[ The way the two of them know one another is a deep, intimate thing.
Millions of lifetimes of learning, of standing at one another's side, of fighting and warring and dying. Golden blood stains his fingers and his heart, but Phainon tries not to think too long about that lest he spoil the moment. Instead, he thinks of the sweeter things, the more gentle and wonderful, the way his heart burns.
This, he thinks, is worship, even if it is a game. He is worshipping his prince, and somewhere under the act and the roleplay, lines blurred, Phainon is worshipping his best and dearest friend.
The threat - promise? - of being taken after this has him reaching to stroke his fingers against Mydei's chest, trying to say yes, yes, yes, as many times as he can with a muffled tongue and his mind a haze. ]
Not a cruel or mocking laugh, but one of joy, seeing how eager Phainon is, stroking his fingers over his chest and catching against the rings. He raises his other hand to grasp one, pressing it to his breast, fingers nearly threaded together against the warmth of his skin. ]
So eager. We'll get there.
[ He rocks his hips up this time. ]
I want to fuck your mouth. Open up a little more for me?
[ The swing between sweetness and something else, an edge of passion and desire that gives the same sensation that sparring does. It’s the rush of adrenaline, the way his body warms, the way he feels so close with his friend… The intimacy has always been there, this is just something different they’re doing with it.
Their fingers brush, and Phainon softens.
There’s no way for him to resist.
As Mydeimos commands, his mouth goes a little lax, his eyes lidded once more, trying to relax as much as possible. He wants to give Mydeimos all he wants, to allow for his desire to be sated, to be a good and worthy servant to his prince. ]
[ It's a push and pull of dominance; Mydeimos knows he has the upper hand here, that Phainon is letting him have it. He has the memory of Phainon finding out about his piercings to show he can just as easily lose it to his friend, too.
And it is Phainon. If he can't be vulnerable with Phainon, there would be no hope for managing it with anyone else. His wish is for Phainon even, after a fashion.
He slips his hand down to curl around the side of Phainon's head. His other hand holds tightly onto Phainon's as he starts to thrust, shallow at first; then forcing Phainon to take the entirety of his cock as he starts to get bolder. ]
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Millions of lifetimes of learning, of standing at one another's side, of fighting and warring and dying. Golden blood stains his fingers and his heart, but Phainon tries not to think too long about that lest he spoil the moment. Instead, he thinks of the sweeter things, the more gentle and wonderful, the way his heart burns.
This, he thinks, is worship, even if it is a game. He is worshipping his prince, and somewhere under the act and the roleplay, lines blurred, Phainon is worshipping his best and dearest friend.
The threat - promise? - of being taken after this has him reaching to stroke his fingers against Mydei's chest, trying to say yes, yes, yes, as many times as he can with a muffled tongue and his mind a haze. ]
no subject
Not a cruel or mocking laugh, but one of joy, seeing how eager Phainon is, stroking his fingers over his chest and catching against the rings. He raises his other hand to grasp one, pressing it to his breast, fingers nearly threaded together against the warmth of his skin. ]
So eager. We'll get there.
[ He rocks his hips up this time. ]
I want to fuck your mouth. Open up a little more for me?
no subject
Their fingers brush, and Phainon softens.
There’s no way for him to resist.
As Mydeimos commands, his mouth goes a little lax, his eyes lidded once more, trying to relax as much as possible. He wants to give Mydeimos all he wants, to allow for his desire to be sated, to be a good and worthy servant to his prince. ]
no subject
And it is Phainon. If he can't be vulnerable with Phainon, there would be no hope for managing it with anyone else. His wish is for Phainon even, after a fashion.
He slips his hand down to curl around the side of Phainon's head. His other hand holds tightly onto Phainon's as he starts to thrust, shallow at first; then forcing Phainon to take the entirety of his cock as he starts to get bolder. ]
Look at you.