Archive of Our Own

The atmosphere is filled with its usual, predictable chorus—birdsong echoing in the small clearing and forming a perfect harmony with the intermittent chirping of crickets and the croaking of frogs. The canopy of trees overhead finds itself tousled by a pleasant breeze, leaves and underbrush rustling quietly in accompaniment to the gentle splash of his movement in the flowing river—

Only to find itself abruptly interrupted by the oppressive, unmistakable stench of an alpha, exhausted and hungry. And then, heavy, staggered footsteps—twigs snapping, leaves disturbed—an uninvited intrusion causing the familiar, practiced rhythm to falter.

Phainon's head shoots up, eyes wide with unveiled alarm. His tail flicks, ears perking up in attention as he rises fully from the water, indifferent towards his state of undress. He tilts his head—listening. Waiting. Anticipating.

His intruder shows himself just moments later, carving himself a path through the dense foliage before he finally emerges, collapsing heavily at the edge of the river. His chest is heaving with exertion, skin flushed and glossed with a sheen of sweat. He reaches down into the clear water with cupped palms, raising them to his mouth to lap at the water pooled between them—his eyes shut and eyebrows pinched together in concentration.

Phainon knows better than anyone just how secluded this little clearing was—nearly impossible to simply happen upon through sheer dumb luck. Yet, the unidentified man being here implies the opposite—haggard and dehydrated enough that it felt apparent he hadn't somehow deliberately tracked Phainon here, but still not enough for him to let his guard down.

His gaze still softens—less worried, more… Irritated. He doesn't own the river, much less the clearing it runs through, but why was he here?

Finally, vivid amber eyes blink open—gaze lidded, but no less intense for it.

Phainon feels his breath hitch despite himself—and not for the thin slits of his pupils, or even for the telling, rounded furred ears peeking out from his unruly blonde hair. He can feel a latent panic tickling at his hindbrain—a warning. A sense of urgency that he knows is important to pay heed to—

But then… Phainon has always had a terrible habit of getting himself in unwise, and potentially dangerous situations, hasn't he?

Phainon's eyes narrow, the fine hairs on the back of his neck and his arms standing on end—

And he turns towards his intruder—the water only just barely deep enough to lap at his hips, rivulets cascading down his chest and belly—before he runs a wet hand through his hair, ears flicking, disturbed by the stray beads of water dripping down from his wrist.

Neither of them dare to speak—at least not initially. Phainon regards the alpha with blatant suspicion, while the lion stares impassively, dark eyes unabashedly roving over his bare skin—disposition betrayed only by the way his ears are perked, his tail swaying lazily behind him.

He wets his lips, and Phainon's eyes track the movement in turn with a slight pinch forming between his eyebrows.

Angel is the only word echoing in Mydei's head. Not for how the sun shone behind this stranger, granting him a halo and the sort of radiance Mydei only believed to exist in stories—the same sun that, for however long his fruitless hunt had gone on for, beat a searing burn across his back—but for how undoubtedly beautiful he was. Hair like moonlight and eyes like gems, his pretty face tight with apprehension. Mydei found him to be no less captivating for it, but beyond that…

There was so much skin.

Flushed from the heat and glistening with droplets. Where skin wasn't visible, there was fur—darkened and weighed down by the water, laid flush against his curves and contours. This man was no predator or scavenger; he had a plush build, all his strength relegated to his powerful thighs. Thick arms and a soft middle, fur curling beneath his belly button and thickening the lower Mydei drags his eyes. Even at a distance, he could tell that if he were to grab this man—splay his hand over the swell of his pec and dig his fingers in—the flesh would give, dimple under his touch.

And Mydei… He wants to touch. Hunger isn't the only thing keeping him on that knife's edge between delirium and satisfaction anymore. The water had been refreshing—necessary, even—but now…

His nose twitches, nostrils flaring as it picks up a sweet, earthy scent amidst his own musk and humidity. Mydei's tail thumps against the earth and his stomach rumbles. The goat's shoulders hike up towards where his prominent black horns curl inwards near his ears, tense, and the current laps noisily at his hips as he instinctively reels back. He wants to open his mouth—say something, Mydeimos, you idiot, he chides himself—but the only sound that leaves him when his lips part is a ragged wheeze.

He has the fleeting pleasure of watching the angel's eyes widen, exclaiming something indiscernible at him before Mydei's world tips and his vision goes dark.

Phainon watches in muted disbelief as his body sways, leering dangerously towards one side with just the barest glimpse of his irises still visible, before he struggles to right himself. His arms remain limp at his sides, and Phainon can't—and shouldn't—close the distance fast enough to catch him before he lists forward, unresponsive—

Into the river.

The splash is heavy, and loud enough that even the birdsong seems to come to a halt—or perhaps everything is simply drowned out by the ringing in his ears— leaving only Phainon's baffled exclamation to fill the relative silence. With haste, he wades deeper into the river, his resolution to remain far away from his uninvited guest—a lion, Phainon, he reminds himself in a voice that sound suspiciously like his mother's—abruptly forgotten with the revelation that, judging by his complete lack of responsiveness upon plunging into the river, said lion is very much unconscious, and predisposed to drowning if someone doesn't get him out of the water—and quick.

It's just Phainon's luck that the 'someone' in this notedly very excluded clearing—is him.

The lion doesn't stir when Phainon dips down, movements a little frantic and unsteady as he mutters under his breath and attempts to gain enough leverage to heave him up and out of the water. He first tries to grasp at his arms to no effect—too bulky, and his skin too slick beneath his shaking hands, and when he tries to slip his hands beneath his underarms, he quickly finds that the water is too deep for him to even get his head out of the water.

Finally, he's forced to fully submerge himself into the river itself, wrapping his arms around his waist and butting his head against his chest, hooves planted firmly in the sediment with his knees bent, allowing him to gain just enough momentum as he pushes upwards to finally allow him to break the surface.

The world is muted and muddled around him—water in his eyes and flooding his ears, and uncomfortable tension building in his neck and shoulders from the unconventional method of saving an admittedly very large, very heavy man from drowning. He might regret the muscle strain come morning, but he'll rest easy enough with a clear conscience that he'd done his damnedest to save a man he'll probably never even know the name of. Dimly, Phainon hopes he never does—he'd hate for him to make a habit of drowning in his river.

Bracing himself against the river bank with one hand, he musters up what strength he has to drag the lion up after him, coughing up whatever water he'd ingested. As soon as he's able, he lets him go—his waterlogged weight making a heavy sound when he lands—and then collapses onto his back beside the unmoving man.

Phainon stares up at the sky, chest heaving as he tries to make sense of the abrupt turn his otherwise peaceful day had taken. He dares not look to his side, hoping that if he just ignores him, he'll disappear. But, like with many things—he just can't help himself.

Like this—unconscious? dead?—the alpha looks almost peaceful. Exhaustion and the threat of starvation no longer etch lines into his face, and his expression has smoothed over. Long lashes sweep down over the tops of his cheeks, and his golden hair is plastered to his face haphazardly, his diminished mane accentuating his ears. A drop of water trickles down the proud slope of his nose, dripping off into the dip of his cupid's bow. What unfairly plush lips.

Phainon frowns, turning his gaze skyward once more. "Get a hold of yourself," he mutters under his breath, heaving himself back up. He chances another glance at the man, scowl deepening as his eyes drag over his musculature, the dusky peaks of his nipples—stiffened, thanks to the chill of the river—and the thick tufts of fur in between…

Swiftly, Phainon raises his own hand and slaps himself. His head whips to the side and his cheek stings from the impact, but it's just the shock he needs to move. He staggers to his feet, habitually stamping his hooves against the ground once he's balanced and then placing his hands on his hips, little tail twitching in agitation as he regards the unconscious lion with a grimace.

"You just had to come here, didn't you?" he huffs, gently tapping his hoof against his side—nothing. Not so much as a quiver of his lashes. With a disgruntled sigh, Phainon leans back down, crouching beside the stranger just close enough to observe him properly. And then—just being thorough, of course—even closer, to where he can reach out and touch. His fingers splay hesitantly over his sternum at first and then sink into wet fur, palm flush to the rise and fall of his chest.

Not dead then... Good, he supposes.

But… still here, and still Phainon's problem.

And he'll only continue to be Phainon's problem until Phainon is at least reasonably certain he can—and will—leave.

He could just leave now, he supposes—the alpha is bound to wake up… Eventually. It's probably better that he doesn't see Phainon—if only to avoid the resulting awkward—and potentially dangerous—confrontation.

He could do that—but the potential what-ifs still remain endless and… Phainon almost feels responsible for him, somehow, now that he's gotten involved—but what else was he to do? Leave him to drown?

No. Phainon is… At least reasonably certain he made the right decision. Mostly.

Phainon sits back on his haunches, folds his arms around his legs, perches his chin on his knees… and sighs as he stares down at the unconscious man forlornly.

Predictably, scrutinizing the lion doesn't have him waking up any faster than he would have otherwise. Behind the treeline, the sun has already begun retreating, and Phainon's parents are bound to start wondering why he hasn't come home yet, sooner or later—or worse, come looking for him. If his poor mother found them like this… Soaking wet, with Phainon perched over an unconscious, scantily clad alpha…

Phainon shudders. That really isn't something he wants to have to explain.

Which means he's going to have to wake him up, one way or another.

Carefully, Phainon stretches his arm out, forefinger extended—reaching and reaching until it's poking into the lion's cheek. He didn't expect him to rouse at such a meager touch, but feels disappointed when the alpha doesn't budge all the same. He prods at him again, a little more insistently. Again and again, growing increasingly more disgruntled the longer the lion remains knocked out.

Perhaps it's desperation, or perhaps it's aggravation that compels Phainon to switch tactics; he smacks the alpha's cheek a few times. Lightly, at first—and then a little harsher, expelling a frustrated groan. "Wake up already," he seethes, briefly contemplating jabbing his elbow into the man's stomach instead before a soft sound has him freezing.

Phainon holds his breath, ears perking up. The lion sighs again, a little louder this time, and turns his head—nuzzling into the same palm that had been striking him a moment prior.

Ah, Phainon thinks with mild terror, no, no. Absolutely not.

He wrenches his hand away as if he'd been burned, and the alpha's brow furrows, a displeased grumble spilling from his lips. He starts to stir properly, claws extending to feel around the earth as his back arches, stretching in his sleep—half-sleep? Never mind that. There's no telling what this predator would do once he wakes up and finds an omega—naked, at that—of all people leering over him. And this lion had been hungry, without a doubt. Phainon was in no hurry to become his dinner. He needs to get out of here—now.

So Phainon bolts—fleeing for a distant thicket of bushes, hopefully to find coverage before the alpha can fully come-to and properly catch sight of him—and he waits, a few long seconds coming to pass before he finally risks peeking up over the foliage.

Mydei rouses with a groan and the taste of river-water at the back of his throat. Time is inconsequential when he's as hungry as he is, but he knows by the still crawling descent of the sun towards the horizon that not much of it has passed. Blinking his eyes open, he becomes acutely aware of just how not dry he is anymore—waterlogged pants clinging to his skin and his mane heavy with the river, plastered to his face and nape when he pushes himself up.

He digs his claws into the earth for purchase, and glances down at himself: at the beads of moisture rolling down his chest and stomach, clinging to his fur; at the darkened fabric of his pants, starting to cool uncomfortably against his skin—

…At how distinctly alone he is on this riverbank.

