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stardustbee · 10 days ago

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Hai, haiii~

Here you go, the most requested profile by far! That being said, I sincerely hope that this piece in particular lives up to everyone's hopes. Enjoy the feast! (≖ᴗ≖ ✿)

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CONTENT WARNINGS INCLUDE: Dark content (dead dove), cisfem!Reader, the general stuff that comes with yandere content (possessiveness, obsessiveness, imprisonment...), one bone breaking, (a lot of) forced non-schmexual touching, manipulation, a little blood, manhandling, pet names, NONCON, coercion, overstim, rope, fingering, oral on reader, brief anal, manhandling, the ult form, rough and feral boombayah, he's horny as shit, praise, size kink, marks, pet names.

Disclaimers can be found in my pinned post. The template is heavily inspired by @/cinnamonest!

S-FW

˗ˏˋ ★ 1. General look: How are they like? How do they behave around the darling? Are there any warning signs?

”Phainon of Aedes Elysiae”, he introduces himself to you.

Obviously, you know who the guy is. Even if you were drunk out of your mind on mead, you would be able to recite his full name from the top of your head. Though, you can’t help but think that for him to still greet you like a new acquaintance is sort of an endearing gesture — or it would be, if you weren’t pretty sure that he just pushed you over on purpose.

You’re a bit bemused by the entire situation. One second, you were walking down the street without a care in the world, and the next, none other than the snow-haired Chrysos Heir has ”bumped” into you and sent both you and your grocery bag flying to the side of the bustling road. You could pass it off as being an accident if it wasn’t for the fact that you saw him eyeing you for a good while before he essentially sprinted at you. You thought it was strange; there should be no reason for someone of his status to show any interest in a regular dweller such as yourself, but apparently, the guy takes pleasure in bothering your kind.

For an uncomfortably long moment, you’re unable to get a single word out as you watch how your fresh loaf of bread rolls along the cobblestone pavement and stops at a random passer-by’s feet. Not only has your food gone to waste, but the incident has attracted a lot of attention from the onlookers, and you feel countless pairs of eyes on your back.

You look at your lap, then at him, then back at your lap. There’s a piece of debris stuck in your hair, and it’s dangling at the top edge of your field of view. Your clothes have been soiled by bright red pomegranate juice, the bottle of which now lies in a million pieces beside you. Countless shards of razor-sharp glass swim in the sweet-smelling puddle, and so do your arms after having landed right on your elbows. Looking at the slightly darker shade of liquid leaking through the gaps between your fingers, you become aware of how your left hand throbs with pain. As you bring the limb to your face, you spot the deep, three-inch gash that travels from your wrist to the root of your index finger and the piece of glass that sticks out of the skin. Without thinking, you pick the shard out, only to have more blood trickle out of the wound.

The culprit, Phainon, is on your side without a second’s delay. In his boyish, upbeat voice, he starts rambling about how ”he’s so sorry”, ”he didn’t mean it”, ”it’s his bad”, before they turn into ”ah, you’re hurt!”, ”oh no, your hand!” and ”hold on, let me see!”. The performance is so believable that you have to wonder if you’ve somehow ended up in one of those prank shows with a hidden teleslate recording you somewhere. Invading your personal space without a single bit of hesitation, one of his hands rubs up and down on your juice-stained shoulder while the other cradles your injured limb like it was about to fall off. Whatever words were on your tongue die out the second he suddenly weaves his fingers through your hair, picking out the piece of trash with way too much skin-to-skin contact for your comfort.

Being much too stunned to speak, you don’t exactly fight him when he slides one of his arms on the underside of your knees and the other around your upper back, paying very little mind to how the sticky liquid covering your skin dirties his pure white overcoat. Too much is happening in a way too short of a time, and instead of giving the guy a piece of your mind for his zealous behaviour, you only yelp out in surprise as he picks you up from the sidewalk like you were a damsel in distress. He packs a ridiculous amount of strength for how gentle he appears: He hoists you up and into the air as if you were made of feathers.

As your mind finally catches up with the situation, you plant the palm of your intact hand on the side of his face, demanding that he puts you down this instant, but instead of listening to your complaints, he cuts you off: ”Hey, it’s okay, I don’t mind at all!” he reassures you, as if he didn’t understand the actual sentiment behind your words. You glare at him like his words were the most ludicrous thing you have ever heard, but even so, he merely tilts his head to the side and gives you a bright smile.

Under the judgmental eye of the crowd, he whisks you away, caring very little about how you flail your legs and try to get him to put you down. The mess you made on the street is left to be cleaned up by somebody other than you as the man makes his way out of the site of crime, disappearing into a back alley with you in his arms.

He carries you to some remote corner not far from the Chartonus Smithy. There, he sets you down on a wide railing, making sure you’re able to find your balance before he lets go of your body. Immediately, you start questioning him, spouting out queries at a speed that leaves no room for him to chime in at all. At this point, your best guesses are that either you have somehow done something worthy of the Heirs having to step in, or alternatively, the man has lost his mind in the span of a single night: Just the other day, you saw him going on about his business like normal, entertaining a bunch of older ladies with his sword tricks and whatnot.

You’re interrupted by the screeching sound of fabric being torn. You look down just in time to see him rip a strip of silk off of his dark blue cloak. He then buffs out his chest in a sort of charming show of confidence before grabbing your arm. With a smile on his face, he ties the piece of cloth around your injured hand, wrapping the wound up and finishing the work up with a neat bow at the top.

”There, all better”, he beams at you, reaching for your head to presumably pat it, but you duck away from the gesture, dodging his touch before he can land it. Still feeling like somebody might jump out from behind the corner to yell ”ha-ha, you fell for it” at any second, you shake your head in discontentment. You pull your hand to your chest with your brows knitted together. Just as you’re about to open your mouth, things get even more bewildering.

Out of nowhere, he smiles fondly at you before making an incredibly ill-timed attempt at wooing you: ”Forgive me for being so direct, but I’m kind of distracted by your beauty, heh”, he says, rubbing the back of his head, acting as if he were the male lead in a sappy romance series. Then, right after, he has the audacity to suggest a round at the market: He could make up for the groceries he ruined, and you could stroll around with him for a bit, he suggests! What do you say?

Your jaw falls ajar. With all the thoughts that are swimming through your head, you’re only able to mumble out a single word. ”No...?”, the answer comes out as more of a question than a resolute rejection. You look at him, down at your hand, back at him, and in the same breath, you mutter a ”sorry, I gotta go”. You hop off the railing and head in the direction you came from. Behind you, you hear him draw in a gasp of air as if he’s about to say something, but ultimately, he doesn’t end up shouting after you — the odd encounter ends in equally confusing manner as it began.

Well, that didn’t go as planned, is what’s going through Phainon’s mind. He gazes at how your silhouette grows smaller and smaller as you make your way back to the main street. With his torn cloak still in his hand, he wonders if your first proper meeting did more harm than good.

”Proper” in the sense that he has been going after you for quite a while now. You’re a tiny bit too imperceptive for your own good, you know. He doesn’t think you’ve ever managed to catch him eyeing you until today: Truth to be told, pretending to bump into you was a split-second decision, and he realizes now that he got a little too excited. He seems to have driven you away from him, somewhat.

The moment he saw you a month or so ago, he knew in his fragmented soul that you were the one for him. In the millions of cycles he has gone through, no people have managed to capture his interest in the way you have. It’s love at first sight, he insists to himself: You’re the cutest, prettiest, most amazing thing he has ever laid his eyes upon! The way you move, the melody of your voice, your colourful personality — what is there not to like? He would be a fool not to fall in love with such a person. Finally, finally, he has found something that he really, truly wants to have all to himself!

His relationship with his own emotions is warped, somewhat. While he still holds onto what little humanity he has left in him, simultaneously, he’s aware that the feelings he holds towards you aren’t exactly at the healthiest end of the spectrum. Yes, he recognizes the initial awe and excitement, but if he were to dive any deeper, he would find a much more sinister side of himself. As much as he likes to lie to himself and say that his psyche doesn’t suffer from a specific kind of deterioration, it's not the truth: Things look much more black and white to him than they are in reality. There is only either-or when it comes to you — either he has you completely, or he doesn’t have you at all. There’s no in between.

His. He wants something to be completely and utterly his. Something that can’t be taken away from him; not by the Black Tide, not by Nanook, not by anything in the entire cosmos. In a world where everything nice and warm has been ripped out of his bloodstained hands, you’re the one, singular thing he decides he’s never going to let go of.

He didn’t have a thought-out plan at the beginning, but now that the two of you have officially met, he starts considering his next course of action. He understands that you weren’t thrilled about his initial approach, but instead of moving on, he only tries harder. In a way, he entertains a girlfriend fantasy of you in his head. He sees the world through rose-hued lenses when it comes to you: Everything you do is cute, elegant, pretty, mesmerizing, and so on, and somehow, he twists it in his head that your rejection isn’t actually a hard no. Similarly, whatever you do is somehow directed at him, in his mind: Oh, you dressed nice today, it must be because you know he’s looking at you, and that sort of thing.

He starts ”running into you” more often, to the point that he can see on your face that you’re not buying his excuses. The first time after your initial meeting, he catches you at the market and offers to pay for your purchases — you know, to make up for the last time? It’s less of an offer and more of a demand, though, and despite your protests, you end up with a huge pack of free groceries in your arms. The next time, he appears at your job’s doorstep when you’re leaving work, a bouquet of flowers in his hands, offering to take you home. It’s out of sheer luck that there are almost no people around, because you’re not sure if you could take the public humiliation of having to turn down the beloved Chrysos Heir’s advances in front of an audience — again. Even as you put up a serious front and tell him that "he needs to stop with all of this", something in his expression tells you that he doesn’t exactly stomach the answer. You sense the way his eyes bore into your back as you walk away from him, and truthfully, the feeling evokes mild terror in your heart.

Though, he understands the notion now. You’re clearly not interested in him in that way, but it’s merely a stepping stone in his journey of conquering you, is it not? Despite his further attempts at trying to woo you, the result seems to be you pulling away further and further: The gifts aren’t working, you jump away like a cricket when he makes the tiniest attempt at touching you, and you clearly hide behind people when you spot him in the crowd. It’s a fruitless effort trying to court you in the classic way, it seems.

So, the perfectly reasonable next step is for him to start stalking you. It’s not on the lighter end of the scale, either: It’s basically an every-day and every-hour thing. He dedicates nearly all of his free time to finding out things about you, and even when he’s on other business, it’s difficult for him to think about anything else than you. It’s to the point that his fellow Chrysos Heirs start noticing the strange behaviour and even calling him out on it. Mydei, for example, has to continuously remind him to focus on the task at hand, whether it’s sparring with him or taking care of another job, but regardless, Phainon’s eyes are always straying, trying to find you amongst the masses of people. It gets a little irritating; his companions feel like they never have his full attention.

Your interests, your schedule, your relationships — he figures out every single bit of you. He writes things down, pays attention to the smallest of things, investigates until he knows which side shoe you put on first. It’s all very fascinating to him, too. The only thing he has yet to find out is where you’re staying: He knows the approximate location, but due to your place of stay being a part of a complex, it’s a bit difficult to pinpoint the correct door out of the many. He hasn’t attempted invading your living space yet — as discreet as he has tried to be, you appear to have caught on to his endeavours. Even when you don’t actually see him, he notices the way your eyes are darting around as if wary of something. You’re spending less and less time outside, and Aeons forbid if you catch even a single glimpse of him in the crowd; you’re gone quicker than a chimera with a stolen treat.

You’re stuck in nothing short of a mindfuck. It feels like no matter what you do and where you go, he’s there. At the start, you thought that maybe it could all be a big coincidence, but the longer it goes on for, the more certain you become: The man has lost his marbles. If his presence wasn’t unnerving at first, it sure as hell is now.

In your anxiety, you end up confiding in a friend. She’s not exactly your closest acquaintance, but even then, you trust her enough to share your worries with her. Still, despite how you sigh, having planted your forehead against the table you share, her initial reaction is much like everyone else’s: ”But isn’t that a good thing?” she asks, tilting her head to the side in confusion. You know that’s what it seems like — that you’re playing hard to get, that anybody would be lucky to be the target of the Heir’s affections — but your heart does nothing but loathe the attention. The friend, fortunately, understands your feelings after a bit of an explanation, but even then, you get the image that your concerns are not taken very seriously.

