to wriggle away from Phainon’s hold, he hardened it, the sensation smothering. Your eyes flickered over to him, almost panicked, but he wasn’t even looking at you.
“My apologies.” Phainon said, tone still eerily polite. “She’s just a little shy, you see.”
You bristled internally, trying not to snap at him in public. It was awful. Absolutely, unimaginably awful. Against your need to simply stomp on Phainon’s boot and shake him off, you stood there, still somewhat unable to process what was going on.
The other man, seeing how tense the atmosphere got, exchanged a few words with Phainon before finally departing. You could see the confusion on his face as he turned, holding on the rakes a bit too tight. Even the dromases stopped bothering you. Everything seemed to hold its breath in, pausing, like the world itself couldn’t grasp what just unfolded.
And when the moment of silence passed, you immediately pushed him away.
“The hell was that?” You seethed, taking a few steps back to create a respectable distance.
Phainon’s eyebrows narrowed. He bit on his lower lip, and some vivid distress passed through his irises, though you ignored it rather pointedly.
“[Name], I don't understand.” He spoke, hand reaching out in your direction. You swatted at it harshly. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” You echoed, barking out a ridiculed laugh. “You’re telling people something that’s not true! Do you realize how humiliating this is?”
When your friend’s expression fell, you were close to feeling guilty. Maybe you should be the bigger person here and calmly explain that lying about things of such nature is not in your range of tolerance. But you were just a human, and the irritation successfully clouded your better judgement.
“Wait— don’t be mad. I just… I thought it’d make you happy to see that people know how close we are.”
You took another step backwards, almost bumping into the trough. Strong wind started to rush by, causing hair to fly into your mouth, and carrying an unpleasant smell coming from somewhere. The need to puke was overwhelming.
“No. This isn’t closeness.” You retaliated, joints trembling. “And we’ve never established anything, so I suppose you simply made it up.”
Phainon’s fringe obscured his eyes, and he made quick work of pushing it back, as if losing sight of you for even a second was already too much. His eyes flickered nervously, one hand stopping in his locks to tug at them.
It was obvious he was starting to lose his ground. The man’s chest heaved, all remnants of composure fading when you turned on your heel to walk off, already fed up.
“I didn’t mean to upset you!” Phainon called. “I just— I just wanted everyone to see what I see!”
You didn’t look back. “Then you don’t really see me at all!”
He made no move to run after you. His feet remained planted into the ground as you left the dromas’ pen, and you were thankful for the small mercy.
Still, even though you were angered beyond belief, your conscience berated you for treating Phainon so coldly. He was your friend. Yes, he did say something upsetting, but it’s not like it was unforgivable. While you felt betrayed, he must’ve felt this way, too. At least you think so.
No matter how hard you tried convincing yourself that he was in the wrong, and not you, it wasn’t working. Phainon’s face — the younger version of himself — crept into your mind. You remember how genuinely cheerful he used to be. Not innocent, not anymore, but pure in the way he kept by your side.
The visage of you two, crouching on the pavement together and talking in hushed voices, obscured the need to stay angry. Because Phainon was your friend. Your best one. Harboring odium toward such a miserable soul wouldn’t bring you any satisfaction, nor relief.
You’ll give him some space. And when enough time passes, you’ll return to him, and resolve everything. For now, though, you’ll keep your distance. It’ll be better this way.
Is a week, so seven days, a long time? Perhaps not. Not for you, at least, but for others it may be different.
This is exactly the reason why your teleslate was blowing up, constantly, without any break. When another message from Phainon popped on the screen, you thought to simply throw the thing into trash.
At first, it started out inconspicuously. One text in the morning, one in the evening. You could tolerate that. Then, the calling. Every single time, you pressed the red button, fuming at how shameless Phainon must’ve been to keep on tormenting you this way.
Then, it changed into genuine flood. As things stood, you could see over ninety nine messages sitting impatiently in your inbox, their count going up and up. Estimating their amount wasn’t hard, for you got about two per hour. Well, more or less. Sometimes your teleslate wouldn’t stop pinging with the insistent onslaught, and you had to put it in another room, else you’d go crazy with the repetitive sound of notifications.
