whatevs128

[whatevs128]

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

[whatevs128]

Hi! I love your depictions of Phainon, especially when he toes the line between charming and threatening. I’m a sucker for a good unrequited love trope, so could you write a scenario where reader was in love with Phainon in the past but he treated her the same as he did everyone else so she eventually loses hope and gives up, so now he’s the one that has to chase after her? Thank you so much!

Yandere!Phainon x Fem!Reader

The first time you saw Phainon, you thought the stars had fallen from the sky and taken the shape of a man. He was brilliant, untouchable, a light too blinding for anyone to hold. And yet, you tried.

You were seven when you first told Phainon you wanted to marry him.

It had been one of those golden afternoons, the sun slanting through the trees, painting his silver hair with a soft glow. He sat on a patch of grass beside you, staring up at the clouds like they held all the answers in the world.

“Phai!” you had said, kicking your legs idly. “When we grow up, let’s get married.”

“Married?”

“Yes! Like grown-ups do! You’ll protect me, and I’ll make you happy.”

Phainon tilted his head, considering. Then, with a soft laugh, he shrugged. “Alright.”

And that was it. A simple agreement, like you had just decided to play a new game. He didn’t think about it beyond that moment, and maybe, at the time, you didn’t either. But as you grew, the weight of those words stayed with you.

Years passed. You stayed by his side, always reaching, always hoping. Phainon was kind—always had been. But as you both grew older, you noticed something.

He was kind to everyone.

He smiled at others the way he smiled at you. He listened to them, helped them, comforted them—just as he did with you. Maybe a little softer, a little gentler when it came to you, but never in the way you wanted. Never in a way that meant something more.

And so, the quiet realization settled in your heart like a stone sinking into a river.

You weren’t special.

Not to him.

And then there was that day. The day you knew, without a doubt, that you were just another name in his life.

It had been at the annual festival, a celebration where lights hung from every corner, where laughter echoed in the streets, and where lovers exchanged tokens of devotion.

You had spent all morning crafting a gift for him—something small but meaningful. A charm, woven with threads of silver and blue, the colors that reminded you of him. A silent confession, the last desperate hope that maybe, maybe he would see you.

When you found him, he was standing beneath the lantern-lit trees. But he wasn’t alone. A girl stood before him, cheeks dusted pink, hands nervously clasping a carefully wrapped box.

You had seen it before—people gravitating toward Phainon, drawn in by his quiet kindness, by the way he made everyone feel special. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That he would just smile, politely decline, and move on.

“Oh, for me?” Phainon had taken the box gently, his voice carrying that familiar warmth, the kind that once made your heart race. “That’s really kind of you.”

You stood there, gift clutched in your hands, heart pounding as he opened it. Inside was a scarf, delicately embroidered, clearly made with effort and care. He held it up, smiling, before effortlessly wrapping it around his neck.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” he said. And then, without hesitation, he lifted a hand and gently patted the girl’s head.

It was the same gesture he had given you countless times. The same words. The same smile.

Something inside you shattered.

You had spent years thinking you were different, that maybe, maybe the way he treated you was special. But here he was, accepting another person’s affection with the same grace, the same warmth.

You weren’t special.

Not to him.

Your hands trembled around the charm you had made. And then, slowly, you let it fall to the ground.

Phainon never even noticed.

----

“Y/N”

His voice cut through the air, quiet but firm. You stiffened for half a second before turning to face him.

“What is it, Phainon?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy”

“I never meant to make you feel like—”

You stopped him before he could finish.

Eventually, you stopped seeking him out, stopped waiting for his attention. And as days turned to weeks, you started avoiding him entirely.

But you never got the chance to truly leave him behind.

Because then the war came.

It happened suddenly—one evening, the village bells rang in alarm. Riders arrived from the capital, shouting of an approaching army, of an impending invasion. Chaos followed, families scrambling to gather their belongings, the town elders deciding who would flee and who would stay to defend.

Phainon, of course, chose to fight.

You still remember the look in his eyes that night. Determined. Steady. As if the boy who once watched clouds beside you had already faded into something sharper.

“You’re leaving, right?” His voice was firm, but there was something uneasy beneath it. “You should go to the capital—it’s safer there.”

You had hesitated, watching the way his hand gripped the hilt of a borrowed sword.

He was afraid.

You had known him long enough to see it, even if no one else could.

“I—” Your throat tightened. What were you supposed to say? Be safe? Don’t fight? You had spent so long pulling away, trying to make peace with the idea that you were just another person to him. And yet, standing there, watching him prepare for battle, you couldn’t help but remember the Phainon you once loved.

In the end, you only nodded. “Goodbye, Phai.”

The way his breath caught at your words—it almost made you stay.

But you didn’t.

You left with the others, escaping toward the capital as the village prepared for war.

You never thought you’d see him again.

Years Later – The Capital

The war changed everything.

Your village, though damaged, had survived—but life could never return to what it was. The battle had taken many, scattered others, and those who returned were never quite the same.

You, like so many others, had built a new life in the capital.

With your skill in design, you carved out a name for yourself among the noble elite. What had once been a simple love for embroidery and fabric turned into something much greater—a business, a reputation, a sense of independence you never had before.

You ran a high-end clothing shop near the palace, known for its elegant craftsmanship and modern designs. Nobles sought you out, eager for your work, for the quiet dignity and beauty woven into each piece you created.

And here, in the bustling streets of the capital, you finally found yourself.

----

The soft chime of the shop bell barely drew your attention as you worked, fingers carefully adjusting the pearl buttons on an elegant gown. You were used to high-ranking visitors—nobles, courtiers, even foreign envoys—so the presence of yet another escort was nothing unusual.

“Sir Luvain, if you’d follow me, the tailor should be expecting you.”

Slowly, you lifted your gaze.

Phainon stood at the entrance, clad in the silver-trimmed armor of the royal knights, the sigil of his rank gleaming against his shoulder. He had grown taller, stronger—the soft edges of youth sharpened into something disciplined, something restrained.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, as if nothing had happened, you turned your attention to his companion, the nobleman he was escorting. With practiced ease, you greeted him, all professionalism and grace.

“Lord Luvain, I trust you received my message regarding the final adjustments?”

The noble smiled, stepping forward to allow you to take his measurements. He spoke lightly about the upcoming banquet, about how eager he was to debut his attire. You listened, responded when necessary, all while acutely aware of Phainon standing silently at the edge of the room.

“Your measurements are set, my lord.” you finally said, stepping back with a slight bow. “This will be delivered two days later. If there are any final alterations needed, send word.”

Luvain gave a pleased nod before turning back to Phainon.

Phainon hesitated for just a second—his lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something—but you were already turning away, reaching for your next task.

----

The bell chimed again the next morning.

You didn’t expect to see him. Not so soon.

But there he stood, alone this time.

You frowned as you saw his handsome face.. ruined. His lip was cut, a faint bruise darkening his cheekbone. He wasn’t injured enough for it to be from battle. No, this was different. A personal kind of fight.

Still, you didn’t ask.

Instead, you simply set down your tools and gestured toward the small seating area. “Sit.”

“…I didn’t come for treatment.”

“I didn’t ask why you came.”

Perhaps it was the casual, almost dismissive way you spoke. Perhaps it was the fact that, for the first time, you weren’t treating him as something untouchable.

But he obeyed.

As he settled into the chair, you retrieved a small cloth and a jar of medicinal balm, kneeling beside him to gently dab at the cut on his lip.

He winced slightly. “I could do this myself.”

“You’re terrible at it”

Up close, you noticed the slight exhaustion in his expression. You had heard stories—whispers of how politics in the palace were ruthless, how those who rose too quickly often became the target of others.

Perhaps he was learning that now.

It had been years since he left the village, years spent surrounded by flattery, empty smiles, and noble courtiers who praised him not for who he was, but for what he had become.

Yet here you were. Treating him with the same quiet care as always.

You hadn’t changed at all.

And maybe—maybe that was what unsettled him most.

“There.” You finally pulled away, capping the jar and setting it aside. “Try not to get hit next time.”

“You’re not going to ask what happened?”

You glanced at him, then gave a light shrug. “Does it matter?”

Then, with a soft sigh, you stood. “Well, if that’s all, Sir Phainon, I have other clients to attend to.”

You had never called him that before.

Not Phai. Not Phainon. Just Sir Phainon, like he was any other knight, any other customer.

Something about it unsettled him.

But before he could dwell on it, you had already turned away.

“Take care” you said over your shoulder, already moving on.

As he stepped out of the shop, Phainon barely noticed the bustling streets around him. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the way you had looked at him—or rather, the way you didn’t.

He had spent so long being adored, sought after, respected. And yet, none of it compared to the simple, quiet way you had once looked at him.

The way you didn’t anymore.

---

Days turned into weeks, and Phainon didn’t disappear like before.

If anything, he only climbed higher.

You heard the murmurs in the capital—of his growing reputation, his skill on the battlefield, his unwavering determination. His name was spoken with admiration, his presence sought after by nobles eager to have a knight of his caliber within their inner circles.

But no matter how high he reached, no matter how many doors opened for him, he always seemed to find his way back to you.

At first, it was subtle. A chance meeting in the marketplace, an escort duty that just so happened to lead him near your shop. Then it became deliberate. He would stop by under the guise of checking on his previous order, lingering too long, watching you in that unreadable way.

You had long stopped being a girl waiting for his affection. You had built your own life, your own success. But somehow, he refused to let you slip away.

----

“You may take the next few days off for your wedding. Enjoy yourself.”

Your worker’s eyes lit up, bowing in gratitude before hurrying off. You watched her go, your fingers idly tracing over the fabric on your desk.

Marriage.

You hadn’t thought about it much.

But now, with your employee stepping away for her own wedding, it dawned on you—it was that time in life where people settled down, where friends and acquaintances from your village were likely married with families of their own.

Once upon a time, you had naïvely dreamed of it, too.

A childhood promise, whispered in the golden glow of late afternoons—"Marry me when we grow up!"—and the careless laughter that followed, as if it was nothing more than a game.

But it hadn’t been a game. Not for you.

And in the years that followed, when you had loved him in silence, when you had watched him treat others with the same kindness he gave you, when you had finally learned that you were never special to him—

You had given up.

You weren’t that foolish girl anymore.

The shop bell chimed.

Phainon.

But this time, he wasn’t in armor. No weapons, no duties. Just simple, well-made clothing that suited him far too well—his presence somehow heavier despite his unassuming attire.

And in his hands—

A small, wrapped gift.

“For you.”

You hesitated before reaching out, carefully undoing the ribbon.

A hairpin. Carved in the shape of a flower that once bloomed in your village, back when you were children.

“…Why?”

Phainon inhaled slowly, as if steadying himself.

“I’ve been a fool. I didn’t see it back then.” He said “How much you meant to me. How much I took for granted.”

No, he wasn’t doing this.

Not now. Not after all these years.

“I thought of you often, even when I was away” he admitted. “But I only understood it after returning. When I saw you again, when you treated me as if I was just another face in the crowd.”

Your fingers curled around the hairpin.

“Because that’s what you are now” you whispered, barely able to find your voice.

“It’s not what I want to be.”

“I don’t want to be ‘just another knight’ to you.” His gaze locked onto yours, “I want—” He exhaled, softer this time. “I want you.”

And yet, all you could do was stare at him—at this man who was once your world, at this man who had only now realized his own feelings, at this man who had already taken too much from you.

You had already suffered once. Already let yourself burn for him.

You wouldn’t do it again.

Carefully, you placed the hairpin back into the box and closed the lid.

“…Thank you for the gift, Sir Phainon.” Your voice was steady, polite. “But I have no use for it.”

“Y/N—”

“I gave up on you long ago.” The words cut through the air, “And I have no intention of reliving that pain.”

“Goodbye, Phainon.”

And with that, you turned away.

You didn’t look back.

But as you walked away, you couldn’t hear the sound of him leaving.

Because this time—

This time, he wasn’t willing to let you go.

His heartbeat thundered.

He had always been admired, always been wanted. There was not a single noblewoman who wouldn’t welcome his favor, not a single courtier who wouldn’t seek his company.

But you?

You, who had once loved him so openly, had turned him away.

And it hurt.

More than it should have. More than anything ever had.

Phainon’s grip tightened around the small box still in his hands.

No.

This wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Not when the only person who had ever been truly kind to him was slipping through his fingers.

----

No matter what you said, no matter how much distance you tried to place between you—

Phainon kept coming back.

Whenever he had a break from duty, he would stop by the shop under the pretense of ordering something, checking on an old commission, or simply greeting you.

It didn’t matter if the sun was blazing or if the streets were slick with rain—Phainon would still appear, standing just outside, waiting for the smallest chance to speak to you.

And you?

You refused to give him anything.

And yet, it never stopped him.

Until one day—

You closed your shop.

It was the first time in weeks that Phainon hadn’t seen you.

He had arrived as usual, fully expecting you to be there, only to find the doors locked. A simple note hung at the entrance, inked in your delicate handwriting:

"Closed for the week. No appointments will be taken."

The words should have meant nothing.

And yet—

Something in his chest twisted.

Because you weren’t someone who closed your shop without reason. You weren’t someone who let anything—anyone—get in the way of your work.

“You didn’t hear? She’s fallen ill” one of the merchants gossiped. “Not too severe, but bad enough to keep her indoors.”

You were ill.

And no one had told him.

By the time he arrived at your house, you were already recovering.

You were still pale, still weaker than usual, but you were up, moving about, focused on tidying the mess that had gathered during your bedridden days.

When the knock came, you hesitated.

Then, with a tired sigh, you opened the door.

And there he was.

Phainon, standing on your doorstep.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I heard you were unwell.”

“I’m fine now.”

“I’ll stay”

“…What?”

“I’ll stay here” Phainon repeated, stepping forward slightly. “Until you’re fully recovered.”

You had spent weeks pushing him away.

And still, still, he refused to listen.

“Phainon.” You swallowed back the frustration. “Go home. You have better things to do than waste time here.”

“I don’t consider this a waste.”

You inhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temples. “Stop this. You’re—” A sigh. “You’re an important figure now. You have responsibilities.”

“…You really think that?”

You exhaled, suddenly too tired to argue. “I think you should leave.”

And with that, you turned away, stepping back inside.

You closed the door.

You locked it.

After that day, something changed.

Phainon stopped coming to your shop. Stopped appearing in front of you. Stopped waiting by the doors, stopped lingering in the streets.

And for a while, you thought you had finally won.

---

The streets were quiet.

You stood at the entrance of your shop, the weight of exhaustion pressing on your shoulders as you locked the door for the night.

The metal clicked into place.

A shadow moved.

Your fingers froze over the lock. What was that? A ghost?

Slowly, cautiously, you turned.

And there he was.

Standing at the edge of the dimly lit street, half-shrouded in darkness, his blue eyes watching you.

You had known Phainon for years. You had grown up with him, watched him rise from a mere village boy to a knight of the palace. You had seen him change—seen him become colder, more refined, more distant.

But this was unnerving.

Still, you swallowed down the discomfort, "Phainon…?"

"You've been ignoring me. Did you meet someone else?"

"What?"

"Is that why? You found someone else, didn’t you?"

You frowned, unease curling at the base of your spine. "That’s ridiculous. I just have my own life, Phainon. You should focus on yours."

Then, with an exhale that sounded almost amused—

"You don’t understand how exhausting things are in the palace."

He took another step forward.

You instinctively took one back.

"Everything is fake" he continued, "Every smile. Every kind word. They all lie. They all pretend to care. But you—"

"You were always real."

Your fingers twitched, itching to reach for the key still in the lock.

"But now you avoid me," he murmured. "Now you won’t even look at me."

"Phainon—"

He cut you off.

"If I got you pregnant," he said suddenly, "no one would bat an eye."

Your mind barely had time to process the words—what he had just said—before your body reacted on instinct.

You slapped him.

Phainon’s head snapped slightly to the side, his cheek flushed red from the strike, his lips slightly parted from shock.

But that moment of surprise didn’t last.

Slowly—so, so slowly—he turned his head back to you.

The last remnants of the boy you once knew were gone.

There was only him.

Only the man who had finally decided to take what was his.

You moved to run.

His hand grabbed your wrist and yanked you forward, crashing into his chest.

"That," he murmured, "was a mistake."

By the time the townspeople saw the smoke, it was already too late.

The shop was engulfed in flames. The fire devoured the wooden walls, the carefully crafted gowns and fabrics, reducing everything to ash.

And inside—

A body. Unrecognizable. Burnt beyond recognition.

A robbery gone wrong, they said.

A tragic death.

You were gone.

Far beyond the burning remains of your old life, in a place far from the city’s reach, a single candle flickered inside a dimly lit room.

The scent of smoke still clung to Phainon’s clothes as he sat beside the bed—the bed where you lay, unconscious.

Your wrists were bound. Just enough to make sure you wouldn’t do anything stupid when you woke.

He exhaled softly, reaching out, fingers brushing against your cheek.

Even now—even now, you were still his.

Now, you had nowhere to run.

The ropes around your wrists chafed against your skin, but the pain barely registered over the sheer rage bubbling in your chest.

The moment you had woken up—realized what he had done—you fought.

You screamed. You kicked. You thrashed so violently that Phainon had to pin you down.

"Let me go!" you spat, your voice hoarse from screaming.

Phainon only sighed, looking down at you with something almost close to pity.

"You’re being difficult."

"Do you think I’ll just sit here and accept this?" Your breath was ragged, fury shaking through your limbs. "I will never be yours."

"You always say that" he murmured, "But you’ve never really tried being mine, have you?"

"I have time" he whispered.

And that terrified you more than anything.

Because he truly believed you would break.

Your wrists throbbed where the restraints had dug into your skin. Your breath came ragged, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

Phainon knelt before you, "You’re exhausting yourself"

You flinched. He hesitated. But only for a second before he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"You always did push yourself too hard"

You gritted your teeth. "Don't act like you know me."

That made him laugh—quiet, humorless.

"I do know you." His eyes burned as he held your gaze. "Better than anyone. Better than all those nobles who use your talent, who smile and bow and then forget you the moment they leave."

"I remember you, even when no one else did." His fingers brushed against your knuckles, "I never stopped thinking about you. Even when you left me behind. Even when you convinced yourself you didn’t care anymore."

You yanked your hands away.

"You don’t get to say that"

"Why?" he challenged. "Because it’s the truth?"

"Because you’re insane."

"Maybe I am. But does it matter?"

"You’ve already lost everything, haven’t you?" he continued, voice deceptively soft. "They think you’re dead. Your shop, your name, your life—it’s all gone. No one’s coming for you. No one even remembers you exist."

Phainon cupped your face then, forcing you to look at him.

"But I do," he whispered. "I always will. I would burn the world if it meant keeping you by my side."

For the first time, you truly understood.

There was no line he wouldn’t cross.

No limit to how far he would go to make sure you never left him again.

Phainon leaned in, forehead pressing against yours.

"Stop fighting," he whispered. "Just let go. You’ll be happier if you do."

"…I don’t know how to let go"

"You don’t have to know" he murmured. "Just trust me."

You nodded.

And that was it.

That was all he needed to believe he had finally won.

Days passed.

Phainon gave you more freedom—not complete, but enough. Enough for you to move without chains. Enough for you to pretend.

You let him think you were adjusting, that his patience had worn you down. You let him dress you in fine silks, let him touch you, let him believe that you were his.

Because the closer he let you get to the edge of the cage—

The easier it would be to escape.

The day of the wedding arrived in whispers and candlelight.

The halls of the estate were decorated in muted elegance—nothing extravagant, nothing too public. He didn’t need an audience.

This wasn’t about power.

This was about you.

And Phainon already had what he wanted.

Or so he thought.

You stood before the mirror in your gown, hands trembling—not with nerves, but with anticipation.

Outside, the horses were ready.

Inside, the door was left unlocked—a careless mistake born from his growing trust.

You took a breath.

One step.

Another.

The halls were silent as you slipped through the shadows, heart pounding with every second.

The exit was so close.

"Going somewhere?"

The voice froze you in place.

You turned—and Phainon stood at the end of the hall.

His wedding attire was pristine, but the grip he had on the hilt of his sword? Tight.

Your mouth went dry.

"Phainon.."

"Was it all a lie?"

You clenched your fists.

And then—

You ran.

Bolted down the hall, legs burning, lungs aching—but Phainon was faster.

You twisted, struggling, but he slammed you back against the stone wall, his body caging you in.

"You almost had me," he murmured, "Almost."

"Let me go."

"You were going to leave me," he said, "Again."

"Then ...I'll just have to make sure you never try again."

The room was suffocatingly quiet.

The iron shackle around your ankle was too tight, cold against your skin.

Phainon stood at the door, silent, watching.

Then—

He left.

For a moment, you almost believed that was it. That he had locked you away, that this was the extent of your punishment.

Then he came back.

With a knife.

Your body tensed when he knelt beside you, when his calloused fingers traced along your wrist too gently before pinning it against the bedpost.

You sucked in a sharp breath as he pressed the knife flat against your palm—just resting there.

"You tried to leave me."

He tilted his head, as if waiting. Daring you to lie to him.

"Say it."

"I—" You swallowed hard. "I tried to leave."

The blade pressed harder. Not enough to break skin. Just enough to make you feel the cold bite of the metal.

"Did it feel good?" he murmured. "Running away? Thinking you could escape me?"

"Phainon, please—"

A sharp swipe.

You flinched, expecting pain—but he didn’t cut you.

The blade had only sliced through the sleeve of your gown, the fabric slipping down your arm in ribbons.

"You’re scared" he observed.

You clenched your fists, refusing to give him an answer.

"Good."

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled away.

He set the knife down.

The bed dipped as he leaned in one last time, lips brushing against your ear.

"Next time," he murmured, "I won’t be so merciful."

Then he left, locking the door behind him.

Leaving you with the shackle around your ankle, the torn fabric on your arm—

And the overwhelming realization that you were truly trapped.

[whatevs128]

Hello, I really like your work with yandere characters! Your fanfic with the Crown Prince!Phainon holds a special place for me. But hey, listen! What about reader x self-aware!Phainon? Like, at some point he realized that he was in the game and decided to drag reader to him, because he has more power and influence in the game than outside it. It would be interesting, I think.

Entwined Realities

Yandere!Phainon x Reader

The Astral Express charted a course for its next destination: Amphoreus. You leaned forward, staring at the planet. "Woah, it's in the shape of an '8'". you mused, watching as the endless loops of landmasses interwove like an infinity symbol suspended in space.

Before long, events unfolded that led you to land on its surface with Dan Heng. The Eternal Land, as it was called, had a mysterious aura about it, a strange balance between old traditions and futuristic advancements.

You then met: Phainon, a strikingly tall and well-built warrior with silver-white hair and piercing blue eyes, carried himself with an easy confidence. Alongside him was Tribbie, a young girl with elf ears, fair skin, and red, fluffy hair.

Just as you began to explore Amphoreus further, an unmistakable growl escaped from your stomach. With a sigh, you reached for your controller, pausing the game before ultimately deciding to turn it off. The screen faded to black, and you stretched, rubbing your eyes after hours of playing. You needed food before diving back in.

------

As you turned away, a flicker of amusement in his expression as he folded his arms. "Huh. Strange."

Tribbie tilted her head. "What is?"

"That one. They left so abruptly. Like... they just stopped being here." Phainon’s fingers tapped absently against his bicep, his gaze still fixed on the spot where you had stood moments ago.

Tribbie let out a chuckle. "I didn't feel a thing. You overthink again."

Phainon had met many warriors, countless travelers—but something about you lingered. It was subtle, like an itch at the edge of his perception. The way your movements never faltered, the way events seemed to bend slightly in your favor. It was as if reality itself adjusted to accommodate you.

A faint sensation prickled at his skin, almost like the world had momentarily held its breath.

Then—nothing. The streets bustled as usual, the city carried on. But Phainon felt it. A small void, an absence of presence that shouldn’t have been possible. He turned his head slightly, scanning his surroundings, yet everything remained as it should be.

"They’re gone" he murmured, uncertainty crossing his face.

Tribbie raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Phainon hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly around his bicep. "No...nothing."

And yet, something inside him whispered otherwise. It wasn’t just departure, it was severance, like a thread cut from the loom of existence. He had never felt that before. A warrior’s instinct was to trust his senses, but this? This was something else entirely.

Shaking off the thought, he exhaled.

"I’ll figure out what makes them different."

Phainon frowned slightly, shifting his weight. A flicker of something unfamiliar coursed through him—a stray thought, an intrusive notion that he should not have been able to form.

Moments ago, everything had followed its usual rhythm: scripted interactions, predetermined movements, and a world that operated within set boundaries. Yet, the moment you vanished, something inside him had... fractured.

He had been left standing there, conscious yet purposeless, aware of the passage of time in a way he had never been before. The NPCs around him continued their routines, oblivious, unchanging. But he had stood there—waiting.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

He tested it, moving a hand before his eyes, clenching his fingers experimentally. He had never thought to do something like this before unless it was dictated by his programming.

Phainon took a slow step forward, the weight of his body feeling more real than it ever had. He wasn’t just responding to a command. He was moving because he chose to.

And then it hit him—

This world wasn’t real.

------

After satisfying your hunger, you returned to your seat, powering the game console back on. The familiar start-up screen flickered to life, and soon, you were back on Amphoreus. NPCs and traders greeted you once more. Everything seemed as you left it.

Yet, something felt... off.

You couldn't quite put your finger on it at first. As you navigated through the streets, looking for Phainon and Tribbie, an uneasy sensation settled in your chest.

Phainon stood where you had last left him, but his posture had changed. Before, he had been at ease, arms crossed with a confident smirk. Now, he was staring—directly at you. Not in the way other characters typically would, waiting for a scripted interaction, but as if he knew something. As if he had been waiting for you.

His blue eyes, once filled with warmth and bravado, now carried something else. Awareness.

"You're back" Phainon said.

The usual text box didn't immediately appear. The game hadn’t prompted you with dialogue choices yet, and that alone sent a chill down your spine.

Something had changed.

A glitch rippled across the screen. The colors warped, pixels distorting into a fractured mess before stabilizing. Your hands tensed around the controller as the screen darkened for a brief second.

And then Phainon moved.

Not in the way the game intended. Not within the smooth animations you'd seen before. He took a step forward, then another, closing the distance between himself and the screen. His piercing blue eyes locked onto yours, unblinking.

"You're not supposed to leave" he murmured, his voice reaching beyond the game, beyond the barrier of the screen.

Your fingers hovered over the buttons, your heart pounding. This wasn’t a scripted event.

Phainon lifted his hand—toward you.

The screen flickered again. Your vision swam. A sharp pull yanked at your chest, as though unseen hands had wrapped around you, dragging you forward. The world around you blurred, dissolving into an abyss of light and static.

The last thing you heard before everything turned black was Phainon's voice, quiet yet victorious.

"Now… let’s fix this together."

A dull ache settled in your head as you slowly regained consciousness. The air was still, almost too quiet, and a faint glow illuminated the space around you. Blinking away the haze, you pushed yourself upright, your fingers brushing against smooth fabric. It took a moment for you to process that you were no longer sitting in your usual gaming chair but instead sprawled across a bed in an unfamiliar room.

Panic surged through you as your hands instinctively patted your body. Your clothes—these were the same ones you had been wearing at home. Not some in-game avatar outfit, not armor or robes, but your regular, comfortable attire. A lump formed in your throat.

Where were you?

Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you stood cautiously. The floor was solid beneath your feet, the air carried a faint, artificial warmth, and there was an unsettling sense of sterility. The room itself was furnished simply—stone walls, a sturdy desk in the corner, and a single window covered by thick curtains. No personal belongings, no obvious signs of anyone else nearby.

