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Welcome to my bedroom | Any prns 18+

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Rubbing your pussy against Mydei's pussy 😍

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College Student!Phainon chasing after Milf!Reader... son are you sure you can handle all that?

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Desperate for pregy sex with Phainon or Mydei or even both at the same time 👀

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Bulky Dilfnon lives rent free in my head tbh. There is no way that man is lean after having children to care for (how else would his babies sleep on him so comfortably?) and eating gud food everyday that his spouse cooks. Also, don't get me started with his dad strength that made him 10x more powerful☝️Don't misunderstand me, he's still muscular and hasn't let himself go entirely, but that body fat percentage isn't as low as it used to be. His pecs are bigger too

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Guys hear me out...we all know how Phainon grew up on a farm so imagine the farmer strength he has. Like, he's so strong can't struggle opening jars at all, is able to haul so much hay all at once, and manhandles the shit out of you...

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As much as I enjoy the Yan!Phainon I would love content with just a Hopeless romantic Phainon who is less obsessed in a hostile way but more obsessed in the fawning sense. Very clingy, almost anxious attachment 🥴🐶

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Need a crack fic where reader has a fat crush on both Mydei and Phainon and seeing them together always has us being like "oh my goddd I'm going to lose😭😭😭😭" borderline crashing out bc they like them together even more and it's so obvious they want each other.

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Father is fathering here 🤭🤭🤭

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Just saw someone make a top 5 hottest hsr women list and it was Acheron, Feixiao, and Femdei lord im so feral for tall and built feminine women 😍

[melielikeli]

Agrióchoron (ἀγριόχορτον)

This compound word combines the Greek words for "wild" (agrios) and "grass" or "plant" (choron), making it a direct translation for a wild-growing, unwanted plant—weed.

Mydei x healer reader

When the march of the Kremnoan Detachment for the throne of Castrum Kremnos proves to be a harder truth to swallow for Mydei than he anticipated, he finds comfort in the only person who believes he can rise above the violence, and not be just another warrior ruled by strife.

Warnings: My first time writing smut—be warned. Mentions of gore.

Im in my HSR phase again, wrote this all in one sitting, not proofread at all. Any interaction and constructive criticism much appreciated!!

Mydeis eyes are glued to the ruins of Castrum Kremnos, the marble shattered like glass, the wail of mindless soldiers who have no more glory than they do soul, of tattered murals and lost memories. It is so loud, yet defeaning in its silence.

The earth is dead and barren, the sky covered in a fog so thick it could cloud his lungs. There were times he dreamed of this place, of its splendor. Of his mother, of his comrades seeing it in its true glory.

Of you.

The march to Castrum Kremnus was long and arduous, fueled by an unending desire to kill King Eurypon, to kill the vile titan they called their god, to shatter the cycle of violence in Castrum Kremnus once and for all.

His comrades were brave, honorable, strong in way he can admit he was not. Yet they were mortal, as all of you were mortal.

His armor clinks beneath each heavy step, and for a moment he has to still himself to take in the sights before him. The arena, the darkness swirling around it like a curse. The stones just from the earth as if torn out in immense struggle, barren and desolate and…

There is a flower—or a weed, he cannot tell the difference, blooming amidst the cracks of the marble, pale yellow and green and alive. It makes him mourn what this city could have been.

Why was the last time he truly admired something so alive? So beautiful? The holy city is beauty in itself, yet it could never compare.

You’d liked flowers, collected them till your fingers blistered from the thorns, handed them to whoever looked too intently at them. People would smile, it was so simple, so meaningless, yet it made a difference. You’d tend to their wounds, embrace them when they cried. Once Hephaestion admitted your tending almost made him stronger.

“It’s like sorcery, Mydeimos.” He’d grin. “A shame you cannot feel such serenity! Though you have other perks, do you not?”

“A foolish notion,” he’d murmur under his breath. “Perhaps you are not fit for glorious death in battle—but for gentle chidings.”

“Who is not fit for glorious death in battle?” A voice slices through the stuppor, Hephestion perks up. “Ah! Marvelous healer, there you are!” He waves a hand over, drags you to sit with him and Mydei. You’re clean, its been a rarity to not see your hands coated in blood as of late. You’re weak, not a warrior, but a necessity for the more fragile mortals who fight alongside him.

“Me and Mydei we’re simply discussing your skills as a physician. Yet he calls me feeble and weak.” He nudges you with his elbow, slides a mug of some red liquid to you. Its not wine, but pomegranate juice.

“I don’t think you feeble.” You say, taking a tentative sip.

“Hah! At last, the truth!” Hephaestion grins, though he excuses himself to tend to other matters. Mydei is stuck looking at you. You’d never been practically remarkable, you are comrades, not as close with him as the others, but it’s only natural. He cannot remember a time he truly looked at your face so intently, you shift and redden under his gaze, and he clears his throat. What a peculiar reaction.

