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Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are sacred. Most people don’t know that—the girl that just extended Phainon an invitation to get dinner only to get swiftly rejected doesn’t, and Caelus—who’s been harping on Phainon for him to come and watch some stupid movie with him, Dan Heng, and March 7th—does know, but apparently doesn’t care enough to stop forgetting.
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are sacred, special days—workout days, and Phainon never misses a workout day.
There’s something satisfying about meeting the required discipline to become the best version of himself that he wouldn’t trade for extra calories from a fancy restaurant meal or the many ice-creams he’ll need to make it through whatever film Caelus is hellbent on torturing him with. Meeting Mydei thrice a week is also a nice, non-negligible perk.
“Come on, bro,” Caelus insists, his eagerness almost succeeding in swaying Phainon. “The whole gang will be here. It’s been a while.”
Phainon leans on the rusted metal bench, pretending to seriously consider the invitation. The two of them stand outside of the university building, their short lunch break almost coming to an end, most of their classmates already hurrying back to their respective buildings. The first autumn leaves have dried and paled, and the days have gotten darker and colder, forcing the students into adopting thick scarves and dull, warm jackets. “What’s the movie name again?”
Caelus hums and ponders, his hand coming up to his chin—the telltale sign he doesn’t even know what the film is about and just enthusiastically signed along for the ride, which was usually a testament for how mediocre it’d all turn out to be. “A Fading Nebula?”
“I’ll pass,” Phainon waves his friend away, scrolling through the quickly piling messages his previous date keeps on sending him, furious he’s flaking again. She complains that he’s not making enough time for them, that the gym is more important than her, that he’s not available enough—and he can’t do anything but agree and let her one-sidedly seethe. “You should come workout with us sometimes,” he offers. “Dei would love to see you.”
Caelus’ nose scrunches as if the word ‘workout’ induced a violent allergic reaction. “Yeah, uh. Maybe some other time.” Phainon chuckles, unsurprised. “Do say hi for me though. Did you watch his latest match? He was awesome.”
“I watched it twice,” Phainon winks. Mydei’s footwork and punches were still imprinted in his memory, each of his fights always a spectacular show that had Phainon elated with being granted the privilege to be able to call the other man his friend. “As always.”
It’s not so much the gains that motivate Phainon to work hard, it’s the rivalry; the challenge that comes with sharing the same space as Mydei, taunted into pushing his limits by his frankly ridiculously muscular body and his smug, confident attitude. It makes Phainon almost jealous, at times, how in-control Mydei is of his every limbs, all his motions fluid and mastered, every curving line carved in the same mold gods were.
“You look exhausted,” Mydei comments as they return to the locker room. They spent way longer than they should’ve finishing their sets, wasting time in pointless banter as per usual. “Getting old?”
“You wish,” Phainon retorts, but he can’t help stealing a glance and noticing with envy how Mydei doesn’t seem fazed in the least. Tiny droplets of sweat glide down his temples all the way to his neck, and his throat steadily bobs up and down as he swallows his cold water straight from the bottle. Phainon blinks.
Mydei turns towards him, noticing him staring. “Want some?” he offers, and Phainon almost accepts before the corners of Mydei’s lips twitch upward in mockery. “Wouldn’t want you to keel over.”
“Oh, fuck off,” he laughs, playfully bumping into Mydei’s shoulder with his own.
It’s comfortable, being together. Phainon doesn’t have to think of what to say or do to please Mydei, doesn’t have to make extra time other than their three weekly scheduled gym appointments, doesn’t have to dress up or worry about gifts or the likes. They get along oddly well for how different they are: Phainon being a forever people-pleaser while Mydei mostly keeps to himself; Phainon with his inability to cook an egg and Mydei generously meal prepping for the both of them (and Phainon has learned from one of his recent break-ups that comparing Mydei’s meals to his girlfriend’s wasn’t exactly a smart move, but he’s still convinced no food can top Mydei’s); Phainon eagerly chatting while he jogs on the treadmill and Mydei sporting earbuds playing rock music set to the highest volume.
Witnessing Mydei trudge forward with his training forces Phainon to reconsider more than his favorite training regimen. Mydei has tried and trialed many things before he settled with boxing: singing, baking, racing. Passions and possible career paths he turned into hobbies instead, deciding that in the end he’d pursue fighting to make a living, and it’s fitting, somehow, that he’d chosen the one job that’d allow him to legally hit people.
The motivation from admiring him to follow his own path morphs into an understanding that Phainon might not be set for life in the one direction his parents steered him onto. “Get a good wife, a nice job.” Mydei doesn’t seem to care about any of that. If he can allow himself to be honest, neither does Phainon.
“You’ve got a match coming up soon, right?” Phainon asks, slinging his shirt above his head, recalling his earlier conversation with Caelus.
He and Mydei are changing with their backs facing each other out of respect for each other’s privacy rather than coyness, having already seen each other’s bodies in the communal showers times and times before. He knows Mydei isn’t fond of people openly gaping at his scars and tattoos, although Phainon personally finds them beautiful.
Mydei only gives a non-committal hum in lieu of an answer. He always behaves differently the few weeks prior to his fights: once his coach forces him into a strict pre-spar diet his nerves whittle, his smiles and words grow scarce, and he pushes himself harder, turning into a bundle of nerves and anticipation that keeps to himself to refrain from exploding.
“I’ll watch it,” Phainon continues, in his best attempt to sound encouraging.
“No need. It won’t be very interesting,” Mydei replies, ever humble.
“I’ll still watch,” Phainon insists.
“Of course you will,” Mydei sighs, then relents. “Do whatever you want.” Phainon turns to retort that yes, that’s the plan—and freezes instead.
Mydei is half-naked. This in itself, is not shock-worthy—although Phainon always stops and admires the sinuous muscles of Mydei’s back and the way the sharp bones in his spine protrude when he bends down, curving, when he’s allowed a glance—but today something else catches his attention, something that looks like a hint of dark lace poking from the edge of Mydei’s grey sweatpants; something that looks frighteningly close… to women’s underwear.
Phainon stands still and silent in the locker room, all thoughts stopped to a halt, while Mydei, unaware, finishes tying up his shoelaces. Phainon’s eyes grow wide and stupid, his mouth agape, all words forgotten, unable to look away. He must be seeing things… Except he’s not. There’s a string of black cloth hugging his best friend’s hip— lingerie, he thinks, his vocabulary reduced to the bare minimum. Mydei is wearing lingerie. Mydei is-
Mydei stands back up, rolling his shoulders, and adjusts the hem of his waistband without a care for Phainon’s mental breakdown, slightly pulling it down—and Phainon’s eyes follow like a prey animal to a wounded critter, trained on the exposed-yet-covered skin—before bringing it back up and hiding the panties out of view.
“Speaking of watching,” he continues. Phainon startles. He manages to snap his gaze back to Mydei’s face as his friend tilts his head to look at him, although it takes an enormous amount of willpower to not let his eyes immediately return to the boxer’s hips. “There’s this movie I wanted to watch. A Fading Nebula. Are you free tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sure,” Phainon replies without thought, his smile a little too fleeting to be convincing, images of Mydei’s hypothetical panties still dancing in front of his irises.
“Your place,” Mydei decides. Phainon mindlessly agrees, the sentence echoing in the hollow of his skull. Place-Lace-Lace. He must be hallucinating.
Mydei gives him a pointed look.
He still thinks of Mydei’s panties once he’s back home. He’s haunted by the sight as he tries and spectacularly fails to cook himself something palatable for dinner, only making scrambled, tasteless slop he swallows without complaint, his entire brainpower consumed to think of Mydei and what lurks beneath his pants.
The teasing sight of black lace haunts him. The flimsy sideway bow looks like it could be untied so easily, with just the lightest tug, and Phainon munches on his burnt eggs and wonders how it’d taste, his teeth scraping against Mydei’s hip, catching and pulling at the silk-
Dude.
He decides a cold shower might help to clear his head. Mydei is attractive, it’s no secret—everyone at the gym, and probably in the whole Okhema, is aware of that. He’s got delicious-looking muscles, a solid form, an inescapable magnetic charm—but he’s attractive in a ‘You look good today, bro’ way. Not a... Whatever the hell this was. ‘I’d like to rip your panties off you’ way.
