Ever thought about a sub who begs/asks for sex first, saying he really wants it or needs it all night long and all that?
And after getting what he demanded, he’s so smug and happy, enjoying every touch to the fullest. Though after some time, with each passing round, their grin starts to fade— suddenly he’s a fucked out wreck who has climaxed so often that a simple brush of your fingers against his heated skin was painful.
Yet you still haven’t stopped… still wringing out pleasure from his dry body. Now he’s begging for you to stop, to give him a small break!! Saying that he’s too tired to go on even more rounds. Crying and pleading so desperately now, even though he was the one who brought this upon himself…
What to do~ you weren’t anywhere near satisfied, but his whines were just too cute, “p-please… hiicc no ♡ no more r-rounds ah-ngHhn..!!~ c-can’t cum anymore.. ah-hnghHn ♡♥︎♡ m’so-sorry…!! Hurts… ah, please, I need a b-break…♥︎♡”
daydreaming about yandere diluc overprotective repressed freak who convinces himself you cry when he takes you to bed because you’re so grateful to him for saving you from the big scary world
NEW IL DOTTORE FANGAME - Virtual Pet Dottore! [COMPLETE]
Have you ever wanted to do unspeakable things to Dottore? Squish him, pet him, feed him, play with him or even commit atrocities together? From now on you are free to take responsibility for your new virtual companion – none other than Dottore in his monstrous form!
The game is now available on itch.io: tamattore-team.itch.io/tamattore
To play, simply download the game to your device.
The game is a F2P non-commercial project of Tamattore Team – a small international group of three Il Dottore’s fans: @sodalitealchemist, @cool-mint and @crowttore. We hope you will have fun with our experiment!
If you enjoy the game, feel free to share it and recommend it to your friends. It means a lot to us!
Puppy Phainon’s favorite month is February, not just because of Valentine’s Day, but because it means spending it with you…
His puppy ears twitch as he nuzzles into your neck, tail wagging fast against your thigh. He presses his hard cock against your leg, grinding slow and needy, breath hot on your skin. “I want to fuck you all day,” he whispers, voice rough with want, his bright cyan-blue eyes locked on yours, full of that warm, playful hunger. His messy white hair falls over his face as he licks your earlobe, sucking it soft before biting down just enough to make you gasp.
Phainon flips you onto your back, spreading your legs wide with his strong hands, his tail thumping the bed in excitement. He dives in, tongue lapping at your wet pussy, slurping up your juices like he's starved. “Taste so fucking good,” he moans between licks, sucking your clit hard while his fingers push inside, curling to hit that spot that makes you squirm. His ears perk up at your moans, and he fucks you deeper with his tongue, messy white hair tickling your thighs as he devours you whole.
He climbs up, cock throbbing and leaking pre-cum, rubbing the tip against your slick folds before slamming in deep. Phainon thrusts hard, balls slapping your ass with every pound, his sun mark peeking from under the choker as sweat drips down his neck. “Nghh—Cum for me, please,” he begs, voice breaking with that sincere need, tail wrapping around your waist to pull you closer. He fills you up, grunting as he pumps his hot load inside, collapsing with a satisfied whine, ears flopping as he nuzzles your chest.
But Phainon isn't done yet, his cock still half-hard inside you, twitching with leftover need. He lifts his head, cyan-blue eyes shining with that brave, playful spark, and kisses you deep, tongue pushing in to share the taste of your pussy. “More,” he murmurs against your lips, tail starting to wag again as he rolls you both over so you're on top. His hands grip your hips, guiding you down onto his thickening shaft, making you ride him slow at first, feeling every inch stretch you open. “Nghh, you're so tight,” he groans, ears flattening in pleasure as you bounce, his messy hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.
Phainon's hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing your ribs before cupping your breasts, squeezing them firm as you rock on his cock. He leans in, breath ragged, nipping at your collarbone while his tail curls around your thigh, urging you to grind deeper. “Ride me harder, yeah, just like that,” he pants, voice laced with that charismatic warmth, his blue eyes half-lidded in bliss. His hips buck up to meet your rhythm, cock pulsing inside your soaked pussy, building that fire again as sweat slicks his well-built chest.
You grind harder, his tail thrashing wildly now, brushing your back in excited sweeps. Phainon sits up, wrapping his arms around you tight, sucking on your tits one by one, teeth grazing your nipples while he bucks up into your dripping cunt. “I need you forever,”he pants, voice full of that deep, sincere ache, like he's fighting just to hold you closer. His thrusts get faster, cock pounding deep until you both shatter again, his cum mixing with yours as he howls softly, puppy ears perked high in bliss. He holds you there, nuzzling your neck once more, whispering, “Valentine's with you is everything.”
f/o burying their neck in the crook of your shoulder and squeezing you so so tight while they're cumming inside you so all you feel is their arms around you, their moan as they shudder my beloved
╰┈➤ overview ; "Hey guys," you say cheerfully, leaning into the frame so only your face shows, though the camera dips just enough to capture his twitching dick and torso. "Today I'm trying out different condom flavors to see if they actually taste good! With the help of my boyfriend, of course!"
( ! ) Sub male character (your fav <3) x dom gn! reader , edging , bdsm , condoms , handjob , blowjob , crying and whimpering , teasing , praising , dacryphilia, video
MASTERLIST
( ✎ ) ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. Had to post this juicy story before it disappears from my brain 💔💔💔 also pls help me find the source of the header, i forgot to save it ;(
You smirk at the camera, the red light blinking steadily as you adjust the angle one last time.
Your boyfriend sits bound to the sturdy wooden chair in the center of the room, his arms pulled back and secured with thick leather straps around his wrists and the chair's arms. His broad chest heaves with anticipation, those defined abs flexing under the soft lighting. His thick cock already twitches against his thigh, half-hard from the thrill of being exposed to your fans. You've got him stripped naked, legs spread and ankles tied to the chair legs, leaving him completely exposed and at your mercy.
"Hey guys," you say cheerfully, leaning into the frame so only your face shows, though the camera dips just enough to capture his twitching dick and torso. "Today I'm trying out different condom flavors to see if they actually taste good! With the help of my boyfriend, of course!" You grin wickedly, glancing over at him. He shifts in the restraints, his cock jumping visibly as your words sink in.
You kneel between his spread thighs, the cool floor pressing against your knees as you reach for the first condom on the tray beside you—a strawberry one. His eyes lock on yours, dark with need, but you just wink and tear the wrapper open.
"Let's start with strawberry," you announce to the camera, holding it up briefly before rolling it down his hardening shaft. The latex stretches tight over his girth, the faint fruity scent hitting the air as you grip the base and give it a slow pump. He groans low, hips bucking slightly against the bonds.
