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"A man with a body like yours shouldn’t be drinking that kind of swill in a Kremnoan tavern." The stranger slides a heavy goblet across the counter, replacing the chipped kylix of watered-down wine that Phainon had been drinking from.
Phainon doesn't lift his head. He just stares at the goblet's golden rim where strong fingers linger. They tap again, impatient, making the liquid ripple. "Drink," the stranger insists. "It's safe. Wouldn't dare drug a man in a Kremnoan tavern, even if I was that kind of shitheel to begin with. The prince would rip my head off."
Phainon snorts. Mydei would, the man is absolutely right. He finally meets the man's stare. He’s got dark eyes, a beard trimmed neat, and broad shoulders that make Phainon guess he’s either a mercenary captain or a retired commander from another city that came in with refugees. The kind of man who gives orders and expects them to be followed.
He sniffs. The goblet holds some kind of fancy spiced wine meant for patricians and Phagousan bacchanals, not some farmboy-turned-savior drinking alone in a shithole of a tavern. His fingers remain on the counter. "Why?" he asks, and his own voice sounds rough and foreign. He hasn't spoken in hours, too busy stewing in his own uselessness after losing a caravan to the Black Tide.
The stranger leans in. "You look like a man who needs to forget," he says, his voice low and discreet. "And I'm good at making people forget everything but the shape of my cock."
Phainon inhales sharply, a disbelieving laugh escaping at the audacity.
The stranger's grin widens. He doesn't balk when Phainon grabs the goblet and drains half of it in one go, throat working as he swallows. The wine is thick and honeyed—nothing like the sour, watered-down stuff he'd been drinking—and it coats his tongue with a rich indulgence he's never allowed himself.
Fuck it. If this man can grant him oblivion, then so be it. He supposes it will be a night of firsts.
The tavern's noise fades as the stranger guides him upstairs with a hand on the small of his back. Phainon stumbles once, half from the wine, half from the way the man's fingers dig into him like he owns him. The room is sparse: a bed, a washbasin, a single oil lamp, rough-spun sheets.
The stranger doesn't bother with foreplay. He just turns Phainon with that same unyielding grip and pins him against the door, calloused hand sliding up to cradle his jaw.
"First time?" the man asks, and Phainon realizes he's shaking. It's not fear, but the raw relief of being known without being seen. The Deliverer doesn't exist here, only a virgin soldier eager to forget himself.
He nods, too drunk for shame, and the stranger hauls him onto the bed with a single tug.
"Strip, unless you’d rather do it with your pants half down," the stranger says, already unlacing his own trousers. "Jacket's gotta go either way."
Phainon hesitates only for a breath before peeling off his jacket. It feels like shedding an identity, the weight of expectation slipping from his shoulders along with the fabric. He doesn't dwell on how eagerly he divests himself of his undershirt, doesn't think about Dawnmaker leaning against the wall. He just obeys, kicking off his boots and pants, shivering when he's fully exposed. Obeying is something he’s good at. Something he’s been trained for.
The stranger's gaze drags over him, assessing, unhurried, and Phainon feels more seen in that moment than he ever has by anybody but Mydei and Aglaea.
The man doesn't waste time after the initial lookover. He palms Phainon's half-hard cock with rough familiarity, squeezing just enough to draw a punched-out gasp from his throat. "Good," the man murmurs, voice tinged with approval. “Responsive.”
Phainon's arousal spikes at the praise. His hips jerk forward, seeking more of that rough touch, but the stranger pulls away, leaving him aching and empty. Half-blind with want, he watches the man retrieve a vial of oil from his discarded belt pouch and slick his fingers. The scent of olives fills the cramped room, and Phainon's stomach tightens when the man crooks an oiled finger to beckon him forward in silent command.
He hesitates only a second before rolling onto his stomach on the bed, pressing his face into the rough sheets and lifting his ass and thighs in invitation. Whichever the man wants, he can have.
The stranger exhales, a noise halfway between amusement and exasperation, before flipping him back over effortlessly. "Not like that," he chides, spreading Phainon's thighs with a single push. "I want to see you come undone. Virgins are always the prettiest."
The words send a shudder through him, shame and anticipation twisting together as the man drags a slick finger down his cleft. Phainon tenses instinctively, but the stranger doesn't rush—just circles his rim with maddening patience until his body relaxes with a shaky exhale.
The first breach is slow and relentless, the stranger's finger working him open with infuriating gentleness. Phainon digs his heels into the mattress, torn between arching into it and pulling away, but the mercenary pins him easily with his free hand.
"Breathe, boy," he murmurs, and Phainon realizes he's been holding his breath like he's bracing for a blow.
The second finger stings, stretching him in ways that shouldn't feel good but do, especially when the stranger crooks them just right and Phainon's vision whites out. He chokes on a moan, hips stuttering helplessly as pleasure zips up his spine.
The stranger watches him come undone with a detached sort of fascination, twisting his fingers until Phainon's thighs tremble. "Look at you," he muses, thumb pressing against Phainon's perineum, making him jerk. "So eager to take it."
The words shouldn't land like praise, shouldn't make his chest ache, but they do—because tonight, he isn't a weapon or a prophecy. He's just a hole to be used, and the relief of that simplicity is almost as intoxicating as the wine.