Even under the shower, Mydei’s Schrödinger’s underwear torments him. Phainon hangs his head low in contemplation, letting the cold water splash over his nape and wash the sweat off him, forgetting to turn the heat up. He must have imagined it. There’s no other way. Manly man boxer champion Mydei going around covered in pretty undergarments. It’s unthinkable. Indecent. Extremely attractive— No, highly concerning, this and the amount of power it seems to have over Phainon.
He autopilots through his apartment to change into clean clothes and then collapses onto his bed, where he lays flat on his back, facing the ceiling, the upcoming, uncertain future, and the harsh truths.
It’s not the first time he’s looked at Mydeimos this way. There’s been, possibly, a few very rare occurrences where he’d find himself lusting over Mydei’s chest, or thighs, or biceps, in momentary instances of mere appreciation for the beauty of the human body. Everyone did that.
Right now is different. His current distress cannot compare to the times where he’s wondered in passing what would be the softest between Mydei’s chest and a cushion, or how it’d feel to slather his hands over his powerful thighs, or if he’d make the same moans he sometimes lets out when finishing a particularly arduous set in other, more private circumstances.
Phainon imagines Mydei’s underwear when he closes his eyes and when he opens them too, thinks of Mydei pulling down his pants to reveal obscenely narrow hips and an ass only protected by a thin layer of cloth. His cock twitches with interest within his pants. He frowns and turns on his side, blames it on the post-workout exhaustion.
He fishes his phone out of his pocket. The light aggressively flashes white-blue, a single ray of hope in the darkness of his room and his jumbled thoughts, and Phainon scrolls through his social media in search for an answer, a distraction, or both.
Predictably, no amount of cute puppies or kittens manage to save him. His mind keeps reeling back to black and ostentatious, teasing silk hugging sharp curves and tan skin, kissing a fading bruise just sideways of Mydei’s stomach. Dipping below the waistband to forbidden places Phainon shouldn’t think about, and he knows what it looks like is the worst part—they’ve changed and showered together for long enough now that he can easily conjure the sight of Mydei’s powerful thighs and toned stomach on command—but this is different.
The contrast between chiseled muscles trained into defeating men twice his size clad in sensual lace softness makes him grow dizzy with curiosity and arousal. He’s urgently opened his messaging app and tapped on Mydei’s name before he even realizes what he’s doing, his fingers dancing upon the keyboard of their own accord, typing with the use of habit Hey, what are you wearing-
He pauses, staring at his own stupid message. Sighs. Deletes it. Turns over once, twice, and still cannot get rid of the itch to talk to Mydei and uncover the mystery.
Are you awake?
Sent: 00:20 AM.
He doesn’t expect a reply. Mydei goes to sleep maddeningly early, his regimen including jogs at horrifying hours where the sun barely dawns, plus the extra time he takes to prepare his own meals and shakes. The Sent status morphs into a Seen and a reply comes instantly.
No.
Seen: 00:20 AM.
Phainon chuckles, easily imagining Mydei’s tired voice pretending to be bothered. Another message comes in.
Sleep well.
Seen: 00:21 A.M.
He stares at the text fondly, the curt message so characteristically Mydei it somehow helps him ease up a little. In the end, maybe it doesn’t really matter what Mydei wears. He’s still his gym partner, his best friend. Phainon shuts his eyes with a deep exhale, hoping to somehow find sleep and leave this whirlwind of a day past him.
It’ll be all back to normal tomorrow.
When Wednesday strolls along, Phainon is on a mission.
This one session in particular might as well be Groundhog day. Every single exercise has Phainon look for something that isn’t here, instead finding details he could swear he’s never noticed before. A shiny navel piercing brazenly greeting him when Mydei’s shirt rides up his stomach while he’s doing push-ups, and Phainon is in the best possible spot to see it, standing above his friend and staring at the waistband of his shorts and praying Mydei doesn’t let go of the bar because he’s too distracted to be of any help in case it falls.
He’s flashed by the curve of Mydei’s inner thighs when he’s effortlessly doing splits, and Phainon’s eyes scan the gap between Mydei’s legs as he holds his ankles during sit-ups. His breath catches in his throat. He disguises it with a poorly faked cough.
“What is it with you today?” Mydei ends up asking, snapping him out of his daze. Phainon conjures a rigid smile.
“Nothing, nothing at all. You just-” Mydei raises an eyebrow. Phainon clears his throat. “Youre doing great.”
“Thanks,” Mydei says, in that detached yet appreciative tone of his. Low and collected and unaware of the spell he’s put Phainon under. “You still up for the movie?”
“Yeah,” he replies. He doesn’t remember what the film was about.
Mydei thankfully doesn’t ask anything else, too focused on finishing his own set. This is the one thing Phainon always admires: Mydei’s dedication for seeing things through no matter what, uncaring for any distractions. It’s this same resolve that usually helps him improve in turn—except this week, it’s turned into a quicksand he’s been slowly sinking into, even Mydei’s strong arms unable to save him.
They finish and go get changed in an unfamiliar silence, Phainon too busy setting his thoughts straight to come up with a topic of conversation. Mydei side-eyes him more often than usual but still doesn’t probe, the two of them quiet all the way throughout the short trip from the gym to Phainon’s place.
They met a few months ago by complete coincidence, after a few weeks of Phainon wondering how he could strike a conversation with the pretty tattooed stranger who always wore earbuds and a face like he didn’t want to be disturbed. And then he did, the most stupid way ever, “I bet I can lift more than you” escaping his lips before “Hello.”
Mydei smirked something infamous then, his lips stretching into a cocky line like he was convinced he’d win before even seeing Phainon’s performance, and from there it was on.
Infamous was a fitting word for him. He was calm and quiet yet menacing-looking, all flashy and attention-catching. He looked like the type who’d send you flying if you looked at him wrong, yet he was surprisingly well-mannered—and then you’d watch him step onto the ring and it was as if he’d been taken over by a wild beast, transformed into a feral lion; he’d play around his opponent with that same confident, win-hungry grin that made Phainon feel threatened and enthralled all at once and had the tiny hairs at the base of his nape tingle.
He taunted Phainon into lifting more, into doing longer sets, baiting him into competitions that had him breathe heavily afterward and ache all over, and then he’d cook the most delicious, protein-filled meals ever. He’d throw a hook into a sandbag and have it rip and spill yellow powder everywhere, and he’d return from a match with a dark look in his lidded, ferocious eyes and blood spilled all over his face yet he wore lingerie.
“Your place is still a mess,” Mydei comments when they walk through the door.
He’s not wrong; Phainon’s place is scattered with discarded clothes from previous late-night encounters and there are a few shirts that aren’t his slumping on chairs. His uni notes lay here and there like dry, inked leaves, proof of his recent struggle to keep his attention on his classes.
“No one asked you,” Phainon argues still, stifles a yawn, having slept far too little yesterday for reasons he won’t disclose. “Anything you want to eat for dinner?”
Mydei shrugs. “Anything not made by you is fine.”
Phainon scoffs, locking the door between them and getting rid himself of his jacket. “Mean. But what I hear is, you’re cooking.”
“No. It’s movie night. We’re ordering,” Mydei considers, then corrects, “You are.”
“Stingy,” Phainon sighs, yet he’s already on his phone scrolling through restaurants and fast-food joints he knows Mydei will like. It’s not often Mydei allows himself a cheat day, and no matter what the occasion is, Phainon will happily oblige.
Mydei calls dibs on the shower, to which Phainon mockingly says “Make yourself at home, your Highness,” settling on the couch while he waits for his turn. The sound of the shower running soothes him, before it turns his mind into an interrupted torrent of demented thoughts once more.
There's a set of clean clothes Phainon has placed atop the laundry basket in advance, but what of the underwear? He squints, tilting his head back and staring at the ceiling in search for answers the pale cement won’t give.
It’s ridiculous, all of this, but the pouring water keeps reminding him of Mydei in his bathroom, leaning down to delicately slide his panties down his toned legs, and Phainon’s dick fattens with interest. Counting to ten doesn't help. To twenty either. Thinking of the test he hasn't prepared for coming next Monday barely settles his erection—and then the door to the shower opens with a click, and he twists only to see Mydei with his hair damp and dripping, the hot water and retained humidity making Phainon's loose blue shirt stick to his chest persistently, and most of his blood finishes rushing south.
“Your turn,” Mydei calls. Phainon manages a strangled ‘Cool,’ awkwardly avoiding Mydei’s piercing gaze.