Leaning in, you wrap your lips around the tip, sucking gently at first. Your tongue swirls over the flavored surface, tasting the artificial sweetness mixed with his salty skin beneath. You take him deeper, bobbing your head steadily, hollowing your cheeks to create that tight suction he loves. His cock throbs in your mouth, growing fully rigid as you work him with wet, slurping sounds that the mic picks up perfectly. You hum around him, the vibration making his abs clench and his thighs tense.
"Mmm, good boy," you murmur against his length, pulling back just enough to praise him before diving down again, taking him to the back of your throat. He whimpers softly, the first sign of his building orgasm. You speed up, hand twisting at the base in rhythm with your mouth, feeling him swell and pulse. His breaths come ragged, breaths turning to pants as he nears the edge.
Just as his hips start to thrust weakly against the restraints, you pull off with a pop, strings of saliva connecting your lips to the glistening condom. "Strawberry's sweet, but a bit too fake," you say casually to the camera, licking your lips. "Not bad, though. What do you think, babe?" He whines, cock bobbing untouched, a bead of pre-cum smearing inside the latex. You ignore his pleading eyes and grab the next one—banana.
"Next up, banana," you declare, carefully sliding the strawberry one off and tossing it aside. His shaft glistens with your spit, twitching harder now from the denial. You roll the new condom on, the yellow tint contrasting his veined length, and waste no time sucking him back in.
This time, you go slower, teasing the underside with flicks of your tongue while your hand strokes lazily. He moans louder, head falling back against the chair as you build him up again, lips sealed tight around him.
You praise him between slurps, "Such a strong man, taking this so well for me." His muscles strain against the straps, abs contracting with each denied orgasm.
When he's thrusting up into your mouth, breaths hitching, you pull away once more. "Banana's smoother, almost creamy," you comment, wiping your mouth. "Tastes better than I expected." He lets out a frustrated groan, cock jerking in the air, but you just pat his thigh and move to the grape flavor.
The pattern repeats, each condom a new torment. Grape's tartness coats your tongue as you deepthroat him, gagging slightly for the camera's benefit while he whimpers your name. "You're doing amazing, love," you coo, fingers digging into his hips to hold him still. He gets closer each time, body trembling, but you deny him relentlessly, pulling off right at the brink, offering your tasting notes like it's a casual review.
By the fourth one—mango—his whimpers turn to full cries. Tears well in his eyes as you suck him hard, your hand pumping the base furiously.
"Please," he begs hoarsely, voice breaking. "Need to cum... fuck—please." You hum around him, ignoring the plea, feeling him throb desperately. When you finally release him, his cock slaps against his abs, the condom slick and shiny. "Mango's sweet, a little tangy," you say to the lens, as if he isn't sobbing softly now.
You switch to cherry, rolling it on while he shakes, pre-cum leaking steadily. Your blowjob is merciless this round, throat relaxing to take every inch, nose brushing his groin. He cries out, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, body arching as much as the bonds allow.
"Let me cum, baby, please— I-I can't..." His voice cracks into sobs, his frame quivering with both overstimulation and denial.
"Look at you, so perfect and ruined for me," you praise softly, even as you pull off again. "Cherry's my favorite so far! bold and juicy." He's full-on sobbing now, chest heaving with ragged breaths, cock twitching violently without touch.
Begging spills from his lips in broken pleas, "Please, please, I'll do anything! just let me cum... hurts so good..."
Finally, you relent, peeling off the cherry condom and discarding it. His bare cock stands rigid, veins bulging, tip flushed dark. "Alright, you've earned it," you say with a grin, both to him and the camera. Wrapping your hand around his slick length, you stroke firmly from base to tip, thumb circling the head on each upstroke. He bucks into your grip, sobs turning to relieved moans as you pump faster, twisting your wrist to hit every sensitive spot.
"Cum for me, good boy," you urge, leaning in to whisper praises against his thigh. "Show everyone how much you need this." His abs tighten, whole body seizing as he cries out one last time. Hot spurts of cum shoot from his cock, coating your hand and splattering his abs in thick ropes. You milk him through it, slowing your strokes until he's spent, whimpering softly in the aftershocks.
"That's all for today, I hope this video helps!" You sit back on your heels, smiling at the camera as his chest rises and falls. "See you guys on part two! Thanks for watching! <3"
His eyes widened "W-wait! there's a next pa—"
The red light blinks off, ending the video.
175 comments:
@user33550336 — this is soooo hot, when will part 2 come out???
↳ @mynameis[name]— soon...
@49to51commented — men whimpering>>>>
@Ieattrashcans — MORE PLSPLSPLSPLSPLSPL
@user4900051 — Can we see his face?
↳ @mynameis[name] — no sorry <3
See more...
MASTERLIST
( ✎ ) guys i actually don't know what condoms tastes like LMAOAOA
their concerning quirky behavior towards you + yandere genshin impact characters.
Kamisato Ayato, Il Dottore, Flins, Yae Miko, Tartaglia, Arlecchino.
contents: yandere topics, typically forced relationship, no gendered terms for reader, stockholm syndrome, psychological torture, non-consensual touch, forced killing, torture watching, gore, controlling behavior, humiliation, quite suggestive for Flins but no smut, forced nudity, non-con mentions, force feeding, spider touching and killing (generally you might want to skip Arlecchino’s part if you have arachnophobia). word count: ranging from 0,9k to 1,4k words per character, 6,7k words in total.
KAMISATO AYATO and forced assistance
Kamisato Ayato oftentimes is seen as a remarkable man who puts the wellbeing of his family above his own. It is no surprise his spouse is described to be lucky to have such a paragon as their husband.
But even the pampered spouses have certain roles and duties to fulfill.
Gracing someone’s body with multiple layers to put on them before they leave for work shouldn’t be difficult… in theory. In practice, not only are some apparels complicated — those with embellishments especially — Ayato also expects them to be impeccably and neatly organized.
A few layers of kimono to stack up and tuck into his pants, a vest, a coat and its accessories, gloves, kumihimo braids for his hips and neck—
If you don’t manage to accomplish that dressing to the highest standard, you start over — and time is gnawing at you. He reminds you he has to leave for work soon, even if he or a servant could make the process swift and spare you the stress the time gamble brings.
You’d been told it’s a bonding time, something his spouse should be able to do out of care for him — not that you have many things to do all day ever since he forced you into this marriage.
You don’t want to think about what will happen the day you finally mess up, unfairly blamed for him being late somewhere crucial to the Commission before a punishment would be applied. Even the most important of meetings haven’t broken this routine.
This sunny morning, you can hear one of his retainers shuffle outside the shoji window of this wardrobe room restlessly, adding to your adrenaline. If they wouldn’t recognize it’s improper to do, you can imagine them saying “hurry up, the transport is right around the corner!”