He'd fallen in—that much would've been clear to a cub—but how had he gotten out? Moreover, who had gotten him out?

Mydei's ears flick and his nose twitches, nostrils flaring as he tries to scent his savior on the near-stagnant breeze. But, to no avail. He vaguely recalls a sweet smell just before he passed out, but the river has effectively washed it away.

Perhaps, it had been something of a mirage his hunger-addled brain had conjured up. Perhaps it was never there at all.

Stewing over it won't change anything. Mydei pushes himself to stand with irritation rolling over him in waves, his own soured scent making him stagger and his empty stomach turn. He clutches his abdomen and screws his eyes shut, swaying in place for a beat before he shakes the water out of his mane and kicks his legs out one at a time in a dismal attempt to dry his pants off. The journey back to his pride will be a long one; returning empty-handed will lend to an even longer night.

Opening his eyes, Mydei distinctly avoids thinking of his father's disappointed face—his mood's spoiled as it is. He turns in the direction from which he came, slitted pupils zeroing in on where the trees start to converge past the mouth of the clearing. He'll retrace his own footsteps if he has to.

He doesn't even make it a full fifty paces before he stills, ears perking up and nostrils flaring wide.

It's back—that sweet, omegan scent. He hadn't imagined it, then. Mydei whips his head to and fro, ears turning on his head in hopes of catching even the slightest sound and gaze furtively darting around the unfamiliar area before it snags on something.

A chiton hangs off a tree branch at the very edge of the clearing. Mydei's stride widens and he makes a beeline for the tree, hand already outstretched to clutch at the chiton once he's within reach. It's soft between his fingers, slipping off the rough, brittle bark with just a whisper of sound. Mydei doesn't think twice about raising it to his face, burying his snout in the fabric and breathing in the earthy, slightly musky scent that clings to it.

His eyes roll back and then squeeze shut, mouth going slack as a rough groan tears from his chest. It's the most enticing thing he's ever smelled—almost enough so that his hunger might be satiated just from breathing it in. A new sort of hunger twines its roots with it instead; heat flashes through him, sudden and scorching, converging in his pelvic floor and coiling tight behind his navel. His cock stirs in his pants, and Mydei doesn't realize that he's been—is still panting, huffing and mouthing at the chiton like some mangy, feral thing that's never heard of restraint. He doesn't realize until his arousal becomes too unbearable to ignore, and he wrenches his head away from the fabric with a ragged gasp, eyes snapping open.

…There's a wet patch from his mouth, from where he'd begun to drool. Mydei merely blinks down at it, still tasting whatever essence had been embedded into the chiton's threads at the back of his throat. His head's a mess, buzzing with the impulse to mate just the same as his erection pulses with it. His thoughts muddle and melt into one another, the blurry, undefined image of a man skirting across them like a stone on still water. Not just any man—the most beautiful man Mydei's ever seen. Pure and shimmering, as fleeting as he was ethereal.

Then again—it's clear now that the enchanting scent his nose had picked up earlier came from the garment in his hands, so who's to say this man wasn't the true mirage? There'd been no one in the water when Mydei had come-to, and it was getting far too dark for anyone to be coming to the river anyway, let alone leaving their clothes unattended. Perhaps this was simply a strange fluke; certainly not something for his scattered brain to make sense.

Still, someone had left this chiton here, even if it might very well have been days ago. They must've simply lost their way back and given up, but who's to say they wouldn't come looking for it eventually? The sensible thing for him to do would be to put it back up for them to find.

But Mydei isn't in any state to be making sensible decisions.

He tucks the chiton into the waistband of his pants, leaving a good bit of it hanging out but not precariously so. Pointedly ignoring how his erection tents the front of his pants, Mydei resigns himself to an uncomfortable start to his journey back rather than waste precious time taking care of it.

The scorching heat of the sun bears down upon his shoulders and neck incessantly—high enough in the sky that not even the relative coverage usually provided by the trees is enough to shade him from its rays. On such a hot day, after hours of tirelessly toiling in the wheat fields surrounding his humble village, Phainon felt it appropriate to retire directly towards his favored clearing.

This time, when he strips out of his chiton—the pale fabric peeling off of his skin, sticky with perspiration in a way that has his soft thighs chafing uncomfortably with each step…

He pointedly folds it and lays it down on the edge of the river nearest to him—well within arms reach, if need be.

Ever since that… untimely encounter that had resulted in the goat rather ashamedly hobbling home while attempting to cover himself, returning to the river put Phainon on edge. He'd been a lot less willing to leave his belongings in their usual place—lest they be rudely stolen and defiled by any lecherous, starving beasts again.

The memory of the lion huffing in the scent of the fabric still makes something odd tingle at the base of his skull. He'd been half-pressed to start asking Cyrene to join him… But all that had done was highlight how different things were between them now, with their respective presentations, in a way that had made his stomach drop and had him determining that… Perhaps maintaining his privacy was more important. It wasn't as though he was defenseless—arguably not, what with the way he'd wrestled a soaking, heavy lion out of the river not a few weeks prior.

Phainon likes feeling the sun on his bare skin—overbearing as it is—alongside the refreshing breeze and the blissful sensation of the river-water cooling him off. He likes the freedom that comes with being alone—uncaring of his nudity or the unintended provocation that might accompany it. Decency isn't of any concern here, and he prefers to keep it that way.

He certainly wasn't going to let any unwelcome visitors ruin his sanctuary for him. Wading further into the river, Phainon shakes his head free of any pesky thoughts of troublesome lions. The water laps at his waistline, wetting the fur that descends from his navel, and he bends down to further submerge himself beneath the gentle current, taking a deep breath and shutting his eyes just before his head disappears below the surface. The sound of rushing water finds itself displaced by a steady, soothing hum as the water fills his ears—drowning out the noise of the world around him and cleansing himself of its demands.

Phainon's eyes blink open, peering out into the clear water as a sense of tranquil calm washes over him. He embraces it, allowing the serenity to permeate his subconscious, and hangs onto the feeling, until his lungs burn and his chest constricts. He gasps sharply when he finally breaches the surface, oxygen filling his lungs as the world slowly comes back into focus around him—the rustling of leaves on the wind, the sensation of water cascading down his skin, dripping off of him and casting ripples upon the stream. He roughly shakes his head, water flicking in every which direction, and he stills, bringing his hands up to run his fingers through his hair, swiping his bangs away from where they're plastered to his skin. Finally, he takes a deep breath—smelling water, pine, and earth and—

He scrunches his nose, blinking rapidly to clear his vision from where droplets cling to his pale lashes, obscuring it—and his eyes widen in alarm, heartbeat kicking up in his chest as the telltale, borderline nauseating stench of blood fills his nostrils. He goes strikingly still, wide-eyed and alert, before stiffly turning around towards the suspected source.

Those unforgettable eyes, slitted pupils now blown wide enough to eclipse amber irises, barely glance over him—too focused on the lure of the river. Phainon's hands instinctively fly to cover himself once he recognizes the lion, yet upon closer inspection, the sight of him gives him pause. The omega hadn't spent much time ogling him after he'd dredged him up from the river that fateful day (or, at least, that was what he'd been telling himself) but it would have been impossible for anyone to miss the stark scarlet ink that adorned his chest and arms. Now, though—

He can't tell where the tattoos end and the blood begins. The alpha had been in a rough state last time, but he was a truly terrible sight to behold today; blood was caked into his mane, matting his bangs to his forehead and dried tracks of it painted over his eyelids. It was splattered all across his neck and chest, some of it smeared around his mouth and chin, but his hands bore the worst of it. For the most part, the viscera was dry—his kill wasn't fresh, but his hands were still drenched with it, tracking crimson droplets into the earth as he staggers to a stop at the edge of the river. Phainon watches with bated breath as the lion fumbles with the fastenings of his pants, leaving glossy handprints in his wake, and abruptly averts his gaze once he realizes what the alpha is doing.

The rustle of clothing is loud in the relative quiet of the clearing, and the unmistakable sounds of the lion wading into the river and groaning with relief are even louder. Phainon can only just make it out over the deafening drum of his own heartbeat, casting furtive sidelong glances at his uninvited guest as he frets over what to do—what to say? Niceties won't do much for him here; he can't charm his way out from under an alpha's fangs, bared or not, especially not when he's still petrified with fear—a latent, instinctual response to the presence of a predator, but fear nonetheless.

Taking a deep breath, Phainon forces himself to turn and assess the lion properly over his shoulder. A quiet noise of surprise leaves him unbidden once his gaze lands on him again—or, rather, what he can see of him. His head bobs above the surface, everything from his nose down submerged. The water surrounding him is steadily turning crimson as the river cleanses away the remnants of his hunt, and the alpha's eyes slip shut, ripples forming beneath his nose when he expels a breath.

When he opens his eyes again, his senses remain muddled and distant—further sharpening into focus the longer he spends surrounded by the refreshing embrace of the river. Roughly tousling his hair to break apart and cleanse any remaining stubborn patches of dried blood, he tilts his head from side to side for the sake of being thorough, and takes a deep breath—

He makes pause, blinking water out of his eyes as his gaze sharpens, raking over his immediate surroundings to trace that familiar, alluring scent back to its origin. He's impossible to miss, even with only the vaguest recollection of his features—a recollection he'd initially chalked up to merely being an illusion.

So he was real after all. Hm. Which means the chiton Mydei had stolen away with—

"You have something of mine." The omega's accusation is strained as his eyes narrow, voice wavering nearly imperceptibly.

Mydei's brows fly up to his hairline, raising his head until the water no longer obscures his mouth. "Oh," he utters, voice still hoarse from his hunt, "Right." He could claim he'd nearly forgotten, but he'd spent far too many nights either feverishly pressing the fabric to his nose, or fisted around his length for that to hold any weight. Mydei wasn't wont to being particularly dishonest.

The omega blanches, momentarily struck speechless before his expression twists with irritation. "Right?" he parrots. "Is that all you have to say for yourself?"

"You don't want to hear what else I have to say about it, I think."

Blue eyes narrow with suspicion, the man's face darkening. "Are you threatening me, alpha?"

"If I was threatening you, you'd know it," Mydei answers without missing a beat, mildly amused, "omega."

The goat scoffs, lip pulled back in a snarl that is more endearing than it is intimidating. "Mocking, then," he settles on, a lilt to his voice that betrays his wounded ego. "Does playing with your food usually make it taste better?"

Mydei hums, pretending to actually consider the omega's question. In lieu of answering, he elects to stand, the rush of water as he breaks the surface a welcome intermission for an otherwise terse conversation. The tension doesn't entirely melt away once he rises to his full height—if anything, it thickens. The goat's eyes widen and he staggers backwards, shoulders hiking up to his flattened ears as he stares up at Mydei, the difference in their stature apparent even with the distance between them. His sweet scent sharpens to damp petrichor—fear, pungent and palpable on the wind. Mydei's nostrils flare as he breathes it in, eyes dropping to half-mast.

"That depends," he rumbles, voice pitched to a depth he usually reserves for his more stubborn quarry.

Phainon's ears twitch, and he finds himself briefly confounded by his own reaction to the words—body still stiff with apprehension, while his face floods with warmth—predicament only worsening when his eyes trail down the length of the lion's exposed form. His tan skin glistens as rivulets of crimson-tinged water roll down his body, pulling Phainon's gaze along as they trace the sweeping lines of his tattoos and the swell of his chest, red streaking through the dark gold fur there. His head lowers as his gaze follows the droplets all the way down to Mydei's stomach, mapping out the definition there before it descends even further—to the deep v-line accentuating his trim waist and the faint veins above the thick, unruly thatch of fur that sits above the base of the alpha's cock.

