╰┈➤ ･₊˚ʚ 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚜 : I'm into astronomy and I love drinking black coffee ! :3 I also read mangas / watch animes, I tend to take typology tests when I'm not lazy heh... Plus I'm back on writing fics again..!! (I had a tumblr acc before but I lowkenuinely abandoned it..)
╰┈➤ ･₊˚ʚ 𝚂𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘 : heated make out session in his office that's it
╰┈➤ ･₊˚ʚ 𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚜 : fondling, hickeys, semi-rough make out session, semi-public sex, implied fem! reader, getting caught, use of pet names ( doll ), not beta read
╰┈➤ ･₊˚ʚ 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 : smut
You were currently in his office, straddled on top of his lap—back faced against his desk with your blouse halfway undone and bra pulled down. His mouth pressed against yours, tongue exploring the insides of your mouth. His hand was caressing your cheek while the other is stroking your thighs back and forth. Your arms wrapped around his neck, both hands tugging at the back of his head. You tried saying his name, yet all that came out were muffled moans.
He pulled away—breathless, his cheeks flushed a rosey pink tint. After regaining his breath, he switched to nibbling on your neck—one of his hands fondling your breast. The pleasure felt undeniably marvelous, making you whimper even louder than before. “mngh— h-harder...” you pleaded, saliva drooling out. And so he did. Biting down hard on your skin, leaving dark purple bruises all over your neck. He stopped for a moment to take a good look at you,“Look at you doll, all messed up— just for me.” He gazed at you with awe, admiring the art work of the mess he made.
He shifted his attention to your chest and quickly shoved the unattended one onto his mouth—licking your sensitive nipples as he pinched the other with his hand. Causing you to moan out his name—hands gripped tightly around his hair as he continued playing with your chest. Just as his other hand makes way underneath your skirt—someone barged in the room, looking at the scene before them, they quickly apologized for interrupting and closed the door shut—muttering apologies as they went down the staircase.
“Well that's one way of turning down the mood,” He broke the silence first. “So... Do you still wanna have that round 2?”
╰┈➤ ･₊˚ʚ 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 : I rushed while writing ts so mb... (The entirety of the time I was writing this I was thinking about ayatsuji)
if you are a minor on here and wanting to start writing/posting, pleasseeeeeeeee be mindful who you interact with!!!! i am begging!!!! and do not, for the life of me, do NOT idolise anyone - yes, that includes me!
bc at the end of the day, these ppl are strangers - there are ppl who manipulate, ppl who gaslight, ppl who are straight up weird, and they might not even realise or take accountability for the sht they do!
Summary: One night, your eyes linger on Phainon's neck, and something fucked up unsettles in you. You call it retribution.
Words: 4.4k
UPDATE: i wrote a second part based on the details of the reader finding phai's diary here -> TOP SECRET - DON'T READ!!!
TW/CW: typical yandere behavior - allusions to kidnapping, stalking, murder; depression/mental decline - reader is really fucked up here, be careful; NON-CON/DUB-CON; reader is AFAB; choking to full-on strangulation: slight mention of vomiting (no one does, but it does get mentioned like twice-ish)
a/n: first written piece on this blog! this might suck cuz i wrote this all in one sitting ToT i also kinda suck at writing smut so pls forgive >_<
You hate Phainon. You especially hate what he represents: a hero, the chosen one, a good man, but because of what you know, you know that’s a load of bull. You hate who he is as a person, generally speaking. Phainon can be pleasant, present himself politely, and have charming words, but there’s something in him that if you look through him hard enough, there’s something that cuts you deeply. It’s a sickening feeling, a pulsating pain that leaves you bleeding out on a cold concrete floor, where you just beg to die, as if to seek solace in some dark void, far away from his unrelenting hands.
But that’s not Phainon. He’s a hero, chosen to save the world, a strong, good man, a warrior who commits himself to his pursuits; so he’ll cradle you in his arms and hold you so tight that you’ll stop bleeding, and the dimness that touches your eyes melts away and all you see is him, and he’ll whisper to you that he’ll do anything to keep you alive. And all you do is silently resign yourself, whilst wallowing in self-pity and half curses to a god that doesn’t even listen to your prayers, because all you’ll have is him, and you’ll hate him more for it.
You hate Phainon so much—how he holds your hands and his voice that lets out sickening, honeyed words. I just want to care for you, look out for you, Phainon would say as he runs his fingers through your hair. And it’s like those love songs you hear on the radio, strumming on guitar strings about how lovers look at each other like this, but it’s Phainon, so you just think about if it were you, singing something like that, you’d snap the strings to coil it around him till he disappears because this isn’t what love is.