When the stranger finally withdraws his fingers, Phainon whines without meaning to, chasing the fullness until a hand pins him down. The mercenary chuckles, dark and approving, as he slicks himself with the remaining oil, the wet sound of his fist stroking his cock loud in the small room.
"Turn over," he orders, and Phainon obeys without thought, rolling onto his hands and knees like a well-trained hound. The stranger drags him back, lining up with military precision, and then pushes in.
The stretch burns, even with the preparation.
Phainon gasps, hands fisting the sheets, body clamping down around the intrusion as the mercenary bottoms out in one slow, relentless push. The pain is sharp and overwhelming, but beneath it lies something deeper—a raw, aching rightness at being filled, at being used for nothing more than primal satisfaction.
The stranger groans above him, fingers digging into Phainon's thighs as he adjusts, hips flush against his ass. "Fuck," the man grunts out. "You're tight. Like you were made for me."
Phainon's breath comes in ragged gasps, forehead pressed to the mattress as the mercenary begins to move—slow at first, then sharper, deeper, each thrust punching a broken noise from his throat. The pain fades, replaced by an insistent pressure that gathers low in his gut.
The stranger's hand grips the base of his spine, holding him in place as he fucks into him with punishing precision, and Phainon realizes, as he floats in a dizzy haze, that he likes this. Likes the way his body yields, likes the way the man grunts above him, likes the way he's nothing but a vessel for someone else's pleasure. Useful, just by merit of existing and letting himself be touched.
The mercenary's rhythm stutters, his fingers biting into Phainon's thighs as he angles deeper, and suddenly, a spark of white-hot pleasure arcs through him like lightning. Phainon chokes on a sob, back arching involuntarily, thighs trembling as the stranger hammers into that spot again and again. "Ah—ah—" he gasps, voice wrecked, fingers twisting in the sheets as his cock drools helplessly against his stomach.
The mercenary laughs and leans over him. "You feel that, boy? Nice and deep? That's where you're meant to be fucked. Gonna fill you up good." The words send heat licking through Phainon and make his throat tighten with something dangerously close to gratitude.
The man’s commanding presence swallows him whole, his thoughts dissolving into static under the relentless drag of cock inside him. The stranger's hand grips his hip, fingers wrapping around his neglected erection, and Phainon whines, high and desperate, overwhelmed by sensation.
"Look at you," the man murmurs, thumb swiping over his leaking slit, "gonna come just like this, aren't you?"
Phainon nods frantically, beyond shame, beyond thought, his entire world narrowed to the mercenary's voice and the bruising grip on his cock. He's babbling, he thinks—pleas, curses, maybe even thanks—but it doesn't matter because the stranger just tightens his hold and growls "come," and Phainon does, spine arching as pleasure rips through him, stealing his breath away.
The mercenary doesn't stop. He just keeps fucking Phainon through it, slow and deep, savoring the way Phainon's body clenches around him with every aftershock. "Good," he murmurs, voice thick with approval, and something inside Phainon blossoms at the praise.
He's boneless and overstimulated, but he doesn't protest when the man shoves his legs up against his chest. This angle is deeper, more intimate, and Phainon's breath catches when the stranger leans down to bite at his throat right over the sun-mark, like he's claiming it.
"You're mine tonight," the man pants against his skin, hips snapping forward, and Phainon believes him, believes it in the way his body yields, in the way his fingers clutch at those broad shoulders like an anchor.
The mercenary comes with a grunt, burying himself to the hilt and flooding Phainon's insides with warmth. He stays there for a long moment, beating heavily against his neck, before pulling out with a wet sound that makes Phainon shiver. The stranger collapses beside him, dragging a rough hand down his own face, and Phainon stares at the ceiling, breath still uneven, skin still buzzing. There's a wetness between his thighs, leaking cum that should disgust him, but all he feels is empty—not just physically, but in the way the mercenary's presence no longer fills the room.
The man rolls onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow to study Phainon's slack expression. "You alright?" he asks, and there's no pity in his voice, just casual curiosity. Like he's asking about the weather.
"Yeah," breathes Phainon, because for once there isn't a knot of self-loathing rotting in his chest—just exhaustion, soreness, and the dull throb between his legs. He isn't thinking about the Black Tide, isn't thinking about Mydei, isn't thinking about anything but the weight of this stranger dipping the mattress beside him.
The mercenary huffs a quiet laugh as if he's amused, or perhaps skeptical, before hauling himself up and tossing a rag onto Phainon's stomach. It smells faintly of cheap soap, rough against his oversensitive skin when Phainon drags it over himself in sluggish strokes.
The mercenary dresses methodically, each buckle and strap secured with the same precise efficiency he'd used to fuck Phainon into the sheets. Downstairs, the tavern noise has dimmed, but inside this rented room, the silence stretches.
Phainon knows he should leave. He should pull on his jacket, shoulder Dawnmaker, and return to his quarters before Mydei notices his absence. Instead, he watches the man lace up his boots, throat tight with gratitude—not for the sex, but for the merciless anonymity of it, for the way this stranger never once called him ‘Deliverer.’
The next morning, waking with a brutal hangover and a deep ache inside of him, Phainon swears off strong liquor forever.
He lies still on his bed, staring at the ceiling, fingers resting on his hip where the stranger's grip had left faint bruises. The memories come back in slow, disjointed flashes: the oil-slick stretch of fingers, the mercenary's low praise, the way his body had welcomed being fucked open by a stranger—no titles, no expectations. He swallows hard, his throat dry with something like hunger. Yearning, perhaps.
