[ily-phainon]

love phainon, love life. The sea remembers every promise. Carry the dawn.

mikayla. twenty-two. she/her. aquarius. full time octopus enthusiast (i love collecting their lore). no dni, just consume your content responsibly ♡ i'm always open to making new friends, so hit up my dms or askbox anytime. i reply slow, but i'll get to it, i promise!

recents:

— a dare with the vice captain. lohen

[ily-phainon]

001. Bakugo katsuki

I think bakugo is an unyielding perfectionist when it comes to his coffee !

the dorm kitchen existed in that liminal, blue-gray hour before sunrise, when the world held its breath and even the fluorescent lights seemed to hum with deference. at 5:45 am, the silence was absolute. a sacred, fragile thing, easily shattered.

bakugo stood at the counter like a priest at an altar, or perhaps a bomb technician defusing a device. his palms hovered over the gooseneck kettle with the stillness of a man who knew exactly how much destruction he was capable of, and chose, instead, to create. the water poured in a thin, steady stream, precisely forty-five degrees, hitting the coffee bed with the soft sound of rain against glass.

he was not making coffee. he was conducting a ritual.

the scale beneath the chemex blinked its silent approval. the thermometer read exactly 200°f. no more, no less. the beans, ground to micrometer precision five minutes prior, released their bloom in a slow, hypnotic swell, and bakugo tracked it with the focused intensity of a man watching the birth of a star.

the kitchen door swung open with all the grace of a drunk falling downstairs.

kaminari shuffled in, hair vertical, eyes sealed shut, hands reaching toward the carafe with the blind faith of a sleepwalker. "ah, sweet," he mumbled, voice thick with dreams. "katsuki made—"

CLACK.

the wooden spoon hit the counter an inch from his knuckles, and the sound ricocheted off the tile like a gunshot. small, warning sparks, pop, pop, pop, danced from bakugo's palm, illuminating his face in staccato flashes of gold and shadow.

"touch that," he said, not looking up, eyes fixed on the bloom timer ticking down on his phone, "and i'll roast your fingers off, dunce face."

"but i'm tired," kaminari whined, cradling his hand like a wounded bird.

"that bean profile is tailored for my metabolism." bakugo finally looked up, and his gaze could have curdled milk. "you drink this, your heart explodes, and you short-circuit by homeroom. instant trash is in the pantry. don't". he poured the dark liquid into an insulated travel mug, the motion surgical, exact. "ruin my ratio."

he snapped the lid shut. took one measured sip.

and sighed a tiny, almost imperceptible sound, the soft exhale of a man briefly at peace in a world that asked too much of him before his scowl locked back into place, hard as armor, ready for the day.

[awhkaiy]

When their mouth is on you and they're talking to you there.

Imagine if he spread you open with his thumbs—slow, deliberate—and just looked at first. Like he was starving and you were the first meal he'd seen in weeks. Like he wanted to commit the sight of you to memory: the wetness gleaming in the low light, the way you twitch under his gaze, the flush spreading across your skin.

He leans in close. Close enough that his breath ghosts hot and damp against your folds. Close enough that his lips brush you without kissing—teasing, torturing.

"Look at you," he murmurs, and the vibration makes you jerk, makes your hips chase his mouth instinctively. He pulls back just enough to deny you, and you whine—actually whine—at the loss of heat.

"So wet," he breathes, and you feel every word as pressure, as intimacy, as something worshipful. "So fucking pretty. Did you make this mess for me?"

His tongue drags slow from your entrance to your clit—flat, deliberate, devastating—and he groans against you, the sound vibrating through your core. He pulls back, chin shiny with you, and his eyes find yours over the plane of your stomach.

"You taste like something I dreamed about," he says, and leans back in. His mouth seals over you, sucking gently, and you arch off the mattress with a cry that sounds torn from your throat.

He pulls back again. Always pulling back to speak to you there, like he can't help himself, like he needs to articulate what you're doing to him.

"Sensitive," he observes, like he's cataloging your reactions, like they're precious. He traces your folds with one finger, spreading your wetness, circling your entrance with teasing pressure that makes you ache. "That's good. I want you sensitive. I want you feeling everything."

He pushes two fingers into you—slow, thick—and curls them against your wall while his mouth returns, licking broad and filthy. He speaks between strokes, between sucks, his lips brushing your clit with every word.

"You're taking me so well," he praises, voice wrecked, muffled against your flesh. "Look how you grip my fingers. So tight. So needy."

The words are crude but his tone is reverent, intimate, like he's conversing with the part of you that needs him most. He nips gently at your inner thigh—sharp, grounding—and soothes it with his tongue, open-mouthed and greedy. "Can you come for me?" he asks, not to your face but there, like he's asking your cunt directly, courting it, coaxing it. His tongue circles your clit, relentless. "Will you let me feel it? I want to taste it. I want to feel you pulse against my tongue while you're screaming my name."

He sucks you into his mouth—hard, demanding—and you cry out, hips bucking, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there, there, don't you dare move. He moans against you, the vibration pushing you closer, and the sound is filthy, grateful, desperate.

"That's it," he encourages, words slurred, breath hot. "Give it to me. Give it to my mouth. I want it—I want you—"

When you come, he stays there, drinking you in, murmuring praise against your trembling flesh like prayer, like promise, like he's never leaving.

.

[ily-phainon]

unmasked — gojo satoru x reader

.

the afternoon light fractured through the window of his apartment, splitting into spectral ribbons that danced across the floor. beautiful, mathematically precise, and utterly lost upon him.

satoru sat with his back against the couch, long limbs sprawled in feigned nonchalance, but his fingers had found your wrist some minutes ago and had not released. the contact was gentle, thumb tracing idle patterns against your pulse, yet there was desperation in the constancy of it, as if he feared you might dissolve should he cease touching you.

you had learned to read him in the spaces between his laughter,in the moments when the mask of the strongest slipped, revealing the man beneath who was so unbearably lonely.

"stay," he murmured, and the word was uncharacteristically small, stripped of bravado.

his blindfold lay discarded across the room, and his eyes, those impossible, devastating eyes found yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. he saw everything: the flutter of your heartbeat, the heat rising beneath your skin, the way your soul leaned toward his like a flower seeking sun. it was exhausting, he had once admitted, to see so much. but with you, he looked anyway.

he drew you down until you settled against him, your back to his chest, and his arms cinched tight possessive and needy, his face burying in the curve of your neck. for a long moment, he simply breathed you in, the rise and fall of his chest slowing to match yours.