You can’t stand the way everybody else acts as if everything is normal. People idolize him, and so did you, to a certain degree, but all of it has gone out the window days ago. You don’t want anything to do with the guy. The faint scar on your hand feels like it’s torn open every time his snow-white hair appears in your sights, regardless of if it’s actually him or not — the paranoia is starting to get to you.

Making the decision to protect your own psyche, you start going out less and less. The older ladies on the street start pointing out how your skin isn’t as vibrant as it used to be, how the dark circles under your eyes have sunken, how you always have a knit between your brows. You start wearing clothing that makes you stand out less, covering yourself up despite Okhema’s heat. Making trips to the market is starting to look like an impossible effort. It’s like you’re slowly losing pieces of yourself.

Even after all of your suffering, it doesn’t stop — he doesn’t stop. One day, after the Curtain-Fall Hour has already struck, when you’re least expecting any visitors, you hear a knock on your door. The sound would be alarming enough on its own, and taking the past few weeks into account, you’re not exactly thrilled to answer the call. Still, tiptoeing across your home, you make your way to the entrance and press your ear against the wall. With a bit of hesitance, you yell out to the person, inquiring for their identity. Despite your initial dread, the tension leaves your shoulders the very moment the person answers; you recognize your friend’s voice. So, without a second thought, you unlock the latch.

”Please don’t be mad”, are the first words that come out of her mouth as the door slides to the side, revealing not only her form, but another person’s as well. Your mood goes from relief to utter disbelief to whatever is left of your wrath as you make sense of the sight: At your doorstep, with his silhouette looming behind your friend like the gargantuan boulder on Kephale’s shoulders, stands none other than Phainon himself.

As the puzzle pieces click together in your mind, you almost point an accusatory finger towards the presumed snitch, but judging from the planet-shattering, millennia-ending, all-devouring eye-roll she performs, she doesn’t exactly seem to have been roped to the duty out of her own volition. Pursing her lips together, she mouths you a silent ”good luck” before turning on her heels and walking down the stairs, exiting the scene.

With your mouth ajar, you’re left to stare at the sight of him, wondering how hard you would have to punch to send him flying off the balcony and down the street like he did to you that one time. Though, he doesn’t give you much time to ponder: Instead, your body freezes in both fear and rage as he lodges his foot in the doorway before you can even think of closing the thing in his face.

Where you should be angry more than anything, you’re only able to feel fear. The two emotions blur together into one, and you explode in his face: Spitting all kinds of profanities at him, ranging from how-dare-yous to personal insults, you try to kick at his leg, telling him to ”get the fuck out of your house”, but he weathers it all without much of a reaction. He tries to get a soft word in here and there, but due to how passionately you spew hatred on him, he decides to stay quiet for the most part so as to not provoke you further. There doesn’t seem to be anything that could wipe the stupid smile off his face — even when you straight up slam the door on his toes, he doesn’t budge.

It’s only when you threaten to call his colleague, specifically Aglaea, on his ass, there seems to be a tiny shift in his expression. Making a complete one-eighty, he suddenly lifts his hands in front of him as if in an act of surrender before backing away from the entrance. You seize the opportunity without a moment’s delay, and even before he gets to finish his ”sorry”, the latch has clicked shut.

You sink to the floor, planting your forehead against the cold tiles, trying to will yourself to come down from the surge of adrenalin. Even as you squeeze your eyes shut, clench your teeth together and beat your hands against your temples, you’re unable to rid yourself of the image of his stupid face.

It’s the last straw, both for you and him. Unbeknownst to you, yet very much known to him, the two of you are in the exact same situation, just at different ends of the stick: It’s a never-ending, morbid game of push and pull, and despite your best efforts, you haven’t been able to get the upper hand.

Though, let it be said that even if you had taken the struggle to the ends of Amphoreus, he would have followed you; you were never destined to win. When it comes to the warning signs he offered, he provided you with plenty, but ultimately, you can’t escape your fate — at most, you could have postponed the inevitable.

Even as he’s left standing behind your door, alone, he can’t help but feel a strange sense of victory as he sees what he has reduced you to. It’s a sick feeling of achievement — he is the one, the only one that could have affected you so. It’s for the best that you cave in early like this, he muses.

˗ˏˋ ★ 2. Securing: How will they abduct their darling? When, where and how?

You find yourself running out of options: The one card up your sleeve used to be the fact that even if everything else failed, he wouldn’t know where you live, but now, even that has been taken from you. There’s nowhere you can turn to anymore, not even the solace of your home. Suddenly, the walls of your own room feel terribly cramped, like they were closing in on your distressed mind, trapping you in an imaginary prison you’re unable to escape.

Not long after, you come to the realization that you have a decision to make: Either you need to alert the other Chrysos Heirs, or you’re going to have to move out if you want the torment to stop. Neither of the options sound particularly appealing: You’re not exactly acquainted with the bunch of higher-ups, and seeking audience with them could be a multiple-week endeavour — you’re not sure if you can last that long.

The choice is a hasty one, though in the present circumstances, you’re not sure if it could be even called one at all: It’s more like the only viable route. Having a few acquaintances in a city a good distance away from Okhema, Milios, you decide to start packing your bags and arranging a long holiday in a completely different part of the planet.

It’s not ideal, of course. It took a good while to convince your friends of the situation’s urgency, and you’re not pleased about the fact yourself, but with your hands tied, there were only so many scenarios to consider. With a heavy heart, you start the preparations for your departure.

He notices your intentions, of course. Even in his excitement, he knew to expect something like this eventually. You were bound to want to leave his clutches, after all. They all do.

Nevertheless, it’s not like he’s going to let you flee just like that. As soon as he finds out about your plans for leaving the city, he gets to work without even a moment’s hold-up.

Of course, the first matter to tackle is that you need a place to stay if he’s going to keep you with him. His current place isn’t exactly fit for the job since that would draw way too much attention, and it certainly can’t be just any closet at the back of Castrum Kremnos, no: You need ample space and all kinds of things to make you comfortable! What sort of a partner would he be if he gave you a room which you would be beyond miserable in?

In the limited time frame that you have granted him, he spends the entire day and night fashioning a little, abandoned apartment at the very edges of Okhema into a cute little prison for you to live in. Not many people know it even exists: The lower you go, the thicker is the fog that rests over the ground like a large blanket. It’s off-limits to the normal folk, which makes it a perfect place to keep you — plus, your screams won’t carry to the city from there. Yes, the building is a little worn, but minor details, minor details.

A bed (big enough to fit both of you comfortably!), a couch, a few shelves... The essentials are all there, what else do you like...? It’s safe to say that he gets a little carried away with the furnishings: He was going for a relatively simplistic outlook, but now, the room is cluttered in all kinds of trinkets and decorations that he thinks are to your taste. The entire wall is lined with books, there are multiple, pretty pillows on the divan, the table is lined with flowers, and the sill of the single, large window is crammed with colourful pots. Whatever your preferred hobby might be, you can be sure that a corner of the room is dedicated to related paraphernalia. He deems the fruits of his work to be a success, and now, all that’s missing is the owner.

For you to leave during the quiet hours of the night is both smart and incredibly stupid of you. The former because he himself would need to sleep under normal circumstances, and if he wasn’t aware of your plan, he would have missed you — and the latter because there won’t be any witnesses for what’s about to go down.

Cracking your door open, you first take a cautious peek at the surroundings. People have gone to bed ages ago, and even the revellers have calmed down for the night, so there’s nobody around but you. Clutching the straps of your backpack, you step out of your apartment and close the door behind you. You tiptoe down the stairs of the complex, heading for the street where you’re going to make your way to the dromas caravan. The silence of the night is nearly haunting, and you can hear every single sound distinctly. It feels nearly electric — almost like the air itself is anticipating something to happen.

You arrive at the street. Out of habit, before crossing it, you look left, and right, and one more time-

He’s right there. The moonshine illuminates the pristine white of his hair, the cloak, and the bouquet of flowers in his hand. For a good moment, you think you must be hallucinating.

He greets you with a wave of his hand. The smile on his face is the same as always: Pure, gentle, and inciting an unimaginable sense of terror in you. However, you have been a victim of his games for far, far too long, and instead of entertaining his whims for even a millisecond longer, you bolt back up the stairs of your home as fast as you possibly can.

Though, you don’t get much further than the first few steps before there’s a hand yanking you backwards. Even as you rid yourself of your backpack in hopes of gaining a few-meter lead, it’s no use fighting him. With a firm grasp, he pulls you down and against his rock-solid chest. In the next moment, there’s a hand on your mouth, prying your lips open. A flour-like substance slips past your teeth and into your throat.

He’s saying something. No matter how you try to focus on the sight of his face hovering above yours, you’re unable to fixate your gaze on anything. Whatever he gave to you has taken effect in a matter of seconds, and soon enough, the edges of your vision close in on themselves. The last thing you see is the blurry image of his soft features.

It was really considerate of you not to throw a fit in the limited time you had between noticing him and the present moment, he thinks. Your neighbours wouldn’t have liked to be woken up by a ruckus, after all. The drug seems to have worked wonders as well: Your body has gone completely limp, and if he didn’t know better, he would think you had just suddenly fallen asleep. The handy thing about being in his position is that nobody dares to question what he needed to buy sedative powder for.

It’s not that long of a walk to the prison he has built for you, so through the quiet Okheman alleys, he carries you on his back, all the way to the edges of the city. The two of you even pass a few people on your way, but they’re much too intoxicated to even pay attention to you. At most, they laugh as if an unconscious person being dragged across the road was the funniest thing they’ve ever seen. Your backpack sells the performance further, even: It just looks like the beloved Chrysos Heir is helping another tippler make their way home after a heavy night of partying! Additionally, even if somebody were to raise a brow at the sight, he trusts his natural charm — nobody would believe them if they were to tell on him, anyway.

He carries you down the rubble around the city’s outskirts, taking care not to get a single scratch on your precious body. Your head lies limp against the back of his shoulder — he can feel the faint breeze of your breathing on the side of his neck. It reminds him how he used to carry Cyrene around back in Aedes Elysiae, and simultaneously, he becomes aware of the fact that having someone be so dependent on him could very well be the most euphoric feeling in the entire world for him.

When he gets to your new home, he carefully sets you on the mattress of your soon-to-be shared bed, cautiously rests your head on one of the pillows, and that’s where you’re going to be waking up from in a few hours time. He lies down with you, gathering you in his arms like his most prized possession, greedily inhaling your scent. He’s a weak man, he thinks.

˗ˏˋ ★ 3. Life: What is it like to live with them? How do they treat the darling?

Considering the alternatives, it could be much, much worse. Much like Mydei, the way he goes about keeping you captive is taking you somewhere so far away from the rest of the world that providing you with a somewhat lavish place to live doesn’t prove to be an issue. Nobody is going to find you, anyway, so there’s no reason not to go above and beyond to make sure you’re comfortable. He did his fair share of planning and setting things up before your capture, so when you rise from your slumber, you can be sure that everything is the best you could ever possibly have hoped for: He even picked the colour of the curtains while thinking of you!

Needless to say, your initial reaction to the change in scenery isn’t all butterflies and honey and baby chimeras. In fact, it’s not even close to those things: For the first half an hour or so, you dart around the room in a fit of hysteria, all the while you scream at him from the bottom of your lungs. You run to the door, discover that it’s locked, run to the window, back to the door, and finally, you back yourself into a corner, your knees buckling and tears shimmering at your lashline. It doesn’t help that the entire time you run about, he trails behind you with his arms open, talking all sweet and trying to catch you into a hug.

It’s like he expects you to step into your new life without much of a strain. From day one, on surface level, he behaves as if all that has gone down is perfectly normal. Sure, if you push him enough, you’ll get a ”hey now, don’t be like that” out of him, but that’s about the extent of it. He talks to you like his usual self, still acts like he was trying to woo you. It’s unsettling in a sort of reverse way.

He wants to protect the sense of normalcy when it comes to your daily life, meaning that however much freedom he’s capable of granting you without you making an escape, he’s willing to give to you. He has his responsibilities, but whenever he’s not tied to them, he spends all of his time with you. He chats with you, encourages you to make use of all the stuff he has gathered in your room, he makes you food, he showers you in affection... There’s hardly any moments where you can have a moment to yourself when he’s around.

You get to go outside about as much as you want; given that he’s with you, of course. Your hand needs to be in his, and certain directions are off limits, obviously, but other than that, he lets you explore. The general surroundings of your new home aren’t exactly the most thrilling: The mist obscures the view, and even if it didn’t, there wouldn’t be much to see other than a bunch of ruins. Still, it’s better than being holed up in your room all day.