As you smooth down Ayato’s white coat, he brushes your cheek with a gloved hand. What would be normally perceived as an affectionate gesture, only makes you more tense, distracting you in your work. You don’t want to be touched by him in general, yet here you are, every single work sunrise — even at the cost of your sleep.
“You’ve gotten better at this.”
You must be really starving for proper human interaction, for your stomach to drop in the way it does. The praise is precarious too, as it might lull you into a false pretense of him being kind; he’s a man who’s been orchestrating a morning game where he can drink your intoxicating to him anxiety — and his mood is improving ever since the start of it.
You would have thought you’d get used to this challenge by now; some days are not so bad, even pleasant, but this morning particularly carries a heavy trepidation in its weather.
Ayato is leaving for a longer trip, to which he can’t take you with.
“Hard not to, when you make me do a servant’s work every morning,” you grumble, straightening down one of the layers. You don’t look him in the eye, but from what you’d know, he must be appreciating your nervous features.
“I don’t appreciate you likening this moment to a rudimentary process. It’s a shame we are not allowed to spend much time together, so perhaps you should consider your task a convenient way of extending it?” he poses with a slight tease.
Except, you’re the happiest when he’s busy. Or even better — when he’s away for a delegation like the one approaching, as then he can’t drag you to his office for a “break.” You don’t have to set these cursed clothes for him either.
“I would have assumed breakfast together is enough.” You speed up your movements, hearing a clock beat in another minute.
“I wonder, what unseemly behavior is there to a husband wishing to catch all the spousal pleasures that he can? It’s a sign of affection when one desperately wants to spend time with another, no?” he hums and taps your cheek with his fingers. When it twitches, awfully defensive today, he catches the sight with greed.
You only sigh. To make matters worse, you are now fumbling with the last element of his uniform. A longer, plaited piece of golden rope you’re supposed to tie into a perfect, taut bow shape before it'd decorate his chest, and your results coming nowhere near close that given rigor. That inept work looks deflated.
They stereotype that insanity is when you do something over and over with no result. That’s how you feel. Be it sleep deprivation, nerves, or anything else, focusing on your inability grows your clumsiness. You have about three minutes left before he leaves, in opposition to at least fifteen you’d have any other day — something, or someone, made you sloppy today.
“I will assume you’re still drowsy, for you to make such a simple mistake,” he says with a small disapproval, as if it’s not all his fault.
“No, it’s because you're stressing me!” you exclaim, nearly choking him as you tug on that rope.
He raises his brow; he stops your hands and tilts your head so you and your emotions can face him. “Me? And what exactly am I doing, other than standing and watching? It’s not your first time assisting me either.”
You know what he’s doing; but as always, there’s no tangible evidence to infer from. And now, you are aware you can’t make it in time, at this point too perturbed to continue.
“I-I can’t,” you blurt out instead of accusing him again like your tongue itches you to. “You’re going to be late. I don't care anymore!” you decide with slight panic, it growing higher when you have to admit it during eye contact with your cunning husband.
Ayato’s eyes narrow, then they open wider with a sharp gleam, and he smiles. “I understand it now.”
“What?”
“You are scared to separate with me,” is uttered calmly, with a fondle of your cheek you almost lean into like a trained dog. He’s been devising your attachment. “Another prolonged leave awaits me.”
As if. There’s no way he actually believes that, that you’d miss him— right? You're only bored at the idea of staying on your own all day; you’re anxious right now because all those stressful morning games have piled up on you.
Before you could form a protest and demand that he elaborates, he continues forthwith, letting you sink in that thrown possibility. “I suppose it’s alright, to make a one time exception. No one can perform perfectly everyday, can they? It's only natural for your husband to help you.”
You can deduce what’s your only option left. You’ve never done this before, adamant on proving your worth and independence; but now that you're petrified by consequences of his late arrival somewhere… “Please. Help me,” you squeak out.
You won’t forget that humiliating look of gratification that appears on his face for a while, as subtly played out as it is. “Hm. Very well then.”
After he lets go of your face, he’s expeditious with his movements — to your relief.
“Alright. You can go now.” You push at him. “Hurry,” you add as if it was your business too; he did make his affairs your responsibility.
But he doesn’t budge, for some reason. “You’re forgetting something,” he informs mysteriously.
“What?” you ask with dread. Whatever you’ve omitted, it was done unwittingly, as you memorized this routine like the back of your hand.
Ayato chuckles at your little renewed worry. “A goodbye kiss to make your husband’s day prosperous is not too much to ask for, is it?”
“Oh.”
If a prosperous day could be another assassination attempt conducted and carried out to target Ayato—
“We already kissed,” you point out with distaste.
“That was a good morning kiss. I believe a safe trip one is in order. My lucky charm.”
While you grumble, you still end up relenting, needing him gone immediately. Although, the kiss is slow and meticulous, as if he’s taking advantage of every second left — enriched with teasing brushes over your lower back. It’s only with an inquiring knock on the door that he pulls away, appearing disappointed.
“I will try to arrive home a tad bit earlier, just for you. My transport is waiting, I’ll have Thoma and Ayaka oversee things during my absence,” is said with a finger brush on your trembling lips — another lucky charm to claim — before he finally exits the room.
Bastard.
DOTTORE and torture exhibition
The murky grounds of Dottore’s lab, as well those of his mind, never fail to surprise about whatever tragedy and berserk might lie in wait.
You would have thought it’s your flesh that ought to pay the price for your latest misbehavior. A kind that must have went beyond a mildly-irritating label to Dottore, for him to subjugate you to to the tortures of the highest rank. And yet, most of the time, it’s a random test subject whose body becomes a testimony of his ire.
Which is not to say he’s merely taking it out on them and consequently sparing you in return.
Dottore tortures people for the sake of his goals, regardless of what you’ve earned, but the key is in making you watch and doubling the amount of horror displayed on the subjected body. Adding unnecessary procedures to apply onto the victim, until he has deemed you as regretful enough, is only righteous. It’s not even sadistic, as it is disciplinary.
Because your flesh can be mended back, and while it does leave some scar on mind, it’s really the psyche being affected that leaves a long-lasting impression the most…
To his surprise, and to his delight, you’ve been holding up rather well throughout the today’s session. Accustomed to witnessing his operations before, although they always leave the very least a soupçon of damage on you, you can be rather stubborn, coming up with ideas to push back and save your mind. Adapting. Evolving. It’s a process he watches with fascination, not having it in himself to be properly mad at you, so long you don’t remain boringly stagnant.