"you're the only thing that makes sense," he whispered into your hair, and his voice was rough, stripped of its usual playful cadence. "when i'm with you, the noise stops. the futures stop. it's just... this."

his hand splayed across your stomach, large and warm and grounding, and you felt the tremor in his fingers—the price of his power, the weight of being the one who had to save them all. he pressed closer, as if he could crawl inside you, hide from the world that demanded everything of him.

"don't let go," he said, and it was not a command but a plea, raw and vulnerable, falling from lips that smiled too easily for a man so burdened. "not yet."

and so you held him, anchored him, while the light shifted and faded, and the strongest man in the world allowed himself, for just an hour, to be held.

[ily-phainon]

Literally no one: .. .

Octopuses: "My hand just ran a chemical analysis... and has concluded this snail tastes like Tuesday."

[satoru-one-only-wifey]

Satoru Gojo stood in front of the chalkboard at Tokyo Jujutsu High, an unopened box of chalk in one hand and his phone in the other. Megumi Fushiguro sat in the front row, staring straight ahead with the hollow eyes of a teenager who knew he was about to waste two hours of his life. Beside him, Nobara Kugisaki was idly filing her nails, while Yuji Itadori sat upright, notebook open, pencil poised, tragically ready to learn.

"Alright, listen up, kids," Gojo announced, tossing the chalk into the air and catching it behind his back. "Today’s lesson is on the most critical, foundational, absolute apex concept in the entire jujutsu world. Something so profound it dictates the very balance of power in Japan."

Yuji leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Is it domain expansion refined to a microscopic scale? Or the theoretical limit of reversed cursed technique?"

"No," Gojo said, his blindfold tilting as his grin widened to an almost terrifying degree. "It’s the fact that my wife is an absolute ten-out-of-ten, and none of you will ever attain this level of happiness. Open your notebooks. Take notes. This will be on the final."

Megumi let out a slow, agonizing exhale, resting his forehead directly onto his wooden desk. "I'm leaving."

"Sit down, Megumi, or I’m assigning you to exorcise a grade-one cursed spirit in a sewer using only a spork," Gojo said smoothly, pulling up a photo on his phone and tapping the screen against the whiteboard so hard it clicked. "Now, look at this. Look at her. Look at this smile. Yuji, tell me what you see."

Yuji blinked, squinting at the tiny phone screen across the room. "Uh... she looks really nice, Gojo-sensei? She’s pretty!"

"Pretty?" Gojo echoed, his voice dropping an octave as he slouched dramatically against the teacher's podium. "Pretty? Yuji, that is an insult to the universe. She’s divine. She’s an ethereal masterpiece walking among mortals. Do you know what happens when she walks into a room? The lighting improves. The air quality rises. Cursed energy itself probably neutralizes just out of respect for her facial symmetry."

"Is this really what we're doing today?" Nobara groaned, putting her nail file away with a sharp snap. "You brought us in here at eight in the morning on a Tuesday—after telling us it was a life-or-death tactical seminar—to show us pictures of your 'wife' ?"

"This is a life-or-death tactical seminar, Kugisaki," Gojo said, pacing across the front of the room with his hands tucked into his pockets. "Because if any of you ever disrespect her, your life ends and your death becomes a statistical guarantee. But let’s talk about personality first, because beauty like hers is just the outer shell of an incredible soul."

He stopped pacing and leaned against the edge of Megumi’s desk. Megumi visibly flinched away.

"She’s patient," Gojo declared, pointing a finger into the air. "Do you have any idea how much patience it takes to deal with me? I’m an absolute handful. I know it, Principal Yaga knows it, the higher-ups certainly know it. But her? She just smiles, shakes her head, and hands me a sweet treat. She’s kind. She’s hilarious. Her sense of humor is top-tier—she laughs at all my jokes, even the ones that Nanami calls 'a tragic waste of oxygen.'"

"Nanami is a wise man," Megumi muttered under his breath.

"And her mind!" Gojo continued, completely ignoring him as he spun around to face the board, grabbing a piece of chalk and violently scribbling a crude stick-figure diagram. "Brilliant. Sharp as a needle. She can read me like a book. I try to pull a prank, and boom—she’s already two steps ahead, setting a trap for me. It’s intoxicating. I’m the strongest sorcerer alive, and yet I am completely, utterly, beautifully wrapped around her pinky finger. And do you know what the best part is?"

Silence stretched across the classroom.

"I said, do you know what the best part is?" Gojo repeated, crossing his arms.

"What is the best part, Gojo-sensei?" Yuji asked dutifully, playing the straight man out of sheer pity.

"She’s obsessed with me too!" Gojo threw his hands in the air, a triumphant laugh echoing off the concrete walls. "It’s a mutual victory! I win at life! Every single day I wake up, look to my side, and think, 'Satoru, you incredible bastard, you’ve done it again.'"

Nobara gagged softly into her fist. "I think I’m going to be sick. Is it possible to die from someone else’s ego?"

"You wish you had an ego like mine, Kugisaki, but you don't have the backing for it," Gojo smirked. "Which brings me to section two of today's curriculum: the culinary arts. Or as I like to call it, Why My Wife Is Better Than Michelin-Star Chefs."

He wiped the stick figures off the board with his sleeve and wrote the word COOKING in massive, jagged capital letters.

"Now, as you all know, I have a refined, highly sensitive palate," Gojo said, adjusting his blindfold slightly. "My body requires an immense amount of sugar to keep my Six Eyes operating at peak efficiency. Most people throw some syrup on a pancake and call it a day. Not her."

He stepped closer to the students, his voice dropping into an almost reverent whisper.

"Yesterday morning. I wake up. The sun is just starting to hit the courtyard. I walk into the kitchen, and what do I smell? Freshly baked strawberry cream puffs. Light, airy pastry, dusted with powdered sugar that looks like fresh snow. The cream inside? Made from scratch. Perfect level of sweetness. Not too heavy, not too light. It literally melted on my tongue. I ate four of them before I even remembered to say good morning."

"That actually sounds really good," Yuji admitted, his stomach letting out a loud, traitorous rumble.

"It was legendary, Itadori!" Gojo barked, slamming his hand down on the podium. "And that’s just breakfast! Her dinners? Forget about it. Last night she made beef nikujaga. The potatoes were so tender they collapsed the moment your chopsticks touched them. The broth was rich, savory, perfectly balanced—it tasted like a warm hug from the universe. I almost used Limitless to slow down time just so I could savor every single chew."

"Okay, look," Nobara interrupted, leaning forward with her elbows on her desk. "If she’s such an amazing cook,and a real person why haven't you ever brought any of her food for us? You bring us souvenir snacks from your trips across the country, but never her home cooking?"