He tosses Mydei his phone before he enters the bathroom so his friend can track their order in his stead, and he catches a whiff of his own shampoo and body wash on him, a fragrance of sweet summer and vanilla that Phainon should be used to yet has his head spin and his cock grow harder.
Once the door is closed and he's more or less safe, Phainon takes a long, deep, calming exhale. The clothes he's prepared for Mydei are gone from the lid of the laundry basket, meaning… The ones Mydei was wearing prior should be inside.
This is insane, he knows, yet he can’t help but consider that if he satisfies his curiosity here, then the madness will be over. There’ll be no more late nights spent fantasizing about Mydei and the things he wears. All he has to do is open the basket like it's Pandora’s box and find out. Out of three items of clothing, one could be panties.
It’s invasive. It’s weird. Mydei is probably relaxing on the couch in Phainon’s fresh clothes and watching TV while waiting for Phainon to be done with his shower while Phainon is hunting for his underwear like some kind of degenerate.
His hand retreats. He’s not like this. So what if Mydei wants to wear women’s underwear? Phainon is not one to judge, quite the contrary—and the conundrum here isn’t that he’s criticizing Mydeimos, but rather that Phainon is, very much, into pretty lace that runs up and down and everywhere; that he absolutely loves the feeling of it under his hands, the manner in which the texture slides on skin, the sound it makes when it stretches and rips. Seeing it on Mydei, who’s got his ideal body type? It rewires his brain entirely, twists and knots his nerves into ribbons and bows. Phainon gulps, unmoving, still staring down at the basket.
It won’t hurt to take a look. It’s a bit… underhanded, sure, and nosy, but Phainon needs to know. Just a little peek to save himself from the laced web he’s been stuck in. Mydei won’t ever know. He takes a grounding breath… and flips the lid open.
Mydei’s crumpled gym clothes greet him. The red shirt is here, and underneath he can guess the black shorts. Phainon exhales again. His fist closes in on the tank top and tosses it aside, and then there’s only he and Mydei’s shorts left. He removes them—there’s no underwear beneath. He preens them out of the basket and spreads them open, peering inside. Nothing. Only the smell of Mydei post-workout—
He throws the shorts next to Mydei’s discarded shirt. So, that’s that. All is good! No panties to be found. Case closed. Phainon forces a smile and removes his own clothes before stepping in the shower—and if he feels slightly disappointed, it’s only because Mydei used most of the hot water.
The movie is as bad as Phainon expected it to be. Surprisingly, Mydei seems to genuinely enjoy it—he’s sprawled on the couch, his feet bumping against Phainon’s leg, his head resting on fluffy cushions on the opposite far end of him, watching intently. Maybe the movie’s grandeur is lost on Phainon. Maybe Mydei is only pretending to understand the nonsensical plotline while he also suffers through the rough pacing and cheap CGI.
Phainon wouldn't know. He only goes to the cinema for dates, and when he goes, he lets the girls pick and ends up not remembering what the film was about. He tilts his head, wondering if he’s actually a pretty terrible boyfriend—well, yes, he most likely. But the girls only want him for his looks and because his charming smile nicely accessorizes with their outfit, so it’s all in good faith.
He wonders what Mydei’s love life looks like. It’s not something they talk about often, if ever. Mydei mostly harps on him for letting the things the girls leave at his place hang around, and Phainon assumes he’s probably too busy managing the rise of his career to seriously date anyone. But then… Who’s the underwear for?
Mydei scratches his belly, his hand diving underneath Phainon’s borrowed shirt. He’s got fine hands, Phainon contemplates, strong and lean and streaked by pale jade veins. Following its motion, Phainon catches sight of the metallic navel piercing again, and of the muscles he should be used to seeing now—and of the hairless expense of skin leading up to Mydei’s stomach, and then to below. From this angle, he’s able to see the sharp dive of Mydei’s hipbones. He easily imagines sexy underwear waiting for him here, hanging by a thread at Mydei’s waist, just barely hidden by the loose hem of Phainon’s pants, yet there’s nothing-
“Something wrong?”
Phainon jolts. “What? No.”
“Then why are you staring again?”
Caught. He flushes. Mydei pushes against Phainon’s thighs with his feet, his hand still lazily resting on his exposed stomach, drawing random invisible shapes with blunt nails. His hips roll when he spreads his legs, getting on his back so he can face Phainon, staring. The TV light reflects in static blue squares within the pretty orange of his eyes, waiting on an answer Phainon doesn’t have.
“I just-” He stammers, unable to form a coherent sentence. His heart thrums in his chest the same way it does after he's done with his cardio. Was Mydei always so… His cock stiffens below the blanket, Mydei’s feet dangerously close, and for the first time in the whole evening, Phainon turns to actually pay attention to the movie, finding in Mr. Reca’s latest work a lifeline to hold onto. “I was just lost in thoughts,” he half-lies, hoping Mydei will buy it. “Sorry.”
“Mh,” Mydei muses, not a trace of conviction in his voice. From the corner of his eyes, Phainon sees his hand travel upward, burying beneath the shirt only to come up right under his collarbone, and then roam left, stretch the fabric around his shoulder, and Phainon is about to say something about lending clothes only for them to be mercilessly ruined except-
On Mydei’s exposed shoulder rests the one thing he’s been looking for all day. A decadent string of black lace. A bra. Mydei still looks at him, his lips parted and his tongue darting to wet them, a glistening hint of pink playing in the settling darkness.
“Looking for something?”
Phainon’s body angles towards Mydei’s, all thoughts about the terrible movie discarded. “What are you wearing,” he all but whispers, setting his beer on the low table in a quiet clink of glass. He doesn’t even think about the panties anymore, doesn’t feel any rush of satisfaction from learning he was right and not suffering from a hallucination. He’s completely transfixed, unable to look anywhere else but at Mydei’s strapped shoulder like a Victorian man seeing bare wrists and ankles for the very first time, and Mydei willingly teases him by stretching the strap wider, one of his thumbs hooked beneath it, sliding it sideways, setting his shoulder free, dropping the fabric around his arm.
“Underwear,” he replies innocently. His foot slides over Phainon’s leg to land on his lap, on his cock, and he rubs it with his sole over the sweatpants, slow and deliberate. Phainon lets out a low, dangerous sound, his sanity rapidly departing with each passing second. His hand settles on the bump of Mydei’s knee, neither pushing nor pulling.
“Underwear,” he parrots, his body moving forward. He’s being held still by a harsher press of Mydei’s foot. He groans in frustration, his stomach burning with a hunger that no food will satiate, his eyes hunting for Mydei’s. Reading nothing but blatant provocation in them. The air buzzes with static, tension, and their bodies’ rising heat. “Really.”
“Got something to say?”
It's indecent, the way he blindly works Phainon’s dick with his foot—and the worst part is that Phainon isn’t repulsed or shocked in the slightest, quite the contrary. He's growing impossibly hard, the couch suddenly too small for just the two of them, and his hands twitch with the urge to touch Mydei, not through the blanket but directly, to touch and touch and do much worse. “Are you wearing panties?”
Mydei rolls his hips sinfully for an answer, exposing just the tip of a black triangle struggling to cover his left pec. “Not right now, I’m not,” he says.
Phainon might as well die here. His grip on Mydei’s knee turns ruthless, urgent. Muted sounds keep leaving his throat with every caress of Mydei’s toes against his clothed erection.
That’s not what he, what they, should be doing, yet none of them stop. The movie is completely forgotten, replaced with the show Mydei is giving him, teasing the existence of the bra beneath Phainon’s loose shirt yet not fully uncovering it, enjoying the way Phainon’s eyes stalk each flex of his muscles, in reach yet unattainable.
“You’re-” Phainon starts, but the sentence doesn’t make it through his mouth, erased by how much he wants for Mydei to keep touching him, to keep stripping—and if he doesn’t, then Phainon has half a mind to pounce and do it himself, tussle on the couch until Mydei is laying bare and exhausted like he is after an intense workout session, and have his way with him until he’s satisfied-
His hand dives below the blanket to find and cradle Mydei’s foot, holding it still for just long enough for him to retain some of what’s left of his sanity, or what little of it that hasn’t drowned at the bottom of his beer or spilled in Mydei’s tantalizing eyes. Under his fingers, the muscle is… silky. Soft and smooth, and he lets out a quiet gasp as he lets his hands travel alongside it, rubbing Mydei’s calves, his soles, his ankles.