You didn’t understand. Curses, you didn’t even want to. Truly, what made you so significant for Phainon to bother you restlessly? Didn’t he have a life? Imagining his coworkers having to put up with him, nose-deep into the screen of his teleslate was somewhat ludicrous. Mydei must’ve been livid. What if instead of sparring with him, Phainon was sitting aimlessly on the training grounds, constantly chiming: just one second, before typing you another message? You don’t want to feel guilty, but you can’t help it.
And honestly, you thought to talk to Phainon sooner. Three or four days of no contact would’ve been sufficient, just enough to gather your scattered feelings and mold them into a sensible conclusion. However, your pettiness didn’t allow you.
Not when he kept on being such a nuisance. Seriously, at some point your poor teleslate began to lag with the sheer amount of incoming messages and calls. So, there was only one logical thing left to do: leave Phainon hanging.
There were times when you simply couldn’t meet, but usually, you resolved it by seeing each other on the street. A routine of normalcy. Him running up to you, and you pausing whatever you were doing to indulge the man. Short small talk here and there, but both of you were sated.
Now you avoided Phainon like wildfire. Whenever you left your house, pointedly ignoring the stacked bouquets with I’m sorry, please take me in! written down on the attached cards, you took lengthy precautions to miss the familiar face.
Truth be told, it was miraculous that he somehow didn’t catch you. With how hellbent Phainon seemed on regaining your favor, it was weird he wasn’t constantly seeking you out as well. Still, he had his duties, and for that you were grateful, because apparently they blocked his path of bothering you even in real life.
Anyway, on the seventh day, the texting stopped. You were prepared to wake up to an already buzzing teleslate, though all you were met with was radio silence.
While you were happy Phainon finally gave it a rest, something about it unsettled you. The obsessive flood of messages suddenly disappearing was odd — not like you cared, not in particular. But the fact remained.
(Before you moved closer to the center of Okhema, you and your parents lived in a more desolate area. Fields stretched endlessly, covered with the lush greenery and winding paths.)
(You remember standing at the edge of the meadow, hands still damp from drawing water from the river. The air was restless all day, tossing leaves and dust into a whirlpool of spirals, rattling windows and loose bells attached to your fences. But then, the wind dropped. Even the sparrows, so insolent with their chatter, seemingly vanished into the overcast sky.)
(Nothing. It was as if some greater being held their very breath, silencing everything. Not a rustle of the trees, or the faintest buzz of insects. Even your own heartbeat felt too loud.)
(Somewhere between the hills, there must’ve been a movement. The kind that leaves you frozen, like a child, lost amidst the woods. You could almost feel it pressing against the horizon, waiting for the right moment to spill and engulf all with its claws of deliberate fear.)
(The storm came soon after.)
It was late. You don’t know the exact hour, but the weariness in your bones indicated it. Around midnight, perhaps. It mattered little, for your disturbed rest caused a bigger problem than assessing the time.
Since Phainon decided to stop filling your teleslate’s inbox with messages, you thought to sleep with it next to your head. It was a bad habit, you knew of it. Still, the sense of having some sort of a communication device close was soothing. If anything happened, you could make quick work of calling for help.
But, as it turns out, you might have overestimated your friend’s resolve. There was one ping. Then another. Before you even roused fully, your teleslate began ringing, filling your ears with the annoyingly cheerful tune.
At first, your instinct was to throw it out of the window. A foolish act, but to your halfway asleep mind, it was utterly reasonable. You could just grab it from the grass patch in the morning, and you’d get a good night's sleep.
Alas, some reason dawned upon your dazed state. Why would Phainon call you this late? Sure, he seemed to love doing this whenever given the chance, but never did he ring you during the night. What if he needed your help? You fought recently, but it didn’t mean you’d leave him in the times of need.