Three nights later, he finds himself in a tavern two districts from the Marmoreal Market, wearing a hooded black cloak instead of his white jacket. The rain means the streets are quieter than usual, which suits him just fine; fewer witnesses means fewer whispers about the Deliverer debasing himself in seedy venues.
He drinks only water this time but lets a foulmouthed sailor press him against the tavern wall with a hand on his throat, lets the man bite his sun-mark while rutting against him through their clothes. When the man pushes him to his knees and comes on his face and calls him a 'gorgeous fucking mess' instead of 'Deliverer,' something in his chest loosens a little more.
It becomes a habit—his dirty little secret, more effective than any of Hyacine's therapy tricks. Not that he'd ever say that to her face, of course.
He waits until the city sleeps—and crucially, until Mydei is preoccupied with council meetings or missions or Kremnoan affairs—before slipping into the seedier districts, hands buried deep in his cloak pockets, body buzzing with anticipation. Tonight, it's the back room of a tavern with a reputation for discretion, where the air smells like sex and spilled wine.
The stranger is a merchant with rough hands and a silver tongue, coaxing Phainon onto his knees with murmured praise instead of commands, fingers tangled in his hair like he's something precious instead of a prophecy. "Look at you, gorgeous," the man breathes, guiding Phainon's mouth onto his cock with a strange gentleness, "so eager to be useful."
Phainon shudders, eyes fluttering shut, because this is what he craves—not the act itself, but the way these strangers strip him bare without ever seeing him.
Word spreads. He hears it in tavern rumors, sees in the way men's gazes linger too long on his throat, his ass, his mouth—that white-haired man fucks like he’s starved for it.
It should unsettle him, but instead, he leans into the rumors, letting them twist into something unrecognizable. Soon, they're not even rumors anymore, but things he overhears within minutes after he steps into a dingy locale and throws his hood back: The one with the pretty blue eyes takes cock like he was born to it. The silver-haired youth guzzles cum like it's nectar. Oh, him? He begs prettier than any whore.
He wears the words like armor, lets them shield him from the weight of his destiny, until one night, a hand strokes his cheek mid-fuck as its owner murmurs "Deliverer" like a prayer—and suddenly, he's not anonymous anymore.
He chokes, pulling back violently, because he can't be both things at once—can't be this and that—and the stranger's confusion as he disengages nearly makes him sick to his stomach.
He's too popular all of a sudden, his name on too many lips. If it’s gotten this bad, Aglaea must certainly know of his indiscretions already, with her golden threads that see and hear all, but she’s said nothing. It terrifies him, the thought of letting her down, but he needs this release, this anonymity and service, if he's to continue on the path she laid out for him.
So he does the only thing he can think of that will allow him to continue while remaining anonymous: he heads to a brothel.
The Madam recognizes him the moment he walks in, despite the hood and the way he keeps his head low. But she doesn't say ‘Deliverer’—she just clicks her tongue and gestures toward a secluded booth in the back with holes in the wall. "Take this," she murmurs, pressing a blindfold into his hands. "They'll know it's you if they see those eyes. I take twenty five percent of your earnings as rent for the booth and supplies. Deal?"
Phainon huffs out a small laugh at the realization that he hadn't even considered being paid for what he does. "Keep all of it," he says. "Share the coin with your other workers." It would defeat the point to take it—he's not here to profit. He's here to be used, to exist purely as a warm body with no name and no legacy carved into his skin.
The Madam blinks, and then shrugs. "Suit yourself, sunshine. Third booth on the left, flip the sign when you're ready. It's got olive oil and towels. Shelf in the back has concealer for your tattoo, and ash if you want to try darkening your hair, but it's a bitch to get out. Don't do any freaky shit that's gonna be hard to clean up unless they pay extra."
Phainon laughs, a little stunned by how normal this feels at this point, and nods in acknowledgment before slipping into the booth.
He covers his tattoo, hands shaking as he applies the oily mixture over his neck in the dingy, full-body mirror across from the bench, but doesn't bother with the hair. There's no time to wash it out if an emergency bell is sounded. He'll just have to rely on his submission and debauchery to make him as unsaviorly and unrecognizable as possible.
The blindfold is coarse, dark linen, fraying at the edges, smelling faintly of cheap soap. He ties it tighter than necessary, the knot digging into his scalp, because the darkness is part of the appeal—no faces, no names, just hands gripping him, cocks sliding into his mouth or his ass, or, more rarely, between his thighs or pectorals.
His first customer is rough, impatient, shoving into him with no prep beyond what Phainon already gave himself, anticipating that he might run into someone like this. It's not the first time.
He braces his forearms against the bench, head bowed, letting the rhythm of the stranger's thrusts rock him forward. He doesn't speak, doesn't moan, just takes it, the ache and satisfaction of service grounding him better than any meditation Hyacine has ever tried to teach him.
The second man is slower, savoring—fingers tracing his spine before pushing in, hands running over Phainon's broad shoulders appreciatively. Phainon shudders, knees going weak when the man murmurs "You’re so tight, sweet thing" against the hollow of his shoulder. "What a divine body."