“We’re low on medicinal herbs and clean bandages,” You add quietly. “Id request some, yet i know there are other priorities. And the soil here is unforgiving, so i cannot forage for anything—“

“Are you truly a sorceress?” He interrupts blankly, and you smile, then you smile wider, and you laugh. He stands corrected—you giggle. That sound happy maidens make, atleast thats what he’d picture it like. He hasn’t heard much of a so called ‘giggle’, his comrades could be described as guffawing, or barking out laughter. Never giggling.“Hephaestion said your healing is sorcery.”

“He said that? Thats good to know.” You laugh. “Its not really sorcery, my lord. He simply meant that its… nice, i suppose?”

“What is ‘nice’ about being wounded bleeding out on some rough cot?” He asks.

“Well, it is a kind gesture. To tend to someone. Have you never had one tend to you?”

“Not particularly—i have no need for it.”

“I can tend to you, even if you are not injured… i could help ease soreness, i have a salve that works wonders on aches and pains—You have aches, do you not?” You ask quickly, it leaves him almost dumbfounded. It is a waste of an already lacking supply of ointments and herbs. Yet he finds himself so curios he almost jumps at the idea. Hephaestion said your touch was sorcery, you laughed at the notion like it was a joke, yet his comrades do not lie often.

“Not really.” He hums, though his thoughts drift. He’s been a warrior so long he almost forgets what is an ache and what is simply a fact of life. “You’re welcome to attempt it.”

———————————————————————

His skin feels cool beneath the patches you delicately place there, robes and armor slipped off his shoulder to allow you full reign of his torso. “This is meant to… soothe me, as you say?” He asks, fingers ghosting over the damp sheets of bandage pasted to his skin, you swat his hand away gently. “Yes, but don’t touch—“ You chide quietly. “Im not finished yet.”

“I don’t feel much of a difference at present.”

“Wait a bit,” you laugh. “Its meant to be put on a while, till it dries down, then washed off. Or you’ll smell like damp weeds for an evening.” You tease, fingers gently gliding over his skin, over each dip and curve of his body. It is nice, he loathes to admit it. Something made of… weeds, of all things. Not so much the weeds, more-so the company. “You lather me in weeds?”

“Weeds are fine ingredients when there are none.”

“Most would call a weed a nuisance.” He hums. “I think they are resilient. Me and weeds are kindred spirits, you see, always sprouting up where were unwanted and never leaving.” You trail off. “Weeds do not have the capacity to truly grasp where they are wanted or not. They’re measly plants.” He scoffs, you seem almost eccentric for a healer. Are people like you not meant to be level headed and reasonable?

“Don’t take everything i say at such face value,” you huff. “You could be considered a weed too. You are the very definition of resilience! Like some otherworldly godly weed.” You giggle, Mydei feels his skin almost prickle beneath your voice. Your joy is contagious, it buries itself beneath his skin and burrows itself beneath the golden fibers of his flesh. “Though perhaps i should not speak so freely of a king—forgive me.”

“I am no king yet, you are my comrade, speak whatever you wish. I care not.”

“Then, may i ask a silly question?”

“Go on.”

“What do you intend to do when we take back Castrum Kremnos?”

“To kill the traitorous man i call a father and king—and free my people. You’ve been in the Kremnoan detachment so long, yet you question our main motive?”

“I only meant… will you continue fighting forever, my king?” You ask softly, gently pulling away from him, letting the salve do its work. He could almost mourn the loss of your presence, yet your question pierces through him.

Weeds—nuisance or resilient?

Will he fight forever? Undying? In a constant sea of strife?

Will he doom Kremnoans to endless blood and gore and battle?

Shall all children be required to wield a sword? to fight?

“What do you suggest i do? Glory and battle are in my blood.” He asks quietly.

“I do not know—gods know what is in your blood. You bleed golden.” You answer truthfully, place a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeeze. He stiffens beneath your hand. “But whatever you decide, i think shall be the right step forward.” You say softly. “You… we both are weeds after all. Nuisances. You are a marvelous warrior, but you are shrewd as-well. You shall think of something.”

Mydei—bloodthirsty warrior or shrewd strategist?

“A clever analogy, i suppose. Though now id think you admit nuisance the correct term.” He says quietly, his chest feels light every time you speak. Battle forever sounds like damnation, even if it is in his blood, if its written in the very pages of his being.Do you think him mindlessly bloodthirsty, searching for battle? Do you truly think he shall make the right choice? the smart choice? You seek no mindless glory, though he has not quite figured out what you seek. But that does not ease the voices in his chest.

Is this all he is? Some mindless warrior prince? Heir to a kingdom built on the very foundations of those too weak, too feeble, too dishonorable?

“I think weed the correct term.” You say quietly, and for a moment he goes silent. His lip curls, almost imperceptibly. That answer sounds pleasing, almost unreasonably so.