“You’ve got stockings on,” he realizes, his voice hoarse. The delicateness of it messes with his brain, the contrast between the hard, powerful muscles he’s used to envying and the exquisite, expensive, fragile silk that could rip at any moment, encasing Mydei’s foot and leg, nothing but pure madness. “...And nothing else.”
His eyes dart to Mydei’s exposed hip, desperate for a hint of cloth to latch onto, finding only insanity in the shape of toned flesh and hairless skin.
“That’s what you like, isn’t it?” Mydei drawls. His eyes shine with a knowing, predatory glint. A lion on the prowl.
“Wait,” he breathes out, “how do you-” It doesn’t matter how he knows, Mydei’s foot helps him realize, smothering a louder, admitting moan out of him. “Yeah,” he relents. “Yeah, fuck, I like it.”
He might as well give in. All of his common sense, blood, and reason abort his brain at once. “Let me touch you.” It’s not a question more than it is a plea.
Mydei shifts again, pushing his legs out with a calculated stretch and laying his hands on the pillows above him in surrender and taunting both. “Come and try,” he replies, but the pressure he applies on Phainon’s groin lightens, reduced to a pleasurable caress.
Phainon immediately hovers above Mydei, bracketing his head with his forearms. Their faces are close, maybe too close for where friends are supposed to stand, and from where he is he has a generous view on Mydei’s torso, can spot the nipples peeking below his shirt and the black bra struggling to hide them—and Mydei’s chest is huge, softer-looking than the bra or than anything Phainon has ever seen yet firm and strong, and his hands twitch with the urge to get a feel for it so he anchors them at Mydei’s hips instead, pretends it’s only for support and not to appreciate how sinfully narrow it is. He slides down just a little, just to make sure, his fingers finding nothing if not the naked, muscled skin of Mydei’s ass and thighs until they encounter the soft rim of the stockings.
Mydei’s breath catches, and he flexes his leg, following the curve of Phainon’s body and teasing his cock with his knee again, not allowing him to just move as he pleases. Phainon grinds against it, rocking his hips without thinking, the build-up of pleasure intoxicating, the excitement making his hands shake as they skim over Mydei’s sides. He hasn’t drank enough to pretend it’s the alcohol that’s making him act so desperate but he convinces himself it is, that the half of a beer he’s downed while staring at Mydei is the reason he feels so drowsy, the movement of their bodies slotted against each other sensual and lavish and forbidden and somehow perfect—maybe it’s okay for friends to wear lingerie but he’s pretty sure friends are not supposed to do this, any of this.
He shoves the thought away as he ghosts over Mydei’s lips, almost brushing them, hesitating. Where his lips lack confidence his hands compensate, roaming up Mydei’s body, trailing from his stomach to his perfectly sculpted, warm abs, to his chest—to the bra.
“Fucking hell,” he cusses, kneading Mydei’s breasts with the pad of his hands a little too strongly, too roughly, compared to the amount of strength he’d usually spare— it’s all intense arousal and desire so repressed and violent it threatens to escape along the gasps slipping from his mouth. Mydei doesn’t seem to mind, only looking at him with satisfied, half-lidded eyes and that looks like Phainon is right where he wants him to be. “You’re going to kill me,” Phainon groans.
“I'm sure you’ll be fine,” Mydei whispers, a hand coming up to card through Phainon’s hair.
He’s impossibly hard in his sweatpants. The softness of the lace under his fingertips and the one of the fingers touching his head, his ear, is doing horrible, horrible things to him, short circuiting his brain entirely. His throat is dry and his thumbs busy finding holes in the lace and playing with the tiny ribbons ornating it.
Underneath him, Mydei’s muscular leg slips out of the cover, sheathed in black, see-through silk, edging him to completion. His eyes keep darting from Mydei’s parted lips to the disheveled state he’s in; the shirt all stretched and messed up and barely covering his torso anymore, the bra threatening to slip and reveal his chest in his entirety, his waistline hinting at lower, reminding him there’s no underwear here; only Mydei’s bare cock and strong upper thighs, and Phainon shivers, his head finding the crook of Mydei’s neck and burying itself there.
“How do you do this,” he rasps into the tan, tattooed skin and the heavy golden necklace, and Mydei chuckles, the sound resonating from his chest, a low, buzzing heat that courses directly through Phainon’s greedy fingers.
They dive below the hard rim of the bra to brazenly grope at Mydei’s bare chest, capturing its entire warmth in his palms. Mydei’s quiet laugh is shortened into a cut-off moan, his body twitching beneath Phainon, his head tilted back, and before Phainon knows what he’s doing he presses his lips against Mydei’s neck to stifle a noise of his own.
“Fuck,” he moans, nuzzling into Mydei’s throat, “I’m close-”
It might be the most turned on he’s ever been, nestled atop his friend and gym partner, their heats and smells mixing up along their bodies, getting off with his stocking-clad, muscled leg. Adrenaline-like fire builds up in his stomach except instead of feeling confident and raring to go he’s impossibly weak, his hips stuttering and his hands skeeving over Mydei’s skin, anywhere he touches so impossibly tender despite the firmness that he might just sink into it.
“You're gonna come like this?” There’s a smile in Mydei's voice Phainon doesn’t even pay attention to, all he’s able to think of is his own release, about to come in his pants like a teenager with just the feel of Mydei’s leg.
“I can’t?” He downright whines, all ideas of shame forgotten.
“I don't know.” Mydei gently scratches the back of his hair, his breath hot over Phainons’ ear, his voice low and distracting. “Can you?”
“Please,” he hears himself say, immediate and needy.“Fuck, please, I need it so bad-”
He's so close his knees are just about to give in, his cock aching and dripping and staining his loungewear.
“Come on, then,” Mydei coaxes. “Give me one.”
Phainon comes with a low moan and Mydei’s name, pulsing inside his boxers and against Mydei’s foot, shooting thick, hot white spurts, his hips jittery and his eyes unfocused. Mydei alternates between his foot, his leg, and his knee to ease all the spend out of him, working Phainon into oversensitivity and locking him in post-orgasm bliss.
He’s still coming, all he’s able to think and say Mydei and Feels good. He glances down to see the wet patch forming around his groin and against Mydei’s stockings, and his dick tents his wet boxers again, all broken and needy and out of order. He doesn't know what to make of it, doesn't think he can think anymore. Part of him is terrified of what will come next and of what Mydei will say, and the other pants and humps against his best friend’s leg, hungry for friction and release.
“‘M sorry,” he manages somehow, knowing an apology is nowhere near enough to cover what has just happened and the myriad of questions born from it. “I can’t-” he groans, his shoulders twitching from the effort of supporting himself up straight. “Can't stop.”
Mydei smiles against his jaw, all temptation and bad ideas Phainon won’t, can’t, say no to.
“One more?”
He wakes up to a blur of movement. The sun barely filters through the thick drawn opaque curtains, and the rare smell of unburnt eggs and greasy bacon has taken over his living-room. He struggles in his sheet cocoon, figures he’s passed out on the couch. He looks for Mydei’s weight below him only to find a squished pillow holding remnants of his scent mixed with Phainon’s. Phainon groans as he buries his cheek in it and tries his best to blink his eyes open, adjusting to the absence of light.
Mydei is scrambling through his apartment, picking up his discarded belongings. “Leaving already?” Phainon asks, making an attempt to fetch his phone on the low table and knocking it on the floor instead, and he groans again when the device lands with a sound of shattered glass.
“Yeah,” Mydei replies. His voice is low and ushered, the same quiet tone he uses when they’re watching a show and Phainon starts to doze halfway through. “Can’t be late to morning practice.”
Phainon makes a move to reach for his phone, one leg wiggling out of the cover. It’s cold. “Don’t get up- it’s fine,” Mydei interrupts. He circles back to the couch and picks up Phainon’s phone for him, gently depositing it on the empty space where he’d been sleeping just a minute ago.
Phainon’s eyes lazily trail over him, this time finding no racy underwear, no proof of what transpired yesterday if not for a fading red mark hugging Mydei’s waist, where his own hand has squeezed a little too strongly. Will it be fine, like this? Will they be? Phainon is not sure, to be honest. All he knows is he misses the comfortable warmth of Mydei underneath him, and that’s not much to go on. He watches Mydei bend down to tie up his shoes, recalling as they flex the feel of his powerful legs under him, against him, and he shuts his eyes closed, speaking into the pillow:
“Your match is on Saturday, right?”
