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The problem with Phainon is that—well. There's actually no problem with Phainon, if you discount the fact that he works six days a week and spends his single day off being on-call; his intertwining savior-hero-martyr complex (according to Cyrene); his ugly rusted beat-up truck (according to Hyacine); his general demeanor and boring lifestyle (according to Cipher).
"I have no issues with Lord Phainon," Castorice says, from where she is drafting her next novel with a side character based off of Phainon's likeliness. This side character will most likely die off mid-novel in the background in a most unremarkable manner when the hero kisses the romantic interest, like Castorice always does when she bases characters off him. "Well," she says. "Let's see what the character polls say."
But he digresses. Phainon thinks he lives a fulfilling life of helping farmers with their animals and getting free vegetables and dairy and getting licked and occasionally kicked by cows. So what if his truck is a little rusty and smells like crusted cow shit? It's just part of his job. Not everyone works in a fancy human hospital with their own office and bookshelves and desk and giant computer that Phainon privately thinks a doctor doesn't really need. And what does Cipher know? She's a cat hybrid who's never worked a day in her life.
"You're just bitter," Cipher yawns. She curls her tongue and her tail flicks behind her in a mocking pattern. "And envious of my free and luxurious lifestyle." Phainon prays fervently that when Aglaea forces her to go to the hybrid-vet for vaccinations the needle will be large and intensely uncomfortable. Twenty-three gauge. "Hey! That's mean!" she says.
Anyways. He digresses again. The point he's trying to make is this: Phainon's life is a simple but fulfilling one. However, as every story goes (according to Castorice), every character must eventually face their own conflicts. And Phainon's personal character conflict? A cow hybrid named Mydeimos. Also, student loans.
"Okay, but what does this have to do with me?" Cyrene wants to know.
All of this starts when Phainon gets a call from one of his nicer clients. Nice as in bills getting paid on time; gift baskets shoved into Phainon's hands on the odd occasion; no yelling. That's always the best part. No yelling.
The guy apologizes when Phainon pulls up into his driveway, and then he provides Phainon with a detailed history about his chickens starting to lay less. The one cradled in the farmer's arms is particularly fat. Her glossy feathers shine in the sun. She glares at Phainon with her baleful chicken eyes and attempts to peck him while he examines her.
"Nothing really wrong with them," Phainon tells the farmer while he fondles the last of the chickens. This one has a full crop and a taste for Phainon's fingers. "We can get samples for infectious disease testing if you want, but none of them look sick to me." He catches a glimpse of a long, curving tail. "You have hybrids on your farm? Any possibility they could have—" Phainon pauses. "Helped you? With collecting the eggs?"
The farmer is nice enough to not read between the lines to reach the conclusion Phainon is implicating. He frowns, thinking. "No," he says. Then: "Uhm. Actually, maybe? Well. Yeah, okay." He turns and strides out of the barn. Blinking, Phainon follows, letting the chicken in his hands flutter to the ground. They turn the corner to the lush green fields, where a cat hybrid is rolling around in grass while cows give her a wide berth, and next to her—
"Oh, a Kremnoan cow?" Rare species, characterized by their distinctive full-body markings and relatively large stature. Phainon isn't an expert on hybrids, but he's read about them. Something like an equivalent of a Highland-Jersey cross, in bovine terms. Phainon's heard tales about their excellent milk quality, but he's really not into the ethical implications of hybrid production. "Haven't seen one before."
"Mydeimos is new," the farmer beams. "He's been a great addition to our farm. An incredibly hard worker!" Mydeimos is scrolling on his phone, legs crossed. Then he lifts his head and Phainon receives an uncomfortable twenty seconds of unbroken eye contact. Mydeimos flicks his ears. His tail whips behind him, startling the cat hybrid awake. She scampers towards the farmer. Phainon, dressed in his wrinkled dusty coveralls and the back of his neck starting to sweat under the rubber of his stethoscope, looks away.
One interrogation later, the case of the lacking egg production is solved. The cat hybrid sulks, muttering something about desserts and Mydeimos and baking. The farmer sighs, shaking his head, but he pats her between her ears fondly. Phainon starts packing up, tossing his gloves into the trash. Belatedly, uncomfortably, he feels the weight of eyes on his back. He doesn't turn around, but he can guess who's trying to burn a hole into the back of his head. Awkward.
"Thank you for helping out, Dr Khaslana," the farmer says, polite. The fat chicken has returned to his arms, eyes closed in contentment. Phainon feels himself smile.
"Oh, drop the formalities, I told you to call me Phainon!" Phainon says, clapping the guy on his back. Good man. He doesn't stumble. "You know I love working with your animals. Very well behaved."
The farmer smiles. "Thank you, anyways, for your time." He pauses, thinking. "Oh, wait here a moment."
Phainon starts loading his truck. When he slams the door closed he almost startles at the proximity of the cow herd, wandered up to the fence and staring at him. Mydeimos is there too, leaning against a fluffy cow Phainon remembers is named Filly, twirling his braid between his forefinger and his thumb. Phainon blinks. He waves. Mydeimos scowls and looks away.
The farmer returns with a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and a glass bottle of milk. "Here, Dr Khas—Phainon. A little something for your troubles."
"Oh, you don't have to," Phainon says, but the farmer is insistent. The bread is warm through the cloth. The glass is cold against his sweaty fingers. "Well. Thank you. Do I have to return the bottle?"
"No need," the farmer says. "Although—you're okay with hybrid products, right?"
Ah. Okay. Well. No he isn't. Phainon feels a thread of conflict, but. Free food is free food. "Yeah, it's fine," Phainon says. This guy is really one of his better clients. He forces himself to smile.
"Great!" the farmer says, innocent and benevolent. "Please enjoy."
"Right," Phainon says. Then he drives away. The glass bottle leaves a wet print on his passenger seat.
"So you've fallen into a life of addiction," Cyrene says.
"No I have not." Phainon refutes.
"How did it taste?" Castorice wants to know.
"Crusty," Phainon says, avoiding the subject expertly. "Really good with butter. One of the better loaves of bread I've had in my lifetime, really."
"Oh okay," Cipher says, lying on her side and taking up an absurd amount of space on Cyrene's living room floor with her floppy tail and her lanky limbs. "He's avoiding the subject."
From Castorice's phone, over the clicking of her keyboard, Hyacine says: "Denial is an ocean, Phainon."
"I thought it was a river in Janusopolis."
"No," Hyacine says. Her keyboard clacks louder in a slightly more aggrieved manner. "For you, it's the ocean leading to the pier in Aedes Elysiae."
"Hey," Phainon says.
Cyrene reaches over to poke him in the forehead. "Be honest, cousin. You can do it. I know you can."
Cipher rolls over to face them. "I don't have faith in him."
"Phainon," Castorice says. "You didn't pour it down the drain, did you?"
"What!" Phainon says, affronted. Does he look like he's into food wastage? "Of course not! I never waste free food."
"You need to get a better job," Cipher says.
"I like my job!"
"Peanuts in your bank account," Cyrene laughs.
"Yeah, boy," Cipher says. "We're all rich here. Except you."
"Hey," Phainon refutes. "Aglaea is rich, not you."
Cipher whips her tail at his face. He eats a mouthful of grey fur, the taste of fur oil heavy on his tongue. "Aglaea being rich means I'm rich."