Gojo stared at her through his blindfold, his expression flattening into deadpan coldness. "Share her cooking with you? Are you insane? Do I look like a charity? That food was prepared with love specifically for me. If I caught any of you putting your chopsticks near her nikujaga, I’d send you straight to the shadow realm. Get your own incredible wife."

"I'm fifteen," Megumi said flatly.

"Age is no excuse for lack of ambition, Megumi," Gojo shot back without missing a beat. "When I was fifteen, I already knew the exact standard of excellence I required in a partner. And she exceeded every single metric. Her looks? Unmatched. Have I talked about her eyes yet?"

"You've talked about everything," Megumi sighed, resting his chin in his hand. "For forty-five minutes."

"Well, we're doing a deep dive on her eyes now," Gojo declared, pulling his phone back out and tapping frantically. "Look at this picture from our trip to Kyoto last spring. Look at how the cherry blossoms frame her face. Is that not art? Should this not be hanging in the National Museum of Modern Art? I actually considered buying the museum just to clear out a gallery for her portraits."

Yuji squinted at the screen again. "She really is super pretty, sensei. You're a lucky guy."

"Luck has nothing to do with it, Yuji, it's destiny," Gojo corrected, holding the phone close to his own face as if admiring it himself. "She’s got this incredible style, too. She can put on a basic oversized sweater and look like she just stepped off a runway in Paris. Then she wears a formal kimono and looks like an ancient goddess descended to grace us with her presence. Meanwhile, I’m standing next to her looking like a million bucks, which makes us, scientifically speaking, the most attractive power couple in human history."

"I'm leaving," Nobara declared, standing up and grabbing her bag. "I can take cursed energy training, I can take physical conditioning, but I cannot take another second of a grown man swooning like a middle school girl."

"Sit down, Kugisaki, we haven't even covered her laugh yet!" Gojo called out, waving a hand casually. A thin barrier of Limitless flickered into place right in front of the classroom door, gently blocking her path.

Nobara glared at the shimmering air, then turned around with a look of pure rage. "You are abusing your supreme power!"

"I am educating the future generation on what truly matters in life!" Gojo countered, resting his hands on his hips. "You think jujutsu is all about hand seals and cursed energy management? Wrong. It’s about having a reason to come home. And my reason happens to be an incredible, gorgeous woman who makes homemade matcha tartlets and leaves cute little notes in my coat pockets when I go on long missions."

Megumi slowly looked up, his brow furrowing. "Wait. Notes?"

"Yes, Megumi, notes. Little pieces of paper with sweet messages written on them," Gojo boasted, reaching into his uniform jacket and pulling out a small, neatly folded pink square. "Like this one right here. She snuck it into my pocket this morning before I left the house."

"What does it say?" Yuji asked curiously.

Gojo unfolded the paper with a dramatic flourish, flicking his wrist. He cleared his throat, adjusting his posture to read it with maximum drama.

Then he paused.

His eyes scanned the line of neat handwriting. The cocky, triumphant grin on his face slowly wavered, melting into a look of mild, sheepish realization.

"Gojo-sensei?" Yuji asked. "What's it say?"

Gojo quietly folded the paper back up into a tight little square and slipped it back into his breast pocket. He cleared his throat, adjusting his high collar.

"It says," Gojo began, his voice suddenly losing its booming bravado, "'Satoru, stop bragging about me to your students and actually teach them jujutsu today. I asked Megumi's shadows and they told me you did this last week too. If I hear you wasted another class, no sweets for a month.'"

The classroom went dead silent.

Megumi slowly raised an eyebrow. "Shadows are very good at eavesdropping."

Nobara burst into a loud, hysterical fit of laughter, slapping her desk. "Oh, my god. She knows. She knows you're a terrible teacher!"

Yuji puffed out his chest, trying and failing to hide a massive grin. "She sounds really smart, Gojo-sensei!"

Gojo stood frozen at the front of the room for three full seconds. Slowly, he reached out, picked up the eraser, and wiped the word COOKING off the chalkboard. He grabbed the fresh box of chalk, cracked it open, and turned back to face the class with a perfectly straight face.

"Alright," Gojo said crisply, tossing a piece of chalk to Yuji. "Open your textbooks to page forty-two. Today we're reviewing domain amplification. And if any of you tell her I didn't get to the practical demonstration, you're all doing three hundred laps."

@ily-phainon

[ily-phainon]

LMAO THIS WAS ACTUALLY SO FUN!!!

I did not know I needed gojo simping over his wife until I read this 😭 thanks for the food op <3

[ily-phainon]

a dare with the vice captain — adventurer!gn!reader. thanks to @awhkaiy for helping me with his characterisation and consider this my official post to be one of the lohenlings ♡

the afternoon had settled over the training yard like a heavy wool blanket, thick and still, pressing the scent of dust and nervous sweat into the packed earth. the recruits stood in rigid formation, their silence absolute, their terror a palpable thing that hummed between them like the string of a bow drawn too tight. and there, in the center of it all, stood vice captain lohen, framed by the slanting gold of the dying sun, looking for all the world like a man at leisure, a bright red apple perched atop his head with obscene serenity.

you had asked yourself, not for the first time, how an adventurer of your standing had arrived at this particular moment. the bow in your hands felt foreign, or perhaps it was simply that the circumstances had transformed the familiar into something surreal. thirty paces away, lohen waited, patient as stone, while the recruit beside you trembled audibly.

"vice captain," the boy whimpered, his voice cracking on the vowels. "please. what if—what if someone misses?"

"then they miss," lohen replied, and his tone carried the lightness of a summer breeze, the kind that drifted over tea cups in gardens where no blood was ever spilled. his eyes, however, glinted with that distinct brand of amusement. "and then i reevaluate whether they deserve a spot in this company. or a bow."

he looked past the trembling boy then, his gaze settling upon you with the weight of recognition. a smile tugged at his mouth, slow and infuriating, the curve of it holding secrets you had learned to distrust.

"whenever you're ready," he said. "show the new blood how an adventurer handles pressure."

you drew the string back to your cheek, the wood of the bow familiar and grounding against your palm. "you realize," you called out, your voice carrying across the stillness, "that if my hand slips, mondstadt is going to need a new vice captain."