His reaction is evident—if not because of the growing flush adorning his features, then perhaps it's attributed to the intensity and growing heat behind his stare. He feels like he's physically unable to tear his eyes away, mouth dry, body warm in a way that has nothing on the way the sun bears down upon them both. The fact that something insistent—almost annoying—still tickles at his hindbrain is seemingly irrelevant—what good is a fight or flight response when Phainon can scarcely even formulate words, let alone consider running? What good is fight or flight when Phainon feels his thighs clench together and a telltale heat pool low in his belly, still fluttery. Still turning with residual anxiety. He feels uneasy—like his body can't quite decide on how it wants to react, because suddenly he's no better than the alpha standing just a few short paces away.

It takes him a few, long, excruciating moments before he can find his words again, when he finally turns his gaze to somewhere other than his impressive build. Now acutely aware of just how very ill-matched they must be on a physical level. It had been one thing fishing the lion out of the river, but seeing him stand at his full, imposing height, the picture of confidence, with this knowing little smirk on his face… Phainon can't help but feel at odds. The lion's nose twitches, something darkening his gaze, and Phainon isn't so naive as to believe his scent hasn't shifted into something far too telling.

"On?" His voice is strained again. Forcing the word out before he swallows dryly, eyes searching—is he in danger, or is the alpha simply toying with him? It lends itself well to what he's asking, he supposes.

"Whether it will heighten the thrill of the chase," a pause, contemplative, "whether it would be worth my time."

Phainon jerks a little at that, eyebrows furrowing, before his eyes narrow into a dark glare. Perhaps he deserves it, from so boldly talking down to—scolding—someone who is, by design, well equipped for taking out prey isolated from their herds. He shouldn't have come here alone after all. Freedom doesn't mean anything if he winds up dead.

But the grave is already partially dug, and Phainon is agile enough to scale the full expanse if need be; digging it a little deeper won't impede him. Not when his pride is at stake.

"Finding food must be difficult when you stand so high above it all," Phainon begins, watching the alpha's eyebrows furrow, watching him, waiting for him to continue.

"I suppose that's why you turned up empty-handed last time you were here."

Mydei's nostrils flare, eyes growing lidded as he seems to deliberate over his words. Phainon briefly believes that he's rendered him speechless—but it's too early to celebrate his victory just yet.

"But I didn't leave empty-handed," he supplies, a tiny, nearly imperceptible smirk tugging at his insufferably handsome face—and Phainon flushes with irritation all over again, chest and belly coiling with uncomfortable warmth.

"I—That's—" He sputters, eyes alight with barely concealed anger, before he's interrupted.

"I just had to find him first. Imagine my surprise when I found him here, waiting for me twice in a row. Not quite wise, but maybe you're just overly sure of yourself."

Phainon, regrettably, has to concede to him in this particular argument—He's unaccustomed to meeting anyone who can match him beat for beat like this, and he's a little too irritated—and, albeit subconsciously—frightened, to formulate a coherent, convincing reply. He huffs in derision, turning his nose up and folding his arms across his chest. It's not lost on him the way the alpha's eyes follow the flex of his farm-strong arms, or just above, where his breasts squeeze together. He holds his form—it would be too obvious that he's bothered by his staring if he moves so soon again.

The lion's pointed staring warms the back of his neck and his face uncomfortably—even the heat of the sun pales in comparison to his own embarrassment.

Despite his stubbornness, Phainon isn't ignorant towards the nature or extent of his own curiosity—having been raised in a small farming village as one of the only boys his age, to state that Phainon lacks much socialization outside of the elderly folk and the much, much younger children who have yet to even present would be an understatement.

He hates it, he thinks. That he likes the attention. That he enjoys the way the alpha stares at him with a hunger he can't contribute—considering how the evidence of his successful hunt still drips from his skin—to his appetite alone. That something buried inside of him preens and flusters beneath the attention as if it means something.

It's better that he keeps it buried. He doesn't need firsthand experience to know that he'd only be asking for trouble getting involved with a lion—especially one as… unpredictable as this one.

Perhaps it's his foolish pride, then—aided by the yawning absence of any self-preservation—that compels Phainon to turn his nose up at the alpha and sneer, "What, you think I couldn't take you?"

Mydei's brows fly up and his stare only seems to intensify, making Phainon's skin crawl. A smirk dances across his lips, the corners of his mouth quivering as if he's trying to bite it back—and that, more than anything else, boils his blood. He's being laughed at.

He's being laughed at, and yet arousal still burns beneath his skin and drips between his legs. The briefest flash of the alpha's teeth sends a thrill down Phainon's spine, and he squirms in place, hugging his arms a little tighter around himself, shoulders hiking up to his traitorous, twitching ears. Far too belatedly, he realizes he's left his lower half laid bare for the alpha to scrutinize—but, not once has Phainon seen his gaze drop below his waist aside from that scorching onceover he'd given him.

Mydei's eyes drift now, liquid gold pouring over every inch of him—heat dripping off the parts of Phainon where his eyes linger for a beat too long. The dip of his waist, the bit of fat that clings to his hips, the bulk of his thighs, the fur that curls from his navel—and what it leads to. The lion's eyes linger there the longest, obvious. Nostrils flaring and chest expanding with a deep, pointed breath. Phainon wills himself not to squeeze his thighs together, not to draw attention to his predicament any more than he already has by still standing here and challenging Mydei instead of fleeing like any sensible prey would.

The finer hair at the back of his neck stands on end, the coil in his stomach tightening almost painfully as he wonders what might've happened had he chosen to run. Would Mydei have let him go? Or would he have chased him through the plains, heat licking at his hooves, until inevitably catching him—pinning him down—

Phainon shudders, expelling a shaky breath as his thighs shift of their own accord, unbearably sticky now. Mydei's eyes flick up and away at the movement, dark and slitted once they lock with his again. Phainon holds his breath, heart hammering away unevenly in his chest. He wonders if the lion can hear it—if he can scent the way fear sends his blood pumping erratically through his veins.

A moment stretches across an eternity before Mydei finally moves, wading through the river at an almost leisurely pace. He leaves the water behind him cloudy and crimson, the scent of his kill diluting the closer he brings himself to Phainon. The omega stays very, very still, holding his ground even though every instinct in him should be screaming to run. Mydei comes to a stop with just a little over arm's reach still left between them—he could grab for the omega if he truly wanted to, but he'd have to lunge.

Phainon wonders who might be the faster one between them, if that were to come to pass. Whether his own agility and reflexes would save him, or if something else—too curious and eager to learn what a lion's claws feel like—would sabotage his odds.

The diminished distance between them only serves to throw the stark difference in their size into sharper relief. Phainon actually has to tilt his head up to look at Mydei now, and he finds that he likes the way the alpha gazes at him down the crooked line of his snout a little too much. His scent is sharper, too—rich and resinous, the robust but familiar aroma of ripe berries and warm musk enveloping Phainon in a heady embrace. It's almost tangible; Phainon can taste him on the air when he inhales, pressing against the back of his tongue when he swallows. It feels as if there's hands on him, warm and strong, curving around his shoulders and pressing down, relaxing his posture and then petting over his chest, his ribs, his waist, before finally seeming to settle between the humid apex of his thighs—curling into the damp fur that blankets his throbbing cunt.

Typically, he keeps a polite distance from the alphas in his village; no matter how friendly or safe they might be, their overbearing scent alone is enough to make his nose scrunch and his stomach turn. But, now… Phainon's breath trembles out of him, wet, and a tremor runs down his spine—but not one born of fear. It's all he can do not to step closer, breathe more of Mydei in. He feels branded from the inside out, but it's the sort of burning ache he'd rather relish in than flinch away from.

He's yet to consider it, but—it's entirely possible that he's simply lost his mind.

Mydei shifts, snapping Phainon out of his aimless musings. He holds eye contact as he dips his hands beneath the surface of the river, collecting water into his cupped palms. Phainon finally looks away from his face, tracking the flex of his arms as he lifts them up to let the water cascade over his chest, rinsing whatever blood still stains it. Droplets cling to the dense fur in the middle and red-tinged rivulets roll down the bare parts of his chest, and Phainon finds himself momentarily mesmerized by the ink that weaves itself across the alpha's skin—wondering what it might stand for, and how old he must've been when he received his first tattoo. Whether the parts of his skin that were painted scarlet would feel different than the parts that weren't—raised to the touch, alive under his fingertips—

"And what makes you think a sweet lamb like you would be able to handle me, hm?"

The lion's voice is like a bucket of ice-cold water over Phainon's head, and his words lodge right between his ribs, making his stomach clench as he recalls his own stupidly arrogant question. His gaze snaps up to find an all-too satisfied expression on the alpha's face—though Phainon supposes he had caught him staring, after all. Still, that's hardly any justification to mock Phainon so outright.

His expression contorts, a scowl darkening his face that only seems to amuse Mydei further, the lion's lips pulling wider. "Careful who you call sweet," Phainon seethes despite the tell-tale throb between his legs that matches the off-beat tempo of his traitorous heart.

"'Lamb' is fair game, then? I thought you'd take a little more offense to that," Mydei muses, amber eyes glittering with mirth.

Phainon huffs, uncrossing his arms to not-so-discreetly fold his hands over his groin—as if that's going to do anything to conceal his scent. "It might've escaped your notice, but you don't actually know me well enough—at all!—to make any assumptions about me." He pushes confidence he only halfway feels into his voice, and pretends not to feel the twitch of his tail betraying his fraying nerves, electing not to notice the lion's gaze snapping down, magnetized to the movement.

"And if I'd like to?" Mydei's brow arches, his eyes lingering on Phainon's rear before he finally glances back up, meeting his eyes—dangerously dark and lidded. "Know you better, that is."

Phainon takes a shallow breath through his parted lips—attempting to mitigate the sheer effect of Mydei's rich scent on his senses. Attempting to keep a level head. Attempting to ignore the fact that every instinct in his body right now is at war with his intuition—either compelling him to flee, or begging him to bare his neck. It works—if only partially. If only because if Phainon's good at one thing, it's at lying to himself, because the lion already has him in his claws.

"Phainon," he breathes out, holding his gaze, expression determined, with his lips pulled into a frown. "It's customary to start with names first, when getting to know one another. I think that's a constant no matter how you were brought up." It's pointed. It's petty. It's not Mydei's fault that Phainon is affected by him, but Phainon can't very well take it out on anyone else now, can he? And he's been self-flagellating enough as is.

"…Phainon," the still-unnamed alpha repeats slowly. As if getting a feel for the consonants on his tongue. "Phainon," he repeats again, a little more certain, and Phainon swears a flicker of a smile appears on his face before he schools his expression back into frustrating, careful neutral. Would it kill him to be more forthcoming with his feelings? Not that Phainon is one to talk—he just has the inherent disadvantage of having grown up in an isolated village where masking scents and feelings wasn't necessary for everyday life. It's only to be expected that he's reasonably terrible at doing so, comparatively. That the lion can see right through him. Enough to confidently approach him—enough to know he wouldn't try to flee. Enough to know he wouldn't snap at him for staring at him indecently. To know that he liked the attention.