———————————————————————

His eyes fall back to the weed amongst the stones, the footsteps of twisted, maddened soldiers approaching with unprecedented speed. He must be getting closer to his true goal. Nikador. Titan of Strife.

Will it still be there when he returns? If he returns? Will it persevere, or will some careless beast topple it?

———————————————————————

“My king, its you again—“ Your voice is light, sultry sweet amidst the groaning soldiers. How can you smile like this after such horrid defeat? In the face of so much pain, you will yourself to smile. They had lost Perdikkas not long ago, and you’d mourned in that quiet way that made him want to stick his hand into your chest and reach for the grief welling in it so you would not burst. But your duty required you to be helpful, not happy. So why were you?

“I came to see the injured—and how you fare with limited supplies.” He says simply. “How many casualties?”

“Half a dozen, the rest are stable, my king. They fought gloriously.” You say quietly, blood soaked, hair clinging to your damp forehead, you seem wobbly on your feet. No doubt you’ve tirelessly tended to anyone you thought you could save. And you have very high margins for what you consider survivable. “Excuse yourself for now, you’re pale—one mistake shall be fatal for the people you care over. I won’t excuse it, not even from you. Rest. It’s an order.”

“I assure you, im fine, my king. Simply a bit overcrowded—“ Your voice is quiet, scrubbing your hands raw with some damp rag, the blood is practically stained under your fingernails. You wobble, tumble against the wall enough to make shelves rattle.

The other healers are too busy, he cannot leave you. He does not wish to leave you, he will tend to you himself if need be.

———————————————————————

Your skin feels damp when you open your eyes, your first thought is the bathhouse, you panic at the thought. Lingering in the bathhouse during such trivial times is nothing short of embarrassing.

“Are you finally awake?” Mydeis voice snaps you out of your stuppor, your vision feels blurry, body wracked in shivers, yet still on fire. “You’ve caught something, no doubt. You’re in your room.” He walks over to you, rolls up your sleeves, brushes a cool rag over your skin with surprising delicacy. His hand is calloused, almost branding your skin with its heat.

“My patients, they need—“

“They are being tended to, and all in stable condition, thanks to you. We’d have lost a dozen more if you did not care for them so diligently.” He adds quietly, looks down at your flushed face, at your heaving chest. It seems painful. He has never been so sick, it’s a nerve-wracking sight. How a simple sickness shatters a weaker body. “Just how careless are you with your own health? It is a simple cold and lack of sleep, is what the others told me. You look halfway dead.”

“They say doctors are the worst patients. I’ll recover.” You smile, shift uncomfortably beneath the heat blooming against your flesh. “Thank you.” Your voice is gentle, barely there, he would not have heard you had he not been holding his breath. “To be tended to by a king… it sure is nice.”

“You’re delirious. I’ve told you countless times i am no king yet.” He sighs, cringing at the sight of you. So unlike yourself, you can barely make noise, as if your ribs strain simply to make room for your lungs. He feels worry gnaw at him like a parasite, he swallows down whatever foolish notions bubble up in his gut. “Tending to someone is quite the work, no wonder you collapsed. Im tired merely looking at you.” He adds, and you laugh again, lean into the cool compress pressed to your forehead, murmur unintelligible things under your breath.

“I thought you said you were a resilient weed.” He hums.

“Resilient—not immortal.”

“I suppose that does not make me a weed, does it?” He says simply, he feels bitter at the notion. Perhaps if he was simpler, he could be a weed too. As foolish as it sounds. He could have been ordinary too.

———————————————————————

He wants to touch you, to reach out and take this constant fever away from you. You’ve been better and worse, its been so long, months and months, yet you do not seem to return as you were before. You’re weaker, unable to work as many hours. You told him once you were resilient, not immortal. Is resilience truly a virtue if it leaves you living in constant struggle?

“You should stop with your work.” He suggests one day, left with you when all the others rest, drinking pomegranate juice of all things in his chambers. “I can’t, the soldiers need me, my king. What use will i have if i quit?”

“You are unfit, and slow, and the other doctors worry more about you than the patients.” He scoffs, though he quiets down when he sees your lip purse. He meant it only as suggestion, not insult. “You are a brilliant physician—“ he begins quickly. “But you’re sick, and you must rest properly if you ever wish to truly be better again.”

“Rest where? I cannot waste supplies here if i do no work, it is unreasonable— I am fine!”

“You do not waste anything, with the countless lives you’ve saved none would protest—“ He stands abruptly, and for a moment he looks wracked in what seems to be frustration. It is difficult to tell. No doubt you’ve grown closer with the constant passings of your fellow comrades, and your private conversation, but this is a different topic altogether.

“I will not be useless when at present you cannot afford it,” You scoff, though your shaken when his hands fall upon your shoulders. “You have been all but useless—but at present your weaknesses outweigh your skill.” He says sharply. “You have seen our comrades fall, again and again, will you truly be so mindless? So brazen with your life?”

