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A warrior only kneels twice: the first time in prayer, and the second in defeat. All Kremnoans live and die by this, a lesson thoroughly sowed from the wall of their skulls to the hardened bone of their kneecaps, until they grow resilient, unbending legs.
A king only kneels once — at his coronation, accepting the hefty weight of a jeweled crown over his head, and the responsibility of his land and his people. Phainon’s belt clinks, the leather slipping from silver hoops, and Mydei falls to his knees.
He’s breathtaking.
His face is flushed a deep red, embarrassment blending with lust, and from this angle his eyelashes seem longer, paler, their blond curtaining a gorgeous honeyed gaze. He’s stripped of his top yet his gauntlets remain, layered hard gold neatly sheathing red-inked skin, a hand settled on each of Phainon’s spread thighs. Phainon would rather witness the explosion of the sun than even think of moving.
“Look at you,” he says — but Mydei looks at him, his teeth stabbing in his bottom lip like knives in a juicy plum, red blooming within pink and the slope of his nose buried against Phainon's zipper, iron against bone, inhaling Phainon’s taste through his pants, and Phainon shudders.
Their arrangement starts rather crudely. They’re sparring, because that’s all they seem capable of doing, fighting as a form of communication; as a love language. Phainon confidently challenges Mydei to hand-on-hand combat, claiming to be just as formidable an opponent swordless, pretending he’s only seeking to fight as equals, and Mydei’s pretty golden eyes narrow at that, and then he lunges, armored fists against bare knuckles, easily disproving Phainon’s point. He laughs when Phainon is pinned beneath him, dumbfounded and trapped, and then he licks his lips, hungry, victorious, drawing all of Phainon’s blood south then twisting his intestines into a tourniquet.
“Deliverer,” he drawls, each syllable a candy he rolls over and under his tongue, and Phainon, unfortunately too well-trained, immediately gets hard. “Retrieve your sword. Fistfighting is better suited to brutes like me.”
I wasn’t prepared, Phainon thinks to say, and then: You’re no brute, and then: I want you. He says nothing in favor of shifting his body weight to topple an unprepared Mydei, and when the prince squirms Phainon closes a hand around his throat and hooks another under his knee. Mydei blinks, then his gaze finds the shape of Phainon’s cock, sitting hard inside his pants, and his smirk turns sharp. The training grounds are quiet, save for Phainon’s racing heart. Mydei’s leg cants higher, flexing until it’s perched atop Phainon’s shoulder and the metal prickles against his warming cheek.
“I don’t know whether to call you a cheater—,” he starts, lazily pushing his hips against Phainon’s, “—or a stray dog.”
The deep vibration of his voice diffuses through Phainon’s palm. Phainon’s laugh is soundless.
“Whichever of the two actually exists in your dictionary,” he replies. He thinks Mydei cheated first, and then he thinks of taking Mydei right there, bent in half and unprepared and outside where everybody could see. His hand roams higher, shaping a cage around Mydei’s mouth, ready to snuff out an insult spoken in a language he’s still learning — but Mydei’s mouth opens, slowly, ostensibly, and rather than a verbal assault it’s an invitation for Phainon’s fingers, and Phainon pushes them in without thinking anymore, a thumb first, then his index, then three thick fingers rubbing at the spit gathered on Mydei’s tongue, smearing it, and Mydei licks; Mydei drools; Mydei makes a face Phainon has never seen before and a sound he’s never heard either, raspy, keening, and he’s hard too, pants soaked and mouth wet, gagging on Phainon’s knuckles, and, and —
They’re interrupted. Phainon smiles politely at the Kremnoan warriors who came to witness their sparring, pretending he wasn’t about to drive his fingers so deep inside their prince’s throat he’d reach for his heart right here and there. So it starts as an accident. A moment where they both lose themselves in the euphoria of battle. Adrenaline-fueled, skin against skin, fingers inside mouth. The very same night, Phainon grips his sword and recalls the shape of Mydei’s teeth grazing against his fingers. The sweltering warmth of his tongue. He starts to imagine how it’d feel to push deeper, to reach all the way past Mydei’s throat, and then he imagines what Mydei would look like choking on dick, and then he doesn’t have to anymore.
Sit, Mydei commands, having come to find Phainon in his quarters at an hour he’s supposed to be fast asleep. Phainon obeys on instinct, his entire body buzzing with something loud, his mouth suddenly parched.