It's the sweet thing that undoes him—not Deliverer, not Chrysos Heir, not savior or hero or Flame-Chaser. Just a body, a hole, a quick, cheap fuck in the low light of a brothel. He comes untouched, biting his lip bloody to stay silent, thighs shaking as the stranger groans approval into his skin.
The third customer that day is impatient. He instantly presses his sweaty cock against Phainon's lips, already leaking and hot, and Phainon opens obediently, letting the stranger push into his mouth, the salt-bitter taste flooding his tongue.
The man grips his hair, barely on the kind side of cruel, forcing him down until his nose presses into wiry pubic hair, throat flexing around the intrusion. "Damn," the stranger groans. "You like this, don't you?"
Phainon doesn't nod, doesn't protest, just hollows his cheeks and swallows around him in answer, because yes, he does. He likes the way his jaw aches, likes the tears pricking at the corners of his blindfolded eyes, likes being good at something that brings such simple pleasure.
The man makes a wrecked noise and pulls out abruptly, resting his wet tip on Phainon's lower lip as he jerks off. "Open," he commands, and Phainon does, tongue outstretched like he’s learned they all want, waiting as the man pulls further back with a gasp.
The first pulse of cum hits his chin, the second stripes across his lips, and the third splatters hot and thick over his forehead, dripping over his fluttering eyelids where it seeps beneath the blindfold. He doesn't wipe it away, doesn't twitch. He just kneels there, lips still parted, letting it drip down his face like he’s been anointed with holy oil.
The stranger smears the mess over Phainon's cheek before gathering it up and fingering it between his lips. "Clean it," the man orders, and he does, sucking it clean with a quiet, hungry noise that earns him a rough chuckle.
The brothel becomes his sanctuary for several weeks running. Every weekend evening at Curtain-Fall hour, the Deliverer enters the brothel and becomes utterly nameless.
He fucks men of all ages, from youths whose fathers are treating them to a coming of age gift to burly senior warriors with missing limbs who fuck like they have something to prove. Maybe they do. Maybe he's not the only one here to work something out. He's happy to help, whatever the truth of it is.
Some fuck his mouth or ass through the holes in the walls, smearing cum over his lips without seeing his face, while others enter the room to fuck him hard on the bench, their hands tight around his throat in a way that would kill most other men, their hips slapping against his ass in a rhythm that drowns out the prophecies in his head.
Phainon prefers it when they either praise him or don't speak—when the only sounds are their grunts, his ragged breaths, the wet sound of skin on skin—but on his fourth weekend at the brothel, pinned on his back on the bench by a strong but paradoxically uncalloused hand that feels far too familiar, a low voice cuts through the haze, darkened with amusement.
"Well, well, well. You have been busy, Deliverer," Mydei drawls, his grip on Phainon's hip solid.
A bolt of panic lances through him—he's discovered, ruined—but Mydei doesn't pull him from the booth, doesn't drag him into the light. Instead, he leans down and traces Phainon's sun-mark, wiping away the concealer.
"Aglaea sent me," Mydei murmurs, voice low enough that the other patrons can't hear through the walls. "She's very disappointed. Count yourself lucky she gave me a chance to sort this out before she did it herself."
Phainon's breath hitches, body tensing against Mydei's grip and the shame crawling up his throat, but then Mydei's knee nudges between his thighs, forcing them wider. The metal of his greaves brushes Phainon's bare cock, a quiet reminder of exactly how vulnerable he is right now.
"The Council's heard rumors of Aglaea's precious Deliverer bending over for half of Okhema." Mydei straddles Phainon, lips grazing his jaw as his other hand slides down his side. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you how dangerous that is. They'll seize on anything that will help them take down Aglaea and the Flame-Chase."
Phainon exhales shakily, fingers clenching the bench as Mydei pinches his nipple viciously and pulls. "Fuck—" he chokes out, but his body arches shamelessly into the contact, betraying him.
Mydei ignores him, pressing closer until Phainon can feel the heat of his body through his clothing, can feel the hard line of his cock against Phainon's front. "You're lucky," Mydei reiterates, breath hot against his ear, "that I'm the one who found you first."
Phainon swallows thickly, heart hammering against his ribs. The blindfold suddenly feels suffocating, cutting him off from Mydei's expression, from any warning signs as to what’s coming next. He tugs it off and jolts when he sees Mydei's flared nostrils, the intensity of his gaze. It's not judgment, he thinks, but pity, which is worse.
Mydei doesn't let him squirm away, just pins him down against the bench. "Tell me this isn't about the prophecy," Mydei demands, low enough that the words vibrate through his bones. "Tell me you're not sleeping with half of Okhema just to forget you're the fucking Deliverer."
His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. The truth claws up his chest but won't come out: the fact that he needs this, needs to be reduced to something simpler than a title, something smaller than destiny.
Mydei's eyes narrow, and Phainon realizes that he already knows.
Of course he does. He's Mydei.
"It is," Phainon admits at last, voice cracking. “I am.”
Mydei rolls his hips down, his cock dragging alongside Phainon's.
The answering groan that spills from Phainon’s throat is nothing like the practiced moans he gives strangers.
"Then you ask me," Mydei growls. "From now on, when you need to forget, you come to me. Not some godsforsaken brothel."