He knows already, has all of Mydei’s fights thoroughly registered in his grey matter, still he inquires just for selfish reassurance that nothing has changed. A knot forms in his throat and along it come the regrets that followed last night’s wild impulses.
“Yeah,” Mydei answers, as casual as ever. “You better watch it.”
Phainon snorts. As if he wouldn’t. Mydei stops by the couch again once he’s all ready to go, and Phainon absently realizes there’s some breakfast made for him, too, and his heart squeezes a little, for some reason. Mydei’s hand lands atop his silver mop of hair, messing it up a little more. Phainon whines just to humor him, pretending to dislike the gentle touch. “It’s still early. You go back to sleep.”
“Mhghn,” he argues, but he closes his eyes in obedience, already missing Mydei’s fingers as they retreat. Soon, the door slams shut, and he figures, yeah, they’re fine. Everything is fine.
Nothing is fine.
It all begins with obsessing over what Mydei is up to, which admittedly, Phainon has done before, but not to this extent. Then it goes downhill when he pictures his best friend in the outfits he sees in every billboard showcasing women in fancy lingerie, and as it turns out, Okhema is riddled with billboards—and so are Phainon’s thoughts, filled with Mydei in red and gold lace, Mydei in black Castrum K. sportwear, Mydei in nothing but garter belts and a choker, Mydei in a bunny outfit.
It goes out of control; like a hangover that drags on and never ends, unable to forget the taste of alcohol going down his throat except instead of wanting to throw up he wants to take another sip, savour more until he can’t make the difference between when he’s sober and when he isn’t.
And then it gets worse. Phainon wonders if Mydei has already done such things with others, if that’s a common occurrence for him. If, while Phainon is losing his mind to dreams of delicate lace and pretty legs, Mydei bewitches other men into his bed, and that, for some reason, gets him irrationally angry. It’s stupid, and it’s uncalled for, when Phainon has practically dated half the city, but he can’t help it—he feels he deserves the monopoly over Mydei, and he hates that he does, and he hates that he doesn’t.
He spends the whole day jittery, his leg bouncing up and down, his thoughts a mesh of nothing right, voyaging between dating Mydei, undressing Mydei, and fucking Mydei. He checks his phone for a text that never comes, types a message he knows Mydei won't reply to, deletes it, rinses, repeats.
They usually meet in front of the gym, except this Friday Phainon is held hostage at his uni class, professor Anaxagoras having decided today will be the day he’d let out all his grievances to his much hated, lazy, incompetent students, and Phainon spends a dreadful half-hour listening to the most politically correct way to liken a group of young adults to a herd of stupid donkeys.
Once he’s been thoroughly showered in insults he practically rushes to the gym, hurriedly typing a reply to Mydei’s long-awaited single message (Skipping today?) even though he knows the other man refuses to check his phone, much less when he’s working out. Once in the locker rooms, he changes into his gymwear hurriedly, almost trips in the legs of his pants.
He spots Mydei easily, the bright red hair and the matching tattoos catching his attention without fail, and he’s about to wave and call out to his friend when he notices, his eyes stopping on Mydei’s back, the visible outline of his bra.
It’s almost impossible to miss, and he wonders how he’s never seen it before—wonders if anyone else has noticed, and he bursts with that same ugly, inflating need for ownership, taking bigger strides so he can get close to Mydei and shield him from the others’ undeserving gazes—but someone gets here before him, some nobody that casually strolls along and engages with Mydei, compliments him on his form and encourages him for his next match.
Usually Phainon would have smiled proudly, ever the supportive friend. Mydei’s feats were celebrated like his own, and there was nothing he wished more for his friend but to get the public recognition he so deserved. Today however, all Phainon could do was stare in disbelief and jealousy as the stranger patted Mydei’s shoulder amicably, his hand roaming down, down, stopping on Mydei’s upper back, almost grazing at the visible strap.
“Mydei,” he calls, the name burning in his throat, suffocated by Phainon’s possessiveness. The intrusive hand backs off, the stranger waving Mydei off as he walks away, deterred by Phainon’s dissuasive stare.
“You’re late,” Mydei comments, unaware of Phainon’s inner turmoil, his lips stretching into an easy, forgiving smile. “Spot me.”
Phainon is too happy to oblige. Anything as long as it’s just the two of them.
Even though he’s satisfied—his spot as Mydei’s gym comrade and most important friend is uncompromised so far, despite how foreign everything has been recently, how one-sided—- he’s still raked by a feeling of unease. His insecurity doesn’t settle, no matter how many touches he steals to ‘adjust’ Mydei's posture, part of him wondering whether he’s just one of many drunken flings.
They stay later than usual, Mydei obligingly accepting to help Phainon catch up with him despite his tardiness, even though he should be sleeping early to prepare for his match. Phainon knows he should be satisfied with that; stop chasing for more, allow Wednesday night to stay a thing of the past until Mydei dredges it up, if he ever does.
Maybe there’s a kind of protocol here Phainon isn’t privy to, Friends don’t talk about their hook-ups the morning after kind of thing, but if there is, it’s lost on him. His friend list resumes to Caelus, Dan Heng and March 7th— but their trio is too solid for him to feel like he truly belongs, their bond too tight for him to intrude, always somehow awkward and feeling like an outsider when they discuss about the many trips they’ve been on together— and Mydei. And Phainon was fine with that, having that special, equals-yet-rivals relationship… Until now.
He stares at the outline of Mydei’s bra as if it personally offended him.
“I can see it,” he mutters, in a voice low enough for only Mydei to hear. The gym is steadily emptying of its athletes, the hours ticking into the night. The janitor has started cleaning the abandoned corners of the gym already and sometimes throws them a glance he probably hopes is disruptive enough for them to leave, without success.
Mydei raises a brow.
“Then stop looking,” he counters, resuming his set of push-ups, flashing Phainon a hint of paler red under his crimson shirt. Phainon can feel his treacherous arousal grow in his gym shorts, taunted by how calm and poised Mydei seems to be about this, whatever it is, when Phainon can barely keep his hands and thoughts to himself.
He pretends there’s new exercises he wants to try and is only satisfied when they’re the only people left in the gym and the janitor looks at them in an increasingly insistent manner, sighing loudly while looking at his wrist and the watch he doesn't have.
“Sorry,” Mydei ends up saying, throwing Phainon a meaningful look, “We’ll leave.” Phainon only smiles sheepishly.
He all but slams Mydei against the lockers. His knee digs between Mydei’s thighs, one arm flat next to his head while the other wastes no time lifting up his shirt until Mydei’s red bra appears. It’s sexy, thin see-through fabric that’s way too fancy to be worn for exercising and sweating in a gym surrounded by men who could see.
“Is that traditional Kremnoan gym wear, or am I missing something?”
Mydei tilts his head, his hair getting in the way of his beautiful eyes, and smiles as if he’s expected this much. “Awfully curious, are we?”
“And you’re too confident. Someone could have found out.”
“What, jealous?” Phainon barely registers that, once again, they stand way too close to not be kissing. That he really wants to know what Mydei’s lips taste like.
“So what if I am,” he admits, and when Mydei opens his mouth to retort, his eyes quickly widening in surprise at the sudden confession, Phaino cuts him first, nibbling at his jaw to stop himself from being tempted by his lips. “Turn around.”
He manoeuvers Mydei before the boxer can obey; hands steady over his hips, slotting above the marks somehow still imprinted here, pink fading flesh calling for his fingers to return to it as if it was their rightful place, then he lifts Mydei’s shirt all the way up until it’s blocked by his armpits, exposing his muscular back.
“What are you doing,” Mydei asks, the surprise stealing all the bite from his words. Phainon isn’t really sure but he’s doing something, that’s all he knows, if only so he can channel the thought of the feel of Mydei’s skin out of his head into the tip of his fingers instead.
“You didn’t come last time,” he says as if that’s enough of an explanation. Of a reason.
Mydei squeezes his forearm, stopping him before Phainon can pull his pants down. “It’s fine,” he tries, something hurried and unsure building up in his voice.
“It’s not fine,” Phainon insists. And because it’s not fine, he’s going to make it even, and he’s going to keep doing stupid things he won’t be able to explain afterward. He temporarily abandons his plan of tending to Mydei’s dick, focusing on the bra and the damned hook he can finally see in plain view. His mouth latches onto the metal clips with satisfaction at the sight of Mydei’s bare skin unclaimed by any, if not a few scars earned in difficult battles.
