可愛的百合

And they're still arguing.

Suguru's large hand slides over you waist, fingers tightening as he pulls you back harder on him. "She's shaking," he murmurs against your ear. "You're being too rough."

Satoru scoffs instantly.

His grip bruises your hips as he drags you back onto his cock with a sharp thrust that punches a cry out of you. "She likes it rough. Don't you, sweetheart?" His fingers tap your cheek mockingly soft. "Look at her. Poor thing can't even think."

You whimper at a another brutal slam of his hips, clawing at Satoru's chest while your head falls back against Suguru's shoulder.

"See?" Suguru hums smugly. "Too much." His lips brush your temple, soft compared to the way he's filling you. "Not everything has to be a competition, Satoru."

"Everything is a competition," Satoru laughs, his blue eyes flicking towards his best friend over your shoulder. "You're just pissed I'm winning."

"Winning?" Suguru echoes, then chuckles, continuing to shove himself impossibly deeper.

The next thrusts land in sync. You mewl helplessly, pussy dripping down one cock while your tight hole squeezes the other.

"Fuuuuck," Satoru groans, head tipping back. "Bet you wish you could feel how tight this pussy gets around me." He gives a shallow thrust just to hear you whine. "So slippery and still sucking me back in. She likes me better Sugu. Can't help it."

"Aw, is that so?" Suguru challenges. "Then why is she crying for me?"

You jolt violently at the first torturously soft circle against your puffy clit, a broken 'Suguru' leaving your throat.

"Oh, that's cute," Satoru mutters, annoyed now. "Using your fingers 'cause your cock isn't enough?"

Suguru only smiles against your neck, satisfied as he continues stroking your sensitive bud. "Unlike some people, I'm actually trying to make her cum." His dark eyes lazily flick to Satoru. "You remember that's the point, right?"

"I didn't forget," Satoru hisses.

He grabs your chin, forcing your watery eyes onto his. His hips keep driving hard to reclaim your attention and make your stomach twist.

"C'mon, princess. Look at me." A deep thrust from both ends cuts off your breathing. "I'll make you feel so good, promise."

His thumbs brush over your nipples, pinching just enough to make you arch between them. You're overwhelmed—drooling, twitching, and completely lost as to why these two took so long before fucking you.

When Satoru's thrusts get deeper and faster, Suguru's follow, each one jolting you up the bed.

"O-Oh— s-shit— mmmghhh—"

Satoru groans, leaning down to mark your chest wih messy kisses and sharp bites. "Squeezing me so tight, baby girl. Fuck, you getting close?"

Suguru sucks another bruise into your neck, fingers never slowing over your clit. "You feel amazing, angel. So pretty when you fall apart for me."

"For you?"

"Yeah, for me."

"Please. You think those weak little circles are doing all this?"

"S-Shut u-up—" you finally manage, shaking as your hands thread into the hair at the back of their heads.

They're already close, a strange, heated look passing between them before you shove them together.

To your not-at-all surprise, there's zero resistance. Their lips crash together and it's messy and hungry and mean—all teeth and breathy groans swallowed into their mouth's while they keep fucking you dumb.

It's so hot, you can't help but cum as their tongues dance together in front of your eyes.

Satoru breaks the kiss first with a rough curse, Suguru following with a groan against his mouth. Both of them still at the same time as they cum together, pumping your well used holes with their release.

You can already feel the headache forming for when they start bickering about who made you cum.

2026 © thewrldx

You’re more of a sunflower who basks in his sunlight and greedily soaks up all his affection. You’d hate to be the moon, for this meant you’d only rise when Phainon is gone – you prefer staying right by his side, a sidekick he can always count on. 

A sidekick wearing your heart on your sleeves, shy but never quite ashamed of the sincere feelings you’ve held for him growing up. A flower bud that slowly unfurls into a full bloom.

As your mother would lovingly refer to you both, you are: “Two birds of a feather!” 

Your childhood memories of Aedes Elysiae, blurry some of them may be, are bathed in everlasting gold. While Phainon dragged you off to go play heroes or look through Cyrene’s cards together, you remember dropping pollen of your romantic affection, scattered across planes of time like trails of breadcrumbs left for him to decipher. 

While the sun dipped into the horizon, you inched closer to him day by day, the fluttering in your heart evolves into a palpitation you can never stop, and small gifts handcrafted to show your admiration all gently whispered to him to ‘please, take the hint’. But reminiscent of an immovable stone, Phainon remained blissfully oblivious to the signs.

Cyrene certainly got them; her narrowing eyes and poorly hidden giggles as she sent you and Phainon away were enough of a testament. “I’m not feeling well today, you two can go on without me!”

You’d linger at the edge of her front yard, unsure how to proceed with her help. At Phainon’s call however, you move to follow him – “okay, phai!” – trying to contain the dandelion seeds dancing around in your stomach when he leads you by the arm, not letting go despite arriving at your destination. You didn’t want to let go either, even with the sweat building up in your palm. 

High school sprouts in your backyard as a tall and looming beanstalk that would force you both to grow up even more. 

Phainon’s high-pitched voice starts cracking like eggshells, making way for a deeper tone yet still carrying that warm lilt he always had. You grow taller, still incomparable to Phainon’s own growth spurt, but a good few inches nonetheless. Your sense of style reshapes itself, old interests thrown out for newer ones, and the patch of land where you’d all play heroes together becomes forgotten, the trampled blades of grass outgrowing their original length. 

You start favouring the comforts of your room over the blazing heat of the sun, beginning to find sweat as something you can’t stand and only coming out when Phainon pleads with you to do so. 

He shines brighter in High School – his presence a beaming beacon of light as he walks through the hallways and enters classrooms. Being the sunflower that you are, you faithfully stayed by his side. Fawning crowds come and go, you don’t. 

Your infatuation is exposed to those who aren’t Cyrene; childish people who never grew past the mental age of twelve tried to pick on you for always ‘Sticking to phainon like some damn leech! Don’t have any other personality traits or something?’ – the teasing didn’t last after Phainon punched one of them square in the face. His heroic act only dug your cove of feelings a little bit deeper. 

He’s your best friend and first love, a pillar of comfort you grew up with – you can’t imagine your life without Phainon. You pick up more hobbies, he joins more clubs he never expected he would, and you share your new life experiences with each other during lunch. Sometimes separated, but never for too long. 

Several months flicker by, and during one of your high school Valentine’s, you received gifts from men who aren’t just Phainon. 

Despite his locker overflowing with pink, glittery love notes and heart-shaped chocolates handmade out of sincerity, his gaze was pinned to the white envelope and bouquet of flowers you carried - neither of them is from him. His own gift is already hanging off your backpack, the cute sunflower keychain that it is. 

“From a friend?” He asks, finally closing his locker before he risks more glitter explosions on the ground.

“I doubt it,” He’s the only friend you have in this school, embarrassing it is to admit. Cyrene studies elsewhere. “But they’re cute.”

You see his tongue in cheek, and you dare let a seed of hope plant in the root of your heart. Is he… jealous? That makes you giddy. Tentatively, you ask, “You think so too, right, Phainon?”

He grimaces, glancing one last time at the items in your embrace before smiling, “Yeah, they are. Anyway, done with your locker? Let me carry your bag now.”

You nursed that seed of hope from then forth, slowly but steadily hoping more and more for the plausibility that he returns your feelings. It wouldn’t be too far off, surely – even if you’re not meant for each other in the end, you still want to try with him. You water that seed by dropping more subtle hints to Phainon, and you fertilize it by observing your best friend like an animal in a zoo, analyzing his minuscule actions and trying to correlate them to the mannerisms of ‘a guy with a secret crush on his best friend’.

To be young is to be naive. 

You didn’t need much. A simple ‘you should go for it! I’ve been rooting for you two since we were all children!’ from Cyrene carved out your decision to confess to Phainon near the end of high school. 

In the end, ripped straight from the dramas you watched out of curiosity, you confess to Phainon at the height of spring after getting your high school diplomas; the scent of flowers in full bloom makes you sick with nostalgia and nerves simultaneously. Your family is off conversing with his parents, while you dragged him to a secluded spot in the school. 