Phainon stops breathing as Mydei's words sink in. The offer hangs in the air, thick as the scent of sex and sweat clinging to the booth's walls. He should refuse. He should shove Mydei away and bolt for the brothel's exit before this becomes something irreversible. (As if he could. As if he doesn’t see Mydei every day.) But Mydei's knee presses harder between his thighs, and the groan that tears from Phainon's throat is pure surrender.
"Not—not here," begs Phainon, his chest heaving with the enormity of offering himself to Mydei like this, of being on the cusp of the one thing he could see himself wanting for himself. "Not with you. But yes, I can—I can do that."
Mydei snorts. "You will," he murmurs, inevitability underlying the words.
Phainon shudders, cock twitching at the certainty.
They leave the brothel separately. Mydei goes first, a ragged grey cloak pulled high, his boots heavy against the cobblestones, and Phainon lingers in the brothel for ten more minutes, his fingers trembling as he pulls on his uniform and black cloak.
His skin still sings with the memory of Mydei’s grip, the pressure of his knee between his thighs. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until colors burst behind his lids, willing his breathing to even out.
"You will," Mydei had said, like he already knows Phainon will crawl to him the next time the expectations and failures weigh him down like boulders atop a drowning man. And Phainon knows he’s right.
Somehow, life resumes as normal. Phainon, already used to dressing up his anxiety with laughter and charm, makes it through their daily spars with minimum awkwardness and only a single misplaced groan when Mydei pins him in the ring.
Two weeks later, though, his resolve snaps.
It happens after a council meeting where Aglaea's voice rings sharp with disappointment—not at him directly, but close enough—and Phainon's practiced smile begins to crack. He makes it to his quarters before he starts hyperventilating, his fingers fumbling with the clasps of his jacket like they've forgotten how to function, needing the garment off so he can fucking breathe.
He doesn't bother knocking.
Mydei's door swings open under his weight, revealing the prince in the process of undressing, his greaves discarded near the lit hearth, his exomis unpinned at the shoulder. His eyes flick up, assessing Phainon's heaving chest, his white-knuckled grip on the door frame. There's no mockery, no questions, just a slow exhale as Mydei steps back, leaving space for Phainon to stumble inside before kicking the door shut behind them.
Mydei's fingers hook under Phainon’s choker, tugging him closer for a look in the light.
Phainon swallows.
"You're here," Mydei observes, letting him go. "Good. Strip."
Phainon's hands shake as he obeys, fabric pooling at his feet until he stands bare. A golden flush spreads down his chest, damning in how it gives away that his interest in Mydei isn't purely practical.
Mydei doesn't comment on it. He just grips Phainon’s shoulder.
Expecting roughness, Phainon braces—but Mydei guides him down onto his knees with unexpected gentleness, hands smoothing through his hair like he's learning how the shape of Phainon differs between a spar and whatever this is about to be. It burns worse than any pain would have, because Mydei isn't treating him like a receptacle, like something to take chase pleasure in; he's touching him like he matters, like he's something worth savoring. It’s unbearable.
"Boundaries?" asks Mydei, and something twists in Phainon's gut. He rests his face against Mydei’s thigh, face upturned like a supplicant praying to a god, and takes a deep breath to steady himself.
He barely processes the question over the static in his skull. When Mydei repeats it, lower and slower, as if that will make it make any more sense, he chokes out a laugh that cracks halfway and turns into a sob, turning his head to hide his tears against Mydei’s inner thigh. He closes his eyes for good measure—tired of being himself, tired of being someone else.
He’s just...tired.
"Boundaries?” he laughs quietly. “Since when do people care?"
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Mydei cups Phainon's chin, his fingers guiding Phainon’s gaze up.
"Phainon. They should have." The words aren't gentle. They're a verdict, spat like a curse, and Phainon’s lack of response seems to displease Mydei, because instead of just putting a cock in Phainon’s mouth and letting him lose himself, Mydei pulls him up by his choker and maneuvers him onto the bed, his nostrils flaring. When Mydei finally climbs over him, all Phainon can think is finally, something he knows.
But Mydei still doesn’t take him. He just drapes his full, dead weight over him like a blanket, his face buried in Phainon’s neck, breathing damp and hot against his throat while his other hand slides down to cradle the back of a thigh. The contrast is unbearable, the relentless weight pinning him contrasted with the tender touch, and Phainon's vision blurs with the rolling sting of tears.
"I—" Phainon doesn't think he has a line he wouldn't cross during sex. Not if it earned him praise. Not if it made someone happy. But then he recalls being rocked into while someone whispered "Deliverer," and he shudders.
"Fine. Don’t—don't call me Deliverer," he grits out, hating admitting this vulnerability, even to Mydei, who already knows. "If you have to call me something, just use—" he almost says 'Phainon,' loving how it sounds on Mydei's tongue, but fuck, not for this. It's too synonymous with 'Deliverer' now.
He reaches, looking for a name that means nothing to the Okhemans or Kremnoans, something nobody here would connect with Phainon the Deliverer, and hands Mydei his most carefully guarded secret without thinking. Mydei has everything else of his, anyways.
"Khaslana," he pants out, his heart beating fast.
He was the Deliverer then too, but at least Mydei doesn't know it.
Mydei doesn't react to the name, doesn't mock it, just presses his lips to Phainon's throat and murmurs "Khaslana," as if he knows what it means. And, given Mydei, perhaps he does.