But still, Phainon will just say, please. Please let me, because that is who he is, and you hate how he seems to have selective hearing the moment you push him and say, no, go away. And then he’d get mad at you, and something flashes in front of your eyes, and you think, maybe this is the time he’ll get so red he’ll finally take his hands off your face and feel compelled enough to bash your head in. And this time, you’ll get to escape; if Phainon can’t give you what you want, but if there is anything you can ever ask of him, it’d be this: bring you to your death, and finally, you’ll escape him.
You’ll die, and you won’t be anything more than a corpse, and Phainon will be a grieving man for the rest of his life, but happily, you won’t be there to see him bury himself alive in his misery. But you hate that he doesn’t do that, just give in to his anger and make it easier for you. He says he loves you, but he'll push against the bruise with more pressure.
You hate the fact that he’d just go into another room to give you space, temporary, but the distance and the cold chill are appreciated, until an hour later when Phainon breaks in, and he comes back, comes to hold you again. And like always, you’ll let it be because what can you do?
What gets you really mad in situations like this is when he tries to make it up to you, like he’s a man with a possibility to actually make you happy, with a possibility to actually make you love him back. You hate the way he’ll cook your favorite food, buy you what you want, and maybe, he’ll let you out for the day. A walk in the park, brisk spring air, and clear blue sky, his fingers intertwined with yours.
Then, you’ll hear the people around you praise what a good man Phainon is, while simultaneously finding you at fault for harboring disdain against a man like him. And you hate yourself that you can’t bring yourself to explain to them, tell people what he does to you, what he robbed you of. How he took you from your life while telling you you’re all wrong, even in between when you do think you’ve done well for yourself. Phainon, in his glory, will respond by saying he will make your mistakes right. He’ll fix it all for you, make you better, and bring you more joy and pleasure than you’ve ever known.
You hate how helpless you feel, the despair eating away at you every night when you sleep next to him, and when you count his breaths. With each exhale, you name another thing to hate about Phainon, and you hate that this is the only thing that gets you through. You hate being like this. You hate it all.
Tonight, the same as always, you turn to look at him. It’s somewhere between 10PM and 11PM, but truthfully, you’ve stopped bothering with time and dates since he moved you in with him. You think, if you saw how much time has passed between now and then, you might lose yourself, spiral into something as an uncomfortable truth settles into the heaviness of your bones, and you’ll feel nothing but dead weight, until it suffocates you. If you look at any numbers, you don’t know what will come of you.
Phainon is deep asleep while your eyes slowly turn red through the night. His arm holds your waist loosely. It’s somewhat an improvement, as usually he’ll stay awake the entire night, eye unblinking, murmuring whatever it is against the shell of your ear, grip unflinching, that you’ll wake up with a bruise of his hand on you. But Phainon has softened lately, something like a growing trust between you because he knows that most days, every day, you don’t even dare to try anymore. And you hate the idea of that, that when he closes his eyes, he is so sure that when he opens them again in the morning, you’ll be there beside him, right where he left you.
So, you wonder, tracing the outline of his jaw with your finger, does he delude himself into thinking it’s out of your free will? Or does he know that you hate him so much? That you just bite your tongue through the day and nod to whatever it is he says, forcing yourself to be pliant to his whims?
Maybe he does know the fucked-up-ness of it all, keeping you in his bed like this while your own life lies forgotten worlds away. You had plants back home, a green garden in the back, but surely they’ve all rotted away, just dead and no longer waiting for your return. Old friends look for you. Maybe they’ve hung up missing posters of you and whisper your name until you’ve become nothing but a figment of their imagination, a mere mythos of the quaint small town, where they can’t exactly disprove whether you truly existed at all. Do your parents still cry for you? Or have they stopped shedding tears the moment they realize you were never coming back?
You think of such, while your hatred and sadness stew into one pot, and you feel your skin burn you alive, and you find yourself twirling the edges of Phainon’s hair, white strands dancing between the tips of your fingers, soft.
His skin is soft, his hair is soft. His mouth often tastes like honey, and his tongue seems to fit just right against yours. His fingers are rough, and as you slightly caress them, you watch how he twitches beneath you, but not fully awake. Just something quietly unsettles him. His hands are shielded by calluses, and it feels stable to hold his hand. Phainon makes you stop shaking when you find yourself thinking too much, and as much as you hate to admit, you don’t find yourself shaking as much anymore. Yet the thoughts, the yearning, the wanting to leave this all behind, linger and are tucked somewhere in the depths of your mind you can’t exactly reach, despite really wanting to.