"Technically true." Castorice puts her finger up like she's asking for permission to speak. "Will you answer my question?"
"What was the question?"
"Early onset dementia, Phainon?" Hyacine snickers. She's a mean, mean woman under all that cotton candy fluff. Especially when she's doing overtime and hasn't finished charting. Phainon would curse her with an extra on-call shift, but he's actually very kind and young and according to his mom, handsome. His code of ethics wouldn't allow it. Instead he scowls in her general direction, her pink pixellated head at an awkward angle on the screen.
"It was fine," Phainon says. There is silence, in which three pairs of eyes blink at him in tandem. Freaky. Then: "Okay, but do you guys ever think about how technically that milk came from some person's nipples?"
"Yeah there it is," Cipher says. "Knew you were gonna say something stupid."
"It's not stupid!" It's not stupid. Phainon is just concerned. Ethical implications, et cetera, et cetera. He knows Mydeimos' name and what he looks like scrolling on his phone and somehow that feels a little too intimate. Phainon is drinking his milk. Might as well be suckling straight from his tit?!
"Wow," Cyrene says. "I love talking to you, Phainon. Every day you say something that makes me expand my worldview."
"You are very inspiring," Castorice agrees.
"You're sick, man," is Cipher's opinion.
"You are a plague upon doctors but a wonder to psychologists," Hyacine says. "Have you gotten over your mental hurdle against hybrid products? Will you try butter, next? Maybe cheese?"
She is so mean. Everyone is so mean. "I don't like you guys," Phainon decides. "Except Cas. You're okay, Cas." Castorice flashes him a peace sign, her expression unchanging.
"As if you have a choice, broke boy," Cipher snickers. Damn it. She's right. He doesn't.
Unfortunately, this issue continues to plague Phainon almost constantly. Teasing aside, his friends don't really care about hybrid ethics, except maybe Cipher, who is a hybrid herself, but then Cipher is Cipher, so maybe she doesn't really care either. But Phainon has to think about the logistics of it. The logistics of knowing what Mydeimos looks like, and what his milk tastes like, and the fleeting notion that one day, when the farmer calls Phainon in for another herd health check or egg thievery situation they may even hold a conversation with each other while Phainon has to contend with the knowledge that Mydeimos' milk is so thick and rich it's almost a cream. He'd drank it hunched over his kitchen sink feeling like some sicko, and then he thought about warm chocolate chip cookies, dipped in milk. That's the issue, really. Phainon, who grew up on a farm, and who now works with various farm animals, doesn't have a problem with livestock, or livestock production, or the intricacies of managing a giant herd of cows that all need to be charted for their dry seasons and their production seasons and the everchanging complexities of their nutritional equations. But it's weird, isn't it? To look at the milk in your fridge and know in your heart and your soul that this product has come from someone who is human-shaped, albeit with the characteristics of a livestock animal. It's not weird to think it's weird, is it? Is it? It's not weird to think about the milking machines, strapped to some busty blonde with cow ears' chest, is it?
"No, I definitely think it's weird," Caelus says.
"That's sick," Stelle says, but her tone is light and positive and she's giving him a thumbs up. "Are you a pervert or something? Who's the busty blonde?"
"Oh my god I'm a pervert?" Phainon is horrified. It is a horrific revelation, coming from some truly horrific people. No offense, Stelle and Caelus.
"None taken," they say at the same time. Twins with their strange twin-telepathy. Stelle says: "You sound like a pervert, though."
"Yeah," Caelus says. "You've been talking about milky tits for a while now, bro."
"Oh my god I'm a pervert," Phainon says, anguished.
"Takes one to know one," Stelle says proudly. "C'mon, you have a pic? Is the busty blonde hot? You smashing or what?"
"I—" Phainon says, a series of explicit images conjuring themselves up in his mind. Curse his vivid imagination. "No??? I mean—ethically. I'm saying ethically. In my profession. It's weird?"
Stelle and Caelus exchange a glance. "Phainon," Caelus starts. "Are you… speciesist?"
Magnitude eight earthquake. Category four typhoon. Phainon drops to his knees. Dan Heng chooses this moment to wander over.
"Why is Phainon on his knees?" he wants to know.
"Oh, he just realized he's a pervert," Caelus says.
"And speciesist," Stelle adds helpfully.
"Oh," Dan Heng says. Then he walks away.
Let it be known that Phainon is certainly not speciesist in any way. It's not like he has anything against hybrids. It's just that Phainon was born in a rural area where the most young couples did in public was hold hands and giggle and moon at each other. Kissing was chaste. Exchange of fluids? An intimate, private event. And it's not like Phainon is conservative in any sense—it's just. It's just. Mydeimos is a stranger and milk is technically a body fluid. In conclusion: Phainon is just going around consuming body fluids from a stranger. No, it doesn't matter how beautiful the stranger is: a stranger is a stranger.
"What is your problem?" Cipher yowls. Aglaea looks at them strangely, before going back to her sketches.
"You're my friend, Cipher," Phainon says, to which Cipher mutters: "Hardly, ew," and then he says, "Can you tell me honestly if I'm speciesist. This is freaking me out." Then Cipher says: "You're always freaking out," which is true, but not reassuring in any way, and then: "You are so weird!" before swiping at his face with her kitty claws.
"She means she loves you," Aglaea calls. "Cifera, come here. I need you to try on this dress for me."
"Leave me alone, weaver lady!" Cipher yells. She swipes at Phainon again in a huff. Then she sidles up to Aglaea, her ears twitching. "Gimme that." She snatches up the shimmery fabric from Aglaea's hands and flounces off without another glance in Phainon's direction.
"Phainon," Aglaea says.
"Yes?" Phainon replies.
"Please refrain from tormenting Cifera. She's a sensitive soul, you know."
Phainon doesn't know. Phainon doesn't think any inch of Cipher could be described with the word sensitive, but maybe that's just him. "I'm not tormenting her. I'm tormented. My soul, Lady Aglaea. It's being tormented."
The fingers of Aglaea's right hand twitches in the direction of her fabric scissors, a miniscule movement. "Alright, Phainon," she says. "Why don't you have some tea?"
Phainon takes a sip from his cup. It's nice. Some floral flavor, slightly earthy. The kind of tea he would never buy for himself because he's not in that particular tax bracket. He takes another longer sip.
"If you're pondering ethics," Aglaea says, her voice a touch thoughtful, "I'm sure you know who to call."
Phainon blinks. "Who?"
Aglaea closes her eyes. "Him, Phainon."
Oh. Oh! Phainon gets it. Phainon knows who she's talking about. In his first year of university, he'd been forced to take at least two welfare and ethics classes, one of them which was taught by a professor with an eye patch and a toy gun who laughed like a maniac when his students spoke up in class. He was trigger-happy, often going off on tangents about his favorite animal species; his favorite documentaries; his favorite person to hate et cetera. An excellent professor—if not for his inclinations towards shooting his students in the head. Rubber bullets hurt like hell—first-hand experience. It helped that Phainon always won the debates. Phainon had finished the class with a fair score, forgot about the guy, and then at Cipher's (Aglaea's) fancy house he had bumped into the man wearing fuzzy slippers and silk pajamas, lounging in the kitchen with a mug in one hand and calling Aglaea a witch, to which Aglaea responded by calling him an eccentric, which was Aglaea-speak for fucking loser. What chemistry! After that, Phainon noticed the matching shiny rings, sat through a truly awkward breakfast with Cipher kicking a rhythm against his shins, and went home with bruises on both his legs. Yeah, that's the guy. Aglaea's lawfully-wedded husband: Anaxa.
