Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Lord Phainon,” Castorice says, and that’s enough to get him to jump to his feet.

There should be no reason for Castorice to be here. And yet on the road between Okhema and Castrum Kremnos, where Phainon had been sent to dispatch a group of black tide creatures, just outside the light of the Dawn Device, stands a spectral version of her. She looks as she always has - a small, kind smile, hands delicately folded in front of her, polite and patient, even if there is a heavier air around her now. But next to her -

“Lord Mydei needs your help.”

Phainon’s gaze snaps to Mydei. He is standing beside Castorice with his arms crossed and a frown on his face. He looks … fine. Normal, besides the fact that he is see through and gold. And … dead. If he’s like this … If Castorice is here … If … If Mydei needs Phainon’s help -

“Breathe, Deliverer,” Mydei says, suddenly at Phainon’s side, yet devoid of the usual warmth radiating from him and the solid presence Phainon is so used to. Mydei half raises a hand, as if to reach out, and Phainon watches as he freezes and lets it drop again, the motion making his heart sink in tandem.

“Please calm down, Lord Phainon.” Castorice’s gaze is full of genuine sympathy when Phainon looks back at her and finally listens to both of them, taking a deliberate inhale and trying to strangle the panic beginning to rise in his throat like acrid bile. He needs to do with it what he always has; catch it between his teeth, swallow it back down - bury it alive, smother it until nothing but smouldering scraps remain, pack it away with all the rest until his insides have no room left.

“I’m listening,” Phainon says, before Mydei’s frown deepens any further and he says whatever is on the tip of his tongue. Mydei’s eyes narrow like they always do right before he asks Phainon a question that slices through every defense he’s honed over the years and closes the distance just as fast, so Phainon looks at Castorice instead. He smiles, just as reliably as always. “What happened? What can I do to help?”

Castorice gives Phainon a small, sad smile of her own, but answers his questions nonetheless. “Lord Mydei’s connection to his body is being blocked somehow, as if he can’t find his way back to it. From what I can tell, there is no reason he should not be able to return as he always does. His soul is in good condition. His body has healed. But …”

Castorice frowns, and her hair and flower adornments flutter from a breeze that Phainon can’t feel. Mydei’s hair, too, shifts in that same distant wind and he grits his teeth. Phainon can’t help himself; he does what Mydei stopped himself from doing and reaches out. His hand passes through the gold of Mydei’s arm, and when the surprise fades from Mydei’s face, a tender look replaces it; sunburst eyes warm and affectionate, the hint of a soft, understanding smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It tears and claws at the inside of Phainon’s chest. Imagined bile roils in his throat again.

“I’m fine,” Mydei says, with conviction so strong that Phainon clings to it like a lifeline.

“Please believe us,” Castorice says, quietly, after giving Phainon a moment to drink in Mydei’s words. She fidgets, as if she wants nothing more than to reach out, too, and draw them both into a reassuring embrace, but she settles for an expression full of warmth and understanding. “The phenomena is unexpected, but there is nothing else wrong. I believe once Lord Mydei’s soul finds his body, all should return to normal. The only thing … is that all souls are called to Syxtia - to the nether realm. He cannot wander freely in the realm of the living, and so I have brought him to you.”

That wind picks up again, and Phainon sees the ghosts of purple flower petals flicker around Castorice, as if asking for her attention. She sighs. Mydei closes his eyes and takes a long, shuddering breath. Phainon wishes he could touch Mydei - to grasp him and physically anchor him there, so that the hand of death couldn’t reach him.

“I can’t stay. The nether realm calls to us both the longer I remain away.” Castorice speaks quickly and makes a gesture with her hands, conjuring an orb of liquid shadow between them. The darkness of the magic sparkles with stars, and then stretches into a thread as thin as spider silk. It floats between them, one end in front of Mydei and one in front of Phainon. Castorice gestures to it. “Lord Phainon, I will tether Lord Mydei’s soul to yours. Once you find his body and get close enough, he should automatically return to it just as he always has.”

Phainon takes the end of the thread without hesitation, and Mydei follows suit. It feels warm, somehow, and then the thread fades from existence - but Phainon can still feel it in his chest. It’s an ever-present tug towards Mydei, like the pull of a compass arrow to point north. Mydei’s expression eases, his hair no longer shifts in that unfelt wind, and he lets out a little sigh.

The tension drains from Phainon’s shoulders and he lets out a quiet exhale of his own. “Thank you,” he says, as Castorice’s clothes begin to flutter more strongly, as if the wind is picking up. She blinks, and then smiles.

“Please be safe, Lord Phainon, Lord Mydei,” she says, bowing in that polite way of hers. When she straightens, her eyes sparkle with affection for her dear friends, like they always have. “And be well.”

“And you, Castorice,” Mydei says, as Castorice’s figure is blown away by the wind, fading into ghostly purple flower petals and leaving behind only the impression of her smile.

When the last petal fades away, Phainon looks at Mydei. Set against the dark of the Evernight, his golden figure looks no less than holy, sacred, otherworldly. But when Mydei looks back at him, searches his expression, and then closes his eyes, letting a little, fond huff of a laugh, it is like they are back in Okhema, standing side by side in the Garden of Life, or perhaps sitting face to face in the golden hero’s bath, or lying in each other’s arms in stolen moments of solitude.

“Come on, Deliverer,” Mydei says, turning towards Castrum Kremnos. He takes a few steps forward, and then looks back over his shoulder. That radiant, infectious confidence that Phainon loves blooms over Mydei’s face alongside a grin. “With me as your guide, this won’t take long.”

They travel in relative quiet.

When Phainon peppers Mydei with questions, however, he answers even more indulgently than usual. He must be feeling guilty that Phainon has to see him as a soul and ferry him all the way to Castrum Kremnos, but there is no reason for him to be. There is nothing Phainon ever wants more than to be in Mydei’s presence, to be able to stay at his side, to help him, to be needed by him.

“You can sense your body, right?” Phainon asks, as they cross one of the long, chain-link bridges into Castrum Kremnos. Mydei leads the way effortlessly, half turned back to keep an eye on Phainon.

He sighs, as if biting back a retort that Castorice already said as much, but he answers anyway. “I can.”

Phainon waits until they step off the bridge on the other side to continue, speaking slowly. “What … is it like?”

He hasn’t ever asked Mydei anything about death before. If Mydei doesn’t offer the information, Phainon has always been more than satisfied by the fact that Mydei has returned to his side, back from the Sea of Souls. That he is warm, alive, and always so confident that nothing could keep him in the nether realm, away from Phainon.

“Death … is like fighting the current. It’s always like fighting the current.” Mydei answers him, quietly, thoughtfully, but so easily - as if whatever Phainon asks of him, it is second nature for him to give. He looks down the crumbling white-stone hallway, further into the Castrum, before turning back to Phainon. “Not this time. It’s … Castorice described it like a tether. That’s what it feels like - like I’m anchored to you, and I can just follow the current upstream, back to my body.”

“I see,” Phainon says, just as softly.

When Mydei looks at him, golden countenance facing Phainon like a star against the Evernight, Phainon realizes that beneath the worry thrumming in his chest, there is something else: satisfaction. He detests the times when they are apart, whether it be when Aglaea sent them on separate missions for a single day, or when Mydei left Okhema to take his stand in the ruins of Castrum Kremnos as the lone vanguard against the black tide. But right now, Mydei is tethered to Phainon. It’s just for the moment, but …

Before he thinks to stop himself, Phainon speaks again. “What if your body … What happens if you can’t go back to it?”

Mydei looks at him like he’s asking the obvious. “Then the black tide will -”

“No, I mean -” Phainon trips over his words, tongue feeling clumsy in his mouth before he stops and forces himself to take a steadying breath. “What will happen to you?”

Mydei huffs - a little sound, exasperated and indulgent. “… Then I suppose I will haunt you for the rest of time, Deliverer.” He says it like a tease, but his voice is so soft that it sounds more like a promise. That quiet undercurrent of satisfaction sings, sating a hunger that Phainon didn’t realize he had.

But they have to continue on. The thought of Mydei being by Phainon’s side forever, never more than a few steps away, is nothing more than a sweet indulgence of a daydream - in the end, their responsibilities are greater than the sum of them two alone; their duties eclipse the weight of their desires, and, most importantly, if Phainon is to have Mydei by his side, he wants all of him. Flesh, blood, body, spirit, mind - his warmth, affection, attention, presence in all its parts.

They have to continue on.

True to his word, Mydei leads Phainon towards the arena of Castrum Kremnos in record time. He directs Phainon to disable traps and navigate the ruins with ease. When they hear enemies, Mydei takes advantage of his incorporeal form to take the lead and scout ahead, guiding Phainon through and around any areas of danger.

They are close to the arena, stopped in a safe room to rest, when Mydei sighs, frowns, and places one hand on his hip. He shifts slightly, as if uncomfortable, and then shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. Every fidgeting gesture sparks worry in Phainon’s gut.

“Coin for your thoughts, Mydeimos?” Phainon says, buoying his tone with forced levity. When Mydei doesn’t reply right away, Phainon drops the act and steps closer, concern nearly radiating off him. He studies Mydei intensely, looking him up and down, as closely as he can, as if he’d be able to pinpoint what’s wrong by sight alone. “Are you alright?”

“... I don’t know,” Mydei says, after a moment. He looks down, brow furrowed like he’s trying to focus on something just out of his grasp, and then looks back up. It seems like he’s looking for something in the distance, something that he can’t really see. Phainon instinctively shifts forward, until Mydei meets his gaze again. “I can feel something. Or rather, my body can.”

“What is it?” Phainon speaks quickly, asking before he has the presence of mind to realize that if Mydei knew what was going on, he would have said so already. Frustration roils in his chest. If only the problem they were facing was an enemy, something with a solution as simple as driving his greatsword through it and striking it down. “Does it hurt?”

“I don’t know, Deliverer. It doesn’t hurt. It just feels … distant. Faint. Pressure, but like there’s padding separating it from me. I can’t describe it any better.”

Phainon is silent for a long moment. He watches Mydei fidget again, cross his arms, and then still, brow furrowed lost in thought. Isn’t there anything they can do? Isn’t there anything Phainon can do? All Mydei has to do is say the word.

“Let’s keep going,” Mydei says, eventually. He uncrosses his arms and returns to his usual posture, but Phainon knows him well enough to sense the tension remaining in his muscles. Mydei is still feeling whatever it is.

“Alright,” Phainon says anyway. If that’s what Mydei wants, he will follow his lead. He gives Mydei as bright of a smile as he can, and Mydei just scoffs. It’s a quiet, fond sound. “Let’s find your body then. Whatever the problem is, we’ll figure it out together.”

As they approach the arena, Mydei stops.

Phainon stops behind him, too. He looks to Mydei, still following his lead and waiting, even if he isn’t sure why. Once they turn the corner out of this hallway, they’ll be in the arena proper. And isn’t that where Mydei was fighting?

“It’s here,” Mydei says, and there is a certainty in his voice that fades as he trails off. Something is wrong.

Phainon studies him, worried, when Mydei doesn’t move forward. Mydei doesn’t elaborate, either. Instead, he just shifts and frowns; opens his mouth to speak and then closes it.

When Phainon tries to focus, to figure out what might be making Mydei stall, he hears something from around the corner - something muffled and rhythmic. A bad premonition claws at his gut, even if he can’t pinpoint why, can’t pinpoint what that noise is. But it doesn’t sound like black tide monsters. And Mydei’s body is there, right? Once he gets back into it, with Phainon by his side, what can’t they handle together?

With that thought, Phainon steels himself and draws his greatsword, holding it ready in front of him. “Let’s get you back to your body then, Mydei,” he says, looking to Mydei for his agreement.