Against your frustration, you swatted your hand around, finally grabbing the teleslate. Once you opened your eyes, you got temporarily blinded by the bright screen, having to squint. Without any further ado, you picked up, wanting to get over with it.
“Hello?”
“[Name].” Phainon said, somewhat breathless. The sound of his voice came out slightly muffled. “Oh, I’m so glad you picked up… Did I wake you?”
You have to admit, deep inside, you might have missed hearing him talk. Still, there was an undeniable tension threaded through his tone, which caused you to wonder. Was he feeling unwell?
“It’s late. Is something wrong?”
The man let out a strained laugh. “No… I just— I just wanted to hear you.”
Truthfully, you expected him to drown you in an onslaught of queries and maybe even insults. That’s what you’d do, at least. Putting yourself in his shoes was kind of hard, but you can imagine how distressed Phainon must’ve been for the past week. The fact he didn’t even try to question your constant ignoring was odd.
And why did he even want to hear you?
“At this hour?” You asked quietly, reaching to rub your eyes.
There was a rustle coming from your teleslate. Soft, irregular. It made you wince.
“Yeah. Just… talk to me. Please?”
Phainon’s pleading caused you to sigh, giving in. “What do you want me to say?”
A long pause stretched between you before Phainon managed to answer, and honestly, you thought he forgot about your existence.
“Anything.” He rasped, breaths uneven. “I don’t care. Your day, your… Whatever. I just need to hear you.”
Your sleep-fogged mind slowly began to sober up as you tried recalling anything interesting. But your days have been a blur of monotony, and it came hard.
“Well, today was busy. Nothing special. It was hot out, though I’m sure you know that.”
He probably aimed to answer, but all that left his throat was a shaky sound. Like an exhale, cut off suddenly without much reason, and followed by a sharp intake of air.
Unease started to overtake your senses.
“Are you okay?” You muttered, tone unsure.
Phainon hummed meekly. “Yeah… Yeah. Keep going.”
“Uh…” You paused, feeling your feet catch on the tangled sheets. His voice sounded so thin, like he was far away from himself, and it stirred something unpleasant in your gut. “The festival’s coming up again soon. It’s hard to believe it’s been almost a year.”
Another laugh. “Mhm… Last year…”
He stopped mid-sentence, causing a rustling, muffled noise to grace your ears once more. Then, he pushed on.
“You looked so beautiful that night,” Phainon whined out. “I think about it a lot, [Name]. About you. Always, always—“
Then, it no longer sounded like he was just innocently talking with you. The way his voice cracked, turning into a prolonged sound might have indicated only a couple of things — and the steadily growing realization was beyond flustering.
An unbearably hot feeling crept onto your whole face, and it was far from pleasant. You gripped your sheets, finger itching over the red button.
“…What are you doing?” You cut into the nonsensical rambling Phainon went on, babbling about whatever bullshit he came up with.
His breath obviously hitched. “Nothing. Only listening. I like hearing you talk— your voice.” He stammered, a little too quickly. “Just… stay with me, alright?”
The words felt like a grip on your chest.
“I’m going to sleep.” You said, attempting to rein in your nerves.
“No,” Phainon forced out shakily. “No, not yet. Please, [Name]. Just a little longer, keep talking, ple—”
Beep, beep, beep.
Wide-eyed, you stared at the screen of your teleslate, lower lip trembling. You simply couldn’t bear it anymore.
It was too much. What Phainon was doing — probably for the entire time while on call with you — was obvious, and in that moment, you wished to close your eyes and pass out.
The fact was abstract. Nothing made sense, and you felt similarly to your younger self, confused when the teacher told you to interpret some painting. You remember looking at the paint strokes, squinting. In your opinion, it looked like nether. Red and black and deep navy melting into one, creating something straight up hellish.
And you let it drag for far too long — all actions have their consequences. Could you really blame Phainon, when at the end of the day, it was you leading him by the nose?
A small voice in the back of your mind told you yes. You can put the blame on him. Perhaps you even should. After all, he was the one acting deluded, so completely different from who he used to be. He was no longer the sweet boy who’d bring sugar for the ants, or carry you on his back whenever you got too tired.