“You’re quite opinionated considering you are undying, and you cannot know how it feels—!”

“As your king, i order you to cease your uselessness!” He says sternly, squeezes you enough to prove a point, but not injure you. You are far too fragile at present. You bite your lip, turn away from him. “I wish for you here,” he says, practically forces the words from his chest. They hurt to admit.

This is why weakness is not tolerated, because it is bothersome, and painful, too hard for even him to face. “Do not make me beg.”

“My king, i would not dare—“

———————————————————————

He kisses you with a force he himself did not expect to use, cages your head amidst heavy hands and presses his face to yours with a carelessness that borders on the sheer romantic. He pulls away to gauge your reaction, perhaps to excuse his foolishness, but you do not speak, fingers digging into his forearm. “My king—“

He kisses you again, “You are not immortal, you said it yourself—“ again. “Listen to me, for once—“ again. Again. Again.

“My king—“ You’re out of breath, looking up at him with such wide eyes, as if you’ve seen a ghost. “Mydei.” he corrects sharply, clutches you like you’re made of glass, almost clumsy in nature. “I am not just your king, am i? Do you not see what you’ve done to me?”

“no-no, of course not!” you reach for him, and for a split second its like he’s been doused in godly ambrosia. You’re so soft, so warm, you hold him so gently. He does not wish to let you go.

“You’ve not seen what you do to me? Or that i am not just your king?” He asks, scoops you up into his arm as you stammer to find your words. “You’re asking me too many questions—“ you complain, but the moment your back meets the plush cushions of his bed you fall silent. He’s on you quickly, as if you’ll slip from his grasp if he isnt. Kissing and squeezing wherever his hands land. He has not done this often, maybe once or twice to satisfy some strange ache, yet never like this.

You make such sweet sounds, you pull him closer to you, begin tugging, or attempting to, at his armor in an attempt to remove it. “It’s sharp,” you say. “and cold—“ you add.

He’d never wear it again if it meant you asked him not to, he helps your fingers unfasten the buckles, hears the heavy metal clank to the marble floor. He feels flush, all the blood in him is rushing to his groin and he can’t think straight.

“I wish to see you.” his weight atop you is practically unbearable, warm breathing hitting your nape as he tugs your robes off, drags his lips across your collarbone, down the valley of your breasts. “Like some nymph,” he breathes out, presses his lips atop your nipple, presses his tongue flat against it and watches you shiver. He wonders where else you shiver, where you squeal and squirm.

His cock is unbearably hard, it’s almost painful. Will you ease that pain, as you always do? You always seem to have a remedy for things he did not know he struggled with.

He slots in between your thighs, presses a finger into your sopping cunt, you squeal at the intrusion. “Mydei—“ You mewl, curl off the bed, clutch at his wrist like it’ll help you. “This is the spot that makes you sing, then?” He breathes out, looming over you like some curse, almost evil in his enjoyment, playing you like a fiddle. Practiced, careful, perfect. “Mydei, Mydei, no more—“ You moan, sweet and high and more than enough to make his cock throb.

His fingers slip from you with a lewd shlick, you reach to help him from his clothes without question. It makes his chest swell. You’re so beautiful, even flushed and soaked and no doubt embarrassing to you, you are nothing but divine.

“Mydei..” you swallow, hands tenative as they reach for his cock, hard and aching between his thighs. His head is spinning, jaw straining as you slide your fingers up his length. “You won’t possibly—“ you shiver, though you pull him closer, nudge his fat tip at your entrance. You both groan when it catches at your clit, sending a shock up your spine. His eyes are glued to where you two meet, cock short of fully entering you, almost peeking in before you pull it out to do it all over again.

“You intend to torture me?” He asks quietly. “Can you not see the… state im in?” he asks quietly, looks up to meet your steady eyes, the glimmer of sheer carnal pleasure in your iris. “As my king commands,” you sigh, press him between your thighs, take him into the tight sheath of your cunt. He groans, drives his hip forward in one slow, agonizing thrust, enough to make you feel it in your throat.

“Gods, you’re like a furnace.” he groans, forehead pressed to your breast, hips pressing into you with a rhythm that borders on robotic. Perfectly slow and fast, hard and soft at the same time. You’re so soft inside, he’s bullying your insides till they’re all mushy, weeping against him. “You feel wonderful—“

“Gods, Mydei, harder—“ You mewl, nails digging into the hard planes of his back as he pistons into you without warning, churns inside you till your legs are shaking either side of him. “Let me feel you,” he asks breathlessly. “Let me fill you,” he adds. “Please—“

“Yes—yes, im nearly—“ You can barely form words, eyes watering at the sheer strain of his size, cunt fluttering in bliss as a coul in stomach tightens, snaps with his final thrust. You see stars, shiver when he pumps you full, almost trying to force himself impossibly deeper.