Mydei hesitates, then nods. As he has before, he takes the lead and rounds the corner first - only to freeze completely. Even with his back to Phainon, Phainon can see how his entire body has gone rigid, posture stiff and dropping lower, like he can’t decide whether to fight or flee.

Mydei looks stunned to silence, as if completely unable to react.

“What happened?” Phainon asks, urgently, and immediately steps forward -

“Wait,” Mydei says as Phainon steps up beside him, a second too late. But the edge of panic in his voice makes Phainon turn as he moves. Mydei’s gaze snaps to Phainon, and Phainon has never seen that expression on him. His eyes are wide, staring at him but as if unseeing, chest rising in quick, shallow breaths, clear tension in his muscles. “Wait, Phainon -”

Mydei’s voice fades as Phainon’s attention is ensnared by the sight in the arena. He can’t help it - he looks past Mydei.

There is Mydei’s body, yes. Whole and hale, if completely unmoving and devoid of any sign of life.

Unmoving, except for the fact that it is rocking back and forth on top of Mydei’s crumpled clothes, torn from his now-bare body, from the rough thrusts into it.

From the Flame Reaver, holding Mydei’s limp, lifeless body up, bare legs spread, thrusting his inhumanly large cock wetly into Mydei’s unresponsive cunt.

Phainon is not proud of the fact that he hesitates. Mydei is beautiful, even in death - the defined lines of muscle, the way his scarlet markings trace the curves of his body, smooth, unblemished skin beneath a smattering of golden blood, the way his looks completely asleep, entirely at ease, at peace, as if he has just closed his eyes and there is nothing wrong.

As if his cunt isn’t being stretched over and over from a monster assaulting his dead body. As if the tender skin of his labia doesn’t shift and stretch with every thrust, as if a little bump on his lower abdomen doesn’t swell in time with the Flame Reaver’s huge cock as it sinks all the way into Mydei’s body.

As if the Flame Reaver’s come isn’t leaking out from around his cock, from Mydei’s body, staining the inside of his thighs and pooling beneath him on his crumpled clothes, and if there’s that much, how long has the Flame Reaver been at this? How much has he emptied into Mydei, defiled his insides? Phainon unconsciously steps forward. How dare he -

Mydei spits out something in ancient Kremnoan that Phainon has never heard before, what he can only assume is a curse from the sheer anger in Mydei’s voice. But there is also something else, a tremor in the rapid way he speaks, especially when he switches to words that Phainon can understand - “No - Phainon, don’t get any closer -”

Fear.

Phainon does not process the words at first. Don’t get closer? They are here for Mydei’s body, and -

Oh.

Phainon looks back at Mydei. A look of horror and realization has crept across Mydei’s expression as he looks from the scene in front of them to Phainon, pleadingly, and then down to his hands.

They are fading into a golden mist and flowing towards his body, as if being sucked back in.

Oh.

“Mydei - !”

Phainon has frozen for a moment too long. Mydei’s soul is already returning to his body, just like Castorice said he would. Phainon curses under his breath. It’s too late to stop it, but he can’t let the Flame Reaver touch Mydei any further. The thought of Mydei waking up to feeling his cock inside him, and not Phainon’s -

Anger floods him, fury burning through his veins and setting his heart to a deafening, frenetic tempo as he shoots forward, greatsword raised. Phainon forgoes all thoughts of the technique he is so proud of and strikes with single-minded intent. His shout is raw and furious, ripping from his throat so intensely it hurts. “You bastard - get away from him!”

The Flame Reaver just stands, unhurried, pulling out of Mydei carelessly and letting his body ragdoll to the floor. A distorted laugh echoes from his mask as he lets Phainon’s sword pass clean through his chest. Phainon’s eyes widen at the unsatisfying sensation - there is almost no resistance to his blade. Sky-blue shards burst out from the wound, and then the Flame Reaver fades to monochrome and vanishes. He reappears a few feet away and those shards return to his body, repairing the hole in his chest.

Phainon growls in frustration and plants himself over Mydei’s still-lifeless body. The golden dust of his soul is still floating through the air, his spectral form completely gone, and anxiety twists Phainon’s insides into coiling, tightening knots. It won’t be long until Mydei wakes up and has to feel what depraved things the Flame Reaver has done to him. Phainon wants to look. He doesn’t want to look. He always wants to see Mydei, but the anger - envy - at seeing someone else’s touches on him makes Phainon’s ribs feel like they are squeezing his insides, contracting like a vise.

Phainon keeps watching the Flame Reaver.

Bewilderingly, the Flame Reaver makes no indication that he will attack. In fact, he makes no move at all - all he does is stand there, watching Phainon in return, waiting like a predator, and Phainon loathes being looked at like prey. It makes his skin crawl, his heart slam into his ribcage, and his hands itch to drive his sword into the threat again and again and again until nothing remains.

But Phainon tears his gaze from the Flame Reaver to Mydei. The last of his soul is returning to his body. Despite the splatter of golden blood and - now that Phainon looks closer - bruises in the shape of the Flame Reaver’s large hands and scratches from gauntlet claws, Mydei’s expression is entirely relaxed. His long lashes are unmoving and eyes closed so lightly that Phainon is reminded of morning-afters bathed in golden light, cocooned by the warmth of each other’s embrace, the sweet smell of sleep and comfort of blankets and peace.

But it is not that. They are not there. The hard ground of the arena ruins is golden only by blood spilled.

And then Mydei’s brow pulls together, slowly, frowning as he begins to come back to life. His chest rises in an incredibly slow breath, his eyelids flutter open to reveal unfocused, hazy golden eyes, disorientation and confusion clear in his expression -

“Ngh - !”

His breath hitches. His eyes grow wide, a look of fear overtaking his face again, and then he throws his head back, body arcing off the ground, muscles seizing as he reaches out blindly. His mouth opens in a silent scream as he grasps Phainon’s ankle, holding it so tightly Phainon can feel the pressure through his boot.

“Mydei!” Phainon casts one last glare at the Flame Reaver, to make sure he isn’t about to attack, and then decides he doesn’t care and drops to his knees beside Mydei. “Does it hurt? What’s wrong, are you -”

Mydei whines. It’s a high, breathless sound - somewhere between a sob and a moan. His eyes are glazed over as he stares up at Phainon. Phainon’s mouth is suddenly dry, and all he can do is watch as a red flush blooms across Mydei’s skin, now glistening with sweat as he tenses up, blinking rapidly, chest heaving with quick, shallow breaths -

And then he collapses back onto the ground, jolting so strongly it’s almost a convulsion, lets out a thin, thready moan -

And orgasms so strongly that his body shakes with the aftershocks.

His legs tremble from where they are clenched together, but even that doesn’t stop the gush of come and slick from his empty cunt. Phainon knows what he is seeing. He’s seen Mydei in the throes of pleasure before, but hardly ever so intensely. Despite himself, heat coils in his gut at the sight.

As the orgasm passes, Mydei lets out a choked exhale and throws an arm over his eyes. Phainon hovers beside him, uncertain, until he tenses again.

“Ah - nnhh -” Mydei bites his lip, trying to stifle his noises, so hard that golden blood beads beneath his teeth, but he convulses again, hard enough that he can’t keep a loud moan from escaping him. He turns and curls in on himself, towards Phainon, and Phainon drops his sword. He gives in to his desires and reaches out and pulls Mydei into his lap, holding him close and steady, one hand cradling his head and one at his back.

Mydei immediately latches onto the front of Phainon’s shirt, torso curling in closer to his abdomen, and Phainon can feel how intensely he’s trembling. He is hot, overheating, against Phainon.

Mydei presses his thighs together again, whimpering into Phainon’s shirt. “I-It - ah! - won’t …” When he tries to speak, his voice is weak and breathless, and then he is taken by orgasm again, tensing and shuddering through it, moaning brokenly against Phainon. This time, it is so strong that his leg kicks out and he squirts - clear fluids shooting from between his thighs, coating the inside and making his skin glisten with wetness. When Phainon looks closer, he sees it dripping down Mydei’s leg, pooling beneath him.

“It won’t stop?” Phainon asks, his own voice a hoarse whisper. Mydei nods weakly against him. He should hate seeing Mydei suffering, unable to control his own body. And he does hate it - he hates that it was from the Flame Reaver, that damned monster that’s still just watching.

… But if they were elsewhere, if it was Phainon who brought Mydei to the height of pleasure over and over again, in their bed, in the baths, if it was Phainon, and in the safety of each other’s -

“‘If it was you, in each other’s embrace, with Mydei beneath you, then wouldn’t it be fine to see him just as ruined? Wouldn’t you want to see just how far he would let you go?’”

Phainon’s head snaps up to stare at the Flame Reaver. He flushes hot with anger and shame at hearing his own base desires spoken aloud. Mydei makes a quiet noise, muffled against Phainon’s stomach.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Phainon grits out between clenched teeth. Maybe the Flame Reaver is just fucking with him. Maybe he has some kind of mind reading powers. Maybe -

“No ability to read minds, but how could I not know what you’re thinking?” The Flame Reaver says, sounding nothing short of delighted and so very amused. He laughs and slowly, slowly reaches an armored hand up to his mask. With a quiet click, the Flame Reaver removes it -

And Phainon’s own face stares back at him.

The Flame Reaver looks exactly like him, if bigger and a little washed out; his skin is even paler than Phainon’s, and his eyes, cold and lightless, are rimmed with bruised shadows that belie exhaustion. His smile is the same shape as Phainon’s, but curved with cruelty.

And he has that same hungry look that Phainon gets when he and Mydei have sex and he catches sight of his own reflection.

For a moment, Phainon is stunned speechless - but the Flame Reaver is not. He laughs. It’s so harsh and callous that it hardly sounds like Phainon’s voice. Against his stomach, Mydei inhales sharply. His fingers curl tighter around the fabric of Phainon’s shirt. A tremor runs through Mydei’s body, muscles tensing again.

“To answer your question,” the Flame Reaver says, too eagerly. Phainon’s stomach drops. The Flame Reaver’s dull, blue eyes glide over Phainon and Mydei, lingering on the apex of Mydei’s thighs. He looks hungry. Excited. “It won’t stop. Not until Mydei’s mind catches up with all the fun I’ve had with his body - and trust me, there is plenty more to go.”

Mydei flinches at the words, and Phainon’s grip on him tightens. There is a beat of silence - and then Mydei lets out a choked gasp against Phainon’s stomach. He presses himself in even further, as if trying to hide his face.

“Phainon - ngh!” His voice is muffled and thready, but there’s suddenly an edge of panic in it.

Phainon’s attention immediately snaps back to him. He runs his fingers through Mydei’s tangled, sweaty hair. “I’m here,” he says quickly, trying to reassure Mydei in any way he can, “I’ll -”

Mydei just whines, and when he speaks, it is desperate. Pleading. Has Phainon ever heard Mydei like this? Has Mydei ever - “D-Don’t look, I - hnnn!”

“It’s okay,” Phainon says, instantly, hand at Mydei’s back rubbing soothing circles against his heated skin. Mydei just whimpers again, tense, as if trying to hold something back. He trembles against Phainon from the effort of it. “I’m right here, it’s -”

“Don’t -” Mydei starts, and then he sobs brokenly as he comes. He comes so hard that his body tenses and arcs off the ground again, he keeps pressing his face into Phainon’s stomach, and Phainon thinks he can feel wetness there - tears, maybe, or saliva - but Mydei doesn’t come down from the orgasm. If anything, he just keeps tensing, writhing, jolting and clenching around nothing, as come drips from his cunt and he squirts again, keening. The fluid gushes from him in spurts, again and again - and again -

“Oh -” Phainon can’t help the little noise punched out of him as he realizes that there is too much liquid for it to just be from Mydei coming and squirting. Phainon can’t help but stare, transfixed, mouth agape, as Mydei completely loses control of his body. All of the fluids leaking from him mingle as they drip down his inner thighs and join the growing pool beneath him.

