#synopsis a devout man can make even lust feel sacral.
#tags ( 18+ ) semi-public sex enemies with benefits secret relationship mutual pining mean!sunday hate sex but not really mild breath play 100% consensual religious guilt
Black and white stars gather at the corners of your vision from the lack of oxygen. With your lungs hollowed and your ribcage forcefully compressed, the sound of blood pumping is so much louder in your ears. Even as your perception of time and space dulls, you tug onto whatever you find. Fabric, skin, hair, feathers.
Sunday pulls back just enough to leave you gasping for air, all glistening lips and scathing eyes.
He wraps his fingers around your throat and pushes his tongue inside your mouth next. You know what this is: some kind of punishment. For disobeying. For daring to deny him. For prioritizing your instincts over his orders.
Even as he sucks onto your tongue, your sounds are muffled by his lips practically sealed against yours. Every time you overstep or struggle, his hold on you becomes a bit firmer, his touch a bit meaner. Not even the silk of his gloves can prevent his nails from digging into your neck. It's only when his own vision begins to swim that Sunday's strength falters.
His breaths are controlled despite how his brain begs for more oxygen. Everything about Sunday Oak is this façade of composure and idolized pristineness that he wears like a second skin. A façade only the pull of the flesh can cause to flake — only his want for you can make the rot spread. And that's why Sunday Oak scorns you so. What else is he supposed to feel, if not bone-deep loathing toward the very thing that constantly reminds him he's not nearly as saintlike as he wishes to be?
Yet the human spirit is frail, and humanity in and of itself is but a constant battle against the flesh. And no matter how much he trains himself into fidelity, Sunday will never be exempted from his own carnality.
"Silence," he hisses before you can even speak. His voice is nothing like the soothing sound preaching the name of Xipe — it cuts deep like a whip, leaving behind an echo of flame on your skin. "Not a sound."
You know better than to speak whenever he gets like this, although your obedience only seems to irritate him more. He undoes the buttons of your clothing with surprising deftness, his gloved fingers tracing a bitter path down your exposed cleavage. Upon contact, he whips his head to the side with a barely restrained noise, as if he had been scorched.
Without thinking, you place an unsure hand on his, slowly bringing it back to rest on your chest. His fingers twitch imperceptibly before his grip tightens on you, and suddenly, your body is twisted around and you find yourself pressed against the wall that your back was facing moments ago.
Despite everything, you'd imagine Sunday to be a gentle lover, if he were anything of the sort to you. How tender could those finger be — the same ones causing blues and purples to bloom under your skin, tugging and pulling at fabric unceremoniously, and claiming places you had never let anyone explore before him.
Something coppery fills your mouth after a particularly harsh bite of your lip. Sunday's hand slithers beneath your clothing, probing at your entrance and testing its give. You realize far too late he truly doesn't intend to be gentle tonight.
Sunday emits a sound similar to yours, only more strangled, more shameful. "Shut up," he spits under his breath, tone wavering as he says it again, "just shut up."
Shut up and take it.
He barely gives you any time to adjust to the stretch, and still, you can tell a part of him is holding back just from the way he claws at your hips. Your legs tremble in tandem with his wings as you feel him flutter inside. He sounds angelic against your ear, his chest pressing yours harder against the wall with every tight thrust. He barely pulls out before driving himself deeper and harder than before.
Sex with Sunday is so absurdly unlike the image people have of him. Rushed, rough, impulsive. Yet the way he bites at your neck leaves you to wonder whether something sweet belies his actions — past the territoritoriality and the primal need to claim — something like a mute confession. Something that says I want to be yours.
His pace falters before he stops altogether, and a quiet hiccup resonates in the darkness of the empty hallway. His forehead presses against your nape, right where his mark is starting to darken.
Every time that string inside him gets closer to snapping, Sunday's wings quiver. The pull in his lower body, the blood pumping abnormally fast — he can feel all of it, yet can do little to fight it. A quiet cry falls from your lips. Your bodies may still be clothed, but the constant rustling of fabric sounds just as sinful as the slap of skin would. His pelvis presses hard against your backside, repeatedly and deep enough for the balls of your feet to lift from the ground.
And right in this moment, you realize the warnings were all warranted. Abstinence is the only way to receive THEIR grace. Desire leads one astray and clouds their judgment.
But how tempting it would be to just let go. To stop reciting soulless praises of The Harmony. To go off-script and let your heart speak for once in your life. Abandon the guilt gnawing at your sanity! Break free from the skin-like prison they have built for you!
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
Release tastes so sweet, like lowering yourself into a warm bath after a long day. The both of you are too dazed to notice the hand combing through your hair, but the comfort it brings still manages to wash away the lingering shame.