“Y-you would have tortured him anyway,” you argue shakily, seated on the chair very next to the man currently bleeding out open on a metal table, flailing his trapped limbs to no avail. His mouth is gagged only so he can make no interruption in your conversation — since screams of terror would be another good lesson for you. “They all are expendable to you.”
“That is correct. However, does this notion signify he deserves even more agony?” he poses a question as if it’s all your fault, rolling the scalp in his hand as red peepers peak at you from underneath a mask. Those yellow gum gloves going up to his elbows, same as yours, are drenched in blood, and some of it occasionally splatters onto your pants.
You dab the crimson with a cloth, as though you were no more than an innocent street bystander, splashed by a mud from the carriage passing by.
You just don’t know how long you can go on pretending. The metal stench of blood begs for a vomiting session the same way your fear does.
“You don’t have to do this,” you bring up for an nth time this hour, guarding the wounds of the man with your eyes, gauging how much or how little time he has left before you will make up your mind about giving reparations to Dottore.
“Morals, morals. Every choice has a basis. In this case, he serves a purpose of bringing you back to your obedience. I have implemented only two rules for you to follow: one — don’t betray me, two — disobey and you’re punished, but obey, and you’re rewarded. It seems something so simple in theory still keeps escaping your dimwit mind,” he says cynically, right before…
He stabs the man’s hand that only tears more under his thrashing; his bloodcurdling screams penetrate even the mouth gag barrier.
You flinch. It'd be comforting to utter a short prayer in his name inwardly, if only you didn’t know gods don’t listen, having allowed Dottore to play hungry for power for centuries. He’s not permitted you to depend on them either.
“What do you expect me to do?! I did what I did and I can’t take it back!” you snap back, finally standing up. It’s not yet fully developed fear running in you; there’s some type of annoyance intertwined. You would have called him childish for punishing you this somewhat petty way, if only you didn’t worry for your own bones — you’re still not exempt of from time to time gore session on your matter.
“You know well what you’re called upon to do.”
You do, as abstruse his ideology might be to you. Apology is expected, and while the verbal one is a bare minimum, it’s a practical one he’s anticipating the most.
Pick up the scalpel. Finish the job like you were forced to do many times. The man would have been made to bleed out anyway, but you can make his hell last shorter. Not because Il Dottore cares, but because he wants to see your acceptance of his methods. Be humble and down to earth, by becoming another scientist like him; prove your oath to him you despite it’s a one you never swore to.
You don't want to kill him, but you feel obligated to. Not to earn forgiveness, but to grant this man relief.
You aim at the subject’s throat, the impetus to ending his suffering, your heart pounding when his eyes open impossibly wider in terror. The Wound Man diagram Dottore shoved in front of your face multiple times appears vivid in your mind, so do his teachings—
You shriek when making a deep incision. Before your shaking hands could drop the death tool and slide down the bloody neck, The Doctor grasps them with gratitude.
He’s awfully proud of you, grinning from ear to ear. “Good, excellent. You still remember what I taught you, even if it’s been a while since your last misconduct.”
You watch the blood come out in globs, rapidly coagulating into jelly from whatever substance the man was given prior, the scent of rust and something musty in the air growing. You don’t even remember the objective of this experiment.
You’ve been the deliverer of death more than two hands can hold, yet even now, you are about to collapse. The progress you've made in digesting forced killings is minuscule, but he still awaits the day those acts become volitional to you.
He and his bloody hands catch you, taking you into his arms for the show that’s being performed. “Can you feel it? I tend to find this moment the most exhilarating. Life escaping and abating through their veins, as if knowing it has served its purpose,” he speaks like a death virtuoso, while he holds your terrified form from behind. It’s utmost romantic to him.
And what purpose is yours, to him? You hope that both your purpose and his obsession with you is enough to keep you alive for a little longer.
FLINS and painting you nude
Flins revealed himself to you as an exceptionally good painter. You were told he used to paint many portraits of his acquaintances around some time in the past, so when he offered to paint you this time, you assumed it will be no more than him returning to his old craft.
You were terribly wrong.
He is painting you alright; except, it’s a nude portrait that is currently in his creation. And while that alone doesn't have to be most tragic pill to swallow — if you were to exclude the fact that nudity in front of him and his penetrating gaze is always uncomfortable to experience — it’s he and his attitude who for sure make it worse.
It is not just a nude study of your body — it’s an erotic painting. Everything is based on you made to pose in different revealing poses, even showing your genitalia to him. He calls it a memento, something to “freeze and capture your beauty in time”, but wouldn’t you know better, noticing the excited gleam imbued into his yellow gaze.
The dark room is constantly aired due to oil paints in use, so you’re forced to shiver all the more when the outside air hits you; it’s only a flicker of warmth emanating from the oil lamp nearby that your cold bones find comfort in.
You’re stiff, stretched out over an old burgundy velvet sofa, partially draped in a navy silk; those both things, he pulled who knows out of where and dragged into his lighthouse. Your legs fall over the front of the the furniture you’re lying on almost entirely, as only your head is hugging the back of the sofa — giving your hips, crotch and legs more distinct attention to be painted. Your lower body is strained from staying still for so long, but you're not even allowed to close your legs and save your dignity.
“Truly astounding. It is as though you were made for canvas, my love. I hope you will permit for more of such eye catchers in the future,” his praise comes with marveled approval.
More. You cannot even imagine another humiliating experience as this one. You wish he could at least use Kamera and work based on a photograph, but… “That’s not quite right lighting, and a lens cannot capture and compress your allure the same way a naked eye would,” is what he would tell you.
“Do you really need more than one? What are you even doing with all of these?” you ask a bit angrily, digging your nails into the sofa. You’ve been stuck around this graveyard for months, forced to play by his obsessive rules. “You act like a pervert!”
With his pause worked for a moment, he looks at you from behind his easel, narrowing his eyes. Surely, there’s some profound answer brewing in his mind, as if you couldn’t comprehend the idea of art — especially the one coming from your lover — without his nudge into a right mindset for you to adopt.
“A pervert would only look. I see. What I ask of you is not born of base desire, nor out of need to bestow cruelty; it comes from a place of worship… even veneration. Still, you would clothe me as deviant and malignant, as though devotion itself were a crime,” a heavy sigh of disappointment follows.
To you, his proclamation is obtuse on purpose; there is no possibility he’s not deriving pleasure from your squirms, devotion or not.
“I don’t care about your sentiments, Kyryll,” you snarl. “I’m not your doll to paint.” You're about to sit up and walk out, and since he hid your clothes somewhere, be quick in finding another outfit in this gloomy tower.
But that’s a call for him to stand up and approach you.
“W-what are you doing?” you ask defensively when he lowers himself in front of you.