He chuckles when he accepts he won’t be able to undo it with his mouth only, deciding to use it to cover Mydei’s shoulders and nape with kisses and light bites instead while his hands are left to struggle with the straps. Once it’s done with and the two extremities finally part, allowing full access to Mydei’s back, he covers the freed space with his lips, appreciating the way Mydei’s skin shivers against his mouth, and presses him flush against the locker.
“These really look pretty on you,” he comments, his hands sliding to Mydei’s front and roaming up Mydei’s toned, hardened stomach, “It’s almost unfair to everyone else.” Saying what he can’t bring himself to say; that every girl that recently sent a message his way turned into an unread notification he promptly swatted away, unable to compare.
A light flush spreads all over Mydei’s ears, reaching all the way to his shoulders. It’s so impossibly endearing Phainon can’t help but nibble over it, sink his teeth in.
“Don’t leave marks,” Mydei warns. He shudders when Phainon switches to licking instead, and his forearms come up against the wall for support. Phainon struggles to obey, the thought of marking Mydei all over with his brand impossibly enticing.
He only takes small, obedient bruising-free nibbles that taste of skin and sweat and of Mydei; salt and iron and something honeyed underneath that melts on the tongue, that has him chase after the exposed throat, the ear coyly hidden between flashy strands of hair.
Mydei stifles his moans, his bra slipping out to expose his hard nipples, his chest grazing against the coolness of the lockers.
“I thought you weren’t into men,” he tries.
“Yeah? Well maybe I am now,” Phainon retorts, all thoughts gone, his clothed dick snugly slotted between Mydei’s asscheeks, pushing against it. “Maybe I’m into you,” he doesn’t say.
Each of Mydei’s gasps has him lose his sanity a little more, press a little harder, exert pressure and dominance and feeling empowered in a way exercising never quite managed to. Mydei is scorching under his lips, all crumbling warmth that threatens to surrender with every kiss Phainon gives, every touch he dares.
His hand snakes around once more to reach for Mydei’s cock, and this time Mydei is too busy supporting himself against the lockers to stop him from doing so. Phainon pulls his pants down with one hand, appreciating the matching red panties he’s wearing today. Sexy rows of stringed lace ride up Mydei’s waist, and Phainon tugs on an elastic band and lets it slap back against Mydei’s skin, a grin taking over his lips when the sound echoes.
“Someone will hear,” Mydei mutters, but he’s not fighting back, only shifting his ass in a provocative fashion. Phainon tilts his head, lands a heavy hand over its curve, getting a feel for how round and inviting it is. Spurred by a sudden impulse, he raises his hand and smacks it down with his open palm, watching the flesh of Mydei’s ass bounce as it’s spanked.
The moan Mydei lets out is filthy. Broken; high-pitched, reverberating all throughout Phainon’s body, filling him with lust and the need to hear more.
“Yeah?” he coos, grinding against Mydei’s panties, one hand on his hips and the other easing Mydei’s cock out of his underwear. “But listen to how sexy you sound. Maybe we should let them.”
“HKS,” Mydei cusses, “Have you lost your mind-”
He stops halfway, his words lost to a moan. Phainon’s large hand stroking him to fullness and his soft, insistent kisses shutting him up. Phainon chuckles fondly at the name calling; it’s been a while since he’s heard Mydei revert to his native tongue. He nuzzles into his shoulder blade. “I might have. Whose fault would that be, mh?”
It’s intoxicating again, this time not the teasing of Mydei taunting him into uncharted grounds their relationship hasn’t trudged before but the loss of composure Mydei can’t quite hide, the unsteady stutter in his hips and shoulders, the treacherous blush that colors his ears and nape red and kissable.
Mydei, who has his whole schedule and regimen planned to a T. Mydei, who knows his body perfectly, like the back of his hand. Mydei, who steps into the ring like he’s simply following a script he’s the main actor of, always confident, always in control—Mydei, who melts so readily under his fingertips, wearing pretty lace and unexpecting to be claimed and ravished in the locker room like he’s nothing but Phainon’s possession—and allowing him to do so, when he’s got the upper hand in any scenario where the two of them would fight. The thrill fills Phainon’s head with bad ideas.
He pulls away, admiring Mydei’s back and making sure he’s complied and hasn’t left incriminating marks that the cameras will catch on Saturday. Part of him finds the idea tempting; making sure everyone will know Mydei belongs to someone, someone who doesn’t like sharing and who covers the wounds and the skin they all at so freely look with his own warning.
“Anyone else seen you like this?” He inquires, freeing his own aching, fat and eager cock from his gym shorts. Pre-cum pearls at the tip and dribbles over Mydei’s panties, staining white onto red, and he hums, tapping his dick against Mydei’s ass.
“No,” Mydei pants, taking a quick glance at Phainon’s erection and growing redder. Phainon can’t help but smile, pressing his lips over the bumps of Mydei’s spine and parting his panties enough to lodge his cock between Mydei’s thighs, moaning when he feels the warmth of Mydei’s balls against his shaft. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” he lies, unable to hide the triumphant grin that has taken over his lips.
He strokes both their dicks in his hand, rough and raw until their precum mixes together and makes the friction a little more bearable. “Close your legs,” he demands, and Mydei complies, his fist muffling the sounds that come out of his mouth. Phainon chuckles with adoration and arousal.
He thinks another time, he’ll mess him up enough that he won’t be able to contain his moans; that he’ll force him to let out all the embarrassing sounds he’s trying to keep in. He thinks it’s a little telling, that he’s already thinking of another time, and that he should ask, really, what they are, what they’re doing, before he gets any more jealous and insane than this.
He doesn’t say it though, half because he’s too horny to form coherent thoughts other than endless praise that has Mydei throb in his hand, hot and sensitive. “Do you not touch yourself often?” he asks, his hand rapidly coated in Mydei’s abundant, sticky pre.
“Shut up,” Mydei grits out, and Phainon laughs against his shoulder and squeezes his ass in punishment.
It doesn’t take long. Mydei spills in his hand and Phainon follows soon after with shallow thrusts between his thighs, the whine Mydei lets out when he’s forced to surrender to his orgasm enough for him to find his own.
Post-orgasm glow dawns upon him and he starts to understand the feeling some of the girls he’s dated might have experienced, asking “What are we”, when he refused to put a name to their relationship. He’s unable to ask, terrified the answer might not line up with what he wants—and he doesn’t know what he wants, and that’s a problem, too.
Mydei glances at him with lidded eyes, pretty and spent. A clattering noise comes from the gym, stopping Phainon from pushing himself to ask. He gives a light smile, pressing a kiss against Mydei’s spine, his hand soiled with semen and his heart racing.
“Let’s shower?”
He spends his week-end with Caelus, the both of them studying at his place and failing to learn anything together. Caelus because he’s an hyperactive raccoon and just loiters around and finds things to be distracted by; Phainon because Mydei’s match is coming up, and as usual, all he can do in the meantime is look at the clock and do absolutely nothing before it’s time for it to stream.
They’ve both prepared for it, stocking up on some snacks, pizzas, and beers to go with—and Mydei would give him a proper scolding if he knew, but he won’t—and placed some bets. The two of them are convinced Mydei will win, of course, but Caelus gives it six rounds before Mydei’s opponent is knocked out or surrenders, while Phainon believes it’ll take two or less. Caelus raises his eyebrows as if to say “Really, dude?” but doesn’t press the topic, only smiling as he thinks of the bet money he’ll get to spend on his gacha games.
Saying Mydei is impressive would be an understatement. He’s mesmerizing, all trained muscles, raw confidence, and brash smiles he only gives the cameras sparsely. This match is not going to be a difficult nor a long one; Mydei’s opponent is another up-and-coming athlete who relied more on his fame and connections to get to where he is, and although Phainon knows Mydei has trained seriously in preparation for this match, he has no doubt it will be an easy win.
Mydei’s footwork has improved since the last time he’s fought; he dances on the ring, his muscles coated by a pale sheen of sweat. His upper body is laid bare for everyone to see, the tattoos swerving when he fakes a right hook to throw a left, seemingly glowing under the lights of the underground’s arena. It’s a strange, sobering feeling, to know what each of his muscles feel like, how they weigh under and above him, how they flex and tense and quiver when Phainon licks them. To know that the one opponent Mydei might not win against is him, that he can have him tremble and make pleading demands, his hoarse “Don’t leave marks” still dancing in Phainon’s mind like a will-o-wisp, burning in his lower stomach.