Mydei lets out a weak, quiet sob against Phainon’s stomach as his body finally goes slack in relief, one last trickle of liquid escaping him. When Phainon looks him over, he sees Mydei’s ear flushing a furious red that spreads down the column of his neck, over his chest and shoulder. He is trembling in Phainon’s lap.

“Oh, Mydei,” Phainon whispers hoarsely. He realizes that he has been completely frozen, and threads his fingers through Mydei’s hair again. Mydei lets out a tiny, broken noise. It’s so unlike his normal confidence that Phainon’s heart clenches. He repeats his mantra, trying to comfort Mydei in any way he can, trying to drown out the delighted laugh the Flame Reaver lets out somewhere in front of them. “It’s alright. It’s okay. I’m here.”

Mydei shifts, too out of it for even Phainon’s words to register, much less anything else - but Phainon is suddenly aware that he is so hard it hurts.

Fuck.

Suddenly all he can feel is being doused with arousal. Heat suffuses his body from the inside out, burning and sparking and his pants are so tight from his erection and Mydei is so dazed, tears clinging to his dark lashes like distant stars against the night, flushed and overheated and gorgeous, panting so heavily in Phainon’s lap -

How could he? How could he be hard from watching the aftereffects that the Flame Reaver has forced on Mydei? The unwanted pleasure that was so much that his beloved Mydeimos the Undying, Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, demigod of Strife, vanguard against the black tide, lost complete control over his body? The unwanted pleasure that’s so intense that Mydei doesn’t even have the presence of mind to respond to Phainon’s words or touches, as if he doesn’t even know where he is?

… How could Phainon not be hard, from seeing the beautiful way Mydei’s body arcs in the throes of orgasm, from hearing every sweet sound that falls from his lips, from bearing witness to new, vulnerable sides of him that no one else has ever seen?

Should Phainon be disgusted with himself, or is this just who he is? Forget his names and titles - his true identity, his broken past, his name as Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, heir apparent to the Worldbearing Coreflame, the Nameless Hero, Mydei’s Deliverer - maybe all he is, at his core, is a man utterly enthralled by and ravenous for Mydei, in any capacity, at any time, in any circumstance. Always.

And then, Phainon’s eyes drift lower. Mingled in the fluids staining the inside of Mydei’s trembling thighs, still trickling down his skin, leaking from him, is milky white come. Mydei was so filled that it still leaks out of him, dripping down the seam of his body and adding to the pool beneath him. Instinctively, Phainon’s fingers twitch against Mydei, wanting to reach over and scoop all of it out, to empty Mydei of the Flame Reaver staining him. Mydei just whimpers at the movement, as slight as it is, and the Flame Reaver laughs.

“What? Does it bother you?”

Phainon glares up at the mocking smile carved into a perfect copy of his own face. He wishes he could lunge forward and cleave it in two, but he can’t - he won’t - leave Mydei’s side, not when he’s still trembling and curled into Phainon, holding him tight like a lifeline and pressing his face into Phainon’s stomach.

“It shouldn’t. We are the same, and so is our seed,” the Flame Reaver says, pitching his voice up to match Phainon’s usual tone. It makes Phainon’s skin crawl.

“Ah,” the Flame Reaver says brightly, as if he has just had a thought. He has the audacity to make his face light up the same way Phainon’s does. But when he continues, his voice drops to that low, mocking tone again. “Maybe what bothers you is that I filled him up deeper than you ever could. Better than you ever could. Have you ever seen pleasure like this on his face beneath you?”

“Shut up,” Phainon growls, but his retort is drowned out by the pounding beat in his ears. He longs to grab his greatsword and drive it through the Flame Reaver again, over and over until there is nothing left for those sky-blue shards to heal, until no more taunts come from that mirror image mouth, but he doesn’t move. He can’t - not when Mydei is still clinging to him, shuddering through aftershocks, not when it would expose how unbearably aroused he is, not when he doesn’t want to leave Mydei’s warmth, not really.

“I’m surprised you haven’t given in to your urges and taken what you want already.” The Flame Reaver continues, as if Phainon hadn’t said anything at all. When Phainon glares at him, teeth bared in an unconscious snarl, the Flame Reaver just smiles back. “Oh, don’t give me that look - I told you. We are the same. See for yourself.”

Phainon doesn’t want to - but he is a captive audience to the Flame Reaver’s theatrics. He is forced to see how darkness swirls and recedes from the Flame Reaver’s groin and reveals the Flame Reaver’s huge erection. It curves in exactly the same way as Phainon’s. He looks just as hard as Phainon feels and, despite himself, Phainon’s gaze lingers.

“But if the Nameless Hero won’t act, and since you’ve so rudely interrupted me - I suppose I will have to take what I want myself.” The Flame Reaver speaks casually, lightly, and yet his words and implied promise sink Phainon’s stomach. What? Hasn’t he done enough? What else could he possibly - “And that’s what you want, too.”

No - absolutely not -

“What?! I don’t - you’re sick -”

The Flame Reaver grins, fading to monochrome before disappearing. Adrenaline spikes through Phainon’s body, and his head whips around to look at the empty arena. He reluctantly adjusts his grip on Mydei - whispering apologies when Mydei’s breath hitches and he whines as he’s jostled - and brings up his greatsword with one hand. Where did he -

At the first sign of movement, Phainon lashes out. He grits his teeth from the effort, muscles burning and screaming in protest at the awkward way he wields his two-handed sword with just one, at the odd angle he strikes from -

Only for a deceptively gentle clink of metal to echo across the arena as the Flame Reaver stops the blade with one gauntleted hand.

Phainon is powerless to stop the Flame Reaver from yanking the sword from him, making him yelp with pain from his arm being twisted too far, and driving the weapon into the ground just out of Phainon’s reach. In an instant, while Phainon is still reeling from the pain, the Flame Reaver is behind him.

Cold metal-tipped fingers tilt Phainon’s chin up from behind, grip firm and unyielding, promising that bruises will bloom from each fingerprint, and he can do nothing but let the Flame Reaver move him as he wishes. Phainon is strong - Amphoreus’s flawless hero - but he can’t even shake his head free from a single hand. He shivers unconsciously from the sheer difference in strength, and flushes in shame in the aftermath.

Phainon’s own face looks back at him, with that same grin on it. It’s like he’s looking in a twisted reflection - and surely he doesn’t have that same yawning void of hunger in his eyes, the same callous curve to his smile, the demanding touch that says he will take what he wants, regardless of whether it will be wrong or if it’ll hurt.

Phainon glowers back at his own face, but somehow his mouth is dry. Static remnants of pain pulse up and down his arm. His other arm, still around Mydei, tightens. Mydei is a warm anchor against him. His words of denial are caught in his throat. His stomach twists in anticipation. But this isn’t what he wants. It isn’t - all he wants is Mydei, in gentle, loving embrace. Mydei, in any form, any place, any time, any instance. Not this. Not anything like this. He doesn’t -

The Flame Reaver leans down until his larger frame looms over Phainon, silvery hair the same color falling around his face and letting his branded irises bore into Phainon, blue so piercing his eyes seem to flay Phainon bare beneath him.

He doesn’t want this.

Mydei whimpers, jolting as he’s forced to feel pleasure ripping through him again.

“It is what you want, isn’t it? ‘Me.’”

Chapter Text

Phainon swallows.

His throat is dry. The click of the motion sounds like a bang in the ruins of the arena. Mydei pants harshly against Phainon, burying his face in his shirt and trembling in his lap.

“I don’t want this,” Phainon says again, but his voice breaks on the second word and humiliation floods his body, scalding from the inside. He doesn’t.

“Hmm.” The Flame Reaver hums, and his frame completely covers Phainon in shadow from where he sits. When the Flame Reaver leans over, looming, still tilting his chin up from behind, Phainon is forced to look up just to meet the Flame Reaver’s heavy stare. His presence seems so large from this angle. Oppressive, smothering, overwhelming, suffocating. “Liar.”

“I’m n -” Phainon’s indignant retort dies in his throat as the Flame Reaver’s gauntleted hand slides down the slope of his neck. Cold metal digs into the thin, vulnerable skin, pressure making his airway constrict. Sharp tips of the Flame Reaver’s fingers dig purposefully into the side of his neck, snapping his choker and drawing shallow cuts into the sun marking, golden blood trickling from the wound and soaking his shirt collar. Phainon’s breath hitches, and then the Flame Reaver’s grip tightens and pulls him up by the throat.

Phainon’s vision swims and panic flares in his chest as he gasps and struggles, free hand flying up to scrabble against the gauntlet in a futile attempt to gain purchase, swallowing and feeling his Adam’s apple rolling against the unyielding metal -

The Flame Reaver scoffs, the sound dripping with derision as he ignores Phainon’s attempts at fighting back and moves him with unnatural ease. Despite all of his strength, all of his desperate resistance, the Flame Reaver yanks Phainon to his feet and ignores the way Mydei is forced to slide off his lap, whimpering and trying in vain to hold on to Phainon, back onto the torn remains of his clothes on the arena floor.

The world spins and dark spots flicker in Phainon’s vision. Ragged breaths come out raw from the inside of his throat as the Flame Reaver tightens his grip and forces Phainon’s head to the side the moment he’s on his feet -

Something presses against him, and for a moment, Phainon cannot comprehend what’s happening beyond the way his head floats and spins and his lungs burn -

Heat floods his face (from anger, it has to be from anger) when he realizes that it’s the Flame Reaver, pressing his lips to Phainon’s. He does not move, staring unnervingly into Phainon’s wide, panicked eyes.

The Flame Reaver just laughs, the sound vibrating from his chest, flush against Phainon, and then pinches his jaw. Phainon all but growls as his mouth is forced open and something presses into his mouth and onto his tongue -

For a moment, Phainon’s mind blanks out.

It’s as if time stops and skips, the gap being filled with heavy static that overtakes his eyes and ears. The arena, the twisted reflection of his own face, still staring at him with lightless blue eyes, Mydei’s whimpers - they all fade to the heavy pounding of his heart from inside his skull and the wave of dark, red-tinged noise crashing over his vision like a riptide, threatening to drown him.

Phainon blinks, disoriented.

The Flame Reaver pulls back.

It couldn’t have been more than a second, but it feels as if he’s been disconnected from reality, time no longer flowing uninterrupted from the previous moment to the present. His tongue is heavy and numb in his mouth. Static fills his head, creeping into the gaps between his thoughts, weighing them down, and blunting the sharp edges of his anger. It’s hard to think around it.

Flame Reaver laughs, the sound reverberating through his wide chest now pressed against Phainon’s back. He lets go of Phainon’s jaw and eases his grip on his throat, but the Flame Reaver doesn’t linger - instead, his hand slides lower.

Phainon’s head swims as he takes heaving inhales to try to catch his breath and make himself refocus. Clawed tips of the Flame Reaver’s metal gauntlets hook the leather belt around his chest and slices clean through it. The hand itself is large - so large Phainon thinks the Flame Reaver might be able to splay his fingers and span the width of his muscular chest.

And then the Flame Reaver rakes his hand down slowly to the V of Phainon’s shirt, not hard enough to gouge his flesh, but enough that the tearing of his clothes resonates throughout the arena. It’s loud and grating and almost like screams to Phainon’s ears. As soon his pauldron slips off his shoulder and crashes to the ground behind him, he flinches, remembering that his hand is still holding uselessly onto the Flame Reaver’s gauntlet and tries to pry it away again. His fingertips burn with pain against the unyielding metal as he hooks them into any groove he can find and pulls futilely. The Flame Reaver tears through his layers of leather and cloth and metal as if slicing a hand through water, splitting them in a clean line down the middle.

