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There was romance to the physicality of it, Phainon thinks, the day Mydei pinned him down to the courtyard floor: Mydei's sole against Phainon's cheek, his gauntlets gold-tipped and caught against the fabric of Phainon's uniform, the bruises forming on Mydei's skin. The heave of Mydei's chest. The sticky slick of sweat. Mydei ground the heel of his foot harder against Phainon's jaw when he felt Phainon dig his fingers into his thighs. Startling like a cat, a quick twitch, then settling into wary stillness.
"I win," Mydei had said. Strands of hair stuck to his face. To his mouth. Phainon under him, looking at him. His eyes, his nose, his smiling mouth. The beat of Phainon's wretched heart, pulse kicking in his throat. There's a crook to Mydei's nose from where Phainon's knuckles had crunched into it, but it would heal straight. Under the gauntlets there might have been broken fingers. Cracked nails to match Phainon's cracked ribs. Mydei licked at the crusted blood on his lips, settling his weight painfully on Phainon's wounds. Phainon pressed his hips firmly to the ground so that Mydei wouldn't feel his penis hard against his ass.
"Okay," Phainon said, and his voice had cracked on the word. He remembers the rawness of his throat, the scratch of his vocal cords. Iron in his mouth. He had tried to turn the situation on its head, tried to smile, tried to flirt. Some glib remark danced on his tongue. Phainon thought about insulting Mydei's manners, a sharp comment about Kremnoan sophistication, a complaint about Mydei playing dirty even though Mydei never played dirty. Something. Try something. Try anything. Words usually came easy, but they failed him, then, sprawled over dirt and debris, unfortunately achingly hard. Finally, Phainon said: "Get your foot off my face, brute," pain twinging through his body. Beast of a man, Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos, with that slow smile scrawled across his beautiful face. That was weird. It was a weird thought, one that Phainon always thought about, like he thinks about Mydei's sharp little laugh, after he pulled his foot away to rest it on Phainon's shoulder, his braid brushing against the tilt of his jaw.
Mydei, never one to mince his words or dull his insults, keeps it short, a small whetted knife going in for the twist: "Sore loser." Phainon had bristled far too easily, even though this kind of thing was barely a knife and more of an ambitiously ferocious toothpick coming from anyone else, but Phainon didn't like the sound of Mydei's voice, working around those words. A strange provocation, and Phainon found himself provoked. Against his better judgement, he gave in to the childish urge to tug Mydei's braid, hard enough to pull his hair out. Mydei yelped, offended, fist slamming into Phainon's skull, and their tussle began anew.
The events leading up to Phainon's current predicament can be guessed easy in a simple game of deduction. A straight line, a notched arrow, point one to point two, steady like Professor Anaxa's rubber bullets to an unsuspecting student's head. Phainon had made a quip or ten that Mydei had found incredibly insulting, and the reward had been Mydei's hand in his hair, dirt in his nose his mouth his eyes, cheek dragged along the cracked ground. Mydei had called Phainon insufferable, eyes narrowed into slits and flushed all over, almost shaking with rage, then Phainon said, still swallowing dirt: "Yeah, and what are you going to do about it?" which made Mydei snarl: "I haven't given you enough head trauma," which was true, followed by Mydei's attempt at inflicting enough damage upon Phainon's admittedly sturdy skull to make Hyacine cry.
At some point all Phainon was able to think about was Mydei's mouth, wet with blood, imagining the drag of it down Phainon's jugular, the heat of it against Phainon's lips—a sure sign of abundant blunt force trauma to the brain. Mydei spat in his eye, Phainon elbowed Mydei's windpipe, and so on and so forth. Then Phainon opened his mouth and said: "I bet you won't win against me this round," which Mydei replied: "With what?" and Phainon joked: "My dignity." Mydei's laugh was rough, feral. He said: "Deal." His mouth curved into his grin. He leaned in, breath fanning over the bridge of Phainon's nose. Phainon leaned in too, stricken. Senseless, he let his guard down. Mydei pounced like a wild animal. A lion on its prey, claws spread.
And then Phainon lost.
And so, Phainon finds himself kneeling on the floor of Mydei's quarters, stripped of his armor. His shirt. Soon, his dignity, as he promised to Mydei like some half-wit. He had arrived at Mydei's quarters early, in the last quint of the parting hour. When he knocked, Mydei answered the door draped in gauzy fabric that didn't cover much, bare of his armor and his jewelry. Phainon watched the way he leaned against the doorframe, the little fold of his armpit, the clump of his eyelashes matted with sleep. Mydei yawned and Phainon could see his teeth, his incisors and his canines and his molars. His pink tongue. Mydei grumbled something about Phainon's inability to tell time, looking terrible and beautiful and terribly beautiful, and he yanked Phainon into the room by the straps of his pauldron while Phainon tried extremely hard to not look down at Mydei's nipples.
"Off," Mydei had said, eyeing Phainon's armor, and Phainon had laughed and replied with something like: "Eager, aren't we?" and Mydei said, with his chin raised like the haughty prince Phainon expected him to be: "Yes." Phainon's heart had beat an awful, wicked rhythm to the surety of it, the honesty in Mydei's voice. Then Mydei said: "Who wouldn't be eager to humiliate you?" and ruined the moment.