"You're a lifesaver," Phainon breathes.
Aglaea's lips twitch up in a smirk. "Call him now. I want to hear your conversation."
Anaxa only picks up on the third attempt, and his voice is rude and brisk as he says: "What?"
"Hey, Anaxa," Phainon starts. Anaxa hangs up. Phainon calls him back. Anaxa picks up and says, again, louder this time: "What?"
"Uhm," Phainon looks at Aglaea helplessly. Her mouth twitches. "It's Phainon."
"Who?"
"One of your previous students? You taught our ethics class… I'm friends with Cipher?" I saw your fuzzy slippers, Phainon doesn't say.
"Oh. You. What do you want?"
"Well," Phainon starts, and then he regales Anaxa with his current ethical dilemma regarding the production and consequent consumption of hybrid products, to which Anaxa says, quote-unquote: "Yawn," which startles Phainon out of his rant on the philosophies of consumerism, and then he says: "My stance is utilitarian. Hybrids, humans, we are all working dogs, Phainon Khaslana. You are boring me with this topic. Find something more interesting to ask."
Meekly, Phainon says: "You don't think it's weird that we're drinking milk from a stranger's tits?"
Anaxa is briefly stunned into silence. Aglaea giggles from across the room, muffled into the palm of her hand. "I see. This is about your perversion. You feel guilt because you are having sexual fantasies about hybrids."
"I'm not?!" Phainon yelps. "Professor Anaxa—"
"Oh, so it's a specific hybrid. By the way, it's A-nax-a-go-ras," Anaxa says. "Perhaps you should go to a psychologist, or even a psychiatrist. This is clearly not an ethics issue, no matter how much you insist it is. Please sort out your sick and twisted fantasies without involving me. I know the witch put you up to this, so tell her this for me: I will be coming home for dinner tonight. Assuming I am on speaker—" he is, "—she likely can hear me. I will send you the contact of my former student who I hear is excellent in her field. Also, consider that you have some inherent prejudices to work through. Don't call me again."
"Wait—"
Anaxa hangs up. Aglaea collapses into silent laughter. Her shoulders are shaking. Phainon is pretty sure there are tears in her eyes. His phone pings. He looks down at it. From Anaxa: a text message with a contact number attached.
Hyacinthia, it reads.
Phainon closes his eyes. He feels like one of those goats that's gotten their heads stuck in a fence, panicked and desolate and devastated. He feels like he should throw his head back and howl at the moon. But he shouldn't do that in front of polite company. So he rests his head on his knees instead. He shouldn't have wasted his singular off day on this. He would hate himself, but it's really not worth the energy. He hears the drag of a curtain. The swish of fabric.
"Agy, how's this?" Cipher's voice. "What'd I miss? Why're you laughing?" A pause. "What's wrong with him?"
Even though Phainon spends the rest of his day off in abject despair, life truly waits for no one. He gets call after call after call, for unruly goats and injured poultry and cows with general malaise, even though it should be the quiet season of the year. He's thankful, though. When he's working, he doesn't have to think about anything else. Especially not—
"Mydei!" Mister Nice-Guy farmer calls. "The vet is here! You can tell him about Filly."
Shit.
Phainon's fingers clench on his stethoscope. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Listeriosis. Hardware disease. Bloat. "Filly's not doing right?" he asks instead.
"Mydei said she's been feeling a little off," the farmer says. He lowers his head in that apologetic way of his. "I was hoping you'd be able to have a look at her. Mydei's really good with the herd, you see. Just wanna make sure everything's fine."
"Any symptoms?" Phainon pulls on his gloves. When he turns, he nearly jumps, because it's Mydeimos standing behind him, in his baggy tank top and casual sweatpants. Phainon looks at Mydei's face and tries very hard to not look anywhere else.
"She's eating a little less," Mydei replies. "Says something tastes off."
Phainon frowns. "You've been pasturing cyclically with the same grass, right?"
The farmer nods. "No changes."
"Can we bring her to the crush?"
Mydei frowns. "She won't move if you ask nicely."
"Well," Phainon says. "I ask nicely but I still get kicked. Unless you can make sure she doesn't?"
Mydei's ears flick. He seems annoyed. He crosses his arms over his chest. Phainon keeps his eyes trained on his scowling face. Above the neck, Khaslana. Keep your eyes above the neck. "She won't like it," Mydei says, stubborn.
"I'm not risking an injury," Phainon says. "The crush, yeah? I'll be useless with a broken arm. A leg is fine, though, I guess."
Mydei looks like he's about to kick Phainon himself. Then he turns sharply on his heel, striding towards the grazing pasture, muttering something under his breath. The farmer blinks, puzzled, giving Phainon another apology on their way to the crush. Mydei is scowling, his hand on Filly's head, patting her between her eyes.
"I'm sorry," Mydei tells her. "I didn't know he would be this annoying about it."
Phainon is being insulted. Hybrid cow to cow. What the hell. Filly blinks her large gentle eyes and lumbers over into the crush on her own volition. This is why this farm is great. Very well behaved. Phainon is gentle with the yoke, because Filly is sweet. Next to her, Mydei fidgets uncomfortably. What, does he have some kind of crush-related trauma? Do hybrids get put in crushes? Phainon doesn't know. He does feel kind of bad, though.
Anyways. Filly's examination goes on uneventfully. No neurological signs, no symptoms of bloat. Her gut sounds are beautifully musical, her rumen gurgling rhythmically. Her temperature is normal. Her hooves are clean enough. She noses at Phainon good-naturedly, leaving a wet smear on Phainon's coveralls. Mydei watches Phainon like a hawk. Maybe he has trust issues. Maybe the hybrid-vet he goes to is shit. "Nothing wrong on her physical," Phainon calls. The farmer sags, relieved. "As always, we can sample, but do you want to try her with a treat? She might just be fussing a little."
"Okay," the farmer says. Phainon hears the tremor in his voice and remembers that Filly is his oldest cow. Not even part of the milk herd. A twinge of empathy settles in Phainon's gut. Few farmers would continue to care for their animals past their production value. That's why he likes this guy. Mydei is in good hands, he thinks. He blinks. Why would he think that. He chases the thought away. He watches the farmer tempt the old girl with an apple. Filly reaches forward, eager. Phainon relaxes. Then, she freezes. Painstakingly, after a furtive glance in Mydei's direction, she turns her nose away.
The apple drops to the ground. The farmer, anguished, looks at Phainon. "Take the samples," he says.
"Wait!" Mydei says, right as Phainon shrugs and goes to fetch his needles and vacutainers. The apple, brushed clean of dirt and sitting in Mydei's hand, gets offered to Filly, who takes it gratefully. "She says she's feeling better."
Phainon raises an eyebrow. Mydei meets his stare head-on. Something's going on. Phainon doesn't know what, but he has a feeling that Mydei is up to something. "Can we talk?"