Now that he is exposed, clothes falling open from the center of his body, the gravity of the situation hits him. He struggles again, trying to shake the Flame Reaver off and reach out towards Mydei, but all that does is press himself into the sharp edges of the Flame Reaver’s armor, the metal biting into him.

“Stop - !” Phainon chokes on the word, the shock of the cold air against his now-bare flesh ripping a gasp from his throat.

At his feet, Mydei blinks and lifts his head unsteadily, fighting the overwhelming haze of forced pleasure. His brow furrows in a deep frown and he takes in a shaky inhale before raising a hand. Flecks of red crystal begin to form in his palm, flickering like candleflame instead of the solid spikes he usually summons, but as soon as a dagger-sized shard appears, there is a flash - a burst of shadow - and then a monochrome clone of the Flame Reaver grasps Mydei by the wrists and wrenches him away from Phainon.

“Ngh - !”

“Mydei!”

The clone pulls Mydei away and the Flame Reaver restrains Phainon against him with an iron grip, so tight that when Phainon instinctively tries to lunge forward, all he gets for his desperate attempt are the throbbing preludes to bone-deep bruises.

But still Phainon thrashes, the shock of cold against his bare skin and the metal digging into him forgotten. The monochrome copy of the Flame Reaver doesn’t pull Mydei far - to Phainon’s surprise, it stops just when Mydei’s shins bracket Phainon’s legs. Mydei groans, low and muffled as he bites his lip, and struggles against the clone’s grip. It’s a feeble attempt, and Phainon can only watch as Mydei squeezes his eyes shut and tosses his head back, a whimper escaping him as his struggle turns into another orgasm ripping through him.

Despite himself, Phainon forgets to resist as he watches the way pleasure overtakes Mydei’s body, the way it crashes over him, from his expression of pleasure-pain, the way his blond-red hair sticks to his sweaty skin and a strand is caught between his lips, the way his muscular arms strain against the clone’s grasp as they’re held above his head, the tension in his shoulders, the rise and fall of his ample chest in heaving, frantic breaths, the strain of his abdominal muscles and unconscious cant of his hips, down to his soaked, still-leaking cunt, flushed and contracting around nothing, as if begging so prettily to be filled again, to be plugged so the slick and come can’t escape, can’t drip down the inside of his thick, trembling thighs and pool in the puddle of fluids that trailed beneath him as the clone dragged him away -

Mydei tries to squeeze his legs together, but all he manages to do is press his shins and ankles tight around Phainon’s legs, and oh, does Phainon want -

His cock throbs in his pants, demanding to be satisfied and so hard that it feels like the center of his being.

No, no, he can’t -

Phainon yelps as the Flame Reaver’s hand slides to the back of his neck and begins to slice through his coat and shirt from the back, the seams ripping as the metal tips of his gauntlet drag along Phainon’s naked spine. He shivers involuntarily as the two sides slide off his shoulders, the white and gold drapings of Amphoreus’s hero falling to the dark, dusty ground of the arena and exposing only the now-vulnerable, shamefully aroused man beneath.

The Flame Reaver does not stop at his waistband. This time, he continues downward, easily cutting through Phainon’s pants and undergarments at the center seam, ignoring Phainon’s attempts to squirm away.

Instead of letting the material fall to the side, the Flame Reaver grabs the torn edge on one side and rips it the rest of the way, uncaring that the cloth pulls painfully at Phainon’s skin from the movement when it catches between his ass and thigh.

“What are you doing?!” Phainon tries to sound furious, to growl out the words, but his voice pitches higher and he winces.

The Flame Reaver ignores the question entirely, and instead he rips the other side of Phainon’s tattered pants until his entire backside is exposed. Metal-covered fingers dig into the meat of Phainon’s ass and pull the muscle aside until his hole is exposed to the chilled air. A full-body shiver wracks him despite the bolt of hot fear and embarrassment.

When the Flame Reaver deigns to speak again, it’s so casual that it’s almost flippant, as if it’s an afterthought: “Prepare yourself, or you’ll go without.”

“What?!”

The Flame Reaver laughs at Phainon’s shock as he whips his head around as much as he’s able. There is unfiltered amusement in his lightless eyes, and the smile he gives Phainon looks nothing short of delighted.

“You want mercy,” the Flame Reaver says, leaning forward until his stale breath ghosts over Phainon’s face, purposefully twisting Phainon’s faint hope that he will let them go into something else. “You should be thanking me for going easy on you. It’s your first time, after all.”

A full-body flush floods Phainon from the inside out as he grits his teeth. He wills himself not to see if Mydei is listening. It’s true, but -

“Hurry up, before I change my mind.”

Has he really no choice? This is where his path has led, from the burning wheat fields of his home to his odyssey towards the completion of the Flame-Chase Journey, towards Era Nova? This?

A sudden wave of dizziness washes over Phainon and his ears ring. His vision unfocuses and fills with static and when he blinks it away, his thoughts are completely derailed.

And just how is he supposed to “prepare himself” like this?

Phainon must look bewildered, lost, because the Flame Reaver just grins. “Get creative,” he says, in that infuriating way that says he knows exactly what Phainon is thinking.

Mydei’s broken moan rips Phainon’s attention away from the Flame Reaver. When he looks back, he sees the Flame Reaver’s clone holding Mydei’s wrists with one hand while the other slides down, over his chest, monochrome gauntlet raking across flushed skin hard enough to leave indents as it presses into the plush muscle but not enough to break skin. Phainon all but growls as the hand - someone else’s hand - pinches a puffy nipple and makes Mydei’s back arch off the ground as he whines in overstimulation.

Phainon’s eyes flicker down again, to Mydei’s cunt, to the mess of slick and come and piss between his thighs. Not Phainon’s come. Mydei’s, and the Flame Reaver’s. Wrathful envy and covetous desire curl their claws into Phainon’s chest in tandem, ripping down to the burning heat in his core and throbbing cock. He wants to scoop the come out, replace it with his own, erase all traces of anyone else ever touching Mydei, tear the Flame Reaver’s hands clean off -

The Flame Reaver adjusts his grip on Phainon to hold his waist in place with one, large hand that covers his side and digs into his hip bone and takes one of Phainon’s wrists in the other. He ignores Phainon’s struggles, moving him as easily as a doll, as he forces Phainon onto his knees and guides his hand down to Mydei’s soaked cunt.

“It still bothers you, doesn’t it?” The Flame Reaver says, lips pressing close to Phainon’s ear and rubbing his huge erection against him as he forces Phainon to lean forward and reach down. Now that Phainon feels it, hot and slick with precome against his bare back, he realizes just how big the Flame Reaver is. And he wants to put that inside? It won’t - “How much I filled him, and how much is still inside? Maybe it will take, and will you ever know if it's yours or mine? We are the same, but I can reach deeper, fill him up more completely, and look, I’ve overpowered you both, the Chrysos Heirs -”

“Shut up!”

Anger burns in Phainon’s chest. What use are his debate accolades if he has not been able to muster more than token retorts? Some hero, student, lover he is, if he cannot -

The Flame Reaver guides his hand to press against Mydei’s labia, flushed and swollen with arousal and repeated use, hot to the touch and so soft and - Mydei gasps, his breath hitching and the shimmer of tears glazing his eyes when he opens them - so sensitive.

Phainon’s thoughts stutter.

The Flame Reaver makes Phainon dip his fingers into Mydei’s stretched cunt and oh - he is soft and warm and wet, Mydei feels like a dream when Phainon’s fingers sink inside. Satin inner walls cling to him as the Flame Reaver forces three of Phainon’s fingers in at once, but Mydei’s cunt accepts him so easily, and he lets out a little whine, his hips jolting and legs pressing into Phainon’s sides as he shifts. But even through the haze he seems to recognize Phainon and does not resist.

The Flame Reaver makes Phainon pump his fingers in and out of Mydei at a brutal pace from the start, the heel of Phainon’s palm occasionally bumping Mydei’s swollen clit and dragging high-pitched whimpers and breathless gasps from him.

The Flame Reaver continues. Phainon is so enraptured by Mydei’s pleasure that, at some point, he cannot say with full certainty that he isn’t moving his hand too.

Phainon feels the way Mydei clenches around his fingers, the way his muscles tense and lock and he shakes in anticipation, the way his brow pinches and his breath catches in his throat before he moans - and then Phainon feels the gush of new slick and come from Mydei’s cunt as the inner walls pulse and flutter in orgasmic pleasure.

Phainon cannot look away. His mouth is dry and he cannot find it in him to think of anything to say.

As he removes his now-coated fingers, the slick and come clings to them, stretching into a translucent strand as he pulls away. As if wanting him to stay. Little droplets bead the strand as it stretches further, finally breaking a moment later.

A full-face post orgasm blush spreads across Mydei’s face, the rosy color so deep that it makes the red of his tattoos less stark against his skin. Like this, he seems more man than god, as if he has descended and deigned to indulge in mortal pleasures. Like this, Phainon can forget everything else except the way that Mydei’s hazy, unfocused golden eyes still search for him, as if Phainon is his guiding star.

“Hurry up,” the Flame Reaver says again, his voice piercing the moment as soon as Phainon starts to let himself forget where they are.

Phainon grimaces as the Flame Reaver’s hand on his hip tightens and his other hand guides Phainon’s soaked fingers behind him. The Flame Reaver is so strong that it really is like Phainon is nothing but a doll in his hands, forced to act out the storyline the Flame Reaver wants, forced towards the ending already set out for him.

His own, wet fingers touch the rim of his hole and Phainon shivers.

The Flame Reaver chooses that exact moment to let go, instead pinning Painon’s other arm behind his back awkwardly. Phainon feels the burn of humiliation on his face. Now there is no excuse of helplessness to hide behind; anything he does must be from his will alone.

But he could always refuse. He could keep his pride, accept the pain, and know later that he resisted despite it. Wouldn’t that be expected of him, the hero, the -

A burst of dark static overtakes Phainon’s vision again. His ears ring and his head fogs and when he comes back to himself, he has pushed his first finger into himself.

The sensation is foreign, odd, it doesn’t hurt but the realization of it makes Phainon’s breath hitch and the heat of embarrassment flood his body, sweat beading at his temple. He trembles with indecision - does he stop and pull his hand out and resist? But he has already, somehow, started to give in to the Flame Reaver’s demands. Even if he resists now, his pride is tainted. Would Mydei be disappointed in him? Why did he -

The Flame Reaver’s monochrome clone suddenly grasps Mydei’s chin and tilts his head towards Phainon. As soon as dazed, golden eyes land on him, they snap downwards to where Phainon’s finger presses shamefully into himself. “Look at your Deliverer,” the Flame Reaver says, and his voice echoes from both himself and his clone. “The hero of Amphoreus, fingering himself open for his enemy.”

Phainon whimpers quietly.

“No, don’t,” he says, before he can stop himself. His voice is weak and thready, and he sees Mydei - Mydei, always the better man than he - try to close his eyes, try to turn away, unlike Phainon when Mydei made the same plea. The Flame Reaver’s clone doesn’t let him, forcing him to keep watching, sliding his hand back down to pinch and roll Mydei’s nipple to force his eyes to open when he tries.

The Flame Reaver tilts his hips forward until his big cock bumps against Phainon’s arm and ass. A warning.

Fine. Phainon has always pulled through when it matters. He can bear it. If he appeases the Flame Reaver and his games, he reasons that maybe the Flame Reaver will be satisfied sooner and let them go. Maybe.

Phainon tries to ignore the way the Flame Reaver laughs at him and the way his face continues to burn, the intense flush spreading down his neck and to his ears. Just get it over with.