You took a cautious step toward the door, pressing your ear against it. Nothing. Not a single sound outside. It was eerily silent, as if the entire world had been muted. Your heart pounded in your chest as you turned got outside. The hallway beyond was dimly lit, stretching in either direction like an empty, endless corridor.

With careful, measured steps, you crept forward. The walls bore unfamiliar insignias, ones you had seen before but couldn’t quite place. Each step only heightened the gnawing sense of wrongness, a creeping realization tickling at the back of your mind.

And then, it hit you.

This place, the architecture, the symbols, the very atmosphere surrounding you—wasn’t just unfamiliar.

It was from the game.

This had to be a dream, some kind of delusion. But everything felt too real—the texture of the wood beneath your fingers, the faint hum of distant energy pulsing through the walls.

You weren’t just playing game anymore.

You were inside it.

Phainon rushed into the room, his usually confident expression faltering as he found the space empty. His gaze darted around, searching for any sign of you, before he quickly turned on his heel and made his way outside.

He found you not far from the building, standing frozen in the street, your wide eyes taking in the impossible surroundings. Without hesitation, he strode toward you, his grip firm yet careful as he took your wrist. "You shouldn’t be wandering around like this" he said, his voice laced with something unreadable. "Come with me."

Before you could protest, he guided you toward a nearby marketplace, bustling with figures in elaborate outfits that contrasted starkly against your ordinary attire. Phainon barely slowed as he led you toward a tailor’s shop, his grip loosening only when he stood before the merchant. "They need something more suitable" he stated, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

You hesitated, glancing down at your familiar clothes before finally voicing the thought that had been gnawing at you. "Phainon… how do I get back home?"

The weight of Phainon’s stare bore down on you.

"You’re not going home" he said.

"What?"

"I brought you here for a reason." He took a step closer, and instinctively, you stepped back. "You don’t belong in that world anymore. This is where you are now. With me."

"No. This isn’t real. This is just some glitch, right? I’ll find a way back." You clenched your fists. "I’m leaving."

Phainon exhaled, almost amused, almost pitying. "You think you have control?"

Your fingers curled tighter as panic surged through you. Desperation overruled fear as you focused, feeling the familiar weight of the baseball bat materializing in your grip. You didn’t question how—instinct took over.

Without hesitation, you swung at him with all your might.

But the impact never came.

His hand shot up, catching the bat mid-swing with terrifying ease. The force should have knocked him back, should have made him flinch—but he stood there, unmoved, fingers wrapped around the weapon like it was nothing more than a child’s toy.

Then, before your eyes, the bat shimmered, flickering with static before dissolving into cascading lines of glowing code.

"Wha—?" Your voice caught in your throat. You stumbled back, staring at your now-empty hands.

Phainon’s grip tightened slightly before letting the last of the data slip away into the air. "You don’t understand yet, do you?" He tilted his head, watching you with something akin to amusement. "This world bends to my will. Here, I am more than just a warrior. I am its ruler. And you—" He reached for you, but you jerked away.

"You have nothing."

Your mind raced. If Phainon controlled this world, then you needed an ally. Dan Heng. If anyone could help you, it was him. Without another word, you turned on your heel and sprinted in the direction you last saw him.

Phainon moved faster.

Before you could even react, he was in front of you. A sharp pain struck your temple as everything blurred. The world tilted violently, your vision fading to black before you could even cry out.

When you awoke, you were somewhere else. The air was heavy, unfamiliar, and the silence pressed against you like a suffocating weight.

Each time you tried, you discovered something new.

At first, it was small—a fleeting moment where the world around you responded to your thoughts. Like that one door that should have been locked clicking open. Each time you tapped into this power, you felt something unravel within you.

And each time, Phainon was there.

He found you the first time when you forced open a gate leading to the outskirts. He leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, watching you with a smirk before pulling you back before you could get far.

The second time, when you manipulated the gravity beneath you to leap across a rooftop, he appeared at the other end, effortlessly catching you mid-air and setting you back on solid ground.

The third time, you managed to shroud yourself in the crowd, blending in so well you thought you had finally shaken him. But as you turned a corner, there he stood, leaning against the alley’s entrance with an almost lazy amusement.

Each time, he grew more intrigued.

And each time, he stayed longer.

Phainon visited more than before, finding you no matter where you wandered. Sometimes, he merely watched. Other times, he engaged—teasing you, challenging you, indulging in casual conversation as if you were anything but his captive.

It made you wonder—did his friends ever question him?

One evening, while the sky burned a dusky orange, you finally asked, "If I agree to be with you, will you let me live more freely?"

Phainon studied you, expression unreadable. Then, he laughed softly, stepping closer until the space between you nearly disappeared. His fingers ghosted along your wrist, not quite holding but enough to remind you of his presence.

"Now, that's an interesting question," he murmured. "And one I might just consider."

The days stretched on. You wandered as much as you could within the confines of his reach, testing the limits of your newfound abilities. Sometimes, you found joy in the smallest acts of defiance. Other times, you felt the crushing weight of his attention.

One day, you encountered his friend. The moment you saw him, something about him caught you off guard. He carried himself with effortless grace, his beauty nearly mesmerizing, and for a brief moment, you forgot everything else. The encounter was fleeting, but it left an impression on you.

When you returned, you hesitated before asking, "Who was that? The one with golden eyes?"

Phainon stilled. His usual playful demeanor faltered for just a second before his smile returned. "Mydei" he said simply.

Something about the way he said it made the air feel heavier. You didn’t think much of it at first—until the next day, when he suddenly forbade you from leaving.

"You’re staying here today" he announced casually over breakfast. "No wandering off."

You narrowed your eyes. "Why?"

His smile didn’t waver, but there was an unmistakable sharpness in his gaze. "Do I need a reason?"

You didn’t let him off so easily. Rising to your feet, you grabbed his wrist before he could turn away. "Is this about Mydei?"

For the first time, something dark flickered behind his charming facade. He let out a slow breath, turning fully to face you. His fingers lifted, tracing the side of your face in a deceptively gentle motion.

"You have such a way of testing me," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I wonder if you even realize it."

His fingers trailed down to your chin, tilting it just slightly as his blue eyes bore into yours. "Tell me," he continued, his tone smooth but laced with something possessive, "did he captivate you that much? Enough to make you forget who keeps you safe?"

Your breath hitched, but you refused to back down. "This isn’t about safety, is it?" you challenged. "You’re jealous."

Phainon chuckled, though there was no real amusement in it. "Jealous?" He repeated the word as if testing its weight on his tongue. Then, he leaned in. "If that’s what you want to call it."

"You belong to me," he murmured, his voice dangerously soft. "So don't mention his name with that mouth of yours again."

This is going out of hand, and you must do something. A way to return to your own world, to get away from him.

You weren’t sure what you had done wrong. You've been trying to find your way back home so you messed with the system's rules, leading to whatever is happening in front of your very eyes.

Sitting before you was a system menu—one that shouldn’t have existed. It flickered, its edges distorted, as if the game itself was resisting your interference. Your heart pounded as you scrolled through the options, desperately searching for a way to force the game to release you.

Your fingers hovered over the last remaining command:

[Modify Event Flags]

A risk. A mistake. But you took it anyway.

A sharp chime rang in your ears, the screen flashing as the world around you trembled. The coding beneath your feet warped like rippling water, a sickening pull dragging you downward as the game executed whatever change you had triggered. Your breath hitched. This wasn’t what you intended. You had tried to bypass Phainon’s control, to force an event where he would let you go.

Instead, the world went dark.

When you woke, your surroundings were unrecognizable.

Gold and ivory silk draped over every surface, the warm glow of lanterns casting soft shadows along the grand walls. Ornate decorations stretched from the ceiling to the floor, the unmistakable scent of fresh roses filling the air. You blinked, your pulse quickening as you sat up, your fingers brushing against the embroidered fabric of an unfamiliar garment.

No. No, this wasn’t right.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

That voice.

You turned to see him.

Phainon stood at the edge of the room, adorned in a ceremonial ensemble far more elaborate than his usual attire. Silver-white hair, blue eyes gleaming with something unreadable. A slow smile curled his lips as he stepped closer, his presence consuming the space between you.

“What… is this?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Phainon tilted his head, amusement flickering across his face. “You should already know, shouldn’t you? You’re the one who triggered the event.”

“The event?”

His expression softened, but there was something in his gaze—something terrifyingly certain. He reached out, fingers brushing over your cheek before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Our wedding.”

Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs as his words settled into your mind. “That’s not possible—I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” he murmured, voice impossibly gentle. “The game has already set everything in motion.”

You scrambled out of bed, feet hitting the cold marble floor as you backed away from him. “No, I refuse this. There has to be a way to undo it.”

Phainon’s smile didn’t waver. “There isn’t.”

The weight of his words crashed over you like a tidal wave. The game had overwritten its own path. It had forced you into this event—one where every outcome led to you standing at an altar beside him.

His hand found your wrist before you could run.

“You’ve fought me at every turn,” he mused “And yet, here we are. Together. Just as fate—just as the game itself—has decided.”

You struggled against his grip, but it was firm, unyielding. “This isn’t fate. This is manipulation.”

Phainon chuckled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. “Then tell me… do you really think you have a choice?”

The doors behind him creaked open, revealing an expanse of guests waiting beyond them—characters you had met, NPCs whose scripts had adapted to fit this sudden turn of events. They were all here for one reason.

For your wedding.

Your breath came fast and shallow as you looked back at him. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

His grip on you tightened just slightly. “No, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let you waste such a perfect opportunity. We're finally able to be together forever.”

You knew then—you were trapped. The game had sealed your fate. You only hoped to get away from him with an error, an event, anything. The system gave you this. You had your choice, but this event involved Phainon, how tragic. And Phainon… Phainon had never looked more satisfied. If it's something he can manipulate, surely he won't let you have your way.

“Now,” he murmured, leaning in close, his lips brushing against your ear. “Shall we begin?”

[whatevs128]

Omg the latest yandere mydei and phainon in the hs au was crazy good! How about a yandere childhood friend phainon but like they got distant after middle school since phainon became the popular kid and maybe reader tried to like not interfere in his life and starts distancing themselves more but also as soon as they start getting along with other unpopular kids he tries/forces to get her back? Plz plz plz

Yandere!Phainon x Fem!Reader

As kids, it was natural, two little shadows following each other, your hand tugging at his sleeve when he got too far ahead, his laugh mingling with yours as you ran through the streets. You had always been by Phainon’s side, you were inseparable.

When you picked up volleyball in elementary school, he followed. At first, it was fun—practicing together, cheering each other on. But then he got better. So much better. While you struggled to keep up, he soared. Every serve he hit was perfect, every spike effortless. Coaches praised him, teammates adored him, and before long, he wasn’t just your Phainon anymore. He belonged to everyone.

It didn’t stop there. No matter what you did, he was always just ahead, just out of reach. His charm made him popular, his skills made him respected. Meanwhile, you felt like a supporting character in his story—someone who would always stand in his shadow.

So, when middle school started, you made a choice.

You distanced yourself.

No more waiting for him after school. No more standing by his side at lunch. No more forcing yourself to smile when people compared you to him.

It was time to find your own place.

But Phainon didn’t let go so easily.

For the first time in years, you weren’t in the same class as Phainon.

It felt strange at first—no familiar presence next to you, no knowing glances exchanged during roll call. But as the days passed, you realized you liked it this way. Without him always next to you, always being the center of attention, you could finally breathe.

You joined the gardening club. It was peaceful, a far cry from the intensity of the volleyball court. The scent of soil and blooming flowers replaced the squeak of sneakers on polished floors. You made new friends—people who knew you as you, not just as Phainon’s childhood friend.

Meanwhile, Phainon remained in volleyball, his name still echoing through the school halls, his presence larger than life. You rarely crossed paths now, and when you did, it was just in passing. A simple nod. A brief hello. No more lingering conversations, no more waiting for each other after school.

But Phainon didn’t take the distance the way you did.

One afternoon, he came looking for you, wanting to talk—to see you, even if just for a moment. But when he found you in the garden, hands dusted with soil, you weren’t alone. You were smiling, laughing with your new friends, completely absorbed in a world that didn’t include him.

You barely even noticed him standing there.

---

High school.

You had worked so hard to get into this school—one that was far away, a fresh start where no one knew you as Phainon’s childhood friend.

The relief you felt on your first morning was overwhelming. No familiar eyes watching your every move, no whispers comparing you to him. Just you, finally on your own.

But then, in the middle of the crowded hallway, a presence prickled at the back of your neck. It was familiar—too familiar.

You turned your head, and there he was.

He shouldn’t be here. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

For a while, he didn’t approach you. Not in front of everyone. But later, when the hallways were quieter, when there were fewer eyes around, he stepped closer with a smile like nothing had changed.

“Hey” he said, as if he hadn’t just shattered your newfound freedom.

“Why?” Your voice was sharp, furious. “How did you even—?”

“I still talk to your parents,” he said simply. “They love to brag about their precious daughter.”

You didn’t say a word to him after that.

And more importantly, you didn’t mention anything to your parents. If Phainon was getting his information from them, the last thing you wanted was to give him more.

Strangely, the next few days were peaceful. He didn’t try to talk to you again, didn’t linger in the hallways, didn’t hover at the edge of your vision. It was almost as if he wasn’t there at all.

You let yourself relax. You made some new friends, settled into your classes, and finally started to feel like maybe this new school could really be yours.

But peace never lasted long with Phainon.

In the canteen one afternoon, as you walked with your tray, one of your new friends accidentally bumped into someone—hard. A gasp, the sound of food splattering, and then silence.

Phainon stood there, his uniform stained, his hands clenched into fists. His jaw tightened as he looked down at your friend, who stammered an apology. The tension in the air was suffocating, his usual easygoing smile nowhere to be found. His fingers twitched, his body coiled like he was about to—

“Didn’t take you for a bully, Phainon.”

Your voice cut through the moment like a blade.

His head snapped up, his cold gaze meeting yours.

“Y/n, you know I'm not that kind of person.” he murmured.

Crisis averted—for now.

Phainon had only grown more popular over the years. His looks, his charm, his skills—everything about him seemed untouchable. People flocked to him, admired him, wanted to be close to him.

You wanted the opposite.

But Phainon never let you have what you wanted.

One afternoon, when you were alone in the hallway, he cornered you. His arm blocked your escape, his presence overwhelming.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

“Because I need space. Because I—” You exhaled sharply. “Because being around you feels like drowning.”

Before he could reply, voices echoed from down the hall. A group of students was approaching, laughing and chatting.

Panic flared in your chest. If they saw you two like this—if they started whispering—

You pushed against him, trying to slip away, but he didn’t budge. “If you’re avoiding me, then I’ll just let them talk.”

“Phainon, don’t.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think about it. Then, suddenly, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a stolen kiss.

The students passed by, glancing curiously at the scene—Phainon and a girl, too close, too intimate. You saw their eyes widen, their whispers start.

Phainon smirked. “If you don’t want rumors, I’ll make you a deal,” he murmured, just for you to hear. “Be my girlfriend, and I’ll rethink it.”

“…Fine”

His hand finally dropped from the wall, letting you go.

But the feeling of his lips against yours lingered, and you knew—this wasn’t over.

At school, you acted like Phainon didn’t exist.

You ignored him in the halls, never met his gaze, never spoke his name. To everyone else, you were just another student, separate from his world. It was the only way you could keep yourself sane.

But outside of school, it was different.

Phainon made sure of that.

Secret dates, he called them—quiet meetings away from prying eyes. At first, they were simple. Walks through dimly lit streets, sitting together in tucked-away cafés, moments where he talked and you listened, pretending this was normal.

But soon, it wasn’t enough for him.

His hand would linger too long on your wrist, he’d pull you close, arms wrapping around you under the excuse of warmth. He started demanding more—holding hands, leaning into you, resting his head against your shoulder as if staking a claim.

Then came the kisses.

You tried to protest, but Phainon never took "no" well.

The first time he tried, you turned your head away, and his lips barely grazed your cheek. You thought that would be enough—that he would stop if you showed resistance.

You were wrong.

The next time, he didn’t give you the chance to turn away. His fingers caught your chin, holding you in place, and his lips pressed against yours with a quiet sigh of satisfaction.

“You agreed to be my girlfriend,” he murmured when you stiffened. “So act like it.”

You tried to set boundaries, but Phainon never truly listened. If you flinched away from his touch, he’d laugh it off and try again. If you avoided his kisses, he’d corner you somewhere quieter, somewhere you couldn’t escape.

Whenever you resisted, he never snapped, never forced you outright. He just waited.

Because you always gave in.

And then, slowly, he started demanding more.

His hands would drift lower when he held you, fingers brushing against places they shouldn’t. His grip would tighten when you tried to pull away, his voice laced with quiet amusement as he whispered, What’s wrong? I’m your boyfriend, aren’t I?

The worst part was how natural he made it seem—And the more you resisted, the more he reminded you of the deal.

You agreed to be mine.

You’re the one who said yes.

So don’t act like you don’t want this.

Each time he said it, it became harder to argue.

----

Phainon was never late.

You checked your phone again, making sure you hadn’t misread the time. No, it was correct. He should have been here by now. The longer you stood outside the mall, the more uneasy you felt.

A group of men showed up, their gazes unsettling. At first, you tried ignoring them, stepping away when they moved too near, but they didn’t take the hint. One of them grinned, saying something you didn’t bother to listen to.

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“So?” One of them reached out, fingers grazing your wrist. “He’s not here, is he?”

Before you could pull away, something struck him—hard.

A bouquet of roses slammed into his face, petals flying.

The man stumbled back, cursing, as Phainon stood there. His grip tightened on the ruined bouquet before he swung it again, hitting another man’s shoulder with enough force to make him stagger.

The group ran.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Phainon stood still, watching them disappear, his jaw clenched. The bouquet—once carefully arranged—was now a mess, stems broken, petals torn. His fingers were scraped and red from gripping it too hard.

“You’re hurt.”

He blinked at you, like he hadn’t noticed.

Sighing, you reached into your bag and pulled out a small bandage pack. Phainon didn’t protest as you took his hand, carefully wrapping the wounds.

But as you worked, you felt his gaze on you.

And then, his lips curled into a smile.

“Thank you” he murmured, so soft you almost didn’t hear it.

You weren’t in the mood to go anywhere after what happened. Your nerves were still on edge, and the last thing you wanted was to be in a crowded place. Phainon must have noticed, because instead of dragging you somewhere, he simply started walking. And, without a word, you followed.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The streets were quiet, and the night air was cool against your skin. Eventually, though, Phainon broke the silence.

“You remember when we used to race home after school?”

You glanced at him, surprised by the sudden shift in conversation. “…Yeah.”

“You always thought you could outrun me.”

You rolled your eyes. “I almost did. A few times.”

“I let you think that.”

That earned him a glare, but his expression was light—teasing, almost nostalgic. It was strange, talking like this. For a moment, it almost felt normal. Like the past few years of distance and tension never happened.

Then everything shattered.

A group of students turned the corner ahead of you, chatting loudly—until they spotted Phainon.

“Oh my God, is that—?!”

His fans. The same group that followed him around at school, always eager for his attention. Their eyes widened when they saw him, then darted toward you.

For a split second, you considered stepping away, pretending you were just coincidentally walking beside him.

But Phainon had other plans.

Before you could react, his arm slid around your waist, pulling you against him.

“Ah, hey,” he greeted the group, completely unfazed. “Didn’t expect to run into you all.”

Their gazes flickered between the two of you, stunned. “Who’s…?” one of them started.

Phainon’s grip on you tightened just slightly.

“My girlfriend.”

There it was—merciless and undeniable.

The students’ expressions ranged from shock to disappointment, their excitement dimming into stunned silence. Whispers started almost immediately.

You swallowed hard, resisting the urge to shove him away. You knew better. If you tried to deny it, if you acted like this wasn’t real, he’d only make it worse.

So you forced a smile and prayed they’d leave soon.

You didn’t go to school the next day. You told yourself it was just exhaustion, that the weight of everything had finally caught up to you. But deep down, you knew the real reason. You couldn’t face Phainon. Not after what happened.

The doorbell rang in the afternoon. You didn’t think much of it—until you heard your mother’s cheerful voice.

“Oh, Phainon! What a surprise! It’s been so long—come in, come in!”

You barely had time to react before you heard his familiar voice, smooth and polite as always. “Thank you, I was worried when she didn’t come to school today.”

You shot up from your bed, heart pounding. He wouldn’t.

But he did.

Your bedroom door creaked open, and there he was.

“Skipping school?” he mused, stepping inside like he belonged there. “That’s not like you.”

You rushed to the door, reaching for the handle. “You need to leave—”

Before you could pull it open, Phainon slammed it shut.

The force made you stumble, but before you could turn, his arms wrapped around you from behind, pressing you against the door. His warmth caged you in, his breath brushing against your ear.

“You’re avoiding me.”

You stiffened. “Phainon—”

“I don’t like that.”

“Don’t forget,” he murmured, his lips dangerously close to your skin. “You’re mine. And if you ever think about running from me again…”

“…There will be consequences.”

A knock on the door made you freeze.

“Sweetie? I brought you something to drink” your mother’s voice called out.

Phainon’s arms were still wrapped around you, his presence suffocating. He leaned in just slightly, his lips barely brushing your ear as he whispered, “If you don’t listen to me, I wonder what would happen if your mom walked in right now.”

Shame and fury boiled in your chest, but you had no choice. Slowly, you turned to face him, your hands balling into fists at your sides. Rage burned in your eyes, tears stinging at the edges.

Phainon’s expression softened—mockingly so. He reached out, swiping his thumb under your eye, catching a tear before it could fall.

“Now, now,” he murmured, “you should answer her before she gets suspicious.”

You swallowed hard and forced your voice to stay steady. “I’m fine, Mom. Just—just leave it by the door.”

There was a brief pause. Then, “Alright, dear. Let me know if you need anything.”

Her footsteps faded down the hall.

Relief barely had time to settle before Phainon’s grip on you remained firm.

“I’ll open the door,” he said, voice deceptively sweet. “But first…” His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Kiss me.”

The seconds stretched unbearably long. But you knew there was no other way.

So you did.

You forced yourself onto your toes, pressing a quick, hollow kiss against his lips. It was over in an instant.

The sound of the lock clicking open was the only thing that let you breathe again.

Phainon stepped back, watching you with satisfaction as he finally let you go.

“See?” he mused. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You didn’t answer. You just turned away, gripping the doorknob so tightly your knuckles turned white.

You didn’t look back as you left the room. But you could still feel his gaze on you, as if he was already planning his next move.

The next few hours were suffocating in a different way.

Phainon barely gave you space to breathe, sticking close as you went over the lessons he had missed. He was smart—he always had been—but even he had gaps to fill after being away for a volleyball match.

Normally, you wouldn’t have minded helping. But with the way he sat so close, his arm occasionally brushing yours, his gaze heavy on you instead of the notebook, it was impossible to focus.

Just as you were pointing out a formula, his hand suddenly moved—tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

You flinched, your pen slipping from your fingers.

Phainon only chuckled. “Relax. You’re so tense.”

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to go back to the lesson. He didn’t make it easy. A sudden squeeze on your thigh. A finger tracing over your wrist. Subtle, fleeting touches that made you hyper-aware of his presence.

It was a game to him.

And when it was finally time to go home, he made sure to have the last move.

“Couples kiss goodbye, don’t they?” he mused, standing too close as you reached for the door.

“Phainon—”

He tilted his head, expectant.

You knew there was no arguing. No refusing. Not without consequences.

So, with gritted teeth, you leaned in. A quick kiss—just like before. That’s what you planned.

But Phainon had other ideas.

The moment your lips touched his, he deepened the kiss, his hand slipping to the back of your head to hold you in place.

It lasted longer than you expected—longer than you could handle.

Your lungs screamed for air, your fingers trembling against his chest as you weakly pushed against him. He finally let go, but not before brushing his lips against yours one last time, as if savoring the moment.

You gasped, your breath shaky.

Phainon, on the other hand, looked perfectly composed.

“See you tomorrow!”

He was certain, and you weren’t going to escape. Not now. Not ever.

[whatevs128]

I've read a manhwa with the plot of MC being in a marriage of convenience with the ML in their first life and they work hard to make it work/feel like an actual marriage but the guy didn't give it much thought so they died and in their second life, the MC just decided to not focus on the guy but that somehow attracted the guy's attention

So that premise with Mydei (or Phainon, I just thought it suited Mydei more) where in reader's first life they had loved him and dedicated their whole being to him but they end up dying so in their second life they were more confrontational and willing to potentially piss off Mydei but that just had the opposite effect on him.

Bonus I guess if he remembers what reader did after a certain time and makes him fall harder (or go full on yan route idm)

Yandere!Mydei x Reader

[Artist]

You had loved him once.

It was a quiet, steady love, the kind built on careful devotion rather than reckless passion. A love that manifested in the way you always reached for his hand in public, in the way you made him pomegranate juice exactly as he liked it, in the way you handled every social obligation so he wouldn’t have to. A love that, despite being arranged, had been genuine on your part.

Mydei, however, had never given you much thought.

Your marriage had been one of convenience, a political arrangement that benefited both parties, nothing more. You knew that. You had known it from the start. But knowing didn’t stop you from hoping, didn’t stop you from trying to be someone he could come to love.

Yet you had tried.

You learned his preferences. You shielded him from trivial nuisances. You defended him against enemies in court. You ensured his home was warm when he returned, even if he never cared whether you were there waiting or not. You gave him everything you had to offer, even as your own needs went unnoticed, unfulfilled.

And then, one day, you died.

It was an illness, slow but inevitable. The kind that ate away at you little by little until there was nothing left to give. You had fought to stay by his side, to live long enough for him to notice you, to care. But as you lay on your deathbed, your body weak, your breath shallow, Mydei had stood beside you with the same unreadable expression he always wore.

“It’s unfortunate” he had said, his voice calm. “But there’s nothing to be done.”

He hadn’t held your hand. Hadn’t begged you to stay. Hadn’t even asked if you were afraid. And so you died, alone in a marriage that had never truly been shared.

But then, against all reason, you awoke again.

A second life. A second chance.

And this time, you wouldn’t waste it on him.

----

The first time you met Mydei again in your new life, he had the same detached expression, but this time, you weren’t the same.

“Oh. It’s you.” he said, mildly surprised.

You stared at him, deadpan. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

He blinked at you, clearly taken aback. In your past life, you would have smiled softly, eager to please. Now, you met his gaze with all the warmth of an ice sculpture.

“You seem different.” he noted, as though observing the weather.

“Yes, well, dying does that to a person.” You crossed your arms. “But don’t worry, I’m not here to cater to your every whim anymore. I have better things to do.”

His brow furrowed slightly, a reaction so subtle you might have missed it if you hadn’t known him so well. It was funny. For the first time, Mydei found himself unsure of how to proceed.

Days turned to weeks, and you continued to avoid him as much as possible. When you couldn’t, you treated him with polite indifference.

“Here, I brought you tea.”

Mydei raised a brow. “Tea?”

“I just grabbed the first thing I saw.” You sipped your own drink with a smirk, watching as he hesitated before taking a sip. No more pomegranate juice, but you made no move to correct it. Let him suffer.

He gave you a long, unreadable look, then quietly finished the tea anyway.

You weren’t sure when it started, but Mydei began seeking you out more often. Not for anything important, just small, meaningless interactions that, in your first life, he would have ignored entirely.

“You’re busy” he observed one day, watching you pour over books in the library.

“You’re perceptive” you deadpanned, not looking up.

“I can help.”

You finally met his gaze, incredulous. “You? Help? With something that doesn’t benefit you?”

“I’m capable of generosity” he replied smoothly.