"oh bun, a risk i am more than willing to take."

his voice came back even, untroubled, and you exhaled long and measured, settling into the stance that had served you through forests and storms and darker things still. you had shot targets moving through dense canopy, had split arrows in twain mid-flight. a stationary apple upon a stationary man was child's play, a mere formality. you focused, the world narrowing to the point where feathered shaft met crimson skin, and you released.

the arrow flew true. you saw it in the perfect arc, the clean line of it singing toward its mark, destined to pierce the core of the fruit with satisfying precision.

then lohen moved.

it was not fear that drove him, nor any survival instinct that you could name. merely that split-second, unhinged agility of a man who lived to cause problems on purpose, who found his entertainment in the spaces where others found terror. he tilted his head, casual as a man adjusting his collar, half an inch to the left.

the arrow whistled past his ear, missing the apple by a hair's breadth, and buried itself with a resonant sound into the wooden fence post forty yards behind him.

silence fell over the yard like a shroud. the recruits looked like men who had seen ghosts, their faces pale, their knees unsteady. lohen did not flinch. he reached up, plucked the apple from his crown, and took a bite that cracked loud and satisfying in the stillness. he chewed leisurely, his eyes never leaving yours, that infuriating smirk playing about his lips.

"form was decent," he noted, swallowing. "accuracy? questionable. i expected better from an acclaimed adventurer."

"what the fuck!?"

you lowered your bow slowly, feeling the slow, dangerous heat rising in your chest, the murderous shift in the air that had the recruits frantically backing away, sensing violence like dogs scenting thunder. you walked to him, your boots crunching in the dust, and stopped close enough to smell the apple on his breath, the faint trace of steel and cologne that always clung to him.

"lohen," you murmured, your voice carrying the sweetness of poisoned honey, pitched low so only he could hear. "the next time we go out for drinks, i am personally foraging the mushrooms for your soup. and i guarantee you, at least three of them will be fatal."

he paused, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest—genuine, delighted, the sound of a man who had found exactly what he was looking for. he looked down at you, his eyes bright with something that might have been respect, or might have been invitation, or might have been both, indistinguishable from one another.

"i'll hold you to that," he grinned, taking one last bite before tossing the core over his shoulder into the dust. "now—who's next?"

[yukelit]

Nerd Phainon

The Nerd from university has a big crush on u 🩵☀️

[luckieangel]

if you get horny out of the blue it’s because you and that fictional man are fucking in his universe btw

[meebochii]

❣️

[flowerr-bloom]

Phainon would be the type of husband to embrace you before sleep, his body emits warmth yet he only tightens his hold once he feels you moving ever so slightly away.

Phainon would be the type of husband to empress you the best he could, like how a bird finds a partner, he too would try to bring you the prettiest thing he could find. To give to you, pretty necklaces, rings or even pretty gems he found during his time fighting.

Phainon would be the type of husband to keep a photo of you in his pocket to bring out and admire each time he feels lost or in a dangerous mission, he has to remind himself to stay strong not only for amphorious, but for you as well. To bring you the tomorrow he knows you wish for.

Phainon would be the type of husband to try and never show you his faults, either from a small thing like him burning the food to him sacrificing himself for the greater good that he knows that you won't accept him to do. He just wants to be the person you rely on, now and forever.

(Huge emphasis on rely on, he loves it when you do, even the smallest acts like him opening a jar for you.)

Phainon Is not the easily jealous type but he will be if snowy keeps your attention all to himself.

Phainon is the type of husband to call you all sorts of endearment, like beloved or honey or even Καρδιά μου, or Ψυχή μου, the latter just slips out naturally out more often.

At the end of the day, Phainon is the type of husband who likes to look up at the moon, it reminds him of you shining all over his world even the dark bits in him.

The ocean reflects the moon gentle light, he hopes to be your ocean and reflect your light the same one you guide him with. But alas he could only be the sun.

He never realizes that the reason you have your light in the first place was because of the one he emits.

(He's just too busy pouring all his love on you to notice)

[ily-phainon]

I'm such a sucker for soft phainon content 😩 this was written beautifully

[akichiart]

Durin hiding behind Wanderer because he‘s scared of Lohen

[ily-phainon]

And what if I made this blog an altar to phainon? What then?

[sunday-kisser]

Warm Winter: Sunday x gn!reader

Thinking about ice skating with Sunday, as beautiful flakes of snow land all around you. You would skate next to each other, hand in hand and Sunday would sneak glances at you every now and then, enjoying the way your eyes light up whenever a new snowflake lands on your outstretched palm.

Your hand would tighten around his whenever he slows down a little, making you fear that he’d fall. It seems you’ve channelled his mischievous side today, as he chuckles quietly into his unoccupied hand, his wings immediately giving him away too.

The sky keeps getting darker and the light that’s just coming to life shines so beautifully against the frozen ice. And suddenly, you’re being hugged from behind, and wings tickle your cheek ever so slightly.

You may not be skating now, but you’re enjoying the warmth Sunday engulfs you in.

Winter with Sunday is pure comfort. It’s drinking your favourite tea on a snowy afternoon as you sit with your head on his shoulder, sharing a blanket together. It’s eating your favourite cookies and cooking soups together. It’s the pure unadulterated love he has for you and he let’s you feel it every time you look into his mesmerising eyes.

Winter’s with Sunday are most intimate, for several reasons.

by sunday-kisser — writings are for entertainment purposes and are not to be taken too seriously. Please refrain from reposting my works on other platforms. We don't support ai in this household.

[ily-phainon]

I love love LOVE this 😭

[awhkaiy]

THE LUSH LIFE’S GIVIN’ ME A RUSH

ft. Katsuki Bakugou, Izuku Midoriya, Shouto Todoroki, Eijiro Kirishima, Keigo Takami (Hawks).

( Matching the lip balm flavor to the summer memory )

# fluff. gn!reader. established relationship. summer isn’t over yet and that’s a warning on its own. oh and they kiss and hawks’ one is suggestive.

ᰔ KATSUKI BAKUGOU

— Spiced Peach & Mint

The heat inside the agency breakroom was stifling, but the tile against your back was blissfully cool. Out in the corridor, the AC was struggling against the 95-degree August afternoon, but in here, the real source of the climate crisis was sitting right across from you on the stainless steel counter.

Katsuki had his dark uniform jacket tossed over the back of a chair, the front of his black tank top soaked with sweat around the collar. He had just come off a three-hour summer raid downtown, and his body was still off-gassing the leftover heat of a dozen high-yield explosions. The room smelled heavily of him—that thick, caramelized-sugar scent of hyper-primed nitroglycerin, sharp and hot enough to make the back of your throat prickle. He was aggressively chugging an iced Americano, his throat working as he downed half the cup in one go, before slamming it onto the counter with a loud, metallic clink.

“Stupid-ass heat,” he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, his red eyes dark and exhausted under his damp blonde fringe. “Pavement’s practically melting out there. Idiots don’t know how to handle a perimeter when it’s over ninety.”