Phainon pushes his finger in and out of himself clinically, as fast as he can handle, ignoring the burn from the new sensation. He tries to think about Mydei, stifling moans and still trying to do as Phainon asked, or think about nothing at all, but every time his thoughts start to slip away, static crackles in his mind and his attention is ripped back to what he’s doing, so terribly aware of his finger - fingers, as he forces himself to insert a second and then a third - in his own ass.

Phainon forces himself to take a deep, shuddering inhale. It doesn’t hurt - the stretch burns a little, but the slick and come helps ease the slide of his fingers. Phainon suddenly freezes. The come - the Flame Reaver’s - now it’s inside of him too, and -

The Flame Reaver laughs again, low and mocking, and harshly jostles Phainon’s arm. His yelp morphs into a gasp as his fingers shift deeper and suddenly press against something inside him that shoots a bolt of white-hot sensation to his core. Phainon’s vision blanks out for a second and then, when it returns, all he can think about is how hard he is.

The Flame Reaver left the front of his pants and undergarments intact. While the remaining fabric has mostly slipped off him, the very front is so soaked with precome that it clings to his erection in a maddeningly light sort of stimulation. He needs more. Something else, to take the edge of sudden, searing arousal off, and Phainon unconsciously shifts his hips and his fingers bump his prostate again and he only barely stifles a groan as heat coils tighter in his gut.

Phainon’s arm is beginning to tremble from the strain as he spreads his fingers inside himself, trying to remember what he was doing, trying to do what he needs to, and his vision begins to blur from the sudden feeling of being overwhelmed. Everything - Mydei, still struggling against the clone and his own pleasure to look away, the Flame Reaver pressed so close and threatening behind him, the state they’ve been reduced to, the new sensations of his own fingers in his ass brushing against his prostate and stretching his hole to prepare for the Flame Reaver, for himself, for that giant cock - is suddenly too much.

Just as suddenly, something cold and hard presses against the rim of his hole, shoving between his fingers to work its way inside. Phainon gasps at the extra stretch of the Flame Reaver’s armored finger, at the shock of cold metal, his hole clenching around it and his fingers unbidden -

“Sloppy,” the Flame Reaver says, in assessment. But there’s the sound of a grin in his voice. Phainon flushes, and when he looks down he can see it spreading down his chest, beneath his gold half-circle marking. “But you won’t tear.”

The way the Flame Reaver says it makes Phainon think that he knows, somehow. There’s an odd sense of certainty to his tone, something that -

Phainon yelps again and groans, jolting and struggling as the Flame Reaver suddenly forces his torso down until he’s nearly bent in half at the waist. He has to yank his fingers out of his ass too quickly to steady himself, hand automatically grasping Mydei’s thigh as his face is lowered so close to Mydei’s cunt that he can smell the heady scent of arousal and slick and come. Beneath his hand, Mydei’s leg twitches and he whimpers when Phainon’s breath comes in quick exhales so close to his sensitive skin.

The Flame Reaver removes his finger and instead, something big and hot and blunt presses incessantly against his hole.

Phainon’s breath catches in his throat and he tries to turn around as best he can, only to see the Flame Reaver grinning. It’s his own face, that twisted mirror image, but it’s almost manic how delighted he looks - as if Phainon is a prize laid bare before him, or perhaps a sacrificial lamb set out on his altar. Phainon’s mouth is dry, but he finds himself speaking anyway.

“It - It won’t fit -”

The Flame Reaver laughs. It sounds just like Phainon, in moments of victory, when he feels like the hero Amphoreus says he is - bright, confident, so sure of himself. “You can take it.” Unsettling certainty. Phainon’s stomach twists. “Your beloved Mydeimos did.”

Mydei makes a quiet noise and shifts his leg, pressing inwards until he can nudge Phainon, asking for his attention. Phainon hesitates, and then slowly looks up at him, dragging his eyes over the muscled, ample planes of Mydei’s body from below. The curve of his hip, his abs, his chest, the way Phainon can see him taking heaving breaths and swallowing, the beads of gold from where he bit his lip, and then to his eyes. Instead of anything Phainon is afraid of - disgust, disappointment, derision - all he sees is that same deep devotion and unwavering affection in his gaze, so bright with arousal.

“Focus on - ngh - me.” Mydei’s whisper is hoarse and weak as he struggles to speak around the aftershocks still wracking his body. Phainon’s chest clenches and his vision swims with sudden tears. Despite everything, Mydei is warm against him, as if he is a solid, eternal presence for Phainon. No matter what. Always.

Phainon twists around to try to glare at the Flame Reaver again, itching to drive his greatsword through him again and again and again until this is nothing more than a bad memory. “Let us go,” he grits out between clenched teeth. He tries to ignore the inhumanly large cock nudging his hole and how it sets his heart hammering in his chest in response. “Why are you even doing this?”

When the Flame Reaver doesn’t reply, Phainon growls in frustration and turns back to Mydei, wishing to drown himself in the molten gold of his eyes. With a hand still held behind his back, he has to balance entirely with the one braced on Mydei’s thigh. But Mydei is warm and familiar and so solid beneath him -

“It’s necessary,” the Flame Reaver says, suddenly. Phainon frowns, about to turn around again when - “For you to know your place.”

The Flame Reaver pushes inside.

Phainon gasps and tenses at the feeling of taking a cock for the very first time. The stretch is significant, and it burns, but the Flame Reaver was right. He does not tear.

Even though he is tense, as if trying to keep the Flame Reaver out, the ridiculously fat head of his cock bullies its way in and in and in, and it feels even bigger than it looked, somehow, and Phainon wheezes weakly at how full he already is.

The Flame Reaver is unsettlingly silent as he pushes in - and then he pauses, snaps his hips forward, plunges his cock the rest of the way in one go.

Phainon whines and falls forward, forehead pressed to Mydei’s hip. Faintly, he realizes that the movement has knocked the remaining fabric of his tattered clothing from his own cock. It curves up and bumps against his stomach at the motion, sending sparks through him, precome smearing against his skin.

The Flame Reaver is still, and then thrusts in again, pushing even deeper. His cock is so big that Phainon swears he can feel it, heavy and hot, in his throat, and …

It …

Phainon shudders in his attempts to remain stoic, trying to keep still and silent, biting his lip so hard he tastes his own golden blood, the tang of ichor rich and cloying on his tongue. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes gasping, frantic breaths against Mydei.

Despite himself, it feels …

A low noise escapes from the back of his throat. It sounds more like a wounded animal than a moan, but he knows what it is. He knows.

It should hurt. It should make fury flare in his gut, blazing until it burns his insides, but instead, he knows that heat isn't anger. The tight, coiling sensation deep inside him isn’t pain. It …

“It feels good, huh,” the Flame Reaver says, suddenly folded over his back, suddenly so close to him, voice low and velvet against Phainon’s ear. His teeth scrape the heated skin. Mydei’s leg nudges him again, as if saying, I’m still here.

Phainon whines and thinks he should try to fight. If he slams his head back, maybe he’ll hit the Flame Reaver. He thinks -

The Flame Reaver thrusts in again, this time angled slightly, and -

“Ahh?!”

Phainon does not think.

A burst of electric pleasure rips through him as the Flame Reaver’s cock hits his prostate, setting his veins aflame and his heart pounding, intense arousal forced on him. His cock aches and throbs and leaks, but it is secondary to the feeling of fullness.

The Flame Reaver’s free hand slides over Phainon’s hip, metal gauntlet dragging slowly over too-sensitive, heated skin, trailing tingling lines of sensation in their wake, until he reaches Phainon’s nipple and tugs harshly at the same time as he thrusts in again, and again, nailing Phainon’s prostate with incredible accuracy every time. How can he know exactly …

“Remember,” the Flame Reaver says, his voice rough with exertion, or maybe arousal, but Phainon cannot comprehend it, as to why, how could he be getting pleasure from this, “you’re me.”

Phainon chokes on his words, struggling to get them out around the air being punched out of his lungs when the Flame Reaver slams into him harder. He lets out a breathy whine and tries to ignore the burning pleasure racing through his body, how hard he is, how when he opens his eyes and blinks away overwhelmed tears all he sees is Mydei’s still-leaking cunt right in front of him, so prettily flushed and - “I’m not -”

“You will be.”

Wh -

The Flame Reaver tugs on Phainon’s nipple again in time with another rough thrust directly to his prostate. A pitchy whimper escapes him as he jolts, unconsciously clenching down on the Flame Reaver’s cock and feeling so full. Static blurs Phainon’s vision and when it fades, the Flame Reaver’s hand has slid to the back of his head, gauntlet tangling painfully in his hair, as he presses Phainon’s head down to Mydei’s cunt.

“Have you forgotten?” The Flame Reaver’s voice is rough and low, and Phainon shivers - this is the same aroused, teasing tone that he takes. He’s heard it before, when it echoes in an empty bath chamber and Mydei is in his lap and he is goading Mydei to ride him, teasing, playful, so very hard, burning desire and arousal scorching in his gut and chest. “How deep I reached in him? How much it bothered you? Now’s your chance to do something about it. Or just lie there and take what I give you - I don’t care.”

Phainon’s head swims with overwhelming pleasure and fullness, new, confusing sensations wracking his body as the Flame Reaver thrusts into him mercilessly, nailing his prostate with every movement, bolts of electric sensation racing up his spine. For a moment, Phainon feels the precipice of pleasure rushing up to greet him, tensing in anticipation, and then the Flame Reaver laughs mockingly and angles away from his prostate again, slowing his movements and only thrusting in shallowly. Phainon bites back a whine and it takes all of his self control to not reach down to touch himself. His fingers curl into the meat of Mydei’s thigh, and he blinks away the haze beginning to cloud his vision.

Almost without conscious thought, Phainon leans forward and follows the Flame Reaver’s instructions. Above him, Mydei inhales sharply the moment Phainon presses a kiss to one side of his swollen labia. He is sweet against Phainon’s lips, but there’s a hint of bitterness that Phianon knows belongs to his own come. Behind him, the Flame Reaver thrusts in pointedly, making Phainon bump his nose against Mydei’s skin.

Phainon glances up, searching Mydei’s pleasure-dazed expression for something, anything, to guide him, but Mydei just looks back at him with the same indulgent affection as always. His eyes soften when they meet Phainon’s, and he just nods, as if saying that it’s all alright, whatever happens will be alright, he doesn’t blame Phainon.

Phainon rubs soothing circles on Mydei’s thigh with his thumb, and then begins to lick away the mess staining Mydei’s skin. He drags the flat of his tongue along the soft, soaked skin, relishing in the way Mydei whimpers and shivers beneath him. Mydei’s slick is slightly sweet, viscous and familiar, and Phainon cleans him dutifully, shifting his hand up to gently part Mydei’s folds and dip his tongue between the heated, sensitive folds.

Mydei moans as when Phainon licks closer to his hole, closer to those hot, velvety walls, and then jolts, leg knocking against Phainon when Phainon dares to press a kiss to his swollen clit. It throbs against Phainon’s tongue when he licks it lightly.

“Ngh - Phainon -”

Mydei’s voice is raspy, nearly gone from how much he’s been moaning, but Phainon can hear a marked difference in his voice from when he was moaning from the pleasure the Flame Reaver forced on him. The way he says Phainon’s name is earnest and pleading, just like it always is when they embrace each other. Mydei strains his arms, as if he wants to reach down and run a hand through Phainon’s hair instead of the Flame Reaver’s gauntlet still tangling the strands, and Phainon can only watch as the Flame Reaver’s clone continues to hold Mydei down, wrists pinned above his head.