Furthermore, everything you do, you do with him. Eating, sleeping, bathing, all of it is with him around. Bathing, especially, is an activity that suits his tastes. He quite likes soaking in warm water with you: You notice that he seems to insist on washing you a little more than necessary. In the beginning, you thought that he has a neat-freak streak in him, but with time, the real reason becomes apparent to you: He gets to hug you, skin-to-skin, without you complaining that much — albeit it’s always a bit of a struggle to get you in the tub since you’re not a fan of stripping in front of him.

When it comes to taking you anywhere outside of the general area of your prison, he’s a little iffy on the matter. Something like that would obviously require taking a heavy risk of you escaping, and so, he’s quite hesitant about it at first. Though, with time, he might grow to trust you enough to allow trips to the city. Much like Mydei, the one place he is likely to go for are the Chrysos Heir Baths: The area is secluded enough, especially at nighttime, and so, if you beg him enough, you could earn yourself a nice, hot bath in a proper location. Though, the privilege is going to be revoked the second you show any signs of defiance, so it’s safe to say that you’re on your best behaviour whenever he takes you to the Temple.

Lastly, you have a routine, sort of. He’s especially particular about your mealtimes and you getting enough of sleep, but outside of that, you’re free to do as you please. He would prefer it if your activities included him somehow, but alas, it’s more important for him to see you even remotely happy than to involve himself in everything.

˗ˏˋ ★ 4. Rules: What kind of rules do they enforce? How lenient are they? How do they keep their darling in check?

He doesn’t want to set any rules out for you in the sense that he would speak them out loud. Restricting you in any way is obviously a risky thing to do if his aim is for you to like him for even a fraction of as much as he likes you, and so, he sticks to telling you what not to do when you’ve already technically crossed the line.

He doesn’t take kindly to you disobeying him and doing irresponsible or malicious stuff, but then again, he knows that occasionally, it’s good for you to blow off some steam. Whether that’s at the cost of breaking furniture or hurling every available item at him, he understands your feelings! It must be difficult for you to adjust to the sudden change in your life, after all. But he’s here to help! He can-, hey, you almost hit him in the head with that one. Realistically, though, you can beat him all you want — he doesn’t really mind it. You’re sort of cute like that, too, he muses: It’s adorable that you think you might be able to cause any damage to him.

Though, just about the second you have ”settled” into your new home, he lets you know right off the bat that escaping him is not an option. He beats around the bush when talking about it, possibly in an act to save your feelings: He doesn’t directly want to say that he’s holding you captive — he tries to frame the thing as him ”preferring that you’d stay with him” — but eventually, after enough verbal prodding from your end, he admits that, yeah, he’s not going to let you flee, nor are you allowed to go outside without him, and there will be consequences if you try to. He airs the threat with an ominous lack of seriousness in his voice, almost as if he himself couldn’t truly comprehend the weight of the situation. He even puffs out his chest, proudly stating that ”he’s fast enough to catch you in less than five minutes” before laughing the entire thing off like he had been joking (he is not kidding).

Obviously, you don’t take the restrictions well, nor do you like his attitude regarding them. Immediately after he’s done talking, you proceed to point a finger at him and call him all kinds of names, cursing him into the deepest pits of Thanatos’ realm and back. He listens to it all with a compassionate smile on his face before assuring you that he’s going to do his utmost best to make you happy with him.

Not even an hour later he has to unexpectedly make up another rule, though: Namely that you’re not allowed to lock yourself in the bathroom for more than half a quint at a time. You’re better at this protesting game than he initially thought, it seems.

Oh, but there’s one thing he doesn’t compromise on at all: Don’t hurt yourself. For the love of everything good on this planet, don’t hurt yourself. This includes indirect damage, too — if it looks like the furniture is beating you more than you’re beating it, he has to take you somewhere you can’t damage yourself. Often, it ends up being in his arms as he holds you down with his body weight in a pose that would appear suggestive if in any other context. That being said, because of the aftermath, the rule isn’t one you’re breaking regularly.

˗ˏˋ ★ 5. Consequences: What kind of punishments will the darling face? How do they punish different offences?

Much like he is with the rules, he’s not overly keen on punishing you. Of course, there are bound to be certain instances where he has to remind you that your actions carry consequences, but at the same time, it makes you sad. He doesn’t like seeing you distressed or downcast or anything like that, so his punishment-trigger isn’t particularly loose.

Often, the worst extent of his consequences is him telling you off (albeit more often than not, he can’t even do that before falling victim to his own softness), or he might take things away from you. Though, the stuff he confiscates is almost always only the things you use to be difficult, so unless you attempt to beat him up with a book, he won’t seize your means of entertainment, for example. Then again, if you were to use the mundane items for the wrong purposes, he’s going to have to snatch those away.

However, trying to escape is the one, singular thing that will manage to make him so mad that you’re not sure if you’re dealing with the same person anymore. This includes anything that could even remotely be connected to getting yourself out of your prison. He’s a bit neurotic about it, even.

He has a particularly unfortunate habit of going overboard with trying to catch you, too. There are bound to be instances where he mistakes completely innocent things for malicious intent, too. For example, he has, at least once, sent a fork flying into the wall from your hand, thinking it was a weapon and that you were about to stab him. You’re left staring at the man in utter bewilderment with your fingers still clutching the imaginary shape of the utensil, looking back and forth between your meal on the table and the fresh dent in the stone. It doesn’t take him long to realize the situation, and as he does, he tries to sort of play it off, but he isn’t exactly trying to hide the actual reasoning behind his behaviour. You would find the entire thing at least a little comedic if it wasn’t for the subtle yet very prominent threat behind it.

The worst thing you could do is, well, succeed in escaping — or rather, almost succeed. As nice as it is that you technically have plenty of opportunities and open windows to execute your outbreak, the weight of his wrath is not to be taken lightly.

You can’t help but think he’s quite naive for leaving you with so much freedom whenever he’s away. Not that you’re complaining, but if the roles were reversed, you would know not to give him access to any tools that could potentially be used to break anything down. It took you quite a while, but you have managed to cut one of the metal bars off the window. With a considerable amount of physical effort, you wedge the thing in the narrow slit in the middle of the sun-shaped lock on the door. The material is old and worn, and it only takes a few wrenches for the symbol to shatter.

Your clothes are covered in a layer of dust as you squeeze yourself through the crack in the door. The rough edges scratch your skin, but you couldn’t care less about the pain. Your gaze is fixed on the sight of the staircase that leads down to the abandoned streets of outer Okhema. Rushing your way down, leaping three steps at a time, you nearly fall to your death as you slip on the marble. Landing on your back, you hiss out in pain — however, there’s no time to waste. With one of your legs hanging over the edge of the railingless stairwell and your heart in your throat, you have no choice but to compose yourself, get back on your feet, and continue on, despite the throbbing between your shoulder blades.

Even with the large pillars holding the building up, you feel like it’s on the verge of collapsing. Lush vines and other vegetation climb up the foundations, snaking up the walls and covering the ground, so much so that it’s difficult to get through them. Hopping over the rubble and making your way past a fallen statue, you head straight for the first open passageway you see: A large window lining the entire southern wall of the base floor. As a faint breeze travels through the area, you catch the scent of the fresh outside air. It’s not exactly one that’s unfamiliar to you — you often get to wander around the premises of the place — but this time around, you get to experience it all alone for the first time in what feels like forever. It invigorates you, sends a rush of adrenaline into your bloodstream, and with the surge of strength, you sprint for the opening and leap right through it.

The ruined street is completely empty, as it is always. Dense fog conceals your surroundings, and the skies have long since turned dark: You don’t know whether the Parting Hour has already ended, but judging from the lack of lights dancing in the city above, the Curtain-Fall hour can’t be too far away. Realizing the implication, you swallow down the lump in your throat before choosing your next course of action. Due to the mist, it’s difficult to determine which direction leads up to the heart of Okhema: You look left, right, left, right, but even as you’re unable to make sense of where the road travels, you decide that making it as far away as possible is much more important than the risk of getting lost.

You bolt down the road. Even as your legs ache from the strain, you don’t stop for a single moment to catch your breath. It’s difficult to breathe: Clouds of dust rise from the ground in your wake, and though you hack out, the feeling of your airways clogging won’t leave you alone. Trying not to let the panic get to you, you hasten your pace, despite every step on the cobblestone path requiring an immense amount of strain.

The haze obscures your vision. The only thing you’re able to see are the vague shapes of run-down buildings and abandoned, broken chariots. Though you’re doing your best to keep your imagination at bay, you can’t help but wonder if something far more terrifying is lurking in the depths of the fog. You’ve heard tales of Nikador’s abandoned kin wandering into the area, and thinking of the possibility sends a mean shiver down your spine. You’re not exactly equipped to fight anything — at least not in your current state — and besides, it would be quite mortifying for your escape to end in such a gruesome scene.

However, every last horror scenario that plays in your mind pales in comparison to what you think you see in the distance. Uncertain if your mind is just playing tricks on you, you slow down your pace until you stand completely still in the middle of the road. Completely silent you squint your eyes and stare into the depths of the fog in front of you.

A vague shape of something looms amongst the shadow further down the path. At first, it looks like a short light pole, then it morphs into what looks like the outline of a Furia. Still, with your feet frozen against the ground, you don’t move until you truly understand what you’re looking at.

A silhouette of a man.

In a split second, you turn on your heels and bolt back down the road, right in the direction you came from. Even as you hear the footsteps of another chase you, you don’t hesitate to run as fast as your legs can carry you. In your head, you pray to any deity that’s listening, anyone at all, that one, just one miracle would be granted to you, but to no avail. In mere seconds, he grasps the back of your top, and your body is slammed against the cobblestone with so much force that the air is knocked out of your lungs.

The feeling is debilitating, and for a moment, you’re sure you’re going to throw up. Your vision is blurry, but even then, the bright blue of his eyes is difficult to mistake for anything else. You hear him talk — something about how ”it’s thoughtful of you to try and make your way back by yourself” — but the words don’t really register in your brain. Even as he picks your body off the ground and throws it over his shoulder like a sack of fruits, you don’t make a further effort at fighting him. Though he’s keeping up the facade like he always does, it would be impossible to miss the way his arm trembles with what you assume to be sheer rage.

He carries you all the way back to your room, stepping over the ruins and making his way up the stairs without as much as getting out of breath. He breaks through the crack in the door with a single kick, sending debris flying everywhere, but it doesn’t seem like he’s the least bit bothered by it. Some of the detritus lands in your hair, and while under normal circumstances, he would gently pick the pieces off of you, at the moment, his kindness seems to have run out.

In complete contrast to his other actions, though, he gently sets you back on the ground beside your bed, making sure you have a solid footing before stepping away from you. It takes you all of your willpower to look up at him, and as you do, you’re faced with the sight of his blank expression.

You swear you see a strange shimmer in his eyes. For a second, you’re certain that the bright blue is replaced by glowing gold, but the hue is gone as quickly as it appeared. His hands then land on your shoulders in a sudden, rapid movement. Squeezing both of your arms in a shaky grip, he remains as is for a good minute. His behaviour is so dissimilar to his usual demeanour that even in your frightened state, you have to wonder if you managed to make the man short-circuit. Despite your best efforts, you’re unable to detect any hints of emotion on his frozen features.

Then, he smiles. The change in expression is so absurd that you can’t help the way your mouth falls ajar. Simultaneously, he lets go of you and allows you to stammer backwards as you put as much distance in between the two of you as possible. He shakes his head if trying to rid himself of a thought or two, following the action with a gentle laugh that fails to convey a single bit of joy. He then takes in a deep gulp of air, holds it for a few seconds, and exhales in a slow, steady blow. With careful steps, he starts making his way towards you.

The sympathetic guise on his features does nothing to convince you of his seemingly virtuous intentions: You’ve been with him for long enough to know that he wears it for purely performative purposes. Conversely, to your horror, you know to expect that something terrible is about to go down in the very room you’re trapped in.

A violent shiver rakes your skin as he starts talking. He sounds normal, yes, but there’s a certain undertone in his manner of speech: It’s like he’s trying to hold back unimaginable volumes of unadulterated fury. Still, it’s not the voice itself that’s the cause for your dread; it’s the words.