"Hah," Phainon said, half a laugh. It was already humiliating to be here, a loser in their most recent game, with his cock half-mast. Here, in Mydei's private chambers, surrounded by scattered pieces of Mydei's life, and all he thought about was the crease of Mydei's thigh where it meets his pelvis, how it would be easy to bite. Easy to mark. He stripped himself of his armor: straps first, for his pauldron, then his gloves, then his coat. Mydei watched his slow movements, arms crossed under his chest, unsmiling. He reached for Phainon, once the armor came off, smooth hands brushing coyly against Phainon's shoulders. Mydei's nails were filed into claws, somewhat like Cipher's, something Phainon had noticed and poked fun of in the drunken revelry of one of the feasts Aglaea had thrown, although he had only been mildly tipsy because Aglaea had given him a pointed look after his fifth refill. No one liked a drunkard, and Phainon found it hard to think clearly with the haze of alcohol. That was why he had made his remarks: "Look at those soft hands," he laughed into his cup, "those sharp nails!" Mydei had ignored him, mostly, after giving him a searingly beautiful glare, but he hadn't pushed Phainon away when Phainon knocked their shoulders together, and he tilted his head when Phainon spoke, listening. "Do you not find it hard to—to lie with—women—people? With those claws?" Phainon had asked, and Mydei raised his brows. "I don't lie with women," Mydei replied, "and no," which had stunned Phainon so sober he couldn't bring himself to ask why. It was fine, because Phainon had found part of his answer a week later when Mydei's gauntlets had been crushed under falling rubble and the weight of ten titankin corpses, and Phainon had watched him claw grooves into flesh and dig out eyes of the titankin that ambushed them with those very nails, every part of him a weapon.
The other part of the answer, Phainon thinks, will present itself today. He had tugged his undershirt over his head at Mydei's demand. "Sit," Mydei ordered, but there was a startling lack of chairs in the room. Phainon had said, sighing: "Surely Aglaea rewards you enough to afford basic furniture," to which Mydei had ignored him, simply repeating his order with a belligerent tilt of his head.
"On the floor?" Phainon asked. He couldn't control the incredulous edge to his voice. It was a bit of a shame. Phainon was usually better at controlling himself.
Mydei cocked his head in Phainon's direction. "You've made a lot of excuses for yourself, Deliverer," he said, sneering, to which Phainon's response was to grit his teeth and sit. On his knees, uncomfortably, on cold stone. So now, he's sitting on his knees. Kneeling on his haunches, feeling a little like the teenager Aglaea had met at the gates of Okhema. A third of confusion, of fury, of humiliation—aimed at himself for being helplessly turned on by whatever this is, by the smooth expanse of Mydei's skin, by the glow of his tattoos; aimed at Mydei for making him feel this way. Phainon feels his cock twitch and almost wants to squeeze his eyes shut.
"You know," Phainon says instead, shifting his weight onto his calves, "this is rather uncomfortable, Mydei." Mydei snorts from where he's disappeared around a corner, emerging with a wooden box in his hands. The lid clicks open softly, faced away from Phainon. Mydei turns towards him, thighs flexing. Phainon swallows, throat dry.
"Good," Mydei says simply. "It's your penalty, after all." Phainon opens his mouth to speak, to say something insolent enough for Mydei to indulge him in a bit of argument, a bit of back-and-forth. But then Mydei lifts his hands, and there is—a collar. Thick, dark leather, smelling like perfumed oils when Mydei lifts it to Phainon's face. For him to inspect. For him to understand. This is a penalty. A punishment. Mydei wants him collared like a wild animal. Like an unruly mutt. His cock twitches again. Mydei's eyes cast downwards, taking notice.
"Mydei," Phainon begins. He hates the breathless, wheezing quality to his voice. He hates that his cock is fully hard. He hates the way Mydei tilts his head, a smile in his golden eyes, the brush of his hair over his shoulders against his collarbones. What comes out next is a paltry flirt: "How forward of you." It didn't answer Mydei's unspoken question. Phainon shifts again, trying for nonchalant.
Mydei is on his knees, too. They look at each other, eye-to-eye. There is a softness to the edge of Mydei's smile that curdles Phainon's blood into a boil. Mydei says: "You're scared," his hand coming up to cup Phainon's jaw, his claws scratching gently against Phainon's skin. "You can always admit defeat, you know. Back down, if you want."
Phainon's fists clench tight over his knees. Coward, Mydei laughs from the depths of Phainon's imagination, back turned. Walking away. Leaving him. Phainon doesn't want to back down. Won't give Mydei the satisfaction of him admitting defeat. Phainon wants to drag his hands through Mydei's hair and pull so it tears out by the roots, wants to sink his teeth into the meat of Mydei's thighs, wants to wrinkle all his fingers inside Mydei's cunt. He's seen it before, in the baths, where Mydei had noticed him watching and had said: "If you have any comments you're welcome to voice them," and then, teeth bared, "but I would advise you to choose your words carefully." Phainon had laughed it off, made a remark about Mydei's nasty temper, arm flung over Mydei's shoulder, and they had ended up wrestling each other over Phainon flicking water into Mydei's eyes, skidding so far along the tiles they had both slammed into the wall and startled the poor bath attendant. But afterwards, when Phainon was alone in his room, he had thought about it, Mydei's cunt, and imagined it wet, spread open, pink on the inside like Mydei's mouth. He thought about it. He thinks about it, thinks about it every time they spar, every time they bathe, even though he shouldn't think about it, because the Deliverer is a perfect vessel and perfect vessels do not want. It's not want, Phainon thinks. It's not—it's not. It is instead some biting, violent thing; a hyena stalking through the brush with its nose and its teeth. So he nuzzles his face into Mydei's waiting hand, says: "I'm no coward," with his heart hammering a terrifying rhythm against his ribs. "Unless you are, Mydeimos?"