Mydei, he says, very quietly; very aware of the particular pale pink shade of Mydei’s lips.
Take it out, Mydei says, with a curt nod to Phainon’s half-erect dick. Phainon’s obedience shines.
The first time is extremely embarrassing. Phainon cums from just the sight of Mydei on his knees, kissing his shaft. Mydei doesn’t mock him. He blinks slowly, semen dripping down his face, his nose and lips streaked with a milky white, and while a mortified Deliverer attempts to scoop his cooling semen up with his thumb, Mydei takes Phainon’s limp cock inside his mouth.
Phainon freezes, his hand stopped half an inch away from Mydei’s face. Mydei sighs around him, body completely lax, and Phainon feels like he’s witnessing some miracle. His thoughts stop circulating, melted to nothing by the heat of Mydei’s mouth. His over-sensitive dick twitches, and Mydei moans around it, suckling, swallowing all of it until his nose pushes into the fine silver hairs below Phainon’s stomach. Phainon curses; whines; calls Mydei’s name, eventually growing hard again. Mydei seems content to meticulously nurse on Phainon’s cock until it pulses against his palate; much fatter it is now, engorged, just short of reaching the tight opening of his throat.
I will not throatfuck the crown prince of Kremnos, Phainon thinks deliriously. I will not throatfuck the crown prince of Kremnos. He inches his hips forward a little and Mydei moans, a shameless hand reaching inside his pants, so Phainon does throatfuck the crown prince, all twelve Titans be damned, until Mydei chokes and claws at his legs; until Mydei lets Phainon talk him through it, Your mouth feels so good, Take it deeper, I know you can, So good; his lips quickly end up painted white and sticky with Phainon’s come, and he gasps when Phainon pulls out, looking at his softening dick regretfully, as if he were mourning it already; a sight so insane Phainon can’t even tease him. Phainon feels himself turning into a different person.
Panting, Mydei leans against the inside of Phainon’s left thigh, chest heaving, pants soiled, as if Phainon had shattered all his towering defenses from the inside out, with each harsh thrust inside Mydei’s squeezing throat. He says, voice raspy and tired, and frowning, Let’s set some rules.
Phainon only says Okay, the more shameless alternative being Yes Mydei, anything you want.
It happens again. A frightful amount of times with no end in sight, adding more unanswered questions to Phainon’s plate: Does Mydei use his mouth when he pleasures himself? And how many fingers would he suck on? No, perhaps he uses something else — Phainon imagines that while strolling through the Marmoreal market; Mydei’s tongue running up and down a lavish penis-shaped toy, and he stupidly feels both aroused and jealous. Then Phainon ponders the specifics; the little things Mydei unknowingly gives away, like how his cock only stirs when he drops to his knees, and Phainon starts to think maybe there’s something else to it, something more than just stuffing Mydei’s mouth full of cock.
Mydei doesn’t tell him about it. He has a specific nod he uses when he wants Phainon to sit and feed him his cock, a gesture that only looks detached on the surface. Phainon’s mind drifts away to semantics and Kremnoan customs he’s still unfamiliar with, and Mydei brings him back to reality by pressing his mouth where Phainon’s pants are strained and wet, kissing his idle fingers into moving again.
“Mydei,” Phainon starts.
Mydei ignores him. His gaze is heavy, and his thumbs mercilessly dig into the fat of Phainon’s thigh, rubbing and carving crescent red indents with his nails.
“I was thinking—”
“You weren’t,” Mydei cuts.
That’s a barbed reminder to the first rule he set, that night where he was flushed red to his ears and struggling to breathe: Don’t talk. He’s not even sparing Phainon a glance. He catches the zipper of Phainon’s pants with his teeth and pulls down, wearing the hungry, satisfied smile of a feral beast having caught its prey. His tongue peeks out, teasing Phainon’s throbbing length, and Phainon’s fingertips twitch, raking at Mydei’s scalp helplessly, and then pull forward. Mydei pauses, one eyebrow lifted, lips still too close to Phainon’s cock for him to think properly, let alone talk, and he shouldn’t be talking anyways, but,
“Sorry,” he breathes out, quickly, nervously, not because he’s particularly sorry but because he has to apologize in order for Mydei to touch him again and that’s all that matters at this moment, not the Flamechase, not the Coreflames, but Mydei’s dangerously warm mouth taking his cock like it was a receptacle carved for it only.