Mydei huffs. Behind them, the farmer sets Filly free from the crush, cooing at her. She gets another apple, which gets demolished in seconds. "What's there to talk about?"
"Well," Phainon says. "You wanna tell me what's going on for real?"
Mydei's tail lashes behind him, clearly agitated. Okay. Maybe Phainon is coming on too strong. He gentles his tone. "Did you need me privately for something? I'm not trained in hybrid medicine, but I can try to help if you—"
"Iwantedtogiveyoumynumber," Mydei interrupts, a chain of words muttered all in one breath. Then he blushes, staining his cheeks and his neck pink. "I just. I mean."
What?
"WHAT?" Phainon says, very loudly. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Think of the ethical implications, Khaslana. Do NOT think about the milk. Even though Mydei's blush is strawberry milk pink—STOP. STOP THINKING ABOUT THE MILK, KHASLANA. "I'm sorry, I mean. What?"
"My number," Mydei repeats. He's settled down from his fluster, regaining his composure. "I want you to have it."
Why????? "Why??" Phainon can't keep the incredulity out of his voice.
Mydei's beautiful face contorts into a scowl. His ears flatten close to his skull. "You can just say no, you know."
"No, I mean, it's just," Phainon starts. He stands there, in his dirty coveralls, a sunburn starting up on the back of his neck, his hands still gloved, the wet patch from Filly's nose still drying, and he cannot even start to imagine why Mydei is looking at him like he's just hurt Mydei's feelings by asking a very legitimate question. "I'm—you know. Sorry, are you flirting with me?"
Mydei looks at him like he's stupid. "Yes."
"Oh. Well, then." Phainon's phone burns a hole into the side of his leg. "Wait, so is Filly sick or not?"
"Excellent," Castorice mutters. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, rapid-fire. "Very good, Lord Phainon. Very titillating. Very inspiring."
Phainon's throat is dry from spending a good three hours talking about Mydei. Mydei, with his beautiful face and his golden hair and his excellent, excellent body. Phainon's been having dreams about him in explicit detail but Castorice doesn't need to know that. She's already smiling in a deeply satisfied way. Phainon inspects his phone. Mydei texts like he speaks: dry, to the point, with a coating of naïveté that comes as a surprise. There's a picture of a loaf of bread sitting on a cooling rack. Phainon responds to it with countless bread emojis, to which Mydei responds: 👎🏼
"What are we," Phainon says to his phone. His phone, unsurprisingly, does not have an answer.
"God, you are so boring," Cipher groans. "Just fuck him already!"
"I'm having a mid-life crisis," Phainon says. "My world has been turned upside down by a beautiful blonde with cow ears."
Cipher closes her eyes and covers her ears, curling up against Castorice's knee. "Make it stop, Princess," she moans.
"Go on, Phainon," Castorice encourages. The clacking of her keyboard grows even faster.
It's just—well. The initial problem was that Mydei was a stranger, but now Mydei is no longer a stranger, given that he was the one who actively bridged the gap between himself and Phainon, so technically any previous grievances Phainon had towards the consumption of his milk should have been cleared, except—
"So, hypothetically, if I were to consume another hybrid's products, would that be cheating?"
"I wish Hyacine was here," Cipher mutters. Castorice pats her ears in a vaguely sympathetic manner. "You have to let it go, man."
"The cow being your wingman is a very nice detail," Castorice says.
"Oh my god the cow set us up," Phainon says. "Am I a slut for drinking his milk before we even held hands?"
"What the hell," Cipher says. "Who thinks that? Who thinks like that?"
"It's okay, Lord Phainon," Castorice says gravely and seriously. "Sluttiness can be cured by true love."
"Don't encourage him!" Cipher says, affronted, but then Castorice tickles under her chin and she subsides into sulky purring.
"I think there's a more important question," Castorice says. "Is it cheating if you consume livestock product? Or is it fine, because it's technically from a different subset of species?"
"I'm a slut and a cheater???"
"Well," Castorice says. "Not what I said. I was just asking a question. Research, you know. Maybe you could ask your beautiful blonde cow hybrid boyfriend."
Phainon looks up at Castorice's ceiling dolefully. It's covered in little plastic glow-in-the-dark stars, all dusty and non-glowing. "I don't think he's my boyfriend," he tells the plastic ceiling stars, mournful. "He makes more money than me, did you know that? He works less than me too. It's a cruel, cruel world."
Cipher's tail twists itself into a knot. "Quit the pity party, you stupid mutt," she says. Agitation in her voice, in the set of her shoulders. "I know it's not about what you keep yapping on about. What, you think you're too good for hybrids or something?"
Phainon sits up very quickly. "I do not!" The vitriol in his voice surprises him. And Castorice, who blinks at him with her wide eyes.
"Then what?" Cipher hisses, her claws all extended and sharp. Speciesist, Caelus and Stelle's voices echo in his brain like twin demons. A plague upon his soul. Cipher's tone is full of vitriol too. Castorice isn't even typing anymore. "Just because you're a doctor and you have a job and—"
"Cipher," Castorice says. "I don't think—"
"You're on his side?!" Cipher's voice climbs up in pitch and in volume. "That's low, Castorice."
Castorice flinches. Phainon doesn't flinch. It's been a while since Cipher's been in one of her moods. Her kitty temper, Castorice likes to say, and she would smile and stroke the entire length of Cipher's tail, except Phainon is not so much of a pleasant person, and he has his own temper to contend with. "Um," Castorice says. "That's unfair. I'm not on anyone's side. I just think neither of you are talking about the same thing. Phainon, you go first. Please explain your debilitating self-esteem issues to Cipher, who doesn't seem to understand that having a job and having your life together are two different things."
"Ohhh," Cipher sneers. "So Mister Perfect over here has people fawning aaaall over him but he's having such a hard time. Steak too buttery, lobster too tender, fuck you!"
What the hell? "You live in a damn mansion, Cipher," Phainon says. His fingers tighten around his phone. There is a resolute crack. Great. Now he has to pay for repairs. Or buy a new phone. Just his luck. "And you keep making fun of my job. And the fact that I'm broke. I'm still paying off my student loans you—" Phainon swallows back an incredibly rude word. "How am I Mister Perfect?"
"Well at least you're not a charity case!" Cipher shouts.
Phainon laughs, but it doesn't sound anything like a laugh. "Please. Aglaea has been dressing me since I was ten. We're all charity cases to her."
"Excuse me," Castorice says, raising her hand. Cipher has her shoulders raised and she looks miserable in the way a cat would look miserable. Ears flat. Tail tucked. Like she has tape on her paws that she can't figure out. Maybe they all have tape on their paws they can't figure out. "That is a mischaracterization of Lady Aglaea. She's just kind. You know this. Both of you know this." Castorice pauses. "I've discovered I don't like playing mediator. I'll be leaving now."
She does. Phainon and Cipher stare at each other. Or, well. Phainon stares at the tips of Cipher's grey-tufted ears and Cipher scowls at the ground. "Sorry," Phainon breaks the silence eventually. "I shouldn't have yelled."
"Whatever," Cipher mumbles. "I yelled first."
"Look," Phainon starts. Then he stops. "Ugh. I think this is where we have a heart to heart. But it's awkward, so I'm not doing that. Just… I'm still figuring things out, okay? We all are, I guess."