Mydei scoffs, a mean little noise kicking at the back of his throat. "That's not all," he says, reaching for his box. There are ropes. A metal gag. Phainon thinks about Mydei selecting these wares, out in the open, and is unable to hide his smile. Was Mydei thinking of him? Standing still, running his hands over leather. He must have been. Phainon almost laughs at the thought. What did the people think when they saw the Crown Prince in such a situation? Phainon can almost imagine the little crease between Mydei's brow, the one that appears when he thinks too hard, standing in front of a selection of sex-related paraphernalia.
"Fine," Phainon says. There's a spark in his chest, ignited into flame. Phainon is going to peel Mydeimos open. Crack his armor, feast on flesh. He wonders how Mydei would sound choking on cock, clenching on fingers. Tongue against his teeth, Phainon laughs. He's never been so hard in his life. "Do your worst, Mydei."
The ropes are laced over Phainon's forearms. His wrists. Pulled tight behind his back. Mydei's not very good at knots, Phainon notices, when he tests them. There's a laxness to them that would make Galba shake his head, but it could be a test. Mydei, with his awful, loose knots, testing Phainon's resolve. Mydei had kissed his shoulder as he tied the rope, a soft press of his soft mouth. Phainon shudders, thinking about it. Mydei notices. He laughs.
"Eager, aren't we?" Mydei says, an echo of Phainon's mockery, and Phainon feels the furrow of his own brow, the grind of his teeth, vaguely annoyed, but he keeps his mouth shut. Mydei strokes his hair, seemingly pleased. Mydei says: "Good boy, Deliverer." His tone is light. A joke? Or does Mydei mean it? Either way, Phainon's breath stutters out of his mouth, harsh. His cock strains, leaking. He pushes his head against Mydei's palm. His choker comes off easily. Mydei kisses his tattoo. Sucks a bruise into the center of it. The leather collar fits snug over his throat, settling over the jut of cartilage surrounding his larynx. Mydei's hair smells good, tickling Phainon's collarbone. He's so close. Phainon swallows, drool building under his tongue.
Mydei cradles Phainon's head between his palms. His soft hands, smooth with countless deaths. Phainon wants to kiss him, his hands, his mouth, his cunt. "Not too tight?" Mydei asks, scratching gently behind Phainon's ears like he's really some prized mutt waiting at its owner's feet.
"Woof," Phainon says. Mydei's eyebrows raise in what looks like surprise. Then his expression settles into—oddly enough—relief. Mydei's mouth twists up into a smile, after that. He tugs his fingers through Phainon's hair, catching on the back of Phainon's neck, where the hairs are shorn close to his skull. His thumbs dig into Phainon's jugular grooves, one on each side.
"Such initiative," Mydei says. His eyes narrow in mirth, warm like the sun. Ahh, Phainon thinks. How beautiful. Not the delicate, artful beauty of the people that are praised to be Mnestia-blessed, but something real. Solid. The frizz of his hair, the slight crook of his incisors, the moles on the shell of his ear. So, so beautiful. When Phainon receives his reward, he notices Mydei's mouth is damp. He tastes like freshly chewed mint. Cute. Phainon politely refrains from pushing his tongue out to lick into Mydei's mouth. After all, he is a good boy. They separate, Mydei's lips kiss-swollen and shiny with spit. "If you're obedient enough, maybe we can put your mouth to better use."
Phainon strains to hold his tongue. He can think of at least five uses for his mouth, in this situation, but Mydei looks so pleased that Phainon feels disinclined to disobey. So he stays silent, watching Mydei twist his braid almost bashfully between his fingers. A moment of thought. It's cute: Mydei always thinks so hard Phainon can almost hear him, considering his next move. In the end, Mydei decides to move to his bed. He leaves Phainon there, knees aching, shoulders tight from holding his arms in place so the knots won't fall loose. Mydei lounges back, spreading his thighs. Phainon watches, jaw twitching, as Mydei's hand travels slowly down his chest. His stomach. Dipping between his legs, a tease. "Come here," Mydei beckons. A one-finger salute, crooked in Phainon's direction. Phainon hears his own aggrieved exhale, before he starts shuffling forward on his knees. The friction from the floor is uncomfortable on his skin. It can't be sexy for Mydei, Phainon thinks helplessly, watching him wriggle his way across the room, but Mydei is smiling so wide it blooms something warm and wicked in Phainon's gut. He wishes his cock could calm down, but it doesn't. Another obstacle for Phainon to work against, crawling like a dog towards its food bowl. Yeah. Not sexy at all.
"You can walk," Mydei says. He looks like a prince on his throne. A king. Phainon wants him messy and debauched. His throat between Phainon's teeth. The offer sounds like a challenge. Like he doesn't think Phainon is capable, like he needs to offer an easier alternative. No, no no. Phainon doesn't need to walk. Crawling is fine. It's fine. It's fine even though the skin of his knees burn from chafing against the floor. He can't bear the thought of Mydei watching him fail. The Deliverer always rises to the challenge. Always. Always. Phainon is panting by the time he makes it to the bed, eye-level with Mydei's knees. If he raises his head a little more, he'll be eye-level with Mydei's cunt. "Stubborn," Mydei remarks, voice flat enough to make Phainon bare his teeth. "Stop that. It's not criticism."