Mydei gracefully enters the third round in a way better shape than his opponent. He’s focused now, sparing no more smiles or playful footwork meant to destabilize; all his punches land square in terrifying, loud and impactful smacks. His fists paint the other man’s face red and purple with precise fury, and by the fourth round he should be getting strained but he’s only picking up pace, growing more vicious, more impatient to get it over with. The last blow hits his opponent square in the jaw; the man collapses on the ring like a ragdoll and doesn’t get back up.
Caelus immediately jumps from his seat and cheers, arm raised. Phainon grins.
The referee counts to ten, declares a K.O., and grabs Mydei’s wrist to haul his hand up in victory. Mydei looks at one of the cameras, silent, chest heaving under the effort, gaze dark and shimmering, animalistic orange pools of danger and raw adrenaline. Phainon’s whole chest buzzes in response, his body instinctively leaning toward the TV screen.
“I think I might be into men,” he lets out.
Caelus chuckles. “Yeah,” he says, in a joking, light-hearted tone, unaware he’s witnessing Phainon’s very dramatic and long in the making sexual awakening, “understandable.”
Caelus is already fiddling with his phone, replying to the myriad of texts that piled up in there while they were busy watching the match. He won’t stay; he already mentioned that he might have possible plans with Dan Heng tonight, and Phainon was pondering trying to tag along, feeling exceptionally lonely without Mydei here, but now he thinks he’d rather stay home alone instead, with his newly-discovered self.
“I might consider joining your gym after all,” Caelus jokes, quickly typing a reply with one hand while he puts his coat on with the other.
Phainon considers taking back his offer; hell, even building his own private gym just so he can be the only one who gets to see Mydei exerts himself, the only one who can guess the outline of his underwear through his gym shorts and tank tops, the only one who gets to hear him huff and groan and moan his name-
His own phone pings while he’s waving Caelus goodbye. He swipes it unlocked, guessing it’s probably Cyrene asking him if he’s seen the match—she’s never really been into fighting sports until she met Mydei and found out he was an athlete, and since then it’s been non-stop, very enthusiastical questions about boxing matches and techniques flooding their chats. He sighs… And then he freezes.
It’s Mydei, texting him.
Mydei—sexting him.
He’s sent a picture; a scandalous top-down view selfie, post-fight and sweaty and covered in purple-blue bruises. He’s still half-naked, topless while wearing the same shorts he had on the ring. His face remains out of the lens, showing only his body—and the piece of white lace hanging around his ankle.
Phainon’s breath catches in his throat. It’s pure, pale, white, contrasting against Mydei’s slightly tanned skin, and it’s enough for him to grow light-headed with want.
You weren’t wearing that just now, he sends.
So you did watch, Mydei replies, his text oozing with victorious pride. As if he wouldn’t. Phainon swallows, his eyes unable to leave the picture of Mydei’s body even as he’s typing up a reply. It’s a mystery how he’s survived so many months of his flaunting without noticing how downright scandalous Mydeimos looks. Perhaps there is something wrong with his eyes, but he’ll investigate that thought later, much later, when he’s not busy gripping his phone as if all of his remaining sanity was compacted in this one single picture.
Come over, he texts, his heart practically jumping in his parched throat.
Mydei leaves him on seen.
He waits with bated breath but no reply comes. So that’s that, he assumes. He sighs, looking at the remnants of pizza on the table. They look back at him. He’s not hungry enough to finish his half. The video feedback of the match has ended and autoplayed into something else, a girl streaming horror games. Phainon turns the sound all the way down, suddenly feeling cold and a little stupid. Maybe he’s not the only one Mydei has sent a picture to. Maybe-
He’s only allowed a mere thirty minutes of wallowing in self-pity before there’s a knock on his door. Phainon rushes to open it, sliding and almost falling while doing so, and greets Mydei, who looks at him with an unimpressed, if not weary, look. His chest is still bare under his red sweater, and he’s covered in bruises instead of lace, and he’s here. On Phainon’s doorstep, after Phainon told him to come. It’s enough to make a man lose his mind.
“Come here,” he urges, his hand landing on Mydei’s forearm, his voice dripping with need.
Mydei lets himself be hauled inside and pushed against the entrance wall, the door loudly clicking behind them. Phainon immediately seizes his mouth, kisses him hurried and angry he hasn’t dared doing it before, licking the blood and iron flowing openly from a cut on Mydei’s bottom lip.
“Look at you,” Mydei chuckles between the kisses, struggling to properly get a word in, Phainon assaulting his lips with his own, hands tilting his jaw so he can get the angle he wants here, “so eager.”
“Yeah, keep laughing while you can,” Phainon smiles, playing along. They stand forehead to forehead, noses touching, the birth of an ecchymosis forming on the corner of Mydei’s eye.
Mydei tilts his head in taunt. “What, gonna shut me up?”
“Even worse.” He takes a bite at Mydei’s collarbone now that he’s allowed leaving marks, sucks on blossoming red. His hands sear at Mydei’s waist, holding him up, Mydei’s legs easily circling his back.
“Hurts,” Mydei complains when Phainon’s fingers move a little too eagerly, gripping at the places where he’s taken blows just earlier. Phainon kisses the wound as an apology. Mydei hisses when Phainon’s lips come into contact with the bruised skin, hands shoving at his shoulders—but his shorts tent each time he grunts in pain, pleasure mixing in, and his breath is not only short because of the strain of his fight.
“The things you’re into,” Phainon laughs against his stomach, settling for a hold over Mydei’s thighs instead, tracing the tattoos there.
“Says you,” Mydei retorts, but there’s little spirit to it; he’s still weary from the match and the jog he must have ran to get there so quickly, escaping his coach’s orders—no exercise after a match, Phainon remembers, but that’s fine- he’ll take care of everything just fine, properly cater to Mydei’s body until he’s all drained of strength and dozing in his arms.
He lifts Mydei a little higher, adjusting his hold. “You can’t carry me,” Mydei objects.
“I already am.”
“Barely. I’m doing all the work here.”
“I can carry you all the way to my bedroom,” Phainon insists, pulling Mydei closer to illustrate his point.
“Yeah?” Mydei asks, nipping at Phainon’s bottom lip, his voice low and gravelly. “And then what?”
“And then I might keep you here.” Phainon closes his eyes, nuzzling into the kiss. “It’s about time someone vanquishes the undefeated champion.”
Mydei lightly headbutts him but ceases arguing, and Phainon takes that as a sign he’s authorized to do whatever he wants; he hoists the boxer, securing Mydei’s thighs around his waist, and blindly leads them into his bedroom. It’s thankfully close enough that they manage to go there without too much trouble, two men their size struggling to pass through the narrow corners of Phainon’s apartment—Mydei pushes against a wall at some point to stop Phainon from bumping into it, laughing all the while.
As soon as they tumble into the bed Phainon lashes at Mydei’s legs, the shorts quickly removed, the white lace exposed in its full glory. He mouths at the strong, exhausted legs, still marveling at the show of swiftness they displayed earlier, his heart swelling with pride, and climbs all the way up to Mydei’s thighs, to his crotch.
Mydei’s growing erection is barely constrained by the fabric, curving painfully against the panties, tantalizing white shielding obscene pink. All Phainon can think of is to put his mouth here, savor Mydei’s taste and arousal and suck until he’s wet and moaning and calling his name; he wants Mydei’s hands in his hair again, calloused and pulling and pushing, wants to make him lose his mind the same way he feels he’s lost his, have Mydei whine and arch his back and tug at white strands of hair until Phainon’s scalp burns.
He does just that. Presses his lips against Mydei’s cock and slides his tongue over its length, switching to using his teeth when he feels it throb behind the silk.
“It will tear,” Mydei warns, his voice trembling with arousal. Phainon grins, nuzzling against his dick then pulling on the lingerie harder, watching how Mydei’s cock springs free when the lace becomes loose.
“It’s fine.. I’ll buy you new ones.” The panties predictably rip at the side where the seam is the weakest, a pretty sound as they uncover Mydei’s waist. “A whole bunch of lace, just so I can tear it from you.”
It doesn’t sound half bad. It’s quite a good plan, in fact, he thinks as he experimentally sucks the head of Mydei’s dick. The noise he gets in return is more than encouraging, an low, long, exhaled Ah accompanied with a slow roll of hips he follows the movement of. Phainon’s whole body burns with want and urge and need. He opens his mouth again, leaning in, eager, when Mydei stops him.