“Uhm… I’ve liked you for a long time now, Phainon. I’m not expecting you to return my feelings but…” You leave it open-ended, too afraid to settle your confession definitively. You love him, actually - but love is a strong word that some don’t like to acknowledge. For his sake, you won’t either. 

A warm, gentle spring can never stay for too long. In the same breath, you, too, are forced to abandon the sunlight you’ve known for several years at the sound of his discordant chuckle – the awkward smile etched on his face as his eyes could only look down at you in what you assume to be pity. You avert your gaze from his blue eyes, opting to stare into his birthmark instead. 

“Hey, of course I like you too - you’re my best friend! But we can always stay as friends, (Y/N). You’re dear to me, you know  – maybe not… like that, I just don’t want things to change between us.”

You experience the first and biggest heartbreak of your life just hours after graduating from High School. Your best friend Phainon does not reciprocate your feelings and instead wishes for your relationship to stay the same, locked into the tight box of ‘close friends’ he never plans on breaking. The seed-turned-plant of hope in your heart withers down to a sad, pathetic, dried-out flora. 

That’s okay. You’ll be attending the same college as him, located far, far away – even if it’s not, you have to be okay. 

After a few tense seconds of utter silence, you smile – the most carefree smile you can muster in that moment before enthusiastically nodding at him, “I get it! Don’t worry, Phainon. I totally get it. Uh, hey, I think Cyrene’s calling me. I have to take this phone call for a bit, okay? Let’s meet again later!” 

You bury that confession six feet under in your backyard, covered and only seen by inches of soil as you maintain your close friendship with Phainon. Best friends, close friends, friends - you are not to cross these labels unless you want to lose your close companion. 

The months of free time leading up to college are nothing unusual, you spend it as you would in the past: Phainon picking you up on the front porch to spend the entire day together. It’s either his or your room where you’ll pour sweating buckets over study materials and banter over multiplayer games on his console.

Your heart still beats like drums just being in his vicinity alone, and it took you days of preparation to act like you’re unbothered when he invites you to his room – the walls and shelves containing time capsules from years before. Pressed white daisies you gifted him on his 10th birthday peeks out as his bookmark, and your kindergarten doodle of him as the sun proudly hangs above his bed, displayed as if it’s an artifact from the Belobog museum. 

The most heartwrenching item is the printed photo sitting on his desk: it’s little him kissing little you’s frosting-smudged cheek at your 10th birthday party. The shock on your face is captured and frozen in time, a memory you both laugh about every month or so. 10th birthday… It’s the same age you realized you see him as more than a friend. 

Seeing it for the umpteenth time never fails to steal the air from you; the ache never gets easier. You wish you could truly put these romantic feelings to rest in a coffin and seal it shut with a lid, never to be opened again. 

“Phainon, next time… let’s spend the day in my room.”

Seeing bits and pieces of you scattered around his room hurts more than him verbally rejecting you. 

He grins, all teeth and gums, “Sure!”

Even branches grow into a tree of their own, just as a fledgling must leave its nest. 

Spring came and went, high school a chapter closed, and you’re now faced with attending school – college, you remind yourself  – an ocean away from the familiar warmth of Aedes Elysiae. The wheat fields that were once taller than you, and Phainon’s house right next door, are all left behind momentarily. You can’t pocket your hometown to bring with you in Penacony, but at least you still have Phainon. 

“Everything all settled?” He gently lets go of your dorm’s wooden table, finally in its correct position, “This layout is fine, right?”

“It is,” You hand him a towel, itching to help with wiping off his sweat, “Thanks, Phainon. You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to, anything for you.” Anything for his dear best friend. He bumps your side before sitting down on the living room couch. You wanted him to stick around for a while longer, but he’s already out your door the moment he hears knocking – (‘Oh, your roommate is here! I need to go now, remember to call me if you need help, okay?’ he pats your shoulder on the way out). 

The patch of skin he briefly touched is still tingling when you see someone walk into the living room, luggage trailing right behind. A tall man with shoulder-length gray hair and kind yellow eyes bows at you in greeting. He’s wearing a white cardigan with a blue sweater layered on top, the color alone reminds you of your best friend despite the difference in shades.

“Hello, pardon my sudden entrance.”

“...Hi.” You don’t know how to talk to people beyond Phainon and Cyrene - standing around here is making you shy. “Uhm, my name is (Y/N)... And you are…?”

“I am Sunday,” His hand extends for a handshake, and you hesitantly follow suit. “It’s nice to meet you. I sincerely hope we get along.”

You nod, staring back into pools of liquid gold while shaking his hand,  “...Yeah, let’s. And please don’t mind the succulents on the windowsill.”

II. A close-knit friendship withers in winter, in its place is a new one.

Much to your relief, your late-night fears of college drifting you and Phainon apart never come to fruition. It has the opposite effect, to your surprise. While not overdramatically countries away, Phainon’s dorm room is located a floor above - a notable difference from when he lived right next door to you. The added distance often has him visiting your dorm room unprompted (you kindly gave him a spare key in case of emergencies) and easily greeting a confused Sunday who just finished his classes for the day.

“Call me your third roommate – don’t worry, I help around!” He’d joke. Using your headband to push his hair back, wearing a baggy tee and gray sweatpants, he makes himself at home. Sometimes doing his own homework or brings his gaming laptop along. 

After the initial surprise, Sunday doesn’t mind his company – you certainly don’t. 

Phainon waits for you outside your room to walk you to your class. He makes sure you sit next to him in the classes you share. He insists you join the same org as him, and predictably, you do. 

You thought you buried your less-than-platonic feelings in your backyard; you truly did. But Phainon has your heart racing in excitement, rekindling the dying plant of hope. You still like him – truthfully, you never stopped liking him. But he’s closer to you now, a feat you previously thought to be impossible. The distance of just one floor away makes the heart grow fonder. Dare you say, clingy? 

But he still remains your best friend. A clingy, touchy one – but your best friend. 

Sunday discusses the topic on a slow, school-less night. You’re in the living room finishing up the last plates needed to be washed when he suddenly chimes in, tone so sure of his words, “Ah yes, I remember now. Please tell your boyfriend to stop entering our dorm past 11 PM. The faculty recently deployed a curfew; it’s best we follow it.”

The ceramic plate in your grasp almost crashes headfirst to the floor. Out of embarrassment, you refuse to turn around and face your roommate. Boyfriend. Boyfriend – only one person is a repeat visitor in your dorm room, and he’s nowhere near being your boyfriend.

Meekly, you set the plate down and correct him, “I’ll inform him, but… Phainon isn’t my boyfriend.”

The silence that wafts through is more humiliation added onto your person. What is Sunday’s facial expression right now? Shocked? Ashamed? 

He answers it for you: “I see… This is quite mortifying, my sincere apologies.” 

But he continues, “You’re both seen together, and he visits you so often, not to mention the look you give him, I got the idea that…– I’ll be sure to be more observant in the future. Again, my apologies.”

You’re wiping the table clean when you reply, still angling your face away from his eyes, “It’s cool, don’t worry! No harm done! He and I are best friends, yes… the bestest of friends!”

You feel him raise a brow at that, “I don’t mean to pry, however…”

Cyrene always chided you for being a pushover to those around you. In this instance, you hear her disapproving frown when you fold like a wet blanket, “Whatever it is you’re thinking –! I-it’s probably right.”

Wilted sunflower that you are, you mournfully face him with your eyes cast to the floor. 

“Ah. You like him?”

You slowly nod, a small part relieved that you now have someone other than Cyrene and Phainon to confide in. “Don’t tell him, please…”

“I won’t.”

His bird-patterned socks enter at the edge of your vision. You slowly look up. Sunday is smiling at you, although a bit tense. 

“Perhaps it’s a bit presumptuous of me considering we’ve only known each other for months, but… They say I’m a good listener. If you don’t mind, could you tell me more?”