Isn't it? Phainon raises his chin. Mydei spreads his thighs wider, showing off his slick-shiny cunt. "Look," Mydei murmurs. Phainon looks, his line of thought cut away with a single word. He feels the heat of his flush, burning down his face and his neck and his shoulders. Mydei lifts his foot, pressing it against the bulge between Phainon's thighs. The noise that escapes Phainon is an ugly, strangled thing.
"Should I reward you?" A musing, a soft little almost-whisper. Mydei's always been steadfast without pause, but here he hesitates. Treading carefully, even though he was the one who put them in this situation in the first place. Phainon almost wants to laugh, but his voice has been choked into nothing. He strains to keep his hips still. He could fuck his cock against the sole of Mydei's foot, if he really wanted to. Show Mydei what a mutt really looks like. But the look on Mydei's face sparks another yawning thing in Phainon. He wants to be good. No, not want. He needs to be good. It's visceral, this need, an all-consuming, burning thing. Phainon's shoulders are tremoring finely. He swallows the drool building up in his mouth. Mydei sits up, moving closer. If Phainon breathes in deeply, he would be able to smell Mydei's slick. He inhales. Mydei strokes Phainon's shoulders with his soft hands but he grinds his heel down on Phainon's cock, fabric rough against sensitive flesh. It feels too intimate, this push and pull. Mydei's golden eyes burn like the sun. Phainon hisses, short and sharp, then there are fingers under his collar, hauling him up, pointed nails digging into the tender skin of his throat.
He lands on his back, graceless. Mydei's weight settles across his stomach. His cunt is warm, wet, smearing slick on Phainon's skin. A whine escapes Phainon's mouth, indignant and loud. Pathetic even to Phainon's own ears. Mydei's bared throat, the arch of his back. He chases pleasure with Phainon's body, grinding down with his palms flat against Phainon's chest. Mydei kneads like a cat but he rocks his hips like a well-trained whore. It's a poisonous thought, familiar enough that Phainon doesn't startle at it anymore. Phainon wishes Mydei would let him take his pants off. His cock hurts. A second later, Mydei's hands tug at the waistline of his pants. Phainon lifts his hips, obedient, watching the way the lips of Mydei's cunt spreads squished against his belly while Mydei rips impatiently into fabric. Phainon itches with the desire to speak, babble rising to his tongue, praise be upon Mydeimos, Crown Prince, greatest of warriors, strongest of the strong, dripping slick onto Phainon's skin. How many has Mydei taken? Phainon thinks, nonsensical. How many before him? How many? Phainon tosses his head. A ridiculous notion, faced with a cruel and unyielding desire.
Mydei's hand is smooth, tacky with sweat. The sensation of Mydei's palm closing around Phainon's cock is akin to the sweetest relief, even though his movements are slow. Hesitant. Shy? Phainon feels his thighs flex tight, struggling against his impending premature orgasm. Would Mydei like it? Or would he laugh? Perhaps he would find Phainon a fool and toss him aside, losing interest. But Mydei would look pretty with Phainon's cum on him. A dizzying, delirious revelation. Phainon has to close his eyes. Looking at Mydei would be—too much.
"Look," Mydei's voice is a low, quiet murmur. The same thing he said when Phainon was on his knees, but he's closer, softer. His breath blows over the shell of Phainon's ear; his hair tickles Phainon's shoulder. Thighs around Phainon's hips; lips against Phainon's jaw; hand around Phainon's cock. Phainon opens his eyes to Mydei's face, his red mouth, his burning flush. Phainon looks, and looks, and looks. Unblinking, eyes dry, like he's a child watching a fat little grub crawling up a stalk of wheat. Blink and you miss it. Cyrene always said object permanence was a fickle thing. Then Mydei's hand tightens, jerking up-down and the deafening squelch of fluids on skin rings in Phainon's eardrums and—what was Phainon thinking about, again? It's not important. It's not important when Mydei is staring at Phainon's cock, the flushed head of it leaking over Mydei's tight fist. Mydei isn't very good at this, grip too tight and chafing without proper lube. But Phainon's cock is leaking enough that it doesn't matter, and Mydei's mouth is twisting into a pout, and he says: "Why won't you cum?" and then, a petulant edge to his tone: "Phainon," and Phainon cums, jaw clenched around his gasping, ragged breaths.
Mydei gasps too. Phainon's cum streaks up his forearm, splattered over his tattoos, translucent white on glowing red. It takes a while for him to regain his composure, both of them breathing hard. "Good dog," Mydei says at last with a rumbling, cat-pleased laugh. A hand in Phainon's hair, tugging. Phainon whimpers. His shoulders are sore. The roof of his mouth is too dry, but drool pools under his tongue. He swallows, collar sticking to his skin, leather gummy with sweat. Mydei kisses up his jaw. Tongue on his pulse. Phainon imagines struggling out of the ropes. Shoving Mydei to the bed, hand on the back of his neck. Hold Mydei down and fuck him so sloppy he won't be able to close his legs when Phainon is done with him, cunt leaking Phainon's cum. It would be easy. Mydei would fight back, legs kicking. Or maybe he would take it. Hold himself open for Phainon's cock, drooling like a whore. Phainon's molars grind together, the hazy shattered glass superimposition of his imaginary-Mydei looking bullied and fucked out and content and the real Mydei leaving imprints of his teeth in the skin of Phainon's neck. His cock twitches back to life, rubbing against the warm thigh Mydei's slung across Phainon's body. "What do you want?" Mydei is laughing, still, the meat of his thigh pressing down on Phainon's cock, muscles flexing, shifting. "Speak, puppy."