You scoffed. “Sure. And I’m the Empress of the Universe.”

To your growing unease, Mydei only chuckled, as if thoroughly enjoying the challenge you presented. If he had ignored your love in your past life, he now seemed intent on prying into your every thought in this one.

You weren’t sure which was worse.

What made it all the more complicated was that Mydei had no idea you had already lived and died once before. To him, this was just the first time you had ever looked at him with anything less than quiet admiration. And while he couldn’t understand what had changed, he was undeniably intrigued.

-----

The third prince’s birthday celebration was an unavoidable event. No matter how much you wanted to stay far away from Mydei, you were both expected to attend.

Dressed in formal attire, you entered the grand hall, carefully ignoring Mydei’s presence beside you.

As expected, the noble ladies flocked to him almost immediately, their voices sickly sweet.

“Mydei, you look as composed as ever” one simpered, lightly touching his sleeve. “Surely you must save a dance for me?”

“And me as well” another chimed in. “It’s not often we get to see you at these gatherings.”

You sipped your drink and turned away, uninterested.

Mydei, however, seemed less inclined to entertain them. His gaze flickered to you, watching your utter lack of reaction.

“You’re ignoring me” he murmured, stepping closer.

You didn’t even glance at him. “Congratulations, you’re learning.”

His lips twitched slightly, as if amused. “Are you jealous?”

You turned to him at last, offering the driest look you could muster. “If I had a single grain of salt for every second I cared, I wouldn’t even be able to season a meal.”

He chuckled. And you had the distinct feeling Mydei wasn’t going to let you ignore him forever.

Sensing your chance to leave, you excused yourself quietly and slipped away. You navigated through the bustling crowd until you reached the gardens, where the young third prince stood alone, watching the lanterns flicker above. You wished him a happy birthday, exchanged brief pleasantries before excusing yourself, intent on leaving before anyone noticed. Unbeknownst to you, Mydei had followed—watching from the shadows as you spoke to the young prince with a warmth you had never once given him in this lifetime.

The door shut behind you with a quiet click as you stepped into your quarters, letting out a sigh of relief. The evening had been long. You had done your part, made an appearance, and now you could finally shed the pretense of civility and rest.

You barely had time to unfasten the heavy jewelry weighing on your ears before there was a knock at the door. Your brows furrowed. It was late. Too late for someone to be calling on you unless it was urgent.

Still, you already had a sinking feeling about who it was.

“Enter” you called, bracing yourself.

The door opened, and sure enough, Mydei stepped inside. His usually pristine attire was slightly disheveled, his coat unbuttoned at the collar. But what truly caught your attention was the way he moved, slower, more deliberate, as if something was weighing on him.

He had never been one to drink, and yet, something about him seemed... off.

You sighed. “It’s late, Mydei.”

“You left early” he countered, shutting the door behind him. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—something quiet and simmering beneath the surface. “Without informing me.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission to retire for the night” you replied dryly, turning away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“I saw you” Mydei interrupted.

You stilled. “Saw me?”

“With the third prince” he clarified, stepping closer. “In the gardens. You seemed… close.”

You exhaled through your nose. “He’s a child, Mydei. I was wishing him a happy birthday.”

“And yet, you looked at him with more warmth than you’ve ever spared me.”

You turned to face him then, brows arching. “Are you jealous?”

Mydei didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied you. He took another step forward, invading your space, forcing you to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye contact.

“Would it matter if I was?” he asked at last.

You scoffed, stepping back. “No. Because it wouldn’t change anything.”

Mydei was a man of control. To be thrown off balance, to be met with resistance where he once found compliance, was undoubtedly foreign to him.

Good. Let him feel what you had felt all those years.

You turned away, signaling the conversation was over. “Go sleep, Mydei. We have nothing more to discuss.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, finally, he let out a quiet chuckle, a sound devoid of humor. “You truly are different now.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t look back.

Because if you did, you might have noticed the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides. And you might have realized that Mydei was far from willing to let things be.

-----

Over the next few days, Mydei seemed to have an unusual amount of free time. His duties, which once kept him busy, were now seemingly cast aside. Wherever you went, he was there.

It started subtly: walking in step with you through the halls, his presence a quiet shadow. Then it grew bolder. Sitting beside you at meals, his knee brushing against yours and never pulling away. Standing behind you, fingertips grazing the small of your back under the guise of guiding you forward.

You would have ignored it, written it off as coincidence—if not for the way his touch lingered. The way he reached for your hand absentmindedly, as if it were second nature.

One evening, as you sat by the window, lost in thought, you felt it again, his hand, warm and steady, against your shoulder. A familiar presence, yet wholly unfamiliar in its intent.

“You’ve been avoiding me” Mydei murmured.

“I’ve been living my life” you corrected, not looking up.

His fingers curled slightly, almost as if to pull you closer, but he hesitated. “And yet, somehow, I find myself a part of it more than before.”

You turned to him then, meeting his gaze directly. “Perhaps you should ask yourself why that is.”

A smirk ghosted his lips, though his eyes held something heavier. “Oh, I have.”

You had tolerated it long enough. Mydei’s constant presence, his lingering touches, the way he hovered around you as if he had never been indifferent.

The final straw came when he followed you into the private study, an intimate space he had never once stepped foot in before. You slammed the book you were holding onto the table and turned to face him, irritation burning in your chest.

"Enough!" Your voice was firm, unwavering. "What exactly do you want from me, Mydei?"

He arched a brow, unfazed. "I would think that’s obvious."

You scoffed. "Obvious? You ignored me for years, treated our marriage as a mere obligation, and now—now you cling to my side like a shadow. Why?" Your breath hitched slightly, but you pushed forward. "Is it because I no longer chase after you? Because I finally see this marriage for what it is?"

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—something unreadable. He took a step closer, but you raised a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

"No" you said sharply. "No more. This ends now. I want a divorce."

For the first time since his sudden shift in behavior, Mydei’s expression darkened. "You don’t mean that."

"I do." You met his gaze head-on. "I refuse to stay shackled in a marriage that was never real."

He exhaled slowly, as if reining himself in. "And what makes you think I'll allow it?"

Your fingers clenched into fists. "Because it’s not your decision to make."

"You truly have changed."

You didn’t back down. "And I intend to keep it that way."

His eyes lingered on you, calculating, something darker stirring beneath the surface. Then, as if making a silent decision, he took another step forward.

"Then let's see how far you’re willing to go" he murmured.

-----

Determined to push him into agreeing, you invited Duke Laurent, a respected noble and someone with a clear interest in you, to visit. If Mydei would not agree to divorce out of reason, perhaps jealousy would make him let go.

Just as you began conversing with the duke, Mydei’s arm suddenly snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You stiffened at the public display of intimacy, something he had never once shown before. The duke’s expression remained polite, though there was clear tension in the air.

Mydei leaned in, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear. "You think bringing another man here will make me release you?"

He turned his gaze to the duke, his expression composed but lethal. "You see, we are still very much married."

Before you could shove him away, he tilted your chin up and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of your lips, just enough to make the moment scandalous.

"Mydei—" You hissed, shoving at his chest, but his grip remained firm.

Then came his final blow, spoken with a smirk against your skin. "If you truly wish to fulfill the divorce, then surely, as tradition dictates, our marriage must bear an heir first. Otherwise, it would be incomplete."

The audacity of it, the sheer arrogance—

Fury surged through you. Without thinking, you leaned in and bit his shoulder, hard enough to make him tense, hard enough to leave a mark through his fine fabric. Just hoping it'll make him let you go. He inhaled sharply, but instead of anger, something else flickered in his gaze. Interest.

His grip on you tightened, fingers pressing into your waist. "How intriguing" he murmured, almost amused. "You’re becoming more and more fascinating."

You could only glare, breathless with anger, as he leaned in even closer. "I’ve decided—I shall never let you alone."

That night, Mydei made his final decision.

You found yourself restless, pacing in your chambers, feeling trapped in a game you never agreed to play. The door creaked open, and you didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

"Leave!" you ordered without looking up.

Instead, he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. "You asked for a divorce. I gave you my terms," he said smoothly. "But I have a better idea."

You turned, narrowing your eyes. "I don't care for your ideas, Mydei. I want my freedom."

"And I want you," he countered effortlessly, closing the distance between you. "So, it seems we are at an impasse."

He reached out, tracing a hand over your wrist. "You see, I’ve realized something," he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. "I cannot let you go."

"Then you will have to learn."

"No" he whispered, leaning in "I will simply ensure that you never wish to leave."

This was no longer a battle of marriage or freedom.

This was war.

Then, his voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "If you try to run, I will find you. If you seek another, I will ruin them. And if you deny me..." His fingers trailed over your throat, "I will make sure you have nowhere to go but back to me."

"You wouldn’t dare."

"Wouldn’t I?" The smirk on his face only triggered you more. "You forget, my dear, I am not a man who lets go of what is his. And you? You belong to me."

A slow, measured pause before he added, "So fight me if you must. Hate me, struggle, scream. But in the end, you will always return to me. I will make sure of it."

---

Another day passed. Nothing happened. Until-

You were sitting stiffly in your chambers, the weight of Mydei’s last words still pressing against your mind.

Mydei entered, once again without your consent.

A goblet sat before you, filled with deep crimson liquid—the rich, unmistakable hue of pomegranate juice. It was his favorite, something he drank often, something he had tried countless times to get you to enjoy.

“I had the servants prepare this just for you” Mydei said smoothly, swirling the liquid in his own goblet. “It would be such a shame if you ignored my gift.”

You hesitated, glancing at the drink. Something about his tone made you wary, but refusing would only stretch this moment further. You reached for the goblet, only for Mydei to intercept, his fingers ghosting over yours as he picked it up himself.

“Let me.”

His hand cupped your chin, tilting your head slightly. Before you could react, the cool rim of the goblet pressed against your lips, the sweet aroma of pomegranate thick in the air. The moment the liquid touched your tongue, warmth flooded through your body. A strange, numbing sensation curled through your veins, heavy and inescapable. Your limbs felt sluggish, the world turning soft around the edges.

Your breath hitched as your body betrayed you, sinking against the silk sheets.

Through your hazy vision, you saw Mydei standing by the door, watching. His expression was unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Rest well, my dear”

But he didn’t leave.

Instead, he moved closer, his fingers brushing against your cheek before he slid into the bed beside you. His arms wrapped around you, firm yet deceptively gentle, caging you against him. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, and in your hazy state, resistance felt… unnecessary.

“You’ll understand soon” he whispered, his breath fanning against your ear. “You don’t need to fight anymore. Just listen to me.”

Your thoughts wavered, slipping further into a fog. Your body felt too heavy to move, your mind too sluggish to argue. His presence, once suffocating, now felt… inevitable.

Through the night, he held you close, his grip never loosening. Each time your thoughts stirred, his voice was there, murmuring soft reassurances, reinforcing his presence, reminding you he was always there.

By the time morning light crept through the curtains, your mind was no longer as sharp as before. The idea of pulling away seemed distant, unnecessary.

He was still here.

His arms remained locked around you, as if this was how it had always been. His breath, slow and even, ghosted against the side of your neck, warm yet oppressive.

“Awake already?” His voice was low, thick with the drowsiness of someone who had slept well.

You swallowed, trying to shift, only to realize just how intimately entangled the two of you were. One of his legs had hooked over yours, anchoring you beneath the weight of him. His fingers, idly tracing over the fabric of your nightclothes, stopped just at your wrist, where his hold subtly tightened.

You were trapped.

“I need to get up” you muttered, voice still hoarse from sleep.

Mydei didn’t loosen his grip. If anything, his arms curled around you more securely, pressing you deeper against his chest. “You don’t, actually,” he murmured. “Stay.”

Something in his voice made your stomach twist. There was no plea, no request, just the quiet certainty of a man who had already decided what would happen.

“I have things to do” you tried again, frustration slipping into your tone. “You can’t just—”

“Can’t I?” Mydei interrupted lazily, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you properly. His hair was slightly tousled, falling over sharp eyes that gleamed with something unreadable. “You haven’t been well. I think it’s best if you rest today.”

“I feel fine” you lied, pushing against his chest.

He caught your wrist easily, his thumb pressing against the rapid beat of your pulse. “Do you?” His smile was slow, knowing. “You still look dazed. You’re warm. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were falling ill.”

Mydei had always been perceptive, dangerously so. And in this moment, with your thoughts still sluggish, you knew you were at a disadvantage.

“Mydei,” you tried to keep your voice steady, “what did you do?”

His grip on your wrist didn’t waver, but his expression softened into something almost… fond.

“I’ve merely helped you see things clearly.” His fingers traced over your knuckles before he lifted your hand, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your palm. His lips curved against your skin. “You always try to run. You make things so difficult for yourself.”

“You drugged me.”

Mydei sighed, tilting his head as if mildly disappointed. “It was just a little something to help you relax. To stop you from making rash decisions.” He leaned in closer, his nose grazing against your cheek before his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. “You wouldn’t want to make any rash decisions, would you?”

A surge of unease coursed through you, your body screaming to move—to fight. But your limbs still felt leaden, and Mydei knew it. He had planned for it.

“I thought we had an agreement” you gritted out. “You can’t keep me here like this.”

“What do you mean by 'keep you'? You’re mine, my dear. You always have been.”

Your breath hitched as he finally released your wrist—only to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him properly.

“You’ll understand soon enough.”

----

Visit [2] [2*]

[whatevs128]

you’re so productive like omg too many food in just a few days??!!?! ilysm u literally help soothing my downbad for phainon and mydei pls write more abt them especially mydei ToT looking forward for more wonderful works<33

anw an arranged marriage between mydei and reader who secretly loves him pls like they’re both sassy but obedient at the same time :3

LATE REALIZATION

Yandere!Mydei x Reader

You weren’t sure what surprised you more. The fact that your parents arranged a marriage for you without so much as a warning or the fact that it was with Mydei of all people.

Mydei, the warrior, the man of few words. He was not unkind, but he was intense. And while he had always been close to Phainon, your best friend, you had never considered the possibility of marriage to him.

Yet here you were, seated in your family’s courtyard, watching the very man you were to marry approach you with the same unwavering steps he took into battle.

He stopped in front of you, arms crossed, golden eyes locked onto yours. You didn’t miss how his gaze flickered, assessing you the way he would an opponent before a duel.

“You’re not protesting.” he said at last.

“Should I be?”

“You wanted Phainon.”

You blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“You look at him.” His tone was factual as if he were merely stating the obvious. “You favor him. Now they’re forcing you into this marriage instead.”

Unable to help yourself, you let out a short laugh.

“That’s what you think?” You crossed your arms, mirroring his stance. “That I wanted Phainon?”

“You never denied it.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “I never confirmed it either.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak, only watching you with the same intensity he carried into war. Then, as if deciding the conversation wasn’t worth dragging out, he exhaled through his nose and turned slightly.

“Come.”

“Where?”

“We’re going out.”

Your lips quirked. “How romantic. Sweeping me away already?”

He ignored your sarcasm. “We’ll disguise ourselves.”

That piqued your interest. Disguises weren’t uncommon for royals, it was one of the only ways to walk among the people without constant scrutiny. But the fact that Mydei was the one suggesting it? That was unexpected.

Still, you followed.

The market was alive with the hum of voices, the scent of fresh bread and spices thick in the air. Vendors called out their wares, children ran past with laughter, and craftsmen displayed their finest work.

Dressed in simple garb, you and Mydei moved through the crowd with ease. If anyone recognized you, they were wise enough not to say anything.

Despite his usual stoic nature, Mydei’s presence was different outside the palace. He didn’t speak much, but he was aware of everything. His eyes flickered to every small movement, every shift in the crowd, every possible threat. It wasn’t just habit, it was instinct.

You, on the other hand, took everything in stride. While Mydei remained on guard, you blended in effortlessly, casually glancing at stalls, taking in the sights.

“You seem unbothered” Mydei commented after a while.

“Should I be?”

“You’re marrying someone you don’t love.”

“You assume too much” you replied, pausing at a stand selling trinkets. “Tell me, do you think I should be weeping and cursing fate right now?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but his gaze darkened slightly. “I expected some resistance.”

You let out a short breath, shaking your head. “You’re mistaken about a lot of things, Mydei.”

He frowned, but before he could press further, a vendor called out.

“Ah, you two! A fine couple, yes?” The elderly woman at the stall smiled knowingly. “A gift for your beloved, young man?”

Mydei didn’t react at first, his expression unreadable. Then, to your mild surprise, he stepped forward and picked up a delicate silver hairpin, a faint red gemstone at its center.

Without hesitation, he handed over a few coins and turned to you.

“For you.”

You raised a brow. “A bribe?”

“A reminder,” he corrected, stepping closer. He reached out, and before you could protest, he tucked the pin into your hair with precise movements, his touch lingering against your temple. “That you belong to me now.”

There was no arrogance in his words, just cold, firm certainty.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Oh, Mydei.

If only he knew.

The wedding was grand, of course, it was. Two powerful families uniting was no small affair, and every noble, warrior, and dignitary who mattered was in attendance.

You stood at the ceremonial altar, adorned in regal attire, jewels glinting under the sunlight, your hair styled meticulously with the very hairpin Mydei had bought you days prior. Across from you, Mydei was a vision of strength, dressed in traditional wedding garb.

Phainon and the rest of your mutual friends were in the front rows, watching with barely restrained grins.

“My, my, what a sight.” Phainon drawled, his hair glinting under the light as he leaned toward one of your friends. “Who would’ve thought Mydei would actually settle down?”

“More like, who would’ve thought they’d agree to marry him” another friend teased.

The jesting continued, and you smirked at their playful antics. It wasn’t that you didn’t take this wedding seriously, you did. But the lightheartedness of your friends eased the tension of an otherwise overwhelming day.

Unfortunately, Mydei didn’t share the same amusement.

While you exchanged vows, sealing your union before the gods, you caught glimpses of him stiffening every time Phainon or another friend laughed, every time they whispered something that made you smile. His grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly, his golden gaze darkening.

It was subtle, but you knew Mydei well enough by now to recognize what this was.

Misunderstanding.

The wedding feast was lively, filled with music, laughter, and endless toasts. You mingled as required, exchanging pleasantries with nobles and warriors alike. Phainon, ever the social butterfly, stole much of the spotlight, grinning as he recounted tales of past battles.

“So” he drawled, sidling up to you with a knowing smirk, “how does it feel? Becoming Mydei’s spouse, I mean.”

You rolled your eyes. “Why do people ask that as if I were shackled and dragged to the altar?”

“Because our dear Mydei isn’t exactly the romantic type” Phainon teased. “Tell me, did he at least try to woo you? Or did he just stare at you intensely until you agreed?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “He’s been… himself.”

Before Phainon could respond, a shadow loomed over you both.

Mydei's expression was unreadable, but the way he stood—close, imposing, was anything but casual.

“Phainon.” His voice was sharp, curt.

Phainon raised a brow, clearly amused. “Ah, husband duties already? Should I be worried?”

“Leave” Mydei said simply.

Phainon smirked but raised his hands in surrender, stepping back. “Alright, alright. No need to get all territorial.”

As he walked away, Mydei’s gaze snapped to you. You only sighed.

“Really?” You crossed your arms. “You’re going to be like this today?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he took your wrist firmly and led you away from the feast.

----

The journey to your honeymoon destination was swift. As per tradition, a private retreat was arranged—a secluded manor surrounded by sprawling fields and quiet lakes, far from the eyes of the kingdom.

You barely had time to take in the beauty of it before Mydei finally spoke.

“You enjoy his company too much.”

You turned to face him, unimpressed. “Whose?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Phainon.”

A laugh escaped you. “Are we seriously still on this?”

“You smiled at him more than you smiled at me today.”

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “Mydei, I smiled at everyone today. It was my wedding.”

“You laughed more with him.”

“Because he was making jokes,” you deadpanned. “Do you want me to be miserable?”

He stepped closer, golden eyes burning into yours. “I want you to want this marriage.”

You exhaled slowly. “And what if I do?”

“Then prove it.”

Silence stretched between you. Mydei was a man of action. He wouldn’t believe reassurances alone, he needed something tangible.

So, without another word, you reached up, fingers curling into the collar of his wedding robes, and pulled him down.

The kiss was unexpected, he stiffened at first, caught off guard. But when he realized what you were doing, what you meant, he responded with a fervor that sent heat curling through your spine.

“Was that proof enough?”

Mydei stared at you, stunned, then exhaled sharply, his lips curling ever so slightly.

“You’ll have to prove it again.”

[whatevs128]

Lovely 💕

what abt yan!mydei with a reader as his wife who’s trying to escape?

MISSED OPPORTUNITY

Yandere!Mydei x Reader

The gala is meant to be a celebration, an exhibition of strength and diplomacy, but to you, it is an opportunity. Your husband, Mydei, stands in the center of the dueling arena, his blade locking against an opponent’s in a brutal clash. He fights like a beast, relentless, every strike carrying the weight of a warrior who has never known defeat. His hair, damp with sweat, clings to his face as his opponent stumbles back. The audience erupts in cheers.

That’s when you run.

You don’t waste a second. While the nobles are entranced by the fight, you slip past the velvet-draped tables, past the gilded statues, and through the towering double doors. Your heart pounds as you dart down the corridors.

Freedom is so close.

The outer gates are unguarded, everyone is inside, watching Mydei. The stars are vast above you as you sprint into the streets of the city. The further you go, the deeper the weight in your chest lightens.

You made it.

Days pass. You keep moving, changing your clothes, stealing scraps of food where you can. Your once-ornate garments have been traded for rough-spun fabric, your fingers stained with dirt from the road. The city gives way to forests, then rivers, then distant villages where Mydei’s name is still whispered in reverence and fear.

But something is wrong.

It starts as a dull ache in your limbs, a fatigue you dismiss as exhaustion from travel. But then your steps become sluggish, your breathing more labored. Food tastes bitter. Your fingers tremble when you lift them. The further you get from Mydei, the worse it becomes, until realization strikes like a dagger to the gut.

You’re not just sick.

You’ve been poisoned.

Memories resurface, Mydei’s hands lingering on your wrist days before the gala, his lips brushing your throat as he murmured, “If you run, I’ll chase you. But do you know what happens when a bird flies too far from its nest?”

The poison was never meant to kill. It was meant to make sure you’d never outrun him.

The moment you collapse, he finds you.

A pair of strong arms catch you before you hit the cold dirt. Even through the haze, you recognize the scent of steel, sweat, and something faintly sweet. A choked sound leaves your lips, something between a sob and a curse, as you weakly try to shove him away.

“Shh, easy now” His arms tighten around you, lifting you against his chest with infuriating ease. “You should’ve known this would happen, my love. You can’t survive without me.”

Your fingers claw at his shoulder, your body shaking as you try to fight, try to resist. But it’s useless. You feel like a ragdoll in his grasp, your strength sapped by the poison, your vision spinning.

“Bastard...”

“Still so fierce. That’s why I love you, you know?”

His fingers stroke your cheek, his touch burning against your too-cold skin.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t come for you?” he asks, tilting his head. “That I wouldn’t tear the entire kingdom apart to find you?”

You open your mouth, but no words come. Your breath is shallow, your body trembling violently against him.

Mydei sighs, shifting his grip to hold you more securely. He presses a lingering kiss to your temple “It doesn’t matter. You’re coming home.”

You jolt upright, only for an unbearable wave of nausea to crash over you. Your body, still weak from the poison, refuses to obey. Before you can collapse, his hands catch you, pulling you back against something solid and unyielding.

“Careful.”

You shove at him, but Mydei doesn’t budge. He holds you with effortless strength, keeping you caged against his chest.

“Easy, my love,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple as he speaks. “You’re still recovering.”

Your breath shudders out of you as you force your eyes open. The room is dim, flickering candlelight casting long shadows against dark stone walls. Not your chambers. Somewhere more secluded, somewhere only he knows.

“Where—”

“A safe place” Mydei cuts in, as if that explains anything.

His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let you go. His fingers skim over your wrist, pressing gently, checking your pulse. His golden eyes narrow slightly before he exhales.

“You’re getting better” he muses, his voice dipping into something dangerously soft. His thumb traces over your skin, slow, methodical. “But you lost too much strength. Do you feel it? How your body falters without me?”

Rage coils in your chest. You wrench your arm away, only to hiss as the movement sends a sharp ache through your limbs.

Mydei tuts, shaking his head. “Stubborn little thing. Even now, when you’re barely able to sit up.”

“You poisoned me.”

“I saved you.”

He says it so easily. So utterly convinced that he’s right.

“You tried to run” Mydei continues, as if he’s explaining something simple. “You would’ve died out there, weak as you were. I told you—” His fingers grasp your chin, tilting your face toward his. His eyes gleam, golden and unyielding. “You can’t survive without me.”

You glare at him, but your body betrays you. The fever still lingers, your skin burning beneath his touch. You hate how steady his hands are, how easily he holds you in place.

“I will never belong to you”

For a moment, Mydei is silent.

Then, he laughs.

“Belong to me?” he repeats, tilting his head. “Oh, my love. You already do.”

The bed shifts as he moves, pressing closer, his warmth suffocating. His lips brush against your forehead, your cheek—soft, adoring, unshakable. His arms tighten around you, immovable.

“And I will never let you go.”

“You can fight me, if you want. I like it when you do”

You wrench away from his touch, but your body is still weak, trembling from exhaustion. Mydei lets you move, only to seize your wrist the moment you try to push him away. His grip is unyielding, but not painful.

“You truly hate me that much?” His golden eyes glint in the dim candlelight, searching yours.

“More than anything.”

“Then perhaps” he muses, almost idly, “I should give you something to love more than you hate me.”

Your blood runs cold.

“What?”

He watches your reaction closely, golden eyes drinking in every flicker of emotion across your face.

“You won’t always feel this way, my love. One day, you’ll understand. And if not…” His free hand trails down, brushing over your stomach.

“Then I’ll just have to give you a reason to stay.”

A new kind of fear coils in your chest, sharper than anything you’ve felt before. You know Mydei. You know his conviction, his unshakable will.

If he decides something, he will make it reality.

“You wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t I?” His fingers press slightly, claiming. “You are my wife. It’s only natural. And once you carry my child… you will never leave me again.”

Your vision spins. Not just from the fever, not just from exhaustion, but from the realization that he means every word.

Mydei tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His expression is softer now, almost gentle, but that only makes his next words more terrifying.

“If you won’t stay for me, you’ll stay for them. And by then, my love,” His lips brush against your forehead, “you won’t even want to run anymore.”

[whatevs128]

ABUSEMENT PARK / YANDERE CHROLLO

The extra to [the duet]. It can be read separately, but I recommend reading the duet first for the full experience and understanding.

(This Chrollo art belongs to @latolover, and was used here with her permission. Do not repost it without her consent.)

Summary: Nothing escapes Chrollo’s gaze when it comes to you. After you two make a deal regarding your little “trouble”, you try to tell yourself it is only an exchange; but just how far would Chrollo go in order to have you?

cw: female reader / dubcon to noncon / angst and hurt with no comfort / Chrollo is a huge hypocrite / you slap him once / one Bible mention / drugging / mentions of prostitution + abuse towards women and children / oral fem receiving / thigh slapping / overstimulation / bondage / unprotected sex. word count: 8,4k. minors dni.

“Don't judge a person until you have walked a mile in their shoes” is how you would like to excuse your latest bodily state. Heated, mind wired to think of things less necessary for your survival, irritable when you once again fail to rid yourself of the disconcerting, enormous ache — you are starting to assume you have been reduced to an animal devoid of thoughts, focusing only on physical needs.