"Mydeimos," he finally reveals, looking… Almost self-satisfied. Like he's somehow pulled one over on Phainon by having him introduce himself first—as if he hadn't been practically begging to get to know him. Phainon's gaze flickers somewhere behind him for a few seconds as he wades a little closer to the riverbank.

Phainon grimaces, and Mydei glares—challenging.

"Mydeimos," Phainon reiterates. "Huh," he huffs, contemplative. "Yeah. That makes sense."

Mydei's glare softens into something bordering on the edge of confusion, but before he can speak his mind or pry, Phainon beats him to the punch.

"Your hair is still full of blood," Phainon points out. "This lamb might be more inclined to talk to a lion smelling less of death. Surely that's not too big of an ask if he wants to get to know me? Hypothetically," he begins, tilting his head in apparent deference, "of course."

Mydei blinks—something like realization appearing to dawn on him. While he doesn't hurry to agree, he doesn't fight him on it, either, nodding tightly.

"Make sure you scrub really well," Phainon presses, almost teasing. Catching on fairly quickly how eagerly Mydei hangs onto every word. "It's caked on. You must have had quite the… Hunt, didn't you?" He tries to put some emphasis into his voice—tries to make it at least sound like he's impressed, rather than just turned off. Inexperience or not, Phainon remains plenty aware just how effective the mere notion of getting attention or acknowledgement from a pretty omega is on any alpha—he can't imagine a man who has to be close to him in age is any exception to that. It might be presumptuous… But Phainon can't help but feel like Mydei wants to impress him. It doesn't take much deducing to parse why.

While the alpha doesn't answer him, he puts a respectful amount of distance between them again—wading backwards, eyes never leaving him. It's most likely so the blood coming off of him doesn't touch Phainon, but he likes to think that it's at least in part owed to him not wanting for it to seem like he's agreeing just to get another eyeful of the sight between his legs.

Something of a silly presumption—Phainon had already let him stare for minutes. He'd let him stare again. He'd let him—

Mydei takes a deep breath and sinks back under the water—eyes slipping shut just before his head disappears beneath the surface. Phainon waits a few seconds to be sure he won't immediately come back up for air… And then moves—pulling himself up onto the dirt, and then bolting.

Within record time, he has grabbed his chiton, stolen the lion's discarded, bloodied trousers, and taken off in the direction of home.

Somewhere behind him, once he's fifty paces away, he swears he hears a low growl in the direction he'd left from. A smile tugs at his lips—secretive, even with no one present to witness it.

To his credit, Mydei does not bring up the petty theft the next time Phainon sees him—because, of course, he sees him again. Not immediately, and definitely not every day, but the lion makes himself right at home in Phainon's river often enough that he starts to expect his presence—and, regrettably, look forward to it after enough time has passed and the awkward tension between them finally gives way to something a little more promising. Something almost… sweet.

Mydei stumbles onto the riverbank heat-addled and dehydrated more often than not, and Phainon quickly stops minding so much when he inevitably has to take care of him. He's quite docile when he's a little delirious—and honest, as well. A little too honest for Phainon's sanity: shameless in how he stares at him, tongue loose when he talks to him and his husky voice dropping to a dangerous octave when he calls his name.

He'd purred up a storm the first time Phainon touched him. Nothing untoward, of course—he only meant to help him detangle his mane, rinsing out the stray twigs and dead leaves embedded in his locks that he surmised to be the result of a spar with someone from his pride. Mydei hadn't arrived bloody that day, after all. The times he does show up after a hunt are so few and far between now that Phainon wonders if he'd actually taken his scolding to heart.

It warms his chest to think about. To think that a proud and dangerous creature such as Mydei considers him, even when he isn't there—that he… respects Phainon enough to heed what had been nothing more than a petty and childish demand at the time. That he might even consider them equals.

Of course, he's reminded often enough that they are anything but. On one such occasion, Phainon had arrived at the clearing to find the lion already there—waist-deep in the water and, unfortunately, very naked—waiting for him. He stopped dead in his tracks at the edge of the bank, hand freezing in the middle of loosening his girdle. Mydei had arched his brow at him, infuriatingly handsome as ever, and prompted, "Well? I can turn around or close my eyes, if you want to pretend you care about modesty."

Phainon didn't—couldn't dignify that with a response, because modesty was irrelevant between two people who had already bathed together a handful of times—moreover, he didn't trust the alpha enough at that point in time to believe he would follow through and give him privacy regardless.

So, he schooled his expression, took a deep breath to calm his nerves, and stripped. He made swift work of his girdle, and his chiton was soon to follow, leaving him immediately bare. It was by no means a seductive or performative way of disrobing—at least not akin to the ones he'd read about in romantic texts, and yet Mydei watched him as if it were—as if Phainon was undressing for him. With hooded eyes and wet, parted lips as a shadow grew in the water beneath his waist. Phainon pretended not to notice, still stubbornly silent as he finally joined him in the river.

He stayed in the water long after Mydei had taken his leave that day, and still couldn't manage to cool off until he finally threw caution to the wind and set aside his own ego to slip a hand between his legs and get himself off, visions of the bare lion swimming in his head as he hurtled embarrassingly fast towards his peak.

In hindsight, that had been a turning point, at least for him. There was no longer any point in denying the alpha's effect on him—he just had to figure out how to manage his own instincts. What his body wants, and what his mind could feasibly allow to come to pass.

Mydei's scent, for another thing, still leaves Phainon flushed and tongue-tied more than he'd care to admit. The alpha's been gracious enough not to comment on it—or perhaps afraid to, lest he scare Phainon off proper. Privately, Phainon thinks that there's nothing Mydei could do that would make him turn tail and run. Not anymore. Their first few confrontations had been rocky at best, but gradually, his apprehension and fear had abated—replaced by a reluctant fondness, and affection that he couldn't quite make sense of.

Phainon almost even considered them to be friends. Almost. Friends didn't regularly eye each other up or avert gazes—when appropriate—in a facade of dancing around their mutual lust for one another. He can only hope that Mydei isn't waiting for him to make the first move; he'd be waiting a lifetime, if that were the case.

Not that he's holding his breath for things to progress between them. At all. Definitely not. Phainon's more than happy with their current dynamic and all the tension it brews, all the questions it leaves unanswered—what more could he possibly want out of an already unlikely, unconventional friendship?

"Who am I kidding," he mutters to himself, gaze flitting frantically to the mouth of the clearing for what could very well be the hundredth time in half as many minutes. Still, he remains alone in the river.

It's not as if either of them are following a strict schedule when it comes to these meetings; there are still days where Phainon bathes alone, but it's no more than three or four at a time.

This marks the sixth day without any sighting of Mydei… Not that Phainon was keeping count.

But despite himself, Phainon finds himself holding out. Hoping that maybe, maybe if he waits just a little while longer, then Mydei will show up, after-all—even as his mind frantically speedruns any and every avenue of possibility. Had something happened to him? Was he simply caught up in his—what had Mydei called it, his pride? Or… or maybe… Phainon grimaced, nose scrunching and heart clenching.

Had he grown tired of him? Of Phainon not… Putting out? Not presenting to him, or asking him to court him? Maybe… Maybe things were done differently, where Mydei came from. Maybe Phainon hadn't shown the expected deference, despite every single one of Mydei's actions and words implying the contrary.

But why hadn't Mydei made a move, then?

He could have found someone else. Someone more suitable. Phainon had no legitimate form of claim over the lion… though he'd go so far as to argue that Mydei did have a claim over him, even if not a binding or mutually understood one. It showed in the way Phainon's heart sank with the thought. In the way he felt sad when he considered the idea of Mydei getting tired of him—and not just in any manner, but in the manner of whether or not he was interested in him in more than just a platonic sense.

But what if he did come? What if he finally showed up, haggard and half delirious, and Phainon wasn't there to help—see him?

It was with that resolve that he stayed in the river until he grew tired and migrated to a shallower part, ears pressed flush against his hair as he folded his arms stop the grassy bank, a melancholic expression on his face.

Mood sufficiently soured by his own baseless conclusions, Phainon finally resolves to turn in for the evening. He's already stayed far longer than he ought to, and… even if there's no one but him here to realize it, he's really just setting himself up for further disappointment, if not worse. Phainon sighs and leverages himself up onto the bank—crawling up onto his hands and knees as water cascades off of his skin and soaked fur, his tail giving a little wiggle—

His knee misses its mark, and he gasps sharply as it grazes against a broken-off tree root protruding from where the earth meets the water—not enough to do any serious damage, but enough to make him bleed. Enough for the stream to disperse it. Cursing softly, Phainon's ears perk and his heart races in alarm, wide-eyed and a little panicked when he hears a disturbance only a few paces away. This area is relatively safe, by and large, but the scent of an herbivore's blood…

He knows better than to keep his back turned to the sound, scrabbling over and backwards as he stares out towards the origin of the noise with thinly veiled alarm. The movement worsens the bleeding, but that isn't his concern right now. Not when—

"Mydei?" His voice breaks when he speaks, ears perking and split pupils dilating. He doesn't even immediately clock that there's something off about him.

A relieved laugh escapes him, thighs splayed wide apart as rivulets of blood trail down from his knee.

"You know, I was starting to wonder if you were going to even show up again," he huffs, a little nervous, still, but moreover glad to have been wrong. "After the last time—"

He pauses, eyebrows furrowing.

"…Phainon," Mydei huffs, voice a little strained. He looks… bad. Off. But his own relief is palpable for a reason Phainon can't yet discern. "You're here…"

"Of course—" Where else would he be? He's always here. Like clockwork. Mydei's the one who's been missing in action for far longer than usual. "I was waiting for you," he says instead, flustering, but not attempting to reject the accidental confession.

"I know," Mydei answers quietly. "…I'm sorry for making you wait. Things have been—"

He sees the exact moment something shifts. He hears the way his breath hitches, watches his pupils dilate and his ears perk even from across the river. Sees his tongue dart out, the way his lips part and he tastes the air with a visible shudder. At first, Phainon thinks he's shamelessly ogling the splay of his thighs and the lure in between them. He is an omega, after all. The fact that Mydei finds him enticing is really no secret, but—

Mydei pulls a face—pained, grimacing, as he brings a palm up to cover his nose with a low groan.

Phainon's heart sinks, and then stutters—the blood. He'd almost forgotten about the blood. He slaps a wet hand over the superficial wound in a haphazard attempt to stop the bleeding, but all that does is make him hiss with the dirt sticking to his palm.

The low, building growl is unmistakable. Even from across the way. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, heartbeat kicking up, and he throbs between his legs—not even his instincts, not even his fight or flight sense—can stop his body from reacting to the alpha.

"…Mydei?" He breathes out, eyes wide.

"You should—" Mydei's voice is strangled when he speaks again. He sounds pained. "You should—go. I'm sorry, you need to leave." He takes a breath and hisses out a curse Phainon doesn't recognize, "Now. Please."

Phainon blinks—his first instinct is to grow indignant, but the pleading raises a few alarm bells. The desperation in his voice. Like he's going to do something he'll regret if Phainon doesn't heed his warning.

The shape of his cock beneath his trousers is unmistakable.

Phainon's legs fall open a little further of their own accord.

Mydei isn't staring at the blood.

And the muskiness and richness of his scent isn't attributed solely to desire, this time.

Phainon's sex floods with warmth—little cock stirring beneath the attention. Beneath the want he exudes.

Phainon speaks carefully when he finds the words again, "You're—Your rut…" he points out, and he almost regrets doing so for the regret that flickers across Mydei's flushed face. "Why did you come here, Mydei?" He needs to hear it from the source. He needs to be sure.