You press your face close to his, feel his breath against your cheek, and something shakes in your chest, unfurling. This moment steals your breath for a second, and you find yourself chasing after it. Your anger fizzles out, at least not in full, just in a simmer until you touch him without wanting to vomit on yourself. You wonder if the acid that harbors all your ill wills would burn him, kill him, or do him any slight in any way. You touch Phainon’s face as you think about it.
You had a lover before all of this, and Phainon knew this, an unfortunate truth he had to learn about you. Phainon had come to the disturbing reality that it was another who would lie next to you like this and hold you every night, making you smile, laugh, cry in pleasure, and get to see you at your most vulnerable. Phainon knew this to be an honest truth, as much as it chipped away at him that he often dreamt that dying was better than watching you give your love to another. And in return, after he reconstructs the truth in front of you, with him as the center of your world, you find yourself here, in this moment alone, feeling the tip of your nose graze against his, counting his eyelashes like stars in the sky, the freckles on his face as if constellations. And you wonder if this will mean anything at all?
Phainon took your love away from you, left it dry heaving on the floor until the squelching of their heart came to a dull stop.
As you lie here now in his arms, you wonder then what Phainon must have seen in you. You remember when you first stumbled upon notebooks he wrote about you. Endless logs and lists, and you skimmed it all, eyes too bleary with tears to fully comprehend strings of words that grow more and more scratchy and edged as time has passed; your routine, habits, how the sound of your laughter was better than any music he’s heard, possible names for children you two might have—he wants to have a daughter and name her Cyrene.
But what ate him away? What made him kill your lover and take you away? What had sickened Phainon and killed him inside and out, that you’d become his lifeline?
Did he see inside the depths of your eyes one day? You don’t know how…maybe one day, one wretched day when you somehow saw him in your periphery, and you spared a glance his way, before turning back around as if he was just a passing wind. As you walk away, forgetting the stricken look on Phainon’s face, he saw the way the sun slanted against the reflection of your eyes, and suddenly, in that moment, his life fragmented into truths he bound himself to—the slope of your nose, the indents at the corners of your lip, the soul that lingers warmly behind those e/c eyes.
What else did he see? You want to crawl inside his head, see into him, and figure out what could unravel a man so much that he’d practically bury himself alive in the cages of your ribs if he could.
You hate that you’re thinking about this right now, and you hate how the thoughts soothe you.
You were someone else before this, before him. You knew yourself more than anyone else, but then he came in, ruined it all, and stunted you so bad you couldn’t even begin to think about your world like it still belonged to you. You’ve changed from then, and now you’re just dreaming of old ghosts, dreaming of something you used to be before, how he moulded you into something unrecognizable.
You hate him.
Your hand twitches, flinches, and you find it astray against his neck. You could try to clamp it around him, steal his breath, and make him feel what you feel when you look into a mirror and see your face, or when you look upon an open window.
You know you can’t kill him; it’s impossible. But you can still do it, try and relish for just a few minutes as adrenaline pumps through your veins, celebrating a small victory. A victory of trying, a victory that you still had willpower left in you. A victory that there’s a small portion of you that’s still you, something that you thought had been taken, but really, it’s still there. A victory that there’s a chance.
But something else greets you, the graze of his choker on his neck, and it electrifies a jolt beneath the pads of your fingers. Your breath shudders, and an ugly feeling coils in your head.
Your hand runs along his choker—usually he’ll strip down to sleep, but he came home late today, and when he saw you already in bed, he was quick to climb in, eager to fall into you.
The silver lining winks at you, teasingly and temptingly. You try and stifle a smile at a thought that corrodes your conscience—you musn’t, but it’s really fucking hard not to.
You can take it back, thoroughly stew in your anger without him making you a slave to guilt and repression. This time you’ll be wildly angry, and it won’t be in self-pity, and you can claim it for yourself, and it’ll only be for you alone. And you’ll feel great for it.
The coiling in your head stretches forward, turns into a want, and it wades into a dangerous territory, hammering against your heart so loudly, you hear it pulsate in your ears, and something is knocking against the veins of your wrists. You pull on his choker, tightening it around his neck, causing Phainon to choke.
He struggles, body shaking, before his eyes snap open and the redness quickly rises from the base of his neck, inching towards his pale, white face. You see your face in his eyes, drool pooling at the corner of his lips, “What–what are you—”
Phainon’s words become frayed with each syllable, and he doesn’t even get to finish them. It’s all lost on him, and you don’t bother to shush him or explain to him why, but your grip doesn’t tighten any less.