What does Phainon want? His breaths come short and sharp, chest heaving. His skin tingles, hyperaware of Mydei's scrutiny. Mydei's flesh, Mydei's sweat, the sticky, drying cum between Mydei's thighs. Phainon—Phainon doesn't know what it feels like to want, but maybe it's like this—this familiar, unsatiable, desperate emotion blooming dark like a bruise. His voice is choked, but he speaks. Mydeimos commands it, so he obeys, a singular word, soft and strangled: "Please."
Mydei's mouth curls up, a pleased little curve. His darkening flush, his bright eyes, his dilated pupils. "Please?" Mydei asks, trailing his nails down Phainon's chest. Digging into skin, a tease. "Please what, Deliverer?" A wet stripe, dragged along Phainon's collarbone, tongue pink and tempting. Phainon's cock drools embarrassingly against the plane of his belly, pooling into the dip of his bellybutton. Mydei watches, waiting for Phainon to speak. Phainon needs—he needs—
"I want to put my mouth on you," Phainon gasps. Inhale, exhale, nostrils flaring. He turns his head, desparate, looking at Mydei's face, the way his teeth are leaving divots on his lip. "Please, I need to—"
Mydei's eyes narrow. What is he thinking, Phainon wonders. Does he find Phainon pathetic, with his lack of restraint, with his mouth babbling drivel? No matter. Phainon can beg, if Mydei wants him to. Phainon can do anything Mydei wants him to. The thought of it scares him, that yawning chasm of want. He wants Mydei. He wants Mydei, an endless loop of lunacy. But then Mydei nods, a quick, terse movement. His blush reaches his ears. Phainon wonders if he would find the back of Mydei's neck warm from his flush, if Phainon's hands were free to hold him. To touch him.
"Sit on me, on my face," Phainon's mouth is still moving, barly any input from his brain, "I promise I'll be good Mydeimos, I promise—"
"Stop talking," Mydei hisses, an embarrassed tilt to his shoulders, but he's moving anyways. Phainon's mouth slams shut so quickly his teeth click together uncomfortably, but it's fine because Mydei's cunt is right above his face, Mydei's knees careful on either side of Phainon's head. A line of slick drips from Mydei's cunt, the damp curls of his pubic hair matted to his skin. Phainon strains his neck, watching, enraptured, as the slick lands on the bridge of his nose, rolling down to his philtrum. Phainon licks his lips. Mydei's taste on his tongue. Mydei's mouth lands on Phainon's navel, tongue dipping into the pool of Phainon's precum. Now they taste of each other. Phainon burns with the thought. "Well?" Mydei spits out, sounding impatient. "Get to work, Deliverer."
Phainon gets to work. Mydei's moan is quiet, a startled thing ripped out of his throat when Phainon's tongue touches his cunt. His hips twitch, once, twice, reserved and hesitating. Mydei's thighs are trembling already. Cute. So, so cute. Phainon pushes his tongue in, Mydei's cunt is sloppy and searingly warm. If his hands were free, he would use them to jerk Mydei off too. Fuck his fingers inside, rub his fingerprints on Mydei's clit, on Mydei's walls. What would Mydei sound like, if Phainon did that? Would he like it? Hate it? Much to think about. Much to learn. He groans unwittingly, hearing Mydei's short little whine. He could suffocate in Mydei's cunt. Live off Mydei's slick. Become Mydei's personal seat warmer. Haha, what a fantasy. Then Mydei's mouth closes over the head of Phainon's cock in retaliation, wet and hot, an unspoken contest. Phainon feels his brow tick. He won't lose. Not like this.
It's a close thing, really. Phainon works his tongue harder; Mydei swallows another inch, choking noisily. Phainon sucks on Mydei's clit; Mydei pulls off to lick at the vein throbbing on Phainon's cock, his sharp little fangs scraping a warning. Phainon pushes his head up, smashing his entire nose against Mydei's cunt; Mydei shoves his head down until his nose is pressed against Phainon's pubic hair. But in the end, Mydei lifts his hips off Phainon's face, thighs tremoring, throat convulsing, and he sprays his orgasm over Phainon's face, his keen muffled around Phainon's cock. Phainon has the wits to close his eyes, open his mouth. Mydei tastes salty, warm. The rush of victory is heady, made sweeter by the wet, nasal quality of Mydei's voice as he demands for Phainon to "Cum already, you insatiable mutt." Of course, Phainon obliges, a laugh tearing out of him, his orgasm tearing through him. Mydei barely swallows half of it, his wet choking hot enough to make Phainon's toes curl into damp sheets, the drip of cum leaking out of his mouth back down onto Phainon's limp cock. Mydei pulls off slow. Phainon turns his head to press his nose gratefully against the rigid, shivering line of Mydei's thigh. A kiss and Mydei tenses up, ticklish. Another kiss and Mydei snaps: "Stop that," moving off Phainon's body. Phainon wants to mourn the loss of his wonderful view, but his body is corpse-heavy, heady and satisfied like a dog after its meal.