Sunday presses his chest a bit harder against yours, steadying you when your legs fail to support your weight. His essence stains your clothing, and he watches with a faraway look as it either sinks into the material or falls to the floor like pealry raindrops. At first, you believe the caress against your shoulder to be a fruit of your imagination, yet Sunday's shuddering lips linger, and even through the clothing, you can hear the breathless apologies he whispers under his breath.
Merciful Xipe may forgive him, but you know that Sunday doesn't spare himself so easily.
That is until you hear him call your name.
"-m sorry."
His words are frantic and you can barely hear half of them.
"I'm sorry I'm sorry — do love you I really do forgive me."
Something within you shatters. You convince yourself you'll be able to piece it back together like the previous hundred times, but this is the first time Sunday has ever prayed to you.
You know he doesn't want to hear it, but you say it regardless, "I love you." Louder than you probably ought to, and clear enough for the space surrounding you to still. In truth, what Sunday wants isn't your forgiveness, nor is it your love. Why won't you reciprocate the hatred he harbors for you? Shouldn't you damn his name for everything that he's done and everything that he hasn't?
"I forgive you."
You know him too well.
He is one to shy away from your gaze like a self-proclaimed sinner undeserving of mercy. You're unsure of what would happen to him if he were forced to hold your gaze, so you close your eyes as you turn to face him, and whisper what you hope is a temporary consolation before he vanishes once more.
#synopsis he needs this more than you, believe him.
#tags ( 18+ ) vaginal fingering light edging praise use of petnames
Phainon's selflessness makes intimacy confusing.
Contrary to popular belief, the dynamic couples like you share is less about dominance and submission, and more about love language. Or so you think. Well, it's hard to navigate relationships with little to no experience regarding dating — let alone understanding the sexual aspect of it.
But the million-dollar-question is: what is Phainon's love language? He's like an all-rounder when it comes to boyfriend-ing, to the point that if this were a competition, you would've been forced to forfeit by now. But you can feel your brain beginning to overheat every time you think about it — he never misses an opportunity to compliment you (and what's worse is that it's so genuine you couldn't even call it flirting); your skin has learned to recognize the temperature and feel of his hands from the countless times he caresses and holds you; he replies before the little "delivered" can appear under your text bubble, and always makes time for you, no matter the time of the day; and he gets you flowers and other gifts every time he comes to pick you up for one of your dates.
And from time to time, you find yourself questioning all of it. It feels like nothing you do could ever compare, so really, how did you get so lucky?
Truth be told, what you call selflessness, Phainon calls it selfishness.
You really were looking forward to him coming over, but he greeted you at your doorstep with slumped shoulders and a weary smile. His face finds the crook of your neck like clockwork once he leans forward and into your arms, nosing at your pulse and breathing you in. In no time, Phainon's sat on your bed in one of your oversized band tee-shirts and a pair of spare sweatpants he had left at your place.
His voice is raspier and quieter than usual, and you don't think he even realizes. And somehow, he still finds the strength to flash you a smile, eyes wrinkling at the corners, as he compliments your appearance and asks about your day. You continue to talk, waiting (and half-hoping) for him to nod off mid-sentence but he never does.
You're not sure when exactly it started, but his arms circle around your waist faster than you can process any of it. Phainon places slow, lazy kisses to the skin of your exposed shoulder, deliberately tugging the sleeve down to free some more. The sound of your heartbeat is deafening and it thrums in you ears the more his hands knead at the fat of your bare thighs.
Phainon hums low under his breath, right against your ear. "This is okay, right?" he has the courage to ask like he hadn't been devouring you with his eyes five minutes before all this. Like he can't feel the warmth of your core from where his hands rest on the waistband of your shorts. You try to protest (although weakly), insisting that he should rest, that he doesn't have to. But the truth is Phainon knows very well he doesn't. Your underwear was perfectly dry before he started tracing shapes onto your waist and back and hips.
All of it was calculated. He wanted you like this.
So, he ignores you, focusing on the way your chest stutters, your back pressing rhythmically against his torso, as he slides your shorts and panties down your thighs. Phainon's palms caress your inner thighs, digging into the warm skin of your ass once you try to shy away from the cold air hitting your glistening folds.
"Shh," he whispers before kissing your cheek, like he isn't actively spreading you open. "It's okay, I got you. I'll make you feel so good."
That's what he always says, and so far he's never lied, which is what makes you forget that it's exactly how you end you in this position every. single. time. That's just what Phainon does, selfish as he is — he lures you into his snap trap like a carnivorous plant, and only lets you go once your brain has melted into one big puddle and the only letters of the alphabet you can remember are the ones that spell his name.
He continues to peck your face, neck, and shoulder as he circles your twitchy clit with his middle finger, his others fingers keeping your lips spread. Your breath fans his cheek and the back of your head rests against his shoulder, lolling lightly from side to side with every breathless whimper that leaves your mouth. He doesn't even seem to mind the way your nails dig into his forearms, holding onto them for dear life every time her runs the pad of his finger on the underside of your clitoral glans.