He needs to knows that Mydei wants him just as badly.

"I'm… Sorry." It's unlike him to apologize for anything at all, let alone twice in such quick succession. "… I missed you."

Phainon's heart swells and clenches in his chest, shoulders slumping a little. Whether in relief or disappointment, he remains uncertain.

"Is that the only reason?"

"Yes," Mydei begins resolutely, a little muffled and nasally beneath the palm he's using to cover his nose, eyebrows furrowed. "…No," he acquiesces after a moment, looking mildly embarrassed but still refusing to avert his gaze.

No small part of Phainon wants to know what Mydei will do if he spreads his legs open further. If he spreads his folds apart with his long fingers, or palms at his chest and looks up at him through lidded, glassy eyes. How long would Mydei watch him play with himself? How much does Mydei want to be the one to play with him instead?

There's nothing stopping him, and while he can't quite bring himself to be as shameless as he wants to be… the knowledge that Mydei is so affected by him is invigorating.

His knees spread apart a little further, hooves sliding in the grass and dirt, biting at the inside of his lower lip. Tentatively, he brings his other hand up to half-shield his face from view, finally averting his gaze as he reaches between his legs with his bloodied fingers.

"What are you—" It's so unlike Mydei to ask redundant questions, or to not finish his sentences. There's something he's unsure about here… and if that doesn't ever frustrate him. How could Phainon make his own interest more clear? Even from the distance between them, Phainon can make out the way the black of his pupils blots out his golden irises when Phainon traces the splay of his folds with his sticky fingers—gasping quietly. Like this, not even his dense fur can obscure him from view.

And yet, when Phainon closes his legs with a sigh, Mydei looks visibly relieved, eyes fluttering shut. It doesn't take much deducing to parse what the issue is.

Slowly, Phainon makes to rise to his hooved feet. By all accounts, he should grab his chiton and go. He should slowly back away. He should bid Mydei farewell, and tell him to come and find him once he feels better.

He should not half-turn his back to a predator whose hungry, shameless gaze rakes over the dips and curves of his body with unveiled want. He shouldn't coyly look over his shoulder, his tail giving a little twitch that the lion's eyes follow. And he shouldn't back away as he does it.

"Phainon," he begins, voice tight with warning, trailing off into a little growl. Mydei's palm has fallen away from his nose, that beautiful flush spreading across his tan skin as the scent of Phainon's arousal permeates the air. If it's this strong from this distance… Phainon can only imagine what he'll do when he manages to catch him.

If he manages to catch him.

He takes another step, and then another. Ears flicking. Eyes watching carefully. Mydei staggers forward, and Phainon's heart races even faster.

Phainon knows the forest past the clearing. He knows the wheat fields beyond it like the back of his hand, intimately familiar with the terrain—all the beaten paths, and the untrodden ones just as well, too.

Comparatively, Mydei knows him. Even if Phainon might be a little loathe to admit it, there's no real point in denying just how well Mydei can read him—beyond just the superficial, surface-level skill it takes for anyone to parse the sense or lack thereof behind another person's scent and its fluctuations. No, Mydei knows him. Hangs onto his every word and remembers the things Phainon tells him—mundane things, trivial things said in passing—from his favorite color to the games he likes to play with the pups in his village.

It's wanting that goes beyond the lion's carnal instincts… deeper. Something Phainon should and will ask him about—after.

He drags a hoof through the earth, kicking up dirt behind him in an unnecessary display. He knows Mydei tracks the movement, even if his eyes never leave Phainon's face—ears twitching and flicking at the sound of the ground being disturbed. It isn't just arousal that reaches a fever pitch during an alpha's rut; all his senses heighten, preparing him to hunt—so much so that the signals become muddled. Anything that isn't total darkness is too bright, every sound that reaches him is deafening even when it's quiet. And his sense of smell…

Mydei's nose twitches as he takes another staggering step further, dragging himself closer to the cloying scent of Phainon's blood and arousal. His lips are parted, ragged breaths sucked in between his teeth as sweat rolls down his temple—Phainon's scent has to be affecting Mydei viscerally, even with the distance still between them.

…He must be so overwhelmed. Sensitive to the smallest change in the air. No wonder he seems so off-kilter.

Good. That gives Phainon an advantage.

A small smile tugs at his lips as his heart kicks into double-time, and Mydei's brows furrow at the sight of it. Objectively, this is a very bad, very stupid idea—provoking a predator at his wit's end is sure not to end well. But this isn't just any predator.

This is Mydei. His Mydei, if Phainon has anything to say about it. He's not going to hurt him… Not anymore than Phainon wants him to, at least. Something to bring up when—if Mydei catches him.

He gives the alpha no warning before he takes off. Phainon hasn't run this fast in ages—hasn't had any reason to. He's not out of shape, and his digitigrade legs even add a springiness to his step that serves to help propel him forward, but it still takes very little time for him to start feeling the strain of it in his limbs. He doesn't let the rapidly building tension slow him down; if anything, he relishes in it, the burn in his thighs pushing him to go even faster.

The wind rushes in his ears, almost deafening the world around him— everything, except for the sound of Mydei hot on his trail. He can't be far—He hears a persistent, low growl encroaching closer and closer. He feels the reverberations of his footfalls against the earth. He's a predator that knows how to be light on his feet—has it hardwired into his biology, at that—but he's still desperate. That same frenzied urgency that gives Phainon an edge over Mydei is exactly what allows him to maintain a comfortable distance ahead of the lion.

But not too comfortable. Not so comfortable that Phainon is afforded the opportunity to either hesitate or delay. He barely even has the breathing room to pace himself—further indicated by not one, but several near-cases where Mydei closes just enough distance between them for his extended claws to graze against the soft skin of Phainon's back—but it doesn't make him falter. He doesn't lose his momentum. He can't, not if he wants to win.

The other part of him… The part that's all primitive heat and base instincts, the part of him that keeps his cunt dripping wet for the entire duration of the chase—

That part of Phainon wants to get caught.

Time becomes inconsequential. Distantly, Phainon registers day giving way to night, sees the sky slowly bleed into inky black as the stars blink awake to peer down upon them. The moon has waned to a mere sliver of light, but darkness does not slow Phainon down.

It doesn't do much to keep Mydei off his trail, either.

The air is colder now, with the sun gone, and Phainon is suddenly acutely aware of how very naked he is. Fervor may serve to help warm his blood in combination with the pursuit, but he can't do anything against the cooling wind biting at his cheeks and whipping through his hair.

Still, Phainon runs. The entire world paring down to the burn of exertion in his lungs and the ache of exhaustion in his limbs as his vision begins to blur. Phainon may be fast, but the predatory instincts and behaviors of a hunting lion are a tale as old as time. Days, Phainon thinks. Lions can go days without stopping for food or water when tracking down elusive prey.

All Mydei needs is a split second of hesitation for him to gain the upper-hand, and Phainon's existing fatigue couples poorly with his waning awareness.

The grass soon gives way for tall stalks of golden wheat grazing against his legs, the rustling of it only further obscuring the sound of Mydei's footfall behind him. They've run for too long for them to have wound up in Aedes Elysiae, Phainon thinks, but the fields still hold a degree of familiarity he finds welcoming. Perhaps that's what makes him falter—the momentary confusion that comes with the abrupt change of scenery. Or perhaps it's the weariness weighing down his body, his mind protesting, screaming for him to move. To run—

Phainon doesn't gain a second wind—or perhaps he'd already hit it hours ago, and the sudden increase in physical activity has finally caught up to him. The terrain is uneven—these are fields that have been ploughed and tilled for the purpose of harvesting crops. The soil is soft and loose, his hooves sinking in and trampling the wheat beneath him with each hurried step.

He wobbles, hoof catching where the dirt has been dug just a little too deep, enough so that he staggers when he tries to lift it. Enough so that it provides Mydei with the window of opportunity he needs to strike.

The precise sequence of how everything happens comes in something of a blur—he falls, he thinks, at some point—either from his own sloppy footwork, or from the heavy, strong body that collides against his own. Sharp claws sink into the soft skin of his hips, and a dull, persistent ache blooms in his ankle—had he twisted it, at some point? Is that what made him falter? Or had his body finally given out after pushing himself to failure?

What he is aware of, is the unforgiving weight of Mydei pinning him to the earth. The lion's claws retract from his hips, hot trails of blood dripping in their wake, and he drags one hand up the curve of Phainon's spine to hold the back of his neck in a possessive grip instead. All too suddenly, he's all Phainon can hear—his heavy, ragged breaths panted directly against his ear and a menacing growl reverberating from his chest. Phainon expels a feeble whimper, hands clawing for purchase through the soil as he squirms beneath Mydei, spine arching—pushing himself back against the unmistakable outline of his erection.

The friction pulls a low, pained groan from the alpha, and Phainon goes still—lungs taut and alight with anticipation. He's cautious of making too many sudden movements, wanting to keep what little strength he has left in reserve just in case he'll need it. Mydei's dangerously quiet above him, marginally loosening the hold on Phainon's neck to card his claws through the tousled, knotted hair at the back of his head instead. He tugs him up with his clenched fist, dragging a quiet moan from Phainon's throat and bringing them cheek-to-cheek.

Out of his peripheral, Phainon can see just how… ravenous Mydei looks. He's no longer simply on the verge of rut—he'd tumbled head-first into its scorching clutch somewhere between the sun's slow crawl beneath the horizon and Phainon's potentially fatal misstep. His usually slit pupils have blown out to eclipse the comforting golden amber of his irises, and perspiration beads along his skin, darkening his hair and plastering his bangs to his forehead.

"You—" It hardly sounds like a proper word, growled out through Mydei's gritted teeth like that, but it makes Phainon throb all the same. "Never—do that—again—"

A bolt of arousal sets Phainon's blood alight, and an equal amount of fear tugs at his navel, making his stomach clench. "Why?" he questions hoarsely.

It takes everything within Mydei—whatever last dregs of restraint he'd been clinging to for however many hours he'd been on Phainon's trail—not to twist the omega's head to the side and bare his neck. Sink his teeth right into the center of that luring sun. It's just as strenuous to speak, words wading to him slow and muddled through his addled mind, but it's the safer option of the two.

"Someone else could have seen," he rasps, anger flaring anew at the prospect of another alpha getting their hands on what's his. "Could have caught you."

"But nobody did," Phainon answers, miraculously still having enough cheek to argue with him. "You caught me. So—What now, Mydei?"

Mydei's gums ache, sharp teeth feeling too big for his mouth. What now, Mydei? His mind echoes—far too sluggish to properly consider a proper rebuttal.

He should have known better than to think that this would be it—that now that he had Phainon beneath him, he'd lay pliant and take whatever Mydei had to give him—as if that wasn't precisely what had made him so enticing to begin with. His elusiveness. The thrill of pursuing him without knowing whether or not he'd catch him—it had been like that since the very beginning.

Phainon manages to rear up a kick to his thigh, dragging a deep snarl out from Mydei's throat as he presses him further into the ground, taking pleasure in the soft cry the action earns. A noise that indicates that he hurt him, too—but not too much. Not enough to do anything irreparable.

There are only two things Mydei wants to do to Phainon that could be deemed truly irreparable—one being a permanent scar in the shape of his teeth on sun branding his pretty neck.

Two being the cubs he'll surely be carrying by the time Mydei's done with him.