————————————————————————

He was a fool to believe all those years ago—that a weed was just a weed. It is a nuisance, a feeble, simple nuisance. It doesn’t deserve to be called a weed. Not when it’s trampled so easily, not when it lingers just to torment and bother whenever it sprouts up.

You thought him a weed—just Mydei. No nuisance, no resilient plant. You did not see the world in black and white: No bloodthirsty killer, no shrewd warmonger. You thought him able to escape it all.

He was a fool to believe all those years ago—that a weed was just a weed. It is a nuisance, a feeble, simple nuisance. It doesn’t deserve to be called a weed. Not when it’s trampled so easily, not when it lingers just to torment and bother whenever it sprouts up. You shined as brightly as you dimmed, your spark died as quick as it lived. Your illness grew worse, your body weak enough to where even your hopes for him were abysmal beneath the weight of fate. Your passing was quick and sudden, and he’d had no chance then but to march to Castrum Kremnus, unable to mourn

He was a fool to think himself, son of Gorgo, to be crowned in anything but blood and strife.

[celabi]

ATTA' GIRL, SWEETHEART — PHAINON X READER

phainon loves this day of the week— where he’s finally finished off the last of the milk, and his favourite girl just so happens to be full of it. erotic lactation, breast feeding, titty sucking/fondling, fingering, mentions of breeding. farmer phainon x cow hybrid fem! reader

phainon was many things— an early riser with straw still stuck in his curls before sunrise, a relentless worker who’d haul bales twice his weight without a word, a hopeless softie who spoiled his animals more than he ever spoiled himself— but above all else, he was a creature of habit.

and this habit… oh, this was his absolute fucking favorite.

the week always seemed longer when the milk started running low. every morning he’d check the jars in the cold cellar, huffing thoughtfully as the liquid line crept closer and closer to the bottom. every time he’d glance over his shoulder toward the barn, where you were probably napping in a warm patch of sunlight, your tail flicking lazily, completely unaware of how empty the shelves were becoming.

by the time sunday afternoon rolled around, he’d open the last jar, weigh it in his hand, and feel the spark of excitement quickly flicker to life in his chest. for anyone else on the farm, it would’ve been an inconvenience— an extra chore added to the morning list, something to grumble about as they lugged empty pails to the storage shed. but not to him.

“ah.” he breathed out a low laugh, the sound warm and a little too pleased with himself, utterly unable to hide the grin creeping up his face. his eyes flicked to the empty shelf again just to savor the sight. “guess it’s that time again.”

he always pretended to be inconvenienced— leaning back, sighing dramatically, muttering something about how the farm never gives him a break. but the warm, fluttering in his stomach? that was impossible to mask. even the workers picked up on it. they’d see him walking toward the barn with a bucket in one hand and a clean towel slung over his shoulder, whistling cheerfully.

so here he was— trying and failing to look composed as he hurried around his tiny farmhouse, fixing himself up like he was about to meet royalty. he smoothed down his collar twice, then a third time just to be sure, scrubbed his hands until they were clean, warm, and soft enough not to bother your sensitive skin, and sifted through his buckets until he found the one with the least amount of rust.

bucket in hand, he all but floated across the yard toward your stall, boots crunching over the straw as he fought the urge to outright skip.

he even bypassed his horse hybrid— normally another one of his shadows, always trotting over for her morning nose rubs the second she spotted him. she stepped into his path with a soft whine, ears perked and fully expecting his usual affection. but phainon didn’t even so much as slow down— instead, he offered her nothing more than a distracted and breathless ‘not now, girl’ as he sped walked right past.

when he finally reached your stall, he stopped just shy of the doorway— closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and willed the excitement off his face. no smiling. no eagerness. no obvious ‘this is the highlight of my week’. he needed you pliant and needy— focused only on making him happy.

so when he stepped inside, he let out the most dramatic, put upon sigh imaginable.

“hey, sweetheart..” he muttered, setting the bucket down with an intentionally loud clatter, shoulders slumping as if wanting you to know that the weight of the entire farm rested solely on his back. “we sure go through a lot, don’t we? always keeping you busy.”

you stiffened instantly— every instinct in your hybrid body reacting to the way his eyes roamed up and down your frame. your ears tilted back in a nervous twitch, your tail giving one small guilty sweep across the straw. you stepped toward him, eyes going wide and shiny in that apologetic way that always made his chest feel too tight. your fingers picked anxiously at a piece of hay, shoulders curling inward like you were already bracing to make up for whatever trouble you thought you’d caused.

and phainon— gods, phainon thrived on that.

that look of yours, all worried innocence and desperate to please obedience. that instinctual flinch of i’ll be good, i’ll help, don’t be upset, and the quiet way you drew closer, as if your entire purpose was to ease his stress.