The Flame Reaver is still, unmoving inside Phainon and silent behind him, as if watching the show, and Phainon tries to put him out of his mind. Instead, he refocuses on Mydei; he leans in, closes his lips around Mydei’s sensitive clit and braces himself with a forearm slung over Mydei’s hip to dip two fingers into his cunt at the same time. Mydei whines when Phainon begins to rub Mydei’s inner walls, satin and searing, fluttering with every crook and press of his fingers as he explores and tries to reach as deep as he can, pulling out whatever the Flame Reaver has left inside.

And when Phainon sucks lightly on Mydei’s clit, Mydei’s hips buck and his leg jerks and he lets out a high pitched, breathy whimper. A new gush of slick escapes around Phainon’s fingers. Phainon’s cock throbs. The Flame Reaver’s hips stutter in an aborted little thrust, making Phainon moan around Mydei’s clit, as if similarly affected by the sight. The vibration of the sound against Mydei’s clit rips a loud moan from him, too.

Phainon keeps moving his fingers in and out of Mydei’s cunt in an almost scooping motion, the wet sounds loud and obscene in the arena, while he sucks on Mydei’s clit. Mydei tries to writhe beneath him, twisting in overwhelming pleasure, but with Phainon between his legs and the Flame Reaver’s clone holding him down, there is nothing for him to do but lie before them and take it.

It only takes a few harder sucks before Mydei tenses up. “Phai - I’m - aah -”

Mydei goes still, so tense that he shakes, and then that tension releases with a loud moan that trails off into a whimper as he comes, so hard that Phainon feels him clenching around his fingers, feels his legs press in against him, soaks Phainon’s chin and neck with his squirt as he trembles from the aftershocks. Phainon gently removes his lips from Mydei’s clit and then presses a kiss to the apex of his thigh before moving down to lick him clean again, this time licking inside Mydei’s cunt, slowly and gently.

Mydei is salty and sweet, velvet and rich against Phainon’s tongue. He could do this all day - he has done it all day, when Mydei let him - savoring the taste of Mydei, of how warm and soft he is, of how his walls flutter against him and such pretty noises fall from his lips.

And then there is the bitter tang of come again. Phainon frowns and redoubles his efforts, reaching up and squeezing Mydei’s hip in apology when Mydei whines in oversensitivity. Phainon presses his face as close as he can, until his tongue licks the Flame Reaver’s come out of Mydei and into his mouth, and Phainon - before he can think about it, when all that’s on his mind is how much he wants it out of Mydei -

Swallows it.

The sound is too loud even to his ears, and Phainon’s face immediately burns as he blanks out - suddenly overcome by searing humiliation, dragging a whine from him, bursting sensation in his gut and static blurring his vision. He feels the mixture of slick and come coat his throat and travel further inside him until it reaches his stomach, which already feels full from the Flame Reaver’s giant cock. He can’t catch his breath. Even just the motion of swallowing makes Phainon once again painfully aware of how filled he is. And he even … by his own will, he swallowed that … but -

“You enjoy it, don’t you? The taste of ‘yourself’?” The Flame Reaver leans close again and Phainon refuses to look at him, refuses to look up at Mydei, either, but surely the Flame Reaver can feel the way his ear burns against his lips. The Flame Reaver smiles, and Phainon can feel it against his skin as he shakes his head rapidly. “No? Then why are you reacting so well?”

Why is he - what?

The Flame Reaver’s hand slides back up Phainon’s front, grasping his neck and wrapping long fingers around it before pulling him upright and tilting his chin down with his thumb. When Phainon is forced to look, he sees a splatter beneath him. His own come. He … he came, just from swallowing. He shuts his eyes tightly, willing himself not to let the shame consume him, not to let himself cry from sheer embarrassment. Some hero he is.

And then Phainon’s chin is pulled to the side again. Before Phainon can register what’s happening, lips crash into his in an echo of before, and Phainon’s eyes shoot wide open.

Phainon keeps his own firmly shut and still, and protests with a loud noise. What is wrong with the Flame Reaver? After all that, he wants to do more to Phainon? What else could there be -

“Open,” the Flame Reaver growls against Phainon’s lips. And when Phainon refuses to comply, stubbornly gritting his teeth and then baring them when the Flame Reaver presses more incessantly against him, even daring to bite, the Flame Reaver presses two fingers into Phainon’s windpipe until panic overrides his stubbornness and the muscles jump and seize in an attempt to regain air. When Phainon gasps, the Flame Reaver’s tongue licks into his mouth, hot, wet, and big - and when he flattens it and presses it up into Phainon’s palate, it fills his mouth. Phainon’s eyes sting with tears as he nearly chokes, trying to breathe around it as the Flame Reaver devours him. Phainon tries to move his head, tries to bite down, and the Flame Reaver pinches his jaw with large fingers until he can’t. All he gets for that is another pointed thrust to his prostate that drags an unwilling groan from him.

Eventually, the Flame Reaver breaks the kiss and leaves Phainon panting, dizzy, light headed, and burning with embarrassment as he watches a silvery string of saliva stretch between them and break when the Flame Reaver turns his head.

“Someone enjoyed that,” he says, and when Phainon’s vision focuses again, he catches Mydei’s gaze - staring at them, flushed and dazed, if somewhat bewildered.

Fuck.

Phainon can’t help it. With a little, wounded noise, the tears that Phainon tried so hard to hold back fall over the curve of his cheeks, salty when they drip into his mouth as he pants. It’s too much - it’s all too much - he doesn’t have it in him to examine Mydei’s expression, to see just how disappointed he must be with Phainon, if he’s finally disgusted, if that was what finally shows Mydei just how dirty and depraved Phainon must be -

The Flame Reaver ignores Phainon’s tears, only moving him with incredible ease again, like a doll, and Phainon has forgotten to fight back. Not that it really mattered, anyway - not when the Flame Reaver has overpowered him again and again, shown him just how weak he really is -

And then he feels cold metal around his cock, hard ridges of the gauntlet pressing into him, guiding him forward until the head bumps against the heat of Mydei’s cunt. Phainon’s breath hitches and he makes a noise in the back of his throat. The Flame Reaver just begins to thrust into him again, leaning them both over Mydei with one hand still at Phainon’s throat, leaving his hands free - not that there’s anything he can do with them.

It doesn’t take more than a few expertly aimed thrusts to Phainon’s prostate and a calculated pressure against his windpipe before Phainon is hard again. Distantly, he thinks that he cannot possibly feel any more shame - but his body burns with it nonetheless.

“I’ll show you something,” the Flame Reaver says, and forces Phainon’s cock into Mydei.

He goes in easily, whimpering apologies and reaching down to grasp Mydei’s waist and smooth his palms over the heated, sweaty skin, feeling how his muscles jump beneath them. Mydei just whines, shaking his head when Phainon looks at him, and he still, still looks like he does not blame Phainon. Somehow.

That look of affection and forgiveness spears through Phainon’s chest, as if rending the muscle and bone until it can gouge his heart - because Mydei is so soft and hot and silken around his cock, and he feels so good, and Phainon’s desperate desire for stimulation is finally being sated. A sob rips from his throat - he hopes Mydei takes it as his suffering, not the bone-deep pleasure and relief that it truly is.

Once the Flame Reaver pushes him fully inside Mydei and their hips are flush against each other, he thrusts experimentally into Phainon, laughing quietly when it sends a shockwave of pleasure through him and makes him thrust into Mydei, who groans in echo.

And then the Flame Reaver grabs Phainon’s hands, covers them with his own larger ones, and summons his black, fractured greatsword between them. He forces Phainon’s fingers to curl around the hilt, pressing them into grooves that feel tailor-made for him, and hold the blade tip down - directly above Mydei, just below his sternum, in the center of his chest -

Just opposite his tenth thoracic vertebrae.

Cold fear douses Phainon and he tries to move the blade, throws all his weight against it, but he can’t.

Everything else, the heat, pleasure, humiliation - abruptly drops away.

Mydei’s eyes go wide. Phainon cannot breathe.

The Flame Reaver laughs silently, movement jostling his big cock inside Phainon, sending ripples of contrasting sensation through him.

“The responsibility that he gave you, the trust that you promised to repay,” the Flame Reaver whispers against the shell of Phainon’s ear. It sounds like quiet venom, breath burning Phainon’s skin, piercing his brain. “Can you do it?”

“S-Stop,” Phainon says, and he cannot control the tremor in his voice. Beneath the tip of the blade, a golden bead of blood wells and bursts, dripping down Mydei’s trembling abdomen. Mydei stares at it, and then looks up at Phainon. When Phainon catches his gaze, he sees unyielding resolve in his gaze, even if slightly unfocused. He does not need to ask to know what that look is; the molten gold burning with affection and devotion, the sentiment that if this is the end, Mydei wants to die looking into Phainon’s eyes and know that he has conveyed the depth of his feelings.

Phainon cannot breathe.

“Did you think I didn’t know about it?” The Flame Reaver’s whispers burn like acid against Phainon’s ear, and no matter how loud Phainon’s heartbeat is, those damned words drown it out. “Will he go softly, gently, or do you think he will beg and plead, just like Livia and Piso? Do you think he will scream? Will you listen to him choke on his own blood? To the death rattle of his last breath?”

Phainon cannot breathe. He chokes on air when he tries, and all that rises in him is bile and panic. He would rather turn this blade on himself - but as if hearing his thoughts, the Flame Reaver’s grip on his hands tightens.

“You are powerless. Fated to bear witness to destruction, not the new world. They will all die by your hand, or because you could do nothing to save them. And what’s the difference? Do you remember the bulrush burning and the sound of their screams? Do you know what she looked like when I called her name with ‘your’ voice and made her turn around, just long enough for me to -”

“Enough.” To Phainon’s surprise, it is Mydei that rips him from the nightmarish images the Flame Reaver feeds into his mind. Even with a rough, broken voice, Mydei sounds furious. Red energy crackles around him as he snarls, but the Flame Reaver’s clone continues to hold him down, shadowy magic snuffing out anything Mydei tries to summon.

“Enough,” Mydei says again, quietly. His voice is weak, but he manages to keep his words mostly steady. “Spare me the theatrics. If you’re going to - ngh …”

“You never change,” the Flame Reaver says, and Phainon hates the way he says it. He sounds so infatuated, that same ravenous greed for Mydei’s attention that Phainon knows all too well, and so angry, a dark undercurrent of envious rage. Phainon hates that he knows exactly what the Flame Reaver is feeling. He hates even more that he understands. If Mydei was no longer at his side, if Mydei looked at him like that, said those things to him …

The Flame Reaver presses the blade in Phainon’s hands down further, until the tip sinks into Mydei’s flesh. He holds it there for a long, long moment before he guides it back out. Phainon doesn’t dare to let himself feel any sort of relief - and then the Flame Reaver makes Phainon press the edge of the blade to the side of Mydei’s neck.

“I don’t think he’s done feeling all the fun I had before. But what do you think - will the sensations overlap? Double?” The Flame Reaver’s voice is almost sing-song, laced with excitement. Phainon whimpers despite himself and tries again to pull away, but he doesn’t manage to even so much as shift the blade. “Don’t you remember what your dear professor always told you? ‘Every failure brings us one step closer to the truth.’ Perhaps you will learn something from this - or maybe that’s too much to ask of you.”

Phainon ignores the insults, his own pride inconsequential. His muscles tremble and ache from how hard he is trying to move the blade away from Mydei, but -

“N-No,” Phainon gasps out, when he remains powerless to stop the Flame Reaver. He will plead and beg if it’s for Mydei. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do. “You can’t - Miss Castorice had bring him back just now, if you -“

The Flame Reaver just scoffs. “Why do you think that was? Who do you think made it so?”

What? Phainon frowns. Mydei looks just as confused -

“Watch,” the Flame Reaver says, and slices clean through Mydei’s carotid arteries, one smooth cut on either side of his neck.