”I’m sure you know that I can’t leave this attempt unpunished”, he says, sighing as he gazes down at you in what you assume to be an attempt at pity. Your eyes widen at the implication, and before he can even think of starting a new sentence, you try to slip under his arm and dart for the unlocked door. The endeavour is short-lived, of course: He snatches you back by your shoulder with minimal effort, sending you toppling over your bed with the sheer force he puts into the movement. He’s doing his best to keep up the relatively nonchalant facade he has got going on, but the beads of sweat that line his neck are prominent enough to be seen by a bare eye. Though, it’s not like you’re in any better of a state: Whatever bits of courage you were still holding onto go astray as he presses you down against the mattress.

You’re not entirely certain what he’s going to do — not until he opens his mouth again, anyway. As if reminiscing a fond memory, he closes his eyes for a moment. ”Do you remember what I said about trying to run?” he asks you, looming atop of you with an unintelligible, tight expression on his face. Unable to recall anything specific, you hold your breath and hesitantly shake your head. He sighs. ”I said that if you tried to escape, I’d have to make it so that you can’t”.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, you start flailing, trying your hardest to wiggle your way out from under him, but it’s no use. He catches your hands in his own with a single, swift movement and a little ”oops”, spoken like your struggling were but an accident on your part. Tears spill out of your eyes as the panic reaches your mind: You no longer try to fight the way your lungs strain from the urge to gasp for air, and even though you scream at him, beg him to reconsider, promising that you’re never going to run away ever again, there’s nothing you can do. He looks at your pitiful attempt at reconciliation, marvelling at the sight of your sudden vulnerability, before he repositions himself. In an awkward manoeuvre, he lets go of your hands and instead sets his knee on your chest, effectively forcing you flat against the bed. His weight feels nearly excruciating, largely due to the fact that you’re hyperventilating, but the terror doesn’t truly peak until you feel him caressing your bare ankle.

His fingers glide over the area, idly feeling around, tracing the shape of your bones underneath the skin. He then moves to the other leg, repeating the same process as if pondering something. Due to the way you’re positioned, you’re unable to see his expression, and truth to be told, it might be better that way.

He exhales deeply. As he turns his attention away from your feet and back to your tear-stained face, there’s the same, horribly pleasant smile on his features. ”You can decide which leg”, he says. Your eyes fly as wide as saucers, and again, you attempt to wrestle him off of you, but it’s a futile effort. Titans, you have come to despise the overly compassionate expression he wears, even as he’s speaking the cruellest of words without missing a single beat.

As you don’t answer his question, he gently nudges one of your knees, urging you to speak. However, you’re only able to weakly shake your head, staring him down as if you could pin him in place with only your eyes. Barely coherent ”please don’ts” spill out of your mouth, and your hands tremble wildly where they’re pushing against his thigh.

Due to you not offering any input on the matter, he starts monologuing to himself, speaking his morbid thoughts out loud. ”This is the one that was hurting before, right?” he strokes his hand along your left ankle. His fingers stop by the dip of your instep where the area is still sore from you having hit it against the table leg a couple of days ago. ”It should be this one, then? That way, you’ll have one perfectly fine leg, heh”, he continues, gently pressing his thumb against the mound of the bone that protrudes out of the inner side of your foot.

His brows flatten in a commiserating expression as he looks down at you. You must be afraid out of your mind, he thinks, idly petting your leg. He makes an attempt at comforting you, assuring you that ”he’s going to be careful about breaking it” and how ”he isn’t going to snap it in half, just a small fracture”. He brings one of his hands to your face, briefly caressing your wet cheek before sliding it down to your mouth. He presses it against your lips, letting you know that “you can bite on it if you need to”. Simultaneously, you feel his fingers wrap around your ankle. ”It’s gonna be over in an instant, don’t worry”, he promises you. ”On three, alright? Ready? 1... 2...”

You hear the sound before anything else registers in your brain. However, as the searing pain shoots up your leg, the only thing you’re able to do is sink your teeth into the side of his hand as it muffles the hair-raising shriek that erupts from your throat. The taste of his golden blood is bitter in your mouth: It floods onto your tongue, spills past your lips and onto your chin, dyeing everything in the hue you have grown to hate so much.

He’s saying something, but you can’t make out the words over the buzzing sound in your head. A blur grows at the edges of your vision, and for a good moment, you think you’re about to pass out. Though, perhaps, that would be a preferable outcome: You’re not sure if you can withstand the weight of your current reality. However, it would be an act of mercy much too great to be bestowed upon you, it seems.

The hand in your mouth moves to your cheek. His blood smears all over your face. ”It’s all over now”, he tells you, tenderly cupping your jaw before leaning down to plant a kiss on your lips. Immediately after, a broken sob erupts from your mouth, and a myriad more soon follow. Distantly, you’re aware of the excruciating throb on your ankle, but it’s difficult to truly concentrate on anything anymore. Every last bit of your body aches in one way or another, but what wounds you even deeper is how the spirit you had mere moments ago has been shattered in millions of pieces, beyond repair. The only thing you can do is lie on the bed and wail as he gently cradles your form in his arms.

In the end, after all has been done, he can’t bear to look at the sight of you limping around. You wince out with every step, and even as he carries you around, the deep, melancholic frown won’t disappear from your face — he can’t bear to look at you like that. It only takes him a day or two to cave in and take you to the Twilight Courtyard’s pink-haired physician. It’s at the quietest hour of the night: The poor girl is already in her nightgown, and after explaining the situation in very vague terms, he makes her swear to secrecy with the sweetest smile on his face. Needless to say, even though she talks to you in a cheerful tone and looks at your broken limb with pity, you can see the way her hands tremble the slightest bit as she heals you.

All in all, it’s going to be a good while until you conduct your next escape attempt. He needs to take a few days off his duties to figure out what he’s going to do about the broken door, and besides, you get the feeling that most importantly, he doesn’t want to leave you alone for even a second. Even though his punishments are mild in general, you learn that past a certain line, there’s a side of him that you don’t want to get acquainted with.

˗ˏˋ ★ 6. Emotions I: How do they show love? How do they attempt to make the darling love them?

... So, there is a lot. Showing his love to you is, like, his thing. It’s like he gets his life force from seeing a smile on your face.

Firstly, he seems to be allergic to calling you by your own name. He has a rich list of petnames he uses in its place, and no matter how loud you scream at him to cut it the fuck out, he’s not going to stop. Each one is sappier than the other, and with time, they become so mundane that you don’t even have the energy to get mad at him anymore. ”Darling”, ”Baby”, ”Honey”, ”Sweetheart”, ”Cupcake”... Not only are they horribly embarrassing, but there’s also the fact that they are names one would use with a lover. More often than not, hearing them from his mouth tends to make you more dejected than anything, and he needs to tone it down a bit.

In addition, a particular detail is that he adds ”my” at the start of them, too. It’s always ”my darling” and ”my baby”. It seems to be wildly deliberate on his end, too: He puts an unnecessary amount of emphasis on the first word, sometimes to the point that it sounds unnatural. Even if you bring it up, he won’t stop doing it — on the contrary, it only appears to fuel his fire. You are his after all, so what’s with the hesitance?

Though, it should be mentioned that calling him by one of the aforementioned words is a sure way to get him to give you anything you want. The moment the first syllable of ”honey” leaves your mouth, he’s practically on his knees in front of you, wagging his imaginary tail like an overexcited puppy. If you’re thinking of gaslight-gatekeep-girlbossing him, it’s a good place to start.

Secondly, in a way, he likes to play the role of a knight in shining armour for you. It manifests in multiple aspects of your life: For example, he never lets you lift any heavy stuff, he likes to carry you around bridal style to an unnecessary degree, and he helps you get things from places that are too high for you to reach (he makes an effort to place items out of your reach). Moreover, he likes to do really sappy stuff like suddenly push you over and dip your body so he can kiss you like you were a freshly married couple.

It gets ridiculous pretty fast. It’s like he doesn’t let you do anything without him being there to save the day. Whatever you’re trying to do, he will conveniently slip right past you, saying ”let him handle it” and cracking his knuckles, and whatever task you were occupied with has been completed in a heartbeat.

Then there’s the physical aspect. He’s, unfortunately, incredibly fond of touching you. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing — or what you’re supposed to be doing, anyway — he has to have his hands on you at nearly all times or he will riot. He’s the epitome of the ”where’s my hug at”-guy, but it’s to the point that you have to wonder if the rumoured illness where one dies if they don’t get to experience the touch of a woman is a real one. He sure is talented in acting as if an hour or two without your skin against his could make his flesh rot.

Be careful with your words, because he latches onto the tiniest chances of getting to touch you. You complain that something is hurting? Aww, come here, he’ll kiss it better. You can’t reach something? Oh, he’s got it, let him lift you by the waist. You’re cold? Here, here, get in the bed, he’ll cuddle you until you’re warm again. You want to take a bath? Don’t worry, he can wash you. Literally anything you say could be used against you like you were in some fucked-up court room with him as the high judge. Sometimes it’s so obvious that you have to resist the urge to actually smack his hand away. He might, for example, insist that there’s something on your face and pick the imaginary crumb off the corner of your mouth — multiple times a day.

Don’t forget the general affection. He hugs, kisses, caresses, pats — and everything in between. Every time he passes you, he rests his hand on the crown of your head, stroking your hair. Whenever he comes back from his duties, the first thing he does is find you and give you a hug so tight that you fear for your ribs. Whenever you’re occupied with something, he likes to throw his arms over your shoulders and prop his chin on your head. His presence, on the best of days, is suffocating. On the worst, it’s unbearable. You don’t think there’s a single square inch on your body that hasn’t been touched by him.

He has a bad habit of spoiling you in the material realm, too. Or, “bad” for him in the sense that if you so wished, he would drop everything the second you asked for something from him, whether that be a specific item or for him to perform 33 550 336 consecutive backflips for you. He would most likely see the latter through if you gave him a really convincing “please”.

It’s not only if you ask, either: Whether you want it or not, he’s going to bring you so many gifts that you don’t even know where to keep them past a certain point. If you ask him about it, his answer is going to be something along the lines of ”he just likes to make you happy”, but you’re sure that, to a certain degree, he’s trying to buy your affection. He doesn’t exactly realize it himself, but when it comes to certain things, the guy has a bit of a manipulative streak in him.

The stuff he gets for you would be endearing in any other situation but yours. His gifts range from flowers and snacks to all kinds of trinkets — plushies, for example. He seems to have taken a liking to gifting you stuffed animals, specifically, even though your bed is already lined with them. There are multiple chimeras, a plump dromas, one that looks suspiciously like the fat unicorn of that one healer he took you to, and finally, the one he’s the most fond of: A fluffy, white dog. Whenever you’re acting grumpy, he likes to pick it up and drag it across the bed, pretending as if the toy was walking and hopping around. He makes little barking noises while at it to really sell the immersion, bumping the thing’s snout against your arm or thigh. The act would be cute if it weren’t for the fact that you’re doing your best to hide a lockpick under your thigh.

Lastly, he insists on cuddling you while sleeping, and that’s stating it very lightly. It’s not only that he gets whiny if you refuse: He pretty much won’t let you sleep anywhere else but in his arms. With someone like Mydei, you could be able to evade his touches if you were to protest by sleeping somewhere else — the floor, namely; there’s a limit to how much the Prince can be bothered — but with Phainon, the tactic doesn’t work in the slightest: He will literally chase you wherever you go, and if that means the both of you will be sleeping under the dinner table, so be it. He also tends to be very smug when you finally give up your efforts at resisting him. There’s a complacent smile on his lips as he tilts his head down to smooch your hair while embracing you.

His favourite cuddling position is whatever tickles your fancy, essentially, as long as he gets to touch you. He doesn’t want you to be uncomfortable in his arms, so he lets you decide where you want his hands. Often, it ends up with you being loosely spooned, but the previous statement is a little bit of a fraud in the sense that he’s going to get bored of the minimal skin contact quite quickly. Not even ten minutes in, he’s going to start quietly whining in your ear, pleading with you to turn around and hug him properly. By that point, you’re usually done with trying to rebel against his antics anyway, and in favour of finally getting some sleep, you allow him to pull you flush against his bare chest.

He’s like a human-sized puppy. Finally having achieved what he wants, he lets out a pleased hum, nuzzling his cheek against the crown of your head. His arms wrap tighter around your back, and suddenly, he squeezes your body like you were a squeaky toy. Consequently, you let out an ”ack” at the unanticipated gesture, beating your hands against his ribs to have him give you some space to breathe. He loosens his hold, sighing out an apology through an airy chuckle, but something tells you that he’s not truly sorry at all.