“You’re radiating like a furnace,” you said, stepping into his space between his thighs as he sat on the counter edge. He didn’t pull back. Instead, his heavy, scarred hands automatically found your waist, his large fingers digging in just enough to pull you flush against him. The heat rolling off his chest hit you like an open oven door.

“Deal with it,” he grunted, though his eyes softened just a fraction as he looked down at you. You pulled a small, sleek tube from your pocket and popped the cap. Katsuki’s brows furrowed instantly, his gaze flicking down to the tube. “What the hell is that?”

“Lip balm. Spiced peach and mint,” you said, twisting the bottom. “Your lips are chapped. Probably because you’ve been blowing up city blocks in direct sunlight for three hours.”

He let out a sharp, flat scoff—that classic tch. “I'm fine. Don’t put that sweet-smelling crap on me.”

“Katsuki.”

“It’s stupid.”

“Hold still.”

He growled, a low rumble deep in his chest, but he didn’t move an inch. He just leaned his head back slightly, locking his red eyes onto yours in a glare that would have terrified a rookie hero, though his jaw relaxed just enough for you to work. You leaned in, gently dragging the balm across his lower lip. The contrast was immediate—his lips were warm, almost dry-burning, taking the slick moisture in instantly. The scent of sweet stone fruit and icy peppermint bloomed into the air between your faces, cutting right through the heavy smell of burnt sugar and ozone.

When you finished, you capped the tube, but before you could step back, his grip on your waist tightened. “Think you’re funny, huh?” he rasped out, his mouth twisting into that slow, dangerous, single-corner smirk.

“Just taking care of my hero.”

“Shut up,” he muttered. He tilted his head, leaning down to capture your lips in a slow, heavy kiss. It wasn’t rushed. It was hot, deliberate, and possessive—the cooling sting of the mint clashing wildly with the intense, radiating furnace of his mouth. When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his thumb brushed against your hipbone. His breath hitched slightly, carrying that fresh mix of cool peppermint, ripe peach, and the undeniable, lingering heat of his Quirk.

“Tastes ridiculous,” he grumbled against your mouth, though his smirk didn’t fade for a second. “Do it again.”

ᰔ IZUKU MIDORIYA

— Classic Watermelon Slush

The late-afternoon sun was brutal, turning the white sand of the beach cove into a sea of glaring foil. Izuku sat on the edge of the oversized cooler, his broad shoulders relaxed, board shorts dusted with dry sand. Even as a top-ranking Pro Hero, off-duty Izuku still looked endearingly like an overgrown golden retriever—wild green curls damp from the ocean, freckles popping out dark across the bridge of his sun-flushed nose.

He was halfway through a massive wedge of watermelon, juice shining on his bottom lip, when you sat down beside him on the cooler’s plastic lid. “You’re going to get a sunburn on your face,” you said, watching the pink flush blooming across his cheeks. “Hero Deku, brought down by two hours of beach volleyball.”

Izuku blinked, pulling the watermelon rind away with a sheepish, lopsided grin. “Ah—yeah, Kacc-chan said the same thing, but I thought the clouds would block most of it…” He rubbed the back of his neck, his thumb leaving a small smear of red juice near his jaw.

“Hold still,” you murmured, reaching into your beach bag and pulling out the small tube of watermelon slush lip balm. He didn’t move an inch. Instead, his green eyes softened instantly, shifting into that quiet, hyper-focused look he only ever gave you. He tilted his chin up obligingly, closing his eyes halfway as you leaned in.

“It’s just balm,” you teased gently, pressing your thumb against his cheek to steady him while you swiped the sweet, slick balm across his bottom lip. “Not a medical procedure.”

Izuku let out an airy laugh, the breath warm against your fingers. “I know, I just... I like when you take care of me.”

When you pulled the tube back, he didn't lean away. His lips parted slightly, coated in a glossy, sugar-sweet shine that smelled intensely like artificial melon and summer syrup. He smacked his lips together once, testing it, and then his gaze dropped down to yours. A slow, mischievous glint entered those usually innocent green eyes. “Wait,” Izuku murmured, his voice dipping into that lower, smooth register he usually reserved for quiet nights in your apartment. He reached out, his calloused, scar-crisscrossed fingers wrapping gently around your wrist—warm and steady. “Is it bad if I say it tastes really good?”

“Izuku, you’re covered in salt water and melon juice—” Before you could finish, he leaned in and pressed his lips firmly to yours. It was a wet, sweet, sun-warmed kiss that tasted entirely of fresh fruit, sugar, and ocean spray. He held you there for a lingering, leisurely second, his thumb caressing the pulse point on your wrist before he pulled back just an inch, his freckled face flushed a bright, unmistakable crimson.

He tapped his own lower lip with his index finger, a completely unrepentant, sunny grin breaking across his face. “Yup,” Izuku said softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned his forehead against yours. “Matches yours perfectly.”

ᰔ SHOUTO TODOROKI

— Frozen Strawberry Lemonade

The twilight had turned the sky a deep, bruised indigo, but the heat of the August day still clung stubborn and heavy to the wooden slats of the veranda. Shouto sat with his long legs dangling over the edge of the porch, his knees pulled up just enough to support his arms. He wore a dark blue cotton jinbei, the sleeves loose around his broad shoulders.

Sitting next to him felt like sitting on the equator and the Arctic at the exact same time. His left side—his flame side—was radiating a steady, comfortable hum of heat, but his right side was practically a draft of cool mountain air. You leaned heavily against his right shoulder, resting your forehead against his arm just to steal the chill bleeding through his fabric.

“Warm?” Shouto asked softly. His voice was a flat, low baritone that barely broke the quiet hum of the cicadas in the garden trees.

“Suffocating,” you murmured. “You’re a public utility right now, Todoroki.”

A faint, subtle twitch tugged at the right corner of his mouth—his version of a smirk. He didn’t move away. Instead, he reached into the glass bowl resting between his knees and scooped a tiny spoonful of shaved ice, topping it with a heavy drizzle of red strawberry syrup and condensed milk. He held the spoon out to you with calm patience, waiting until you took it. “Better?” he murmured.

“Slightly.” You pulled back, clicking open a small silver tube of frozen strawberry lemonade lip balm you’d left on the porch railing. The heat had softened it into a cool, slick glaze. Shouto watched you apply it with those striking, mismatched eyes—grey and turquoise tracking every slow movement of your hand. He didn’t say anything, but the air around his right side dropped another degree, a tiny frost-flower blooming for a fraction of a second across the wood near his thigh just to keep you cool.