he adored it— he fucking depended on it. because every single time you looked at him like you were just so eager to fix things— he knew he’d get twice as much from you as he ever asked for.

you stepped into him without even thinking— like your instincts had his name written all over them, your forehead pressing gently to the center of his chest, right where the fabric of his shirt stretched warm over his heartbeat. a small sound slipped past your lips, soft and apologetic as your hands slid around his waist, gripping him with that shy, uncertain squeeze that always gutted him.

you didn’t speak— hybrids rarely needed to when their owner did all the talking— but the message was very clear in the way your fingers curled into his shirt, in the way your tail drooped low behind you. you were ready to please.

he audibly clicked his tongue in fake disappointment— as though the weight of your imagined misbehavior was just too much for his little heart. but inside? he was buzzing, warm all the way to his fingertips, practically purring with victory the way you usually did when he got extra touchy.

his hand slid into your hair, fingers parting through the soft strands before brushing your ears back until they flicked and twitched under his touch. he lowered his voice into that soft, weary murmur you always answered so responsively to.

“hey now…” he sighed, thumb tracing the curve of your ear like he wasn’t savoring every sweet second of this. “if you’re gonna make me work this hard…” his hand gently cupped the back of your head, pulling you impossibly closer. “then you’d better be an extra— extra good girl for me today.”

he let his gaze drift subtly— though not so subtly at all— towards the nearby bucket, tilting his head with a raised eyebrow that held all the patience of someone who knew exactly what he wanted. “…ready to get started?” he murmured, voice low and carrying that teasing edge that made your stomach flip.

you nodded shyly, stepping back and turning slightly to adjust yourself, as if you weren’t already the very picture of perfection itself— yet phainon’s gaze followed you unblinkingly, his eyes half lidded with admiration, too completely enamoured to even think about convincing you that you already looked flawless.

“…atta girl.” he murmured softly, barely audible over the gentle rustle of hay as he moved to step closer, gently guiding you back toward your nest of soft blankets and helping you settle onto your back. once he made sure you were comfortable, he knelt beside you, hands resting lightly on your stomach with his fingers moving in small, soothing circles over your thin blouse.

“you know i hate doing this to you…” he hummed— though the lie that slipped straight through his teeth was obvious to dissect in the playful glint of his eyes. his brows furrowed slightly, lips pressing into a mock frown. “i know it’s uncomfortable… but that’s exactly why you’re here, hm? to give me milk, my sweet girl?”

you let out a soft sound— a cow’s gentle moo if it wasn’t so human like, which instantly sent blood rushing into all parts of his body. his hand trailed up your torso, slowly tracing the buttons of your blouse, before finally reaching your neck and tilting your head towards him by your jaw.

“…you’ll be good, won’t you?” he whispers quietly, the rough pad of his thumb dragging softly over the smooth skin of your bottom lip. you nod, like the obedient little hyrbid you were born and trained to be, and reach down to undo the first of your buttons to save him the trouble of fussing.

“…yes, phainon… i’ll be good.”

oh… he nearly hunches forward, caught off guard by the soft murmur of your voice— a rarity since you were usually so meek and quiet, instead choosing to let your, very wanted and welcome, touches speak for you instead of words. but when he is fortunate enough to hear it— that quiet and melodic tone that instantly throws him off balance, sends shivers through him in a way you could never possibly comprehend.

he groans low in his throat, a deep and rumbling sound vibrating in his chest as his eyes trace every inch of skin that your hands reveal. the first button slips free, and then the second, exposing the graceful sweep of your collarbones just shyly peeking out. by the third, he’s salivating, mouth hung open and caught somewhere between awe and desperation, teetering on the edge of restraint and treading into dangerous territory. “that’s it… nice and slow for me.”

you squirm under his low, drawn out voice, fully aware of what exactly that quiet, hungry tone entailed. your fingers tremble slightly as you undo the remaining buttons, letting your shirt fall open and hang loosely from your shoulders. you lay there, your cheeks warm and eyes darting to the barn wall to avoid his intense, unwavering gaze. while it’s true that he’s seen you like this countless times before— somehow, it never gets any less overwhelming or humiliating.

but… you want to please him. that’s your purpose— it’s what you were bred for, what you were raised for. you laze in the fields, you stay soft, pretty and compliant for him, and you give him milk whenever he needs it. that’s the order of things on a ranch.

and yet… somewhere along the way, under phainon’s gentle hands and quiet kindness, that sense of duty twisted into something warmer— something that makes your pulse flutter. being his… obeying him… offering yourself up so naturally— it stopped feeling like an obligation you had to oblige by.

in his care, it felt thrilling. because he was perfect to you— impossibly, achingly perfect in a way you didn’t believe possible. he made you feel things your previous owner never even understood, let alone cared to offer.