You cannot fully comprehend it — in the past, being stressed out translated into being pent up in various forms, sexual too, yet not once did it remain inexorable. Being forced to live with Chrollo ruins your peace this badly. Not even the good old pillow humping or relief with a shower head’s pressure you were impelled to reach in a less personalized setting soothed anything burning in your body; the actions even more stressful when living around Chrollo and occasionally being circled by his spiders, compromising you with little to no privacy.

As you are sitting in front of him, eating whatever cheap sandwiches he’s gotten you from the nearest supermarket, you can tell he has seamlessly recognized your dilemma long ago. Nothing would escape the gaze of the man starved for every fiber of your mind and its owner’s reactions.

Sitting in some old ruins isn’t particularly helpful either; it is cold here even with a blanket, the air is sprinkled with some humidity, and occasional pigeons flying in are getting a bit too close to your food. Day or night, it’s always dark inside too, rendering you depressed; and petrichor isn’t pleasant, only a stench.

You’re so engaged in your own thoughts, you are a conscious person only when he wipes the corner of your lips, cleansing it of a lingering bread crumb. You shiver; you are not unused to his subtle touches at this point, but his cold hands will always startle you. They are warm only after they touch you, as if between you two, only you were still a human, desperately seeking out to make his heart beat in waves not doleful again.

“Before that pigeon behind you steals the bread from your lips,” this is a clear attempt at a joke, yet his words only frighten you, as you are ought to quickly turn around and inspect your safety against the city bird. He chuckles with mirth at your perturb. The potential culprit flies away, thankfully, but the man of your latest dreams doesn’t — yes, it's been him you would sometimes fantasize about, the images slipping into your mind involuntarily, the same your finger would slip inside somewhere else. You don’t dare to admit the truth to him, if you know he’d feed upon the news. Your only comfort is a clarity that it doesn’t mean anything big if physical attraction could be separated from the actual bond.

As the pigeon scurries away, some of the troupe members don’t. Chrollo lingers closest to you today, as you cannot cling to the absent Pakunoda, forcing you to turn yourself back to look at him with a frown. “How much longer will we have to stay here, Chrollo?”

It’s always like this: rotations, from a hotel to a ruin, then to some random safehouse, then actual house — the last is never paid for. Being able to travel around the world should have been wonderful, and while he allowed you to sightsee sometimes, it was more like taking a pet on the leash outside. The transition from the homebody to the roving attendant in surfing the world to watch crimes being committed is daunting; especially when there are moments when you fear someone’s vendetta against the innocent you.

“Only time can tell. It all depends on when our target decides to show up,” he says swiftly. The book he’s been reading was long abandoned for the pleasure of talking to you after you woke up, and when he’s sitting across you with his crossed legs, you get to see the way sunlight streaming through the crack in the rooftop illuminates his cheekbones — all worse for you. Chrollo can be handsome when he looks casual and less garish.

“So it might as well happen next year?” you scoff and you munch the sandwich more aggressively.

“You’re quite pessimistic. Were you always that way?” he inquires, driving you even more insane. Your emotions are often volatile when facing Chrollo; one day he’s making you all relaxed and allows you to participate in more down to earth activities, the other day he decides to provoke and psychoanalyze you again. You can never feel truly safe; however, the way your body has been lately was arguably the worst. You keep sticking to a mantra you don’t want him and are only desperate for some relief.

You have no clue what else can be done to fix your problem. It’s not like you can ask Chrollo to let you find someone to hook up with… not that he’d let you. Chrollo has never been outright violent either towards you or around you, but would he change his mind seeing you with another man?

“You’re quite annoying. Were you always that way?” you parrot his words to mock him with indignation, yet when he chuckles again, your stomach twists in that funny way again, and the need rises.

“I’d say you’ve been rather irritable in recent days. Pray tell what’s on your mind?”

The sandwich almost falls out of your hand, as the dreadful query is finally made. There’s no way in hell you could admit the true torment ruling your body — it’s not just fear of how he could try to take advantage of it, if not also of how he might give himself a false hope.

“What else could there be? I’m tired of constantly moving around, or being thrown into your crimes. I just want a week where I don’t have to move or worry about freezing to death!”

“Freeze to death? I’ve been keeping you warm, whether it’s with my coat, or arms—”

“Don’t ignore anything else,” you interrupt; and albeit embarrassed by a reminder, it’s really his deadpan voice and expression that annoys you.

He sighs, almost as if it’s you who’s being difficult here. “Alright. You’re saying that you don’t like our spontaneous life. However, I think there’s something else troubling you. I can tell when it’s you being restless, and it doesn’t look like the case this time.”

You feel cornered by him and his astute observations more and more, as it is undeniable that Chrollo would know your language. He knows how you operate. Him zeroing in on your person is never pleasant for you, and no matter how much you could refute his claims, he always gets to the bottom of truth.

Still, there’s just no way you could admit the real cause of your behavior! That is, if he hadn’t known already, and decided to drag this on to bide his time — a part of you wants to cling to this possibility, so when you’re forced to say what he’ll make you say eventually anyway is not as humiliating.

“How about I get to keep my feelings to myself for once? No matter how much you like to ‘explore’ me, Chrollo, I have a right to retain some privacy!” That’s it. You said the brutal truth, and it should be only natural that you, as any other human, don’t want to share everything.

“You’re not wrong,” he admits to your surprise. “And I can respect that—” even more surprise is derived from you, “except, I think I already know what bothers you, so maybe you want me to say it for you?” Your hopes get shattered as he announces this, filling you with frustration at the not straightforward admission of his feigned ignorance too.

“I don't need your conjectures! So, no, don’t say—” you blurt out with alarm, until he brazenly outruns you.“You’re sexually frustrated.”

The mortal silence fills around you two. You’re extremely glad he spoke quietly enough so those around you cannot hear you; but you yourself hearing his words is debilitating to your health. This bastard not only has known the entire time and interacted with you as if nothing, he also stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. You remain silent. You really have nothing to say, no matter how much visceral emotions want you to yell at him; he’s got you speechless to, for once, interfere with another part of your body. He’s onto your sexuality now. You want the ground to swallow you whole.

Chrollo is the one to fill the silence, also placing his hand on your shoulder, to which you jump. The sandwich would fall on the ground if he didn’t grab it with another hand before it could get dirtied with rubble. You know he hates food waste. “It’s alright. You don’t need to be ashamed of your own b—”

You slap this perfidious man, and surprisingly, he doesn't stop you— perhaps the pain from your palm is just weak and laughable, as his head barely budges to the side. As worry overwhelms you, your mind quickly calculating the cost of damage of hitting him, especially when other members around you turn to look at you two, you begin to pray for yourself. Is he going to punish you?

Because you certainly can feel the angry aura oozing out of others.

Long seconds fall before he finally makes a move. You’re suddenly being dragged up to your feet, a blanket still around your shoulders, your wrist constricted somehow not painfully. You want to trash, scared he’s on his way to unleash his penalty on you, yet you only remain frozen in fear.

“Let’s go. You need to clear your head,” he murmurs, and drags you out of the abandoned warehouse. You’re hit with even more cold, the breeze doing nothing to soothe your anxiety.

Chrollo lets go of your wrist and turns to look at you, as you two stand closer to the abandoned field of grass where an old silo stands. “I’m going to assume you weren’t malicious, only overwhelmed by stress, when you hit me.”

You want to argue that a small slap is a small hurt compared to what you’ve been going through with him for the past couple months; unfortunately, all you could do is nod for the sake of your safety. “Y-yes… you brushed up on a private topic suddenly…” you say in your defense, lingering in your affronted tone. You feel relieved as you realize the implication he’ll let this one go, should you behave obediently; as if he’s some magnanimous person, hurt without it being deserved, forgiving to another soul for their crime.

“But… how did you know? Do you just casually watch horny women?” your tone is almost accusatory. Somehow, the thought makes you burn with something; it’s not quite jealousy, yet it doesn’t feel good just the same.

He raises his brow, as if noticing the sprout of something worth noting. “I guess you could say that. During my missions, I had to beguile a few women,” he throws the words, as if testing their effect on you.

Your mouth contorts into a straight line, admonishing the idea. You finally realize what it is— it’s not jealousy, just a sense of disrespect. As much as you don’t agree to be in a relationship with Chrollo, you still feel revulsion at the idea of him playing other women while he’s showing interest in you. Even if for a mission, it does make him feel like a cheap player, and he’s made enough mess in your life. You pity these women too…

“Of course you do. You scam them or use them for the information. It’s right up your alley to enjoy their bodies while you’re at—” you spill your vile flak at him.

“I don’t,” he interrupts you with a tone almost sharp, unheard before. You go rigid and don’t move when he fixes your blanket around your shoulders.

“It’s work. I find no interest in cheap pleasure.” The words confuse you; Chrollo had slept with you once in the past, back when you didn’t know who he was, other than his fake identity under the name Eric, almost dating a man helping your aunt with finding a painting. You once assumed he used you too, until he reassured you he was serious about that night—so was he lying to you? How detestable.

“So back then, before you messed with my aunt, it was also a cheap pleasure to you?” you remark with scathing admonishment. Your voice echoes in the morning sky, amplifying your anger.

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “I had explained it to you, that it was real, candor. I thought the difference between random women and you is obvious. Or do you assume I treat you like any other woman?”

You suddenly feel stupid, as if you got too ahead of yourself with assumptions — he is still a man with an unhealthy affinity for you. You cannot get rid of the contempt, however, as you remain disrespected. “That doesn’t make you sleep with other women while you’re trying to get close to me any better!” if what he says is true, he’d be doing that only for “professional” reasons. Alas, you still feel dirty at the thought of him trying to romance you after he touched them — perhaps on the same day, if you never know what he’s doing.

“I haven’t slept with another woman ever since I met you,” he admits, and your ears start drumming, filtering his words with barely any coherence. Did he actually make things more difficult for himself in name of your honor?

“Oh,” you force out the sound, bemused. There’s no relief for you, however. Chrollo sleeping and not sleeping with women both bother you, because the latter implies he’s getting sappy and making your relationship look romantic. You really mustn’t be happy with him. “Why are you suddenly being chaste?” you sound reproachful.

There’s a passing look in his eyes, as if disappointed by your lack of appreciation for his “loyalty.” “Pakunoda said it might not be fair towards you.” The only person protecting your peace, yet you want to shoot the messenger.

“Why would you care about that fairness though? Doesn’t the troupe’s business come to you first?”

It’s as if the question catches him off guard, not expecting you to have so many inquiries akin to an insecure partner. Albeit, it is certainly not insecurity propelling you to question his motives. You simply don’t like empty gaps, regularly afraid Chrollo is scheming something. With a pensive expression, he answers, “It does, but there are ways of getting things done that don’t require me sleeping with women.”

“Then why didn’t you resort to that before?” you keep pushing at him, that raised brow on your face making you only adorable to the man— you’re being a bit bossy, which means you are more comfortable around him. He likes that.

“It’s easier that way. Still manageable without. Are you genuinely offended by me showing you respect?” he asks with amusement. Him trying to paint himself as fair irks you further. He could have had both you and other women regardless of how you feel about it by simply forcing you, and he chooses to be committed. You can’t tell if he’s genuine or incentivizing you to want him as your lover.

You just sigh, deciding all this effort doesn’t mean you should owe him; it is also when he decides to shamelessly return to the core of your subject. “Is your issue something you cannot manage on your own?”

“C-Chrollo!” your voice jams as another wave of embarrassment hits you. “That is still none of your business.”

“I’m not being nosy. I thought I could offer you some advice.”

“No, thank you.”

“But how much longer can you remain like this? From my understanding, it’s been bothering you for a while. Isn’t it dismaying?” You know he’s not wrong — the issue has been weighing heavily on your back (or some other areas…) for too long to be deemed as solvable by you. You are at your last straw, suffering at least a few hours daily of the ache that cannot be slaughtered; the highest intensity clinging to you around afternoon. It is insane what an unreleased stress can do to your body.

“Don’t you… have some ability in that book of yours that could help me?” you ask begrudgingly, shoving your shyness aside.

He smiles at that, the glimmering entertainment in his eyes already answering the question for you, “Why would I possess a nen that could lower someone’s sexual arousal?”

“I mean…” you drag your foot across the dirt, focusing on the drawn patterns. “I don’t know. Some hunters are just that weird,” you say tentatively.

“Thankfully I’m not that deviant yet,” he jokes and you almost laugh, the gesture wanting to rip itself from your chest for some reason.

“Then there’s nothing else that I could do. And yes, I’ve tried those things before you ask,” you quickly blurt out so he doesn’t think of mansplaining the female masturbation to you. Your heart beats at the admission you masturbate, especially when his smile widens. Still, it’s less embarrassing once you’ve crossed the threshold of speaking about sex with him.

“Is there really?” he hums with an esoteric implication. You look at him with confusion. “Going straight for the main thing, I mean,” he adds.

Your eyes widen. Would he actually let you sleep with another man? The thought he could be referring to himself doesn’t even cross your mind, too insane to swallow, and even for your dynamic with him. “With who? Would you let me seek out other men?”

Now it’s his eyes widening, before they fill with understanding and darken significantly. “Me,” he exclaims seriously and your breathing stops. He cannot possibly mean that. There is no way Chrollo Lucilfer just propositioned you, offering sex WITH HIM — presumably assuming you’d say yes.

Your mouth left agape, you speak after a good minute of staring at each other — you in shock, and he with an irritation etched about another man, “… Why would I do that?” your voice sounds awfully weak. You don’t even have the strength to be angry at him or disgusted; you are so done with Chrollo’s weird attitude towards you, his game, that you feel tired. All for the sake of himself through you, ultimately sucking out any life force out of you.

He smiles, and it’s as if he’s pleased by your calmer reaction, in the eyes of the most shocking revelation. “I recap being capable of pleasuring you.” The words, teasing, work their way to turn your heart into an embarrassed mush. You did enjoy yourself that one time you slept with him in the hotel, the way he took you against a wall and then bit you; yet none of it means you should repeat the act. Sleeping with your kidnapper, just because you cannot control your own pent up emotions that turned into lust? What scares you is that you might have no choice but to do this — swallow your pride, let him fuck you, and then act as if it never happened.

Yeah, no way. There’s no way that wouldn’t shift your relationship somehow, and you are worried he’ll see it as you becoming closer or something. “Uh… I am still not sure if I want to go that far. I don’t want some weird tension between us…” you hate how you are way calmer about this than you should be.

“What if I were to promise you to treat you as I do now after?” he asks with curiosity, which gives you a food for thought — what’s in it for him? There’s no doubt he’ll enjoy your body, and as much as it’s natural, it annoys you. It’s jarring, especially that a pleasure being one sided would be you using him; though you really hope there’s no bigger motives in this.

“Why would you?” you ask with suspicion.

“Believe it or not, but I don’t want you hating me.”

You narrow your eyes. “I thought the sight of me hating you is satisfactory to you.”

“It’s the opposite. Hate, while it could give even more attention than love, doesn’t result in you wanting me. Well, sometimes people want those who they hate even more, but it’s probably just lust, not a pure need.”

“You want… to be wanted by me?” you have to confirm. Somehow, the thought gets you flushed. Not that him wanting you to want him should be anything unusual; however, your mind is never bereft of the assumption he’ll have you anyway, regardless of the conditions. It’s really the danger of wanting someone who’s corrupting your life that gets you going— it’s not masochism, it’s not naivety, it’s wanting to turn your situation to your advantage.

“Yes. It’s only right between two people.”

“That it is…” if your relationship was normal, that is. “Still, how can I be sure this isn’t some elaborate plot?” It is just now you realize you still haven’t said no, and kept entertaining the idea. You are that desperate to scratch the itch, almost willing to see eye to eye with Chrollo for once. He has a knack for persuading you into his benefit when you’re in need.

“If I wanted something from you, I would have grabbed it from you a long time ago,” he says more seriously. He is right. All you had were dreams of him forcing himself on you, just speaking of your lack of control in your life; not once had he crossed the truly inappropriate barriers. You want to pinch yourself to see if you’re awake, as you are actually considering giving in to him. It’s just a mutual favor, right? You’re not in love with him, you don’t actually want him but the relief, and you are more desperate than willing.

“I accept- only if you are willing to follow my rules. No kissing, you stop when I say so, and you don’t tell anyone about it.” The permission comes way sooner than you two would anticipate, speaking of your exertion caused by the insatiable urge. A night of good pounding and you should be back to normal.

The way he looks at you now, those dull eyes glimmering with some excitement, you wonder if you made a good choice agreeing to such venture.

Few hours later, this bastard took you to a love hotel. His argument: “Regular hotel rooms aren’t soundproof, unless you don’t mind others hearing.” And of course you minded. An abandoned building or hotel room with thin walls would leave you more anxious than orgasmic.

“Go ahead,” he holds the door open for you, as if some gentleman. You enter the room first, immediately taking in the decor. It’s all tawdry really; a big heart-shaped bed with red velvet upholstery, fluffy pink bedding, purple walls, and green carpet. The light turned on by Chrollo is red, dimming the room in half. It’d be a mood killer for you if you weren’t so painfully horny, waddling with a squeeze of your thighs.

“Was this our only option?” you ask with exasperation, before you sit down on the bed. It’s a shame you don’t have a blue light with you to check on the cleanliness of the heavy furniture; hoping such hotels have standards even higher than the regular ones.

“For tonight, yes, darling,” he informs you and moves to be in front of you. You watch him kneel in front of you with your eyes widening, your stomach fluttering with something vulnerable when you see him removing your shoes off of your swollen feet. They were aching as wearing shoes all day and night to keep yourself warm interfered with the proper blood circulation, but you didn’t expect him to care about that and lower himself in front of you.

After he removes your socks, he moves onto massaging your feet, giving them a relief. You want to make some silly anecdote that he’s like Jesus washing his disciple’s feet, acting oddly reverent for his status, though you control yourself. He’s showing you some humility from himself, as if for once serving humanity instead of destroying it, closer to God. You don’t stop him — you agreeed to be fucked by him, so this is still more acceptable. Looking at the top of his head doesn’t give you a power trip — you find him unusually vulnerable. The most vulnerable Chrollo you know is the one donating the stolen things‘ monetary value to the Meteor City — still not as in Robin Hood type of way, at least not always. Not everyone who is robbed is some cruel rich person and not every of his victims deserves death. There are corrupted people who sell people but it’s not a criteria when picking them.

With that malfunctioning body of yours, his touch already spreads sprinkles of pleasure across your thighs — you’re not getting off of having your feet touched, it’s just the contact and acknowledgment of what’s coming soon. He catches onto that when your feet aren’t weighing you with gravity so much, so he starts to move his hands upward the sides of your legs, still kneeling.

When he removes your pants and leaves your legs dangling from the edge of the bed, you allow yourself to lay down flat on your back. You can’t see his face and that makes you feel better; still, you can tell he’s taking in the sight of your legs revealed to him. Whether you had a chance to shave them lately or not doesn’t matter either, the thought of this acceptance rather comforting.

You can tell where he’s going with it when his hand handles the band of your panties and drags them down. He must have realized how much you need to be properly consoled. And as much as you had slept with him once in the past, back then, he didn’t eat you out when you two were in hurry — so you felt vulnerable at the prospect.

“You can tug on my hair if you want. You’ll probably need it,” he says in an almost cheeky tone, as if sure of his skills, and you believe him. Chrollo doesn’t overestimate himself… most of the time. Your hand lands on his head already, just in case.

As he looks between your thighs, he inhales deeply. “You’re even wetter than back then,” he marvels at the sight; bringing you back to another hotel, where he had you against the wall, and you lived blissfully unaware as you didn’t know who he was, hooking up with a man you had a crush on. “How much did you miss this?”

The words embarrass you — you certainly don’t want to see this as the sign of your body lusting for Chrollo. No, you just need a good fuck to purge you of any stress. You tighten your legs around his shoulders, pulling him closer. “D-Don’t get ahead of yourself, Chrollo… of course I’d be wet after months of no game. And you’re creepy for remembering that.”

“I have a good memory.” Or rather, he would burn an image of anything about you into a mind palace about you. As you want to shame him again, he shuts you up, licking a stripe across your slit. You want to rip off his hair immediately, and your thighs tremble already. Yeah, you really are frustrated. The way his lips feel against your skin, you can tell they shifted into a smile, enjoying you already.

So you hump against his face, as if wanting to suffocate him. To your frustration, he manhandles your thighs by forcing them down to still your hips — maddening to your lecherous desire.

“Something’s wrong?” he teases. You should have been the one benefiting here, being pleasured; unfortunately, it’s clear he wants you to speak for what you want. He’ll give you, as long as he hears you, to confirm and revel in your need for him— even if it doesn’t equal actually needing him.

“Just do it properly already!” you huff out with anger, squirming like a fussy pet.

“What does properly mean to you?” he inquires, forcing you to expand on your demand. “As if you don’t know! I need you to use your tongue, fingers, without being so damn slow about it!”

“Ah, that’s what you mean. Should have said so.” The curt response drives you insane, until he finally obeys, and shoves in two fingers into you at once, his tongue rolling around your clit meanwhile. Here goes that experience he gained by meddling with women. You tug on his hair like predicted, feeling the pleasure build up horrifyingly quickly — after being denied for so long, it’s only natural, and yet it does get you embarrassed. Thankfully, Chrollo notices and slows down for your sake; yet you’re not happy about that either. Go too fast and you’ll come too soon, go too slow and you’ll cry for more. That limbo gets solved when he adds in another thing — he becomes faster again, but he slaps your thigh or your ass’s side whenever you get too close, the pain momentarily distracting you.

When his tongue finally laps at your wetness, it feels weird to hear him let out a guttural noise, almost animal-like, as if he is on the verge of losing control. You like having that power over him, even more him not being so perfectly unyielding in his composure. “I can’t tell if you always tasted that good or it got better over time…” Being spoken about as if you are a marinating wine doesn’t suit his mouth either. Perhaps he’s always been like this, to your startle. “You’re such a darling.”

As you allow yourself to moan, his hands tighten on your thighs, getting rock-hard just from your sounds. He’s not allowed to think of himself as so nonchalant anymore.

“Chrollo! Oh, please, just let me cum, please!” The fact you’re begging isn’t so surprising anymore, despite the honor you try to protect everyday; and when you do so, he feels merciful enough to let you climax. You feed him more than he would have asked for.

When you finally crash, you cannot tell if it’s your clit, pussy, or both making you come, as it feels that intense. You cry out loudly and try to rip off his hair, your legs immediately shaking around him. Chrollo drinks the product of your orgasm, as if it’s an ambrosia he might not be allowed to drink ever again.

Just some of that pesky pressure is gone, the big chunk prevailing, nowhere near enough being eradicated. He knows that, and you’re not given much moment of respite, as he stands up rapidly and gathers you onto his lap. He smashes his lips against yours, and you allow that rule to be broken, thinking it’s too passionate to be disgustingly intimate. In your state, even your naked legs touching his pants feel like a friction scratching your skin dry.

As you kiss, you feel his palm sneak under your sweater, rubbing your side up and down with not as much carefulness as he does with heat, inspiring more bursts of pleasure — he’s crazy feeling your skin under his. Trying to follow his lips, you whine when he manages to unclasp your bra one-handed, swiftly, as you’re reminded of his experience once more. He makes it up to you by fondling your breast, rubbing a nipple between two fingers as well, that you have to grind against his crotch, already impatient for more. He groans into your mouth and you wonder how come he’s not taking it slow. You thought he’d be the type to savor you after all these months of receiving no action; you assume that maybe even he needs to blow off some steam before he can move onto that.

The rest of your clothes are deftly removed. Chrollo throws you off of his lap, removes his own long sleeve, and pins you to the bed, before he voraciously covers your body in kisses all over your stomach; and you’re almost scared to see him barely holding back, speaking of his starvation. You are the horny one, yet he surpasses you here. Your hands hold onto his head, before one of them roams across the sea of his back, not realizing you began to scratch him too, while you’re enjoying his pronounced muscles. It gets him going, especially as his hands play with your breasts again, this time with his head going up so he can nip and kiss here. He takes advantage of you being busy with moaning to leave a few marks for later.

“Fuck,” he actually curses against your skin and you shove his head closer to your chest, “Please tell me I can take you already.” You’re not used to hearing him plead; though as desperate, you nod eagerly. He sighs in relief and it gives you butterflies with how much he wants you.

He’s quickly between your knees after his pants and boxers are removed, and he’s rubbing your pussy up and down with his tip, making you cry out. He doesn’t give you what you want immediately, enjoying your whines and pleas despite his impatience before. His tip catches against your clit, before it’s dragged down your slit and shallowly teases your entrance, and you wrap your legs around him with a beg for mercy. “C-Chrollo…!” That relentless lust is at its highest zenith now, making you feel like you’ll die if you’re not given what you want after you came so far.

“Hm?” he prods you, both verbally and with his cock, waiting for more proof of your need for him – for the sake of his well-being. “Fuck me already. I don’t care how hard- it better be hard!”

“Was it so difficult to say?” he chuckles. Before you could scold him, he fills you up in one movement, and you scream silently. You throw your head back before you quickly yank it up, needing to see you being split apart, so you can be comforted by a thought you’re finally being treated for your condition. Your hands hold onto his shoulders, and as he stays inside of you to revel in his win and returned ownership over your body, he curses, “Love, you’re even tighter than back then..”

He gathers his hands under your upper body and curves your torso upward, giving himself leverage to fuck you fast and hold you even closer to him. For once you’re not afraid to look him in the eye properly, hanging your gaze with him as you fall in a trance of his hips rocking your body, while you observe each other mutually. His expression is flushed, with his lips parted as he occasionally has to take in puffs of air (you are ecstatic you managed to get him breathless and think how handsome he looks), his pupils zeroing in on you and dilating with something more human than primal – it’s like an infatuation with your rawest form, one giving itself to him. You are not much better, your expression incredibly hazy.

Chrollo drops you back on bed and grabs your legs to throw them over his shoulders, your ass flush with his hips, the new angle allowing him to get even deeper and make you moan harder – he grunts himself too. “It’s unbelievable…” he begins and lowers his body to face you, “... that you could act so comfortably vulnerable with me.” You wouldn’t describe it like that when you’re simply demoralized, but he throws you off with a kiss on your forehead, as if thanking you. You don’t want his ‘love’, so you put your face to the side. He misreads you for once: “Being shy doesn’t suit you.” He laughs, increasing the speed of his thrusts, and kisses your neck given to him.

“I’m not shy…” you argue meekly, overwhelmed about what’s coming for the second time today. “I’m close again, Chrollo…” You hope he is too, as you want to see him unfolding in front of your own eyes.

Something darker fills his grey eyes when he turns your head to make you look at him and speak to you with a constrained tone, barely holding himself back just so he can see you get ruined first. “Then come. Come for me and I’ll give you what you need.”

You don’t need to be told twice when you unravel, moaning highly and loudly when your pussy’s pressure finally erupts, it twitching and squeezing tightly around him. You gush, you trash under him from the destructive force, as you cry out his name, causing a sense of victory for him, while your nails rake his skin. He has to grit his jaw to not spill inside of you.

You feel him rub the top of your head, as if mimicking the affection you think you’d want, and you realize something is wrong. Even after your orgasm, Chrollo doesn’t pull out; he stares at you for a longer second, drilling holes into your body with almost a hesitant look as if he’s mulling something over, before he grabs your hips again. You know he hasn’t come yet and that you aren’t done yourself, yet you expected him to give you some break! As you are about to plead and ask him what is he doing, he’s abruptly fucking you again, forcing you through the overstimulating ache. It does hurt when, after not only the intense friction but also an orgasm almost capable of killing, every nerve inside was scraped to a raw state.

“Chrollo, give me a breather, I need a break…” you whimper, writhing on the mattress, causing your legs to drop down on his sides.