The name settles over Phainon with the warmth of his childhood's golden wheat fields before the Black Tide took them—before Cyrene's 'Deliverer' card, before he was anything but a pure-hearted farmboy with a wooden sword and dreams too big for his scrawny body. Before he was a failure of a savior and a free-use brothel whore.
Mydei's hands move more softly now, massaging down Phainon’s chest, his thumbs pressing into the muscle and stroking over the dips between the ribs like he's trying to ascertain where Phainon's been hollowed by duty.
Phainon shudders. He can't take this tenderness.
He needs to lose himself. To be used.
But Mydei's hands slide up his sides, firm but gentle, and he realizes—too late, too fucking late—that Mydei has already broken him open in ways no stranger ever has, just by coaxing the name 'Khaslana' from him. He realizes, too, that it's only going to get worse from here.
Mydei's leans down, his mouth closing over a nipple. He doesn’t bite, like a customer would; he kisses, and Phainon makes a sound he's never made before, something wet and fractured.
He wants Mydei to flip him onto his knees, to take him the way most other men have—quick and impersonal, nothing but friction and grunts. But Mydei keeps him pinned with just his mouth, licking slow circles around his nipple while he works his own pants off and kicks them off the foot of the bed.
The softness is unbearable, worse than any bruise or mark Mydei’s ever left in a spar, because it makes him feel things. It leaves him defenseless, flayed open, his insecurities on full display for his closest friend and rival. When Mydei finally touches his leaking cock, Phainon chokes on a gasp, his whole body shuddering with something deeper than want—something closer to grief.
"Look at you," murmurs Mydei, pressing his lips to the sun-mark on Phainon's neck, the one that usually earns him reverence or fear. But he treats it like any other skin, without lingering as most would. His worship of Phainon lies elsewhere, on the entirety of him. Mydei's fingers curl around him, stroking slow and maddeningly light, and Phainon's thighs tremble with the effort of staying still.
"You're shaking," Mydei says. There's no trace of judgment in it, just observation. "Do you even know what you like?"
Phainon's breath catches—because no, he doesn't. He knows what men want from holes in walls, knows how to angle his hips for deeper penetration, how to swallow without gagging. But Mydei's thumb circling the head of his cock with agonizing patience, his teeth grazing Phainon's neck without breaking skin? He doesn't know what he's feeling, what he wants. It's incomprehensible. The closest thing he knows to ‘liking’ something is knowing that he likes it when he’s used, and he knows that’s not what Mydei means.
A sob forces its way up his throat when Mydei's free hand cups the back of his neck, grounding him, keeping him here instead of letting him drift into that numb space where he's just a body. "I—" he chokes out, fingers twisting in the sheets, "I don't—"
Mydei soothes him with a press of lips to his temple, fingers tightening around his cock. "We'll learn," he murmurs, and the words strike Phainon like an earthquake. Phainon jerks against Mydei's hand, chasing the feel of him, the freely-offered pleasure.
"Good,” Mydei says softly. “Take what you want.”
He says it like Phainon’s pleasure is worth celebrating; not just enduring, not an obligation, and Phainon’s vision blurs, tears spilling over. The sob that tears from his chest is ugly, raw, buried for years beneath layers of laughter and deflection.
Mydei doesn’t flinch, just gathers him closer, his thighs bracketing Phainon’s hips as he strokes him through it. The intimacy burns painful and hot—being held, being seen, shaking apart in full view of Mydei when all he wanted was to disappear.
"Let go," Mydei orders, and Phainon does, shuddering apart in his arms with a cry that cracks his chest wide open.
His climax hits hard—not the sharp, impersonal bursts of before, but something deeper, rolling through him in waves until he’s gasping against Mydei’s shoulder, fingers digging into his back.
Mydei holds him through it, murmuring barely audible praise against his sweat-damp skin, and Phainon clutches at him like he’s drowning, trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure. "I’ve got you," Mydei says, pressing a kiss to his temple, and Phainon sobs again, because he does, and it's fucking unbearable.
Mydei’s fingers slide into him next, slow and slick, not giving him a moment to recover, curling just right to make Phainon’s back arch. It’s not the brutal stretch he’s used to, but a careful, calculated pressure that has him whimpering into the crook of Mydei’s arm with overstimulation.
"Tell me when it starts to feel good," Mydei instructs, his fingers relentless in their precision. “Not just tolerable. Good.”
Phainon shakes his head, biting his lip hard enough to taste copper, but Mydei doesn’t relent, adjusting his angle until Phainon’s thighs clamp around his wrist with a punched-out moan.
"There," Mydei grins, triumphant, and Phainon groans as pleasure builds tight and molten in his gut again, his cock already twitching back to hardness against his stomach.
The fingers withdraw, leaving him empty and shuddering, but before he can protest, Mydei’s hands slide beneath his ass, lifting him effortlessly as he lines up. His cock is thick and heavy, pressing against Phainon’s entrance with a slow, deliberate pressure that makes his breath stutter. It’s not the brutal shove he's used to, but a relentless glide that splits him open slowly.
That first push is careful, agonizingly deliberate, Mydei’s hips rolling forward in increments until every inch settles inside him, the stretch bordering on unbearable from the sheer fullness of it. Mydei’s breath stutters against his throat like he’s the one fighting for control.
"Move," Phainon begs, nails digging into Mydei’s shoulders, but Mydei shakes his head, pressing their foreheads together.