Sunday is a Borage you unknowingly planted, only just now peaking when you need him most. Sitting side by side on your dorm’s small couch, you gain an outsider’s perspective on your years-long pining toward your best friend. He hears of your rejection and your still-persisting feelings. In the end, the advice he offered to you is:

“He may not be stringing you along, but you still foster optimism in your heart. So long as you have it, you will never move forward past him. If you ask me… confess your love a second time; see if his opinion has changed.”

You gulp, “And if it doesn’t?”

He smiles, gentle as clouds, “Broaden your horizons permanently. Distance yourself if you must; your friendship will pick up once you settle your feelings.”

Winter break is soon; you’ll need to go back to Aedes Elysiae in a few months’ time. However…

“If it’s not too much. A-and I understand if you don’t want to! But, could I ask you to…”

Sunday’s words continuously ring in your mind, repeating circles of “confess your feelings” and “move on,” bouncing off of one another. Coincidentally, Sunday is out for the afternoon when Phainon barges in a week later. Something about groupmates and ‘I wish you were in my group’ going one ear and out the other as you nod at him in autopilot. 

He picks up on your unusual behavior not even ten minutes in: brows raised to the sky and eerily getting close and personal with you, surveying your face like it’d shed off all the information he wanted. He retracts a few seconds later, less joking when he inquires, “Something on your mind? Missing Aedes Elysiae?”

Hanging out in your small room like this, laptop opened to play some pirated action movie, and his class notes scattered around your bedsheets like autumn leaves… 

You shake your head, feeling the moment to follow Sunday’s advice is now. This is the perfect timing – no one else around to see your heartbroken face for a second time, and no Cyrene to find out you’re still hung up on him. 

“Phainon, I…”

He shuffles closer to hear you better – traitorously, your heart clenches in affection. 

“Yeah?”

You take a deep breath, screwing your eyes shut, “I think I still like you.”

You downplay your feelings for the sake of self-preservation.

His breath hitches, “Ah, that’s–”

“I’m sorry.” You apologize, remorseful at how uncomfortable he must be right now, “I really tried, but…” A deep breath, “I’ll move on from you soon, I promise.”

“Oh,” He pauses, staring anywhere but you, “Uhm… sure… I’m glad to have you, you know?”

You nod, too fragile to face him. 

“...You’re my first and dearest friend. I truly, really liked you, Phainon.” You love him so, so much.

“You’re dear to me too, (Y/N). Forever and now.”

You’ve heard of an overseas concept where a person in an unrequited love begins to sprout flowers from within. You feel like that’s happening to you right now with how unbearable heartbreak is – yellow carnations form from your bleeding heart, wormwood seizes your lungs in a tight embrace, and pink roses mix with your innards. You’d cough out the feeling if you could; empty your stomach from all the flowers and be done with it.  

Predictably, he’s quiet for the rest of the movie – immediately coming up with an excuse to leave your dorm room once the end credits begin rolling in. You break down into tears the moment the lock clicks in place. You cry for hours, long enough for Sunday to come knocking on your door, just knowing you managed to do it when he readily offers you one of his giantmoa pudding tarts. 

Eyes puffy and snot stubbornly running down your nose, you take a bite and thank him through a mouthful of pastry. It’d taste better if you weren’t so heartbroken. He gently rubs your shoulder in comfort. 

“It’ll be alright.”

He’s right– But Phainon has always been by your side, rain or shine. The following months of his absence from your life will be akin to traversing a dark forest with no light source.

But there’s light at the end of the tunnel; a rainbow at the end of the storm. When Sunday bans you from helping with chores that night, you know your heart will heal in time.

“Thanks a lot… sunny.” 

He sighs in mock exasperation, “I see you’ve picked up on that nickname too.”

The sun: Hey

The sun: I came by to pick you up, but for some reason, your roommate’s lying?? He said you’re not going back to aedes elsysiae this winter break??? And even denied me entry??? 

The sun: crazy right

The sun: I’m right outside waiting for you rn

The sun: do you need help packing up? :) 

You: No

You: He’s telling the truth.

You: I won’t be visiting for now. Maybe next semester break?

The sun: what

You haven’t read his one-word reply when your phone screen transitions to his contact photo with the text ‘The sun is calling…’ displayed below. You sigh, reluctantly sliding to accept.

Even with speakers turned off, you hear him without pressing your phone against your ear: “What do you mean? Did something happen? Don’t tell me you and Auntie got into a fight…! Don’t worry! I’ll act as the middleman like usu-”

“Uhm, Phainon.” You cut him off. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s nothing like that, please don’t worry.”

He makes a sound of confusion, painfully close to a whimper, “So then… why aren’t you visiting our hometown with me?”

‘Because you’ll be there’. “I’m busy with some personal matters here, don’t worry about me. Say hi to Snowy for me, okay?”

“No, I’m absolutely worrying about you – why not? We can visit them next week instead if you’re busy! Why… why miss out on the entire winter break? Won’t you be lonely here?”

“No need, really! Enjoy aedes elysiae for me. And I won’t be lonely… so stop worrying so much, you softie. I have sunny with me.”

“Sunny…? Your… roommate? Sunday? He’s staying here for winter break, too?” He sounds choked up from disbelief; you’d laugh if you weren’t battling against your resurfacing feelings from talking to him on the phone. “Sunday?”

“Yes, he’ll take care of me. I swear!”

“...”

“...Phainon? Hello?” Did the call end already? You glance at your screen, frowning in confusion when you see that the call is still ongoing. Is he lagging on his end? But he’s outside of your dorm. 

“If you need anything,” He suddenly speaks up, “Anything – call me, please. If your roommate makes you sad or uncomfortable, tell me right away, okay? I’ll call you again the moment I’m back in aedes elysiae. Stay safe, I love you.”

You flinch at his admission, knowing he didn’t mean it like that. “I know… safe travels, Phainon.”

“Phai.”

“Huh?”

“Call me Phai. Isn’t that what you used to call me when we were kids? Why’d you stop? Let’s bring it back.” 

You lie on your bed, pondering. Why did you stop? Perhaps since it was a nickname from childhood, you let go of it and hoped Phainon would see you more than just… his friend since diapers. It didn’t work, clearly. So you don’t mind calling him that shortened version of his name again. 

“Okay… Safe travels, Phai.”

Despite your emboldened decision to ask Sunday to stay with you for winter break, you are still, at your core, a floundering, unsociable person. You have your moments of being bold and talkative, but it’s covered by leaves of quietude and slight stutters. Socializing is not your strong suit. You’re not at the stage of being totally buddy-buddy with your roommate, but you’re slowly getting there. 

You’re glad you met Sunday. Had it not been for him, you’d still be stuck hopelessly waiting for a day that’ll never come: a phantom of the past who’s deathly afraid of the future. 

In the span of your one-month winter break, you get to know him better. Your roommate, who’s a good listener is also an older brother to an idol trainee, has a trio of friends who roomed together a floor below, likes sweet treats, and ran away from his adoptive home after graduating high school.

Your profound respect for him only continued to grow, stalking across your shared living space like vines. While Phainon’s frequent messages, consisting of photos of Snowy and with your family, make your heart twinge in longing, you start ignoring them for the sake of progress. He’ll understand why a year from now, and you’ll both laugh about it like the pair of best friends that you are. 

It’s not college that severs you and Phainon – it’s you yourself, but cutting off a branch from your tree does not mean it’s not allowed to grow a new one elsewhere. 

III. Regret burgeons when everything is said and done.

Phainon: I feel like you’ve been ignoring me lately

Phainon: did i upset you?

Phainon: :( 

The Gen Ed courses you took unfortunately landed you in some shared classes with Phainon, the ‘sunny’ side is that they’re coincidentally shared with Sunday and his friends too. While anxious to meet them, he thoroughly reassured you that they’re nice people.

“Just a bit… loud sometimes, I hope you don’t mind.”

You don’t – anything to physically get away from Phainon. The one-month winter break may have taught you to rely on him less, but seeing his face again might cause you to fold like paper. You see his unanswered texts when you close your eyes, and you hear his voice right before falling asleep. You miss him, but you know what must be done. When he visited you on the day he left Amphoreus, you and Sunday worked together to pretend that no one was home when he came knocking. 