You see how his arm moves upwards, struggling still. He’s going for your arms, he’s going to stop you and pin you down, punish you in the same discipline, and he’ll cradle you after, telling you he does it because he loves you. You know that’s going to happen, so something hot fills you, and you get angry. You act faster than you think, and you find yourself on top of him, legs on each side of his hips, one hand still holding his choker, while the other pushes to his chest.
You watch something haze over his eyes, “Stop,” you say. “Don’t do anything. You won’t—I won’t hurt you, just—”
You’re also catching your breath, and you feel yourself move against him. The first time you did, you watched as he stopped moving for a second, his mouth parted, and something knowing settled in his face. He doesn’t stop you and finds his own hands slotted against your hips, softly pressed against underneath your shirt to feel the softness of your skin. Then you feel something hard hit you, against your lower stomach, and you almost let out a howl of laughter. Phainon’s face doesn’t look it, now fully red, but he’s fucking excited. Unbelievable. Is this the glory of a warrior? A whimpering mess beneath you—is this the hero the people sing about?
Your head falls against his forehead, nose touching his, and the sickening swell of his breath hits you on your cheeks, “Just let me have this. Let me have this, Phainon,” and you relented and stopped tugging so he could wheeze and try to sputter out words. But he fails to fully find himself; he wants to say your name, but his heart finds it more important to breathe.
You give him a few seconds, you count to eight, then you go back and tug on his choker, robbing him of air, restricting his neck under the grip of your hands. You really needed this. His shackling was your release.
His eyes become glossy again, and he almost disappears, only if it weren’t for the glimmer of tears beginning to pile over the edge of his lashes. You think, is this what Phainon saw in you the first time he ever saw you? Is the beating of your heart what he felt that day? Is this greed conceiving itself into the shallow parts of your soul, what rotted away at him?
You tug, but this time, harder, so that you manage to shake his head, lifting him almost off the pillow. Phainon lets out a whine, a sound ringing true in your ears. Like a dog on a leash.
Is this what Phainon felt?
Holding him down, you begin to move against him, rubbing friction into a terrifying warmth that makes you lose any sense of composure. You try to imagine someone else, your old lover, how they used to make you feel, but you can’t imagine their faces anymore. You just see Phainon; his blue eyes crystallizing, white hair tangled into ropes as sweat drenched him, the sound of his voice whimpering and snapping in pained pleas. Slow, slow, slow, he rasps, but you don’t listen. You only go at your own pace because what you feel is all that matters, not his. You apologize to whatever shred of dignity you had left in you and lit yourself aflame, finding comfort in your ruin.
That day flashes in your head for a minute, in between panting, in between the blurred lines of Phainon’s throbbing dick stimulating your wetness, his pained grunts stringing into moans as you push deeper into him. A memory fishes itself out of you, walking home one day and finding your lover’s body all bloodied on your carpet. Life is gone from their eyes as death rattles between their lips, eyes bulging out of their sockets. And in the corner of the room, Phainon stands to watch with a smile as you sob over what was the beginning of an end.
Phainon took that away from you. He killed you; now you have to kill him. This is anything but what you really deserved. He doesn’t get to have this, only you do.
Your free hand quickly makes way to pull his pants down, leaving him only in his underwear, and the barrier between you becomes an inch thinner. The head of his cock strains against his boxer, and you feel it stick against your panties. And as you ride against his length, the friction of his naked self and the cotton fabric that holds you in brings an unfathomable high to your senses. You blink a few times, long, hard blinks, as you bite down every passing groan that threatens to leap out of you. It feels really good, you silently admit to yourself, how your clit just lightly fucks against him, and it sets fireworks around you. Every push makes you press down harder, grind faster, as his hands knead against your waist. The sounds of ruffled clothes, the creaking of the headboard, and the whimpers of Phainon melt into a hazy cloud over you, edging you to go—more, more, more.
Don’t stop. Fuck him, fuck him harder. You need to fuck Phainon, you have to. You’re running after yourself, as much as he runs after you, as much as your high is dependent on him. More, more, more. Until all you can hear is both your hearts hammering into one echo, and all you can feel is him, and he you. You need Phainon until all your hatred of him turns into something so good you just can’t stop yourself anymore.
You feel yourself getting wetter, and more blood flashes in front of you. In moments when Phainon fucks you, him on top of you, you look at their bloodied face, and it would make you want to reel over. But in this moment, the blood settles so deeply in your brain that it becomes an unsettling comfort for you.