“Adjusting your position, as well the setting,” he calmly replies. “You have to pardon me for this prolonged discomfort on your limbs, albeit I’m sure it all will be worth the final product.”
Your leg that twitches from the tension, he grabs with a hand moving too close to a sensitive part — then he bends your knee upward. A piece of silk going over your waist, he lowers to rest at your hip, teasing a delicate skin in result. His eyes relish any uneasy sigh or squirm from you, as if the entire painting fiasco has truly been a merriment for him.
If he didn't know this would mean an immediate death for you, he would probably crack your skull open to see what’s happening inside.
“Be still. Each movement demands correction, and corrections protract our session. Let us not turn this into an ordeal.”
It’s a rare, more straightforward type of warning coming from Flins, that also for once works in keeping you in your place.
You peek down at him anxiously, shaking all over your body. “B-but my legs hurt. I'm about to have a cramp in my left one,” you argue with distress, tearing up.
He chuckles, as if he finds your complaints preciously sensitive. Still, he decides to be chivalrous enough to be able to push you further into his art project. “Hm, that’s unfortunate. Here, allow me to aid you,” Flins drapes your leg over his shoulder before he begins massaging it.
You only whimper, embarrassed at how much more you’re forced to be exposed to him. It’s just the silk scarf that saves you some modesty.
“See? There’s no harm coming your way. Only a momentary obstacle,” he croons, cherishing the way you look away in shame, even if his hands are involuntarily doing wonders on your aching leg and you can’t help but relax.
When he deems your poor leg as stable enough again, he takes back his stool seat behind his canvas, ignoring your unspoken wish for a break hanging in the air.
As Flins works, your tense expression, he ensures to rearrange to be envisioned as more flushed and lewd — many painters change details to flatter someone’s appearance anyway.
You don’t know he plans to insert himself into the painting as well. Kneeling in front of you, kissing up your legs, while your head is thrown back.
YAE MIKO and forced reporting
When Miko sat you down to the floor table for you to write something for her, you originally were confused. She has an arsenal of skilled (and rather desperate for her approval) writers to utilize.
“You know our latest magazine. Every publishing, one column is dedicated to the readers’ stories. Some are personal and lived through, some are totally made up,” she drawls, playing with your kimono’s hem.
You nod, nervously rolling a brush in your hand, as you stare at a blank paper laid out for you. You don’t need for things to be entirely clear for you to have a rapport with her mind and understand that she must be up to something again. “What does that have to do with me?”
“I want you to write a story of your own. A romantic one, an account of one of our dates specifically.”
You furrow your brows — how would that even be appealing to her? You don't bother to ask, knowing she’d give you a half answer.
“Is this okay for someone who’s associated with the publisher to use that space to write? Some would argue it’s conflict of interests,” you ask unsurely.
“No one will know, and frankly said, I don't care. It’s an anonymous writing anyway.”
Her blunt and confident answer would have made you laugh, if only you didn't have a bad feeling about all of this writing setup. What you have to state mustn't be something as simple as making a boring report of teahouse meeting.
“Do you have any specific date in mind?” you question carefully.
“Do you remember that one night at the forest?”
This suddenly explains everything to you; she knows that when you suddenly freeze in your seat and your eyes almost escape their sockets.
“What could be wrong, dear? You enjoyed that time, didn’t you? Humans lives tend to be so mundane, I’m sure this sort of excitement is a relief for zoochosis your kind tends to experience,” she taunts.
As words get stuck in your throat, you turning clammy, you reflect on what was the worst time of your life.
Her forcing you into one of the forests near the shrine, telling you to run with no explanation why. You listened, scared about whatever was on her mind; it was just few minutes in that you realized she’s chasing you for entertainment, with only moonlight to track your steps for you.
But Miko takes some weird pride in what happened back then, regardless of how terrified you were before during and after. It is way too often she plays games with you; yet being hunted through a dark forest with the smaller foxes laughing in the background made you feel like a real prey. She's a real kitsune you can never rest easy with, had grabbed you one day and decided you’ll be her main intrigue for many year to come.
It’s true that some people seek excitement like she mentioned, however… those amounts are capable of giving a heart attack to anyone. You were chased not by a human, but an entity with an inhumane speed.
You're brought back with a pinch on your side.
“All you need to do is to pour your feelings onto the paper. Tell me how you felt that night, if there's anything you wished could happen, what was the scenery like…” she sounds immensely eager to see your inner thoughts. “Only do not let them know it was me who was with you, naturally.”
As she brushes her hands over your shoulder, she drapes her body over your back, adding weight to your tight chest. “Don’t be shy now. I’m sure you’re dying to let it out.”
Don't be shy.
Don't be shy.
You sprained your ankle after you fell down from a path. Even then, you had to run, any begs and pleas ignored. And when she finally caught you...
None of what transpired after is anything you’d want others to become knowledgeable about, in a public domain especially.
“I-I don’t understand. This is a romantic section,” you point out, panicked.
“Yes, and?” she purrs into your ear, giving you shivers.
“That’s… not really romantic.”
She makes a mock-shock face. “Well, who now dares to say romance has only one type of flavor? Sometimes, our readers send in something a little bit more… naughty, a confrontation between two lovers chasing thrill like we did. Do you assume every relationship is lovesick puppies and pretty flowers alike?
“I can’t. I don't want to. I won’t,” you ramble in trepidation, about to rip the paper—
“Do you want me to write it for you? Because I can, ensuring every important detail is there.”
That’s even worse; you’re sure she’d alter certain aspects, or add too many of those, posing defamatory threats to the objective truth. You shake your head, your hands falling flat on the table.
“Then do your best for me, will you?”
You really have no choice, so you pick up the brush again. Maybe if you weren't aware this story will be shared with many — perhaps fawned over — maybe then you’d find transcription writing therapeutic, like one would with diary.
As you go into the details, describing your fear, even the one of death, the pain you experienced, all the terrifying noises and darkness, she still weighs you down, smiling happily when you have to face everything that happened a few weeks ago.
Even without a proper context, someone reading your story would easily know that whatever happened to you, it was no romantics — therefore, you worry about how she’ll sell this story.
As you’re about to relate what happens after she catches you, tears blending with an ink, her hand falls on yours.
“Stop there. That much shall remain between the two of us.” She still doesn’t like to share her toys. “Or were you hoping to let everyone know? How indecent of you,” she teases.
One of the clear drops on your face, she wipes from your skin before licking it, as if your taste could tell her even more about your feelings. Then, she picks up your pages.
“Not bad, for your shaky state that is. I will only require to redact a few things… I’m sure you don’t mind a bit of polishing, am I correct?”
TARTAGLIA and playing house
To say Tartaglia loves to create a domestic atmosphere is an understatement.