He stayed for hours before going up to his own floor. 

Sunday sits on your left, and Stelle (A kind woman who is equal parts loud and quiet) on the other. Your new acquaintances, Dan Heng and March, are a row ahead. 

“I’m telling you, (Y/N)! His nickname really is cold dragon young!” March cackles in glee, making sure to point at Dan Heng in case you mistake him for someone else.

He sighs, pushing down her finger, “That was years ago, ignore her.”

Stelle chimes in, lazily putting her arm around your shoulder and whispering, “Because he had a gachalife phase.”

Cold dragon young hisses at her to shut up, only to serve as fuel for their cackling. Entertained, you let out a few quiet chuckles at their display. You can never be happy for too long – the classroom door soon creaks open, familiar tufts of white hair peeking in not a moment later. The realization that it’s undoubtedly Phainon has you clammoring in your seat, sitting rigidly in attention. 

Sunday gently rubs your back, eases you back to your current circle,  “Sorry…!”

“It’s okay,” Sunday whispers back, sharing a glance with you. 

“Ah, (Y/N)! There you are! …And everyone too, hello!” Phainon greets from up front, hastily picking up his pace to approach your group. Facing you, he wastes no time firing question after question, “Where were you yesterday? I waited around and tried the key you gave me, but it never worked. Did your phone break? I couldn’t contact you at all, I was so worried!”

You smile at him, “Phai, it’s nice to see you again. Sorry, we replaced our door lock with a new key for uhm… security reasons, I’ll try to get you a copy sometime. And no… my phone isn’t broken, I was just busy, that’s all!”

He audibly sighs in relief, “...Really? That’s good, I’m glad – I missed you a lot, you know?” Adjusting his bag strap, he nods to the unoccupied seats in the first row, “Come on, let’s sit.”

Stelle speaks for you, “Oh, she’s sitting with us.”

“Hm? Right! Thank you for taking care of my best friend, but we’ll get going now–”

“No, I mean she’ll be sitting with us for this class.” 

Phainon cocks his head, “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

You meekly affirm, “I’m… sitting with them. Uh, they’re really nice people, Sunny introduced me to them!”

“Huh?” He looks like a lost puppy on the verge of being abandoned, “...But our seats?”

“I’ll try to sit with you next class!”

You never do: you sit next to Sunday in every single one of them and ignored the bewildered look on his face each time. 

He beelines for you after dismissal, blue eyes so eager and pleading when he asks you,  “Let’s get dinner together – my treat? It feels like I haven’t seen you in centuries.”

Only for you to scratch the back of your neck while shyly glancing at Sunday, “Uhm… we already made plans after school. Sorry, Phai.”

“Oh.” He steps back, letting you and Sunday pass by him to exit the room. His blue eyes follow you until they can no longer. He’s left with himself when he mutters a bitter:

“I get it.”

“Let me carry that for–Ah, Sunday…?”

He’s a second too late, but Phainon stubbornly clings to your bag’s front pocket, the very bag that the other man is already carrying. You’re still in the bathroom when the professor dismisses the class.  Wanting to do his usual duties, Phainon intended to carry your bag, but… someone already beat him to it. He smiles at him, polite, “Thank you friend, but this is my thing, if you’d kindly–”

Sunday’s lips curve into what seems to be a subtle mocking smile. He adjusts the bag closer to him before replying in a composed manner, “How chivalrous of you, Mister Phainon. However, it’s not needed. See? I can carry it for her.”

Phainon sees it as clear as day. 

Childishly, Phainon thinks he can carry it better than he can. It’s what he always did for you since he still had some front teeth missing from his smile; it’s his duty, not your roommate’s. 

He reluctantly lets go when you come up to thank Sunday, blatantly ignoring him just a few feet away. He enthusiastically greets you, but he still exists as an imaginary concept in your eyes. What’s going on? He ponders, watching you chat the world away with Sunday. What happened before that winter break that caused you to grow so tremendously close to that guy? 

You said you’d give him a new copy of your dorm room, but you’re ignoring his texts, his existence, and now – letting someone else do his usual tasks. Seriously, what gives?

Sunday’s like a parasite attached to your hip, it unnerves and angers him. 

Are you… trying to replace him? His heart threatens to drop just thinking about it. 

You are.

You really are trying to replace him. 

Sunday sits next to you, Sunday lives with you, Sunday eats with you, Sunday talks with you, Sunday texts with you, Sunday laughs with you – Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. Every time Phainon is graced with your presence, it’s quick to sour from your notable companion by your side. Your new circle of friends too, Phainon sees it clear as day: you don’t want to be around them all the time, but you’re peer pressured into doing so. If Phainon was by your side… he would never let that happen to you. He’d punch them into blindness should they dare to make you inconvenienced. 

Two birds of a feather – that’s what your mother called him and you; A pair of friends so close you might as well be surgically joined together in the middle. When Seven-year-old Phainon first reached his hand out to you, his brain made the unconscious decision then: you’d be the sole irrevocable part of his life. Flowers bloom and wilt; they experience a death of their own, but under Phainon’s sunlight, he promised that he’d never let a sunflower like you be anything less than thriving.

He leads and you follow, only so he’d be the one to be hurt when braving the unknown. Scraped knees and bruised patches of skin are nothing because you’re not hurt. He shines so you can comfortably hide under the shade – you’re not one for people, he’s fine with the way you are. He adjusts around your existence, a mold of comfort that perfectly fits none but you. He’s your fighter and protector; sword and shield. 

Skipping rocks on a nearby lake, teasing Cyrene together, learning from her cards, and discovering a poor abandoned puppy who’d eventually be named ‘Snowy’ are all flashing strings of gold in his memories. Moments carefully planted in his own backyard and given regular maintenance lest he start neglecting them. 

He loves you, of course he does. There is nothing purer in this world than his love for you; a flower specially nursed and plucked with the greatest care, a beauty unparalleled for it’s fertilized from the attention you give him. 

His room is centered around you; every item given is meticulously stored and given a special place. The polaroids, your kindergarten doodles, the yellow crayon you gave him, your pressed flowers – he still has it, even brought it along to his dorm room, where he’s embraced by your presence every night before sleep. 

He loves you, he knows this well in his heart. But Phainon is simply not worthy of you. His love for you is pure, but he, as a person, is not. A Sun can also be damaging to a sunflower – he is the filth to your pure, the actual darkness to light. 

Is it because he refused your confession?

He preserves you because no one in this world deserves you, but must you go ahead and leave him for dead after finding a different sun to seek sunlight from? Sunday… What does he have that Phainon does not? Is he the better him? Does he treat you kinder than he does? 

Sunday is far from holy. If anything, he’s the snake trying to lure you to ruin. You don’t know any better, hence why Phainon is around to protect you. 

This is the biggest hurdle you’ve ever faced together, and with his heart being torn to pieces by your own gardening tools, he’ll make it right. He always goes. He’ll make it right, he’ll get you back, and you two can go back to the way you were before – just more. Friends, best friends, lovers, and everything in between, he’ll really give it all to you. 

Sunday… he’s poisoned your mind and rotted your pure soul. 

IV. Desperation is a seed planted long, long ago – still, spring has come.

“Thank you for sticking around me, Phai.”

He’s in the middle of starting a pathetic fire using twigs and stone when you blurt out cryptic words beside him. He hums, continuing his work, “What do you mean?”

“Can’t I just say thank you!?” You fluster, quickly standing up and pacing around the edge of the forest you’ve both designated as your ‘camping spot’. “Mama said it’s nice to thank people! So, uhm- Thank you for being my friend, please never stop being my best friend!”

“‘Course I won’t!” Phainon toothily grins, fluffy white hair gaining a slight bounce from his motions, “Actually, I’ll never abandon you. Ever!”

You perk up like a sunflower dancing in the wind, “Really!?”

The fire finally sparks to life, small and flickering, but there. At the same time, he gazes deep into your eyes, only knowing nothing else but sincerity at such an age, “Yeah! I swear!”

A yelp, “Swearing is bad!”