“Have you ever had sex with a man before?”
Phainon pauses. Holds Mydei’s gaze in defiance, squinting. “Have you?”
Mydei blinks, bursts into a fit of laughter, and gives in. “You got lube?”
Phainon pouts but gets on his knees to fetch the bottle he’s saved in one of the bedside drawers, and with it a condom, but keeps it in his hand, refusing to hand it to Mydei even as the other man waits with his palm extended. “Have you?”
“Give it here.”
“No.” He’s aware of how petty he looks, Mydei’s amused smile an obvious sign, but at this point it’s too late to turn back. “I’ll do it.”
“No you won’t.” Mydei sits up with a wince, and they both look at each other, stupid and stubborn and on their knees.
“I’ll do it,” he insists. “Tell me how.”
Mydei holds Phainon’s gaze a little longer, hesitating, before letting out a defeated sigh. He shuffles closer, his hands coming to Phainon’s shoulders for support and one of Phainon’s anchored at his waist, keeping him close.
Mydei’s chest sits right in front of his face and he licks, deliberate and open-mouthed, as he pours a copious amount of lube over his hand, slathering his fingers in sticky fluid. Mydei shivers with a half-moan when Phainon’s mouth assaults his nipples, then groans, Phainon’s fingers probing to find his entrance, pushing one gentle finger in when he finds it.
It’s narrow heat, tighter than anything he’s experienced before. He shuts his eyes when Mydei claws at his shoulders with a grunt at the intrusion, going as slow as possible despite how hard he is, his cock aching in his pants. “This okay?”
“Keep going.”
Mydei is impossibly warm around his finger, although it doesn’t appear much pleasurable on his end, his eyebrows knitted together and his lips forming a thin line. Phainon tries his best to ease him into it, gently locking and nibbling at his chest, silently lamenting that he’s not the only one having seen it. He dreams of a world where boxers were mandated to wear shirts and realizes it’s not too bad either like this, when Mydei keens and pushes into his mouth, torn between pleasure and pain, his head drooping, his hair brushing Phainon’s skin.
“Good?” He asks, searching Mydei’s face for an answer.
“Good. Add one more.”
Phainon complies, grounding himself with deep breaths, focusing on properly working Mydei open. If he gets to finally have Mydei then he wants to make it good, enough to never worry about whether what they had was an isolated one-night stand again.
It takes a little trial and error to find the spot that has Mydei break into a jolt and stifle a whine into his shoulder but his own stomach burns when he does, his cock painfully straining his pants. “Here?”
The reply takes a second to come. “Yeah,” Mydei breathes out.
Phainon hums in contentment, gradually increasing his pace until Mydei’s body relaxes against his, blunt nails still scratching at his back, holding back his strength to not break the skin, only squeezing at it.
“Like this?” he coos, almost ecstatic, when Mydeis moans against his neck, failing to restrain his voice, struggling not to break apart from just his fingers.
“Yeah,” Mydei pants, blinking rapidly. He peers at Phainon’s dick and at the wet patch over his pants. “Add one more.”
It does things to him, twists his stomach, shreds his intestines into ribbons. “You’re really going to let me fuck you,” he laughs in disbelief, a third finger joining the first two. It’s inconceivable, that a mountain of muscles and pure sex allows him so, pliant and moaning on his lap.
“Keep talking and I’ll change my mind,” Mydei grits out.
Phainon chases a kiss, nuzzling Mydei out of the spot he’s hidden his head, right above his collarbone. “That’d be really cruel of you,” he whispers against his jaw. He’s been practicing patience here but he’s so hard he might just pass out; each of Mydei’s low keens testing his patience, all the diligence accumulated from repeatedly going to the gym without fail, gone.
“Can I,” he tries. His whole body overflows with the need to make Mydei his, and he jabs his fingers harder against Mydei’s prostate, trying to have him indulge him this way.
“What,” Mydei huffs, “Going to beg again?”
“I will, actually,” Phainon replies with as much seriousness as he can muster.
Mydei’s lip turns into a lopsided smile. “I’m listening,” he pants, teasing. As always, so easy to play along with.
“Please, oh king of the ring-”
“Oh, shut up.” Mydei breaks into a brief laugh that immediately spreads to Phainon. “You’re gonna make me go soft.”
“Sorry,” he offers, still chuckling, sheathing the condom around his cock, Mydei lowers himself onto it, helping himself with his hand. Phainon might as well be dreaming. Seeing each inch of his dick disappear into Mydei’s hole bulldozes through his common sense. He closes his eyes, inhaling a sharp intake of air.
“Woah,” he exhales, one eye closed under the sudden onslaught of pleasure, “how do you feel so good-”
“Shut up and move,” Mydei grits out, tense again, his voice lower than usual, his breathing slow and labored.
“Yeah?” he replies, his confidence only a facade. He feels like he’s going to come as soon as he moves, his hips already giving in, Mydei’s heat ruining him. Phainon pushes him into the bed, lifting one of his legs up, giving Mydei’s knee a kiss before burying his face against it, eyes shut, thrusting once experimentally.
Mydei bumps his knee against his temple, a demanding kick. “One sec,” he pleads. Another bump. “Come on-”
His eyes flutter open so he can chastise Mydei but instead of the commanding look he expected, he finds Mydei sprawled on his back, lips swollen and parted, eyes glossy and as hungry as his. His hair falls pretty and disorganized on Phainon’s pillow, his bed half-undone. Phainon leans down, pushing his cock deep within, angling for the sweet spot his fingers were abusing just earlier. Mydei’s whole body twitches, his face contorting into pure bliss.
“So pretty,” Phainon whispers, kissing a small nick on Mydei’s cheek. “So beautiful for me.”
It takes only a few shallow thrusts for Mydei to come untouched, his skin assaulted by never ending shivers, his eyes narrow and starry. Phainon fucks him through his orgasm, mesmerized by the way he tightens even more around him, the way his body melts under his, and his only.
“Look at you go,” he praises, taunts. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry before,” although the tears are barely formed, just tiny sparkling drops clinging to Mydei’s eyelashes—although he’s in no better shape himself, his lower stomach screaming with white hot heat aching to be released. Mydei whines below him, fucked into oversensitivity, Phainon’s hips pistoning against him faster and faster, unable to hold back anymore.
He cards through sticky blonde hair, tucks it back behind Mydei’s ear, thumbs at his earring, kisses his temple. “Hey.” Another kiss to get his full attention, Mydei’s body locked under his, his cock releasing sticky spend on his chiseled stomach. “Go out with me?”
“You’re asking now,” Mydei chokes, red all the way from his cheeks to the shell of his ears.
“Yeah,” Phainon says with a smile as he fucks into him harder, fully bottoming out with a moan, aware he’s not playing fair here—but there’s no place for fairness in his heart, only the selfish, drunken desire to monopolize Mydei, to catch up on the time he’s spent unaware of his charms, at his side as just as friend when he could have had this were he less of an idiot. “You don’t want to?”
“You’re being - ah, you’re stupid.”
“No?” He smiles, feeling Mydei surrender both in body and mind. “But wasn’t it what you had in mind when you dressed up in lingerie and let me look mmh?”
It’s just empty, dirty talk he can’t help but spout—but Mydei’s chest heaves with a laugh, and he fucking grins, all predatory, sharp and victorious, the left side of his head hidden in the pillow and the other half openly sneering just like he does when he’s snatched a particularly unobtainable win.
“I got caught, uh,” he muses. Phainon’s smile vanishes, his eyes growing wide.
“You actually didn’t- Did you..?”
There’s no way. There’s no way, yet Mydei’s grin stretches, and he laughs again, this fucker, this cheater. It’s so surreal that Phainon can’t help but smile in turn. “I would never,” he starts, rolling his hips against Phainon’s.
Phainon takes a bite out of his cheek, makes sure it’s going to leave an obvious mark. “You never play fair, do you?” he murmurs into tanned skin, accepting that this is his loss—for now. His thrusts quicken as revenge for being tricked, for Mydei finding entertainment in him losing his mind, and for having enjoyed every minute of it.
“You know I’m going to get you back for this,” he promises, only meaning half of it. A retribution made up of a lot of lace and all sorts of outfits he can’t wait to see Mydei in.
Mydei laughs into the pillow, free and fulfilled, his eyes shining with a challenging glint.
“Looking forward to it.”