"Not yet," he admonishes, and the patience in his voice undoes Phainon more than any rough thrust ever has.
Mydei starts with shallow rolls of his hips, each deliberate stroke dragging against Phainon's prostate with terrifying accuracy, forcing choked-off noises from his throat. The pleasure builds slowly, unbearably, until his thighs tremble and his vision blurs with the prick of overwhelmed tears. There's no way to escape the way Mydei watches him, tracking every twitch of his expression like he’s memorizing the way he falls apart.
Another sob wrenches free when Mydei braces a hand beside his head, the other tilting his chin up, forcing eye contact as he finally, finally snaps forward in a proper thrust. The angle is brutal, dragging the ridge of Mydei's cockhead right over his prostate, and Phainon claws at his back, keening.
"There you are," Mydei murmurs, and presses his lips to Phainon's.
Phainon's hands shake from helpless want. Mydei's mouth is soft against his own, and fuck, nobody kisses him. It's his first real kiss, wet and slow and devastatingly gentle, Mydei's tongue tracing the seam of his lips to coax him open and taste him. His sob is muffled against Mydei's mouth as Mydei rocks deeper inside him with infinite patience, each thrust dragging against that spot that makes his toes curl.
The rhythm is maddening—slow rolls of Mydei's hips, deep enough to steal his breath, punctuated by the wet heat of his tongue sliding against Phainon's. Mydei's fingers curl around his dripping cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, and Phainon whimpers, jerking into the touch, desperate for friction, for anything to ground him or grant him release. But Mydei just hums against his mouth, tightening his grip just enough to make Phainon's spine arch.
“Not yet,” he says, like he's savoring the way Phainon trembles beneath him.
"You're insufferable," grits out Phainon, arching up impatiently, as if challenging Mydei to fuck him harder.
Mydei huffs a laugh against his mouth and rolls his hips, coming to rest pointedly deep. "You asked me to use you," he reminds Phainon. "I am. I'm using you the way I've always wanted to."
And that—gods, it ruins him, the idea that Mydei has wanted this, has wanted to share pleasure with him for gods know how long before Phainon started doing it just to feel useful.
His tears spill over again when Mydei starts murmuring fragmented praise. Phainon’s nails dig into shoulders that will never bruise, no matter how hard they spar or fuck. He’s always thought it unfair that Mydei affects him so easily, when Mydei can’t be marked and can rarely be swayed off his path once he’s set his mind to something.
Indeed, no matter how much Phainon begs, Mydei doesn't speed up, doesn't give him the mindless pace he craves. He just rocks into him with devastating precision, his breath hot against Phainon's neck, his hand steady on his cock. The pleasure builds gradually, and Phainon presses his face into Mydei’s neck as his cock twitches and drools, on the edge of a precipice.
His orgasm, when it finally comes, crests like dawn over Aedes Elysiae—slow, golden, and disgustingly perfect—leaving him shaking apart beneath Mydei with an ugly sob that's half ecstasy and half catharsis.
"You're beautiful like this," Mydei says. He’s not praising his performance, not praising his body, but praising him, this raw, ruined mess of him, covered in snot and tears and cum, and Phainon clutches him harder, nails scraping down immortal skin that won't mark, desperate to leave some proof that this happened, that this stupid fool of a prince thinks he’s beautiful even at his worst. Even when he knows his full, disastrous self.
Mydei presses their foreheads together, his rhythm stuttering, his breath going ragged. It’s not the detached release of a man using a hole, but the desperate gasp of someone who feels this just as deeply as Phainon does.
Phainon sobs again when Mydei comes inside him—not from the heat of it, but from the way Mydei's arms tighten around him like he's something worth holding onto. The aftershocks leave him trembling, oversensitive and raw, but Mydei doesn't pull away, just strokes his damp hair back from his forehead with fingers that shake ever so slightly.
"Breathe," Mydei reminds him, and Phainon realizes distantly that he hasn't been, his chest locked tight around the weight of this—whatever this is—until Mydei pushes against his ribs, forcing air back into his lungs.
The sound that follows is wet and broken, muffled against Mydei's collarbone. Mydei just pulls him closer.
"You're a mess," says Mydei. He drags his thumb through the tears streaking Phainon's cheek before sucking the moisture off. The gesture punches an incredulous sound from Phainon's throat, because who does that? Who licks up tears like they're something sacred?
"And you're a freak," sniffles Phainon, wiping snot on Mydei's sheets as payback for doing this to him—for reducing him to something wet and shuddering and seen.
Mydei just huffs out a laugh, his warm breath stirring Phainon's tangled hair, and wraps an arm tighter around his waist like he wants him there, sticky mess and all. They’re on a path toward something Phainon can't armor against, and it’s terrifying.
"You can't fix me," warns Phainon. "Not in a way that matters. Not in a way that lasts. I'm too fucked up." He means it as plain fact, not to fish for compliments. He presses his forehead harder against Mydei's shoulder, anchoring himself in this moment before it inevitably shatters. "So don't blame yourself if I break under the pressure. You have your own worries, your own duties. You're not responsible for some backwater farmboy mess playing at being a savior."