Phainon’s eyes blearily blink open. His dorm room ceiling greets him first thing in the morning.

Phainon stalks and waits like a deep-rooted willow tree. He strikes you when he knows you’re alone. It all falls into place: Sunday’s trainee sister is dropping by a different part of the city over the weekend; logic dictates that he won’t be coming back to his dorm room until then. Your close proximity to Sunday will momentarily halt, and Phainon is free to slither in.

He’s waiting right outside your dorm room when you come walking down the long hallway, body language all languid, even resting against the paint-chipped-off stone pillar while scrolling through his social media feed,

You’d spot him a mile away, and seeing him without Sunday by your side makes you hesitate all the more. Your stupid heart starts speeding up. 

“I just want to talk,” He calls out, pocketing his phone to spread his arms wide open for a hug, “I miss you, is that too much to ask?”

You slowly approach him, “...No, I missed you too.”

You miss him. You miss him. You miss him. You’ve been holding your sunflower keychain as your nightly comfort or else you’d end up calling his number at 2AM. 

Phainon smiles, “Really?”

“Yes… I just got… busy, that’s all.”

He smiles wider, blue eyes turning into blue crescent moons, “Really?”

“...Yes.” His hand gently pries the keys out of your hand; you let him.

You hear Sunday screaming on your shoulder, telling you that your blase facade is quickly falling apart at the seams. Unaffected, unmoved – you’re nothing of the sort right now. You’re a sunflower who’s been starved of sunlight for too long. 

With a click, he opens the door for you and softly murmurs, “You’ve been hurting me a lot, (Y/N). You know that, right? But I understand, it’s not your fault.”

You step inside, letting him lock the door behind you, “Not… my fault?”

He shakes his head, hands firmly grasping your shoulders to sit you down on the small couch, “No, it’s mine.”

Immediately you protest, “That’s not true. We just drifted apart–”

Once more, he shakes his head before dropping to his knees before you. The sudden action makes you flinch, growing more uncertain when he holds your hand in his. Phainon’s eyes remind you of butterfly peas from up this close. 

He’s quiet when he speaks, a deep rasp overtaking his voice, “...You don’t understand: I miss you.”

You understand what he means. Parting from Phainon is disorienting. Sunday and his friends may have managed to fill the gaping hole in your heart, but it’s incomparable to Phainon’s presence. 

Are you a bad person for not finding satisfaction in your new friends? Are you sick in the end to still crave Phainon after being rejected two times? Is this what you get for sticking by his side for so long?

It probably is. 

He continues speaking, “I’m sorry for pushing you away; that was never my intention. I wasn’t lying when I said you’re dear to me – you truly are. I never wanted to pursue a relationship with you because, I– I’m too lowly for you. I would only taint you.”

You run your fingers through his hair, reminiscing on all the nights you spent crying over him – it still bleeds like fresh wounds, “That’s ridiculous, Phainon. I’m not some holy figure to taint. I was just a girl in love with her best friend.”

“I know, but you… you don’t understand. You’re everything to me.”

“You’re everything to me, too, that’s why I loved you.” You still do.

“I think of you first thing in the morning. I brush my hair wondering how I’ll spend the day with you, I eat breakfast, thinking what yours was at that moment, I kept the homework you threw out. I always hate it when I talk to people who aren’t you. I still have the twigs you gave me during our 6th-grade camping trip. The reason the pressed flowers you were planning on giving out during high school graduation went missing is that I stole them – I didn’t want anyone else owning a piece of you. I make sure you’re always too shy to stand up for yourself, so I can save you. I… I hate Sunday for getting into your head – it should only be me. I should be the one you hate and love. I – you’re everything to me.”

His grip tightens, blunt fingernails leaving indents on your own fingers, “I’m sorry, please take me back. I’m unworthy, but I don’t want you to be happy with anyone else. I started cutting myself when you refused to go back to Aedes Elysiae with me – I don’t want to live in a world where I’m not by your side. Please. I’ll kill myself if you leave me. I really will.”

You swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth.

If Phainon is the sun that will incinerate you and your sunflower petals for getting too close, the question it poses is: Do you let it consume you whole? To forgive and forget, starting a new chapter anew in the process?

kill yourself or let (y/n) have friends and move on from you

varka shakes his head disapprovingly. split lip, black eye, bleeding cut on the left cheek, and tattered clothes... he wouldn't be surprised if you came knocking on the knight of favonius' doors tomorrow, demanding that your angel of a brother gets wrapped up in the softest fabrics and kept outside of the battlefield.

lohen only cackles in response, haphazardly wiping off the ribbons of blood on his face, "i know -- guess i won't be seeing her until i fully heal."

the grandmaster sighs, "that makes it worse -- go home, lohen. what'd you even fight this time? you never let it get this bad."

his spear is thrown to the side, cape following suit as lohen sits down on the ground, bearing no real concern for the gashes he currently sports, nor the cut on his lips when he grins up at the sun, "her pops beat me down to a pulp today, something about me being a sick bastard, haha!"

ah. that explains it. "well. he's not wrong."

it's not every day varka sees someone be so open with their feelings for their adoptive sibling -- but lohen takes it a mile above and as high as the heavens when it comes to you. you two are assumed to be a couple more than siblings, and your old man of a father... he's not fond of his decision to take lohen in, to say the least. a tale of romeo and juliet or a sick incestuous relationship? he's not sure either.

all he knows is that lohen performs excellently as the vice captain, purely because he saves his wages to save you from your home family.

"i wanna be with her without that old man breathing down our necks! hah... either i kill him in his sleep or old age takes hold of him first. that sounds good, too."

This is a Patreon exclusive fic so you'll only be able to read it there! Check it out if you're interested in reading the entire fic and many more. I have a ton of other exclusive and early access fics that you can read there too!! Use the web for non fee prices!

Denial fuels Blade for a while, some internalized system chugging him on, speeding through an endless fuel—that mustn’t be the case, Blade thinks. You’re just being hasty, reckless, impudent. Like a neglected child crying for attention. Not that he thinks lowly of you. But this is just you having one of your temper tantrums, no? Is that what you want, more attention? Blade knows himself that he is not necessarily the best lover out there; he struggles as much as he tries. Efforts never go to waste, yet the execution doesn’t always seem to be received well by you. But it doesn’t stop him. One day, he often tells himself. One day, he’ll get better, and you’ll soften; you’ll see him for who he truly is and understand your place in his heart.

Yet, here you are, tears streaking your face and a broken shard glued to the tightening grip of your fingers, the sharp point staring at him. You’re threatening to hurt him, but he sees how you wince more at the bitterness of your sliced skin than at the idea of you laying your hand on Blade. Because you know you wouldn’t be able to do it. Because he knows you couldn’t even be able to, even if you tried the hardest you could, and so, the only logical conclusion Blade falls into: you want him to snap and kill you. You want to die.

For once, Blade is irrevocably angry. It’s over-consuming. Suffocating. Blade finds it hard to breathe—facing your misery head-on, and he can no longer shelve it for later examination, or catalog it as a symptom of your stubbornness. For once, it is Blade who sees you for who you truly are, and it crushes him with guilt rushing through him. 

And yet. And yet… Blade doesn’t compromise. Doesn’t deter because he knows he is selfish and cruel, as much as he can be patient and kind. Because he knows he’s willing to put up with you crying if it means keeping you by his side, even if it hurts him.

Blade takes your fisted hand, his touch so light around yours. He makes all your shaking stop just with a simple hold, and he stretches your reach an inch further until the tip of the mirror drags across his chest, ripping the fabric that shields his skin. Then he presses it deeper, drawing a shallow cut through him. You try to pull back, but he keeps your hand still, keeps the shard pressed against him until the cut pulsates warmth and blood begins to drool out.

Blade is willing to hurt himself and share the pain with you. If you hurt, he must hurt as well. 

Moze is quick to scoff at your face. He sees it in the first attempt; your escape “attempt,” which was laughable as you barely even tried. Did you think jumping out a window and running through a forest would suffice? Could you at least try a little? And now, here you are, trembling inconsolably, despite your egging words. What’s stopping you?