It is a constant disposition that he travels across Teyvat for the sake of his missions, and when this happens, you’re typically forced to tag along. There’s not really any other way for him to keep a surveillance over you, nor does he entertain the idea of being separated from you for the duration of even months. To his subordinates, you appear as if you are his favorite pet he can never quite get to part himself with.
You lived in lavish hotels the same way you lived in rundown Fatui tents. But it’s coming back home that is most uncomfortable.
A home that in his warped opinion is actually supposed to be a home — not only a location you're based in.
You lead an assumedly simple life with Childe. No opulence back home. He could easily afford multiple manors, and while he does own one to build a proper image worthy of a harbinger, he likes to drag you to this simpler cottage you’d oftentimes see in a village, where no maids or butlers scurry around to fulfill your whims — as though your life has been nothing but domestic the entire time.
He’s not making you do most of the housework either, no matter how restless you might be, itching to distract yourself from his presence. Loving to cook and clean, whether he picked that up growing up in a big family or because it brings some sense of control to his chaotic life, is his way of living.
You two are enacting a wedded couple scheme before a proper union will be made — a marriage training of kind. It is better than the idea of being forced to fight him for sports like he does so with others, or whatever other hell he could put you through, yet…
Today is no different, veiling you in tension post “homecoming.”
“Come here,” he hoists you up and places you on the pine counter. You’re next to the stove where he’s brewing his favorite stew. He’s still sweaty after he chopped the wood outside to dutifully keep you warm.
“Have a taste,” a spoon is placed near your lips, but you find it hard to eat anything in this eerie atmosphere, even in the food smells delicious. “Let me know if something’s missing,” he chirps, his blue eyes eager.
The truth is, you wish to stay somewhere else a little longer. There were other people to talk to, places to go to, things to do; not all of them were great, but they also were not Ajax. Even a night in a cold forest would suffice, so long you’re not in his domestic enclosure.
Because you can never feel truly at home with your copycat soon-to-be-husband. He can decorate this house, fill it with foods, keep it and you warm, but you’ll stay a prisoner he one day had decided belongs him.
There is also something uncanny about everything surrounding his role in this house. As if he’s forcing himself to do those things, not because he wants to, but because he believes this is how he can maintain normalcy. As if there’s a purpose to fill other young adults — those who do not need to slice people — have succeeded in already.
“I’m not hungry…” you mutter, turning your head away. You’ve been feeling awful ever since returning here again. Homesick in a home that’s merely an idea conjured by him.
“Darling,” he urges resolutely. So far, it sounds more as playful exasperation — but you never know.
“I said I’m not hungry. I don’t know want your stupid stew,” you snap, glaring at him.
His grip on the wooden utensil tightens, but his mood remains positive — you get emotional rather often, which he downplays as your quirk than genuine suffering, condescendingly viewing you as adorable. “My, my. You must have been too spoiled by me. I understand it’s no five star dish like the one back in Fontaine, but trust me, homemade food—”
You have enough and push that spoon away, watching it end up on the floor.
With the realization that you acted under emotion, you expect some type of violent outburst, already shrinking in your body.
But Childe only moves quietly and picks up that spoon from the floor before he rinses it with water. It goes back into a stew. “Let’s try again. Hopefully, you show more gratitude this time,” he smiles, although it doesn’t reach his imperceptibly twitching eyelid. “I’ve been working hard for you.”
You know you’re digging your own grave. Stubbornness can only get you so far. However… you’re desperate to have your wishes respected for at least once. You don’t want to play house. You don’t want to pretend you’re not forced to live with him — you don't want to eat that stupid homemade food and feign a spousal smile. “I’ll eat once it’s done. Please, can I go back to my—”
Whatever you were trying to say, it’s interrupted by a flat, sauce-covered surface being impelled into your mouth. As you try to sputter the food out, his lips crash on yours; his hands go underneath your clothes right after.
It’s disgusting, him shoving food deeper onto your tongue. Out of instinct, you swallow the stew as to not choke. You brace your hands against him, signaling that you did what he wanted and so he can move away from you…
Except, he drags this on, cleaning the taste off your mouth, kissing you with fervor, excited by your defiance giving him an opening to push back at you like he loves to.
When you attempt to make distance and flee this counter, your heart beating in anxiety, he digs his nails into your hips, giving you quite an ache as he draws blood. He’s either not aware of your harm or doesn’t care, lost in the exchange.
He’s not just feeding you. It’s an excuse to kiss you, to overwhelm you so you remember your position without him having to say it aloud and ruin the ambience. Whether you enjoy this affection or not, you should be, as it’s coming from your fiancé that only strives to give you a good life. He can always bend you over this counter and deal with you in a different way, you know.
With a bite given to your swollen lips, he withdraws from you hyperventilating, looking at you with satisfaction. “Is it good?” he asks, massaging your sides. “The stew, I mean, although I hope the same goes for the kiss!” he laughs at his own tease.
You nod with tears building up, more so out of fear that has stupefied you.
“See? Wasn’t so hard, was it…” he’s back to sounding gushy, as he wipes your tears he believes to be only sensitivity. He then notices something and laughs again. “Oopsie. You’ve made a bit of mess. Let me wipe it for you.” He’s spitting on his hand before messing with your cheek. “Silly darling.”
ARLECCHINO and spider intrigue
In the sunny rosarium of the orphanage, there is plenty of crawling creatures hiding between the flowers children like to tend to. There is also another living being that’s been coveting your presence ever since she returned, ruining your leisure in the garden.
“I reckon you were good during my absence?” Arlecchino asks listlessly, sitting down next to you on the stone bench.
It’s often she leaves you with her pupils. They take advantage of another adult's presence to fabricate themselves another paternal figure. It can be exhausting, how much attention they derive from you.
You nod, tired. You place your head on her shoulder when she wordlessly pats it as a signal. She never really holds you any closer than this, so to most, you must resemble more of a decoration than a full fledged lover.
“Good. We wouldn’t want to make children unhappy. A measure of enervation is worth it in the long run,” she utters with tranquillity, as she strokes your head slowly.
Their smiles, their laughter still resonate in your head; instead of bringing joy, they bring an echo of when the children were too demanding, tugging at you. Which is why you love to receive this moment of rest. You're almost enjoying her touch; if you were to delude yourself enough, it could erase all the memories where Arlecchino’s insistent presence complicates your robbed life.
Unfortunately for you, today, that peace is quickly vanishing with the apperance of an intruder.
“Oh, would you look at that. We have another companion,” a tiny smile appears on her face.
“Who is it?” you anxiously look around, anticipating some child’s appearance to ruin your break.
“On your shoulder.”