“Don’t move,” Mydei commands. The second rule. Phainon’s heart keeps jumping up and down and left and right. His cock stirs. “And don’t talk.”
“I’m sorry,” Phainon repeats, petting Mydei’s ears; Mydei’s earring, with his disobedient fingers until Mydei hums appreciatively, and, content with Phainon’s meek apologies, graces him with his lips again. Phainon silently curses, flexing and unflexing his hand in soft blond curls.
Mydei kisses his tip; purposefully drags his teeth along Phainon’s lenght only to hear him wince, feel him shiver, and Phainon’s fingers are shaking with greed, dying to satisfy the craving of being entirely buried inside Mydei’s tight throat — but he can’t. Not yet. Mydei has to fall to his knees and tend to him until they’re bruised and Phainon cums once, no touching allowed, and then — only then, that’s the third and last rule— can Phainon move as he desires, and say what he wishes to say, if he has words left in his brain to speak. He wonders, does that count as some sort of victory, or superiority, making him stifle his moans and Mydei’s name? Does it balance out the act of kneeling? Does it feel that good, to have his head empty of thoughts and his mouth full of cock? The questions pile, and pile, and end up engulfed in Mydei’s throat, melting there, replaced with the desperate, repressed need to selfishly thrust his hips.
“Mydei,” he says, his voice warping onto a breathy whine. Mydei licks him like he would a treat, ostensibly, deliberately, the tip of his nose bumping against Phainon’s cock, and Phainon closes his eyes shut, his whole body submerged by waves of pleasure. His hand is idle and trembling at Mydei’s nape, struggling to not force his head closer. “Please.”
“Quiet,” Mydei replies. His breath is just as warm as his mouth, and Phainon’s hips stutter, his stomach sucks in, his toes curl.
He’s elated and stupid. His entire being sizzles on the heat of Mydei’s tongue, swirling around him, his thumbs kneading into the sensitive muscle of Phainon’s inner thighs, then the skinnier flesh of his hips, holding him there, Don’t move, you can't move yet, but it’s so tight and hot; so heavenly; so familiar now that Phainon can map the inside of Mydei’s mouth with the tip of his cock, and he needs to, has to, move, “Mydei,” he pants, head lowered, jaw stiff, body crooked forward, “Mydei—”
Mydei makes a sound around Phainon's length, a low, delighted purr that runs all the way up Phainon’s spine and nests between his shoulders, and Phainon hears himself hiss and whine, crossing orders, clutching at Mydei’s hair and pulling him onto his dick, cumming, cumming. Mydei’s throat squeezes viciously when he spurts, making Phainon see stars, and then he blinks and sees Mydei’s throat bobbed and swelling from the weight of his own dick, and then Mydei’s eyes rimmed red and brimming with tears, and his own spend trickling down Mydei’s chin, and thrusts.
Mydei is deliciously lax, letting his mouth be used, his legs pliant under him, his pants soaked dark—
‘’Did you cum untouched?” Mydei’s shoulders twitch, and he blinks rapidly, lashes heavy and clumped with pearly tears. “You did, didn’t you?”
Phainon rubs his boot against the wet spot and Mydei keens, clutching at Phainon’s leg, humping against his foot. His breathing is a ragged mess, and his chest is so red it looks sunburned. Phainon wants to lick it up. He snaps his hips forward, pushing his whole cock inside Mydei’s throat, dragging it in and out and watching the damp spot on Mydei’s pants get wetter, as if he pissed himself. Mydei stutters; makes a garbled sound around Phainon’s cock that sounds like Phainon’s name, and Phainon grins, animalistic, greedy, sweating from his own ramping body heat, his second orgasm coming down crashing from the vision of Mydei on his knees for him, Mydei opening his pretty mouth not to hurl insults but to get his fill of cock; Mydei cumming from getting his throat abused and fucked into.
He comes with a sob and a sigh and chanting Mydei’s name over and over, feeling blessed and devoted, teeming with the need to kiss him, to worship him; pray and — Phainon chuckles — kneel. Mydei squints up at him, drool running down his chin, wrecked and gorgeous with his mouth swollen and his eyes watery. You deserve so much more than to be king, Phainon thinks, and he leans down to kiss Mydei’s cum-stained lips.