What’s stopping him? Really? You think so little of him—think he is some brute with no backbone, quick to resort to violence? Then you don’t know him at all. But you wanted him to raise a hand to you, make you hurt, press a finger deeper into the bruise. You’re crying, yet hysterically praying for an inch of blood from his hands.

He struggles first; no, he’s not going to do that. But then something gnaws at him. Perhaps it’s the years-long experience with assassinations and intelligence—there’s a certain finesse in being cutthroat; that obviously doesn’t cross this line with you, but that pitiful look on your face almost transforms into the faces of men he’s had to silence, all begging for mercy, thinking that death is enough to escape torment.

“Do you really want it?” Moze leans into you, breath fanning across your face. It makes you catch your own breathing, stop blinking, stop trembling. “Do you want me to hurt you? Is that it?”

Moze grabs you by the throat. It’s not tight, but his hand holds around that thin stretch of skin, makes your mouth go dry like cotton. “Come on, if you really want to hurt yourself, tell me to choke you out right now. Tell me to press harder around your throat.”

In moments like this, Boothill wishes he were a real man still because he'd already fuck a baby into you so you'd actually shut up and learn your place. But he makes do with what he has.

“I don't have time for this, kid,” Boothill whistles a tune. He's rustling you down, pushing you with both his hands into your bare back as you hit the floor, “and it ain't fair. I take care of you, and this is how you repay me?”

Boothill’s response to you messing with his screws is plain: manhandling. He's stripped you bare, now feeling provoked at your disrespect. “You want to piss me off that bad, huh? You must be really bored?”

And it's not the first time you've gone out of your way to mess with him and intentionally piss him. After the third offense, he's started to keep a mental list—a list that grows to include more reasons to train you properly. He thinks you need something to keep that dumb brain of yours occupied.

The moment you start babbling about how hurt you feel, the pain streaking your skin in purple patches, continuing to hold you down and tying you up, he pushes you with a chaste kiss. Then Boothill pulls back, “You're shutting up once and for all. For every annoying thing you did, it equates to one punishment. And Missy, you've done a great deal the past week.”

Seeing you naked and bound makes Boothill wish he were a real man for once. He’d knock you up right then, fuck a baby into you. Maybe then you’d learn your place.

Aventurine isn't thinking clearly when it hits him. Instead, he falls into you, his weight dragging you down as both his legs straddle your hips. His eyes seem to swallow you whole. “Is this what you truly want?” he asks you once.

Even if you don't respond, he takes your hesitation as an answer—who is he to deny you? Has he ever denied you any pleasure you've ever wished for?

Aventurine smiles at you, deciding that then he shall die with you. Have you lost the will to live? Sure. He’ll follow through. If you don't exist, he does either. If you must end, then Aventurine ends with you. Your entire existence has intertwined with his long ago, ever since he saw you. If you’re really that desperate, he’ll stare at you with those eyes of his. “So, how do you want to go out?”

He finds it romantic—morbid, but romantic. Dispossessed, yet there's passion beneath that glare of yours. Some tenderness in the attempt at suicide in the hands of your beloved. And the thought that he gets to follow you into eternity, to die by your side, gives him a moment’s peace. It lessens his fear at that dull look in your eyes. Maybe this is the real answer to both your pains.

But do you really think you're lucky if it means Aventurine plans to follow you regardless? 

It must be that pesky friend of yours, or a nosy neighbor. Maybe that worrywart of a sister of yours who’s planted these ideas in your head about hurting yourself. Phainon won't fall for it, but it hurts him nonetheless. It’s painful to see that dimmer glow in your eyes, and for you to force him to hold you down like this—a knife aimed at him, but Phainon stops it with one hand and keeps you bound until he’s sure you're safe without harm.

You cry as much as you can; Phainon doesn't relent, at least not to your face. He finds his resolve only in that sense of wrongdoing towards those he believes are deserving of blame. He’s not especially violent, only until he’s sure that’s the only way to respond. It's not him; it's everyone else but him and you.

Phainon would burn worlds for you, tear apart stars to make you happy again. And even then, he’d grovel before you, eager and holding your hands. “Tell me what’s wrong, my love, and I will fix it.”

Now he’s off the stage; some new segments have started with a live performance from a nominated group. But last you checked, Phainon is supposed to stand off to the side alongside his fellow idol-host, so that the cameras would cut to them intermittently to show their surprised expressions for live reactions. But just as the camera did decide to pan to them, he wasn’t there. Phainon was completely gone from the entire set, nowhere to be found, and even his fellow host wore an annoyed look that couldn’t be masked with years of PR training.

You knew you could not do much as you would want to, even as you had begged him to go and show up to this event. And in return, he begged and groveled not to go because he’d rather spend it with you. Still, you called him childish for not wanting to do his responsibilities as Phainon was obligated to do—he did willingly choose to be an idol all those years ago, and he certainly can’t just back out now, so soon, so abruptly, at the height of his career. His entire job is to show up and show face, his presence being his main trademark. It’s unfathomable that you, his non-idol, normal girlfriend, had to convince him to show up to this award ceremony, because you knew the significance of his absence more than he was willing to admit himself.

As weeks passed through rehearsals and promotions, he continued to have a hard time regularly showing up to sets and scheduled events. And on the rare occasion he did decide to go, reluctantly, and carrying on false promises from you, he’d show up late, knowing too well his PR team had to work overtime to keep his appearances as perfect as possible, despite his less than professional attitude.

Suddenly, his manager is calling you here and then whenever Phainon manages to tick him off. His manager had already disapproved of your relationship with him, even more so with having to jump through extra hoops to keep it private to protect Phainon’s marketable looks for the wider audience. But it hadn’t helped when Phainon was acting like this, now that his manager was readying to blame you for all of it. Phainon didn’t use to be like this; he used to be hardworking. Devoted. He’d always stay back late to practice to his fullest and work even more, until he couldn’t. And he was actually so damn eager to show up to events. Then you came along; suddenly, all he cares about is you. You, you, you. What happened to that hunger? To that passion? What did you do to Phainon?

You don’t know how to answer things like that, even when you were chided by his upper management, sometimes even begging to break up with him. So you had to beg Phainon to start giving more of a shit, now that his stresses of idol work are placed onto you. You felt guilty, as much as you were growing angry with him. Boyfriends aren’t supposed to ruin your life like this.

And for a while, it did work, even if he was bitter himself. Wasted time, he’d complain. People don’t get it, Phainon would mumble; they have never been in love. You wanted to deny, but you held back. Instead, you promised to let him fuck you raw if he showed up for his new album recording, and so he did that day. His manager and producers had sent flowers your way as a thank-you, but you didn’t get to keep them for long, since Phainon had burned them to ash once he caught on, proclaiming himself as the only person in your life to buy your flowers like that. You don’t say anything because you’d rather keep him pacified. He’s stable if you just let him, easier to control, at least for some time.

But now, your phone rings a fourth time, as you continue to ignore it, deciding to begrudgingly watch the live show, hoping that Phainon in the background, wherever he is, would just quit it and decide it’s worth more to pop back up on stage, and all will be normal. So you can panic less about it. But he never does, and you’ll panic even more, whilst slowly getting accustomed to this kind of burden.

Your phone just keeps ringing and ringing, and fuck, disbelief washes over you as you accept the fact that he decided to play hooky of all times. Any other time was annoying, but not as severe as this. Rehearsals have room for fuck ups, as unfortunately infuriating as it is, but not when it’s live. Not when it’s during an award ceremony, amongst a sea of other successful idols and a crowd of thousands of fans screaming. Not when there are hundreds of cameras lined up to catch every single expression and interaction. Not when half the world is watching—not when Phainon, being one of the most anticipated and popular idols in the past few years, decides to fuck it all up, and you’re at the center of all his bad decisions.

Then your phone pings: Pick up my calls please please please??

You go to press a hand to your forehead, a loud exhale escaping your mouth.