"Don't tell me what I can't fix," Mydei scowls. "I'm a stubborn bastard when it comes to what's mine. And you, Khaslana—"
Mydei doesn’t finish the sentence for a moment. He just takes a deep breath, fingers tracing the sun-mark on Phainon’s neck. It’s too much, this certainty, when Phainon has spent years convincing himself he’s nothing but a weapon steadily rusting away into obsolescence.
"—you are," Mydei finally continues, kissing just beneath Phainon’s ear, "the most exhausting fucking man I’ve ever met." He somehow says it like a compliment, like Phainon’s relentless self-destruction is something worth enduring.
Phainon’s fingers tighten in Mydei’s hair, equal parts gratitude and frustration, as Mydei shifts, rolling them onto their sides.
Mydei pulls him closer, tucking Phainon’s back against his chest, hand resting over his racing heart. The intimacy is unbearable; he can feel Mydei’s breath in his sticky hair, Mydei’s strong thighs bracketing a trembling leg.
"Aglaea expects us at dawn," Phainon croaks. It’s an escape route, a reminder of duty—but Mydei just kisses his shoulder.
"Aglaea isn't an idiot," Mydei says. "She'll know we're together by now. Honestly, I think she expects it, after sending me to pick you up from that brothel. As long as we're on time, as long as we do our jobs without causing a scandal, she won't give a fuck what we do with each other. So. We'll wake before dawn, and I'll make honeycakes, and we'll both be there on time."
The casual offer lodges in Phainon's throat. Only Mydei has cooked for him since Aedes Elysiae burned, and it's always been petty, over-salted castoffs. This doesn't sound like pettiness. It sounds like the kind of tenderness that's going to make him cry first thing in the morning.
"Why are you doing this?" he finally blurts out. "Why aren't you taunting me for my stupid decisions and making fun of me for crying like a toddler?"
Their dynamic doesn't allow for tonight. They're all banter and sparring, and pushing each other to be better. Yes, sometimes he's vulnerable with Mydei in ways he isn't with others, but they don't do the raw intimacy and affection that they’ve done tonight.
Mydei sighs against his shoulder, and Phainon can feel his lashes as he shuts his eyes against him. "Because you're the Deliverer," Mydei says flatly, "and I'm the prince of Castrum Kremnos. Today, tomorrow, yesterday, we'll be expected to be strong for everyone else." He breathes in deep, as if steadying himself. "But sometimes, Khaslana, you get to be weak with me, and someday, I may need to be weak with you. No man thrives alone with this kind of duty on their back. If the Flame-Chase prophecy is true, I won't be there with you at the end of it all, but as your—" he says a word in Kremnoan that Phainon doesn't know "—you'd better fucking believe I'll do everything I can to keep you in one piece until then. Haikas." The habitual insult feels like an afterthought; a shield against too much honesty.
Phainon twists in Mydei's arms, gripping his wrist, and presses his mouth to the inside of it, tasting sweat. He may not know what the Kremnoan word means, but hearing Mydei call him Khaslana cuts him to the core now that the sex is over. "Speak plainly," he demands. "No prophecy talk. No titles. I came here to get away from all that."
Mydei snorts. "You want plain?" His fingers slide up Phainon’s thigh, nails scraping sensitive skin. "Fine. You're reckless with yourself because of unrealistic expectations from both yourself and Aglaea." A squeeze, just shy of painful as the nails dig in. "And I am going to be the one who keeps you intact, no matter what it takes."
Phainon shivers. Mydei says it like it’s already decided, like Phainon’s tendency to self-destruct is now his problem to manage. He opens his mouth to argue, but Mydei presses a finger to his lips, silencing him.
"Shut up," Mydei growls, and drags his hand down Phainon’s chest, lingering over his heart. "Just tell me if you want to be mine."
The question punches the air from Phainon’s lungs. What does that even mean? He’s never belonged to anyone except perhaps Aglaea, not even himself; he’s a weapon, a prophecy, the fucking Deliverer. But he does want this—wants to be seen, wanted, willingly kept, even though it terrifies him.
He laughs, half a sob, and turns, pushing Mydei onto his back before straddling him and pressing his lips to Mydei's neck. He bites, unrestrained, teeth digging in and spilling golden blood until Mydei groans, his hands tightening on Phainon’s waist, throwing his head back further as if to offer Phainon every drop of his blood.
"Yes," Phainon breathes against his throat. It’s decisive, the naming of a truth that's gone unspoken between them for years. "I want to be yours."
Mydei’s hands still, his eyes widening with what Phainon thinks is shock. Clearly, he expected anything but uncomplicated agreement.
Phainon presses their foreheads together and exhales, shuddering with the weight of it, because he means it. He wants to be Mydei’s. Not as the Deliverer, not as a weapon, but as Khaslana, the boy from golden wheat fields who still had wishes of his own.
So he kisses Mydei desperately, and wishes the night won't end.
He knows it will end regardless, that tomorrow will come with honeycakes and their meeting with Aglaea. So he kisses him again, and wishes again—for many more nights like this, before or after Era Nova. Wherever and whenever they can get them. That much, at least, is vague enough to seem achievable.
For the rest of the night there's no Black Tide, no prophecy of Deliverance, no bone-deep desire for oblivion. There's only him, and Mydei, and the warmth of their bodies pressed together. He sleeps curled against Mydei's chest, fingers wrapped around his braid, and dreams, for the first time in years, of golden wheat fields instead of blood and flames.
art by boyswonder