Cipher's tail untwists itself. It creeps towards Phainon, resting lightly on his arm. "I know that," she sniffs. "It's just weird. The way you talk about hybrids. It's weird, right?"
Phainon scratches the back of his head. "Sorry," he says again. "The truth is, well. I've recently realized I'm a pervert and it's killing me."
Cipher scoffs. She punches him in the arm, hard enough to hurt a little. "Everyone knows you're a pervert, stupid."
"Please don't say that." Phainon closes his eyes. "I'm still coming to terms with it." He sighs, waving a hand at nothing in particular. "Castorice was right. Self-esteem and all that. Mydei's kinda—out of my league."
"You're really stupid," Cipher says. Then she barrels into him. Her arms wind tight around his ribs. Phainon hugs her back. She shoves him back in a record-breaking ten seconds. "You reek. Introduce us sometime."
"Okay," Phainon says. "You know it comes with the job." And then, quietly: "…yeah. I'd like that."
"Hyacine would've loved this." Cipher twists Phainon's shirt in her palm. The dog thing on Phainon's shirt becomes distorted beyond saving. "She always thinks it's funny when we fight."
"What's this about a fight?" Hyacine's sweet voice drifts over. From the doorway, Castorice waves. On her phone is a pixel-field of pink. Cipher's ears go flat. She tries to run. Phainon grabs her by the scruff of her shirt before she manages to make her escape. He looks at her. She looks at him. Phainon smiles.
"So that's why I haven't texted you in two weeks," Phainon says. They're sitting in his apartment, on his couch, which is probably not a good idea, but Mydei wanted to. Why Mydei wanted to come to Phainon's ratty old apartment eludes him still.
"And here I thought you just got bored of me," Mydei says, dry as a desert. His tail whips once. Then it stills, curving into a considering shape. Mydei's forefinger lands on Phainon's chest. His voice goes low. "Maybe ghosting is a pastime of yours."
"Nah," Phainon says. "That would be detrimental to my job. I still have to see you on the farm, remember?"
"Phainon," Mydei scowls. "I'm trying to flirt with you. Can you focus?"
Oh. Phainon feels his face heat up. "Wow," he says, because he can't be normal about anything. "Really? That's great!!!"
Mydei looks at him. Phainon squeezes his eyes shut in abject mortification. "You speak like you don't have a brain," is Mydei's conclusion, which hurts, but, you know. Fair. Then Mydei blinks, and he says, "I mean. Haha. You're funny, Phainon."
Phainon's getting some serious mixed signals here. "Am I?" he asks.
Mydei frowns. "Did I not sound sincere?"
Phainon also wants to frown, but he's been trained out of the habit. He smiles instead. "Well. You did insult me."
"I—" Mydei says. There's a blush building on his face, too. Strawberry milk pink. "I've never… done this. Before."
"Like. Flirting?"
Now it's Mydei's turn to close his eyes. His ears are disappearing into the fluff of his hair. "…everything," Mydei admits, almost painstakingly.
Oh. "Well. Me neither." Casual sex, yes, maybe. Intimacy? No. Wait. Maybe this is a casual thing. Did he just lie to Mydei? Is it over? Maybe he's overthinking. Phainon Khaslana: the overthinker.
"Great."
"Yeah."
Silence. Phainon coughs into his fist. Mydei shifts his weight from one leg to the other. He inhales. Then he exhales. Then he grabs Phainon by the front of his shirt and kisses him.
If Phainon has to be honest, it's a rather mediocre kiss, all things considered. Their noses mash together uncomfortably; their teeth click painfully; there's too much tongue for a first kiss. But Mydei is enthusiastic and tastes like pancakes and Phainon never looks a gift-horse in its large, generous mouth, so he grabs Mydei by the hips and hauls Mydei into his lap and kisses him back wetly enough that Mydei chokes on spit.
"You taste good," Phainon says, almost a whine. Mydei tenses, eyes wide, mouth parted. "Not—not in that way! Not in that way, I swear, Mydei, in the sexy way. The sex way!"
"Oh," Mydei relaxes. "Are we having sex?" He spreads his legs around Phainon's hips. Who does that? Who does that???
"Wait—wait, aren't we. Aren't we moving too fast? We haven't even. We haven't talked about the ethical implications. You know. It's very important."
Mydei narrows his eyes. "But you're hard."
"No I'm not," Phainon lies, like a liar. He is hard enough to grind steel, but Mydei doesn't need to know that.
"Alright," Mydei says. "Talk."
Phainon opens his mouth. Mydei shifts his legs wider apart. Phainon looks down. There is a wet spot between Mydei's thighs. Phainon wants to suck it dry. "I'm a pervert," he says, miserably.
Mydei smiles. He looks very beautiful like this, really, with his hands rubbing against Phainon's shoulders and his hair glinting in the sunlight and his tail tickling the inside of Phainon's thigh. "Good," he says. "Sex now, Phainon."
Phainon whimpers.
So they move to Phainon's bedroom and Mydei briefly judges the color of his bedsheets but then in between kissing and sucking his way down Mydei's neck he manages to get a hand into Mydei's lacy underwear and rub his fingers against Mydei's dripping pussy and then Mydei is distracted enough to stop calling the color combination ugly and starts moaning Phainon's name instead, which is great. Really, really great.
"Phai—" Mydei starts, and then: "Nnnghhh," when Phainon pushes the tip of his forefinger in. Mydei's hair smells a bit like sweet dry hay, and he's so, so wet. Mydei's tail is thrashing around on Phainon's bedsheets, and somehow Phainon feels like he's breaking his graduate oath, but that's a problem for post-nut-clarity-Phainon and not inter-nut-Phainon.
"Y'know," Phainon says, while he works his fingers into Mydei's tight hole, "I was talking to my friend recently, and she brought up a really good point, right, about consumerism and stuff, and I just wanted to ask—how does that work? If we're in a relationship? Are we in a relationship? Sorry, does that feel okay? Anyways, I mean," he starts pumping his fingers, in-out, spreading them apart, rubbing against warm walls, heated flesh, "Just the logistics of it, right? I don't want to accidentally cheat on you when I drink milk or something. Is that a thing? Just making sure. I'm not sure how I feel about people drinking your milk. Is that toxic of me? I don't want to be a toxic boyfriend or anything. Unless you're into it? I mean—are we boyfriends? What are we? Can I ask that? Your milk tastes really good, by the way—"
Mydei tenses. His thighs clamp around Phainon's wrist, soft and bouncy, and then a gush of fluid leaks around Phainon's fingers. "Woah. Did you cum?"
"I—" Mydei gasps, voice hoarse. His chest is heaving. His bountiful, shapely chest. He's looking at Phainon and his eyes are a little glazed over and his tail is reaching over to curl itself against Phainon's thigh. "I came. I came?" He looks dazed. "No wonder they were saying you're good with your hands."
"Huh? Who's saying that?" Has Phainon been fingering people unaware? That's scary.
"The cows," Mydei explains. He doesn't elaborate, choosing instead to flop bonelessly on Phainon's bed. Phainon thinks about it and comes to the conclusion that he does not like that explanation.
"Mydei," Phainon says. "The implications of this conversation are making me soft."