Phainon💕: Stop ignoring me

Phainon💕: Please call me back

Phainon💕: Call me

Phainon💕: I want to talk to u

Phainon💕: I know ur ignoring me. Stop it stopstop it stop itt

Phainon💕: I listened to u, okay? I wentIwent. iwent even when I didn’t wanna. But i went for u…Just talk to me.

Phainon💕: Call me

Phainon💕: Call me

Phainon💕: Stop doing this to me.

Phainon💕: I feel hurt

Phainon💕: Call me.

Your fingers hover over your keyboard, just in utter shock at Phainon’s behavior, and you’re thinking, maybe it’s all your fault. Maybe you had enabled him too much, kept promising him to do this or that if he just did what you and his manager wanted him to do. Maybe you had fed the dog the wrong kind of treat, Pavlov backfiring, and now you’re reaping the consequences.

Looking at it, you really should’ve ended it before it got worse, because it’s all flashing in front of you. Was it even worth it? Through the good looks, the promised companionship and stability, the intimacy. But you knew, sooner or later, news headlines would catch wind, as critics swarm over Phainon, only for it to filter out as they manage to figure out your existence—suddenly, hordes of fans coming to pile in on you, ready to blame you for his lack of professionalism and declining image. Who knew the It-boy had a girlfriend this entire time? And Somehow, the media will begin to spin lies of a jealous partner, manipulative and cruel—you did this, you know you did, ruined his career, and his company will throw you under the bus if it meant saving their biggest money-making asset. Because you made a fuck up by taking a risk when staying with him.

You: Phainon, go back to work. For everyone’s sake. Especially mine.

Phainon💕: I did do that???? Just want to talk to u :(

You: Phainon. It’s only been an hour. The ceremony is three hours long. Pick up your feet and go back out.

Phainon💕: I told u I didn’t want to MC this year bcuz it would only take time away from us…

You: It’s your job.

Phainon💕: I had a choice, yknow

You: And your manager will bite both of us in the ass if you have turned it down.

Phainon💕: Why do you care more about him than me? Don’t say stuff like that :(

You: That’s not what I meant. I meant that you need to straighten up and get over yourself.

Phainon💕: I love you

You: Later. Hurry, the performance is ending, and you can’t just leave your other host alone. Think of what others would say, Phainon. People talk.

Phainon💕: I have time

You: No, you don’t.

Phainon💕: Do u have the timetable or smth 🤣

You: Yes.

Phainon💕: 🥲

You: Phainon, Go back to work.

Phainon💕: I’m sorry. I’ll go back out in a bit- I’ll be good! It’s just that I can’t stop thinking about u.

Phainon💕: Can I hear ur voice? Just for a bit?

Phainon💕: Darling come back

Phainon💕: Darling!!

You had to put your phone back down and completely shut it off. You’d rather stare at the wall than read Phainon's texts. You wonder whether it would be any more worthwhile to waste your time thinking to yourself than to try to comprehend him, so you resign yourself to continue watching the program, counting each ticking second till Phainon would be called back up to continue hosting.

You wonder if you should bring out a coin, heads or tails, and count your chances within the 50/50 possibility whether this would be the night Phainon royally fucks himself over.

And just as the dancers on stage glide through, sparklers and confetti imploding atop, you get another ping, amongst the plethora of spam messages from Phainon—his manager; he disappeared, phrased rather plainly, but oh so heavy.

You also choose to ignore that. At this point, Phainon wasn’t your problem anymore, completely numb with exhaustion. You’re done, just wallowing with the fact he’s screwing up the biggest night of his idol career. You watch more of the performance, preparing to see Phainon’s name all in red in the next swarm of headlines for his sudden absence, then followed by an onslaught of rumors and gossip. His first prominent scandal, but his first decline into a descent; a growing headache for his management, and especially you. Again, dragging under-the-bus shenanigans, you know that dating an idol has more downsides than perks.

You disappear into your thoughts for a long while, until the live performance has come to a stop and the camera cuts to a sea of applause and cheering, smiling fans and impressed celebrities in the front rows. Then it cuts to commercials before the next segment; the TV screen had cut to black for a split second, and you see your reflection, a blank, hollow look greeting you.

You blinked—oh shit, you hold your breath. But what really shocked you was that your phone had stopped buzzing altogether. You never thought it would ever. If anything, the more you ignore Phainon, your phone might as well explode from all the ringing and buzzing it has to do.

But there, on the coffee table, your phone lay silent and desolate. Completely still as stone, for the first time really knowing peace. And somehow, unwillingly, there’s a compulsion coming in with your surprise to pick up your phone and to see what Phainon was up to—why’d he stop now? Should you be glad? Scared? How must you feel about this?

When you scrolled through your lock screen, shifting through Phainon’s indescribable babble in text format, misspellings and errors, the last thing he ever sent was a video file a little over five minutes long. You raise an eyebrow. Nothing else after that, just a sudden halt, then oblivion.

You press on it, and you meet a black screen for a split second, then it cuts to the camera zooming out into focus, and you see him sitting in some odd cubicle—a bathroom stall? It looks like it: the regular tight four walls, and a small hint of what looks to be a toilet paper holder in the corner. And then he positions the camera on his lap, wearing his black slacks, gifted to him by some designer, which must have cost thousands. His hands begin to slither down, onto a peculiar bump just below his waist, his voice trailing soon after: “I told you, I can’t stop thinking about you; it’s starting to hurt.

And it sinks in, like venom, what this was all about. Something washes over you, something heavy, and your head pounds in a rhythm indescribable.

“I should have a few minutes left. I swear,” Phainon starts to sound more and more ragged as he speaks, losing breath by slowly unbuckling his belt, studded in jewels you can’t even pronounce. “I swear I won’t let you down. I will—I’ll work hard and be good. I just have to do this right now.”

He slides his pants down, now greeted with the sight of his underwear, and the imprint becomes bigger, his bulge practically begging to break out of his boxer briefs, a small wet spot painted atop just where his tip would be. He traces his fingers around the outline of his cock. He’s panting, heavy, long-drawn pants, as if he just ran a marathon. The camera is now uncontrollably shaking the more he rubs himself, now moving from his dainty fingers to the flat of his palm as he shifts to massaging himself.

“I miss you so much. I wish you were here right now to help me feel better,” he whispered into the microphone, “But I—I can’t help myself. I can’t wait.”

He tugs at himself, the fabric of his boxer tightening around his length, and he squirms involuntarily, no doubt from the combination of his imposing grip and the sensation of the pricking fabric magnetizing the hair on the back of his neck to raise. He does it again, tugs himself, then begins to massage himself more, pressing onto his dick, thighs bobbing up and down, slightly and surely.

You can hear the thick globs of saliva wetting his lips, hear how he licks it up, biting down anything too loud wanting to escape him. But it doesn’t fully stifle the groaning, the grumbles in the base of his throat, or the soft chant of your name dancing in between his clattering teeth.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” he sounds dazed. So lost in the compulsion, in the neediness of it all, it felt so right for him to feel his own dick harden at the thought of you. That’s why it must be done, to touch himself in some stall, just right before he gets on broadcast television for millions of fans awaiting him. But here he is, for you.

A choir of discontent, and something imminent echoes all around you—his manager pings you again: do you know where he is?

You can respond and say you do. Phainon’s right here, about to fuck his dick into his hand. But you didn’t because you feel yourself physically shrink smaller and smaller as your eyes linger more as the video progresses. You go to press the pause button, but you realize you’re watching more than actually doing anything at all.

It’s a trying effort.

Phainon now tugs down at his boxers; the camera wobbles about for a split second as eager hands try to rip off the fabric walling him in. But it all steadied once free; his hardened cock springs up, hitting his stomach, red and swelling, his tip leaking already, “Ah, look how you got me—fuck—“ Phainon sucks in a breath as he begins to wrap his hands on his bare self, “you were watching me, right? While I was speaking up there? I hope you knew I was really thinking about you more than anything else. I kept—“

He stops; a jolt has spiked through his spine as he began to move his hands up and down his entire length, and you can hear the wet skin through your screen; your hands begin to shake, “—You. I kept just thinking about you. How I would get to have—have you once I got home and—and how I missed having you around me.”