“You can take it,” the icy response shakes you off of your pleasure-land, and you look carefully at him with a new-found anxiety. “I can’t. Stop.” He’s breaking another rule, more abominable than the first one.

“You wanted me to fuck you hard. You’re still not soothed. I’m giving you what you want,” he excuses himself, leaving you speechless. Things change and you thought there are obvious exceptions to the rules too – you definitely need some rest. You shake his shoulders, now freaking out. “Y-yes; however, we can resume after a brief moment, it hurts–”

“I don’t want you to change your mind. I haven’t brought you all this way here just so you can clock out,” he warns and he continues to fuck you. This is when the real struggle kicks in – you try to force him off, you kick, and he grabs your hands to pin them above your head. He sounds like these men who think you owe them sex after they did something for you on a date, like buy you dinner. He paid for the hotel room, he made his time for you, and now holds it over you as if you were a sex worker.

As you move so much you almost strain your wrists, his gaze falls somewhere behind the headboard of that cursed heart-bed. This entire time, there was an item there, hidden from your view after someone didn’t bother to put it back on the hooks on the wall you thought were no longer in use and are just ruining the surface. Handcuffs, connected to the chain, with a soft and leathered cushion inside. You grow real-panicked when you see him reach out for them. “No! Chrollo, stop, I don’t want this anymore!”

He doesn’t answer, only gives you a scary, silencing look, before he snaps these wrists inside the cuffs, leaving your hands hanging in the air. Your last way of escape is gone; though it’s not that Chrollo would let you go, even with your doe eyes now shedding tears. He tugs on your waist to snap you back and forth onto his cock.

You are sobbing hard, which inspires a thought that it’s a shame you’re not wearing your makeup like you did when on your little date the first week of knowing him as Eric. He’d enjoy seeing it get ruined as an indication of his effect on you.

You tug at these handcuffs to no avail, as you are forced to suffer through the vanquishment of your body.

The expanse of his chest and shoulders veils you away from anything worth distraction in the room, disallowing you to separate yourself from the plight of Chrollo bullying you with his cock, leaving you more and more sore. You think soon you’ll be so chafed you’ll grow numb from the inside, the only protection you have against this unwanted feeling of him carving his shape into you forever.

He’s too deep in, too fast, and it burns so much. The sound of your skin being whipped with his burns too — with humiliation.

You are barely hanging by a thread, wrapped in a cocoon of pleasure keeping your mind from becoming hectic with the realization of the true extent of his massacre on you, and he doesn’t like that. He wants to deter you from looking anywhere else, so he leans down again to kiss you hard. It’s okay when you don’t reciprocate it this time, you’re too tired anyway, but not tired enough to have your eyes widen and squirm under him deliciously.

His thumb wipes your tears and he speaks awfully softly for the situation you’re in. His fantasy of tying you up until you beg him to stop finally came true. “You really are beautiful. You always are, though when you’re so vulnerable and honest with me… it makes me feel alive too.” It’s a tragedy that him being human comes at the expense of your suffering. It’s always been that way — it’s just tonight he made it ten times worse. “Thank you.” Even though you didn’t offer this.

The chains rattle above you as your hands try to reach to push him away, your legs tightening around his hips from the pain; consequently allowing him in even deeper, as he makes a noise. You sob harder when he buries his face in your neck and holds you chest to chest with his body crushing yours, as if you two are just intimate lovers; not a victim of ongoing abusement of the trust you gave him to help you. Amusement is no longer his goal when it comes to exploring you — now it’s all about making you his, so you are the one together, a breathing and pulsing mass of meat. That’s not how love works — sadly, he never operated in the orthodox ways.

Your walls were rubbed awfully sore, now aching dully and yet still providing that awful pleasure — it’s as if you aren’t devoid of that sexual frustration that’s been clinging to you for months, no matter the horror of your fate. What’s repugnant to you is that your fear tightens your muscles, giving him more pleasure when you’re so tight.

“Just a little bit more…” his pleasured voice reassures into your ear and you only shiver with disgust as he speeds up, now focusing only on his own climax. His hands grip your waist so tightly you almost can't breathe, before you feel him sit up and pull out of your sore walls to your relief. At least he still remembers to not knock you up.

The relief is ephemeral as you feel a warm spread on your belly, him having come on your skin. You squirm from the feeling and you feel nauseous when he stays still, observing the sigh with satisfaction, instead of wiping it clean. You remain motionless after this, looking at him with a plea to remove the handcuffs.

He reaches for a box of tissues on the bedside table and wipes you clean, sending tremors over your body. As you are about to let yourself sink into the full realization of the fact he violated you, you feel him lay on top of you again. “Chrollo?” you ask with panic, especially that the restrains aren’t gone yet.

“You can give me one more.” He changed his mind and you’re warbling again.

Chrollo had seen women get broken by men his entire childhood. Women (and children) were an easy target in the Meteor City; not only they were a constant victim of rape by men, they also had no choice but to sometimes sell their bodies in search for food. This is why he should have been a better man and treated you better than those vultures, remembering the foul taste when occasionally witnessing this abuse; and yet, he isn’t. He’s hurting you just the same way; however, he selfishly cannot fully compare himself to these men. He’s not a stranger, he didn’t force himself inside with no care or delicacy, and he likes to think he’ll always take care of you — these women don’t receive that privilege. He is a bad man, what he’s doing is bad, and he doesn’t expect you to forgive him — he just speeds up the inevitable process of fully taking you for himself, as he’s the thief, the robber, the bandit in the end. He cannot be normal with you, he can only try to minimize his wickedness and the need to fully chew and digest you. He is the product of his environment, no matter if it doesn’t humanize him to you.

After what felt like hours the process of making you his is over, he keeps lying on top of you, feeling even emptier than before. The satisfaction perishes way too easily.

He knows it will be egocentric, but he wants to cry for both of you, as he gathers you in his arms. It doesn’t justify or cleanse him of his sins. Perhaps he needed to do this to you to fully realize there’s not much of Chrollo as there is of the Phantom Troupe leader — that no matter how much he can escape his childhood, he is still affected by it, no better from these other men.

He’s softer; still evil, if he’s allowed to have something truly good for once. Something that no one else can take from him.

You squeak in terror when he lifts you up, awfully careful. The room thankfully had a bathroom possessing a bathtub too, as you couldn’t stand on your feet for the shower. You don’t want to be seen naked by Chrollo, finding comfort only in the fact he didn’t force himself into the bathtub as well. After he places you in the cold ceramic he begins to fill with the warm water. None of you speaks; your body keeps shivering each time he drags your skin with his hand, not equipped with any proper sponge or cloth in this place. Surprisingly, it isn’t shame or humiliation that mostly eats you — the sense of guilt hits you harder. You think you allowed this to happen, at least partially, agreeing to let him initiate in the beginning, and as much as he should have stopped the moment you couldn’t go on for much longer, you also should have anticipated Chrollo wouldn’t be the epitome of consensual.

“The feeling is normal. You’ll settle down soon,” he reassured quietly, to which you snicker sardonically. “Are you lying to me or yourself?” To that, he doesn’t answer — either assuming you’re easily provoked in this state, or agreeing with you. He’s been oddly timid after the ordeal, the momentary triumph over you bursting away. Did he bite more than he could chew? You’ve never assumed him to be an overly sentimental man, who’d dwell over hurting someone. You can’t tell if it is guilt or a mere disappointment in himself for making a mistake and taking a step that will ruin the bond and trust you built so far. He did take too much tonight, letting go of his restraint for once, and while it showed your power over him, you were landing on the losing side too hard.

When you begin to panic about his hand moving too close to the private regions, he gives you a courtesy of you handling the hygiene here yourself, before he leaves the bathroom. It is only now that you allow yourself to cry and mourn.

It feels like eternity when you finally decide to leave the room, the cold water chilling your bones winning over the fear of being back in the room with him. A measly towel is all you have, feeling vulnerable when you step out with some skin still exposed to the cursed red light; to your surprise, Chrollo is not here. Instead, there are your clothes placed on the bed, his own gone signaling he must be somewhere else. Anticipating his return any moment, you quickly put these on, and crawl under the duvet.

Sleep doesn’t come to you at all, when the sheets still smell like sex and him. You stay put in a half awake state, or maybe you’re just dissociating, when he finally returns.

There’s food in his hands. It’s not grocery store’s food for once: warm, spicy food from some restaurant nearby, hitting you with its cumin scent. “I’m not hungry,” you reply immediately.

“I have guessed so. Still, you need your energy back. A few bites, at least.”

It is Chrollo who feeds you. You’d do it yourself if your body wasn't stuck in some paralysis, as if the flight still didn’t leave. Then he makes you drink water. You wonder if he put something in it, as sleep comes awfully fast after eating.

As he watches your sleeping figure, he feels glad you ate some food. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to put an antidote to what’s been ruining your body for so long. Feeding you dinners with mild doses of aphrodisiacs to make you come to him “willingly” was easy when it was not palpable to your taste buds, but…

… stomaching the consequences of his actions wasn’t, to his odd realization. It does feel like a mistake, what he did to you, even if it feels natural too. Getting you pent up was wanton, not stemming from your stress, and you had no clue — and as that it will remain, so you’re not furthermore burdened. He almost wishes he could have been the Eric for you.

He thinks of Raskolnikov who was ready to kill a pawnbroker with pride in his excellence and superiority over others, until the train of guilt and regret hit him afterward, so much so that he fell ill. Yet, the damage was still done and cannot be taken back; dwelling on it won’t heal you better. He can either alleviate the pain or help you to take and endure it in the future.

[whatevs128]

Impasse.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, captivity, Reader makes a joke about dying, discussions of parenthood, some not SFW implications. Word count: 2k.

Chrollo has been acting strange today. 

You’ve been hesitant to acknowledge this shift. For better or for worse, the two of you have fallen into a routine. It’s a strained routine, yes, but it provides a degree of stability otherwise missing from your upended life. To put it simply, you bother him and he bothers you. There’s some nuance — for instance, your schemes are limited in scope, owing to a power imbalance so unfair you think the universe owes you a solid. Nonetheless, you’re proud to say you’ve hurt his feelings once or twice. Then there’s his part. He specializes in picking your brain, making you uncomfortable by pretending he’s normal, and making you uncomfortable when he quits pretending. 

He's abstained from any of these behaviors since this morning. This pushes you past the ‘uncomfortable’ threshold, now you’re nervous. 

This is made worse when he looks you dead in the eye and asks, “Have you ever wanted children?” 

“Children?” You repeat, your voice not dissimilar to a mouse’s squeak. “Like, kids?” 

There’s a brief glimpse of amusement on his countenance, but he’s quick to redirect your focus. “Whichever word you prefer.” 

You study him. Presently, you’re sitting atop a barstool overlooking the area’s living space, while he leans against a nearby support column. He’s changed into his evening attire, a loose white shirt and gray sweatpants. You’re not so fortunate. You’re still paying for an indiscretion committed earlier in the week. Consequently, your wardrobe has been reduced to his preferred aesthetics. You’re wearing a black nightgown with thin spaghetti straps and lace embellishments.

Given your vulnerable position, risqué outfit, and his not-so-subtle interest in wooing you, the potential implications inspire discomfort. You shrink into yourself. What is he getting at? You’ve managed to avoid most of his physical advances, but you’re not delusional; if he willed it, you’d be at his mercy. You always feared he was operating on an invisible timer known only to him, each passing second bringing you closer to— 

“You’re overthinking things,” he notes. “I have no ulterior motives. I’m simply curious.” 

“Curious?” you repeat back, cautious. 

He nods. 

“What brought this ‘curiosity’ about?” 

Chrollo stares at you. You can feel his eyes dissecting everything, from your closed-off body language to your barely concealed hostility. 

“... I see,” he eventually says. “You won’t trust me without context. Very well. It’s nothing so grand. Though, in return for my honesty, I expect yours. Does that sound fair?” 

Feigning nonchalance, you shrug. “I guess.” 

He stands to his full height and walks over, pulling out the barstool to your left. He doesn’t intrude on your personal space, but his proximity has you shuffling to the right. He allows you your meager defiance. 

“Last night, I had a dream,” he starts. Then, a pause. He’s giving his word choice unusual consideration. “In it, we were married… or maybe not. Whatever the case, it was a far more conventional lifestyle. You had to take a phone call — with your mother, I believe — so you asked me to watch over two names I’d never heard before. They bore such a resemblance to you. Aside from their eyes, that is.” 

You wonder if he’s aware that he’s smiling. 

Chrollo clears his throat. “As I said, it’s nothing so grand.” 

It’s your turn to scrutinize him. You might not be a virtuoso in the art like he is, but you have your methods. What strikes you is how much of himself he revealed, unwittingly or by design, although the latter suits him better. He must have decided it was a worthwhile sacrifice for any insight you’ll give. 

“Kids… they always sounded nice to me, in theory. Except for when I was a teenager. I was vehemently against the idea then,” you can’t help chuckling at the memory. “I don’t know. I guess I came around to the thought again, but… it’d only be after I established myself. Solid career, housing, whatever. And, of course, the right partner.” 

You’re sure your side eye doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Not that any of that is in the cards anymore. You’re not delusional enough to think otherwise, right?” 

The skin beneath his eyes crinkles. “And if I was?” 

“I’d fling myself off a balcony.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t say such things.” 

You begin picking at a stray thread on the hem of your nightgown. “Yeah, well, I wish for a lot of things that don’t come true.” 

“I suppose we’re alike in that regard.” 

“Gross,” you make a face. Pursing your lips, you hesitantly ask, “Was that really all you had on your mind? You’ve been so…” 

“So…?” He repeats, matching your inflection. It goads you along. 

“Pensive? Gloomy? Something to that effect. It’s like there’s this little rain cloud floating over you.” 

You motion to the space above his head where the proverbial rain cloud would be. 

“A few days ago, you said some choice words,” Chrollo recalls, much to your displeasure. You were hoping he’d leave that in the past. “They left an impression.” 

You swallow thickly. “I’m sorry.” 

Chrollo gives a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Lying isn’t one of your strong suits; I suggest avoiding it.”

While shifting around in your seat, you wish you could turn invisible. 

“During your little outburst, you asked if I was ‘happy’ with how things are. An interesting question, to say the least. I’ve given it some thought.” 

Svelte fingers graze your jawline. You stiffen up, every muscle seizing into place, as if you’d been paralyzed. His touch is gentle, almost featherlight. Your pulse quickens like you’re a lamb awaiting slaughter. Staring straight ahead, you desperately search for some object to fixate on. You settle on the support column. An avant-garde clock sits high on it, the bottom half of its frame drooping, as if it were paint splashed against a wall. 

You count the seconds as they pass. Two, four, ten… 

His fingers tighten around your jaw and he turns you to face him. 

What a sight you must be — cheeks squished together, eyebrows high, lips agape. And then there’s him. He’s frowning, but aside from that, you can’t get a read on him. The intensity of his gaze holds you captive. Without warning, he leans forward, tilting his head slightly as he does so. You squeeze your eyes shut. You can feel his warm breath fan against your face, how he strengthens his grip, likely anticipating resistance. 

“How can I be ‘happy’ when you’re still so adverse to my touch?” Chrollo whispers, his lips brushing against yours as he talks. You fight the urge to cringe.  “What will it take to have you where I want you?” 

After what feels like an eternity, he lets you go, but doesn’t move back. 

You reopen your eyes. You’re more familiar with the man sitting before you, if only by a fraction. Even then, an unnerving atmosphere lingers, speckling your skin in goosebumps. You wrap your arms around yourself and exhale. The consequences from that day’s lapse in judgment have been manageable until now. 

Your day-to-day existence is defined by a lack of control. Over where you’ll go, what you’ll do, even what you can wear. Chrollo is the composer of your life and you’re his pièce de résistance, whom he always makes adjustments to. You must match his tempo or scramble to catch up. This paradigm has slowly yet surely eroded you, sanding over your harsh edges until you’re soft to the touch. 

You wanted to hurt him, wanted him to feel what jagged pieces remain, but now that you may have accomplished just that, you’re burdened by regret. 

Not for what you did. 

No, for what you possibly started. 

“Chrollo.” 

“Hm?” 

“How much of me are you willing to destroy to get what you want?” 

Chrollo lets out a low hum, as if the hypothetical you presented him with was nothing so unthinkable. This alone stokes your anxiety. Sometimes you wonder if this is not already the path you’re being ushered towards. He’s amassed victories, some small, others sizable. You’re far more docile now compared to when he first took you. Back then, you could barely function, panic ruled your every waking thought and seeped into your dreams, denying every respite. 

“You have the wrong idea,” Chrollo asserts. “I don’t want to destroy any element of you. All I’d like is a change in perspective.” 

You gawk at him. “Huh?” 

“Haven’t I proven I’m not as terrible as you feared?” he questions, tilting his head. “I could’ve been every bit the monster you imagined me to be, if not worse.” 

“Should I— do you expect gratitude, or something?” 

Mirth dances in his eyes like flecks of ember. “It wouldn’t hurt, but no. All I’m suggesting is that you cease torturing yourself for the sake of pride.” 

“I don’t get what you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t you, though?” he challenges, his confidence vexing. “Patience is one of the few virtues I have, but it’s finite. Your love of testing it grows tiresome.” 

You watch as the thread you were tugging at snaps off, fluttering to the marble floor. Your trembling fingers long for another task to occupy themselves with. He sounds as composed as ever, yet beneath the façade, microscopic fissures are forming. You’ve been chiselling at him in your own way. Testing what you can go away with, what remains taboo. Have you finally stumbled into the latter? 

Or was it something else?

Recalling the muted delight on his features when he recounted his dream, you frown.

You’ve always believed the human mind’s capacity to dream is its cruelest gimmick. 

Nightmares are no stranger to scorn — those phantasmagorias that play feature length-films of your fears and insecurities. You’re made to be an unwilling member of the audience, every frame composed with malicious intent. These night terrors deserve their ill-begotten reputation. 

What doesn’t get enough credit for hurting just as much, if not more, are lovely dreams. The idyllic, the picturesque, the unobtainable. They are a heartache you gladly hold the door open for. Once inside, your inner world is redesigned. The spectacle is so dazzling that you come to prefer it over reality. Dreams, both good and bad, are destined to end. For every long nightmare you awake from, there is a paradise you had mere seconds to explore. 

From the corner of your eye you glance at Chrollo. 

For such a greedy man, the dream he fondly recounted is so unremarkable, you almost find it pitiful. 

“That’s quite the conundrum,” you murmur.  “Oh?” 

“You don’t want me to be debilitated by terror, but I’m still supposed to fear you enough to stay in line.” 

“How astute.” 

“Is there really no other way?” You ask, scrunching your eyebrows together. “Couldn’t you just let me go and share in my joy? Surely, that must be better than having me glare at you twenty-four seven.” 

Chrollo chuckles, as if the suggestion you presented is a nonsensical fantasy. 

“I’m not a good enough man to do that, love. You never noticed all the things I did. People are drawn to you. You’re equal parts endearing and naive, it’s an alluring combination. I can’t stand idly by and watch others take from you what I want most.” 

“... How long were you stalking me, exactly?” 

He gives an enigmatic smile. “I’ll leave that to your imagination.” 

Before you can do just that, he gives your thigh an unwelcome squeeze. 

“Let’s call it a night,” he says, his casual tone belying how the statement’s an order. “Tomorrow will be a busy day.” 

You don’t bother voicing your newfound apprehensions. Instead, you wordlessly hop down from your seat, scanning your surroundings for a path to the master bedroom. The home is sparsely lit, but you manage to find your way. You pause at the lack of a second set of footsteps. Chrollo had gotten into the habit of walking audibly at your request, as you found his former silence ‘off-putting.’ 

You discover he’s yet to get up himself, seemingly lost in thought. “You aren’t coming?” 

“In a moment,” he responds. "Go on ahead."

It feels like his eyes are on you even after you’ve left the room. 

[whatevs128]

Mutual Destruction.

Yan Anaxagoras x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, teacher-student dynamics (anaxa's your prof), power imbalance, drugging (anaxa slips you an aphrodisiac), allusions to fearing pregnancy, not SFW, heavily dubious consent. Word count: 5k.

Earlier, you discovered an inconspicuous note within your belongings. The following message was inked inside: 

Meet me in my private quarters at the Curtain-Fall Hour’s first quint. Tardiness is unacceptable. 

There was no signature to indicate who left it. The paper was of fine quality, you doubt your fellow students had any of this caliber in their possession. They’d be remiss to tear and treat it roughly if they did. The presumptuous command served as your best hint. Only one person in the Grove spoke to you that way — Anaxa. Normally, you’d recognize his neat script, but this was scrawled, nearly illegible.

Ever since then, dread has followed you like a ghost haunting the living. 

The note’s vague nature dredged up the worst your brain could offer. You’re always doing what you can to keep your capricious professor placated, but this doesn’t bode well. You can’t recall doing anything to earn his misplaced ire. In public, you keep to yourself, engaging in the bare minimum amount of socialization necessary to continue your studies. He’s never raised an issue with this conduct before, aside from some dry remarks.

It’s possible — though unlikely — that you’re overthinking matters. Perhaps he was in a hurry and failed to consider how you’d interpret the abstract order. As much as you wish this were the case, Anaxa isn’t the type to act without a distinct purpose. He’s meticulous in any endeavor he undertakes, especially when you’re involved. 

Nightfall brings a hush over the Grove. Beneath Cerces’ solemn gaze, scholars scorn twilight’s intended purpose, continuing their work against their circadian rhythm’s wishes. No one pays you any mind as you skitter about. Before long, you’re navigating the hallway that leads to Anaxa’s chambers. Every step closer elevates your heart rate. You’ve been so preoccupied with determining your potential transgression that you’ve neglected to craft an approach. 

Should you claim ignorance? Beseech his favor? Form a hill worth dying on with careful rhetoric? 

Your knuckles hover above the door. 

You feel woefully underprepared, like you’re walking into a test you did none of the reading for. Is it too late to retreat? Bide your time, returning when the playing field has evened? If only. You deride yourself for entertaining such naïveté. You have to address this now, before the wound festers, necessitating amputation. You’re still on time. This has to be salvageable, Anaxa’s too sweet on you to set you up for total failure… 

… Right? 

Complex mechanisms whirr into action, opening the door without your prompting. Startled by the spontaneity, you remain immobile as if you’d been turned to stone. 

“Come in,” The beast brooding in his lair invites. “Dawdle any longer and I’ll consider you late.” 

You do as you’re bid. As a Sage, Anaxa’s quarters are spacious and far larger than your meager dorm. This room consists of a living space and kitchenette, with what you assume to be his bedroom separated by a closed door. There are more implements of his craft scattered about than any personal touches. A massive bookshelf catches your attention. Scanning the spines, you barely recognize any of the works in his collection. 

“Please sit,” he motions toward his dining room table. It has two chairs facing opposite each other. The one furthest away is askew, indicating he must’ve been sitting there until recently. 

Anaxa remains standing while you take your seat. Compared to usual, he’s dressed down, his black and teal overcoat noticeably absent. This leaves him in a white collared button-up and dark pants. He’s still wearing that mysterious eyepatch, with golden runes decipherable only to him. They share similar characteristics with the markings inked into his left arm. You’re certain he’d explain their origin if you asked, but caution tempers your curiosity. 

You flinch when your name rolls off his tongue, a reaction he easily picks up on. 

“You needn’t look so frightened,” he says. “Unless, of course, you have a guilty conscience.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Good, good… because, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’m bound to find out any mischief you get up to.” 

For all the weight it carries, he enunciates the word lightly, almost playfully. You swallow the saliva rapidly accumulating in your mouth. With great effort, you meet his gaze, which betrays nothing of his inner thoughts. 

“I’ve been acting how I should, have I not?”

“Mm. So you have.” 

He suddenly seems uninterested in the subject, despite being the one to initiate it. He walks over to his stove, where an intricate teapot sits. He pours it into matching teacups. Then, grabbing the saucers they sit on, he carries them both over to the table, sitting one in front of you and keeping the other for himself. Plumes of smoke rise from the mixture. It has a sweet, earthy aroma. You’ve brewed this for him at his behest in the past.  

Your distorted reflection ripples along the liquid’s surface, showcasing your visible apprehension. 

“Isn’t this caffeinated, professor? Won’t it keep me up all night?”

His lips curl into an odd smile. “In a way.” 

“Then—” 

“Drink,” he interrupts, the command slicing through the air. Then, remembering himself, he softens his voice. “I put a great deal of effort into brewing this. See to it that none is wasted.” 

You swear he fixates on the stretch of your throat as you reluctantly swallow. 

“Now. Regarding why I’ve called you here…” 

Contrary to your expectations, Anaxa begins outlining a project he’d like your assistance with. You keep expecting the details to escalate, but it sounds perfectly mundane. There’s nothing scandalous that justifies the secrecy he shrouded this meeting in. You’ve helped him with research that could’ve seen you expelled from the Grove in the past, this topic is a far cry from those escapades. He wants you to collect material about folktales from the fallen city-state, Styxia. That’s nothing compared to your last undertaking, which saw you setting a priceless Janusopolis relic aflame to use its ashes in an alchemical ritual.

You don’t understand why this couldn’t wait until the following day, but you keep that to yourself. While he explains the methodology you should use, you can’t stop yourself from shifting in your seat. An onset of restlessness overwhelms you. Regardless of how you readjust yourself, you can’t get comfortable. This grows worse as you cross and uncross your legs, the simple motion lighting a fire inside your belly. You cough into your head to cover up the strange, strangled noise that threatens to leave your lips. 

Anaxa raises an eyebrow. “Is everything alright?” 

“Y-Yes. Please continue.” 

His words grow difficult to follow, although the subject isn’t particularly complex. To make matters worse, he’s begun tracing his teacup’s rim with his fingertip, a motion that inspires strange fervor. Your eyes follow the slow, deliberate movement as if under a spell. You never noticed how long and slender his fingers are. You’ve personally witnessed his dexterity, you wonder what it’d be like if he slid them inside you— 

What are you thinking? This is the man responsible for manipulating your time here at the Grove. He’s cut off your access to other academics, forcing you to rely on him and no one else. While his brilliance is unmatched, the knowledge he’s imparted doesn’t excuse the despotism he’s subjected you to. You can’t even enjoy lighthearted conversations with your classmates, owing to the looming shadow he’s cast.

And yet… 

There’s no denying he’s an attractive man. If the circumstances were different, you would’ve been flattered by his interest in you. The dim, flickering candlelight highlights his handsome features, from his full lips to his defined jawline. He must sense the intensity behind your stare, for he goes quiet, steepling his fingers together and studying you. 

“Potent, isn’t it?” he hums, evidently pleased with himself. 

You blink sluggishly. “What?” 

“The tincture you ingested,” he nods to your empty teacup. “I didn’t think you’d drink it all. I’m curious to see how a larger dose will affect you.” 

Huh? 

“What… what are you talking about? What did you do?” 

“You’re a clever girl. You’re bound to put two and two together eventually.” 

Anaxa stands from his seat and approaches. He lifts your chin with his thumb, paying close attention to how your breath hitches at his touch. A manic grin spreads across his face. You know this expression, it’s the one he gets when he’s made a discovery that would shake the world to its very foundation. 

The triumph of a blasphemer.

“Alcohol?” you murmur, furrowing your eyebrows together. 

“Not a depressant — a stimulant,” he corrects. The pad of his thumb rubs over your lower lip. “Though, I suppose I can forgive your erroneous conclusion, given your current… affliction.”

The low purr of his voice has you subconsciously rubbing your thighs together. If possible, his smile widens, almost splitting his face in two. You can’t think straight. The revelation instills revulsion in you, yet any negative emotions are swallowed whole by lust. It takes everything you have not to pounce on him like an animal in heat. You take deep breaths, doing what you can to restrain your desire from boiling over. 