"Soft this," Mydei says, and pulls Phainon head first into his tits, which—in support of Mydei's statement—are soft. Milky tits, Phainon thinks, his mouth dangerously close to a dry nipple, and then he thinks that it wouldn't take much for Mydei to start lactating, just a bit of pressure and suction. The thought in itself wages a war. Two Phainons inside him: one is a pervert, the other one is also a pervert, albeit an ethical one. Therefore, he gives in to his base instincts and closes his mouth around Mydei's nipple. The hitch in Mydei's voice is cute. The taste of Mydei's skin makes his cock twitch. Soap and hay and a hint of the antiseptic solution they clean machinery with. Mydei was milked today. Phainon knows this as fact. His hand reaches up to knead Mydei's other tit with intent. Smooth. Soft. Healthy. No signs of mastitis.
"Shouldn't you say," Phainon mumbles between licks, flattening his tongue against skin, tracing the line of Mydei's markings running under the heft of his chest, "implicate this?"
"Nitpicker," Mydei groans, but it's with a pleased little tick at the end of the word. He squirms a little, wet between his thighs and wet from Phainon's spit, and then he pulls Phainon's free hand and tucks it between his legs, sloppy and warm and dripping into Phainon's palm. "Phainon," Mydei says, eyes half-lidded and red all over, his voice low on the syllables of Phainon's name. "Again?"
Alright. Phainon knows an order when he hears it. Luckily for Mydei, he's in a particularly obedient mood right now, and he is good with his hands. "Okay but can you answer my questions," Phainon says while he experiences the sensation of Mydei's insides on his wrinkled fingertips. Mydei wriggles again, starting a slow grind down onto Phainon's fingers, his hips rolling, his tail curled around Phainon's wrist.
"What," Mydei says, and then he goes: "Ah, nnh, hnnhh??" when Phainon manages to curl his fingers inside Mydei's sloppy pussy and hit a good spot. "I wasn't—" he throws his head back, thighs quivering, pussy pulsing, "Mmh, wasn't listeningggg!"
Mydei cums again, harder this time. He sprays it all over Phainon's wrist; Phainon's bedsheets; Phainon's thighs. Arms raised over his head, tits bouncing, eyes unfocused and rolling back. Mydei drools on Phainon's pillow and tremors so hard that Phainon feels he might cramp if he didn't have enough magnesium in his diet. Mydei probably wouldn't have that problem, though, with how well he keeps himself. Phainon's fingers are covered in slick. Mydei's cum. Mydei's body fluids. Not milk this time. "Mydei, look. Look," Phainon says, and he spreads his fingers to show off the strings of slick and then he shoves them into his mouth and sucks hard and he groans at the taste, sharp and hot and tangy. Phainon presses forward, their hips grinding flush together. Mydei breath hitches, his eyes hazy, leaving stains on the front of Phainon's underwear where his cock bulges. Phainon is overcome with the desire to make Mydei squirt so hard he stains the floorboards. Free new wood finish. Phainon will never stop renting this shitty apartment.
"You look like a whore," Mydei says. Phainon falters a little, blinking at the unexpected… insult? But Mydei's lashes are fluttering in a way that looks seductive, and he's blushing even harder than before. "You always smell like other herds," Mydei continues, voice almost a croon, "like hundreds of different cows." His arms wrap around Phainon's neck, pulling him down. "But my herd—they tell me about how kind you are. Respectful. Gentle. They like you. So that's why—" Mydei's lips brush against Phainon's ear, his breath blowing hot. Phainon shudders. He thinks he might cum. "—you should make sure I'm a productive milk cow for the entire year."
Phainon whines, his voice cracking in his throat. What the fuck? What the fuck?? What the fuck??? He's going to cum, like a pathetic incel freak, just from Mydei's dirty mouth??? It can't be. It can't be! Mydei's legs lock around his hips. He pulls. Phainon's hips push forward, forward, forward, and Mydei's pussy is spreading around his still covered cock, the fabric stained beyond salvation, and he can feel Mydei's hole clench in rhythm, and he looks down and sees Mydei's pubic hair matted and dark with slick and the squish of his pussy against Phainon's underwear and
Phainon cums. His ears are ringing and there's the faint taste of rust in his mouth and the trickle of what he thinks is snot from his nose because he's drooling and sweating and almost crying, eyes wet and the front of his underwear wet and this is his favorite pair, damn it! And he collapses against Mydei, tucking his head against Mydei's shoulder with a sob because it feels so, so good and so, so terrible, simultaneously, and it's all Mydei's fault. Mydei laughs, a slow chuckle, his palms rubbing down Phainon's shoulderblades, down his waist, down to grab his ass. Nothing much to grab, in Phainon's opinion, but Mydei seems to be enjoying himself. Maybe that's all that matters. Maybe. Phainon is never going to live this moment down. It feels like he's a teen again, humping against a pillow imagining a faceless curvaceous body. It's humiliating.
"You're bleeding," Mydei says, sounding terribly amused, and then he opens his mouth and licks a fat wet stripe from Phainon's lips up to his nose. His pink tongue, his hot breath, his wet lips. When they kiss, Mydei tastes like blood. So. Not snot.
"So unfair," Phainon groans, struggling to kick off his sticky, ruined underwear with Mydei's thighs locked around him, "I don't even know anything about hybrid production. You are utilizing knowledge against me."
"Since you like implications," Mydei huffs, smug. His foot lands on Phainon's thigh, his toes curling against Phainon's skin. His tail waves, languid and satisfied. "You came so don't complain. But in case you really don't know: we do have dry seasons that can be offset with a little… stimulation. Usually year-round producers are married, or have families. Sometimes they go dry for a holiday, anyways. It depends."
Married? Have families? Phainon's nose tingles. He wipes it and smears blood over the back of his hand, dark sluggish red, and he says, voice as weak as his half-joke: "You're proposing to me? Wow, Mydei. We're not even dating yet. Unless we are?"
Mydei's lips curl up in a smirk. "You're stupid. I like that." A joke? Phainon can't tell. His ears are ringing, a little. Mydei cards his fingers through Phainon's hair, thumbs rubbing Phainon's browline. Phainon pushes his face into Mydei's hands with a faint whine. "Wanna tie me down so bad? Show me what you can do with your dick, first."
Phainon considers it, light-headed and heavy-cocked. "I feel like you're trying to ragebait me." It's working. It's really, really working, as evidenced by Phainon's vigorously renewed boner.
"It's working," Mydei says. He nudges Phainon with his knee, dangerously close to Phainon's dick. Phainon flinches. Mydei laughs, then he pulls Phainon's hand to his face, licking up his palm, up his fingers. Mydei opens his mouth, flashing his pink tongue, his flat teeth, and then he stuffs himself full with Phainon's fingers, hot drool spilling out from the corners of his mouth. Phainon likes the feel of it, the inside of Mydei's warm wet mouth, the ridges of his hard palate and the sponginess of his soft palate and the way he chokes and tears up when Phainon pushes his fingers against the back of his throat. If Phainon really puts his mind to it, he could probably touch Mydei's uvula. Mydei swallows and everything shifts, the muscles and the slimy mucous membranes sliding along Phainon's fingertips, and then he moans, and Phainon feels the noise vibrate through his entire hand. And while Mydei fellates Phainon's hand, he's spreading his thighs too, shifting his hips like he's trying to tempt Phainon, showing off his glistening pussy, showing off his clenching hole. Mydei's little braid is coming undone and he looks so well-fucked the way his tears glisten on the curve of his cheek, the way his flush darkens when Phainon reaches his other hand to trail down and pet at his tense belly, the slight bulge where his uterus sits.
