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Phainon swallows, watching Mydei walk over in less clothing than usual. The gold-eyed man has a single strip of red fabric around his waist almost like a bathtowel, one wrong move exposing everything to watchful eyes. Phainon himself is wearing not much more, basically the same cloth as Mydei but in blue. He prepped himself in the bathing chambers the priests declared ‘Blessed by Nikador’, and he can only hope that they meant ‘The Strife Titan’ and not actually Nikador, because it would be really awkward if Phainon fingered his ass in Mydei’s predecessor’s bathtub.
He was told to lay on the altar in a dark room, Nikador’s priests watching from the sidelines. They’re only kind of creepy, standing completely still with their gazes pointed at him. They do look soldier-like though, and all of them are Kremnoan, so Mydei’s influence will keep them respectful if nothing else.
Who is he kidding? For people dedicated enough to directly ask their King to fuck his lover in front of them, and for Mydei to actually agree, respect must be second nature. Mydei would never let Phainon get in a compromising situation. It still doesn’t stop Phainon from feeling a little self-conscious. Only the awareness of how well he’s toned and built his body staves it off, along with Mydei’s insistence of his beauty.
The man in question walks up to him now, ascending the steps to the altar. Candlelight flickers in his roaming eyes, taking in the sight of his lover laying vulnerable in a place of worship to his enemy.
After they finish, it will no longer be Nikador’s. It will be Mydei’s temple. No time like the present to get it done.
Phainon finds himself smiling, immediately comforted by Mydei’s presence. The room feels heavier, more imposing, as if each one of Mydei’s steps carries the weight of the world along with him. A meaningless comparison, because Phainon carries that weight. The two of them together is truly a perfect match.
“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” Mydei begins, voice echoing in the depths of the temple. “Kephale’s Chosen. Amphoreus’ Deliverer. My beloved.”
“Mydeimos, Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos,” Phainon responds. A lot of this ritual is call and response, and Phainon glances at the priest with the script notes to check what he can say. A name, two titles? He can do that. “Inheritor of Nikador’s Coreflame. Incarnation of Strife.” He smiles. “My beloved.”
A priest steps forwards and clears her throat. “We give one last offering to the Savage God, Mad King, Incarnation of Strife, The Giver, Master of Legions, Lance of Fury, Nikador. In your name shall this couple pair and love, and in your name shall your heir inherit your glory.” She steps back, and then it’s up to Mydei and Phainon to fulfill their role.
“Shorter speech than I thought,” Phainon remarks in the silence.
“Us Kremnoans are focused on actions more than words,” Mydei mumbles in response, kneeling between Phainon’s legs.
“I don’t know,” Phainon hums, lifting his leg onto Mydei’s shoulder. The altar isn’t large enough for two Chrysos-Heir-sized adults, and it shows. If they were laying side-by-side, they would either have to hold each other really close, or one would fall off. Neither ideal when trying to complete a ritual. “We’ve had to say a lot of words so far.”
Mydei lifts the fabric over Phainon’s dick, watching it slowly stiffen as Mydei strokes it. “As long as you don’t forget about the words at the end, we’ll be fine. You’ve done everything right so far.”
Phainon laughs softly, “If you don’t get on with it, we’ll never have a chance to say the end words.” His arms hook around Mydei’s shoulders, pulling him down. “Come on, Mydeimos. Show me your fighting spirit.”
Taking his own leaking dick out, Mydei rolls his eyes, lining up with Phainon’s wet hole. He slowly pushes in, spreading the pucker around his girth.
“Are you sure you prepped yourself? You’re tighter than when we first did this,” Mydei complains, sinking in too slowly for Phainon’s liking.
“I’m sorry I don’t have the same mastery with my fingers,” Phainon huffs, grip tightening around Mydei’s back. Trying to get Mydei’s cock inside with a meager five-minute prep time and half a vial of oil is a disaster waiting to happen. Once he gets fully inside, the real fun can start.
“Good thing I’m usually there to open you up,” Mydei nods.
Bottoming out comes with twin sighs of relief, and both of them take a moment to rest. To Mydei, Phainon is too tight, and to Phainon, Mydei is too large.
“Yeah,” Phainon laughs breathlessly, “I definitely should’ve prepped more.”
“Be quiet for now,” Mydei murmurs, eyes trained on where Phainon is speared on his cock. “Save your breath for when you actually need to speak.”
“Wha– Mydei, you can’t just say– ah– wait!”
Mydei begins a punishing pace, punching the air out of Phainon.
Quickly, the slide in and out becomes pleasurable rather than annoying, and Mydei’s grunts are accompanied by wet slaps of skin-on-skin and loud moans.
“You’re beautiful,” Mydei praises, cupping Phainon’s cheek while he continues thrusting. “Radiant.” Phainon has been reduced to naught but dead weight, eyes rolled back in his head from Mydei’s force. Mydei feels only a little bit of pity. The faster Mydei finishes, the faster Phainon can finish, and the faster they can both leave. He hopes the priests aren’t getting too much from this.
The world around them fades, becoming only Phainon, Mydei, the altar underneath them, and the dead gods that may or may not be watching. Mydei bites Phainon on his thigh, his chest, neck, jaw, and eventually takes Phainon’s lips in a claiming kiss, nipping at his lips and slathering his tongue around the hot cavern of Phainon’s mouth.
It doesn’t take long for Mydei to approach climax. Phainon is warm, wet, and constrictive around his cock, his insides always heavenly for Mydei to indulge in. Shoving himself all the way in, Mydei spurts his load inside Phainon’s passage, and Phainon convulses as he weeps wasted spend.
They take another moment to catch their breath, trying to recall what they were supposed to say in that moment. The priest with cue cards is very helpful with that.
“Let Nikador watch,” Mydei growls, not looking up at the gods but rather down at Phainon, their shared seed spilled on the altar. “Let the Lance of Fury’s legacy of bloodshed end with our union.”
“Let– Let Kephale’s gaze reach the depths of his enemy’s temple,” Phainon pants. “Let the Sky Father bear witness to our devotion.”
“To gods that no longer matter,” Mydei declares.
“To gods that no longer exist,” Phainon smiles, embracing the weight of Mydei’s lips pressing into his own.