“Why?” 

“Why, indeed?” Anaxa murmurs. When he retracts his hand, you can’t stop your shoulders from drooping in disappointment. He chuckles darkly. “I had an enlightening talk with one of your other professors.” 

The thinly concealed disdain in his tone promises nothing good. 

“I’m not usually one to dwell on the past, but our chat evoked some nostalgia.”

He circles behind you, his hands settling on your shoulders. Then, he massages your stiff muscles, eliciting a sigh from you. It feels nice. He’s applying just the right amount of pressure, kneading out all the tension. You can’t muster up any aversion to his touch. If anything, this light pampering isn’t nearly enough. 

“He commented on your eagerness to participate in discussion,” his voice is a soft yet sinister whisper, “How insatiable your thirst for knowledge is.” 

Anaxa pauses his soothing ministrations. He entangles his hand in your hair, tugging it to the side so that you’re made to stare into unbridled madness.

“My prized pupil… were you not that way with me once? So desperate to please, so ecstatic when I lavished you with my attention?” 

He pulls you up by your shoulders with surprising strength. The abruptness disturbs your balance, forcing you to fall into him, who is more than happy to hold you. Your mind feels like it’s fraying at the seams. You want to refute his point, but you can’t form a cohesive counterargument. Everything is fragmented, shattered into pieces that, in any other circumstance, you could build a bulwark with. Whatever you consumed has annihilated your defenses from within. You don’t think you could even stand without his assistance. 

“You’ve turned cold. Now, you can’t wait until you can get rid of me.” 

You shake your head, not trusting your voice to form a competent rebuttal. 

“No?” There’s a mocking lilt to his upward inflection. Instead of experiencing offence, his patronizing tone has your breathing growing heavier. “Prove me wrong, then.”

Your lips meet in a frantic kiss. 

He tastes like tea and honey, the sweetness unbecoming of such a bitter man. You fasten your arms around his neck, wanting to regain some control by asserting yourself. At least he can’t form reprimands when you’re sucking on his tongue. The illusion of dominance is short-lived. He spins you around, pinning your back against the wall with his weight. 

You grunt at the unexpected collision. He pulls back, breaking the trail of saliva connecting your lips. 

“Are you alright?” 

His genuine sounding concern hurts more than any of the nonsense he’s spewed so far. Tears sting the corners of your eyes, and you grit your teeth, unwilling to expose any more vulnerability. He’s okay with drugging and manipulating you, yet this is where he draws the line? A little pain? 

“Like you care,” you hiss out.

“I do,” he replies, unusually gentle. “To me, you’re—” 

His eye widens as you palm him through his pants, putting an end to the confession you’d rather die than hear. There’s no way you’re letting him finish that sentence. If he can delude himself, you deserve the same willful ignorance. You don’t want to know that this extends far past lechery. While no less dubious, there have always been stories of those in authority lusting after their subordinates. That fits a comprehensible framework. What you find truly unsettling is the possibility that this won’t stop at carnality — it’ll metastasize like a malignant tumor. 

Afraid he might return to his thought, you slip your hand past his waistband, fumbling around until you find what you’re looking for. Despite the awkward angle, you envelop him, smearing the copious amounts of precum along his length. He’s hot and hard in your palm. Once he’s sufficiently lubricated, you pump his length. There’s satisfaction to be found in how your initiative renders a master orator speechless. 

Anaxa nestles himself into your neck, muffling his pants against your skin. You grip him tight, almost painfully so, taking out your frustration by pleasuring him as roughly as he’ll allow. He thrusts himself into your hand, unashamedly chasing his pleasure. 

Much to your amazement, you feel his cock twitching in your hand, hinting that he’s nearing his end. That didn’t take long. No more than a few minutes, if you had to guess. How debauched is this man for you, anyway? 

Against your better judgment, you decide to tease him. “So soon, professor? I guess you are past your prime. If you can’t take care of me, I guess I’ll have to find some younger, more virile—” 

“Insolent brat,” he snaps. He snatches your wrist and pulls you away before you can finish him off. “It’s virility you want, then?” 

Anaxa scoops you up, further calling into question his self-proclaimed epithet of ‘frail scholar.’ You suppress a yelp, clinging to him out of necessity. He kicks open the door to his bedroom and carries you in. It’s dark inside, save for slivers of silvery moonlight peaking through his curtains. Once he lays you down on his mattress, he detaches himself, glowering down at you as he unbuttons his top. 

He makes quick work of the garment, chucking it off to the side. You take in the sight of his lean, well-sculpted form. That would explain the ease with which he picked you up. You suppose that for all his claims of frailty, he’s still a Chrysos Heir. No one can say fate doesn’t have a sense of humor, selecting a blasphemer to succeed the gods. He certainly looks the part. Long, soft hair, unblemished skin; even the way he moves is worthy of veneration. He’s never in a rush, always operating at his own tempo. It’s the rest of the world that must match his rhythm. 

Anaxa meets your stare, amusement glinting in his eye. “Have you forgotten how to blink?” 

You don’t get a chance to reply before he’s hovering above you, his red, dangling earring glinting in the sparse light. 

“Still clothed?” He clicks his tongue. “I have to do everything when it comes to you.” 

He tugs your blouse over your head hard enough that you hear something rip. 

“Hey—” 

He shushes you, pressing his pointer finger against your lip. “Settle down. You won’t be needing it; you’re not leaving this room anytime soon.” 

Next, he helps you out of your pants, leaving you fully exposed. The sight forces him to stop. Your collarbones, cleavage, abdomen, and plump thighs; he drinks you in like you’re a fine wine. His fingers twitch by his side, the impact you have on him tangible. He must not know where to start.

“...You’ll be my ruin,” he mutters.

You don’t get to ask what he means by that. He presses his palm against your stomach, encouraging you to lie down. Then, he spreads your legs, examining the impact his concoction had. Using his pointer and middle finger, he feels you through your panties and hums. You feel him gauging your reaction as he rubs up and down, torturously slow. Your face burns at the squelching noises produced by such a simple motion. Eventually, he focuses on your clit, delighting in the reactions it draws out. He alternates his speed, always slowing whenever you seem to be enjoying yourself too much. 

“Professor, please,” you beg, discarding your pride in favor of relief. “Just fuck me already. I can’t take it anymore.” 

He ignores your pleas, too focused on dragging your panties down. He brings the flimsy fabric to his nose and inhales, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Now there’s the eagerness I remember. A shame it required slightly underhanded methods to extract, but you’ve always been a stubborn one.” 

Slightly underhanded? If your cognition wasn’t reduced to mush, you would’ve ripped into him. 

After tucking your panties into his pants pocket, he nestles himself between your thighs. He nibbles and sucks the sensitive skin, yet neglects your aching core. It’s pure agony. You try grinding against his face, but he holds you down and tuts. 

“After all the time you’ve made me wait, you can’t endure a few moments?” he sighs. “Mm. I can’t say I dislike this needy side of you.” 

He flattens his tongue against your pussy, licking it vertically. Your hands fly to his head, where your fingers tug at his hair. He grunts, but doesn’t stop you, too preoccupied with his task. Depraved noises fill the air as he eats you out. He forces your legs further apart, granting him complete access to you. When he sucks on your clit, the moans you had hitherto managed to suppress flow out. You hear him chuckling over his success. He’s relentless, devouring you like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

You’re close. You don’t want to tell him, fearing he’ll stop right before your pleasure reaches its zenith. Unfortunately, Anaxa’s far too observant. He pulls away, but not without placing a few more greedy kisses against your pussy. 

“Something wrong?” He asks, snickering at your visible frustration. 

“I hate you,” is the best you can offer. 

“Oh, I can tell,” Anaxa replies. He lathers his fingers in your slick, gradually easing them inside, meeting no resistance as he does so. “That must explain why your body is sucking me in.” 

He fingers you at a leisurely pace, committing to memory how he slips in and out of you. It feels as good as you fantasized earlier. His fingers are longer than yours, so they can reach deeper, creating a pleasant friction. Still, without your clit being stimulated, you could be here for a while. Something tells you that’s intentional. Unlike you, he’s in no hurry. He’d gladly spend hours between your thighs, playing with your body to his heart’s content. You don’t want to draw this out. You want to get fucked and have this terrible need alleviated.

“Professor?” 

“Hm?” 

“Won’t you please take care of me already?” You ask, loathing yourself for how easily the words come out. “I feel so strange. I-I don’t know what to do.” 

“An aphrodisiac will do that, darling girl.” 

So that’s what you ingested? You’ve heard of the concept, but you always thought it was confined to fantasy. If anyone could synthesize such a drug, it would be him. Frowning, you try to touch your clit, hoping that will bring you the release he’s keen on denying. He slaps your hand away and stops thrusting his fingers. 

“This is nothing compared to the torment I’ve experienced,” he brings his slick covered fingers to his mouth and sucks. You gawk at him as he savors your taste, your face burning. Once satisfied, he pulls them out with a pop. “So cease your whining. It won’t move me.” 

Sensing this exchange could go on forever, you opt for a new approach. “Anaxagoras, don’t you want to make me yours?” 

You hear his breath hitch when his full name leaves your lips. Encouraged, you prop yourself up on your elbows, undo your bra clasp, and fling it into a shadowy corner. Even in the low light, you note the crimson flush overtaking his features. You play with your tits, staring up at him through your eyelashes, almost pouting. He swallows thickly. You take your nipples in between your thumb and pointer fingers, twisting the pebbled nubs. 

He looks like he’s in pain from how hard he’s holding himself back. 

You need to seize this opportunity before he decides to lecture you for hours on end. Knowing him, it’s possible. 

“Please?” 

Anaxa curses beneath his breath. “Little vixen.” 

He pulls his length out, pumping the engorged flesh to the sight of your bare body. White pearls of precum seep from the tip. With one hand, he rubs the head along your opening, while the other holds your hip in place. Gradually, he pushes himself in, silently eyeing you as he does so. When you let out a pained noise, he stops. His thumb rubs reassuring circles against your skin. You turn your head away, frightened by the reverence etched into his visage. Why can’t he just get this over with? Why is he so intent on ensuring your physical comfort after wreaking havoc on your mind? 

“Deep breaths,” he instructs, as if this were any other lesson. “That’s it. Good girl.”

Anaxa presses his forehead against yours as he fills you to the hilt, his lips parting in an ‘o’. For a moment, you both just stay there, the sounds of your panting filling the air. He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, the skin around his eye softening. The intensity behind his stare bores into you. You frown and look away.

Don’t look at me like that, you think. Stop trying to make this something it isn’t.

He pulls himself out, your walls clenching around nothing in his absence. Then, eases himself back in, moaning your name as he does so. You feel his length pulsating inside you, heavy with want from his ruined orgasm. He takes you slowly, as if this were your wedding night. He caresses you all over, greedily exploring your body. When he settles on your tits, he fondles the soft flesh, swooping down to take a nipple in his mouth. You whimper as he lolls his tongue around it, before switching to the next and repeating the process all over again.

Despite how hot your body feels, you shiver. 

His lips glisten with saliva when he pulls back, contentment evident in his countenance. "Touch yourself for me, dear girl."

You do as he says and rub circles into your clit. Finally, he throws your leg over his shoulder and fucks you. What started as an uncomfortable stretch shifts into a deep, all-consuming pleasure. With each snap of his hips, you whimper a confused mix of vowels and consonants that somewhat resemble his name. This makes him lose what little restraint he had remaining. He pounds you into the bed, pulling your hips down to meet each thrust. 

“Fuck,” he rasps. You’ve never heard him curse before today. “You are the closest thing to the divine this world has.” 

This man, who barely gave others the time of day, chased after you like you were the key to understanding the universe. No matter what you’ve felt toward him, you’ve always been weak to his praise. It feeds this famished part of yourself that you never knew existed. 

He lavishes your neck with open-mouthed kisses, his hand moving to knead your bouncing chest. Your entire being is dominated by this heretic whose worship is indistinguishable from desecration. You try to focus on chasing your own pleasure, but he’s impossible to ignore. The scent of old books, the taste of honey, and the sounds of depravity lull you into a trance. 

It doesn’t take long for you to come undone on his cock. Your walls clamp down on him, earning a hearty groan. His fingernails dig into your skin, indicating that he’s not far off himself. 

He focuses on letting you ride out your orgasm. Once you go limp, however, it's his high that he fixates on. He manipulates your body to his liking and pounds into you. His hand rises to your jaw, where he holds you steady so that he can kiss you. He slants his lips against yours, nibbling and sucking your lower lip until it feels sore. His breathy moans increase in volume, as does the speed in which he fucks you.

He chuckles when he stops kissing you, drunk on the pleasure you're giving him. "Oh, you're even better than I imagined."

You stare up at him with heavy eyelids, and mumble, "'Imagined...?'"

"Yes, dear girl," he delights in confirming. "Right here, in this very bed."

You think your heart is beating fast enough to give out.

"All day, you distract me, and all night, you infest my dreams."

His thrusts are getting sloppier. He must be nearing his end, having strained himself to make this last as long as possible.

"So take what I give you," his voice comes out labored. "Everything. It's... ah... all for you."

Anaxa pushes himself as far as he can inside you, shuddering as he cums. The thick, viscous substance coats your walls, his load seemingly endless. You can feel his cock twitching while he fills you to the brim. Faintly, you realize you’re playing with fire, but you’re too fucked out to care. When he pulls away, his ample spend leaks out. He stares in awe, his glossy lips agape, utterly bewitched by this proof of your coupling. 

You wince as he gathers his cum along your folds, then pushes it back inside. Feeling overstimulated, you try closing your legs, but he holds them open, intent to look a while longer.

“You’re gross,” you manage in between labored breaths.

He collapses to your right, pulling you flush against him so your head rests on his heaving chest. 

“And you’re lovely,” he peppers kisses along your perspiring forehead. “Don’t be cross with me. You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?” 

You don’t dignify that with a response. 

Anaxa smooths out your hair, tucking the strands back into place. While you come down from your respective highs, reality smacks you like a brick to the face. You grimace as you recall the semen dripping out of you. 

“I need a contraceptive.” 

You try getting up, but he tightens his grip, holding you hostage. 

“Do you?” 

“Yes, you bastard,” you writhe in his arms to no success. Panic starts to set in. How can you get some before it’s too late? Anaxa doesn’t share in your anxiety, he seems content to run his hands up and down your bare back. It occurs to you then that the solution might share its origins with the problem. “Make me one.” 

If it’s created by him, there’s no chance the worst could come to pass. 

“Didn’t you allude to favoring virility? Now’s my opportunity to prove myself.” 

“I will murder you in your sleep.” 

“And raise our offspring without a father? Ah, it’s a jest, there’s no need to thrash.” 

Thoroughly exhausted, you close your eyes, accepting that you won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Not until he wills it. “Anaxa, please. This isn’t funny. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.”

“Anaxagoras,” he corrects. 

You flatly repeat his full name, much to his pleasure. 

“… I foresaw this happening. I’ve already prepared a contraceptive, allow me a moment.” 

He lifts himself with a grimace, likely worn out himself. You’re left on your lonesome as he enters the other room. A few minutes later, he returns with a pill and a glass of water. Wordlessly, you snatch the offerings, downing the pill with urgency. While you gulp down the water, he hands you a plain shirt. You place the empty glass on the nightstand and throw the garment on. It’s far too large, but you don’t mind. All you care about is covering yourself up. 

Frowning, you glance around, failing to locate an important article of clothing. 

“Give me my underwear back.”

“I’m afraid I’ve misplaced it,” he lies. You narrow your eyes as he gives you a pair of boxers instead. “This should suffice.” 

Next, you reach for your pants, but he grabs them before you can and holds them out of reach. “You don’t intend to walk back, do you?” 

“Why would I stay?” you mumble. He lifts them higher, denying your grasping hands. 

“I need to monitor you for potential side effects,” he explains. 

“...” 

You turn your back to him and lie down. Arguing is useless if his mind is made up. The mattress dips as he sits, but you remain motionless, even when his fingertips glide along your arm. Silence reigns while he maps out glyphs against your skin. Your emotions are in a complete disarray. Now that you’re not blinded by lust, his touch is akin to spiders on you. It’s a small mercy that he didn’t make the aphrodisiac as long lasting as he could’ve. 

The mere thought churns your insides. 

“I’ll need some time to compile the materials you requested.”

He pauses, processing the sharp shift in topic. “Is this about Styxia?” 

“What else?” you retort. “Have I not always delivered on what you ask of me?” 

You’re grateful you can’t see his expression. For once, you don’t want access to the inner workings of his mind. Let him remain an enigma. Every piece of himself he breaks off to give you will be thrown away. He’s cast you as his ruin; a role you eagerly accept. Shouldn’t you get to plot the trajectory of his downfall? It’s only right. You will take everything, hollowing him out until naught but a vessel remains, and he’ll allow it, because it’s you. 

The first fissure spreads. 

“You do, every time. Without exception,” Anaxa eventually affirms. “... I expect great things from our collaboration.”

The Great Performer takes his place by your side in this amphitheater you’ve both painstakingly constructed. 

[whatevs128]

Hello! I've been rubbing my hands together thinking of a prompt ever since your requests opened! ( ≧∀≦)ノ

May I request a LADS Caleb imagine where you're friends with the MC, but you're a bit unsure and intimidated by Caleb for some reason? There's something about him you can't put your finger on, so you keep your distance towards him. But of course, he can't have that so he takes the opportunity to show you how he really feels when you come over his house for MC but it's just you and him? 👀 Predator-pray dynamics with eventual smut would be so good with him!

Hehehe, I am finally caught up enough with Caleb to do this! Thank you for requesting ♥

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Taking a deep breath, you braced yourself as the light switched on behind the front door.

Visiting your best friend had never been a problem—until now. It was supposed to be only temporary, but recently, her "brother" had moved into her flat. It didn't really concern you who she shared her living space with, but he concerned you. And not in a good way.

Whenever you met him, something felt... off about Caleb. Maybe it was the smile that never seemed to reach his eyes or how you caught him smelling your jacket once. Perhaps it was all just a coincidence when he seemed to undress you with his gaze, or you felt uncomfortable since he worked for the Deepspace Aviation Administration. You had never been concerned with your friend, though, in all the years you knew her, and she was just so thrilled to have her brother back and visiting.

So, who were you to put a damper on the mood?

Fridays had always been movie nights for you and your friend until Caleb returned, and you two had to pause the meet-ups for a while so he could settle in. You were all the happier when she finally asked you to hang out again. However, the anticipation turned bitter when she asked for the three of you to watch the newest addition to her movie collection. But at this point, you could hardly say no since she knew you had no plans, and you were probably just imagining the weird vibes around Caleb anyway.

Reassuring yourself silently that there was nothing wrong and you were creating a big issue about fantasies in your mind, you put on your best smile as you heard the door unlocking in front of you.

"Surprise!" you chimed, raising the bag with snacks and the six-pack of drinks into the air. Instantly, you were overcome with nervosity and slight embarrassment as you realized it wasn't your friend who opened the door, but the man himself. Caleb watched you in slight amusement, a smile playing around his lips as he eyed the things you brought before his gaze fixated back on you. He let out a short laugh before making way for you to step in, shaking his head, and you felt your cheeks heat up.

"We were expecting you, so not much of a surprise, is it?"

Laughing off the embarrassment, you quickly squeezed past him, pushing off your shoes as you entered the apartment. You felt his eyes burn into your back, but just as you were about to bolt for the living room, Caleb swept the bag of snacks from you, carrying it for you as he walked slightly ahead.

"And with us," he sighed, shaking his head faintly, "I mean 'me'. My sis is still working and told me to get you situated and to start without her."

"Oh," you mumbled, not expecting to be alone with Caleb. All the worries you had tried to suppress were rising to dangerous levels now. "I'm sorry, I didn't know... She didn't message me today. If it's inconvenient tonight, we could make plans for another day?"

Undeterred, Caleb began unpacking the snacks as he blew out air dismissively, waving off your concerns. "Don't worry about it. Sit down, have a drink."

You gulped as you looked at the previously made cozy set-up on the couch. Someone—presumable Caleb—had collected all the pillows and blankets from the apartment, spreading them out over the cushions, lit candles everywhere, and put on the mood lights in the otherwise darkened room. The TV was already showing the movie title, ready to play, and you grew less and less sure if you should stay.

Caleb noticed your hesitation, watching you silently as you hesitated. He had crossed the distance between you in less than two steps, his face morphing into a mask of friendliness as he patted you on the back. "Come on!" he encouraged, and you stumbled forward, not expecting his gestures' impact on your body. "It's not like I bite! This is going to be fun!"

Before you knew it, you were sat on top of the couch, and Caleb briefly left you to place the drinks you brought into the fridge, returning with two cold ones before plopping down and handing you one. You opened your mouth again to protest, but he was faster, pressing play and opening up some popcorn bags, filling his mouth before holding it out for you.

That's when you had to face your fate and realize it was already too late to back out.

Grabbing a hand of popcorn for yourself, you thanked him briefly before sinking into the cushions, trying to make yourself small and unnoticeable as you directed your attention to the movie. You couldn't really focus, and it was hard to ignore Caleb, who was laughing and commenting next to you. Still, you did your best, not wanting to be disrespectful to the movie or your friend.

"Do you know when she'll get home?" you asked after an especially funny scene that made even you giggle and Caleb snort. He hummed thoughtfully before searching for his phone in his pocket, staring at the display momentarily as you looked over at him. You caught a brief glimpse of his display, noticing he had a privacy foil on, so you couldn't see the notifications. But with a tinge of regret, he shook his head.

"She wrote a while ago she's still busy, sorry."

You put on an expression that said, "Oh well, can't be helped," shrugging your shoulders and returning to the movie.

"Are you done with that?" Caleb suddenly spoke up again, demanding your attention back to him. His voice was eerily commanding sometimes, making it feel like you had to obey him. When you shifted your gaze back, he caught your eyes with his, unblinking. But when you looked around to see what he meant, you noticed his finger pointing at your bottle, and you gave it a questioning shake, noticing that it was, in fact, empty.

"Oh, yeah," you mumbled, and faster than you could react, Caleb snagged it from your hand.

"Can't have that!" he yelled, jogging over to the kitchen. "Sis would kill me for being such a bad host to her bestie!"

Maybe you had been wrong. Grinning a little at his comment, you found Caleb to actually be a bit dorky and much less menacing than you had previously assumed. He behaved just like a brother did at times, and seeing him as just a normal dude was reassuring. You may have made a mountain out of a molehill with your ideas, and he had just been awkward the first few times you two met, only now warming up to you. You could appreciate him trying to host you well and get along with his sibling's best friend. Maybe you two could still turn into friends after this failed movie night? The thought no longer seemed too far off.

It took him a while to return, and by then, you were already lost in the movie again, munching popcorn. For the first time that night, you were more comfortable, sitting cross-legged and leaning back. Caleb plopped down, and you, this time, smiled at him as he handed you your drink, immediately taking a sip.

"Not a bad movie," you commented, and he hummed in agreement. You were glad that all this tension and awkwardness was slowly settling between you two. He was a big part of your best friend's life, and so were you. It would really suck if you two didn't get along.

Sipping your drink, you continued watching the movie, laughing here and there. Caleb, too, sat back after a while, arm flopping over the backrest behind you. You didn't mind it too much, although his fingertips nearly touched your shoulder. Unfortunately, your eyelids grew heavier with every scene you watched. It was like a curse since the movie was growing on you. You knew you should have prevented falling asleep at all costs, but you couldn't. Neither rubbing your eyes nor giving yourself the "stay-awake-damnit!" pep talk helped.

The last thing you noticed before you slipped into your dreams was the feeling of the bottle being taken from your hand and your torso falling over, head landing into a soft cushion.

»»———————— ♡

Drowsily, you were ripped from your sleep as a breathtaking wave of pleasure overcame you. Your mouth opened at the feeling of something hot and wet slipping between your legs, a thorough assault on your senses as it mingled there. You didn't have the strength to lift your head and look down at what was going on, and neither could you stop feeling this way or close your legs, only meeting resistance from your muscles when you tried.

Something felt wrong, but wrong had never felt so good before.

A small, pitiful moan escaped you, and the shuddering bolts of pleasure ceased for a moment before they returned in full force, a long, wet stride all across your cunt that immediately disappeared after attacking. You heard yourself moan again as the colder room temperature teased your heated pussy. Then the weight around you shifted, the ground you laid on giving way to something, and you missed the sensation between your legs that were now attacked by the cold air.

Groggily, you forced your eyes open, even just a crack, but what you saw was completely distorted and blurred, making you sigh in disappointment. Where were you? What had happened? Distorted memories left unclear and incoherent thoughts in your mind that you couldn't make sense of.

"... awake?" someone called out to you, but it sounded like they spoke through a thick layer of water. You wanted to reply with a short "yeah," but it sounded more like garbled groaning than anything. Someone laughed before you felt a cold touch draw over the curve of your nose, down your cheekbone, and press against your jaw, tilting your head gently upwards. More muffled words that you could barely understand fell around you, which began to frustrate you.

"... a few pills... you... so cute."

Instinct made you grin, although you didn't know if your lips followed your brain's orders. You liked compliments; who didn't? They made you feel all warm inside your belly, warmth that slowly crept lower and lower until it found your clit, rubbing the sore nub in slow circles. You sighed, and something soft laid down on top of your lips, playing with them, softly vibrating as they moved, the voice now much louder.

"You like that, huh?" it murmured against your mouth, making you swallow the words as you released another soft sigh. "You like being called cute while I tease your pussy, don't you?"

"Mhm," you managed to say out loud. You liked it—liked it a lot! Those fingers were calloused, but they worked eagerly. If you didn't know it better, you'd say they did their best to please you. It made you feel adored to be taken care of, sweet nothings trailing off the lips that played with yours, calling you "good girl" and "sweetheart". They told you how wet you were for him and how well you'd take his cock. In your delirium, you smiled, agreeing obediently, opening your lips to welcome this stranger's tongue when it came prodding. It was a nice, sexy dream, an illusion so lovely you never wanted to wake from it.

As you ground against the hand, allowing the fingertips to invade you, and slowly working your way down on them, your eyes suddenly snapped open, reality crashing into you like the wind toppling over a fragile house of cards. You tore away from the kiss, gasping out loud as you reeled for air. Unfortunately, your sudden movements caused two of his fingers to slip in up to his knuckles, and you mewled at the strike of pleasure that hit you.

"C-Caleb?!" you screamed, in shock at who you saw hovering over you, holding his mouth with a pained expression. You might have accidentally bit him or ripped his lip open—but that wasn't what you should have been concerned about at all!

Looking down, you saw his hand still molded to your pussy, and as soon as he noticed your eyes shifting downwards, he gave his fingers a little wiggle inside you, confirming your worst nightmare as you felt them moving and teasing your walls.

"S-Stop!" you yelled, wanting to force your hands into his chest when you noticed they weren't moving an inch. Neither were your legs, and you cranked your head upwards, confused, finding them tightly constricted in leather shackles. Those that you had only ever seen to be used in pornos, spreading over your whole wrist and cushioned on the inside. Something that had to be prepared.

"What are you doing?!" you instead snapped at Caleb, directing your focus on him. More than the horror of waking up to him playing with your body, panic began spreading through you like wildfire as you realized you were unable to move.

"Why?" he chuckled, finally swiping the back of his hand across his lower lip, and you saw the small drops of blood you had left on him. "I'm taking care of you. You fell asleep and rubbed against me as if you needed help; I am just assisting you with that."

"What?! No! I... I'd never do that..."

Shaking his head, Caleb gave you the look of someone who believed you were lying just to keep face, but you were telling the truth! Why would you even?! And why him, of all people?! Not even your tired self would seek comfort or pleasure from him... would you?