˗ˏˋ ★ 7. Emotions II: How do they deal with the darling’s emotions? How are outbursts handled? How do they attempt to comfort the darling?

Phainon is a highly receptive person when it comes to other people’s emotions. He himself is quite sensitive, and it’s easy for him to get drawn into your feelings as if they were his own; he’s an empath, if you may.

So, he hates to see you cry. It’s on his list of top most painful things, right below his eternal suffering and whatnot. The only way he’s capable of being deliberately mean to you is in a light-hearted manner. The moment he sees actual tears glimmering at your waterline, though, he’s swift to change his tune, and he starts de-escalating the situation to the best of his ability. His smile drops, his hands are on you in a split second, and words of consolation slip out of his mouth at a record speed.

”Oh, honey, honey-honey-honey...”, ”Hey, shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay” and ”No, hey-hey-hey, don’t cry, don’t cry” are just few of the things he repeats to you as your frown deepens. More often than not, though, his relentless fussing over you only manages to make you feel worse, and the situation quickly falls apart in his hands.

His solution, more often than not, is to engulf you in a hug so tight that you can barely even breathe. It’s like he’s trying to squash the sadness out of you, but even with his best efforts, the method doesn’t seem to be working. Besides, most of the time, your tears are not born of gloom but anger, and so, your outbursts involve yelling more than sobbing. He weathers those without much of a reaction but makes it known that the second you ask him to, he’s going to be there for you. The one thing he won’t do is leave you alone, even as you scream for him to do so: Though you don’t like it, he stays right beside you, making sure that you don’t hurt yourself or destroy the place too badly.

Still, there are bound to be times when you simply have no energy to lash out at him anymore, and that’s when he takes the chance of consoling you to the best of his ability. He has a naturally cheerful, calming presence to him that, even as you put your best efforts at resisting it, it draws you in.

He kneels in front of you or sits beside you, whichever is more convenient. Silently, waiting for any sign to go in, he patiently lingers by your side, gazing at your tear-stained face with a sympathetic smile. If you don’t make an effort to push him away, he starts inching closer to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders or placing his hand on your knee. If you start sharing your troubles, he listens intently, and if it’s something he can fix, he promises you a vast amount of different things: Taking you to Okhema, to the Grove, to meet some of the other Heirs, even, if you manage to convince him enough. More often than not, he also sees his word through, too.

After you pour your heart out to him, he subtly coaxes you to lean into him. He faces you with open arms, telling you things like ”he’s not going to think of you as weak if you were to give in” and ”come on, here, let him make it all better”. Finding no more power to ward him off, you allow him to envelop you in a tight hug which he greedily indulges in. Seizing the opportunity, he gently picks your form up and moves you over to the bed. Carefully, he tucks both you and himself under the blankets before gathering you against his chest in a close embrace. He presses his face against the crown of your head, muttering out all kinds of praises like ”my pretty baby”, ”you’re alright, you’re alright”, “I’m gonna keep you safe right here”... You eventually drift to sleep listening to the endless stream of sweet words from his mouth.

˗ˏˋ ★ 8. Thing to exploit: What are the darling’s best chances at escaping? Are there things the darling can use to their advantage? How can the darling make things easier for themselves?

It’s technically not that difficult to escape from him when talking about the breaking-out part, but executing the rest of the plan might be a tricky endeavour to see through. He has this strange trust in you that surely, you’re not going to try and flee from him if he leaves the routes open, so occasionally, the door won’t even be locked. The main threat is the guy himself: You don’t dare to attempt an escape with him in the general radius of your enclosure since he would be on your tail in a heartbeat, regardless of the distance between you.

He is, however, somewhat susceptible to manipulation. He’s not exactly the easiest target, no — especially not if you didn’t know him too well yet — but luckily for you, you hold an extra special slot in his heart. Because of that, he’s much more credulous when it comes to you.

Sulking, or rather, pretending to sulk is a ridiculously effective strategy with him. In his heart, he knows that you’re putting up an act, and it doesn’t truly manage to fool him, but the frown on your face is a much more pressing matter than the sincerity of it. Besides, no matter if it’s real or not, there’s something that you’re unhappy about, so what sort of a partner would he be if he didn’t try to fix it? Things you can get this way are basically any items you could ever wish for (although those you can get even without going the manipulation route, anyway), more time outside, more time alone (he promises to try his best), or even more complicated stuff like a pet, if you wanted one. Be careful, though, because the more you use this strategy, the less effective it becomes. Eventually, even if you were in actual distress, he could think that it’s just one of your ploys again.

When it comes to getting help from outside, there are a few options for you to try. The fortunate thing about being captured by Phainon in the circumstances that took place is that a lot of people saw you and knew you by name before it happened. The only thing that’s stopping the crowd from looking for you is the assumption that you’re currently living in another city far away from Okhema, and so, they have no reason to suspect foul play. Still, there are bound to be some that know to doubt the story’s credibility.

Mydei is one of them, but it’s best not to get your hopes up about him helping you. If anything, he’s just as bad as Phainon when it comes to his ethics regarding the world of darlings. Then there’s Anaxa: It doesn’t require much brainpower for him to deduce that you didn’t exactly make it where you were supposed to, but the problem with him is that he couldn’t care less. In his humble opinion, his former disciple can do whatever the hell he wants with his life — including keeping a person in some abandoned building against their will. Aglaea, silently ignoring the wild tilt on her moral scale, decides to turn a blind eye to your suffering: The boy has endured enough, and if having you around is a relieving factor to that, she’s willing to look past it. Cipher, siding with her found family, is also out of the question. It’s like you’re stuck in an inescapable web of blame-shifting; there’s an awful lot of people who refuse to help you out of indifference.

However, there are a few people who would cast their fondness for your captor aside and help you instead. Namely, Tribbie, Hyacine and Castorice.

Tribbie is most likely aware of Lil’ Snowy’s schemes: It’s clear as day to her that you never managed to get out of Okhema. For the time being, she has refrained from getting involved since she doesn’t exactly know where you’re being held, but she knows you’re somewhere. It’s a bit of a gamble whether she decides to take matters into her own hands or not: It would be going against her fellow Heirs’ wishes — Aglaea, for example, allusively tells her not to press the matter any further — but still, if you were in a particularly bad state, she might try to help you out. Whether Phainon likes it or not, due to him having been less than careful about the circulating rumours, information about you is going to be shared among his peers. If someone like Hyacine manages to spill more details of your plight to Tribbie, she’s much more likely to take action.

Hyacine herself is, of course, a probable ally. The more Phainon brings you to her in need of a healing, the more she takes sympathy on you. Though, she’s faced with the same problem as Tribbie: There’s a voice in her ear (in this case, Anaxa’s) telling her to stay away from the matter, but there’s absolutely no way she will. The Daughter of Skies is much too kind-hearted to allow you to suffer in silence.

If possible, she will do her utmost to help you in your escape. The only tricky thing about her is that in order to see her, you have to get yourself hurt, and not just any minor injury is enough for Phainon to consider taking the risk of bringing you to the Courtyard. It’s a knotty situation, but if you’re willing to go all-out in your efforts, it’s not that big of an obstacle. If you manage it, not only will she provide you with lots and lots of information, but she might give you supplies, too: For example, if you were to plan on throwing Phainon’s original abduction plan right back at him, she could mix you a sedative. Though, it’s a thin line she has to walk, because everything she does could be tracked back to her in a heartbeat, and she has long since had the feeling that Phainon isn’t exactly the most mentally stable person.

Finally, there’s Castorice. She’s more of a silent observer than anything, not swaying in either direction, but deep inside her, she can’t stand the idea of someone being stuck in a situation such as yours. It reminds her of her own past, and despite not daring to go up against Phainon, she would still like to extend her hand to you in her own, macabre way.

You find a letter on your window sill one day. Your assumption is, of course, that it has been left there by your captor, but you decide to open it regardless. Though, as soon as you lay your eyes on the handwriting, you understand that it's not the case. In charming, cursive letters, the paper reads ”If the weight of existence ever becomes too much for you, I am willing to offer you my services. Please find me. -C.”

The text is beyond cryptic to you. Even after a few reads, you can’t make much sense of the meaning behind the words, but regardless, you decide to slip the piece of paper between the pages of a random book on the shelf. You have a hunch that it’s for the best if Phainon doesn’t ever get to know about its contents.

˗ˏˋ ★ 9. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes? What unique qualities do they possess?

He will, no doubt, present his beautiful darling, you, to Mydei at some point. Whether it’s only a week or two into your capture or if you’ve been jailed for a good while already, one day, he returns home from his duties and informs you that ”he has a little surprise for you”. As the lock to your room clicks open, you come to see that not only does he have a massive bouquet of flowers in his hand, but there’s another person standing in the doorway.

You know the guy, of course; Mydei is difficult not to recognize, not only due to his status but also because of his striking looks and imposing aura. Gazing down at where you’re sitting on the bed with a frightened look in your eyes, he folds his arms and lets out a deep sigh. The expression on his face is unreadable: You’re not sure whether it conveys pity, confusion, disappointment, amazement, or all of those at the same time.

Not letting the silence stretch on any further, Phainon leads Mydei further into your room, gushing to him about you, telling him to not be alarmed, and that you’re ”just a little shy with new people”. Obviously, the statement couldn’t be further from the actual reason for your mistrust — you’re just not particularly fond of being captive — but judging from the subtle look Phainon sends your way, you decide that it’s for the best to keep your mouth shut for the time being. Instead, you stay put, pulling your knees to your chest and turning your face away from the two.

After setting the bouquet in an empty vase sitting on the window sill, your captor makes his way to you, plopping himself on the mattress with so much force that the impact nearly sends you into the air. In the next moment, he wraps one of his arms around your shoulders, pulls you to him and plants a kiss on the crown of your head. He then proceeds to formally introduce you to Mydei, simultaneously ruffling a bird’s nest out of your hair.

Though the situation would already be uncomfortable enough without the spectator looming beside the door, the atmosphere skyrockets to record levels of tension as the lion of a man raises his brows at you in something akin to disinterest. Contrary to everything that would be a reasonable reaction to the sight, not only does he gesture towards you with an expression that says “right, what’s all this then”, but his main source of disappointment seems to be how his pal couldn’t pull a woman in the normal way, not the fact that you’re a victim of an abduction.

Moreover, you don’t feel a single ounce of sympathy coming from Mydei’s direction, and the way he looks at you is... off. Truthfully, he isn’t any better than Phainon: The two do a lot of things together, competing against each other in the most bizarre of ways, so there’s really no reason why darling-hunting wouldn’t be one of the activities. With this in mind, in such realm of things, there would be no greater feat than managing to snatch the other’s treasured one away. It’s best to stay on your guard.

Another thing about Phainon is that, unlike what you might believe initially, he’s not delusional. Not like somebody like, say, Argenti is, anyway — but damn, sometimes he can’t help but wonder if things would be easier if he was. Occasionally, when he sees you all teary-eyed and trying to resist his advances with every inch of your being, he’s hit with an inconceivable, crushing sense of guilt. He understands that he has taken something precious away from you: Your freedom, your social circle, your entire life, basically. Besides, you almost never look at him with anything less than unadulterated detestation. Deep inside him, he knows what he has done, what he does, is wrong, but he can’t bring himself to stop. You’re much too precious for him to lose.

That said, sometimes, you catch him gazing at you with this sort of a forlorn expression on his face. If you question him during these moments, he merely gives you half a smile before going right back to staring. However, as strange as his behaviour is, you can’t help but look forward to having him in such a mood: Whenever he falls into the depths of the spiral that is his own mind, you have a few hours all to yourself. He won’t ever really touch you when he’s feeling sombre, so it’s a good opportunity for you to take a bath by yourself, for example. For once, he won’t chase you into the bathroom with his shirt already off.

NS-FW

˗ˏˋ ★ 10. General look: How does their sexuality manifest? What does sex mean to them? How horny are they?

Phainon is not particularly reserved when it comes sex. Not that he’s at the other extreme, either, but his attitude towards it isn’t puritan, by any means. He’s confident in the sexual part of himself, and so, at the start, before anything more severe goes down, you can expect little things from him that sort of point in the sexual direction: Suggestive whistles when you take an article of clothing off, lingering touches on areas that are bordering the line of being risqué, a few innuendos here and there, and the fact that, for one reason or another, he really likes being shirtless around you. ”It’s just a little warm” and ”the clothes are getting sweaty” don’t exactly convince you anymore: You see the way he subtly flexes his muscles when he catches you looking.