But, who are you trying to fool? Sure, Phainon overstepped what logic there was left between you. The concrete line blurred with each passing day, his own fingers smudging it like chalk.
And you weren’t better, for you were keeping him on that leash of longing, happy with how he’d obediently indulge your every whim. Every want. All the attention and love aimed at you was like fuel. Why you needed it so much was unknown to you — be it your parents passing, or lack of stable interpersonal connections. But you craved it, and the sight of that revered man ready to rip his own veins for you was fulfilling. For you, he hid his strength. For you, he used those God-slaughtering hands in the gentlest way.
You were selfish, and there was something terrible hiding in the darkness of your room. Perhaps a reflection of your tar-like heart. When you squinted hard enough, you could see it grinning back.
Some things aren’t meant to be. It’s as simple as that.
The start of your day was honestly awful. You woke with a headache, pounding at the back of your eyes terribly. When you thought to catch some fresh air, you stepped out, only to see those countless bouquets Phainon left at your doorstep soaked with rain water. Disgruntled, you picked them up, ready to throw into the trash can. Their petals clung to your light-colored stone at the front door, and something released its artificial color, staining everything around. So, not only were you suffering physically, but now you also had to clean up.
And there were also the events of last night. They sat firmly at the bottom of your brain, reminding you of what occurred whenever you tried to focus. At some point you thought to let it go, but then you remembered how distraught you were with everything.
Phainon was a dedicated man, his devotion obscuring any sense. He’d do it again, given the chance. Or commit something even worse. Were you not to confront him about that, you’d leave the gates open wide for his unseeming behaviors. You couldn’t allow it.
In the afternoon, you rushed to his house, knocking feverishly at the door. When no one opened, you rattled them. Frustrated, you deduced he must’ve been away, so you stormed off. People were giving you weird looks. Sure, no one would be bold enough to quite literally bang at the doors of a Chrysos Heir, but it’s not like you’ve suddenly grown two heads!
So, you went there later. Still nothing. You thought to break the window and seat yourself on his couch, but that would probably be too much. Though, you have to admit, Phainon’s expression would’ve been priceless. Oh, if only you could snap a picture of him getting all startled and post it. Petty, yes. But so worth it.
Anyway, you weren’t the one to give up easily. When the sky got darker, you decided to try for the last time. With an already exhausted mind, you left your place once more, legs quickly carrying you over to Phainon’s house.
For what it’s worth, you were clever enough to prepare yourself for the most likely unpleasant encounter — you formulated all conversation starters and possible outcomes, coupling it with what exactly you wanted to communicate. You broke your head over it for the entire day, but perhaps it wasn’t for nothing.
Still, it did little to ease your nervousness. Once you stood at the door, a lump formed in your throat, and you found yourself struggling to gather courage. You willed your knuckles to knock, the sound coming out dull. Upon no response, you tried again and again.
Finally, your stressed mind told you to simply grab the handle and try entering. It’s not like you’re breaking in, right? Knowing Phainon, he’d be overjoyed to see you come in unannounced.
Surprisingly, the door actually opened. Slowly, you invited yourself in, glancing around the space of the vestibule. By the narrow, low bench stood his combat boots, messily thrown to the side. So, he was home, after all.
With another few steps, you went into the corridor, scanning both the living room and kitchen branching off into two separate ways. No sight of the man. Lights were off, and for a second, you almost convinced yourself that Phainon wasn’t even there — but, really, he wouldn’t leave the house barefoot.
Well, there was only one option left. Not caring enough to keep your steps quiet, you mustered up any confidence, trudging over to the bedroom. There was a minimal sound of another person’s footfall, and so, you pushed the door open.
And there he was, in all of his glory. Phainon stood before you, one hand outstretched, as if he was ready to open the door, too. Unsurprisingly, he seemed taken aback by your presence.