“What?” you asked, setting the tube down.

“It smells like the ice,” Shouto said simply. Before you could answer, he set the bowl aside and turned his torso toward you. His left hand—warm, steady, and calloused—reached out to gently cup the side of your neck, his thumb resting right over your racing pulse. His right hand stayed on your knee, radiating ice-cold relief against your sun-warmed skin. He leaned in slowly, deliberately, giving you all the time in the world to pull back.

When his lips met yours, the contrast was dizzying. He tasted like tart lemon syrup and sweet, crushed strawberries, but it was the temperature that made you catch your breath—his lips were cool, smooth, and absolute bliss against the humid summer night. He lingered there, pressing deep and quiet, letting the citrus-and-sugar scent melt between you while his warm hand at your neck kept you anchored. When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his heterochromic eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, and fixed squarely on your mouth.

“Lemonade,” Shouto murmured, his thumb lightly brushing a stray speck of strawberry syrup from the corner of your lip. A faint, rare smile softened his sharp features. “I like it better than the ice.”

ᰔ EIJIRO KIRISHIMA

— Coconut Mango Sunshine

The sun had dipped below the horizon an hour ago, but the heat of the summer night was still trapped in the pavement and the humid ocean air. At the edge of the beach parking lot, the rest of the hero crew was scattered around a couple of folding tables, but Eijiro had pulled you aside near the trunk of his SUV. The tailgate was down, string lights hanging lazily from the roof rack, casting a warm golden glow over his broad, tanned shoulders.

He was wearing a dark tank top, his hair down for once—soft, crimson waves damp from the sea, falling into his eyes instead of his usual spiked hero style. He smelled like sunblock, salt spray, and the faint, woodsy smoke from the bonfire down on the sand.

“Look, I told you I’d get it!” Eijiro grinned, holding up a massive, ridiculously soft stuffed shark he’d just won from the boardwalk ring-toss booth. His sharp, pointed teeth flashed in the dim light, laugh lines deep around his bright red eyes. “Took me five tries, but a real man doesn’t back down from a carnival game.”

He tossed the giant shark into the back seat, then leaned against the open trunk next to you, resting his weight on his forearms. He let out a long, contented sigh, his shoulder pressed warm and solid against yours. “Man, summer nights are the best,” he murmured, looking out at the dark ocean waves. “Hero work’s been insane lately, but being out here with everyone... with you…” He paused, clicking his tongue as he felt his lower lip. “Agh. Sand and salt water totally wrecked my lips, though. They feel like sandpaper.”

You reached into your jacket pocket, pulling out the small, round tin of coconut mango balm you’d brought along. “I’ve got this, if you don’t mind smelling like a tropical drink.”

Eijiro chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest. “Mind? Line it up!”

He turned his body toward you, turning his head down so you could reach him. Up close, his heat was intoxicating—that steady, grounding presence he always carried. You popped the lid, scraped a bit of the rich, buttery balm onto your fingertip, and pressed it to his lower lip. Eijiro went completely still under your touch, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The rough, calloused skin of his lip softened under the balm, the rich scent of sweet mango and creamy coconut bursting into the quiet space between you.

“Soft,” he whispered, his eyes dipping down to your mouth before rising back to meet your gaze. “There,” you said softly, starting to pull your hand back. “All fixed—”

Eijiro’s hand caught your wrist. His grip was large, firm, and warm—hardened by years of his Hardening Quirk, but holding you with absolute gentleness. “Hold on,” he rasped, a crooked, impossibly fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t let you do all the work.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a slow, lingering kiss that was all heat, coconut, and sweet mango. He pulled you in closer by the waist, his broad hand resting warm against the small of your back, deepening the kiss just enough to make your heart hammer against your ribs before he slowly pulled away. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips, smelling utterly delicious.

“Yeah,” Eijiro chuckled softly, his thumb caressing your hip through your shirt as his bright eyes crinkled. “That’s definitely way better than sandpaper.”

ᰔ KEIGO TAKAMI (HAWKS)

— Honey & Iced Citrus Tea

The golden hour sun over Musutafu’s skyline was the kind of thick, honey-colored light that made everything look unreal. High up on the penthouse balcony, twenty stories above the droning evening traffic, Keigo was propped against the glass railing. He’d stripped off his flight jacket hours ago, leaving him in a loose, black sleeveless tee that showed off the sharp cut of his shoulders and the massive, crimson flare of his wings. They were half-unfurled behind him, catching the warm evening breeze like sailcloth.

You slid open the balcony door, stepping into the balmy, late-summer air with two tall glasses of iced citrus tea. “Thought you were supposed to be doing paperwork,” you said, resting your elbows on the railing beside him.

“Did it,” Keigo drawled smoothly, not looking up from where he was leaning. Instead, one red feather detached itself from his wing with a quiet fwwip, hovering lazily through the air to nudge your chin up so you had to look at him. “Or, well... I delegated it to the sidekicks. Same difference.”

He smirked, pushing his yellow-tinted visor up into his messy blonde hair. His amber eyes were heavy, glowing in the low light like liquid gold. He took one of the tea glasses from your hand, his gloved fingers brushing yours deliberately long. He took a slow sip, his throat moving as he swallowed, before setting the glass down on the wide flat top of the ledge.

“It’s sticky out here,” he murmured, his gaze dropping down to your lips. “You look hot.”

“It’s ninety degrees, Kei.”

“That’s not what I meant, babe, but sure.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small, amber-colored tin—the honey-citrus balm you’d left on his nightstand days ago. With practiced ease, he popped the cap open using just his thumb. He didn’t even use a mirror; he just smoothed a layer over his own lower lip, the rich, golden scent of clover honey and sharp lemon cutting right through the warm ozone air around his feathers.

He didn’t put the tin away. Instead, he stepped into your space, his broad wings curving forward just enough to block the evening wind—and the view from any neighboring rooftops—creating a private, crimson-lined cocoon around the two of you. “Your turn,” he rasped, his voice dipping into that low, purring register he used when he had zero intention of letting you leave the balcony anytime soon.

He dipped his thumb into the tin, scooping up a tiny bit of the balm. His hand was warm, the leather of his fingerless glove soft as he slid his thumb gently across your lower lip, painting it sweet and slick. His touch was feather-light, but the intention behind it was heavy enough to make your pulse jump. “There,” Keigo whispered, his eyes dark as he tilted his head, his breath fanning hot against your cheek. He smelled like citrus, warm honey, and the high-altitude air he practically lived in. “Now we match.”