The collision of the back of Phainon's skull meeting his face shakes him from his reverie—his grip had loosened, creating an opening for Phainon to exploit. With the way he has him pinned against the ground, Phainon doesn't have quite enough momentum to do any lasting damage, but it's still enough to smart. Still enough to make him dizzy, for the scent of his own blood to fill his nostrils as he sniffles wetly and droplets of it paint Phainon's skin where it drips down.

"How dare you—" He snarls, voice almost a roar in Phainon's ears, eyes narrowed with the malice Phainon can hear in his voice. Mydei spans an open palm against the back of his head to shove his face into the ground—Phainon's body bucking and writhing beneath him, his yells and bleats muffled into the earth. It fills him with an almost visceral pleasure, feeling Phainon struggle so earnestly beneath him—enough that he considers not letting up. That he considers—

Not even his own blood can mask the strong scent of Phainon's fear and relief dripping down his thighs—pungent and metallic and bursting with promise. Mydei's nostrils flare, a vein in his temple throbbing with the intent to finally take what Phainon is so desperate to give him—belatedly, he registers the distinct sensation of a sudden warmth soaking through the front of his pants—wetness spreading over the shape of his length and bleeding down his clothed thighs. His eyes widen, jaw growing slack, lips parting on their own to taste him on the air. Breathing him in with quick, shallow breaths as his grasp falters. The feeling spreads, and spreads—

Phainon finally can lift his head, gasping for breath as he's finally allowed to breathe—before a delirious little giggle escapes him. High and dizzy and filled with near palpable relief before tapering off into a weak chuckle as the spread of warmth hastens, leaving Mydei's pants completely drenched and his skin and cock thoroughly marked in the most primitive, carnal way possible. Distantly, he hopes the scent of Phainon never leaves him. Less distantly, he hopes to have him dripping that liquid heat all over his tongue instead by the time he's done with him here.

Mydei has his pants yanked down before Phainon even finishes—fisting his cock with a low growl and tracing the flushed, swollen head along his dripping sex. Slicking himself with Phainon's wetness and desire before he presses it against the wet, pliant opening of his cunt and pushes his cock inside.

Phainon spasms—a sharp cry escaping him as his cunt convulses around him, tightening as though attempting to force him out before he wails, a spray of wetness soaking his bare thighs and balls. Mydei is no longer certain what's cum and what isn't… But he doesn't particularly care.

He slams home, Phainon's tight cunt giving way for the thickness of his barbed cock as the goat bleats and whimpers for him, the contractions of his wet inner walls only further encouraging Mydei to continue. Everything is so swollen. So hot, and perfect around him. The tip of his cock pressing against the tender, hot ring of his cervix—which he distantly realizes is what makes Phainon come again—or had he even ever stopped?

Phainon's pleasure is something he desires, but right now… his own relief is all he can seek to pursue. The tightness of Phainon's perfect little cunt and the need to knot him and fill him and then fuck him again, and again, until it takes. Until the scent of the concentrated pheromones indicating everything from his arousal to his fertility in his urine proved their worth—a notion that still serves to drive him crazy. That the little lamb wants Mydei to devour him. That he wants to be remade in his image. That he wants to be his. His prey. His omega.

Beneath him, all manner of coherent thought has vacated Phainon's pretty little head—gasping and whining with each rough thrust of Mydei's thick cock bullying open his cunt, the convulsions of his inner walls eventually abating until only weak pulsations around Mydei's length indicate that he's managed to make him come again, and again. The head of his cock stimulating the delicate opening of his womb each time it batters against it, and his heavy, full balls slapping harshly against Phainon's swollen, aching clit. Twitching and wet, left vulnerable with the obscene splay of his thighs. The rows of pronounced barbs, laying just beneath his glans, send pinpricks of white-hot pleasure up his spine with each heavy drag of them against his inner walls. He isn't granted a proper chance to even catch his breath. Orgasm after orgasm pulsing through his body until it's all he can do to even keep his hips upright long enough for the lion to keep mounting him.

Despite the brutal pace the alpha sets, Mydei holds Phainon with a different sort of desperation—tenderness keeps his claws retracted as he digs his hands into his supple skin, arms wrapped possessively around his chest. The wet snout pressed into Phainon's scent gland, and all the mindless, ragged sounds panted against his nape expose just how viscerally Mydei wants to claim him—and be claimed in turn. He clings to him so tightly that Phainon struggles to differentiate his own scent from the alpha's, their pheromones mingling into one potent aroma that leaves him lightheaded, that makes his eyes roll back and his little cock twitch.

Spaced-out, dizzy and delirious with equal parts arousal and enervation, the fleeting thought crosses his mind that… If Mydei were to hold him any tighter, with every drag of his cock through the hot clench of his cunt emptying his mind, that separating them might just become impossible. He's no longer even able to discern where he ends and Mydei begins.

Two halves becoming one whole. A marriage of warring instincts that should go against the fundamentals of the food chain they both hang off of—Phainon should have been turned to mincemeat during their first meeting, after all—but bows to their mutual affection and desire instead. The irrefutable fact that he's been chosen like this—hunted, yes, but not as food, rather chosen as Mydei's mate… It makes Phainon dizzy for a new reason altogether.

If the thick stretch of Mydei's cock inside of him already pushes him over the precipice of incoherence, then the swelling of his knot notching just past the entrance of his cunt renders him virtually inconsolable. The intense, rapidly encroaching stretch has Phainon bleating pitifully, his cunt spasming and twitching in an attempt to accommodate the burgeoning intrusion. Mydei skims a hand down his front, briefly pressing against the fever-hot bulge where his cock distends Phainon's stomach—earning a broken, withered cry from the omega for the added pressure—before his palm slides lower. Claws carding gently through the damp, tacky fur blanketing his mound to grasp his little cock between the pads of his fingers, pinching it gently.

If Phainon had any voice left, if he had the energy to spare, the stimulation would've made him scream. Would've alerted any nocturnal life within hearing distance of just what was happening in these fields, leaving no room for any argument as to who rendered him so helplessly wanton. As it stands, he only has enough strength to choke out a hoarse shout, eyes rolling back in his skull as a violent stream of—he hardly knows what, at this point, but it soils the earth and soaks Mydei's cock. His cunt clenches, locking around the alpha's knot, and Phainon goes boneless—limp in Mydei's arms as his knot swells to its full size inside him, the tip of his cock breaching the warm, tight ring of his womb. If Mydei were to let go, Phainon wouldn't budge—couldn't budge, not even if he wanted to.

One of the last lucid thoughts Phainon remembers having before his memory gives way to shadow and blurred flashes of damp, hot skin—is that he could hardly imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

Mydei fares no better. Having gotten a taste of the omega around his cock, clinging to his knot so sweetly, he's loathe to let him go. He wants this—this closeness, Phainon's intoxicating scent and the taste of his sweat and blood on his tongue—always. He's drunk on it, on the feeling of him so pliant and trusting in his arms… That sweet surrender rushes right to his head, throbbing hot and heavy throughout his cock.

Phainon's neck is right there; in the cover of twilight, even with Mydei's exceptional night-vision, his sun mark almost seems aglow within the dark. Luring. Tempting him.

Beneath him, the omega pants softly, every breath expelled with a quiet, needy whine. Slowly, his head tilts, baring the side of his neck to the alpha. Mydei shudders out a groan, tongue far too heavy in his mouth, teeth aching. Phainon peers up at him sidelong, eyes lidded and hazy with lust.

"Please," he begs, voice thick and husky with emotion and exhaustion alike. He pants his plea out slowly, the words dripping from his lips syrupy sweet and parting the fog of carnal desire in Mydei's head. "You… You caught me… So keep me…"

It's all the invitation Mydei needs.

The tear of skin as his fangs pierce the side of Phainon's neck is almost unsettlingly loud in the quiet of night, but the omega's resounding cry drowns it out. Sweet, sweet ichor pools across Mydei's tongue, the rush of their bond unmistakable as it sings through his veins.

Mine, Mydei thinks. My omega.

His cock jerks inside Phainon once, twice—then throbs painfully, a seemingly endless well of hot seed spilling directly into his womb as Mydei yowls into the bite, heavy balls still snug against Phainon's clit and clenching spasmodically with each wave of cum that paints his walls. Phainon keens in his grasp, sensitive cunt gushing weakly at the sensation of being filled. His belly swells beneath the caress of Mydei's palm, forced to adjust to the feeling of his untouched womb being filled for the first time—until he's so full of his seed that he aches, insides cramping from being filled well over capacity, with the entrance of his cervix sealed around him, and his inner walls still weakly milking his knot. As though his body wants this just as much as he does. Taking to the action like he was made just for this—for conceiving and carrying Mydei's litter.

The thought earns a delirious little giggle, whine high and breathy when he feels the lion reach back down to idly play with his clit again. Pressing and nudging it between his fingers. All whilst Phainon allows him to, the aftereffect of his orgasms rendering him pleasantly loose-limbed and a little numb, comparatively. The side of his neck still smarts, Mydei's cat-like, textured tongue lapping over the open wound both possessively and affectionately. Cleaning and claiming it. The initial bite had filled him with white-hot, searing pleasure-pain—but had quickly given way for pure, unadulterated bliss, their union resounding through his mind and shuddering through his body like a promise.

Predictably, his knot remains full—intent on keeping him sealed and stuffed until they were both certain it had taken. When Mydei shifts behind him, Phainon whines weakly, prompting the lion to curl his arms around his middle and to drag him down to lay them both on their sides, spooning him from behind while his cock remains buried in his wet heat.

The low rumble of Mydei's purr is unmistakable against Phainon's back.

And it's here that the adrenaline and shock, that the initial fear and the exhaustion and thrill of the chase, finally catches up to him—eyelids growing heavy as the lion grooms his skin and hair with his tongue and his purring only seems to grow louder, yet.

Sleep finally claims Mydei's prize—and the notion that he'd satisfied him to such an extent. That he'd finally caught and marked and claimed the omega as his own, all in one fell swoop, and that Phainon now lay boneless and pliant in his arms, safe and at ease in his presence… Has an almost unprecedented level of effectiveness on his psyche.

He's mine, Mydei's tired mind supplies. Finally.

More than once, Phainon wakes feverish—blinking blearily against the glare of the sun to find himself still held tightly in Mydei's arms, the lion's chest plastered to his back as his rough tongue lapped at the claiming bite scabbing over on the side of his neck. That sensation, coupled with the fullness of the alpha's cock still plugging him up and the absentminded, soft swish of his tail stroking over his calf, was typically enough to lull him back to sleep.

Other times, he wakes with his cheek pressed to the earth and Mydei's hand clutching the back of his neck in a vice grip, rough pants and groans punched out with every delirious, desperate pump of his hips. Phainon rarely stayed awake for very long during these instances, the drag of Mydei's barbed cock scraping against his sensitive inner walls enough to make him go cross-eyed, a litany of weak ah-ah-ah slurring out of his drooling mouth. It only takes the swell of Mydei's knot stretching him out again for Phainon to slip back under, the current of cum flooding his womb anew carrying him into a restful slumber.

Waking up to this, however, was new.

It takes several long, muddled moments before Phainon can actually parse what it is he's feeling. It's nothing like any sensation he's experienced before—hot breaths panted against his sensitive sex, something warm and rough pushing between his puffy folds to lap at his clit. He's moaning before he even opens his eyes, shakily pushing himself up onto his elbows and digging his hands into the dirt for purchase as arousal thrums through him like a fever that won't quite go away. Not as intense as it had been at the start, but still just tenacious enough that it weakens him—his inhibitions just as well as his body.