The next thing that caught your eye was that portrait you and him commissioned some time ago. You don’t remember Phainon ever mentioning it any further, but it hung proudly above his bed, being the only ornament in the whole room. It appeared uncanny, contrasting with the heavily decorated space outside.
(For a brief second, you wondered if he actually kneels in front of it, like some kind of devotee, and stares at your perfectly recreated face.)
“Oh, [Name].” Phainon breathed, his frozen silhouette snapping into life and stepping aside to let you in. “Goodness, I haven’t seen you in such a long time.”
Seeing him move to encircle his arms around you, you immediately eluded the touch, backing yourself further into the bedroom.
“Don’t.” You murmured, eyebrows narrowing. “We need to talk.”
The man blinked, as if confused. “About what?”
Oh, and now he wanted to play clueless? Phainon could put up an innocent act, you knew of it better than anyone else. Alas, the sharp glint in his eyes always betrayed the feigned facade.
“About everything. All the things that you’ve been doing, all the boundaries you shamelessly breached—”
“For example?” He cut in, tone still guiltless.
The amounts of Phainon’s audacity were genuinely shocking. You gritted your teeth, trying to stick to the scenario you curated earlier.
“I… I know what you’ve been doing on that call with me.”
His expression faltered, just a bit. “I’m not following.”
Irritation came close to your throat, threatening to tug at your vocal cords and let out the most vicious insults known to man, for his defiance angered you, perhaps, more than the act of indulging upon his carnal desires itself. But in the eyes of such a deluded person, words probably mattered little. You could tell him to go to hell, and he’d say he wishes you’d go there with him.
“You’re disgusting.”
Phainon’s lips parted, a genuine flash of hurt passing through his face. He looked around the abnormally empty room, slightly panicked irises ultimately locking back on yours.
“But I wanted—”
“Well, what?” You interrupted harshly. “What did you want to accomplish by—”
“[Name], you do not understand—”
“Did you seriously think I wouldn’t notice? You deem me foolish?”
“No, I— I just needed you, what is so hard to understand about it? I need you, always, because—”
“Stop it! You’re acting like a goddamn child! Only taking, taking—”
“But you felt it too!”
“Me? Feeling whatever nonsense you came up with? Don’t make me—”
“You said you loved me, didn’t you?”
This caused you to pause. The whole conversation didn’t go as planned, and at some point you threw your resolutions out of the window, forgetting about keeping things demure.
And now, Phainon was suggesting you loved him. It wasn’t completely untrue, because you cherished him as a friend, knowing that he would let you look at him however you wanted, and he’d still stay. You just didn’t know it would escalate into such a disagreement.
What consequences are there when you break an already tormented heart? People who went through hell may not be swayed by what surrounds them, for they’ve seen and felt worse. Analogically, they could finally snap. There’s only so much one can bear.
“I never said such a thing.” You retaliated, voice rising again. “How can you treat me with so little respect, when all I did was show you kindness? I’ve never done anything to you! You don’t care about my feelings, you act like I’m some possession to play with!”
“But I do love you!” Phainon said, tone cracking in half. “Do you not see?”
Yes, you could see it clearly enough. The way undeniable devotion filled his sad eyes to the brim, threatening to spill out. But there is a thin line between so-called devotion and obsession, and Phainon seemed to be dancing on its edge for the majority of your rekindled friendship.
And it made you angry. Looking at Phainon with such dismay never crossed your mind up until now. You simply can’t understand him. You can’t. It’s not possible — where did you go wrong? In what place did your foot slip, causing you to tumble into him? What sparked this unwelcome feeling?
Standing in front of this picture, you’ve come to realize that ultimately, you never harbored much compassion for him. There were times when you felt bad, but those moments were shallow. Something you liked to dip your ankles in, relishing in how good of a friend you must’ve been, always caring for his feelings. It was fueled by nostalgia and old affections. This Phainon, however, appeared like a distant concept you’ve dreamt of. Nothing to bother yourself too deeply with. He’ll stay by your side like a loyal mutt anyway, won’t he?