Albeit confused, you look down… before you jump in your seat. There's a spider dallying up your shoulder. Somewhat big, with black and brown fluff and multiple eyes to creep you out with.
Before you could swat it away and scream, she holds you in place.
“Don’t move,” she orders sternly.
It takes you Herculean effort to remain seated, or it’s simply instincts; you dig your feet into the ground only because you’re used to revering her orders, fearing the ramifications of not doing so. Staring at her in terror, your mouth opens with a plea. “W-what, please, take it off!”
“Why should I? It’s not going to hurt you,” she scolds dismissively, “Stop writhing. It’s not a poisonous type.”
How do you even explain your fear to someone with such a pragmatic mind? You think you are going to faint out of terror, sensing the creature is crawling closer and closer to your face, now coming across your clothes-unshielded part of the neck. It’s tickling you with its fur and you’re sobbing already.
“Why are you doing this?” you ask, scared. If you did anything bad, you’d assume it to be a punishment. But you don’t recall committing anything appalling latterly; if anything, you’ve been on your best behavior!
Her dark, expressionless eyes stare back at you, undaunted by your passionate emotions.
“I once had a pet spider named Bambi. Raising spiders is quite fascinating. They cannot be domesticated like cats or dogs. Any affection bestowed upon them will not be returned, and they require little investment in terms of care. It's the kind of relationship that suits me perfectly,” she lets you on as your shakes grow bigger.
“W-what?” You're not sure how it correlates to her decision of allowing a spider to crawl on your body. Any discernment of her person always comes with difficulty for you, no matter how long you’ve been forced to be hers.
“I’m disappointed in you,” her solid words churn your guts.
She’s really fucking up with your mind, adding one more thing to worry about with absolutely no explanation of its origin. You parse her words, but nothing makes sense. “What did I do?” you ask with a plea in your gaze, desperate for her to remove that spider now so close to your mouth. You can hear its light steps drumming against your cheek’s skin; or maybe you’re hallucinating that.
“If a small spider is enough to unnerve you, how do you intend to maintain composure in circumstances where the children may be at risk?” she asks with a rough register.
With you dumbfounded, realizing she's been testing you, the spider takes its sweet chance to sting you, scared by the rapid movements of your muscles.
Arlecchino clicks her tongue. “It bit you. How impertinent.”
You are about to breath in relief as she finally removes it from you; but then, you hear a loud snapping and splashing sound as her hand closes. You flinch, disturbed by the sudden destruction of the spider.
“Even if you behaved exceptionally cowardly, you are still under my protection,” she explains, standing up to go and change her gloves. “Alas, we will have to reconsider our terms. Follow me. We have a lot to discuss.”
Whilst scared of what the Father might do to fix your timidity, you have no choice but to follow her into reaping your consequences.
i'm sick as a dog while trapped in my apartment with 20 inches of snow on the ground. needless to say, i'm thinking about tartaglia and his captive darling in the exact same situation.
you wake up in pain. your body aches. you begin to cough as you open your eyes. your throat burns. ajax bolts awake beside you, placing a hand to your forehead.
"are you sick, my love? i'll get a thermometer."
as he gets up to leave, your reality sets in. he's home with you for the next few days, a record snow storm having hit the capitol. you're trapped together in his townhouse, and you're health has failed you. you're reliant on him. this is like ajax's wet dream come to life.
he comes back and places the thermometer in your mouth. he holds you tenderly, his lightless eyes full of genuine concern.
"i'll make some soup today, yeah? good thing i got stuff for it before the storm set in. can't even open the door with how much snow is on the ground."
his hands gently cup your face. he's warm. not the feverish, sweaty warm you feel (although somehow you're freezing as well). he's warm like a cup of tea in between your hands; like being in the warm glow of the fireplace. you don't know what comes over you. you grab his shirt, balling it up in your fist. tears prick at your eyes.
"please lay down with me."
there's desperation in your voice, and while you hate the man that holds you captive, who smothers you with love you don't want, you feel like you're dying. the only thing you want is his arms around you.
he doesn't wear his signature smirk like you had expected him to. his eyebrows furrow, looking more concerned than before.
These don’t belong to me (in fact, not sure where they’re from? Found it a long time ago and lost the source)
And while I’m not a fan of a majority of these without my own twist, they do give me some ideas, so maybe they’ll give someone else ideas too~ if I get any ideas I’ll write them down <3
yanderes that, instead of physically forcing you to sleep with them, start lacing your food with mild doses of an aphrodisiac while slowly increasing the amount of affection shown towards you, resulting in fooling you into the belief that your increased arousal is a sign that you are starting to want them on your own... they’ve been so nice to you lately, and if your body acts the way it does, isn’t that a dead giveaway that you finally need them as well? as betraying as that might sound to you, they assure you it’s perfectly natural. you’re welcome to initiate something “on your own” once you made up your mind, unable to go without any relief any longer.
It's a great joy for Phainon to take care of you after such intimate activities. He may not be aware of it, but he will melt if it’s you who will take care of him. He would be in denial at first and would even insist that he can do it all by himself. Still, he is very happy because of your care. But, before any aftercare, cuddling is necessary!
Body part
Phainon is very proud of his arms; he can’t miss a chance to show off before you, be it his sword training, him undressing (although sometimes it can be more funny than seductive), or him manhandling you.
But if you give some special attention to his tattooed neck or his thighs, Phainon will be a blushing mess, and his moans will be even louder and more shameless.
Cum
Phainon was kind of ashamed of his cum because it’s much warmer than that of the average person. During your first time, it had kind of startled you, and Phainon almost started apologizing for it if not for your reassurance that you’re totally fine with it and even liked such temperature play. One more thing is the sheer amount of his cum. His loads are always so overwhelming; it’s impossible not to feel full when so much cum floods you.
Dirty secret
You know about this secret to some degree. You know that Phainon keeps some of the things from your dates as keepsakes; what you do not know is the darker side of it. Among not-so-innocent things, there are not just your daily things but also a few pieces of clothing (underwear included). Phainon is painfully aware of how ‘stalkerish’ it is but just can’t help himself; it’s his desire to have part of you, your life, that is simply overwhelming.
Experience
Mostly theoretical experience (thanks to smut novels from the Grove that secretly went from hand to hand among students) and wild imagination are sources of Phainon’s experience. He totally isn’t the type to have sex without feelings; that’s why even after your relationship had started, it took some time to be intimate. And not that that is a problem-that kind of flattering to be such a man’s first, and this man literally burns with passion to learn about pleasuring you as soon as possible.
Favorite position
Phainon prefers positions with as much skin contact as possible. He thrives on intimate physical connection, and even when he is literally inside you, he still wants to be closer.