The sight of Mydei buried between his legs does little to help, the heat surging through Phainon's blood rising to new heights as the alpha locks eyes with him just as he flicks the tip of his tongue against his little cock. Phainon's thighs quiver, canting inwards slightly as his hooves drag fresh tracks into the earth. Mydei's tongue is wickedly deft against his clit, but as Phainon gradually sheds some of the fog of sleep, he sees his ministrations for what they really are: not a demonstration of finesse—he isn't trying to impress Phainon—but rather, a starving lion's hunger finally being sated.

And Mydei is a messy eater. Groaning hoarsely when he dips his head lower, strong nose pressed against the swell of Phainon's little cock as he licks broad stripes over his entrance, the texture of his tongue only exacerbating just how tender everything feels after—how long has it been? Days? A week? Has it been weeks? His skin is so very sticky with sweat, dirt and cum that, albeit distantly, given that he's barely able to take proper stock of his body, he assumes that it has to have been.

Phainons's belly is slightly swollen, sore not only from their frenzied coupling but the sheer amount of cum Mydei had pumped into him—which he realizes, faintly, is exactly what he's eating out of him at this present moment. He can feel it dripping from his gaping entrance with each weak clench of his cunt, Mydei's jaw working fervently to beckon more of it to spill onto his tongue. He licks into Phainon as if he wants to memorize the taste of him—of both of them, as if he wants to still be able to savor that essence at the back of his throat every time he swallows. Like he's trying to completely saturate himself in their combined scent until he can no longer distinguish which notes belong to him, and which are entirely Phainon's.

He doesn't think he has it in him to climax anymore. He isn't quite sure when he reached his limit, but he knows Mydei's stamina won't be waning any time soon. He protests weakly, the sound dying in his parched, hoarse throat, and surmises as much strength as he can to lock his thighs around Mydei's head and twist them to the side, attempting to dislodge him.

Mydei purrs, rolling easily with the movement, gripping his thighs and pulling so that the omega ends up sitting astride his head, his face buried in Phainon's cunt. Phainon stares down at him, eyes wide in disbelief as Mydei's lidded eyes peer up at him and he gives a long, deliberate, abrasive lick to his tender, swollen flesh.

Phainon keens, thighs jerking, a shuddering, broken cry escaping him—the sharpness of the pleasure almost veering towards the edge of pain. Mydei licks deep, and with intent, tongue insistent against his clenching, sensitive entrance—like he won't be satisfied until every bit of Phainon's slick has been cleaned up. Like he won't be satisfied until he has no more sweetness left to give him, dripping into his mouth like sweet ambrosia. As intoxicating as it is addictive.

Phainon's clefted hooves spread and curl as he falls forward, just barely managing to catch himself—barely managing to support his own weight as his arms shake and he trembles on top of him. His little tail twitches and flicks with each pass of his tongue, accompanying Phainon's stattaco bleats and cries as hot tears drip down his cheeks from the hypersensitivity. Without the excess slick and cum to ease the glide, Mydei's rough, textured tongue drags almost unpleasantly. Each deep lap driving him closer and closer to insanity, until he's absolutely certain he can't handle anymore, until he tries again, feebly, to protest, even as his cunt throbs against his tongue. Even as his clit pulses and twitches against the curved bridge of Mydei's nose as the lion nuzzles himself further into his pussy, his deep purring loud enough to be heard even over the thrum of Phainon's heartbeat in his ears.

"M-Mydei—" He manages, throat constricting around the words, "I can't—it's too much—" He continues, panting raggedly, and keening when he feels the vibration of Mydei's hum against his sex."Y-your tongue—h-hurts—" He heaves a sharp breath, glad that he at least managed to finally get the words out… and relieved when, against all odds, with Mydei undoubtedly being far beyond reasoning with, cunt-drunk and dizzy with the need to breed—that Mydei's tongue retreats into his mouth…

Only for him to seal his lips around his poor, throbbing clit instead.

Phainon wails with a strength he wasn't entirely certain his lungs still even possessed—sure enough, Mydei had stopped abusing his cunt with his barbed tongue, but it's only to trade one poison for another. He sucks. Hollows his cheeks and purrs, and Phainon can feel his pulse as acutely in his little cock as he can hear it in his ears.

Despite himself, his orgasm does eventually reach him—inner walls clamping down around nothing as the strength leaves his arms and he crumples forward, pressing Mydei's face more firmly into his sex. Phainon keens and whines, cock pulsing, twitching lewdly in his mouth, as he spills slick all over the lower half of Mydei's face—the alpha giving his clit a few more harsh pulls before he shifts to seal his lips beneath it, the tip of his tongue pressing against the small opening there as if to coax more out of him—anything he can give him—while the omega trembles and jerks against him and his eyes roll back, consciousness beginning to fade once more.

When he wakes… it's with his alpha positioned behind him, wrapped around him possessively, a clawed hand spanned across the slight swell of his belly, with his opposite hand kneading at his soft chest, the reverberation of his purr making its way through his chest and into Phainon's back. He stirs, blinking blearily, and whines softly—starting to fuss—but then the lion laves his tongue over the fresh mating bite adorning his neck, and he all but goes limp. Not even protesting when Mydei's palm slides down to cup his cunt possessively, cock still half-hard against the small of his back.

He'd sorely underestimated the full extent—and impact—of a rut on a carnivorous mammal with the scent of their prey all around them. Imprinted just as thoroughly into Mydei's skin as he's imprinted into Phainon's.

"Sore…" he croaks, but he caves easily when the lion hushes him placatively and rubs at his tender cunt. Palm warm and wide enough that the touch almost feels soothing—oversensitivity aside.

"Need water…" he manages weakly, and Mydei's purring pauses, humming. He has no desire to leave the area when it smells so strongly of them both, but…

His omega needs something, his mind sluggishly supplies. Both instinct and want compelling him to act—It would be remiss not to provide it for him.

Then again… The sight of Phainon perched on his hands and knees at the edge of the river nearby, his entire body trembling with the effort it takes to hold himself up, stokes the heat in Mydei's veins back up to feverish heights. He feels damn near hypnotized by the sheen of sweat and slick across Phainon's inner thighs, the weak clench of his cunt as cum dribbles out of him—he hardly notices himself stumbling closer to the omega, swaying with every step. Phainon is pliant and loose when he slides back into him again, a surprised bleat hiccupping out of him when Mydei drapes himself over him possessively, purr rumbling through his back as he nips at one of Phainon's twitching ears.

"Squeeze around me…" Mydei encourages, the low rumble of his voice—and the fact that it's not a request, but a demand—eliciting a full-body shudder. "Take care of me, too…" And how can Phainon deny him that? Even when Mydei is the one who fucked him loose. Even when Mydei is the one who, at some point, decided simply plugging him with his knot was no longer enough and insisted on fucking him on it instead?

Still, he tries with a whimper. Struggling to clench down around him with a weakness he can't fight, and keening when Mydei's rough fingers pinch at his clit, the pain causing him to tighten reflexively—but that pales in comparison to the effect of Mydei using the excess of slick and cum to work two digits into his tight, untouched entrance. The pink furl of his hole sucks them in easily, almost dizzyingly tight around his fingers as he fucks into his cunt and presses the digits downwards just to feel Phainon's back arch and hear his wail echo throughout the area. Mydei catches him before he can collapse—dragging him back onto his cock as he nips and sucks at Phainon's neck, scissoring his fingers apart as he shallowly fucks into him.

He goes limp in Mydei's grasp in what seems like mere seconds—Mydei's tail lazily—contentedly—sweeping across the backs of his thighs as he shallowly fucks into him. The added tightness from him working his fingers inside of him is just enough to leave him satiated—knot once again swelling and locking them together, balls drawing up tight and attempting to pump him full of whatever he has left to give him.

Unconsciousness comes to claim him, too, just shortly thereafter.

Mydei feels as though he's physically been run over by a stampede of wild buffalo when he finally comes-to again, stirring with a hoarse groan and a pervasive ache permeating from his lower back down to his hips and thighs. His mouth is tacky with an awful taste, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth when he attempts to swallow past the dryness in his throat. The potent throb in his skull is only further exacerbated by the sensation of sweaty skin pressed into his own. As if sensing his discomfort, a low, shuddering croon vibrates against the side of his neck, something warm burrowing against his skin.

Mydei's eyes snap open, nostrils flaring as he inhales a familiar warm, sweet, and earthy scent—his. Not just 'something,' then. Phainon. Instinctively, his arms tighten around him as his mind trips over itself to recall everything that happened over the past… How long has it been? He remembers the river—vaguely—and then Phainon's back turned to him, muscles rippling as they set chase. He remembers catching him in bits and pieces—the struggle, the taunts, but after that… His memory starts to muddle together. Flashes of skin, bare and then bloodied, and the phantom taste of musk and iron lingering at the back of his throat—coupled with how even the slightest shift of his thighs elicits a wince from him—fill the gaps in for him easily enough. Mydei can only assume that Phainon is much, much worse for wear, comparatively.

He first finds his confirmation of Phainon's sore state—and his worries validated—when he barely even musters a protest in response to Mydei stirring, cautiously prying himself away. Mydei's eyebrows pinch together in concern as his eyes rake over his form to carefully assess his condition; a myriad of bruises, bite-marks, and the angry red lines left from his claws, contrast starkly against the canvas of Phainon's milky complexion. Not a single inch of him seems to have been left unscathed—where there isn't bruising, there's dried, encrusted blood, dirt, slick or cum staining his skin or matted into his fur. Before the shame and resignation can fully take root, a soft noise escapes Phainon's throat and he presses himself closer against him, as though having missed the familiar heat of Mydei's body for the mere seconds they'd been apart.

Mydei relaxes slightly, affection blooming in his chest in place of remorse. He doesn't have the time to dwell on the consequences his rut had brought—and might continue to bring—about; he has far greater concerns needing his attention. Mydei can lick his own wounds later—his omega takes priority over everything else.

Carefully, he tightens his hold around him, securing his grip with an arm around his back and another under his ass. His legs strain, muscles protesting as he pushes to stand, but Mydei grits his teeth through it and tucks Phainon closer against him once he's on his feet. Despite his fatigue, Mydei musters up enough strength to walk them up to the river—only to unceremoniously drop to his knees once he comes to a stop at the edge of it. He clutches Phainon a little tighter at the sudden landing, grimacing at the throbbing pain in his joints before he relaxes his expression into something a little more neutral. With great difficulty, he starts to extricate the omega from himself, shushing him when he whines weakly in distress, hands slipping along the tacky skin of Mydei's back as he lowers him into the water.

Mydei has no real way of knowing where they've ended up—his only clue is the fact that they'd ended up on a riverbank, and while he's not overly familiar with the area, he can reasonably discern that, if he follows the river downstream, they should eventually wind up back at the clearing they'd initially set off from. From there… He isn't quite certain, but it's the best and only lead he has to follow, and he knows he needs to get Phainon home sooner than later. He's still unconscious in his arms, and he already appears as though he's been mauled. He doesn't doubt that his parents are worried sick after however many days and nights he's been away as-is—especially not if how concerned Phainon always was about being punctual during their many liaisons was any indication.

Wearily, he sets off—initially unsteady, but slowly regaining enough control of his faculties to travel down along the length of the river without as much of a struggle—minus the persistent strain in his legs. He isn't sure where he surmises the strength he needs to carry him however many hours it takes until their surroundings begin to look a bit more familiar—passing in something of a haze between his own fatigue and the residual fuzziness in his head from his rut barely having passed.