Perhaps, this exact lack of empathy, might have been your greatest mistake and greatest punishment.
“Well, I don’t love you! I never loved you, you hear me?” You snapped, palms landing on his shoulders to give him a rough shove.
And you didn’t expect Phainon to actually sway with your movement, because he was like a boulder in comparison to your frail wrists, but he dropped to one knee. Stunned, or in a bout of sudden weakness. You didn’t know. All you could do was watch him huff in surprise, blue irises fixed on the floor.
Something in him seemed to deflate, as if your words took the oxygen out of his lungs, forcing his breath to hitch in short bursts. Phainon lifted his head slowly, confusion etched deep into his face, like he couldn’t reconcile you standing over him with the version of yourself he had in his mind.
For a second, you thought the man might lunge. But no. He stayed on the ground, one hand splayed against wooden panels, the other hanging loose. Phainon’s eyes frantically traced your face as if he was searching for a line to hold on to — anything to prove you didn’t mean what you said.
Despite everything, you started to feel overexposed. Like you were the one on the floor, and not him. Did you hurt him? You didn’t mean to, no, it was just a shove. Why was he acting like that?
Instinctively, you took a step backwards, followed by another. Before you even knew it, the back of your knees hit the bed frame, causing you to accidentally stumble and drop on the mattress.
As you tried lifting yourself up, Phainon immediately closed the distance between you. On his hands and knees, he crawled impossibly closer, expression despaired — his fingers gripped your exposed calves, nails catching on the flesh uncomfortably. The man held you firmly in place, causing you to panic.
“H-hey, what’re—”
“I’m sorry.” He interrupted, voice breaking. “I’ll never— I didn’t mean—“
You pushed at Phainon, trying to pull back when the sensation of him squeezing your legs became too much. “Let go!”
He shook his head, insistently pressing his forehead to your knees. A dreadful feeling pounded in your heart as you tried to reason what was going on. How did this once respectable person fall so low?
“No— please, please, don’t leave me. I can change. I’ll be what you want. Anything you want.”
“Stop talking like this…!”
“I’m so sorry, I was stupid, I was lonely— I won’t do it again.”
The way Phainon’s nails dug into your body was probably leaving crescent marks behind, and all the words rolling off his tongue like an avalanche caused the air in your lungs to go heavy.
Upon receiving a pained breath from you, the man merely looked up with wide, misty eyes, emotions rimmed at the edges and threatening to overflow. He pressed himself even further, nudging his chin between your knees.
“I love you,” he continued once you didn’t respond, wet lips tracing your skin. “Tell me, [Name]. I’m begging you, just say what to fix.”
You tried kicking, yet it was futile. Phainon ignored how your fingers tangled in his fair locks, yanking aggressively. It was as if he was an unfaltering obstacle, whatever breakage in his mind causing the vision to narrow on one goal. You.
“Are you deaf?” You questioned, though your voice was no longer loud. It faltered, fading off.
Phainon grabbed your hand when you tried swinging it at him, and you couldn’t move it, even if his grip wasn’t overly hard.
In that moment, you understood he didn’t wish to bring you harm — the man could easily hurl you on the floor, knocking you out with an effortless hit. And yet, the more you thrashed, the more distraught his expression got. Like he was already pitying you, though you don’t know the reason why.
“Teach me how to love you better. Please.” Phainon whined pathetically, unconsciously squashing your hand. “Please, let me.”
The action made you groan, and you lifted one of your feet to shove it into his underbelly, but all you got met with was a wall of muscle. There was absolutely no change on his face.
“No— no, what is wrong with you?” You choked out, slowly beginning to grasp just how hopeless your current situation is.
What caused Phainon to slip into such a mental state? What? Was he always like this, secretly demented and masking his crazed self with a docile image? Or maybe it were your words, pushing him over the edge?
Sure, you always thought of him as pathetic. Now you can say that with confidence, ridden of the guilt admitting it would bring you earlier on. Lacking in self respect, treating you like you hung the stars for him. But never did you deem him this far gone.