You liked it, Phainon wants to say. But Mydei's taken away the privilege of speech from him once again, so he settles on his numb forearms and waits so patiently and obediently while Mydei wipes at his own mouth. Mydei's back is half-turned, his tattoos pulsing like he's embarrassed, but Phainon can see his tongue darting out, licking his lips clean. Phainon wants to kiss him. Taste himself on Mydei's spit. He wants to fold Mydei in half. He's hard again. He wants to rub his cock between the wet lips of Mydei's cunt and grind until Mydei cries. He wants to—he wants to—
Mydei sits on him. Phainon yelps, surprised, wrenched out of his wretched fantasies, and then he moans, because Mydei is clenching hot around the head of his cock. Mydei's jaw twitches, teeth clenched. Phainon whimpers, worried about the expression on Mydei's face, but Mydei snarls at him, fisting a hand in Phainon's hair and yanking, dropping down all the way, and Phainon's vision whites out. It's hot. It's too hot. The apex of Mydei's thighs is sloppy with slick, with precum. Phainon's head churns, dizzy with sensation. He has to fight to keep his hips still, head held in place, gaze pointed at the ceiling. Maybe counting ceiling tiles will help. One. Two. Crack in the ceiling. Mydei makes a torn little noise, stuck in his throat. Phainon closes his eyes. Opens them. Three. Four—
Hands on his head, tight over his cheekbones. Mydei holds Phainon's head down, forcing him to look, and Mydei's face—it's beautiful. Drool on his chewed-up lips, tears in his unfocused eyes. Slick on Phainon's thighs. Slick on Phainon's cock. Phainon's eyes flick down to where they're connected in the most carnal sense. His mouth twitches up in a smile. Mydei notices, his cunt clenching tight, and he says, two syllables punctuated with moans, turning a complaint into a whorish plea: "Per—ah, nnh—vert," and Phainon can't help it, hips kicking up so hard Mydei's braid bounces, the metal aglet glancing off his sweaty collarbone. Mydei doesn't keen but it's a close thing, a pitched noise leaking out between his teeth, his weight heavy against Phainon's moving pelvis. Phainon wants to chase it, chase that pretty sound with his hips, his cock, but Mydei is glaring, clawing at Phainon's shoulders. "Stop," Mydei says, and then louder, "stop." Phainon doesn't stop. He can't stop. Mydei's nails are taking off skin. It stings, but Phainon can't keep the smile off his face, and it must annoy Mydei because he reaches a hand back and then pain blossoms across Phainon's face.
"Useless dog," Mydei snarls, voice harsh. "Can't even follow a simple order." It hurts. Wet trickles from Phainon's nose, his grin frozen like a knife-slash across his face. All things considered, it wasn't a heavy blow: a flirty half-hearted backhand, coming from Mydeimos. Phainon flicks his tongue out, tasting rust. It vexes him, though. The indignity of it all, the kicked-dog hurt. The vapid smile Phainon keeps on his face while he thinks. What a man he is, Crown Prince Mydeimos, to be able to reach past all the layers Phainon's been painted with and arrive at his core: that raging, half-grown teenager, armed only with aggression and his awful, curdling temper. Mydei seems startled at his reaction, a slow frown forming on his flush-darkened mouth. "Deliverer," he begins, voice careful, and Phainon blinks. Phainon laughs. It's a bark of a laugh, ripping through the tension. Mydei's head tilts in his confusion, but he doesn't relax. Smart man. Phainon's shoulders flex. The ropes, already loose, fall with barely one tug. Phainon smiles. Then he pounces.
It's not much of a fight. Mydei isn't really caught off guard, but he's stuffed with cock and weak with pleasure, so it's easy to overpower him. Phainon goes for the throat, first with his hands, crushing until Mydei wheezes, cunt clenching and mouth open in a gasp, then with his teeth. Mydei claws at him, wet blood under all his nails, and he really does keen this time when Phainon bites him, a proper high-pitched noise tremoring under Phainon's incisors and canines, and then he cums like a true-bred bitch, convulsing on Phainon's cock, spraying wet all over Phainon's thighs like he's pissed himself.
"You're pretty when you're speared on my cock, Mydei," Phainon says. It feels good to be able to move how he wants to, grind his cock deep in Mydei's cunt, fuck his hips hard against Mydei's ass. An overwhelming rush of adrenaline, of pleasure, one hand still around Mydei's throat as a warning. Mydei glares, but the effect is ruined by his tears, his fucked-out expression, his bouncing tits. Oh, those tits. Phainon reaches up to grab one, plush flesh spilling between his fingers. Mydei's throat works, teeth grinding together desperately to keep himself quiet. "Oh, don't go quiet now, beautiful. Let me hear your whore voice, hmm?"
"You—" Mydei grunts, sliding back-forth on the sheets with the force of Phainon's thrusts, his grip slipping on Phainon's wrists, "—HKS!"
"Creative," Phainon remarks. He bears down harder, watches the way Mydei drools, the way Mydei quivers. Phainon tugs on a nipple, watching the way Mydei flinches away. "I'm starting to think the Kremnoan dictionary is lacking in swear words as well, Mydei."