Because Phainon knows how tremendously sensitive that part is, and he loves watching the muscles of your inner thighs tense as you let out a long whine.
"I know, I know," he coos.
Your boyfriend's tone nears condescendance, yet even if you were able to form a coherent thought at the moment, you wouldn't care less. When your eyes finally flutter open, you find him already looking down at you.
"There she is, my pretty girl. Does it feel good, sweetheart?" he asks sweetly, spreading your lips a bit more to play with your bud with two fingers now. He tuts before you can nod. "Use your words, baby. And keep those gorgeous eyes open for me."
Every time that you think that warm puddle in your lower stomach is about to spill all over the sheets, Phainon slows down, neglecting your clit to tease and circle at your entrance without ever dipping his fingers in. You huff, both from the subconscious frustration of being denied yet another time, and from exertion. Your boyfriend simply chuckles, nuzzling against your cheek before tilting your chin to the side. You're barely aware of the slimy dampness coating the underside of your jaw and staining Phainon's fingers as he leans down to peck your lips. Once, twice, before he gently parts them with his tongue, humming into your mouth.
"I know, pretty," he breathes, "I'm sorry. Just a bit more, okay? Can you take a bit more for me?"
Like he doesn't know the answer to that. And still you nod dumbly with a whine, chasing his tongue as his thumb gently caresses your cheek.
"Good. You're doing so good, baby. Almost there."
But Phainon isn't cruel, truly. All things considered, he does view himself as selfish for putting you in this position every time, but he just loves you that much. He only wants to make you feel good, believe him.
And as promised, he picks up the pace again, circling your clit furiously — if his touch weren't so tender and loving. Your heels dig into the mattress, and you fight hard to keep your legs from flailing. Phainon's there to hold you down, though, and trust me, he doesn't struggle one bit while doing it, even kissing your jaw softly as a reminder to keep your eyes open.
When your sounds become more frequent, your ribcage expanding against his arms, he finally slides one finger in, curling right where you can feel the pressure building.
"Go ahead, pretty. Cum all over my fingers."
That does it. Your back arches against him and you grip his forearms hard enough for the skin to redden, mouth falling open as the dam breaks. Phainon keeps going before gradually slowing down, and he kisses your face during the whole thing, murmuring praises and sweet words.
"There you go, sweetheart. You did so good."
"You have no idea how gorgeous you look when you let go."
"Look at that, made a pretty mess all over the sheets."
By the end of it, you're left a limbless, panting puddle against his chest — like all the other times. You can feel him press his lips against your shoulder, massaging your sore hips, your thighs still twitching as you come down from your high.
Phainon, contrary to you, seems to be doing just fine, all traces of exhaustion from when he first arrived completely gone from his handsome features. He grins down at you, and it's so sickeningly sweet you can't even be mad. Lazily blinking and half-conscious, you watch as he licks his fingers clean like it's the sweetest frosting he's ever tasted.
"Hey, there." He says it like he didn't just tie your synapses into a ribbon, like the light doesn't catch in the remaining droplets of release coating his wrist. "How are you feeling? Everything alright?"
And what can you say? (Figure of speech. Your brain can't even signal your lips to move, at the moment.) Phainon manœuvres you into a more comfortable position, completely ignoring the way he strains against his pants.
He doesn't ask for more. He doesn't even hint at it, because that's just the way your boyfriend is, and it's maddeningly confusing. But until you figure out what can render a man so stupidly selfless (answer: it's love), you can be certain that Phainon will be there to take care of you and hold you until you fall asleep.
#rohiswriting yes! dry humping oral sex penetrative sex (no anal) dacryphilia somnophilia praise dumbification breeding pregnancy (even sfw) lactation cum play ⁕ no! non-con incest (including stepcest) immoral age gaps "aged up" minors extreme kinks (anything involving shit or piss) voyeurism
#byf slow updates ⁕ typos and grammatical errors ⁕ i'm pretty opinionated and despite having created this blog specifically to write nsfw, i highly recommend everyone to ready or write more than just nsfw ⁕ beware of the effects porn consumption can have on your brain and always remember this is just fiction, and very different from real life
#dni i can't stop minors from interacting, let alone reading, just know i don't support it (i'm saying this for you guys) ⁕ i don't have the time to go on blocking sprees, but i'd greatly appreciate it if people who write dark content refrained from interacting ⁕ articulating your opinions is fine and actually encouraged, but no hate because you will be blocked anyway
#aboutme rohi ⁕ nineteen ⁕ any pronouns ⁕ poc ⁕ queer ⁕ non-native eng speaker
#aboutblog (secret) nsfw sideblog ⁕ i might write sfw too ⁕ inbox is always open ⁕ fandoms i might write for are atla, hsr, jjk . . . ⁕ very new to writing nsfw ⁕ afab!reader centric ⁕ i write for both amab and afab characters ⁕ read rules
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