Your eyes snapped back into focus when the man tugged your hand closer to his lips, hot breath fanning against your joints.
“I’ll do anything for you, [Name].”
To your horror, he actually licked you. Not a kiss, nor anything relatively normal in this already abstract situation. You could clearly feel and see it, the way Phainon lapped at you. A strained sound left your lips as your fingers clenched, like you were ready to claw his very eyes out, but that only granted more access for his tongue.
“You always said how you loved dogs.” He panted, a twitching smile stretching his lips. “Didn’t you?”
Another lick, leaving a stripe of slobber between your fingers.
“I could bark for you,” the man continued, “or I’ll stay quiet. But please, [Name]— please don’t abandon—”
Something snapped in you. You slapped Phainon across the face, hard enough for his head to jerk to the side. The waterfall of his words immediately got cut off by a hitching gasp, and you pushed him off with all your might, backing out towards the door.
He simply crouched there. A red mark bloomed on his face. Your hand itched from the impact.
Phainon never wanted to hurt you. And you weren’t the same. Perhaps that is the most prominent difference between you. Despite all, you weren’t as good. You bite the one that hurts you, and you expose your fangs in a snarl when all he can do is to wish you reciprocated his unconditional love.
You observed his form, the way he just stared at you, wide-eyed and unblinking, as if trying to process what happened. Then, Phainon’s mouth parted, a small breath escaping him. His brows pinched upwards, not in anger, but in something childlike; like the bewilderment that you could ever actually hit him was too much to bear.
Tears started rolling down his cheeks without a warning. Disbelieving, you watched them fall quickly, one after another — and his shoulders hunched down, a feeble whimper slipping away.
A quiet sob filled your ears, but there was no space for pity in your heart. Not when Phainon started getting on his feet, alarm bells ringing in your head, loud with urgency. He moved in a certain way, his posture shifting. And so, you took two steps back before spinning on your heel, and bolting down the corridor.
The hallway felt way too narrow when you ran, and something in your heart told you it was no use. Your feet struck the ground in quick thuds, an awful sting burning at your lungs.
You could sense Phainon behind. He was always exceptional in the way he could control his body, yet now, all that you heard was uneven pounding of someone gaining speed through sheer desperation. Perhaps you were the delusional one, thinking you could lose him.
Genuine fear burst with ugly colors in your chest as you turned the corner, shoulder clumsily catching against some antique vase. The exit doors were so close. Your body practically smashed against them as you tugged at the handle, swinging them open.
Then, Phainon grabbed your wrist, harshly yanking you backwards. A yelp escaped your mouth as you struggled in his hold, trepidation obscuring any logic left within your erratic mind.
No. It simply couldn’t have been happening.
Your head snapped to face him, and you panted, teeth grinding so hard you thought your incisors would crack.
He was breathing heavily as well, face red from all the crying and sprinting after you. In the twins of blue, you swear you saw the reflection of your terrified self, but the gentle gust of wind caused Phainon’s fringe to partially cover them.
“No! Don’t do this!” The man pleaded, tone rising with undeniable panic.
You thrashed ferociously. “Go away, Phainon!”
“You’re all I want!” He cut in, tugging. “You’re all I have!”
“Go away!”
“Please— please! You can’t—”
A scream ripped from your throat, for you hoped that maybe someone would hear the despaired wails, and intervene. Phainon instantly reacted, pressing his palm against your mouth so hard you stumbled into the wall, knees almost giving out.
A shaky exhale left through your nose, and all you could do was heave, trying not to break down.
“Don’t go.”
The air smells like approaching summer.
“Please… I’ll be good, I promise—”
Phainon’s bone-crushing grip, bruising around one of your wrists is beyond painful. Eyes of a beaten animal stare into you, as if begging not to pull the rifle’s trigger.
“I’ll be good.”
And when you’re two meters underground, with worms eating at your brain, they will certainly get visions of him. They will feel how softly his fingers used to cradle you, and hear the sweet sound of his voice. They will experience revelations and horrors beyond their comprehension.