Phainon’s hands are clammy against your skin, gluing his hands to your body, and there’s a part of you that goes crazy at the sensation. You could cum just at the thought.
It seems your grip on his choker somehow loosened a bit; you see Phainon struggle less, now that he’s lulled into a pattern of your hips moving against him. Seeing him slowly relax into your hold makes you snap back your grip on him, tightening it much harsher, and Phainon lets out a much louder exhale, coughing up a storm as it treks up from his throat. His nose flaress.
You don’t pay heed to his small stutters; you keep grinding, and at this point, you find yourself shoving his boxers off of him, bringing him completely naked beneath you. Precum swells from his tip, wetting your panties, but you can’t tell if it was yours in the first place or his. Your vision fogs up, your eyes want to just close and let yourself feel. It’s a feeling you haven’t felt in a long time, and it feels all too good, fucking him like this as he gives up, letting you choke him harder and harder.
And as you look at him, into his eyes, you see an inkling of yourself in Phainon—is this how he felt when he took you? When he ruins himself for you? When he fucks you himself? Is this it? Is this why he covets you like some treasure? Is this why?
You press your lips against him, kissing him deeply and stealing whatever little air is left in his lungs. Give into me, give into me. Then you pull back, a string of saliva tethering you to him, and his lips are red from all the biting you placed upon his lips, and you feel him hardened between your thighs, practically poking at your entrance, your wetness edging him on. You feel Phainon twitch, begging to be let inside.
You remember the day he first kissed you, the taste of blood on his lips and as it seeped into your clothes. His hands were stained with the cruelty he named as love, and you taste the metallic scent dance around your tongue. You tried real hard to remember your lover's face, but all you see is the blood that pooled around their silhouette and the feeling of Phainon’s fingers curling in you, your face enclosed in the reflection of his blue eyes.
All you can taste is blood, and all you can see is Phainon.
You press your lips against Phainon again, chasing after something long forgotten. You’re replicating that day, trying to rewrite it into something that belongs to you and not just his. This is all yours. This time, as you kiss Phainon, it’s less dispossessed, much more fiery, and it teeters into passion. It makes you want to fuck him as much as you need to kill him, the satisfaction of it all blossoming in you.
Phainon would be lying if he said he didn’t feel loved, even if it’s for a split second before you bit down on his lips, this time much more final, and there’s a dribble of blood trickling out of his mouth.
“I’m doing this because I want this,” you state blankly, and he responds by whimpering some nonsense.
You push your panties to the side, and as you do, you tease his tip, not caring to push him in all fully because you’d do what he wanted, not what you wanted. Phainon shakes uncontrollably, whining and silently crying to himself, breathing more erratically as he sweats more. You let out a laugh.
You feel your hunger, your mouth watering. Then slowly, inch by inch, you push him inside of you, and Phainon begins to fully cry. He tries to keep it stifled, but by the time his tip is fully enveloped, and you begin to move down his shaft, Phainon turns to sob.
Then you stare at him, really taking a look through Phainon. This is what Phainon saw in you that day. Destruction and something beneath that is too addicting to let go. Suddenly, you understand why men mistake cruelty as love; you can see how Phainon deluded himself into such.
You feel his hands squeeze against your hips until you’re sure there are crescent moons littering your skin. He should push you off. He’s slowly losing air, and his surroundings grow dimmer as stars dance in his periphery. Phainon might actually die, and it all hurts, but he can’t tell once that pain melts into a tingling in his skin, travelling down between his legs. With his cock buried deep into your cunt, his blood smeared on your lips, and the pupils of your eyes blown wide open until all he sees is himself on you, everything brightly shone as the first day he saw you. Everything was singing around him. To die in your arms as you take him like this, hand on his throat, cunt full of him, it’s all worth it.
Then it snaps. Phainon lets out a pained grunt as you begin to move against his entire length, your wetness coating him fully as it drips all over his pelvis. Phainon felt himself lose his mind entirely at the sight and the sound of your ragged breathing. He doesn’t break his eyes away from you—all he sees is you, and all you see is him.
And you let out a shudder to the sounds he makes, eyes rolling back as you ride him, digging a hole for both of you to bury yourself in.
Phainon hysterically cries, "Too much, too much---my love, slow--slow--I can't--"
You slap his face, telling him to shut the fuck up, tightening your grip on his choker again until he can’t cry, can't utter a singular coherent word, just tears trailing down his cheeks, “You don’t get a say in this,” you tell him.
You really hate Phainon. You hate the way he makes you feel because he makes you feel good.