Goofy
Phainon is no stranger to funny situations during sex, especially during your first few times. It was incredibly important for him that you didn’t judge him and just consoled him with a warm and kind smile. Later, Phainon is okay with some jokes to lighten the atmosphere.
Hair
Phainon is trying to look pretty for you; therefore, he takes care of himself. So there is no hair on his intimate parts.
Intimacy
As mentioned above, Phainon is not the one to have sex without feelings; foremost, sex for him is the peak of your shared love. He shows it for you with the sweetest words and the gentlest touches. Even when he is lost in passion and becomes rougher, you still would feel that it is lovemaking. Phainon puts his utmost efforts into making you feel loved.
Jack off
Before your relationship, he sometimes jacked off for stress relief, but with your appearance in his life, he felt a surge in desires. Phainon became lost in his fantasies more than he wanted to admit; he just can’t help but keep on thinking about you. After you have started fucking, he still sometimes masturbates to not overwhelm you with his high libido.
Kink
Praise kink final boss. It’s impossible not to blush from his sweet words. Apparently, his oratorical skills bloom differently in bed. He finds praise words for every part of you. When Phainon is talking, you’re practically drowning in his love. But if you decide to turn the tables? Your praise is truly Deliverer’s Achilles’ heel. He’s so greedy for your love and affection, and he takes all you give him like the good boy he is. Phainon would be turned into a blushing mess, and all his eloquence would be reduced to incoherent moans of your name.
Location
It’s easier to say where you didn’t do it. Even though Phainon is trying to keep everything within the house, sex in Okhema’s bath still happens quite often, and it’s not the only place that isn’t safe from your passionate escapades. Even if you try to be more rational among the two of you, his burning-with-lust gaze becomes the decisive argument that makes you give in.
Motivation
It’s hard to pinpoint one thing, but most often Phainon is turned on by closeness with you because he just wants to be even closer. Another thing is that if you won't see each other all day because of some business or his mission as Chrysos Heir—if that’s the case, Pahinon wants to touch you so that your warmth will be with him all the time for the entire time you are apart.
No
Anything that could make any of you feel unloved. The thought of degrading or hurting you would never even cross Phainon’s mind, and even if you bring up this topic like kink, he will refuse outright and even be somewhat offended, because your closeness is very important for Phainon and he doesn’t want to taint it with something like that.
Another no is sex while one of you is unconscious, no matter if asleep or drunk. Phainon thinks that there is no true closeness in such moments.
Oral
Blushing, needy puppy when receiving. It's Phainon’s weakness when you tease him, alternating between licking and sucking, and if you swallow his cum, he will be hard again in an instant. When giving, Phainon is slightly inexperienced yet eager to please you, gentle yet meticulous in his dedication to getting you off. Also, he would make you feel embarrassed with countless compliments on your taste, and he would shamelessly moan if you grasped his hair. (And, yes, he will ask you to sit on his face.) Both these sides are so adorable and so him.
Pace
Phainon always promises to be gentle and slow. And he even maintains such pace in the first few minutes, but then, then he surrenders to desire, to the feeling of you around him, and his pace becomes faster, desperate, feverish. If he overdoes it, Phainon will apologize profusely for indulging in so much pleasure. He just cannot control his need to be closer, to be deeper inside you, and his pace, how he places your legs on his shoulders, is the greatest display of this need.
Quickie
Once again, it often happens that he can’t keep it in his pants, so quickies are not rare, even though Phainon genuinely prefers proper sensual sex. Quickies are mostly passionate parting before his mission or something semi-public.
Risk
Phainon is much more of a risk-taker than it may seem from his golden boy appearance. It’s he who initiates all your semi-public escapades. And his skills to convince you with his silver tongue and gentle touch… are no less than dangerous, because it’s so hard for you to more or less keep within limits.
Stamina
You always understand that Phainon’s stamina is crazy, but even ‘crazy’ is an understatement. Still, for you it’s something scary but hot at the same time. To be honest, it is highly unlikely that you would ever exhaust his stamina. And Phainon is aware of that too, so he keeps tabs on your state even when he is lost in pleasure. If he thinks that you’re too exhausted, he’ll immediately stop and will take care of you.
Toys
Phainon would be all for giving toys a try. He will definitely take a responsible approach to this, researching different types of toys, pondering what will be the most pleasurable for both of you.
Unfair
Between overstimulation and edging, he prefers overstimulation. Actually, he cannot endure edging at all, and after the first ruined peak, Phainon will become a whiny mess with tears in the corners of his eyes; it does not take much for him to start begging. But when it comes to overstimulation, it's something that Phainon sometimes does unconsciously, because what can be better than pleasure? It's only more pleasure. Phainon is really insatiable; he wants more and more, for you to be able to think only about him. He will be asking for one more round, even when there is so much pleasure that it’s borderline painful.
Volume
Phainon is loud, proudly loud. It’s hard for him to be quiet when he feels so good. He moans, whines, whimpers, and begs. His deep velvet voice sends goosebumps down your spine. And you can’t help yourself but want to hear more of him.
X-ray
Phainon is pretty big; he realized that fact even before your relationship, but this realization hit different after you two started to have sex. His cock is huge and thick, with visible veins. It’s hard for you to take him all without proper prep, but even then the feeling of stretching is borderline painful, but Phainon would always try to give you time to get used to him.
There are moments during sex when Phainon would press to the bottom of your tummy to feel just how deep inside he is.
Yearning
Phainon is insatiable for you. There was one time when he jokingly said that he needs sex at least twice a day, in the morning, for a good day, and in the evening, for a good night's sleep (actually, it isn't a joke at all). Not to mention all these multiple rounds… But he would put in efforts to not make this inconvenient for you and for you to not feel forced to satisfy all his needs. Phainon understands well that he becomes turned on just from being with you, and there was a time when he had even been ashamed of this part of himself before you assured him that it was okay with you.
Zzz
When Phainon is falling asleep after sex, he is trying to stay close to you as long as possible, hugging and clinging to you. He curls his arm around you, and you tuck your head against his chest. His body feels strangely light and cotton-soft and pleasantly in post-nut clarity. What's more, afterward he will be very talkative, talking about everything under the sun, and you will fall asleep to the sound of his voice.
@pinklemonadewithsugar omg vana sorry to pester but did you see my Mydei add ons to your Mydei post 🥹🙂↕️ -q mirror / sen I’m still skfowijfoejfowkfjwjdjja…… I know u have a big inbox and I don want to bother sob sob
yes i just went looking once i saw this ask — the wire flowers are very beautiful sobsob 🥹💖 most of my tumblr notifs are off so i tend to miss a lot if im not online at the time unfortunately T___T but it is very beautiful, the idea of mydei enjoying wire flowers is so cute actually, you know him so very well!!!!! /aff