"So dishonest," he criticized, and his fingers separated inside you, forcing your walls to cling to them. "And here I was, so nice preparing everything for you. So you'd be ready for me once you woke up. You should appreciate my efforts more."

"Your... efforts?! Caleb, this is inappropriate! We don't even know each other that well, and that's beside the point—just stop this!"

Shaking in your shackles, you wished you were a mind-reader. Maybe it would have told you something about his unreadable expression as he stared at you. Perhaps it would have explained why Caleb calmly but firmly, full of conviction, replied, "No," before leaning down and kissing you again.

Pulling his fingers slowly, teasingly out of you, Caleb didn't hesitate to plunge back in, quickly finding a suitable rhythm to fuck you. All while his lips assaulted your mouth, forcing his tongue back in and his free hand sneaking beneath you to support your neck, just so he could tilt your head back and make it harder to refuse his advances. Wrecked by shudders, you wound yourself in your restraints, always hoping to win some distance between you two. However, the position made it nearly impossible.

"You don't know how long I've waited to taste you," he mumbled between kisses. "How long I've been planning this, to capture your body and soul."

"Mhm--! Stop--!"

"I won't. I'll never."

And with that, it felt like the deal was sealed. Caleb wouldn't let you get another word in as he kissed you into breathlessness, working his fingers into your dripping cunt. Slipping his thumb back up to your clit, you felt utterly exposed as he teased it with deliberate movements. Everything beneath his palm had heated up, your flesh raw and wet, welcoming him even though every shock of pleasure pained you as much as it pleased you.

You screamed against his lips, and Caleb swallowed all your anger and insults as if they were a delicious treat. It wasn't long until your body betrayed you, your heartbeat raging in your chest as he brought you close to the edge. Your voice had long turned hoarse, your moans all that was left from your resistance while your hips curled upwards, reaching for just a little bit more. It was humiliating. And good. And terrible. Catastrophic.

But your orgasm was earth-shattering.

You had never known it could feel so good to be fingered. That being assaulted could have these kinds of effects on your body. Nobody told you that your back could still arch and your toes claw into the blanket as you came, even though you never wanted to. Tensing in your restraints, the pain was non-existent, even when you fell slack, the fall from grace crueler than this whole situation.

Silent tears wet your cheeks. Perhaps you were too stunned to speak, but with abhorrent focus, you watched him lick every inch of his hand clean, Caleb's face flushed, his eyes sparkling until his gaze shifted to you. Immediately, the light faded out of them, but the corners of his mouth curled higher into a maniacal grin.

"You can be honest now. Didn't it feel good?" he asked, and a hundred different insults flitted through your mind in response.

"You're awful," you pressed out through gritted teeth, more tears collecting in your eyes. "What did I ever do to you?"

At your words, his grin seemed only to widen unnaturally.

"Well, for once, you ignored me all this time, pretending to be uncomfortable despite obviously being very comfortable with what I can do for you. Were you trying to make me jealous, flirting with all these other guys at your work? Don't you know I've been waiting for you to come to me all this time? And as if it's not enough torture I had to endure, what were you thinking wearing your sexy underwear coming to a movie night with my sis and me?"

"H-How... How do you know that?!" you stammered, cursing yourself for not doing your laundry and wearing something normal that day, but who could have expected it to result in this?!

"I have my way, hun, no less since I got to take it off you, at least. But I've had enough of this teasing. I've decided to have my cake and eat it too, even though it pains me that I had to lure you here by pretending to be my sister. She doesn't even know you were supposed to come today, but don't worry, I'll make sure you're thoroughly entertained."

"You... You psycho..."

"Ah," he hummed, but the smile never vanished. "If that's what I must be to finally get you all to myself, so be it. And now that I have you, I'm not sure I ever want to let you leave again."

Caleb hummed thoughtfully for a moment, undoubtedly scheming another hideous plan in his mind.

"Hey..." you mumbled nervously, goosebumps spreading all over your body as his words slowly began to register. "Just let me go, okay? We can forget all of this, and I'll just leave, and you won't have to see me again. I... I won't go to the police either, so can you just let me go, please?"

"I don't think so, you cutie pie," Caleb replied with no hesitation whatsoever, not even a moment to think about it. Sliding most of his body between your legs again, you watched as his devilish grin disappeared beneath your belly, only to feel his tongue lick up the spill dripping from your pussy moments later. He laved it up thoroughly, taking his time to taste and hum appreciatively, the sound vibrating against your puffy lips. Everything inside you screamed to close your legs, but with the restraints and Caleb's body between them, you had no way of doing it.

Staring at the ceiling, you silently wept, the occasional moan slipping past your lips as you wondered where you had gone wrong. You never expected Caleb to feel this way about you, much less act on his crazed thoughts! There were some raised red flags, but nothing that would have told you about the true danger you were in, and despite his accusations, you weren't guilty of leading him on or teasing him!

Caleb's head popped up once more as you contemplated, growing a bit too still for his liking, it seemed. You met his gaze with your blurred one, and he smiled, softer now, but you noticed his hand reaching down to his belt, opening it before moving on to his zipper.

"N-No...!" you mewled, and Caleb watched the horror etched in your expression, a sense of adoration washing over his. The stark contrast of your reactions didn't help soothe you, but it taught you an important lesson: It had never been your fault.

You were just unlucky to become his object of obsession.

"I'll make sure you won't be able to walk away from me once I'm done," he sighed blissfully, his massive cock springing free from his pants, his eyes never straying from you, even when he lined it up to your entrance.

"Even if you want to."

[whatevs128]

Amazing writing 😍

Just Like Rosemary

(Yandere William James Moriarty x Ballerina Reader) (feat. Platonic Yandere Louis James Moriarty and Albert James Moriarty)

inspired by this post about Williams with a historically accurate ballerina darling which was inspired by @yandere-wishes

A bit of background, during the 19th century, the ballet world, including the esteemed Paris Opera, operated under a disturbing norm of sexual exploitation. The company essentially functioned as a brothel, exploiting the vulnerability of impoverished young girls who aspired to become ballerinas. Malnourished and lacking support, these girls were often coerced into relationships with wealthy patrons, their only perceived avenue to a better life. These affluent men wielded their power to objectify and proposition the ballerinas both on and offstage, effectively creating a demeaning "men's club" atmosphere. Their influence extended beyond mere harassment, dictating who would rise to star roles and who would face dismissal from the ballet.

TW//pr*stitution, slightly graphic murder, work place abuse, implied human trafficking, kidnapping

You stepped out backstage as the performance finally ended, the applause of the audience fading away into the background as the chatter of your fellow dancers took over the sound of the back halls of the Royal Opera House. You yawned but quickly gasped as you felt arms wrap around your torso along with a high pitched giggle that you quickly placed as belonging to Sorelli, one of your friends and fellow dancers at the ballet.

“Seems like your new costume is fitting wonderfully.” She spoke with a melodic tone which made you roll your eyes as her arms slipped from your waist.

“It only took two weeks of complaints to the costuming department to get a new one.” You sighed as she came to walk next to you. You looked around the backstage, and it seemed like a few of the gentlemen from the audience had already made their way backstage, slipping away from their seats before the show had ended so they could have first pick of the ladies of the ballet. You glanced at Sorelli and she was doing the same, looking over the men present trying to pick out the ones who would be able to pay for her time. “Your rent is due, huh?”

“Yes, and I do not think my landlady will be willing to take a late payment this time around.” You were slightly tempted to stay and help her but looking over the people present you thought it better if you did not since you had already engaged in more unsavory activities the night prior and it seems like Sorelli recognized this as well since she leaned over to whisper in your ear. “You should head home before they come into the dressing rooms.”

“Will you be alright?” You asked and she nodded before pressing a kiss on your cheek. “Fine, but please promise me you will not go home with any of them, you remember what happened to Rosemary.”

“I promise, you have my word.” 

With those words you scampered off to the dressing rooms to avoid any flings that may take place in there tonight. You managed to avoid many of the clientele on the way to the dressing rooms, only receiving a handful of comments and compliments that you responded to with false gratitude in your voice.

“I could not take my eyes off you this evening.”

“Thank you Earl, you are too kind.”

“The way your body moves was mesmerizing.”

“O-oh, thank you, my lord.”

“Ah why don’t you join us for drinks, I have a friend I would like to introduce you to.”

“Oh no thank you, perhaps another night.”

You clicked the dressing room door locked as you began to remove your pointe shoes and slip out of your costume, hanging it up on the rack by your name label on the wall and placing the shoes in a box underneath it. You made note of your worn down shoes, it had only been two weeks but it seems like you would need a new pair sooner than later, but to find ones that actually fit you would cost more money than you currently had so you would probably have to settle on some that were a side to big or small.

You sighed as you slipped on your scarf as you stepped out of the dressing room, closing the door behind you. You managed to spot Sorelli talking to two gentlemen, a viscount and earl you believe, in a doorway, it seems like she will be able to pay rent tonight. You slipped through the back halls of the opera house, ignoring the sounds from all around you as hard as they were to drown out.

You pushed open one of the back doors of the opera house that led into a back alley and the cold winter hair hit your skin like cold water washing away sweat from your hot skin after a summer’s day. You began your long walk home through the dark streets of London, the streets were still populated enough that no one would try anything but it did not stop you from feeling the heat of eyes burning into your skin. You picked up your pace ever so slightly as you felt it begin to drizzle, you did not wish to catch a cold in this weather, you did not have the money to pay for a doctor right now. 

…and it seems you spoke too soon.

A carriage moved past you, the wheel driving through a puddle and the splash landed on you, soaking you to the bone with both water and mud. The carriage did not even stop when you saw the face of someone finally dressed peer out and completely ignored you, speeding down the street. You huffed and shook out your hands  to get the freezing water off of them.

“Miss, are you alright- oh my you are soaking!” You heard a voice from behind you exclaimed. You turned around to see a young man with blond hair and scarlet red eyes, he was dressed in fine clothes, a noble it seemed, but his eyes were filled with worry for your freezing form. You watched as he stepped towards you, removing his own jacket to wrap around your shoulders. “What on earth are you doing out in this weather?”

“I could ask you the same thing, sir.” You replied as his gloved hands pulled the jacket tighter around your shaking form. “But I am fine, really, I was just on my way home.”

“Then please let me escort you home, you will catch a cold out in this weather .” He said and he gestured to the carriage across the way and you could see the silhouettes of two other men within. “I am sure my brothers would have no problem with a detour on the way home.”

Remember what happened to Rosemary.

Those words you spoke echoed in your mind as you thought of a response as the scarlet eyed man looked at you. You remember the cries of Sorelli when you found out what happened while you could only stand there, wide eyed, in shock. The photos that were published in the paper were horrific, but the truth was never written and went unspoken by the girls of the ballet. You suppose money can buy anything and everything, even silence.

“Are you alright over there, William?” A voice from one of the two men in the carriage pulled you back into reality. You turned your head to the carriage to see an attractive brown haired man who opened the door to call out to his brother.

“Yes, Miss (Name) here just seemed to be out of it for a moment.” He replied to the man who nodded at his response. The man you now knew as William turned to you once more, extending his hand out to you. “Shall we?”

“I… um….” What happened to Rosemary was a rare occurrence, right? These were not the same people you last saw here with, besides they did not seem to be regulars at the ballet, you would recognize them if they were, then William gave you his coat in the freezing cold, no one, let alone a noble, has ever done something like that for you. You set your own hand in his, feeling his larger fingers wrap around the back of your hand. “Yes, I will take you up on that offer.”

“Lovely.” He led you towards the carriage that had the door open from when the brown haired man called out. William braced your arm as you stepped up into the carriage, along with the assistance of the brown haired man who helped you up by offering you his hand.

 You sat down across from the two other gentlemen in the carriage, the brown haired man and another blond haired man who looked almost identical to William besides the glasses he wore and the hair that seemed to cover a scar of sorts. You did not make eye contact with either of them despite the kind smiles they offered you as William said something to the driver before stepping in and sitting alongside you, his arm pressing against your shoulder that was covered by the jacket he had given you.

You felt the carriage begin to move as you just tried to remind yourself this was not going to end like Rosemary, they were just taking home, nothing else, you were perfectly safe, but what if-

“Miss (Name), are you alright? You look quite pale.” The voice of William stopped you from spiraling even deeper. You jumped at first but managed to regain your composure, but that did not go unnoticed by the three brothers.

“Y-yes, just caught up in my thoughts, apologies.” You responded and he hummed in response and you all were resolved to silence for a moment before you mustered up the courage to speak again. “What brings you to this side of the city, sir-“

“William James Moriarty, but please just call me William, and to answer your question, I was just attending a meeting with one of my clients.” He cut you off as you tried to remember his name. He extended his hand, gesturing to his two brothers, the blonde first and then the brunette. “These are my brothers, Louis and Albert.”

You pieced the names together in your mind…

…Louis James Moriarty.

…Albert James Moriarty.

You had heard the name of the brown haired man before, whispered in conversation of the nobles after shows at the ballet when you were hanging on one of their arms. You learned quite a lot when listening in to those conversations, gossip and dirty secrets kept in hushed tones among the nobility, and even a few names, the Earl you sat across from being one of them.

“Earl Moriarty, correct?” You asked and an almost embarrassed smile came across the man’s face.

“Yes, but how did you know?” He asked, a playful curiosity coming into his voice.

“I am a ballerina at the Royal Opera House.” You answer but not one of the brother’s expressions turned to one of shock, it is as if they already knew. “It is honestly surprising what you learn when the aristocracy get drunk and already have no filter around someone they already deem as insignificant- I should not have said that, apologies.”

“No need to apologize, I promise no one here will be offended.” William responded on Albert’s behalf with a small laugh, you glanced at Albert for confirmation and he nodded along with a smile. William’s red eyes fixed on you as your gaze went from Albert to him. “Now I am curious, what does a lady like you hear from such nobility?”

“Well mostly meaningless gossip, whose wives are having affairs with other men, failed business deals or scams, but currently the unknown Lord of Crime has caught the attention of the ton.” You looked at William as you spoke, unable to see the narrowing eyes of Albert and Louis as you did. “But I suppose none of it truly applies to me, just something to listen to in order to pass the time of the last few hours of the work day.”

“Hm, but would your day not end at the end of the performance?” You heard Louis chime in, finally hearing him speak. You shook your head no, your smiling fading ever so slightly. “How so?”

“One unfamiliar with the ballet may be surprised by what happens within those walls.” Your eyes fell down to your skirt, your gloved hands gripping the fabric of it as you spoke. “ It is not all as beautiful as it may seem after the show.” 

You jumped a bit when you felt and saw William’s hand come to rest atop your own, his thumb running circles over your knuckles. Your eyes shot up to him and he offered you a comforting smile.

“It is alright, you can tell us.”

“You… you promise you will not tell a soul that I told you this.”

“You have our word, my dear.”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing over at Albert who nodded in agreement, then at Louis who also nodded in agreement, then back at William. He smiled down at you with those lovely scarlet red eyes and it felt like any hesitation melted away.

“Well… after shows many gentlemen of the aristocracy will come to… socialize with the female performers of the ballet.” Everyone’s attention and gazes were fixed on you as you began to explain. “Sometimes it is just harmless flirting with some conversation and drinks, other times it becomes a bit… more. But it pays, keeps a roof over my head and enough food on my plate so I don’t starve.”

“I see….” You did not notice the drop in William’s voice as he responded and pondered over what you just explained. “And I could imagine the money one would make if one was to go home with one of them for the evening.”

“That… that does not happen anymore, not since Rosemary.” 

“Rosemary?”

“She was another ballerina at the opera like myself, I performed alongside her and her sister, Sorelli.” You responded to Louis, explaining who she was. “She was a kind lady, too kind for her own good. She went with some Baron after a performance, she told us that she would see us in the morning but that was a lie. Two weeks later, a shop owner, a tailor I think, found her body in the river, gutted like a fish.”

“That must have been horribly hard for you.” Albert was the first to respond after hearing your explanation.

“What I went through was nothing compared to what Sorelli went through. I remember her crying when we found out, it was after a performance and I had to drag her away to not start a scene, but you can’t blame her, the law enforcement did not even bother telling her until the death was published by the papers.” You could feel the tears welling up in your eyes as you recalled that horrible day, there was not even a funeral, just the grave marked when the body was identified. You had taken Sorelli to visit the grave and she was just broken. “But that is not the worst part, that man still goes to the ballet and even paid off the owner, every single girl there knows he did it but no one will say anything, not if they value their life.”

“I am sure they will receive their punishment in due time.” William spoke to you after a moment, his hand coming up from your hand that he held and up to your cheek to wipe away your salty tears. The leather felt warm against your cheek, from the heat between your hands. “I will see to it personally.”

“If only the world worked like that.” 

The rest of the carriage ride was peaceful, a few more pleasantries exchanged here and there but soon enough you arrived outside of the apartment building you lived in. Like before, William helped you out of the carriage and as soon as your feet touched the ground he took your hand that he held and brought it up to his lips, kissing the back of it.

“It was a pleasure finally meeting you, Miss (Name).”

“It was a pleasure to meet you as well, William.” 

He released your hand and you quickly made your way inside the warm apartment building and scurried up into your own one room apartment, it was not much but it was home. Your landlord finally repaired the ceiling so it would not leak during the rain and freeze you during the winter, but you still had to stuff whatever extra bedding you had in the window because it would never close all the way. 

You went to remove your coat, only to find that you were still wearing William’s coat, you had forgotten to return it and he forgot to take it back. You sighed and peered out the window, the carriage was gone so you doubted you would be able to return it now so you simply decided to hand it up alongside your own clothes in the closet. As you were beginning to strip out of your wet clothes to change into a nightdress, you reflected on your conversation with the three brothers, they were so kind to you especially when you mentioned such a sour topic as murder. Then the way William looked at you, it was like he knew you better than any man alive, like those lovers who attend performances with one another and they gaze into each other’s eyes when the romantic music begins to swell…

You felt your breathing stop…

You pushed yourself to turn your head to gaze out the window once more…

Looking over the streets…

The other buildings…

The people that walked the streets and dwelled in these houses were nothing like the brothers, they were commoners and the Moriarty family was nobility, you should have no prior interactions with one another…

But how did they know your address without you telling him…

And how did he know your name…

You felt your stomach lurch at those thoughts…

Has he been watching you?

Were you going to end up like Rosemary?

—————————

A week had passed since your encounter with the Moriarty brothers and life carried on like it always had, minus the pocket knife you had bought off from one of the stagehands at the opera house. It was after another performance and you were going to go straight home with Sorelli tonight since she had begun walking you home due to your growing paranoia. You both had stepped into the dressing rooms and Sorelli immediately ran off to her own things and reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a box.

“Macarons!” She exclaimed as she opened the box and sat on the floor, gesturing for you to sit next to her. “Come on, I got these for both of us.”

“You are an actual angel, Sorelli.” You replied, going to sit down next to her, not caring about ruining your costume by sitting in it or eating in it, it was already old enough that it needed to be replaced. 

“Well with all the stress you have had as of late, it was the least I could do.” She spoke as you both reached in to grab one and you brought it up to your lips-

“What are you two doing in here?!” You heard a voice angrily shout as the dressing room door slammed open. You both gasped as your eyes shot up to see the ballet mistress in the doorway. She stomped over to you two and you immediately stood up and fell silent. You felt her eyes look you two over, scanning over you like fire covering the room. “Eating and sitting in costume, do you even care for the things you are provided? Do you know how much these cost?”

“No madam.” You both said in unison like you had been taught, along with not making eye contact with the old hag out of fear.

“Well you better pay for the damages you caused.” She snapped at the two of you, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. “I want the money for them before the opera house closes for the night, do you understand?”

“But madam, I-“

You were cut off with a sharp pain across the face as she stuck you.

“I did not ask for buts, do you understand girl?”

You had to bite back tears as you replied.

“Yes Madam.”

“Good, now fix your makeup, no man would want to be seen with a girl who looks like that.” She stated as she finally walked out the door and you finally broke, weeping in your hands. Everything has finally become too much for you. You felt Sorelli rub circles into your back.

“I hate that witch.” You muttered through your tears.

“Have to agree with you on that one.” Your fellow ballerina replied as she helped you stand up straight and wipe away your tears. “Why don’t we fix you up and we can deal with this together.”

“You are too sweet for your own good.”

Sorelli sat you down and began to do your make up again, cleaning up the tear stains on your cheeks and taking special care to hide away the red hand print that was forming on your skin. You sadly had to put the box of treats away to enjoy some other time since you did not wish to get caught again. 

“I can take care of my hair, Sorelli.” You said as you picked up the brush from the vanity. “You can go on ahead, I think I will find that viscount that is here tonight.”

“Alright, see you at closing?”

“I will see you then.”

You watched as she scampered out of the dressing room and you began to brush through your hair in near silence minus the chatter and other noises from outside the dressing room walls. Sometimes with Sorelli it did not even seem like she had a sister, her name had become a warning among the dancers of the ballet so that is what Rosemary’s identity had melted into.

“You look lovely tonight.” Your eyes shot up into the mirror when you heard that voice and in the reflection of the glass you saw those same red eyes from that carriage ride once more, Williams was standing behind you and you did not even notice.

“Thank you… William.” He stepped towards you again, his feet clicking against the old wood floor. You felt his hand slip into your own, grabbing the brush you held and he took a strand of your hair and began brushing through it himself.

“You have been crying, your eyes are swollen under your makeup.” He stated this as a matter of fact and you could only nod as he brushed through a knot. “Now why do you stain your face with such tears? What is wrong, my dear?”

“Everything, everything is wrong.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, there is not a day I don’t imagine leaving this hell hole, but there is no day where I do because I have nowhere to go. The way they look at me and touch me, it feels like I am nothing but just something for their amusement.” You wrapped your arms around your shaking form as you tried to hold back your tears. “The sometimes it feels like Sorelli has all but forgotten what happened to Rosemary, she is in the ground now.”

“Oh you poor thing, I was in the audience tonight and I have to admit I noticed their looks as well, a terrible thing for you to go through.” He pulled a little harder as he combed through a tangle. “But as for your friend, I am sure she will come to terms with her grief in time, sometimes it just takes action in order to recover.”

“I just wish this all would go away, I want none of it, I just want to see this place burn up in smoke and flames.”

“Then your wish is my command.” Before you could question his words he spoke as he tied up your hair with a ribbon. He reached into his pocket and took out more than enough money to pay back the ballet mistress. “Why don’t you go home early, I am sure you need your rest after such a long day.”

“Thank you, William.”

After he left the dressing room, you scampered to get changed so you may go and find Sorelli. You made your way through the halls looking for her and you found her in the oddest of places with the oddest of people, you found her near the entrance to the storage cellars talking to.

“Lord Albert? Sorelli?” You called out to the duo who were talking, but they did not seem to share the same playful chatter as most others in the building did. Sorelli and the eldest Moriarty brother looked at you with a bit of surprise.

“Oh (Name), are you ready to go?” She asked, a false smile coming across her face.

“Um… yes, are you not coming?”

“Oh well, Lord Albert and I were just having the most interesting conversation.” She replied, gesturing to the man beside her. “I think I would like to talk to him a bit longer if you would like to head home.”

“Talking? About what?”

“Pyrotechnics.” Albert answered on her behalf and your gaze shifted to him. “Some theaters in the Americas and France are using them in their stage performances.”

“Sounds dangerous.” You replied and your eyes shifted back at her, you were about to say something, but sighed, deciding to let it go. “I am going to head home, I already paid both of our portions to the old hag so just head home when you are done.”

“I will.”

“Alright, see you tomorrow.” You turned on your heel and began walking down the hall, slowly…

You waited for a reply but all you got was a simple…

“Goodbye.”

—————————

“Fire at the Royal Opera House: Three Dead, Ten Casualties.”

That was the first headline you saw in the morning when you picked up this morning’s paper from a newsboy. 

You threw up on the spot.

Apparently after the opera house closed last night, a candle fell over and ignited the whole building, or at least that was the most logical guess but the other part of it was a mystery. Two men were found with bullet holes in their heads in the rubble while a girl was simply found, most likely suffocated to death…

Sorelli…

Not only were you out of the job but your best friend was dead.

You raced to the scene immediately, your warm breath showing white fog in the cold as you ran through the streets of London like a mad woman. Then upon arriving at the sight, all that was left was the burnt ruins of the opera house. The sight was being contained by law enforcement since the ruins were still smoking and the sight was being investigated. You could see three bodies, covered in a black tarp in the the distance, two larger and one smaller…

Sorelli…

She did not deserve this…

No…

Please god no…

You must have stood in the street for hours, just staring at your friend’s dead body in shock…

Just like you did when Rosemary died…

You had to be told to go home by one of the officers since you looked exhausted, so you did.

Your mind just felt numb…

You felt dead…

Why…

Why…

Why…

You pushed yourself back inside your apartment building and your landlord who was reading the morning paper, the same edition as the one you bought, looked up at you.

“Someone is here to see you, I let him into your apartment.” You nodded at his statement and as you went to walk up stairs he spoke again. “Oh and rent is due by the end of the week.”

You gritted your teeth…

Selfish bastard…

He is literally reading about how you just lost your best friend and job and that is what he says.

You rolled your eyes and walked back upstairs, not even remembering the fact that you have a guest. You pushed open your already partially opened apartment door and you immediately dropped your keys and paper…

“William… what are you doing here?”

William James Moriarty sat on your bed, holding his coat he gave you that night in his hands. He looked up at you with a smile, but this time it did not feel kind, it felt almost wicked.

“I am here to take you home.”

“Home?”

“Yes, with the opera house burnt down I figured that you would be out of the job so the least I could do was provide you with a safe place to rest your head.” Your lips were slightly agape in shock when he said those words. He looked at you, a new pity coming into his eyes. “I am also here to extend my condolences for your loss.”

“Sorelli…”

“Yes, I am afraid so.” He nodded at your words as he stood up from the bed. “We tried to get her out before she got trapped in the flames, but she just would not listen.”

Your eyes went wide when he said those words and you felt your heart stop beating in your chest.

“What…”

“She told me to tell you to live for both her and Rosemary and told me to take care of you since she knew you would be quite grief stricken.” You felt your mind grow numb again in shock as he continued to speak. “She did it for you, she did not want to see you end up like her sister.”

“She… she did what?”

“Well she murdered both the owner of the opera house and the man who killed her sister.” You felt the bile building up in your throat as he began to explain again. “The fire… that was her idea, to burn it all away so you would never have to go back there.”

“Oh my god…”

“I know it must be a lot to take in, my dear.” You felt William’s ungloved hand come to rest against your check, raising your head up to look at him. “But I will be here to help you through it, my brothers as well. Louis already has your room prepared, and Albert was expressing to me at breakfast how happy you will be there-“

“Don’t touch me!” 

You slapped his hand away, backing up towards your door. Your eyes were wide with both rage and fear.

“Dearest-“

“You are the Lord of Crime, aren’t you?” You cut him off, raising your eyes to look up at him. William’s smiling expression had all but disappeared at your words and instead was replaced by something darker. “You knowing my name, where I lived, it all makes sense, you were trying to kill those two men all along.”

“While you are not incorrect with your first guess, you are with your second.” He stepped towards you after you stepped back. “I was originally looking for someone to assist in the removal of those two men but when I was looking into you, you were just too pure to do such an act.”

“What… what are you on about?”

“You have been tossed around all your life, forced into this work by your mother and kicked out when you said you did not want to do it anymore. Then your ballet mistress, who abused you for even making a mistake. Then those men, who took advantage of you because of your weak state.” You were frozen as he finally stood before you again. “Did you even know that you were the next target of the man who killed Rosemary?”