“Keigo—”

“Shh. Don’t ruin the mood.” He closed the distance, pressing his lips to yours in a lazy, lingering kiss. The contrast was intoxicating—the cool, tart sting of the lemon balm melting into the deep, addictive sweetness of honey, all wrapped up in the heavy, summer-warmed heat of his wings pressing against your back.

When he finally pulled back, just enough for his amber eyes to flutter open, that sharp, lazy smirk was back, tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Tastes better on you,” he murmured against your skin, his feathers rustling softly in satisfaction. “Think I’m gonna need another sip.”

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[ily-phainon]

Aw this was so cute 🥺 and then I got to keigo's part and THIS MAN!!! Also the zara larsson song reference ughhh I love this (๑'ᴗ')ゞ

[frostysnowman123]

furinaaaa

[iwannahearyou-scream]

Apologies for the horny, it’s the time of the month for me, but there’s something really hot about men who can’t resist being inside you to the point they can’t think of anything besides stuffing you full. I feel like this could apply to close to anyone but I’m going to mainly talk about my favs.

An obvious choice would be Phainon who constantly craves you and will go at it about anywhere. Doesn’t really matter where or when once he gets his hands on you he’s going until he passes out and you’re covered with his saliva and sweat.

I think and unconventional choice would also be Sunday but it would be more subtle and he’d probably be in denial. You’d probably have to take initiative but afterwards he wants you 24/7, he’s just more shy and demure about it ✨.

Jing Yuan too but he probably really takes his time and likes cockwarming no matter if you’re on his lap or your about to sleep. Have you seen that lazy fat cat he just wants to be snug as a bug and take a nap with his darling <3

Anyway I have many thoughts about this and hope it made sense lol. I love men who are obsessed and a little needy

TAKE ME OUT MY MISERY | yan!sunday x fem!reader / yan!jing yuan x fem!reader / yan!phainon x fem!reader

tw/cw: yandere behavior and unhealthy relationship dynamics - kidnapping, imprisonment, gaslighting; NSFW - mainly vanilla with sub and dom dynamics - COCKWARMING, edging - DUBCON; reader is female/afab; not thoroughly proofread/edited

a/n: i raise to you anon...cockwarming special from me :> also  sorry if this is a bit too short…if i wrote any longer, i tend to get into all the existential and moral fanfare, and suddenly the horny aspect of this fic gets eclipsed by horror (hence why jing yuan has a whole separate alternative version below llmfao). this fic is mainly PWP. so enjoy :3

Sunday is eerily silent. No orders are being barked out, nor is there the stern hand of discipline stinging at the air. You couldn’t help but feel slightly anxious. 

“A—Are you sure about this?” You ask, a thin sheen of sweat sticking to the stray hairs along the side of your neck.

“Yes. Yes—just,” Sunday pushes you down, all the way down his entire length, with a puddle coming out of your wet cunt. He has you nestled on top of him, sitting on his lap with his hardened cock inside of you.

His hands steer and anchor you, creating a tighter pressure, making you jolt in slow waves of building stimulation. Your thighs constrict around his waist as you search for stable ground.

“It’s a good bonding exercise,” Sunday explains. Despite his simple-minded attitude, he doesn’t do a very good job hiding everything else, his face growing redder by the second and his hands shaking uncontrollably. 

“Cockwarming?” You almost had to stifle a laugh. 

“It closes the—” he stops, a slight hitch to his voice as you try to hold yourself up, before he tethers you back down again, with the bottom of your ass pressed flat against his lap, “Stop doing that—”

“I can’t—hold on—” There’s a dull kind of ache pulsating in your lower stomach, needing aid through a quick release. You can’t help but squirm about, practically writhing in pain, trying too hard to find your composure while it unravels by the second.

“Calm down—if you just stay still,” you heard Sunday inhale a sharp intake of air, “It’ll settle itself out.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, it just—” Your hands fall against his chest, trying to balance, and you swear you feel the echo of his heartbeat on your left palm. 

“Hold it, angel,” he cuts you off, reading your mind. You need something more--more action, more friction, something more tantalizingly addictive, rather than the edging bore of his cock planted in you without even a slight break; he can tell as you grit your teeth and the slight roll of your eyes.

Moments of ecstasy usually test Sunday's strength of patience. You're wondering when he'll just cave in and pick up his pace, yet you’re surprised he didn’t extend his usual care or understanding. Rather, he's holding out longer than you expected, even if you try to push him to test his usual reservations. You're louder than at any other time; you know Sunday appreciates the sound of your voice moaning and whining.

But tonight, pleasure is fashioned as a privilege; in this case, easier to withhold than to give, seeming that he is far more enthralled to contain his own steely spirit while he watched you squirm into a mess. 

“As I was saying,” he sighs, his hands going to smooth over your face, caressing softly, “it helps close any gaps between us. Breaks the distance. It gets us closer.”

“Can’t we just fuck? Normally?” Your head falls to lie on his, foreheads flat against each other. 

Sunday presses a light kiss to your nose, “No. I mean to test your resolve, angel. You’ve been trying me this week.” 

Something flashes in your mind for a brief minute. A broken chain. A defiant insult. A chase. A struggle. 

“You cuffed me to the bedpost.” You retort. You look at him, and he flashes you a smile. He looks like a charming prince there, like the prim, orderly boy he was trained to be. For a moment, you forgot this was all about torturing you. 

“You broke my trust,” he says quite calmly. Justification came just as quickly as you'd expected from him. He is never without reason. 

“And now you’re making me do this?” You try to move, just a little nudge. The slight inching movement makes both of you stutter. He felt you clench tighter around him, but the pain fizzled out into a wave of pleasure. "You're killing me, Sunny."

Sunday kisses you again in response; he couldn't help himself when you're just stuffed full of him. He kisses you again, this time on your lower jaw, then again at the corner of your lips. All the while, you feel his hands travel down around your neck as his fingers coil like the smooth skin of a serpent. 

“I just can't give in to every whim of yours and forgive easily,” Sunday's breath fans across your face. And before you could respond with anything else, you feel both his hands snake further down, flat on your bare ass, pushing you deeper, making the ache burn hotter.

“Don’t move, or this’ll go far longer than you’d like to.”

It’s hard to pay attention to the story Jing Yuan reads aloud, not when you’re forced to stuff yourself with his stiff dick. His voice holds no hint of a tremble, and his composition is far too calm for the unkind pleasure he gruels you with.

And yet, he drones on, and on, and on about some dull book. You can’t even begin to name any of the characters, even if he’s already hundreds of pages in. You don’t even remember the summary he gave to you a moment ago. Though you would have, if it were not for the way he holds you down with his arms, making sure you’re not slipping an inch of respite. 