However, he isn’t horny-horny in the sense that he would only think with his dick when it comes to you. He understands that while he’s crazy about you, you’re going to need a little warming up before he can start pestering you about any bedroom activities. That won’t stop him from ogling at your dips and curves at every possible moment, though.

He has a somewhat high drive. He’s a man in his sexual prime, and so, it’s no surprise that having you around is an amplifying factor to that. Before you came around, he used to engage in a little bit of ”guy-talk” with Mydei: Conversations about sex in general and whatnot weren’t that rare of an occurrence, and besides, it’s quite normal, isn’t it? (Comparing dick sizes with the homies is a common male experience, right?)

Due to his libido, he tends to jerk off quite a lot. Sometimes, one moment, he might be lying on the divan with you in his lap, and the other, he has to excuse himself to the bathroom to beat one out. For your sake, he tries to be discreet about it, and it doesn’t take that long for him to get it out of his system since he has a fresh memory in mind of how your lower back rubbed against his crotch. Though, if you were to press your ear against the bathroom door while he was at it, it would be difficult to mistake the practice for anything else. You try not to think about it.

It’s ridiculous how desperate you make him, really. Dreams about having you start plaguing him nearly every night, and you have woken up to his clothed dick nudging against your thighs more than once. If you weren’t already fearing for when he might step over the line, as more signs pop up, your concern rises through the roof. He notices the way you seem to be plotting for an escape even more intently than usual.

You come to understand that it won’t take long until his hand isn’t enough for him anymore — he will need the real thing soon enough.

˗ˏˋ ★ 11. Limit: How long does it take for them to have the darling? What is the first time like? Do they care about the darling’s willingness?

He really wouldn’t like to take you against your will, but it’s starting to look like you’re not going to give him another choice. He has tried his best — he has attempted gently initiating the act in every scenario possible, but you’re not showing any response to his advances. There has been plenty of time for you to come to him out of your own volition, but for now, it appears that if he ever wants to get that part of you as well, he’s going to have to take it himself.

It starts as relentless, around-the-clock pestering. You may be trying to sleep (in his arms, naturally), bathe, eat — anything, really — and suddenly, he’s behind you, hands grabbing both sides of your waist and slowly inching towards the curve of your breasts. Of course, you turn around in an instant and yell out a crisp ”what the fuck?”. It’s enough of a response to have him pull his hands back with a half-assed apology, but each time, it takes him longer to withdraw. In the back of your mind, you realize that the man is only testing the waters for now, and the more you give in, the further he will go. That being said, his advances result in you backing away from any physical contact, including when you’re supposed to be cuddling him while he sleeps. Out of fear for what he might do, you start insisting on sleeping in the narrowest part of the bathroom, right behind the tub, where it’s difficult for him to reach you. He must have been a tiny bit too upfront about his intentions, he muses.

The equation is a tricky one: He understands that there’s no going back if he indulges in you, but then again, the tent in his pants is driving him in a completely different direction. So, he starts reasoning with himself. Sex could bring the two of you closer together, right? Orgasms release a bunch of feel-good hormones for women, so if he makes you come a plenty, you’ll be more bonded with him! Or hey, what if you’re just playing really hard to get and you actually want it?

The latter thought is so preposterous that he has to beat himself up for even trying to delude himself into actually believing it. It’s obvious: You’re not going to respond to his advances, no matter what he does. It’s a frustrating place for him to be in, but as even the tiniest glimpse of your skin is enough to nearly have him bust in his trousers, he understands that there’s only one way out of the situation that doesn’t involve him slicing his dick off.

One day, a month or so into your captivity, when he arrives back from his duties, he catches you red-handed in yet another escape attempt: You have a metal instrument in hand, and you’re trying to cleave off one of the bedposts. You look at him like you had just seen a spectre, eyes widening before you resort to your usual course of action. You drop your current task and immediately head for the bathroom. Though, this time around, instead of letting you go through with your plan, he stops you in your tracks. With your fingers just short of reaching the handle, he slams his hands on both sides of your head, trapping you against the door. You wince at the loud sound, and naturally, you attempt to duck under his arm, but before you can do so, he lodges his knee in between your thighs.

Right then and there, he lets you know that you have two options: You can either agree to have sex with him right here, right now, or he’s going to take you by force, no matter what you say. Essentially, both routes lead to the same conclusion, but he’s giving you the choice of whether you want it nice or harsh. Your cute little mouth falls ajar, and though you try to conceal it, he can see how your knees buckle. Your eyes dart around, trying to think of a more favourable solution to the proposal at hand, but to no avail. Still, as usually is with you, you refuse to go down without a good fight.

In a sudden movement, you whisk your head to the side and bury your teeth into one of his hands. In the brief pause of shock it grants you, you bolt for the door like it’s the last thing you’ll do in your entire lifetime. Nonetheless, unfortunately, getting away from him isn’t nearly as simple as that: In a split second, he catches up to you and rams your back against the wall with so much force that your skull nearly bangs against the stone. He’s still smiling, but something about the expression seems terribly strained: It looks like he’s fighting his own psyche, more than anything.

Before you can do anything else, he lets out a joyless chuckle, picking you up and hoisting you over his shoulder. No matter how you scream, kick, and beat your fists against his back, he doesn’t budge the slightest bit. With surprisingly tender movements, he walks over to the bed and sets you on the mattress, taking care to settle your head on the pillows like you were made of glass. Of course, as soon as his touch leaves you, you attempt to roll off the opposite side of the mattress. You’re much too slow with it, though, because before you can even truly set the plan into action, he catches both of your wrists in one hand and forces himself in between your legs.

For a moment, he remains still, catching his elevated breath. He looks down at you with dilated pupils and a deep flush travelling down his neck. The heat emanates from his body, and the sun-shaped tattoo on his neck is glowing. You’re not sure where you should look: There’s no place your eyes can land that isn’t his form. He’s all around you, caging you into the bed with his own frame. Desperately, you try to wriggle yourself free from his grasp, but it’s no use — his grip is as unforgiving as the steel of his blade.

You’ve resisted the urge to look down until now, but finally, you allow the morbid curiosity to take over. Your eyes trail down his chest, his stomach... it’s there. His hard-on is straining against his pants like it’s about to burst right through the fabric. Though, you don’t get much time to stare at the thing as your sight is obscured by him leaning down to catch your lips in a kiss. He tries to tenderly hold your face in his free hand, but you’re making it quite difficult to do so with how you’re whisking your head in every possible direction.

He huffs into your mouth. Yes, he would like to keep the experience gentle for you, but since you insist on throwing every available wrench in the works, it seems that he needs to give you a bit of a rougher time than he originally thought.

So, without a warning, his fingers latch around your throat. He doesn’t exactly squeeze, but the notion behind is enough to have you settle down, even for a bit. You don’t dare fight him further when he slips his tongue in your mouth nor do you try to knee him as he begins humping himself against your clothed crotch. After a while, his lips leave yours, and he hides his face in the crook of your neck in favour of planting open-mouthed kisses all over your shoulders and chest. He hooks his fingers under the neckline of your top to reveal more of your skin. He licks, sucks and bites like you were the last meal he was ever going to have.

Detaching his hand from your neck, he slides it down to your stomach. Tugging your shirt up, he grabs a handful of your bare breast and begins rolling it around, using his thumb to circle your nipple. Oh, he so wishes that he could use his other hand, too, but with the way your arms are shaking from the exertion of attempting to break free, he abandons the idea. He’s trying his very best to keep himself in check, but admittedly, you’re not making the job very easy: You don’t have the faintest idea what sensations your sweat-clad skin and your ragged breaths instill in him. As his fingers leave your breast and instead slide down your bottoms, he wonders how long he’s going to last.

You spew hateful words at him. Even as tears have begun slipping past your waterline, you don’t give up your tough front. You’re obviously vexed, he can understand that much, but for you to still put up so much resistance when he already has you where you are? You truly manage to surprise him sometimes. Despite your responses, he only speeds his actions up: His fingers search around in your underwear until they find your bits. Having little to no patience left, he slips them right into your entrance.

You’re not too wet, he notices, to his dismay. It’s not your fault, of course: The entire ordeal was a bit of a surprise for you, and he has understood that you don’t exactly get in the mood at the same pace as he does. Even so, he puts his attention on dragging his digits in and out of your cunt, rubbing his thumb over the general area of your clit, trying to coax as much lubrication out of you as he’s able. You let out terrified yelps and pleas for him to “at least slow down”, but going by your bodily reactions, he doesn’t think he’s doing that poor of a job, and so, your grievances go on deaf ears.

However, all of his movements come to an abrupt halt as certain words leave your mouth. ”I’m scared”, you whimper between all the insults and protests. It’s like you don’t even realize what you said at first, but when his ministrations pause, your voice dies down. He looks down at you as if you had just punched him in the gut, but quickly, he composes himself. ”You don’t have to be”, he then assures you, releasing your hands for a moment in favour of petting your head — a complete contrast to his tight grip mere seconds ago. ”I’m not going to hurt you”, he continues, smiling down at you. Simultaneously, his fingers pull out of your cunt and instead go for your clit where he circles the pearl in slow, steady motions. ”Doesn’t that feel good?”

You lunge at him, reaching for his face, he assumes, but he’s quick to catch your wrists right back before you can even graze him. He tries to shrug the thing off like it hadn’t affected him at all, but at the same time, the hand in your bottoms becomes more aggressive in its motions, plunging back into your hole. You hiss at the sudden stretch, but he doesn’t give you much time to complain about it. Instead, he uses his weight to force your thighs against your upper body. With a bit of a struggle, he yanks your lower garments up and off your legs, revealing your cunt to him. By this point, he’s panting like a dog in heat, and his movements mirror the same impression: Hastily, his hand goes to his pants where he fiddles with the button for a moment before pulling his dick out.

Immediately, your flailing resumes. He holds you down with minimal efforts, all the while he lines his cock up with your bare entrance. He tries to comfort you, telling you that while he would really like to prep you a bit more, ”he just can’t take it anymore”: It’s much too late to think of taking off his own clothes or any other trivial matters. His tip nudges against your cunt, and with a final promise to ”be as gentle as he’s able”, he pushes into you.

You don’t get much of an adjustment period. He gives you a good ten seconds before he goes straight for fucking you into the mattress. His pace is vigorous, uncoordinated and, most prominently, so deep that you feel like his thrusts are knocking the air out of your lungs. You make the mistake of taking a look at his face through your lidded eyes: His mouth is wide open in a licentious expression, and his eyes nearly roll back into his head as he grinds into you. He moans out incomprehensible strings of words, praising you for ”how good you feel” and thanking the skies for giving you to him. You would be dumbfounded by the show if it weren’t for the fact that you’re mostly concentrating on biting into your lower lip and withstanding the force of his plunges.

There isn’t much more you can do than weather the storm for as long as it lasts (and it lasts a considerable while). When he’s done with you, you enter the awkward after-phase where you cry while he leans his forehead against your bare chest, spilling out apologies through his ragged breaths. After he has gathered himself enough, he’s going to take care of you, but for a moment, he needs to linger in the afterglow of his climax and bear the crushing weight of the post-nut clarity that’s hammering on his conscience.

˗ˏˋ ★ 12. Preferences: What is sex with them like? What sort of stuff are they into? What kind of kinks do they have?

Phainon likes it passionate, loving and intense. Or, perhaps “fervent” would be a better term to describe his preferences: There’s really no instance with him where you wouldn’t end up needing a good few hours to compose yourself after having sex with him. He would rather have it that way, too: You look awfully pretty in your afterglow, after all.

Good old wannabe-vanilla and praise

He likes intimate, gentle sex — or, more specifically, the gentlest he can make it for you, given the fact that you don’t seem to be a particular fan of his advances. ”Gentle”, to him, means the act of taking care of you sexually, whether that’s against your will or not. In the times that his self-restraint allows him to, he likes to focus all of his attention on you, showering you in loving touches.

He loves fingering you. Whether it’s with him lying on your side or with you trapped under him, he loves the way he can reduce you to a whining mess with just his hand. It must feel so good for you when he slides his fingers into your cunt over and over again, curling them right against your sweet spot without mercy. He makes sure to give your clit plenty of attention, too: He has already figured out the best patterns to make you melt. He isn’t having any of the struggling — you can pretend all you want that you aren’t on the brink of heaven at the moment — but he knows just how to unravel you.