"I do have a temper," Phainon admits, and Mydei shudders, his eyes hungry and dazed and locking onto Phainon's with intensity. Mydei's pussy is drooling too. As above, so below, Phainon thinks, a little nonsensically, and then he presses his fingers back in and puts his thumb on Mydei's clit and when he rubs in a circle Mydei wails, flailing so hard his tail whacks Phainon on his thigh, a crack of noise leaving a red welt. It stings in a good way. Phainon's dick dribbles, embarrassingly enough. He warms all over, probably blushing like a fool, so he focuses on the sticky-humid wetness on his fingers, spread them apart and then pull them out and fuck them back in in a rhythm that makes Mydei sob and gag. "Hard to be mad when you're so pretty."
Mydei sighs. His wide eyes, soft melted butter gold, lashes fluttering. He curls his tongue between Phainon's fingers, pressing against the meat of Phainon's hand, pushing. Enough for Phainon to trap it between fingers, petting at muscle. Mydei's hands catch Phainon by the back of his neck, tracing the scar tissue from a stupid machinery mishap, tattooed over with a sun. It feels so tender that Phainon wants to yank himself back and start talking about the Krebs cycle or something. Not that he remembers it. No one remembers that shit. His heart seizes and crawls into the back of his throat and he wonders if it's strange to fall in love so quickly but then Phainon has always been a lost cause. It's fine. It's probably fine. He'll get psychoanalyzed by Hyacine or something, after this. Talk to Cyrene. Get laughed at by Cipher. Maybe Castorice will put it in her book. His fingers twitch, all ten of them, some buried inside Mydei's various orifices, and Mydei makes a surprised little noise, and Phainon thinks, well. Maybe he shouldn't run, this time. Maybe.
Mydei yanks Phainon's fingers out of his mouth. The skin of them are wrinkled like a prune. "You look like one of those roadside mutts." He strokes Phainon's chin, tickling under his jaw. Mydei's thumb presses into Phainon's shuddering pulse. His pounding jugular. "Thinking about running? Shame."
It's a barebones taunt. Mydei sits up, a goad in his smile. How did he know? How could he know? "I'm not," Phainon mutters, but it's not convincing to either of them.
"You have that kicked dog look to you," Mydei snickers. He's a little mean, too. Phainon is surrounded by people who are mean to him. What is he, a masochist? "Like you can't decide between biting or running." Fingers dig into his neck. Phainon chokes on his swallow, his breath coming out in a wheeze. "Should I get you a collar?"
Phainon opens his mouth. Brain stuttering to a stop, thinking about a collar around his neck and a leash in Mydei's hand, dangling from his fingers. Mydei's thigh slings over his waist, heel digging into his back. He feels like they're skipping a step or ten, but he's never felt more at home, kneeling between Mydei's spread legs. "Only if you wear the legendary patterned bikini."
Mydei scowls. Phainon's reward is a kick in the hip. Mydei's tail lashes, annoyed. So expressive. "That's a stereotype, HKS."
Phainon manages to laugh. "What, no sexy bikini as your uniform? Not even if I'm a good boy?"
Mydei considers. "Maybe if you're a very good boy."
"I'm always a good boy," Phainon says, mouth moving automatic, flirting. Mydei's answer surprises him, a little. The—consideration, maybe, that they'd be doing this again. Meeting each other again. Still talking. "What was that word you said? Hai—kes? Is that Kremnoan?"
"Your accent is awful," Mydei snorts. His sharp features soften when he smiles. Phainon thinks he looks beautiful.
"I'm a quick learner." Phainon presses a kiss to the back of Mydei's hand, lips brushing against knuckles. "You can teach me."
"You're an awful lot of things," Mydei says, his voice soft. "I like that about you." Phainon's gut twists all sour-like. The tender set of Mydei's brows, the crook of his smile, the candle-wax warmth of his eyes. Doesn't seem like a joke. But what does Phainon know?
"I think," Phainon says, some strange guilt eating away at him, "you don't know a lot of things about me." Vice versa, Phainon thinks. He doesn't know a lot about Mydei either. Just the little things: that he likes sweets; that he likes the sunrise more than the sunset; that he likes making food for people who enjoy eating. Mydei likes pomegranates, and he likes to run uphill in the mornings, up the pastures, to look at the sky. Mydei misses his friends and his home, sometimes. That's all that Mydei allows Phainon to learn.
Mydei laughs. He doesn't have dimples, but Phainon has them, and Phainon thinks, an offhand thought: would their kids have dimples? Then he thinks: shit, and he wallows in the hole he's dug for himself, stomach clenching and teeth grinding, the horrific knowledge that he wants Mydei and he wants more and maybe this isn't anything. "I'm a quick learner too," Mydei says, his voice catching on his laugh. They curl around each other, Phainon nosing against hair and soft ears and the smooth keratin of Mydei's little horns. Mydei crowds close, smiling, the weight of his body and the heat of it, pressed to Phainon's front. A hand rubbing down Phainon's chest, down to his half-soft dick. They've talked so much Phainon's almost forgotten what they were doing in the first place. His fingers are cramping. Mydei leans in for a kiss; Phainon wriggles his fingers. Mydei moans, a small noise against Phainon's lips. "I think you should put it in," he whispers, quiet into Phainon's mouth. A squeeze, Mydei's hand tight around Phainon's cock.
There is a very long pause before Phainon manages to say anything. His voice is thin when he finally croaks out a feeble: "Okay!!!" Weakly enthusiastic. Then Mydei reaches up to kiss him again, and Phainon doesn't have to figure out what else to say, mouth empty of words and full of Mydei, and Mydei climbs over him and starts rolling his hips, and then—well. Phainon forgets how to think.
Obviously, Phainon doesn't really forget how to think, but for a good long while everything boils down to a base instinct, a part of him that he rarely sees or thinks about, floaty and melting and saying such cringey things that Phainon would want to smash his head into a brick wall, if he was with anyone else. But it's Mydei, and somehow that's simultaneously better and also worse, and Phainon would smash his head into a brick wall but then he would sustain a viable head injury and then he would miss out on Mydei, so he won't. Although—Mydei nursing him back to health? Something to consider. Anyways, Phainon is working his hips and clinging to the curve of Mydei's back, arm slung around Mydei's neck and mouthing at a fluffy ear, and Mydei keens, clenching so sweetly around him, drooling onto Phainon's arm, and Phainon says: "Ohhh. I get it. That's why you were weird around the crush. Imagining this, were you?"
The back of Mydei's neck flushes red to match his markings. Phainon traces one with his mouth, curving over a shoulderblade, and Mydei says: "HKS, shut up!"
"Pervert," Phainon teases, grinding his hips deep. Mydei's mouth falls open on a whine, breath hot against Phainon's forearm. Nails dig into his skin. Phainon likes the way it stings. He hopes Mydei will scratch harder. He reaches up to tug one of Mydei's cute horns, rubbing it under his fingers. Mydei's head lifts, back arching even more. Ass up, tail up and swaying. Now who looks like a whore? "Hahh," Phainon groans, every thrust wet and loud in the sex-sticky air, "You like this, don't you, Mydei?"