your last farmer forcefully tugged you around on a leash when you whined because your legs shook from exhaustion. phainon lifted you into his arms without a word of complaint. your last farmer clipped your ears and tagged you like property. phainon braided little ribbons into your fur and swapped metal for jewellery that glimmered under the sun when you napped in the wheat fields.

your last farmer had branded you with a hot iron, marking you as nothing more than livestock, a commodity to be bought and sold. phainon, by contrast, traced your skin with soft kisses— his hands gentle where others had been cruel. laying yourself bare for him like this, completely exposed to his hungry gaze… maybe, whether you wanted to admit it or not, you found yourself enjoying it just as much.

your gaze drifts back to him when the silence stretches too long and uncomfortable— only to find his eyes already locked on yours. he gives you a small, strained smile, betraying just how much effort it really takes to hold himself back. “feeling shy?” he teases softly, his voice warm yet low. “hah… you look absolutely adorable when you get all flustered on me.”

he leans in closer, his hair falling just enough to shadow the raw desire shining in his eyes as he hovers over you. his hand trails down, fingers gliding back along the path he traveled up your throat, and towards your exposed chest. “what d’ya say? let me get my fill before i stock back up?”

you let out a small, flustered whine, ears drooping in a futile attempt to hide your face from him as if that would help. phainon only chuckles, the sound low and warm, shaking his head at how utterly endearing you look beneath him. his fingers reach up, gently flicking the tip of your ear just enough to pull out another sound from your lips. “oh, sweetheart… you being all soft and shy like this… i’m sure it’ll only make your milk taste even sweeter.”

his fingers trail down to your chest, tracing the curve of your swollen breasts before he cups one of them fully in his large hand. he squeezes it experimentally, feeling the heavy weight of it in his palm, and watching some milk even spill out from your already perked nipple. it feels painful, indicating you’ve been full for a while, just waiting patiently to be milked by him like the good girl he knows you are. "mm... you've got much more than last time, haven't you? i know you have so much to give me today…”

you let out a soft moan, arching your back slightly as phainon's strong hand kneads your sensitive flesh. the feel of his fingers sinking into your breast sends jolts of pleasure through your body, making your nipple stiffen even more beneath his touch. you can practically feel the heavy cream inside you following his warmth, aching to be released.

"shhh, easy now..." phainon coos softly, his thumb and forefinger pinching around your nipple to tug on it further. a thin stream of milk dribbles out as he does, the white liquid beading up before gliding down and disappearing between the valley of your breasts. "mm, you're so full, sweetheart. don’t worry, I'll drain every last drop..."

his other hand cups your other breast, squeezing and massaging it in sync with the one already dripping milk. he leans down, his lips hovering just inches above the warm stream now trickling down your sternum. you can feel his warm breath ghosting over your skin, making the fur on your arms stand on end.

his lips part, glistening faintly as if he can’t help but be captivated by the sight of you laid out and at his mercy. one of your harden buds impatiently meets the warmth of his mouth, and he wraps his lips softly around it, applying gentle, coaxing pressure that hopefully draws more from you.

he groans softly at the taste, the vibration of his low hum sending tiny shocks of warmth throughout your already sensitive chest. exactly as he’d suspected— so naturally sweet and rich that no artificial touch could ever even think to improve it. this batch feels far too precious to part with, too perfect for the market when he could hoard it just for him to savour.

his other hand pauses its fondling, finally noticing just how much of your milk is slipping through his fingers as he squeezes without proper collecting equipment, his mouth for example. with a small, almost guilty sigh, he lets it wander instead, giving your swollen tit a break before gliding down your stomach, over your abdomen, and tracing lower, just shy of brushing over your crotch, which is hidden by the thin shorts he’d given you.

“mmfph— s-sorry about the mess… got a little carried away there.” he admits almost bashfully, his voice muffled around your nipple. milk dribbles past the corners of his lips, streaking his chin and giving him the look of an unsupervised child with a bottle. but that was phainon— always dirty at the end of the day, and never one to worry about being tidy when it mattered. in this case, staying clean would only mean he hadn’t truly done his job right.

his hand drifts lower, brushing dangerously close to the waistband of your shorts, when your own hand snaps down to catch it. he doesn’t pause his sucking or the loud noise when he swallows, but a single brow quirks up in silent question. for a split second, he wonders if your embarrassment is keeping him at bay— but then your hand presses insistently against his, practically urging him to continue as you guide him into your shorts, making it clear you need it just as bad.

his eyes widen slightly at your insistence, a flicker of surprise at your boldness before a slow, very pleased chuckle bubbles from his throat— the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating pleasurably against your skin. his hand slips beneath the fabric of your shorts without any resistance, fingers immediately seeking out your wet folds because, what kind of cow wears underwear?