"Shut," Mydei says, and then: "Uhnnn," chest heaving, eyes shiny. Phainon kisses his jaw, then his mouth, licking the roof of it until Mydei gags, spit leaking over his chin, down his neck, down Phainon's wrist. He doesn't close his mouth, afterwards, his tongue pink and wet, looking so fucked out that Phainon has to cum, cock twitching inside Mydei's sloppy cunt. Mydei moans, thighs tight around Phainon's hips, so sweet that Phainon almost lets his guard down. Almost. He's ready when Mydei rears back, trying to kick, catching Mydei by the backs of his knees, bearing down with all of his weight. There's a brief scuffle that Phainon wins, panting, fringe sticking to his forehead from sweat. Mydei fares worse: upper body halfway-hanging off the bed, hair clenched in Phainon's fist; he tries to reach back to gouge at Phainon with his claws but he barely reaches Phainon's wrist at that angle. Phainon leans his weight onto his knee, digging into Mydei's back. Mydei tenses, muscles flexing, tattoos flaring bright. "Give," Phainon says, voice slipping. He feels speared through. He's won, but he feels wrecked and wretched and wicked, Mydei's soft hair tight in his fist, Mydei's neck twisted at an angle that must be uncomfortable. Mydei manages to be still and regal even with blood smeared over his throat, even with cum leaking from his cunt. Must be nice, to have his title, his people. Beloved, strong, the Kremnoans with their unwavering loyalty. Phainon's inferiority is a miserably sharp knife. "Give," he insists again, his voice cracking over the word. He shifts, and Mydei makes a soft noise, a broken whine, and he feels his cock stir. He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. Maybe Mydei is right and he really is a pervert.
Mydei's nails catch on his skin. "Phainon," Mydei says, tone so gentle Phainon thinks he could be talking to a child who's done something egregious, sobbing with their fists clenched in the fabric of their parents' clothes, and he says: "I didn't mean it," a quiet apology. Phainon feels the unwittingly tense line of his shoulders relax, listening to Mydei's voice. A whimper builds up in the back of Phainon's throat, a pathetic pleading thing. He slumps over Mydei's warm body, dragging Mydei back onto the bed, his mouth on Mydei's shoulder blade, an apology in its own right. There is a sour twinge spreading across Phainon's nose bridge, twisting tight. Makes it hard to breathe. Phainon sniffles, rubbing his face into Mydei's back, eyes dry. Mydei is going to hate him. He's a failure—a disobedient, untrained whelp. Mydei won't want him anymore. Mydei is going to leave him, after he's cracked Phainon's ribs open and witnessed the slimy, rotting insides. "Phainon," Mydei says again, his breathing a steady rhythm. Inhale, exhale. Rising, falling. "Let me turn around."
Mydei's eyes are soft. Softer than Phainon deserves. Phainon's hands shake, flipping Mydei onto his back. He nuzzles his nose into Mydei's neck. The wound from Phainon's teeth has healed over already, blood dried. Mydei strokes his hair with both hands, nails scratching gentle on Phainon's scalp. "Poor puppy," Mydei says. It almost sounds like an insult, but Phainon doesn't care. Phainon flings himself onto Mydei with a whine, grabbing at him, trailing his palms across the expanse of Mydei's back, his waist, his hips. Touching, rubbing, feeling. "Trying so hard to please me."
But it's not working, is it? Is it? Is it? Phainon digs the flat of all his fingers into Mydei's skin. His fingerprints should leave dark bruises. A mark. Phainon was here. The Deliverer was here. Then Mydei draws him in for a kiss, long and slow. Mydei's mouth is hot, his lips parting for Phainon's tongue. He sucks it into his mouth, licks the underside of it until Phainon squirms, until Phainon is fully hard again, pressed against Mydei's thigh. "Bite me again," comes Mydei's breathless demand, hot against Phainon's jaw, his teeth scraping a demonstration against Phainon's chin. His pupils are so dilated. Phainon can see his own gluttonous reflection in them. He'll obey, this time. He'll be good. He'll be good. He opens his mouth, bares all his teeth. Mydei nudges his head onto a warm shoulder. Phainon tastes sweat and soap and skin. His hungry tongue on Mydei's skin. And then—
He bites.
He tastes blood. He's worked his jaw closed, clamped his teeth down tight. A ravenous beast cloaked in his skin. Mydei tosses his head back with a moan, a hand fisting the hair at back of Phainon's head, holding him down. Holding him close. Another hand sneaks down, down, down, until he's touching Phainon's cock. Phainon exhales around flesh. Mydei shudders, a full-body shiver. His cunt leaks even more, wet spilling against them, between their tangled thighs, their pressed-together bodies. Mydei guides Phainon's cock between the slippery lips of his cunt and Phainon forgets to breathe. There's a sweet, hazy look to Mydei's beautiful, angular face. The same hunger, staring back at Phainon. He chews, grinding his teeth down hard, pushing his hips forward. Can I? Can I? Can I?
Mydei's knees tuck neatly against Phainon's ribs. His calves around Phainon's back, his ankles crossed, heels digging in. Mydei pulls Phainon in with his legs, silently granting permission, and Phainon obeys that unspoken order and slams his cock all the way in in one smooth thrust, and Mydei makes a noise like a shriek, his cunt growing hotter and wetter with each roll of Phainon's hips. Phainon still has his teeth in Mydei's shoulder, digging so deep he feels the muscle twitch, but when he opens his mouth to rest his tired jaw Mydei cries out in dismay, squirming on Phainon's cock until Phainon bites him again, blunt force traumatizing skin and vessels and muscle. Phainon kisses the ugly, oozing bite he leaves behind, then makes another. Another, another, another: scattered over Mydei's shoulders, the tense slope of his neck. Like Mydei is his chew toy. His. Phainon's chew toy. Is that what Mydei wanted? Is that what he was aiming for?