He tends to get a bit messy with it, too. Your essence will be smeared all over your thighs by the time he’s done. For good measure, he brings his hand to his mouth and licks the remainder off with a heavy blush on his cheeks. You always find the act horribly embarrassing, but it does nothing to deter him from doing it. He offers it to you as well, telling you how ethereal it tastes, but going by your reaction, you don’t seem too convinced by his words.

Eating you out is another thing he’s a particular fan of. It’s even more intimate than using his hand on you! Your thighs slam shut against his head, almost like hugging him, trying to push him off of you, but there’s a meal right in front of him and he’s a man on the brink of starving. You can either give it to him as is, or he can fold you in half and eat you like that. It’s your choice.

Then, when it comes to any and all sexual acts, for the life of him, he’s completely unable to shut his mouth. It’s like he needs to use his vocal cords as much as he needs to breathe, and he’s a generous moaner, too. When he isn’t grunting or huffing or groaning, you can be sure that praises for you are spewing out of his mouth like a mantra.

”You feel so good”, ”you’re so pretty”, ”you’re doing so well” and ”you’re being so good for me” are just a few of the things that he chants while pleasuring you. He tries encouraging you, too: ”Come on, I know you can do it”, ”there you go, give it to me, give it to me”, ”yeah, that’s it, my beautiful darling”, he speaks directly into your ear as he feels the telltale spasms of your cunt preceding your climax. Using his words, he guides you through the entire experience, not staying quiet for longer than a single moment that it takes for himself to come.

Physical power imbalance and manhandling

He’s a knight, a hero, a warrior at heart — and that comes with the desire to test his strength, to spar, to hone himself physically until he has reached the peak of perfection. That being said, he also takes pride in the fact that he’s so physically capable: Outside of the bedroom, he already likes to carry you around, to lift heavy stuff for you, to utilize his height due to you being shorter than him in stature, so why wouldn’t he enjoy the same things when it comes to sex?

You’re so pretty, so frail, so helpless compared to him. It’s kind of cruel of you to deprive him of treating you like the princess you are (read: merging you with the mattress). There’s something so divine about seeing you under him, completely at his mercy: It’s difficult to explain in words, but he thinks it must be the way you make him feel so... trustworthy. You make him feel dependable, capable of taking control of the situation, even though he knows that you don’t exactly perceive him that way. It’s more what he himself would like to think, anyway. All of your pleasure is in his hands, and you can be certain that he’s going to give you all you need and more; much, much more.

So, he holds you down, he bends you in all kinds of positions, he holds you up in the air, he fucks you with an insane amount of strength. It’s not necessarily that it hurts, but the vigour which he thrusts into you with is unparalleled. Can you really blame him, though? It’s not his fault that you’re so easy to throw around. Comparably, he also likes the size difference the two of you have: As stated, he truly relishes the sense of capability he gets from being the one to ”guide” you through pleasure. When he grinds into you, he has a habit of caging you between the bed and him in a protective manner. In one way or another, it soothes his mind: You’re not going anywhere from here, is the core thought he has. As well as shielding you from the world, he shields the world from getting to you.

His strength also unlocks the option of the most bizarre of positions. Holding you up against the wall requires basically nothing of him, and he would dangle you off the window sill with your upper body off the edge and fuck you if you asked him to. It’s truly a shame that you won’t.

Then, finally, he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but he gets hard from seeing you struggle under him. Something about the way you strain so hard against his hold, put your best efforts into getting him off of you, how you scrunch your face up at the exertion… It gets him going. The way you clench your teeth, how you squeeze your eyes shut... The implication is clear as day, but despite it, he can’t help but shudder as the word ”sadist” pops into his mind. He doesn’t identify with the term at all, yet still, he can’t deny how exhilarating it is to see you in such a state. It’s a love-hate relationship.

The ult form

For the very first time he brings the idea up in advance, you think he’s joking. Or, it’s not that he outright suggests it, but more warns you about the fact that sometimes, once he gets thrilled enough, his looks might change a bit. You don’t think much of it before it actually happens, putting the remark in the same pile as his other ravings, but you do understand what he was talking about when his appearance, in fact, does alter a bit.

He’s in the middle of fucking you when out of nowhere, you see a golden glimmer in his eyes. Though, it becomes the least of your worries as you notice something poking out from behind his back. Out of instinct, you push your hands against his chest and call out to him, but instead of his normal response to such reactions, he plants his palm over your mouth. In a much deeper voice than normal, he tells you to “stay still and take what’s given to you”.

In a single moment, his entire demeanour has changed. Compared to his usual, gentle self, the air is now crackling with fiery energy and a strange sense of danger. Suddenly, he seems to carry an overwhelming aura of dominance, forcing you into obeying him with the mere weight of his gaze. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls your chest flush against his. Aligning your hips so that they’re glued against his, he grinds into you so deep that you swear you can feel him in your lungs. His grip is so tight that it nearly hurts, but something about the circumstances tells you that there’s no slowing him down.

One of his hands forces itself in between your thighs. His fingers find your clit and begin rubbing the pearl up and down with so much strength that you can’t decide if the pleasure is overshadowing the pain anymore. His teeth dig into the juncture between your neck and shoulder, gnawing a bright red mark on the untouched skin. When he’s satisfied with the bite, he moves on to another spot where he repeats the same process. You lose track of time faster than you want to, all in favour of staying conscious in the face of his vehemence.

There’s only one issue he faces when it comes to fucking you in this form, though, and it’s the fact that almost always, you’re in a deplorable condition afterwards, both physically and mentally. Of course, he tends to use a bit more of his strength when he’s in his alternative state, and it translates into red patches on your skin and faint bruises where he grabbed you. Those heal in no time, however, so when his high wears down, he’s much more concerned about your mind.

The strain of the Destruction that inhabits him must have been quite a terrifying experience for you, is a distant thought in his head as he looks down at your rapidly heaving chest and listens to your desperate sobs for him to stop, even though he pulled out a good moment ago. It takes time for him to get you to calm down afterwards, and so, there’s always a promise that “he’s never going to as far again”, that “he doesn’t have to do it anymore if you don’t want to”, but you can be sure that that promise is going to be broken sooner than you would like. No matter how tightly he hugs you, how gently he weaves his fingers through your hair, in your panicked state, you can hardly focus on anything else but the way the other-wordly smell of Khaslana still lingers on his skin.

He never goes all the way in this state, however — if he can help it, that is. He leaves his transformation halfway, sort of: The wings grow out, his eye colour changes, but to save you from worse injuries, he has to keep himself in check and not give you the full experience. Though, it’s not like it won’t make an appearance eventually: If you manage to make him mad enough, he might snap, and you’ll get to see his other form in its full glory. Albeit enthralling, it’s not exactly something to look forward to: He’s capable of being much, much harsher in that condition than anything what you’re used to.

Overstimulation

If you’re not shaking from pleasure with tears in your eyes and a deep red blush covering your entire face by when he’s done, he hasn’t done his job correctly. Sex very rarely ends in a single round for him, and so, it’s no wonder that, combined with his lack of self-control, relentless overstimulation is on the menu quite often.

Yes, you came already, he knows, but you can still take a few more, can’t you? It would be an awful waste not to enjoy the sight of your flushed, sweaty body for some time longer, wouldn’t it? Besides, he doesn’t need to be fucking you to keep going, you know? That being said, to prolong your torment, he likes to finger you, give you head, and use other means of pleasuring you to keep you going way past your limit — with zero breaks, of course. You’re the most sensitive after a good few orgasms, too, he notes.

He could go at it for hours on end. The better half of your day could be spent with you coming so many times that you can’t even keep count of your climaxes anymore, nor can he. Not that he even tries to: His attention is focused on keeping them coming rather than congratulating himself on achieving each one. He doesn’t even resort to fucking you, most of the time: He may jerk himself off, but it’s way more difficult to rub the peaks out of you if one of his hands is occupied elsewhere. Plus, he needs to restrain you, so the work ergonomics proves to be a bit of a hassle, anyway.

The one downside is that he has to put extra effort into making sure that you don’t wriggle out of his grasp, as mentioned. It must feel quite intense for you, going by the way you writhe and flail under his grip. Still, despite that, his mouth is going to stay glued to your cunt, and his fingers will remain inside of you for as long as he wants them to. Your only job is to take all he gives to you. Besides, overloading you with the maddening sensation is what will ultimately bring you closer to him, no? That’s how it works — in his mind, anyway.

Experimenting

Another thing about him is that unlike some of his alternatives, he likes to experiment quite a bit in the bedroom. Sure, he has a few things he’s particularly fond of and won’t compromise on, but other than those, he’s intrigued by all kinds of diverse things, and with time, he would like to try each one at least once. It keeps things interesting and you on your toes.

One day, he might present you with a coil of golden rope. When you ask him about it, he claims that oh, yeah, well, he took a trip to the city and thought that it looked nice, before suggesting that he could tie you up immediately after. It’s not even a question, though, because in a few minutes, you’ll be bound on the bed with your arms above your head and your thighs flush against your calves. He climbs on top of you with a way-too-exhilarated, loving smile before diving face first into your cunt.

He delves into the fascinating world of toys as well. Whatever Okhema has to offer, you can be sure that he’s going to bring it home. With you already secured against the mattress, the rope adorning your limbs, he pulls something out of the bedside drawer and brings it to your face. It’s a deep blue, phallic-shaped crystal around the size of... well. He excitedly tells you where he got it: Yeah, he hasn’t exactly used one of these before, but Cipher told him that ”the chick you have in the ruins would probably like it”, and so, he got it for you! And look, it also does this! He flicks the toy with his finger, and the rock whirs to life, vibrating. Throwing it in the air a couple of times in an idle manner, he redirects his attention towards you.

”Alright”, he hums determinedly as he gets in the bed beside you, settling on your side with a smile and a much-too-obvious bulge in his pants. Even as you yell at him to stop whatever he’s about to do, he proceeds to drag the crystal over your lower stomach for a bit, giving you a small taste of the feeling. Then, after a few moments, he gently splits your folds with the tip and presses it right against your clit. Judging from how your thighs clamp shut around it and how you throw your head back, his fellow Chrysos Heir was correct.

Then, finally, let him stick his cock in your ass, will you? “No”? Okay, what about his fingers? The toys? Come on, he’s sure that he can make it feel good for you. It’s really close to your cunt, and knowing even a little bit of the female body, it should be given that it’s quite a sensitive area. He promises he’ll be careful with it! Besides, he already eats your ass whenever you’re not kicking at him too much, and you always squeal out when he does that, so-, you throw a chair at him.

Huh, the rope really is handy, he thinks as he pulls the thing taut, securing your legs to the bedposts. With you unable to resist, he leans down to your bits, lubes his fingers up in his mouth before aligning them with your rear hole. You yelp and whine against the make-shift gag he fashioned out of his thigh strap, but there’s nothing much you can do against him when he sets his mind on something. With a determined huff, he presses two of his digits against your ass, carefully breaching the entrance. Simultaneously, his other hand comes up to your clit and rubs it in a slow, calming motion, as if trying to soothe your worries. It does nothing to placate you, however, and you put up so much resistance that he has to climb on top of you and hold your hips down with his weight. Still, the reactions your body grants him seem to be to his liking, and you have a creeping feeling that this is not the only time he’ll end up using his newly discovered trick.

˗ˏˋ ★ 13. Punishment: What do their sexual punishments look like? What methods do they prefer?

If you asked him about it before it happened, he would swear up and down that he would never use sex as a means for punishment. That promise holds for about as long as you don’t drive him over the limit — which, admittedly, requires quite a lot — but once it has been crossed, punishment sex becomes something akin to a routine, almost.

He’s a tolerant person — at least in the sense that it’s difficult to truly anger him to the point where he needs to put conscious effort into suppressing his nastier side. He knows that if he were to unleash his wrath upon you, he would not only risk the chance of having no darling afterwards, and the possibility that you might, with a considerable likelihood, never recover or forgive him for what he did. However, it’s bound to happen sooner or later: You have a habit of trying his patience with your spite, and as much as he would like to say that it doesn’t affect him, it very much does. So, after you poke the wasp’s nest with long enough of a stick, it’s really no wonder that he snaps.

The thing about his sexual punishments is the unfortunate fact that his other form comes out nearly every time. After all, his powers are driven by Destruction; born of aggression, wrath and recklessness. As much as he loves you and wants to keep you as happy as possible, you sometimes tickle the part of him that he would like to keep as hidden from you as possible.