"mm, it seems like you need more than just milking today, don't you sweetheart?" he murmurs, taking one last big drink of your liquid before finally pulling back. the tit he’d been latched onto like a leach, is now much smaller than the other, showing just how much of your milk he had consumed in his blind haste for more.

he doesn't hesitate, his fingers delving into your folds without restraint, finding you already slick and ready for him. he groans at the evidence of your arousal, your body's clear need for his touch. "ah, baby... you're so wet already. they slip right in..." he circles your clit with the pad of his thumb, feeling it throb against his touch as he fingers you deeper. "you're just begging to be bred, aren't you? wanting little calf’s running around the farm, hm?”

you moan, hand wrapping tightly around his wrist as you feel his long fingers invade your insides. “p-phainon—“ you let out a high pitched mewl, fucking music to his ears, when his palm starts grinding against your clit the deeper he goes.

he grunts at your needy sound, fingers pumping faster, plunging deeper, urged on by the way your slick and tight walls clench greedily around his intrusion. "that's it, petty girl... let me hear you. i want to hear all those pretty noises spilling from your lips as i fill you up..." his voice is a low, hungry rumble, eyes darkening with lust as he watches your face contort in pleasure.

he leans down, and his tongue quickly delves into your mouth, stroking along your own and silently urging you to respond to him louder. he wants to taste your pleasure, wants to drink down every last drop of it just like he had done earlier with your milk. his fingers never cease their relentless pumping, continuously drilling into you and curling against that spot that makes you see stars behind your eyelids.

he sinks his teeth in gently and bites down on your lower lip, anything to get more of your addicting sounds, which proves successful, as the most beautiful noise echos through the barn.

spurred on by your shameless cries, and the way you arch into him for more, he somehow manages to fuck you even harder, so fast that the sight of his finger pumping in and out of your wrecked pussy is just a quick blur of movement. the sound in the barn is absolutely obscene, the wet squelches of your cunt being violated to no end, the deep panting of him practically out of breath as his shoves his tongue in your throat, and the now much louder sobs that you let muffle into his mouth.

he feels your walls starting to clench more insistently around his plunging fingers, your body tensing and drawing tight and ready to snap. he knows you're close, can sense your impending release in the way your breath hitches and your cries turn shrill. he doubles his efforts, determined to push you over the edge, to make you cum completely undone for him. "that's it..." he pants against your lips, his voice ragged and low. "come for me, give me all your milk.”

you clamp down hard on his fingers as you cum with a scream, your pussy gushing and flooding his hand with your warm and sticky juices. he doesn't let up, fingers still pumping through your orgasm, drawing it out as long as possible until you're a boneless, shaking mess beneath him. only then does he slow down to a stop, keeping them deep inside your walls for a few, agonising seconds before slowly pulling them out. he leans over you, watching everything leak out of your swollen cunt and onto the floor with wide, enamoured eyes. “oh, what a… fucking beautiful sight.”

despite his fingers glistening and coated with your orgasm, he still gently digs his fingers back inside your entrance to gather some more because obviously that wasn’t enough. he shakily brings them up to his lips, shoving them quickly into his mouth and sucking off every last bit with the same attention he had given your nipple. he fists at his jeans, and throws his head back with another groan at the taste. “fuck… absolutely delicious.”

he’s so hard it hurts, as he pulls his fingers back out, now instead covered in his saliva rather than your juices. he twitches painfully in his pants— hand coming down to press against the concrete to keep him from outright collapsing onto you.

“i don’t… don’t know which taste i like more.” he jokes breathlessly, his eyes lidded as he watches you squirm, the sight having his painfully erect cock ache in his boxers. he lets out a shuddering exhale, placing his hand on your stomach and rubbing softly.

“…thank you, sweetheart. you’re such a good girl for me, like always…” he drags lower, just over your womb as his expression suddenly turns fond. he swallows thickly, his other trembling hand coming down to fumble with the zip and button on his jeans. “…and as my good girl… you’ll let me breed your pretty pussy, won’t you..”

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farmer!Phainon and fucking like rabbits AHAHA

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No bc ik this man would end up having minimum five kids with how labor intensive farming is (parents exploiting their own children for their business again 🙄) but also ik he would be an amazing papa

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farmer!Phainon and fucking like rabbits AHAHA

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I love being a phaidei fan bc there is both phaidei yuri and yaoi and the fact they are bi4bi makes me a proud raging bisexual heh (also the mmf content you can milk outta them 😍)

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Won't lie this image of Phainon looks like he's staring at a pair of tiddies like a pervert

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Guys I hate to be the barer of bad news but there could've been a hypothetical cycle where Phainon was a father and he had to watch his partner and children die, or it was only him and his child left while fighting the flame reaver. (Even worse the child was an infant, imagine that) heh

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This was totally not inspired by the canon cycle where it was just him and ica left and he was trying to protect him 😭

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Guys I hate to be the barer of bad news but there could've been a hypothetical cycle where Phainon was a father and he had to watch his partner and children die, or it was only him and his child left while fighting the flame reaver. (Even worse the child was an infant, imagine that) heh