A raw, agonizing scream rips itself from Phainon’s throat as golden blood spurts from the wounds, splattering onto the blade, onto Phainon, down Mydei’s chest. It bursts from the cut arteries and pools beneath him, glinting and golden. Phainon’s vision blurs but he blinks the tears away to keep looking at Mydei, to make sure he knows that Phainon is there, to witness how Mydei gasps, chokes, and jolts. He struggles against the monochrome clone’s hold, tries to say something, but all Phainon hears is one last, slow breath and sees the shape of his name on Mydei’s lips.

Mydei shudders weakly, and then stills.

Phainon continues to stare.

The Flame Reaver laughs, and Phainon is snapped out of his trance. Another raw, wordless cry rips itself from him and he thrashes, uncaring if the blade’s jagged hilt cuts into his palms, uncaring if the Flame Reaver’s armor digs into his bare back, uncaring that he is still being violated. A dark, ravenous anger boils in his veins, and he wants nothing more than to twist around and rip the Flame Reaver’s throat out with his teeth, bite through his arteries and spit them onto the ground where they’ll sit here and rot until the end of the world and forever after.

“Oh, get a grip,” the Flame Reaver says.

The Flame Reaver’s greatsword fades to shadow and he yanks Phainon’s hands behind his back, holding them by the wrists with one large hand and holding Phainon’s chin with the other, making him face forward and look at Mydei’s lifeless eyes. The gold is still bright, somehow, as if he will blink at any moment.

“He’ll wake up soon,” the Flame Reaver says. “And you’ll feel how good it is. But in the meantime …”

Incandescent anger deafens Phainon to the Flame Reaver’s words, and he does not understand what he’s saying until he - oh -

The Flame Reaver snaps his hips forward and presses in with his whole body, hand restraining Phainon’s arms shoving him down, making Phainon fuck Mydei’s unresponsive, cooling cunt. There is no resistance. No pressure of Mydei’s walls contracting against him.

Bile rises in Phainon’s throat. Every thrust against his prostate brings nauseating pleasure shooting into his stomach that clenches and churns, every push from behind makes his now-softened cock slide in and out of Mydei, feeding the tortuous pleasure that will crash over him upon his return to life. Phainon sobs, taking great, heaving gasps of air that are punched out of him with every snap of the Flame Reaver’s hips to his.

He wants Mydei, in any capacity, at any time, in any circumstance. Always. But he has never wanted to hurt him like this. Sometimes, Phainon thinks that his greatest fear is not that he will fail to bring about the miracle of Era Nova - it is that Mydei will one day see him as a failure, look at him with disgust and disappointment, and abandon him, walk away and never turn back, never again look at him with that warm, affectionate gaze, never -

This time, when the static overtakes his mind and Phainon blanks out, disconnects from reality, it is a mercy. He only faintly feels the way he is moved, the way that the Flame Reaver makes him fuck Mydei’s lifeless body, the way that he cannot get enough air around the force of the thrusts ripping the breath from him between his sobs, as if the cock inside him is so big it punches the air from his lungs, the dizzying, consuming sense of dread -

Beneath him, Mydei gasps.

It’s a tiny sound, the barest of inhales, but Phainon latches onto it immediately, grasping at the faint hope it brings to pull himself back, to focus again.

Mydei blinks once, slowly, then takes another inhale.

“Mydei?” Phainon asks, and his voice is tiny and fragile.

At the sound of Phainon’s voice, Mydei seems to struggle against the haze, frowning as his eyes search blindly before finding Phainon’s. When he does, Phainon does not see what he feared - disgust, disappointment, betrayal - all he sees is relief and affection, still, and it feels like salvation. “Phain - ngh?!”

“Mydei?! Are y - oh - nhh -”

Phainon sees the moment that Mydei tenses up. His brain does not immediately remember why - until Mydei’s cunt clenches down around Phainon’s cock so tightly that he sees stars, the pressure overwhelming and sparking renewed heat through his veins, coiling tight in his core. And then Mydei is suddenly molten hot around his hard cock, satin inner walls contracting and fluttering against him and so very alive, so wet -

Phainon tries not to move - he tries so, so hard to be still, to be good so that Mydei doesn’t have to feel more than he already does, but with Mydei feeling so divine around him, the sudden change from cold, unmoving, lifeless, to hot and responsive and so sensitive and pliant, and all of the pretty, unconsciously seductive noises falling from his bite-swollen lips, when his moan pitches high and his back arcs off the ground and Phainon feels a gush of slick around his cock -

Phainon’s hips stutter forward in a shallow thrust. Mydei wails -

And as before, he comes so hard that he tenses and writhes against the Flame Reaver’s silent clone’s grasp, gasping out broken noises, come and slick gushing from his cunt around Phainon’s cock again, but this time … This time, Phainon is inside him. This time, instead of clenching around nothing and riding it out, every time Mydei jolts and writhes, he pushes Phainon further into him, feeding both of their arousal, and when he bucks his hips off the ground, he pushes Phainon into his G-spot -

Phainon whimpers at how intense the sensations are, at how gorgeous Mydei is in the throes of pleasure, his blond-red hair flaring around his head like a burning halo, eyes completely unfocused, the way he just keeps coming, his orgasm seemingly unending, squirting on Phainon’s cock and drenching where they are connected again and again and again. Mydei whimpers and keeps tensing, caught in an inescapable high of pleasure, until his body goes lax as the wave subsides. This time, he does not even notice that he’s lost control again, leaving Phainon to feel the liquid warmth leaking from him around his cock and stare, enraptured.

And then the Flame Reaver pushes Phainon down until his face is hovering just above the still-wet side of Mydei’s neck and shoves into him, nailing his prostate so hard that Phainon moans loudly.

“Losing yourself to pleasure like a dog already?”

Phainon shakes his head fervently. Mydei makes a quiet, whining noise, but tilts his head down enough to nudge his chin against the crown of Phainon’s head, still trying to comfort him through his own suffering. Phainon sobs.

No, no he isn’t - he didn’t want to feel that, he didn’t want it -

“But you’ve never been so aroused in your life, have you?”

Phainon tries to tune the Flame Reaver out. It’s so hard, when it’s his own voice, the same voice he hears his thoughts in made physical, echoing from the outside. But if he just doesn’t listen, if he just doesn’t think about it, if the only thing here is Mydei -

“You enjoyed it. You loved it. You felt your beloved Mydeimos’s life fade and return while you fucked him and it made you hard. You can’t deny it.”

No - no, if Phainon doesn’t think about it, if he doesn’t look at anything but the healed skin of Mydei’s neck, doesn’t feel anything but heat, doesn’t think about the fact that the highest pleasure he’s ever felt in his life, so intense that he thinks he might exist as nothing but a conduit for it, comes from the way that Mydei’s cunt clenches and comes around him over and over from what he did to Mydei’s corpse, doesn’t think about how every thrust into his ass from the Flame Reaver sends him spiralling higher and higher into rapturous bliss -

“You don’t want to hear it? Don’t want to think? Beg me, then, and I’ll fuck it all out of your pathetic brain.”

Phainon whines.

He clenches his jaw shut and closes his eyes, pressing his face into the crook of Mydei’s neck, uncaring that golden blood smears across his skin. He doesn’t want to think. The Flame Reaver’s right. But more than that, he doesn’t want to disappoint Mydei.

Has he fought back enough? Does Mydei know that he tried? That he tried so hard to resist, to save them both, to be the strong, selfless hero that the world thinks he is?

“It’s - ah! - alright,” Mydei whispers into his hair.

Is it?

When Phainon raises his head, he sees nothing but honesty in Mydei’s expression, nothing but affection and sympathy, until his brows pull together again and his mouth opens in a wordless moan, and he clenches around Phainon as he orgasms again.

The Flame Reaver laughs.

Phainon is still trying not to listen, but it does not sound as nakedly delighted as before. It sounds bitter and pained and, if Phainon paid attention, jealous.

The Flame Reaver slows his thrusts into Phainon, angling away from his prostate, keeping his movements shallow and unsatisfying, holding his hips with one hand still so that he can’t thrust into Mydei - all he can do is be held in place and take what the Flame Reaver deigns to give him and feel the way Mydei falls apart over and over again beneath him.

Finally, a little noise escapes him, spoken beneath a shuddering exhale.

“Speak up,” the Flame Reaver says, and his gauntlet digs into the sensitive skin of Phainon’s side.

“... Please,” Phainon says, louder this time, and he thought that he could not fall lower into the burning flames of shame and humiliation, but he is proven wrong. He feels himself shaking with it, and the word feels thick in his throat. He has to force it out.

When the Flame Reaver laughs this time, it’s sharp and loud and pierces Phainon’s head.

“‘Please’ what, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae?”

Phainon flinches.

“Please,” Phainon breathes out, breath hitching, vision blurring and face burning, because he has already fallen this low, already admitted defeat in so many different ways, so what’s the use of trying to be strong now? “F … Fuck me.”

The Flame Reaver stills completely.

Of course. What else was he expecting?

Of course the Flame Reaver wouldn’t keep his word. He just wanted to humiliate Phainon further, didn’t he?

Phainon fights to keep tears of frustration from falling. This is the last thing he needs, as if he could be even more pathetic -

“Ah - ngh - w-wait -”

“This is what you wanted,” the Flame Reaver says, when he suddenly pulls back until just the tip of his stupidly big cock is inside Phainon and then slams inside again, pounding against Phainon’s prostate.

Was it? It wasn’t, really -

The Flame Reaver thrusts inside Phainon with such force that his body rocks against Mydei’s, his own cock sliding in and out of Mydei’s oversensitive cunt, and any semblance of a thought is fucked away, just as promised. A tingling, staticky haze begins to seep into his mind whenever he tries to form a sentence.

Phainon struggles to keep his balance with every hard thrust against his oversensitive, bullied prostate. The Flame Reaver is so huge that it feels like it’s his cock knocking the air out of him, as if it fills Phainon up completely, and somehow every drag of it against his overstimulated inner walls drags just exactly, perfectly, impossibly right.

It’s like the Flame Reaver hits every pleasure point in his body, his cock fitting inside him as if it’s tailor-made for him - or perhaps he’s tailor-made for it - hands roving Phainon’s heated, sweaty skin, pinching at every erogenous zone, holding his waist still with just one large hand, tugging on his nipples in a way that Phainon’s never realized could feel so good.

There is nothing but blinding, deafening, white-hot pleasure - so overwhelming that Phainon barely realizes that he’s moving in tandem, when the Flame Reaver allows it, to sink his own cock deeper into Mydei, in and out of his soft, warm cunt, feeling how he clenches around Phainon, how his heaving breaths are punctuated by breathy moans and high, needy whines.

On one deep thrust that has Phainon choking on a moan, a drop of sweat falls into his eye and stings, making him blink rapidly. It’s as if his own body is telling him to snap out of it, and when he refocuses and looks up, he sees Mydei.

Mydei, with his pleasure-dazed expression, head still tilted down towards Phainon, as if instinctively seeking the comfort of being as close as he can. His bitten lips, gold-smeared and shimmering with saliva. His eyes, unfocused and fucked blank, but molten and warm and there is still … still no look of blame.

How could that be? Phainon stares at Mydei, willing himself to see nothing but the gold of Mydei’s eyes. The way he struggles against the haze of overwhelming pleasure and still looks at Phainon with such trust and affection, even when waves of overstimulation crash over him and bring him to unwanted climax again and again.

Phainon strains against the force of the Flame Reaver’s thrusts and manages to lift himself up enough to press his lips to Mydei’s - it’s a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss, and the Flame Reaver’s next thrust dislodges Phainon - but it’s so, so sweet.