“What do you think?” Jing Yuan asks. The book in his hands softly closes as he turns his eyes towards your face and sees how you’re trying so hard not to furrow a brow in frustration or even give a nasty glare his way. 

“It’s, uh,” you're trying to muster up some kind of basic response, general enough to make it seem like you were actually trying to listen for a few minutes. But you weren't able to finish your words before the attempt whistles through your clamped lips, groaning involuntarily as Jing Yuan leans back into his chair.

The dipping weight dragged you down with him, making his dick dig deeper into you. A flowery feeling unspools from somewhere beneath your stomach, feeling the tip of his cock graze nerves setting you aflame, and suddenly, there are glimpses of stars in your periphery.

But you seize monetary control right when Jing Yuan clears his throat to catch your wandering attention: “Sounds interesting, honey," you reply, voice a bit cracked.

It’s the desperation seeping out of you—you never call Jing Yuan pet names. Not usually, not unless you really wanted something. And right now, nothing sounded as good as being freed from this painful form of affection, where he’ll finally let you bounce around his hardened length and chase that high you’ve been owed a long time ago.

But Jing Yuan is far from nice. He makes sure he takes his sweet time, until the seconds in between feel like a sentence to something endless. How terribly awful is that? 

“How so?” He questions, fishing for specifics. You get tongue-tied, and he couldn’t help but smile wide when your face falters into a look of pain. Then, a split second of anger, then, with the slight jump of his thigh, back to that soft, dazed look of yours. He could feel you try to dig a little harder for some friction. 

“Hm? What do you think—” He tries again, but you’ve gone completely silent and both your hands grip the armrest of his chair. Your breathing grows more erratic as you begin to tremble. 

It’s been an arduous journey the past few hours, with Jing Yuan teasing you over and over. Occasionally looking up from the pages, watching you from the corner as he just slightly shifts himself so you drag your wet cunt against his lap, and he can hear how you try so hard to suck in your breathing. Or how he pretends to make sure you don’t fall off by wrapping one arm around your waist, giving you a quick, tight squeeze, only for him to push you closer; his lingering warm breath sliding against your bare chest as your mind slowly dies out in shame.

But he stops, all the same, not fully pressing, not fully giving. Jing Yuan stops at the exact amount before you could beg for more. He stops just as you swear you could reach a high if you focused enough. 

You’re surrendering immediately, finding no more reasons to uphold formality and face, “Stop this.” 

“Stop what?” He leans his face real close to yours. You’re not pulling back or pushing him away. Satisfaction spreads through him in a dizzying warmth.

“Stop teasing me,” you’re sighing, clenching around his girth, “Fuck me. Please—I’m sorry for avoiding you. Just fuck me.”

But Jing Yuan, ever so patient and careful, does not crack. Does not budge. That annoying, pitying smile comes back, and you’re trying really hard not to react physically with scorn: “Is that why you think I’m doing this?”

“Yes!” You blurt out. Patience has long abandoned you.

“Hm…” he pauses to think, humming aloud and then, he opens the book again, right where he left off, “Let me finish a couple more chapters. I want to see how this cliffhanger goes—then we can have a go at it.”

Your resolve crumbles while Jing Yuan keeps you on his lap like the prisoner you are. 

[ALTERNATIVE LONGER VERSION HERE]

Phainon’s restless. He can’t find much sleep when you keep squirming. But when he coos in your ear, calls you sweetling and honey, there’s a saccharine tone to his voice that you can’t exactly tell if he even minds sleeplessness.

You already can’t tell if the dried trails pooled by your neck are your saliva or his; your tears or his; or an amalgamation of all four, all at once. His cock fully buried inside of you, balls deep, dragging you down to a pit of endless insatiability. 

“Phainon, it’s four a.m.,” you pleaded, and he responded by squeezing the fat of your hips with both his hands, kneading against your naked body. 

“So you can read a clock,” he presses a kiss on the back of your neck. 

“I am sore. Not blind,” you quickly retort, but he shushes that up too. He moves a little, lifts you by your hips, with a slight dragging friction under you to bring you closer to his open chest, sticking to your back. You feel his cock shift ever so slightly inside your trembling insides. You twist and tangle yourself deeper into a knot in his arms.

Phainon giggles, his breath rippling down your spine, and the flame inside you burns brighter, coiling to no end. You had to hold yourself back from ripping out your hair. This was torture. This was an endless eternity of suffering and torture. 

“You want this to end?” His voice tilts into a deep purr, rumbling something unsettling in the pits of your stomach. His hands, large on your soft skin, leave trails of red marks; they never really stop roaming. Overeager is Phainon’s middle name. “You want me to just fuck you and get over it? Then you’ll turn your back to me for the rest of the night? Leaving me all cold and empty?”

There’s a dangerous glint of accusation in his voice that bordered on hurt. “You’re a cruel mistress," he takes a nip at your earlobe.

Truthfully, Phainon wanted to fuck you as much as you were begging him to. He wanted to break into his carnal desires as a man so hungry, but he wanted to savor every inch of you for as long as he could. He hated endings, never understood them. Especially not when it comes to moments with you.

Phainon refuses to fuck your tight cunt, even if the swell of his balls weighed heavy enough that it hurt. Even if you’re here lying so pliant and obedient for him, ready to be used. He doesn’t press any more than needed, just enough to make sure he could feel you breathe in the tight cocoon of his arms, while driving you into insanity as he teases you. 

You don’t respond to anything Phainon has said; your words stifled by another painful quiver rocking throughout your body. But you couldn’t hold back whining his name as if a plea. You could feel him smile when he pressed a tender kiss to your scalp. 

“Tell me you don’t want this to end,” one of his hands brings a solemn finger to trace your nipple. Your hand firmly grips the bedsheets until you’re sure there’ll be imprints of wrinkles for days.

You want to push yourself off of him and push all of it in you, over and over again, until the creaking of the bed harmonises with your moans. Then your vision goes blank white and nothing fills your mind but bliss. 

Phainon catches how your eyes gloss over with a haze, and he snaps you out of your daydreams by bringing a pinch to your nipple. “Tell me, my love, you like warming my cock while we lay together like this.” 

His other hand grabs at your chin and turns your head to look at him straight, so he can watch every painful desperate twisting expression wrench out of you, “Do you do not love taking all of me?”

“ I—I do,” you’re finding the pattern of your breathing you lost a long while ago, when the night was still young. 

“Then stay still for me, okay?” Phainon kisses you on the lips, still unmoving. Pain coddles you to sleep that night.