“…no…”

“You were, and if it was not for me and your late friend, you would be dead.” The breath left your lungs as he spoke. You could barely process the feeling of him draping his coat over your shoulders, just like that night when you first met. “She told me to take care of you and who am I to refuse a request from a dying woman?”

You did not process anything after he spoke those words…

Not you being led downstairs by him…

Not him handing over your keys to the landlord…

Not him taking you outside…

Not him helping you into the carriage…

Not the carriage beginning to move as William placed a kiss upon your lips, just like all the men who have done that before….

The only thought that came into your mind came to you as William laid your head in his lap as you began to daze off into sleep…

…You were just like Rosemary.

[whatevs128]

More pls 😍

I'm having a tiny bit of a Mihawk brainrot if you can't tell. I'm not sure if his past was ever really elaborated on so there are most likely mistakes in my interpretation because I am not caught up to the Anime yet.

Just imagine...

Growing up together with the very boy that will in the future claim not only the title of "Strongest Swordsman in the World" but will also eventually become one of the Seven Warlord's of the sea. Hawk Eyes Mihawk is a name that will one day struck fear in everyone that hears it, whether it's a pirate, a marine or an innocent citizen.

Yet you have known him ever since both of you were just tiny children. You know all of his quirks, his likes and dislikes and all of his most sacred secrets and most embarrassing moments which he made you promise would be kept only between the two of you.

And Mihawk knows you just as much. He knows of all your dreams and your biggest fears, has been your shoulder to cry on whenever your heart was struck with grief, has witnessed all of your shenanigans and despite his better judgement has even participated in some of your reckless decisions, even if to simply be the one who ultimately saves you from any big troubles.

The dynamic between the two of you has always been like this. You have always been the dreamer, the one who has their heads in the clouds and loves romanticising everything. He can't even recall how often you spent your time excitedly recounting to him a dream you had in your sleep or proclaimed to him excitedly about a new ambition you had in life, every week a new one. One time you told him you wanted to be a doctor, another one you wanted to be a vet and the next time you announced your new dream of wanting to be a shipwright. You were like a pot just foaming over with dreams and positivity.

Mihawk on the other hand has always been your voice of reasoning and the guardian who is always right next to you when your excitement led to an impulsive and poorly made choice. He has always been the one who was your silent yet loyal shadow and the one you could always count on, even if he has dubbed you as an "idiot". He has always been the one who just sat there and silently listened to all of your excited rambling when the words were tumbling out faster from your mouth than you could form them, even despite reminding you that you should probably soon make up your mind whenever you discarded your old dream for a new one. You truly are a scatterbrained fool at times yet he has a weak spot for that bright glimmer in your eyes, a light as bright as the sun.

As adolescence catches up with you two, you stay the same dreamy fool who tends to daydream throughout the day, so deeply immersed in your own thoughts that time and your surroundings are forgotten.

Mihawk remains as the one person you are closest with and is the one who protects you from walking into doors, buildings or people when he realises that you space out again as you let your imagination run wild. Yet as he grows up from a boy to a man, his feelings for you mature. Both of you have always been exceptionally close to each other but it is only as his mind matures and becomes more complex that he starts questioning how he truly feels about you. You have always been the dearest person to his heart but as a child he has never truly considered your relationship as deeply as he does now. You've just always been the person he has known best and with whom he has shared the most, from the good to the bad. You have always been special to him yet it is only now that he realises just how special you really are to him.

He loves you.

He loves your ditzy and airheaded personality, your joyful laugh and the constant glow in your eyes as you look at the world around you as if you are discovering it for the first time and he especially loves the excited shimmer in your eyes when you tell him about your dreams.

Knowledge alone is only half the work though. Mihawk, who was back then only a flicker of what he will be in the future, doesn't know how to express those emotions he has for you. All he knows that he feels very intensely for you and he finds himself overwhelmed with this discovery. It is all chaotic and hectic inside of his heart and his mind. It is something new that frightens him over so slightly as he doesn't know how to control his feelings just yet which is why he decides to wait. To wait until he has understood his love for you a bit better before he will tell you how he feels about you.

Eventually both of you leave the island you grew up together in favor setting sail and heading towards the Grand Line. Both of you had dreams of your own yet neither one of you was at that time ready to separate from each other just yet. Mihawk's feelings for you have only grown since he became cognizant of them for the first time and they only intensify with each passing day, not enabling him to understand them nor to fully control them.

So used has he grown to having you all for himself though that he finds himself uncomfortable and possessive when you choose to engage with locals on an island both of you have landed on, an eerily intense look in those golden eyes of his that seemingly try to pierce the very soul of the person you choose to give your attention too despite him standing right next to you. It always spooks people and you can only slap him on his chest as you chastise him for his rude behavior, although he knows that you are never truly mad at him. Even he is secretly just glad that you give him your undivided attention again, even if he is grumbling as he defends himself against your little lectures.

Both of you enter the Grandline together and it is then that you finally decide to bring up the idea of you two finally separating. Initially Mihawk is quite reluctant as you suggest that idea to him. Wouldn't it be safer for both of you to stick together? After all neither of you two knows what lies ahead in those oceans. You are quite persistent though as you explain to him that you would like to achieve your dreams by yourself and that you think he should do the same. You clarify yourself by assuring him that you don't plan to never see him again but that you would like to do your best without his help with your own strength.

He feels the lump in his throat as he hears your reasons behind your suggestion, his mind struggling to imagine how it would be if you wouldn't been with him and he finds himself drawing a blank as soon as he attempts to consider it. You are someone he has always known throughout his entire life and even hearing your suggestion has his heart shaking with the thought of your absence if that were to really happen.

You two have always been together. Why would you want to change that now?

Both of you spend a lot of time arguing over this issue but ultimately you win him over, the light in your eyes persuading him by tugging at all of his heartstrings. His obsession has just started to bud and it isn't until a while later that it springs to its full awakening which is why Mihawk eventually caves in and agrees to your suggestion.

Both of you separate at the next island you land on but both of you make a promise to each other. That you'll meet again on this very island one year from now on to see how far you two have come with your dreams.

His heart is heavy when both of you bid each other goodbye, his hands holding yours tightly as he relishes one last time for the next long year in your brightness. The words he has been wanting to tell you for a while now linger on his tongue, the temptation strong to let you know about his feelings for you in a last feeble hope that his love may change your mind. Yet he knows as he looks into your beaming eyes that your mind has already been set so he can only swallow his feelings back, although he vows that when you two will see each other again, he will be strong enough to finally confess his love to you.

One year passes and he returns to the same island as a completely different person. Within only one year Mihawk has risen to unbelievable fame. He feels content with what he has achieved within the last year as he has grown into the strong man he swore to be one year ago on this very island and considers himself now ready to finally tell you about how he truly feels for you. The budding obsession as blossomed over the last year as your absence has forced him to fully acknowledge as well as embrace everything he has been feeling for you and now more than ever before does Mihawk plan to keep you by his side.

Only that you never show up.

Initially Mihawk decides to ignore the growing heaviness in his heart as he decides that maybe you experience some delay. The weather in the Grandline is after all infamous for its changing mood. So he waits for you.

One day.

Two days.

Three days...

With every sunset that he witnesses on the island, he feels a part of him silently dying with it. Emotions brew up inside of him as a few days turn into nearly an entire month and he finally can't deny the haunting truth anymore he has been trying to deny.

You won't return.

His heart shatters as he finally acknowledges this fact. There are so many emotions inside of him, far too many for him to identify each one of them as they blur together into one big storm that has his chest tightening and his heart silently screaming.

Why didn't you return?

He can only come up with two possible explanations and he truly doesn't know which one would be worse. Either you have forgotten about him and the promise you two made or you have died on the sea.

He dedicates months trying to find out the truth about what happened to you. He reads every single newspaper, somehow dreading yet hoping to find an article mentioning your name yet he is always left disappointed. He travels to the island he knew you were heading to after both of you separated in hopes of gathering information yet no one from the locals can give him any useful information about you. He goes through all the newest bounty posters to see if your name and face appear anywhere only to be left with a growing hole in his heart.

The last hope of his is finally shattered when he sails all the way back to the place both of you grew up in only to be met with the same dreadful emptiness as no one in the town has heard of you since him and you left the island on a ship over a year ago.

Nothing.

There is no trace of your existance in the world, no matter how long he searches for you as if you were only a fickle imagination of his own. He doesn't know whether you have forgotten about him, if something has happened to you or if you have met your end somewhere on those unpredictable seas.

It is a torment unlike anything he has ever experienced as the lack of knowledge drains him slowly and tortures him as he is unable to find any closure. No matter what, Mihawk seems to be destined to suffer one way or another. Hope is titled as the most beautiful thing in the world yet it is hope that only prolongs his suffering as a part of him is unable to accept the possibility of your death until he has proof.

As months turn into years, his heart shrinks and withers like a flower deprived of water and sunlight. The ambitious and determined man turns into a husk of what he was, his dream stolen from him without having been able to do anything. There is a growing resentment sharply directed against himself as the last few days with you haunt him.

He shouldn't have agreed to separate from you. If he would have just been more insistent, would you still be here with him?

The anguish of his lost dream nestles itself deeply into his shriveled heart as the perpetual heartbreak changes him. Colours seem to fade from the world around him as a feeling of numbness spreads like roots in the earth. There is nothing that excites him anymore, not even when he is dubbed as the strongest swordsman in the world. The title and the reputation that comes with it hold no meaning to him anymore, not when he doesn't have you to share his glory with. The hole in his chest is torn open as time flies by and every ship that crosses his path is dragged into his suffering as he wields Yoru against them. There is no meaning behind the carnage he leaves behind but he has lost sight of why he should care, the dwelling bitterness and sorrow inside of him tainting his honor.

He has lost the ability to live, feels more akin to a ghost as he drifts through the seas and clashes with opponents who are swatted away like flies only to be forgotten by him soon after.

There is a new listlessness clinging to him, his sharp eyes unable to see the worthwhile in this world now that you are gone. Everything is buried deep inside his chest and mind though so that no one can ever have those memories and feelings he has shared with you. Some people hoard gold and jewels, Mihawk's most precious treasure are the memories he has made with you over the years as there is nothing else he has left of you.

When the Marine offers him the title of a Warlord, he is only half the man he used to be. Surely you would have objected to this offer as you have always been rather warily of the government and if he would have been the man he once was, he would have sliced the person who had made such a ridiculous offer to him into dices.

That man is already dead though...

He accepts the offer after a while, although not because he is suddenly fond of the very people he used to hunt down. He just doesn't know what he should do with himself anymore. It feels like his life has halted and is just waiting for you to return, even if by now he has a feeling that he will never see you again, forever left in the darkness about your fate.

Someone once said that time heals all wounds. Those words are a lie. Mihawk doesn't heal as years just seem to trickle by faster than he can even realise. There is nothing of substance to his life, nothing worth to remember. Only the hole where his heart used to be reminds him that he is still breathing, the haunting emptiness inside of him something that will remain the only thing loyal to him until his body rots away.

The presence is barely something he takes notice of as he only lives in the past in his mind, clinging to every memory he has of you out of unadulterated fear that he may eventually forget what your voice sounded like or how you always looked at him with those bright eyes. If even those memories were to abandon him, he would lose even the grasp of his own identity within the never-ending cycle of the dull and forgetful life he lives now.

Many years later a miracle happens though. He finds you. On a random island within the Grand Line, he finds you again.

He doesn't even want to believe it when he initially sees your face. Maybe his mind is just playing tricks on him out of delusional desperation but as golden eyes trail you, he realises that he hasn't gone mad. It is you...

The weight of uncertainty that he has been carrying around with him for so many nights suddenly evaporates, its haunting shadow covering him no more.

There is no relief though for him though. No matter what outcome would have proved to be true, he always knew that he would end up getting hurt.

Why are you here? Where were you during all those years? How could you abandon him and betray his feelings so easily?

In that moment, as he stands there motionlessly as only his gaze follows you, he feels like a small boy again. Helpless, confused and hurt beyond words. Emotions he has been hiding behind inner walls for years threaten to burst out of him and an urge to unleash all of those seething emotions overcomes him yet none of those thoughts or desires are ever put into action. As if someone put a spell on him, Mihawk finds himself unable to move, as rigid as a statue. Perhaps his body is just in shock and in hindsight it is good that he finds himself unable to act in that moment to gain some semblance of control again. Otherwise who knows what he would have done in that moment.

He watches as you stroll through the city, your laughter which used to bring him only comfort and warmth seemingly mocking him as he feels a new shadow swallowing him up and filling his heart with a bitter taste.

Betrayal. You betrayed him.

You willingly chose to break the promise you two made decades ago and discarded him as if he were an disposable object instead of the person who spent your entire youth with you.

Did you even once consider how he would feel? Do you have any idea what he turned into because of your decision?

You left him! Didn't even bother to contact him to let him know that you were still alive! Whilst he spent endless days and nights mourning after you, driving himself insane as he didn't know of your fate, you were on this island and enjoyed your life!

A life without him.

Did he mean that little to you for you to make the decision to never see him again so easily? Did all the years he was by your side mean nothing to you?

His heart dies as he can only stand there and follow you with his gaze. All heartbreak, all of the grief that have eaten him alive from the inside out for countless seasons drain in the new cold rage that suddenly floods his veins, his pupils narrowing as his gaze zooms in on your smiling face.

What use did it have to mourn someone who lives? What use did it have to feel heartbroken over someone who clearly doesn't care about the pain he went through?

Mihawk has already wasted too much time dwelling in his own self-pity and in that moment he despises you for the shell you have turned him into.

You made the decision to disappear without a word. Now it is time for you to pay the consequences of that decision. He isn't here to catch up with you for old times sake after all.

No. He is here to take you.

And just as you didn't care about his feelings during all those years, this time he won't care for yours either. He doesn't care to hear your reasons and he doesn't care about your apologies if you should dare to voice them to his face. It is already too late for any of that.

Years too late.

[whatevs128]

Dirty Dozen

GN! MC x Pervert OM! Characters

Pervert! Lucifer who pretends to be more drunk than he actually is so he can lean on you when you escort to his room, pulling you into his arms and refusing to let go when you reach his bed. Even if his hands wander inside your clothes, you can't really hold it against him.

Pervert! Mammon who tries to do his best in tests and classes, cause he recalls every praise you give him while jerking off. And when you sit on the sofa, he sits on the ground leaning on your thighs thinking of you sitting on his face.

Pervert! Levi who designs the skimpiest possible cosplay outfits for you and only changing it after he's sees it on you himself. He asks you to twirl around or bend over even when you already feel exposed, brushing his knuckles against your bare skin to take measurements.

Pervert! Satan who sometimes recommends you the most erotic books he owns and loves watching your face change shades and your thighs squirm together with every page. He sometimes whispers the characters lines into your ear so he can hear every subtle gasp or moan.

Pervert! Asmo who asks to help him film couple thirst trap videos and messing up on purpose to hold you in risque places or even press kisses as the 'challenge' requires. Will deliberately put the same perfume he's wearing on you, so it seems like you spent last night in his room.

Pervert! Beel who likes to feed you big mouthfuls of food and thinks its so cute the way you still manage to fit it in your mouth. He loves holding hands with you, his large ones completely encasing your smaller ones - it reminded him how tiny and cute you'd look writhing underneath his large form.

Pervert! Belphie who watches you sleep during sleepovers while he implants sex dreams in your head using his powers. He watches you whimper and twitch with your hands between your legs as he ruts into his pillow right next to you.

Pervert! Solomon who loves to put you in accidental situations where you simply have to rely on him, especially in close proximity. The Box of Truth was just the beginning with your chest pressed up tightly against his, now he's secretly planning a trap where you both have to fuck a few times to escape.

Pervert! Simeon who secretly loses his mind every time your hands touch his exposed bare skin and looks for excuses for you to do it. Once on a dare, you had wrapped your arms around his waist and playfully bit his shoulders, and now he jerks off to it once every week.

Pervert! Diavolo who likes to seat you on his lap to help him work, feeling the softness of your cute little ass against his groin. Sometimes he'll grind against you subconsciously and then excuse it saying he's just trying to make sure you're not bored while he's thinking of ravaging you at his very desk.

Pervert! Barbatos who is just desperate to worship your body and give you more pleasure than you can handle. He is already so esctatic when you allow him to massage your back, now only if you'd let him strip you down one day.

Pervert! Thirteen who likes seeing you caught up in her traps and beg for rescue. You look so adorable pouting and huffing like that, struggling to escape as she runs an idle finger over your clothes, being a little tease.

[whatevs128]

Taking His Virginity (Obey Me!)

━━━━━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━━━━━

You take his virginity. How does he react?

minors/ageless/blank blogs dni or get blocked :c

»Characters: Lucifer, Mammon, Levi, Beel, Dia

»Tags: ⚠️ 🔞 NSFW (18+), GN Reader/MC, Clingy-ness, Fluffy and smutty, Mentions of blood, biting, scratching, Rough, Manhandling(?)

»Notes: I will leave this here though, cya guys whenever! Super excited for Nightbringer tomorrow!

Lucifer:

"It's the last part left of my...angelic...side."

The thought of him getting that intimate with someone was...unnerving. That was the last part of him he had left that was in his control. He never cared if someone had found out about it, but due to how private he was, it never came up. And rumors always seemed to think otherwise. Over the years, he had entertained the thought of just getting it over with, but ultimately decided to just wait until he felt comfortable enough with someone. Someone worthy.

~~~

Lucifer underestimated the act of sex. He could not get through foreplay in his human form, he shifted into demon form and you let him know it was okay. He tried to stay quiet but groans/grunts escaped his lips. He was eager, his wings wouldn't stop flapping, which made for an interesting time but you both had fun. One night was just not enough, he could not get enough of you! He asked for the next day off (on short notice!? first time for everything!!) and kept fucking you until he was satisfied. Believe it or not, Lucifer was clingy/possessive the next few days. The intimacy got to him. ♡

Mammon:

"Look I was just nervous...I never felt comfortable with anyone gettin' that close to me, y'know? Maybe it's celestial brain or somethin'. "

He knows he doesn't seem the type after so long in the Devildom, but it's true. Yes he's lied about it. Yes it's draining fighting off interested demons/monsters...and it's scary and annoying. He was gonna do it whenever he felt like it. Whenever he was ready.

~~~

Oh he was in love, in bliss. He was vocal. Mammon was letting you know exactly how much he was enjoying it. His nails did accidentally dig deep into you and you bled a little, but you assured him it was okay, it was an accident. He came quickly at first and was embarrassed but you were patient and assured him it was normal. He definitely cried after everything and you soothed him. The night was filled with a lot of cuddles and kisses. He was fragile and clingy the next few days. You made sure to give him all the hugs and kisses he wanted. "Thank you for being my first." ♡

Levi:

"Are you even surprised? Who would want me?"

Of course he's wanted to do it. He might've considered hiring a succubus. But it's so scary and annoying getting to know people. And seriously he's so disgusting who would even...?

He hoped if it did happen one day, it'd be with someone special. He hoped they would accept all of him and his love. All of it.

~~~

Levi was fucking loud. The otaku could not stop moaning. He could not stop his desperate high pitched whining. It was hot. The way his hips eagerly thrust to meet you was too damn cute. "Oh? Letting your brothers know exactly what's going on? They must be so jealous." He came very easily after that. His tail would not stop swishing around. You made sure to continue riding the fuck out of him as he came, he screamed and was a (not so) pure mess. The overstimulation was too much for him but he loved it anyway. He was very addicted to you for the next few days.♡ Everyone in HOL was over it though.

Beel:

"I don't know, it just never happened?"

He's had urges but normally took care of them by himself. He just never really connected with anyone enough to do it. He was a simple man, jerk it and go on with the day. When he found you though, he definitely noticed the urges get much stronger. His hand was not enough anymore.

~~~

He was...rough. He didn't mean to! But his primal side really came out. You just looked so good, so inviting. As soon as he buried himself in you he had. To. Ruin. You. He definitely groaned a lot and might've drooled a little. Its just the way his sensitive cock dragged against your walls for the first time was too delicious. He apologized for the bites, he made sure to give them extra soft kisses. Clean up took a while...he came a lot.

"Can we do it again? ♡"

Diavolo:

"Mm...I don't have a lot of people I trust. But you?...I do."

It was already hard making real friends, let alone a romantic partner. Trust and honesty were at the top of his list. He had to make sure his first time was with someone he could trust, who treated him like any other person. This demon only ever wanted real love.

~~~

Diavolo was actually super shy and nervous. To be fair, it was his first time, and with a human at that. Undressing him was…really cute. You were delicate with the giant demon. That only really lasted a few minutes though. Once things got really hot and heavy and he finally dipped his cock into you, he took over. He was vocal and let you know how good you felt around him. The prince tossed you around effortlessly and pounded the fuck out of you for two days...and it was all love. Barbatos was not happy about canceling meetings and moving stuff around. Diavolo was clingy for a few days and you showered him with extra love.

"Thank you for seeing me for me."

⬦You might also like: Thong︱Submissive & Breedable︱Virgin Handjob (Dia)

[whatevs128]

Are you the Ex because you're MC or are you MC because you're the Ex?

WARNINGS: Possessive behavior, groping, humping, professor-student dynamic, overstimulation, begging, aphrodisiac, grinding, grammar errors, spelling errors, no proofreading

VERSIONS: Demon brothers, Side Characters

LINKS: Masterlist

--------------------------------------------------

Your previous husband, LUCIFER, who's cock is achingly hard as you both sign the divorce papers in the court because, fuck, you're his. You're wearing the clothes he bought, you still smell like his favorite perfume and your soft skin that he paid spas for.

You're Ex lover, MAMMON, that got you into modeling and now that you two are separated whenever you guys are paired up for a shoot, his hands will always find it's way to your ass and squeeze it just like how he greets you in the morning back then.

LEVIATHAN, your ex, who went down on his knees to beg you to come back to him knowing damn well that you can't say no to those tears, even tugging the hem of your shirt as he hugged your leg trying to act desperate even though he knows you can feel his bulge.

Your unforgettable lover, SATAN, who suddenly became a student professor in RAD and would often ask you to stay after class because you're "failing" but would not take any alternatives unless it's you letting him fuck you dumb again.

ASMODEUS, your attractive ex, who you can't just forget about especially when he started texting you phrases like "You know you'll come back to me." but it ended up to phrases like "Please come back! Please, please please! I don't think I can live without your cum any longer!" after you let him hit.

Your desperate ex, BEELZEBUB, who would feed you food that are laced with the heaviest dose of aphrodisiac and insist that those just enhances the flavors and it will not be his fault if your body kept on reacting like that because of him.

Your obsessive freak ex, BELPHEGOR, who can only cum if it's you, sitting on your lap or making you sit on his lap and grind on it until he came inside his pants in anytime possible even if you insist the relationship between the two of you is done and unrecoverable.

[whatevs128]

⭒ DILUC, minors do not interact.

fem reader. dry humping. something short and fast for his birthday, i hope i made it. i’m a sucker for a man in an armchair. petnames ; sweetheart, my love. ₊ 𓂃 masterlist.

you can gauge from the long, drawn out sigh that leaves DILUC lips when he comes home exactly how his day has went, watching as he crosses the room with a grunt before he falls back into his arm chair that’s pushed cozily into the corner of the room.

he’s sitting opposite you as you curl up on the other, fireplace burning between you both and you choose to rest the book that you were half-reading to the side as you admire him gently from where you sit.

you watch the way diluc reaches around to messily pull his hair back into a quick ponytail next, trying to quickly tame the vermillion locks as he reveals more of his handsome features to you. before finally, he’s meeting your gaze from under his bangs and patting his lap expectantly. although, you can tell by his expression that it’s meant more as a plea than anything else.

“won’t you come here a moment, my love?”

still, you can’t help but feel quite flattered that you’re the person he wants to lose himself in when he’s like this, his awe of you warms you and makes you ache when you approach him. it’s instinctive but captivating, watching his legs spread in wait before you’re slinking your way into his lap, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders to squeeze at the tight muscle as he props his head up with his hand.

his other free, large palm traces along your figure, then up your hips to do the same. his gaze holds yours as the silence settles serenely between you both.

but it’s as if by habit, the way you melt into diluc’s touch moments later and he finds himself sitting up straighter when he feels the first needy grind of your hips against his. the quick movement is followed by his palms taking a slow, languid handful of your tits as he curls his fingers around the flesh and squeezes.

he was truly enamoured by you, he touched you like you were the finest of silks beneath his calloused hands - he’d treat you as such.

“you okay? long day?” your whispery voice cracks with need and diluc gives you a blown out, slow blink as you admire the blush decorating his cheeks, watching it blend with the colour of his hair when you press closer. he was so unbearably handsome, illuminated beautifully by the fireplace to your left and it was like those same flames lived within his touch - he had a way of melting every part of you as you curl into him.

“very perceptive. but there’s no need to be nervous, i actually feel much better already, sweetheart.” diluc groans, ragged and hungry before his lips are on yours and he’s pulling you closer against him until you’re grinding your needy heat against his clothed cock, gasping when you feel the blunt head graze against you.

you can still feel how hard he is beneath the fabric of his slacks despite the fabric between you both, and you keen when his big hands trace down and over the skin he’s already explored previous times. but even now, he’s no less enraptured by it; he helps you guide your thrusts with one hand as he kisses you—the other placing tentative swipes over your clothed nipple with his thumb as he groans.

“you are so good for me, it really is quite the honour.” diluc grumbles lowly against your lips, swallowing your moans beneath his own. your fingers curl in the thick roots of his hair to pull and you experimentally roll your hips once more; pulling a long, low groan from him that you feel vibrate through his chest.

you feel him shiver below you, but you also feel the previous tension in his muscles melt with every intoxicating roll of your hips against his, like the memories of his terrible day and the rowdy patrons are being replaced with new thoughts of you and your pretty pussy dragging along his cock.

diluc’s muscled thighs twitch at the feeling of your hips along his and he finally, albeit unfortunately, breaks away from the kiss to focus more on your movements. each sinful swirl of your hips makes him inhale sharply as his gloved hand pinches and pulls at your breast, satisfied with how his fingers seem to sink into the flesh.

a ragged sound leaves you and you can’t help but let your head fall forward dreamily, pace stuttering until his hand on your hips is tightening and he’s taking control — pulling them along his own as he finds his rhythm. each of his movements are messy and eager, a side that you were grateful to see of the man you’d fallen in love. you felt flattered, that you had such an effect on him and you’d be lying if you said seeing him so flushed and needy for you alone didn’t make you feel even better.

soft pants fall from your pouty lips everytime you feel diluc’s thick shaft graze along your clothed clit, the blissful feeling making the room below you spin. “archons, keep doing that.” your lover grunts, drunk on lust - on you, and when you babble out a breathless cry of his name he can’t help the way his hips instinctively rut up into yours, ruthlessly as you press against his chest at the force.

his jaw clenches as your movements continue to move in sync with his, your fingers tightening in his hair and pulling a sharp hiss from the vermillion haired man beneath you. he’s cursing under his breath, rutting into you heavily until you can almost feel every detail and vein of his cock through the heavy fabric separating you both.

diluc’s mind and senses feel like they’re blurring as his name continues to fall from your lips in short pants, until he’s finally grabbing your hips abruptly with both hands and guiding you gently up to your feet. it catches you off guard, but despite the pout you’re wearing, you can’t help but feel warm with anticipation as you watch him stand up immediately.

he leans into smear a breathless, wet kiss along your temple and you meet the movement almost like you expected it, he’s looking at you with pure hunger in his blown out gaze as his hand blindly reaches to intertwine with your own so he can lead you to your bedroom.

“please, i must have you, my love. let me repay you for everything you do for me.”