You pick up on your own heartbeat speeding up in pace, and it makes you wonder if it ever connected in the same tune as his, in this moment as he masturbates to the thought of you.

His speech grows more disconnected, more blurred, just as your vision has been, overcome by a thick haze swaddling you, “I almost didn’t go today, until you had pulled me by my tie and dragged me out the house. You kicked—kicked me out,” Phainon cries, his thighs beginning to shake with his hands circling his length, pumping to the thought of your cunt on his, instead of his own hands. You’re much warmer.

“Just wanna be in you all the time. Oh fuck, oh fuck. But the thought of you watching me earlier got me excited, okay. Fuck. Fuck,” Phainon’s pumping himself more aggressively, more words spilling out of him. Fantasies all about you, your eyes on him, your touch on him.

You really need to look away and stop this video. Text Phainon and get mad, scolding him for his recklessness. But your hand hadn’t moved from its position of gripping your phone tight, nor had your other hand intervened to stop the video from continuing.

You looked at the bottom corner, only to see that there was only a minute left, but it felt like eternity.

“I’m sorry for pissing you off lately. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Phainon gives himself a tight squeeze, and you see his cock practically twitch, more pre-cum spitting out, his legs opening wider and the clinking of his belt buckle slapping around the floor. “But I want you so bad. I want you, so, so, bad—”

You had blinked blearily at the screen, astounded—he’s fucked you before. Furiously, passionately, as intimately as any other time. He’s whispered equally despaired and debauched confessions into your ears as he fucks you balls deep, using his entire length to clear through your pussy—but this video hadn’t failed to give you a dizzying spell, more potent than whenever Phainon had you on your back as he buried himself inside of you.

Just, why now?

You had to swallow a thick spit, sweating from your tongue, tasting a slight tinge of metallic acid from a biting cheek you hadn’t even noticed.

You look up to the TV, commercials still playing about, but your mind can barely catalog the advertisement playing right now, or the approaching time crunch for him—he needed to get back on that stage. Still, your eyes are drawn particularly to the rolling of his hips onto his cupped hand. How, when he flexes his muscles enough, the line of abs, smoothing down to that V-shape around his waist, as if arrowing down to his impressive length.

You hadn’t noticed your mouth was open, your own shaky exhale fogging up your screen with something humid and sticky. Something feels equally familiar within you, hot and boiling, buzzing about in your stomach as Phainon continues to squirm and moan.

You’re screwed. It really is all your fault. You can’t stop this because you’re starting to realize you never had the power to stop this. You’re weak. You keep breaking in and giving him so many chances, believing it’ll get better—he’ll get better. But you should’ve known better than a man who’s more than eager to lock the front door from the outside to keep you in.

“I love you,” you hear the tears warble in his voice. The camera slants a bit back, now that Phainon positions himself further reclined into the stall, back hitting the wall as he spreads his legs wider, dick standing taller, his moaning louder with dignity now long abandoned. Just you and him dancing in pink swirls in his head, dick pulsating so hard it hurts.

His knuckles have turned sheet white, but his tip is still a bruising red. He continues to say your name, before swallowing another rush of spit pooling in his mouth around the shape of you, “I’ll quit. I’ll quit everything. I don’t—I don’t want to keep doing this.”

Your heart lurches; a slight tug pulls you back to reality, away from this video. But you had instinctively leaned closer to your screen, “I just want to stay with you. I hate leaving you for work. I’m gonna quit, tell everyone I’m gonna marry you and—and I’ll be with you. I love you. I love you. I don’t care about anyone else. Just you. Just you.”

Your breathing goes rapid, stomach doing flips, face scrunched in total incredulity—no. Phainon doesn’t really mean that, does he? Does he? Please, oh fuck, oh fuck. You’re fucking everything up. It’ll be your head on the platter for everyone to eat.

And yet you continue to watch. As helpless as you’ll ever be.

The TV plays the last designated commercial, about thirty seconds left. Same amount of time as whatever’s leftover from this video, too short, too little.

Phainon’s hands slicked his entire length, covered in pre-cum. You see his skin tugging up and down, his heavy breathing playing in the background as he tightens here and there to stimulate even a fraction of what heaven is to be swallowed up by your cunt. And even then, he can’t stop because the image of you in his head is too enticing. Just the mere picture of your face has him reeling, his hand going faster, the camera almost falling out of his grip.

“I love you. Please marry me,” Phainon whimpers, and he finishes; something in him just explodes, untangled all for you to witness. Thick spurts of cum catch all over his open stomach; even a drop manages to catch on to the camera lens. A small, tiny trail slides onto his black slacks, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. He just continues to lazily rub himself for a few more pumps, cum and all, trickles of sweat pilling down. Then the video abruptly ends.

You sit in frozen silence.

Now the TV cuts to the award ceremony, and there is Phainon alongside his host. A lazy smile on his face, his once neat hair now a few strands looser, his tie all messy, and the collar of his shirt no longer neat or flat. And yet Phainon performs as expected, as if he wasn’t just fucking himself to the thought of you in some bathroom a few minutes ago.

And as Phainon rolls by through that rehearsed speech and smile, you look away and go back to press play, wondering if he’s still thinking of you now.

BONUS hehe -

The next morning rolls in, somewhere around 10 AM.

Phainon’s Manager: [Sends link]

8 HOURS AGO | BREAKING NEWS: SOLO IDOL PHAINON ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT DUE TO MARRIAGE

10 Million Views - 800k Comments

Phainon’s Manager: What the hell did you do?

The mattress dipped next to your head. A cool, scarred palm pressed against your forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling back with a click of the tongue. Suguru. He’d started his mother-hen routine as soon as you’d admitted (stupidly, in hindsight) to feeling a little sick and had yet to give it up. Part of it must’ve been nostalgia. His daughters were in their late teens. It’d been years since he’d had anything soft and vulnerable to dote on. But, as you glared at him through watery eyes, you would’ve sworn there was something else there. An edge. A shadow. The slightest, barest hint of anger that there was anything on this planet that could hurt you other than him.

But then you blinked at it was gone, replaced by stoic neutrality as he snatched a bottle off the bedside table and twisted off the childproof cap. You felt something pressed being pressed against your lips and pursed them tighter, in response. Suguru sighed.

“It’s just medicine, sweetheart.”

 Yeah, right. You’d heard that one before.

Your voice was all grit. Driveway gravel lubricated with battery acid and strained through a sandpaper funnel. “…label.”

Suguru rolled his eyes, but handed the bottle over anyway. You forced yourself to sit up, lasting just long enough to scan over the bold-font logo and excessive use warnings that you would be gleeful ignoring before collapsing back onto your pillow and letting Suguru place the pill on your tongue. It tasted like chalk and misery, which was somehow still better than the god-awful herbal tea he gave you to help swallow.

Meanwhile, Satoru watched it all, unmoving and unblinking. He tended to do that whenever Suguru was pampering you – forget he was part of scene and relegate himself a silent, observant feature of the background. He only came back to himself when you sniffled, ducking your head to sneeze into your comforter. A smile pulled at the edges of his lips, one of his hands reaching up to ghost over the curve of your jaw. “You’re kind of hot like this. All helpless and whiney, I mean.”

He moved to cup your chin. Suguru caught his wrist. “Don’t even think about it.”

“That’s not fair,” he pouted. “How come som virus gets to be inside of her and I can’t?”

This question was swiftly and mercifully deemed too stupid to answer. Suguru pushed himself to his feet and Satoru sighed languidly, flopping onto the bed next to you. “It’s not like I’ll catch anything. World’s Strongest Sorcerer, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t get sick, idiot.”

“But what if it doe—”

You cut him off with a conveniently timed coughing fit. The ugly type – prolonged and hacking, forceful enough to leave you panting while your throat burnt. Satoru grinned. Before Suguru could stop him, he threw himself into you and licked a long stripe over your open mouth, then laughed as you groaned and swatted him away.

“See?” he asked, smirking at Suguru. “Nobody died.”

Suguru responded by pitching the bottle of pills at his co-kidnapper, nailing Satoru in the head with enough force to crack the plastic.