The Flame Reaver seems as if he doesn’t care that Phainon and Mydei are ignoring him, as if he’s content to simply use Phainon as he pleases, until he speaks.

"You want to pretend you're making love? Just the two of you, in the golden city? Like how if you aren't looking at the ashes and charred bones you left behind," he says, wrenching Phainon up onto his knees and his chin to the side to meet his gaze, punctuating his words with rough thrusts and the too-loud slap of skin against cloth, "somewhere far away, the fields of your home might still flower?"

Phainon whimpers. The memory-smell of ash cuts through the scent of sex.

“Look,” the Flame Reaver says abruptly, with a laugh. It’s sharp and cruel and rougher than before. His wide chest is beginning to heave against Phainon’s back. “You didn’t notice it before?”

Phainon has no choice but to look down when the Flame Reaver tilts his head. At first he just sees Mydei, still being held down by the clone, still in the throes of forced pleasure, still gorgeous in his dazed expression and little whines. He sees his own cock buried in Mydei’s soaked cunt, and then -

Oh. Oh -

It’s his … When he looks down, Phainon sees a bump in his lower abdomen. A slight distension where it’s normally flat and toned. A little swell right where …

The Flame Reaver thrusts into him again, and a high-pitched whine is punched out of him.

Right where the Flame Reaver’s cock is pressing from the inside.

The Flame Reaver laughs again, and this time he sounds breathless. He doesn’t even take the opportunity to taunt Phainon about it. All he does is shift Phainon in his grasp, holding his arms behind his back with one hand while the other -

While the other slowly caresses his skin as it slides around to his front, gauntlet brushing lightly against the bulge at first, ignoring Phainon’s whimper when even the light touch sends sparking sensation through his skin, stretched from the sheer size of the cock inside him -

And then presses down.

Phainon sobs.

The bolt of pleasure is so intense that stars fill his vision, white and bursting, and tension coils tighter and tighter in his gut. He’s being pulled, dragged, yanked up and up and up, higher to the precipice, and it’s been going so long that the thought of going over the edge makes his stomach drop.

Phainon’s hips jerk forward involuntarily. Mydei moans, long and low.

The Flame Reaver leans in close, so close that his teeth scrape Phainon’s ear, so close that even Mydei can’t hear it, and whispers the name Phainon left behind so long ago.

“D-Don’t, I - haah -”

Phainon tries to speak - tries to deny it, tries to ignore it, but he chokes on his words and lets out a moan instead when the Flame Reaver bites his ear in warning, pleasure-pain shooting up Phainon’s spine, thrusts into him so hard that he presses into Mydei, so close that their hips are flush and when Mydei’s hips buck upwards, his clit rubs against him and his back arches up off the ground, he tenses up and mewls -

And then the Flame Reaver presses harder against the bulge in Phainon’s belly, keeps his hand there, keeps thrusting, bullying his prostate and building pressure in Phainon’s gut with every snap of his hips. Phainon tenses, clenching around the Flame Reaver’s cock, whining as he feels it so, so vividly, so intensely, as it rubs along his inner walls, the Flame Reaver’s gauntlet still pressing against him, unrelenting -

“I -” Phainon whimpers. His voice is thready and weak and his head is so fogged, full of pleasure and heat and nothing but that. Pleasure, heat, pressure. Coiling, rising tension, higher and higher and higher - “I - ngh! - c-can’t -”

“You can,” the Flame Reaver says into Phainon’s ear. From somewhere behind the overwhelming, consuming haze of heat and pleasure, Phainon gets the bewildering impression that the Flame Reaver is talking about something else entirely. He thinks, distantly, somewhere beyond the cloying static and scents and sounds of sex, detached from the way he writhes in the Flame Reaver’s grasp, feels Mydei clenching around him, hears his own high-pitched whimpers and whines, that without the texture of cruelty in his words, the Flame Reaver’s voice is low and soft and velvet against his ear, still throbbing from the bite.

“I know you,” the Flame Reaver says again. His voice is heavy - Phainon’s, but as if weighed by exhaustion, despair, the weight of the - “You have to.”

The tension bursts.

Phainon thinks that he must have wailed - but all he can hear is the rush of blood in his ears and a ringing sound. White starbursts fill his vision as there is nothing but pleasure roaring through his body, electric and burning, heat inside his body and out. As he crashes over the edge, he sobs as Mydei clenches around him, tight and hot and perfect, and he comes hard - harder than he ever has in his life, tears of pleasure falling from his eyes, whimpering out Mydei’s name as he fills Mydei’s cunt with his come.

He is still coming, the orgasm pulsing through him, when he feels the Flame Reaver’s hips stutter. He feels the Flame Reaver’s hand tense and press against him even tighter, pressing against the little bulge in his belly, hears him groan, low and quiet like he’s suppressing it, and then -

Phainon chokes on an inhale as he feels the Flame Reaver’s cock twitch inside him, press against his prostate, and then start coming.

Phainon already felt full. Overstuffed, even, with the Flame Reaver’s hand pressing against his stomach, but when the Flame Reaver orgasms, filling Phainon up even more with his hot come, it’s all that Phainon can feel. Filled. So full. It’s hot and heavy inside him.

It’s too much - he hasn’t even come down from his climax when he’s so impossibly filled that the pressure from inside builds and bursts again, stronger, uncontrollably - Phainon sobs, releasing inside Mydei with a sudden sense of relief, as if he’s squirting -

Through his blurry vision, Phainon sees Mydei jolt and tense before moaning weakly. Another orgasm rips through him, and all Mydei can do is lie there and whimper through the aftershocks. His cunt pulses around Phainon’s oversensitive cock.

Mydei blinks slowly, as if trying to fight the haze of overstimulation, and shifts. To Phainon’s surprise, the Flame Reaver’s clone begins to dissolve into ash at the slightest tug Mydei gives against its grasp - and similarly, when he reaches out, the Flame Reaver lets him.

The Flame Reaver is silent save for ragged breaths behind him. Phainon manages to reach forward and grasp Mydei’s outstretched hand, intertwining their fingers. His hand is warm and fits so perfectly in Phainon’s.

A moment later, the Flame Reaver shifts back, pulling out of Phainon carelessly and letting Phainon flinch and jolt at the sudden drag of his giant cock against his sore prostate and hole. Phainon whimpers - and then winces when he feels come begin to leak down his inner thigh.

And when he looks down and still sees that his stomach slightly distended even without the Flame Reaver inside him - just from his come alone, gushing out when he presses against it lightly - Phainon desperately tries not to think about the way his head spins with heat and his mouth goes dry.

The Flame Reaver takes a step away from Phainon. Mydei squeezes his hand.

In that moment of silence, when Phainon meets Mydei’s gaze, he sees no blame or disappointment in the warm gold - only trust, affection, and pure, unfiltered confidence in Phainon.

And so, he does not think of his battered body, his myriad bruises and all of the new, uncountable hurts that will fester and rot within him until either they kill him or he emerges victorious at the end of the world. Phainon carefully pulls out of Mydei, eyes lingering on how his come - and his come alone - leaks out of Mydei’s cunt, and lunges for his sword.

His body burns with searing pain, every fiber begging him to rest, to just lie down and take the future as it comes so long as he can just stop - but Phainon ignores it. He ignores the nausea from moving too quickly, the feeling of the Flame Reaver’s come sloshing in his insides, the feeling of it leaking from his hole and running down his leg.

Instead, Phainon yanks his greatsword from the ground and stands between the Flame Reaver and Mydei, slashing upward in the same movement with all of his strength.

It is the sloppiest strike Phainon has possibly ever made - but the Flame Reaver is slow to react. In fact, he only barely jumps backward - and a great, jagged gash splits his chest and the ground in front of Phainon. No blood seeps from the wound, golden or otherwise. Instead, black and red fractal static leaks from it.

The Flame Reaver just laughs, and for once, Phainon cannot decipher the emotion behind it.

“Haven’t you done enough?” Phainon wants to shout, wants to snarl out the question, but his voice is hoarse and raw, and he hears the tremble of fear in it. And so he does what he always has; he takes a deliberate inhale and strangles the panic rising in his throat like acrid bile. He catches it between his teeth, swallows it back down - buries it alive, smothers it until nothing but smouldering scraps remain, packs it away with all the rest until his insides have no room left.

The Flame Reaver’s expression is just as inscrutable as his laugh. His lightless blue eyes are blank, his mouth curved in a smile that is just shy of cruel, his jaw set and clenched as if biting something back.

“Enjoy victory while it lasts, ‘me’,” the Flame Reaver says after a long moment. “Prove me wrong.”

And then, to Phainon’s surprise - the Flame Reaver makes a gesture. His clothing mends itself, hiding his cock away, and his mask reappears. When he turns around, a bright blue portal opens up behind him and he steps through it unceremoniously. In the next moment, the portal closes and he is gone.

In his wake, the gloom and silence of the arena are heavy and oppressive.

Only Phainon and Mydei’s ragged breathing punctuate the tension. Phainon grips his greatsword so tightly his hands hurt.

“Phainon …”

Mydei’s whisper breaks the spell, and Phainon startles, immediately dropping his blade and kneeling at Mydei’s side, ignoring the bite of the ground against his bare legs and the come still leaking out of him.

Mydei is struggling to sit up. His brow is pulled in a deep frown, wincing from even the slightest movement, but it seems like his forced pleasure has ended. His muscles shake and tremble from overexertion, and Phainon gingerly reaches out to pull Mydei close. Mydei whimpers at the touch, likely still oversensitive, but he leans into Phainon immediately, tilting his head into the crook of Phainon’s neck and closing his eyes with an exhausted sigh.

Phainon’s breath is caught in his throat as he looks Mydei over. He looks awful - as worn down and beaten as Phainon has ever seen. His torso is still coated in golden blood. Scratches and marks litter his skin, especially around his wrists and legs, where he’d thrashed against the ground. The inside of his legs and his crotch are a mess of now-drying fluids.

“Mydei, I …”

“None of it is your fault,” Mydei says, his voice still whisper-quiet and raw. He nudges his nose against Phainon’s neck and then tilts his head back a little to look at his face. Mydei winces sharply, but he brings a hand up and gently rubs at the corner of Phainon’s eye. He smiles, then - the small, soft, fond smile that he never shows anyone else. “Don’t cry, Deliverer.”

Phainon tilts his head into Mydei’s touch and squeezes his eyes shut as a wet sob wracks his body. He doesn’t dare to think about what happened. What it means. What will happen now. All of those thoughts feel sharp edged and dangerous, and maybe the Flame Reaver was right, in the end - he’d like to not think at all.

But Mydei is still here.

Phainon opens his eyes and sees the way that Mydei is watching him, so patiently, so trusting, so loving. The depth of it feels as if it wrenches at his heart, threatening to tear it from his chest with echoing sentiment - and just as intense guilt.

And so Phainon smiles. He smiles through his tears, letting them fall freely, letting them soak Mydei’s hand and drip down his arm. He smiles with all of the achingly strong affection he has for Mydei; for all of the unrestrained spars beneath the everlasting light, for all of the trinkets bought laughing side-by-side, for all of the baths shared, for all of the secret kisses in passing, the warmth of their hands intertwined, the first blink of wakefulness in each other’s embrace.

This will never happen again.

Phainon will get stronger. By any means necessary. He’ll do whatever it takes so that he is never this powerless ever again. So that no one can take Mydei from him ever again.

Mydei just laughs quietly. Indulgent as always, unwilling to press Phainon for an explanation, even if he sees through Phainon’s smile. Instead, he just leans back against Phainon and Phainon holds him tighter.

In the cracks of the fissure Phainon’s sword tore into the ground, in the shadows of its deepest corners, the darkness flickers briefly, as if pulsing with blackish energy in angular shapes.

Then, it fades again, as if nothing was ever there.