Maybe you’ve been particularly resistant and snide with him, rejecting his touches, locking yourself in the bathroom, trying to escape. His usual, lesser punishments aren’t working, and even after he has been holding you down in his lap for the best part of an hour, you still haven’t given up on trying to sink your nails and teeth into any part of him that’s available. He gives you a good few warnings, letting you know that his patience is wearing thin, but you simply won’t give up the fight.

Though, when a strange scent hits your nose, you pause your struggling. Tilting your head up to look at him, bewildered, you come to find that he’s staring right back at you with wide eyes and a terrifyingly blank expression. In the span of a single moment, the ocean blue of his eyes morphs into striking yellow, his hair grows more dishevelled and warmer in tone, and most alarmingly, large, wing-like structures seem to be spreading out of his back.

He slams you down on the bed, on your stomach, with so much force that you fear for yourself as much as for the bedframe. In the split second you squeeze your eyes shut for, he has climbed on top of you, straddling your form with you pinned underneath him like a nymph on a board. The air seems to have grown warmer around you, charged with the very same, spine-tingling energy that comes out at his worst moments. Without a warning, one of his hands comes down on your head, smushing your face against the mattress without much of a care for your comfort. Any and all complaints you may have had before die on your tongue as he warns you in a deep, chilling voice: “Don’t move.”

Your bottoms are ripped off of you. Your yelp is muffled by the sheets, and the hand on the back of your neck is unbudgeable, but even then, you make an attempt to push yourself up. He doesn’t take the act of defiance kindly: Yanking both of your arms behind your back, he constrains you in a nearly painful position. You wail out at the stress, trying to strain your neck to look at him and hopefully evoke even a bit of sympathy in him with your eyes. It’s difficult to see him with how you’re situated, but despite that, you’re able to catch a tiny glimpse of how sharp, golden cracks line his now bare chest. It’s like you’re with an entirely different man. Rather than dwelling on the matter, though, you’re much more focused on how something is poking against your cunt.

His dick starts pushing into you. With horror, you realize that the shape doesn’t match his normal one: The tip feels to be an unantural shape, and as he attempts going deeper, your cunt resists him more than usual — he’s much bigger. Nonetheless, he doesn’t seem to be the least bit bothered by it, and in a leisurely thrust, you feel every single rib and curve of his cock as it sinks into you with a squelch. The sensation is painful, almost, and your lower stomach fills with scorching warmth. Bordering the line of hysteria, you start pleading with him, promising to behave, but your olive branch is met with a clawed hand digging into your scalp. ”Shut up”, he hisses in a low, harsh tone.

With that, he starts fucking into you with fervour you have never seen from him before. He didn’t prep you a single bit, and the stretch burns in your lower half, hitting places so deep that you didn’t even know they could be touched. If the moment wasn’t already intense enough, there’s something about his presence that induces a fervent sense of panic in you: No matter how you try to talk to him, your words are met with him pushing you further against the bed with an unforgiving grip, all the while he repeatedly spears you on his cock. At some point, you start sobbing out your distress, but he doesn’t seem to be the least bit concerned with your pain. It’s not meant to feel good, he makes known to you with his actions alone.

The torment continues on and on, all the way until he gets his fill. By then, you’ve been lying limp on the bed for a good while, barely responsive. Even as he pulls out, the searing heat of him doesn’t leave you. Though, he seems to have had enough for the time being: His wings sizzle up into thin air, the cracks in his upper body seal shut, and as he leans down against your trembling form, you notice that he has gone back to his original form. Distantly, you hear the way he starts frantically apologising for his actions, telling you how sorry he is, sounding like he himself is about to burst into tears, but in your worn mind, you can hardly make sense of his words. It’s not long until you give into the insistent pull of slumber.

He’s in quite a bad state afterwards, ironically. While it was his own fault, he battles with guilt so overbearing that he wonders if he should burn the entire planet down right then and there. He takes in the sight of you, resting still with dried tears on your face and bright red marks all over your body; the view makes him sick to his stomach. In that very moment, he promises himself that you’ll never get to see this side of him again, but you can be certain that the vow only holds as long as you don’t manage to tick him off — which, alas, isn’t for that long.

˗ˏˋ ★ 14. Aftermath: What does their aftercare look like? Is there any?

It’s very important to him. After all, the only condition he has for taking you to his pleasure-hued purgatory and back is that he does his utmost to take care of you afterwards. In his philosophy, the more intense the sex, the more thorough the aftercare should be, but the only issue he faces with it is that the sessions are always beyond intense for you. Whether it was a mere few rounds of missionary, or if he lost his cool and channeled his inner Nanook again, you’re not going to be able to move much when he’s done.

First off, he takes a moment to come down from his high. He leans down against you and tenderly cradles your head to his chest, planting kisses in your hair in between his ragged breaths. He whispers out varying things, ranging from ”you did so well” to ”don’t cry, please don’t cry”, depending on what sort of a state you’re in. Occasionally, if you’re in a particularly bad condition, the tristesse tends to hit him quite hard, and so you won’t get his hands off of you in a good while. He needs his cuddles, both for your and his sake: If you weren’t so insistent on taking a bath, he would fall asleep right then and there.

The bath in question is a must-do: Both of you are covered in sweat, his marks litter the entire upper part of your body, and every last one of your muscles ache from the toil. He usually has to carry you to the bathroom himself and sit you down in the tub since you don’t tend to move around much after having to tolerate his ardour. Still, he insists on the act: It doesn’t matter if you’re still sniffling — you yourself said that you can’t possibly go to bed covered all dirty, didn’t you? So, with great care, he washes you all over, rubbing his hands along your shoulders in comforting motions, brushing his fingers through your hair, and soaking in the pleasantly warm water with you. Though, be careful, because if you don’t look pitiful enough, he might attempt to go for another round.

Finally, sex with him has to end with sleep. It doesn’t matter whether it’s in the middle of the day or past your bedtime, you’re going to sleep. It’s like he doesn’t even consider the alternatives: It’s either overnight or a nap, there are no other options. He hoists you back into the bedroom from the bath and plops you down on the freshly changed sheets. Any and all of your complaints and suggestions are met with a gentle smile and an insistent arm around your waist. As usual, there’s no escaping from his grasp, and truth to be told, sleep sounds like a preferable plan to you after what he made you go through. For as long as he has the will to remain awake himself, he plays with the baby hairs on the nape of your neck and scratches your lower back in pleasant, unhurried circles. He holds your head against his heart where you can hear the steady beat, and within minutes, the sound is enough to lull you into a temporary sense of security.

Honestly speaking, the entire thing is a sort of a calming-down ritual for him. As mentioned, he tends to go overboard with sex more often than he would like to admit, and so, the aftercare is more or less convincing himself that he didn’t hurt you that bad and that you’re alright, you were just a bit scared. He deludes himself into thinking that he wasn’t all that rough and that it felt really good for you (which he, frankly, makes sure of), and so, the cycle repeats as many times as his lower half desires.

For the aforementioned reason, you also get a plethora of apologies from him as he holds you. In a hushed tone, as you’re already half-asleep, he mutters hushed strings of ”sorry-sorry-sorry” into the crown of your head, promising not to go that hard on you ever again, telling you that ”he understands if you hate him”, and so on. He gets a bit cynical, putting up a small pity-party for himself, and the worse your state is, the more dramatic he gets. His emotions are quite messy, for the lack of a better word. Though, as he gently scrapes his nails against the back of your head, it’s good for you to remember that at least he takes care of you in general.

˗ˏˋ ★ 15. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes sex-wise? Are there any unique aspects to them?

If he’s pent up enough, everything becomes about sex to him. It’s like he uses the carnal as a solution to every small problem you might present to him. ”It’s chilly?” Alright, let’s warm you up then, he claims as he unzips his trousers. You’re mad or frustrated at something? Okay, let’s finger that one out of you. You’re hungry? Hey, he knows, he has something better than food that he can fill your insides with!

It gets beyond ridiculous. Though, compared to his usual habits of wanting to touch you at every possible moment of the day, it’s really no wonder that it would extend to this side of him as well. You could be in the least sexual situation possible, and he could come up behind you, grab you by the waist and bring you to the bed, and it’s just another ride from there. Due to his drive, he needs quite a lot to keep himself satisfied in the long run, so an occurrence like that is more common than you would like for it to be.

Though, let it be mentioned that sex is also a somewhat good way to get him to give what you want. For example, if he’s in the mood but you’re particularly resistant, he might cave in and promise to take you to Okhema tomorrow night, if you just let him have you for a bit, please? As is with his vows usually, he makes sure not to disappoint you, too.

Then, unlike some of his peers, he’s actually incredibly concerned about how certain things feel to you. Note that it’s only in his twisted logic, though: He will absolutely do all kinds of things that feel bad to you — that hurt you, even — but he tries to do them in a way that’s not as distressing to you as they could be. Yes, he grabs you by the neck and holds you in somewhat unpleasant positions, but he takes care to make sure that you’re getting enough air, that nothing is breaking or tearing, and that he doesn’t leave any lasting scars. You’re way too pretty to be ruined by something like that! Moreover, as he’s inflicting pain on you, he makes sure to rub your clit, to suck on your nipples, to caress every available inch of you in an attempt to steer your mind away from the bad things. Yes, yes, his dick is splitting you apart, but here, doesn’t that feel nice? Just focus on that and let him do his thing.

Oftentimes, after a particularly rough time, he might squeeze in an extra round of sex in favour of leading you down from the harsher world and back into his gentle arms. It usually consists of him fingering you or eating you out at a leisurely pace: He makes sure to hit all of your best spots (he knows them by heart!), to stroke his hands along your thighs while he plants sloppy kisses along the side of your thighs or your face and your ear. It’s a bit of a challenge for him not to get excited all over again, but since it’s for your sake, he restrains himself. He takes pride in being an attentive partner, after all.

He’s going to be a little offended if you refuse the bonus round, as he calls it, though. It’s supposed to be the bridge that connects the rough and the nice, so he doesn’t quite understand why you would reject him. He would hate for you to think that he doesn’t care for you! Though, after a risible amount of whining, he usually gets his way with this matter as well. You’re playing a losing game.

Finally, as a smaller detail, he’s not that much keen on getting his dick in your mouth. Of course, if you were to ask for it yourself, he wouldn’t say no (he’s extremely desperate), but in general, he doesn’t really get a kick out of it. It doesn’t feel as intimate as being inside of you does, and besides, it’s a little difficult to make you feel good that way! He almost feels guilty at the idea of receiving pleasure from you while you’re not getting any. It’s in his people-pleasing nature — though, something like sixty-nine is obviously on the table. It’s just that you’re usually unable to hold it for long since he tends to get really passionate about devouring you. It’s like he sets it as his goal to get you so spent that you can’t even suck his dick anymore, and only then he’ll deem the act a success. It’s an odd set of rules that he plays by.

A/N

I hope you had a good read! (づ｡◕‿◕｡)づ

This one was kind of heavy in dialogue, now that I look at it. Originally, my idea was that the profiles wouldn't have too much "live" scenarios, but alas, I've been driven in that direction. I don't actually mind it that much now that I've been going that route, plus with some characters (the professional yappers like Aventurine, Boothill, Argenti and such), dialogue and their manner of speech is an important tool in conveying all their quirks and whatnot, in my humble opinion. Plus, I myself like reading the live stuff more than passive language, and I hope it's that way for the majority of you ( ¯ ³¯)

I took quite a few creative liberties here, as you might have noticed. Truthfully, I don't have the slightest idea if he can actually just go back and forth between the regular form and the Karna-from-Fate-looking-ass form, but I made it so that he can. Technically (though I was unable to find anything on this), it's only for when he fucked up a cycle and all, but then again, you know, why he kindaaaaa, so I ended up granting him the ability go in and out at will, sort of. Even though he's out, there's so much we don't know about him yet. How nice of Hoyo to leave the diabolical cliffhanger at the end of the 3.4 quest.

We'll see if this profile loses its canon-accuracy when the next patch rolls around. I'm glad I waited until his release to write this piece; I'm not sure what I would've done if I had the profile ready and then got hit by the simulation plot immediately after. For the same reason, there's no mention of Cyrene in this one because I don't know if her ass will be resurrected or not :skull: Then again, if Phai gets an earth-shattering character arc that changes his lore forever, it only opens a window for a profile part II, but we'll see, we'll see. For the next profile, you can expect Anaxa, AE-Sunny, Argenti or Ratio, I'm not quite sure yet. Stay tuned!

And also, taglist, yippee! Comment or send an ask to be added, either one is alright (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

@yourfavouritecitizen @loserworld @lem-hhn

#tbr

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