Phainon doesn't know. He doesn't particularly care, either. Whatever Mydei wants. Whatever Mydei wants, Phainon will give it to him. Because Phainon is obedient, and he's Mydei's obedient dog, and in turn Mydei is Phainon's too. Ownership in both directions, branded by the sticky collar around Phainon's throat, the shape of Phainon's teeth on Mydei's body. He braces himself on a forearm, kissing down Mydei's throat as he fucks Mydei open, reaching down to rub at Mydei's puffy, swollen clit with a finger, then two. Mydei's moans break around Phainon's name, like: "Phai—nnhh," and then something incomprehensible, wet sobbing, hair plastered across his sweaty forehead and eyes barely open, and Phainon thinks a fearful, selfish, yearning thought.
It slips heedless out of his brainless mouth, his heavy heart. Cracked over their joined bodies in the sex-stink of the air. Phainon says: "I want you," a pathetic gasping whisper, and Mydei shudders, his eyes going wide and bright, and then he's working his hips off Phainon's cock desperately, but Phainon holds him down, and he cums. Mydei's always been messy with his orgasms, but it's even wetter this time, a gush of warmth hitting Phainon's cock, squirting around it, and Mydei sobs, his grip on Phainon going slack. Phainon can feel Mydei's pulse through his cunt, grinding down in small circles.
"Hurts," Mydei mumbles eventually, after his orgasm finally ends, sounding snotty and fucked out. But he's smiling at Phainon, a big wide sweet smile, tears beading on his clumped lashes, cheeks flushed and satisfied. Phainon forces himself to stop, whining. Mydei kicks him in the hip. Phainon yelps. "Don't stop," Mydei says, still snotty. He sniffles and somehow it manages to sound haughty. "You haven't cum yet. Come on, puppy. You have to cum."
Oh. Phainon stares, gormless. Long enough for some of the bites to start closing. Long enough for Mydei to frown and kick him again. Mydei. His Mydei. His benevolent, beautiful Mydeimos, whose cunt is clenching around his cock. Phainon catches the backs of Mydei's knees. Folds them up until Mydei's ass is resting against Phainon's thighs. He can see Mydei's cunt. The slick-shine of it. The spread of it around Phainon's cock. He fucks his hips forward. Mydei sighs as though he's pleased, even though he was complaining not too long ago. "Good boy," Mydei says. He's smiling again, still hazy-sweet. Phainon likes that expression on him. "Your cock feels nice."
If he was in his right mind, he would say something about it. Something like: nice? Just nice? Even though you were shaking and cumming on it just a while ago? But then Mydei kisses Phainon's wrist, braced beside his head, and Phainon forgets what he's thinking. He focuses on fucking Mydei properly, sweating through all of his pores, folds him in half and fucks his cock in until he can feel the give of Mydei's womb, can see the bulge in his belly. Mydei clings to him like a limpet, arms around Phainon's neck, rubbing his cheek against Phainon's face, his neck, his shoulder. Shivery, cuddly thing, so free in his affections. Maybe Phainon's accidentally melted his brain. Maybe he would regret it once he regains his wits. Maybe, maybe. Phainon buries his face in Mydei's sweaty hair, kissing his braid, chasing that melting pleasure with Mydei's cunt. Warm and wet and squeezing tight around his cock. So perfect. So perfect. Phainon reaches down to rub at Mydei's clit again, watching the way his eyes flutter open.
"Phainon," Mydei whispers, his voice hoarse. "Love you."
Phainon cums. It's a blurry rush, between his kicking hips and his tensing core, and Mydei takes his hand and laces their fingers together on his belly, where Phainon's cock reaches, and Mydei laughs. Sweeter than the ripest figs, the freshest honey. Phainon makes a pathetic noise, a wet gasp of Mydei's name. He fills Mydei's cunt with cum. His mind briefly flickers to a tiny baby, nestled in Mydei's arms; Mydei, flush with joy, glowing with pride. Phainon wants that. He wants it, that imagined future for the two of them. "Love you," Phainon whimpers, "love you, love you—"
They kiss. Mydei's final orgasm is a quiet one, a tight squeeze around Phainon's cock, a half-hearted wriggle when Phainon doesn't pull out. Mydei strokes his hair from his forehead, an intimate thing. Phainon catches his breath in tatters. They look at each other: Phainon with blood under his nose, his collar too tight; Mydei with the healing imprints of Phainon's bites all over his skin, blinking slowly. So—now what?
Mydei yanks Phainon down. It's not very comfortable. They're both sticky with various fluids. It's too warm. The air is humid. But Phainon can hear the quick, thrumming beat of Mydei's heart, his head pillowed on Mydei's soft tits. It's not bad. It's not bad at all. "Phainon," Mydei says, his voice contemplative. Sleepy, from that warm, slow tone. "We talk after this."
Phainon's eyes are slipping shut. He's tired. Satiated and tired. "Okay," he whispers. And he falls asleep.