"N-no," Mydei gasps, a blatant lie. His toes are curling and his hips are lifting, trying to fuck himself back onto Phainon's dick in such wanton desperation. "Nnh, Phainon, Phainonn—can't move—"
Mydei's voice is so pretty when it cracks over Phainon's name. Phainon wouldn't mind hearing it forever, crying and moaning and muffled into Phainon's arm. "You like it," Phainon says, and he reaches back to close his fist around the base of Mydei's tail, and when he pulls Mydei shrieks, convulsing, and he bites down hard in the soft flesh of the crook of Phainon's elbow, which hurts so much, but it's still so, so good. Mydei's pussy gushes around his cock, against his cock, so tight Phainon has to grit his teeth. "Mydei," Phainon gasps, hips stilling, balls tight, "fuck, Mydei—"
The orgasm hits him harder than a hoof to the shin. Ten times harder, with no hairline fracture to deal with in the aftermath. Just Mydei and the pool of wet between his shivering thighs, shaking from the effort of holding himself up, writhing against Phainon's grip on his tail. Mydei makes a noise like a sob, nails scrabbling against bedsheets and skin, and he wails when Phainon moves to massage his tits with both hands, falling onto his front without Phainon keeping him locked in place. Phainon sucks hickies into hot skin and rolls Mydei's nipples between his fingers and when he pulls on them Mydei screams and warmth spills over. "No," Mydei cries, "no, nooo, it's going to waste, Phainon, it's spilling!"
Phainon pulls out. Mydei makes a tiny noise, like: "Unnh?" When Phainon flips him onto his back, he feels a bit like a wild animal. A beast, with how ravaged Mydei looks, drool and tears and snot smeared over his face. His eyes are unfocused, hair sticking to his skin with sweat, but he reaches out in Phainon's direction and says: "You're not drinking?"
Phainon's dick twitches in a way that makes him feel incredibly perverse. Mydei is almost pouting, a petulant twist to his mouth, and so Phainon hunches down and seals his lip over Mydei's leaking nipple, and he sucks. He's really suckling from Mydei's tit. He's really—
Mydei's moans are quiet. "Nnh," he goes, hands in Phainon's hair, pressing Phainon down. His nose squashes against the flesh of Mydei's chest. Phainon licks one nipple clean, the rich taste of milk on his tongue, then goes to lick the other, but he's just one man and Mydei is a professional, so it spills over, but then Mydei scoops it up and smears it over Phainon's mouth and chin and Phainon is so turned on his eyesight is blurry and there's really no saving him now. It's over. He's looking at a lifetime of addiction, straight from the source. And because Phainon is incredibly well-adjusted and normal about everything, he says: "You just let anyone drink from your tits? I'll get jealous, babe," and he pinches Mydei's inflamed nipples a little meanly, grinding his thigh between Mydei's legs right up against his sloppy cunt.
Mydei cries out, shaking his head. He's babbling something Phainon can't understand, fat tears spilling over his cheeks, a gush of slick wetting Phainon's thigh. Phainon can feel the hard nub of Mydei's clit, the slow rub of it against him. He feels like his brain is melting. Especially when Mydei is looking at him like that, all fucked-out and flushed all over, from his face to his leaking tits down to his wet pussy. So messy. So beautiful. He looks like he belongs to someone. To Phainon. Hah. What a wish. "Just you," Mydei is saying, fingers curling against Phainon's shoulders, "only you, only you Phainon—"
Phainon's laugh rips out of him. "Careful, Mydei. I'll think you mean it."
Mydei's eyes go wide. He goes very, very still. "You think—" he starts. He pauses. Phainon blinks, surprised. When he reaches over, Mydei slaps his hands away, expression crumpled into hurt. "You think I don't mean it?"
…fuck. "N-no," Phainon stammers, hyperaware of the sweat beading on the back of his neck. "I mean—not no as in no, but like, you know, I—"
Mydei's face shutters. Phainon doesn't like that. Phainon doesn't like that at all. His chest heaves. There's guilt and there's bewilderment and there's rage, for some reason. Khaslana, you fool. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And underneath that, underneath everything—
Phainon reaches out again. Mydei doesn't flinch, but just barely. "Mydei, hey, c'mon, look at me," Phainon tries, but Mydei's lips are pressed together and he's not looking, and still Phainon feels that weightless elation, the rush of glee in his revelation. Mydei wants him. Mydei wants him. Phainon grabs Mydei's face with a hand and Mydei snarls, and then there is a knee in his gut and Mydei's hand curls into a fist, and Phainon yanks Mydei's hair and he blurts out: "I think I'm in love with you."
"Are you for real?" Mydei demands, his hair still twisted in Phainon's fist. His knuckles are white. Phainon feels like that punch might break a few bones. "Stop smiling, are you insane?!"
"Sorry," Phainon tries to mean it, and he does, but he can hear the giddy edge to his own voice. "I just—wow. You like me that much? You never told me."
Somehow, Mydei deflates after hearing that. He looks a little miserable, still flushed and sticky all over. God, he's pretty. Phainon presses a kiss into that sad set of his mouth, and then another, and another, and then he pushes his tongue out, and Mydei bites down, light enough to be a warning, hard enough to make Phainon yelp. But still, Mydei allows Phainon's hands to wander to his hips, and he twitches a little when Phainon squeezes down. "I'm… sorry," is what he says eventually. What is he apologizing for? He's so cute. Phainon feels smitten. "I thought—I thought we were on the same page."
"I was asking you, earlier," Phainon reminds him. Mydei winces, looking so chastised Phainon has to kiss his cheek, which he also allows. Mydei only squirms away when Phainon licks him. Salty. "Was I that good?"
Mydei scowls. "I don't like you anymore." Phainon would believe him, if his tits weren't leaking all over Phainon's chest. Phainon preens, smug. Good job, Khaslana. You are so good at sex.
Phainon slides a coy hand up the inside of Mydei's damp thigh. "Y'know, I can do better. Wanna try me out?"
"HKS," Mydei says, then he punches Phainon, actually, and it leaves a big bruise right up against Phainon's ribs, but then he lets Phainon push him onto his back, which is as enthusiastic of a yes that Phainon will get, and then they proceed to wring each other dry.
All's well that ends well.
"You're too good for him!" Cipher wails. "Little lion, reconsider your life choices, now!"
"Congratulations, cousin!" Cyrene beams. "I knew you could do it. So proud of you."
"Always believed in you," Hyacine says, her voice tinny over the phone.
"Lord Phainon," Castorice says. "The character I based off you actually won the most popular side character poll. I've given him a love interest. Do you want to see?"
The problem with Phainon is that—well. There's actually no problem with Phainon. For real, this time. Okay, so maybe he's not used to feeling this content. Sometimes he wakes up and thinks it might all be a dream. A really, really good dream. But then there's always a weight on his numb arm in the mornings; a second toothbrush in the bathroom; a grocery list pinned to his fridge door. A hand reaches over, pinching his cheek.
"What are you smiling at?" Mydei wants to know.