The fog in his mind parts once a new, strange scent drifts over on the breeze. Mydei's ears perk up, pupils slitting and nose twitching as he staggers to an abrupt stop just at the edge of the clearing. His focus sharpens, senses on high alert; the scent unmistakably belongs to another alpha, but it carries something… almost familiar with it—something he's smelled on Phainon countless times. Distantly, with hope blossoming in his chest and his apprehension beginning to wane, he wonders if it's someone that's come looking for Phainon specifically. While the thought of another alpha attempting to track him puts a sour taste in Mydei's mouth, he can't deny the palpable relief he feels at the prospect of help being so close by—but, should he be mistaken and the odds not in their favor, he's prepared to protect what's his—no matter the cost.

A shock of long, pink hair is the first thing that greets his tired eyes as he ventures further into the clearing—wide, concerned eyes raking over the pair of them, with Mydei acutely aware of just what a sight they have to make. At the very least… They're both relatively clean—or as clean as Mydei had managed with his cognition and fine motor skills being stunted by sheer exhaustion. His nose twitches—and he finds himself relaxing despite himself.

Rabbit, his mind supplies helpfully, which immediately puts him at ease. It doesn't eliminate the possibility of her being a threat entirely, but… Mydei knows, seeing the worry in her bright eyes, and the carefully folded clothing in her hands—all indications of a closeness and love that can't be conveyed in words—that she isn't.

His fingers flex around Phainon protectively, when he stops just a few paces away, eyes searching—waiting for some indication that he'll be received in good faith. That his intentions aren't anything that would indicate the desire for anything that would cause harm. He shifts his weight from foot to foot with a wince, fighting the urge to avert his gaze—shame finally catching up to him in the presence of someone he knows has to be—

"Cyrene?" he croaks, her eyes flashing with recognition before her gaze finally softens, a small, uncertain smile pulling at her lips.

"You must be Mydei," she answers with a little bob of her head, her long, droopy ears perking a little. "This isn't exactly how I expected us to meet," she huffs, almost fondly, and Mydei cracks a tired, wry grin.

"I am certain it doesn't do me any favors." Mydei turns his gaze back down to Phainon as he turns towards the sound of his voice.

"No," Cyrene confesses, but her smile doesn't fade—softening, some, when her gaze flickers down to where Phainon stirs in his arms, raising a hand to her mouth at the soft noise he releases when he seeks out the crook of Mydei's neck, as if reacting to the vibration of his throat when he speaks. "But fortunately for you, a certain someone has told me all about the little lion he's been trying to tame."

"Little lion?" Mydei parrots, more amused than he is offended. "Is that what he—"

"Now, now. A boy has got to have his secrets—and more importantly… I think you need to get him home before the whole village is sent out to search for him."

Mydei's eyes widen. "Are you sure that's—"

She tuts disapprovingly, and he finds himself startled into silence, ears drooping a little. Feeling oddly wounded.

"He's like this because of you, isn't he? Did you think you were going to just drop him off and skulk away?"

"…No," Mydei answers, a little short. "I have no intention of leaving him. Not when he's like this. Not as long as…" He takes a slow breath and shakes his head. "Nevermind."

"Good." She nods, polite smile returning, "Then you should put this on and follow me before the sun starts to set. It's still a bit of a walk to Aedes Elysiae."

With Mydei draped in a himation, and a blanket wrapped around Phainon's naked body, they make the last leg of their journey in relative, if not companionable silence—Cyrene breaking the quiet with a question, here and there, with Mydei pitching back stilted, often one-worded answers in turn. While he wants to leave a good impression on her… He's running on fumes. If she takes offense to how curt his responses are, she makes no indication of it—that's good enough for him.

It's only when what he imagines to be their small village comes into view that he finally pitches a question of his own—a little hesitant, something like anxiety coiling in his chest.

"What do I say to his parents?" He laments—truly at a loss—and her ringing laughter almost startles him, staring at her, wide-eyed, when she turns to face him while walking backwards, hands folded behind her back.

"Oh… I don't know, Mydei. You've been courting him for weeks, haven't you?" She arches a brow, and he slows his pace to match hers, eyes widening a little in alarm… Before he nods quickly, oddly relieved that his earnest attempts at courtship were interpreted as such by someone other than just himself.

"Gifts… Subtle touches… Quiet, intimate moments. And finally a chase." She sighs almost dreamily, and Mydei feels his face grow a little warm. "That all seems awfully romantic, don't you think?"

"…When you put it like that," Mydei rasps, eyes flickering down to where Phainon is bundled in his arms, "A little, yeah."

Hopefully Audata and Hieronymus think so, too.

"So, when do you reckon the wedding will be?"

Phainon buries his face into his hands with an aggrieved sigh, the back of his neck flushing in embarrassment and his mother's all-too-smug voice ringing in his head. His parents had met Mydei only a few hours ago, in what was arguably the worst possible way for him to be introduced to them—standing on their doorstep with a sheepish expression on his face and their naked, unconscious son cradled in his arms. Their initial apprehension towards the alpha had abated once Phainon had come-to and did away with whatever lingering worries Cyrene couldn't soothe, vouching for Mydei in the only way he knew how: earnestly, and entirely too brazen for the people who brought him into the world and raised him.

"I let him do this to me."

His mother's gasp was the only sound to be heard in the wake of his confession, hand flying up to cover her mouth. Hieronymus had sunk into the nearest chair, a faraway look on his face; he still couldn't quite meet Phainon's eyes even now, with the four of them sat around a humble little dining table only meant for three—it certainly didn't help that they only had as many chairs, leaving Phainon no choice but to sit on Mydei's lap across from his parents, his alpha's strong arms warm and secure around his waist.

Mydei's comforting voice rumbles through his back when he answers in his stead, "Whenever Phainon wishes it, ma'am." It takes everything in Phainon—what little strength he had left, that is—not to whimper outright at the certainty in his voice. The fact that he isn't simply humoring Audata isn't lost on him; Mydei means what he said.

Across the table, his mother hums, contemplative. Phainon spreads his fingers a little bit, peering at her through the gaps between them. Her eyes, typically brimming with warmth, are narrowed now, gaze sharp as she blatantly sizes Mydei up. "And if he decides he wants to wait—One year? Two? Five?"

Phainon expels a frustrated sigh, dragging his hands down his face to cling to Mydei's where they rest over his stomach. "Mother—" He starts, but is interrupted by the grip around his waist tightening and the softest kiss brushed over the bite mark scabbing over on the side of his neck—the barest hint of tongue darting out to swipe over his skin. Almost instantaneously, Phainon relaxes, melting back against Mydei's chest with a contented little hum, eyelids drooping as he tucks his face into his alpha's neck, breathing him in.

Warm breath ghosts over his ear, softer lips brushing the shell. "Let me take care of this?" Mydei presses in a gentle murmur, thumb stroking the dip of Phainon's navel through the soft, worn fabric of his himation. Phainon does whimper then, nodding his assent against Mydei's neck, nose pressed against the steady, comforting thrum of his pulse point. Seemingly not wanting to shift too far away from him, Mydei merely raises his voice enough for his parents to hear his answer but not so loud that the volume makes Phainon wince—the quiet, easy confidence reverberating through the alpha's words beckoning the ache of affection to bloom in Phainon's chest, and reigniting a heat deep within his gut that he thought he had lost all kindling for.

"For your son," Mydei says, unwavering, "I would wait ten thousand lifetimes."

The hush that falls over the room following his words is nearly deafening, but Phainon has little to no capacity to dwell on its implications while his heart soars at Mydei's declaration. With a helpless little whine, he nuzzles further into Mydei's embrace, turning in his lap to wind his arms around his neck. "Sap," he whispers into his skin, ears burning with embarrassment—and then, impulsively, bites the side of his throat, blunt teeth leaving a rosy little imprint in a poor imitation of the mark healing on his own neck. Mydei's hand slides down from his waist, squeezing his hip in warning.

"Those are very pretty words," he hears his mother says, tone clipped, "I do hope you intend to back them up with actions, Mydei."

"Audata, dear—" Hieronymus seems to sigh, only to be interrupted by what is undoubtedly his mother shushing him gently—Phainon can see her hand on his arm, placating, in his mind's eye, muddled as his thoughts are when he's so wrapped up in Mydei.

"…If there were a way to prove devotion across such an impossible stretch of time, I'd have it done already."

Sending him a long, considering glance, she seems to have reached some unseen conclusion, nodding slowly as her hails drum a quiet rhythm against the surface of the table. "Then allow me to ask you again," she prompts, as if she hasn't already been—albeit gently—grilling him for the past half hour or more, as if attempting to take him off-guard. As if trying to see if his answers change.

But far be it from him to point that out when he's already on exceedingly thin ice as it stands. He nods in quiet agreement, waiting for her to continue.

"When will the wedding be, should you have it your way?"

Phainon remains quiet in his arms—ears perked and breath bated—and it's immediately apparent that he's just as intrigued to know the answer to the question as she is, drawing further emphasis to the fact that… They really haven't had any opportunity to discuss much of this at all.

But it's too late for any further doubt or regret; Mydei has already picked his battles, and he fully intends to follow through with them for however long it takes for him to find either success or a fragile truce. Failure was never a viable option.

He clears his throat before he speaks again, voice quiet in clear deference towards her as the matriarch of the household—something Aedes Elysiae and Kremnos both have in common. Within the walls of their humble home, Mydei may as well be a cub fumbling for the only approval that matters right now. "The customs of Aedes Elysiae aren't something I'm well versed in, yet. But if it were possible… I'd have a ring on his finger by tomorrow if I could."

Audata's soft smile is only somewhat masked behind her steaming mug as she takes a long, slow sip of her tea, but it's Phainon's low croon as he presses chaste kisses against the Mydei's throat that really solidifies his victory—fully turning to face him, now—uncaring of the fact that his parents are both still present, even as he curls his fingers in Mydei's mane and needily drags him down into a kiss.

For what it's worth, he tries to pull away to give Audata the attention—and respect—she deserves. They were having an important conversation, but it seems as though Phainon couldn't care less about his plight—repeatedly dragging him back down with little barely audible whines and pleas as he peppers his face with feverish, desperate kisses—as if to prevent Mydei from looking anywhere but him.

He hears Audata's voice somewhere behind where Phainon purposefully obscures his line of sight—face held firmly in his hands.

"Tomorrow might come too quickly, but I'm sure Cyrene will be more than happy to help with the preparations for a proper, Elysian wedding as soon as we ask her." There's a familiar, amused lilt to her voice that immediately sets Mydei's nerves at ease, sighing into the kiss Phainon pulls him into, ears perked for the tail-end of her reply, afraid to miss a single detail. "But you should go lie down with Phainon for now. I'm sure it's been a long week for you both."

It had been, Mydei thinks—evidenced by the lingering soreness in his muscles and the headache that throbs dully between his temples—an after-effect of both dehydration and heat exhaustion—but even with his weakened condition… Mydei still hopes that there are many more to come.

Perhaps it went without saying that given the hastiness of their initial coupling, Mydei and Phainon both still had a host of new learning about one another—such as their likes and dislikes. The fact that Phainon was a morning person, and that Mydei needed at least two naps per day—preferably in the sunlight—to prevent him from getting grumpy. That Phainon was vehemently a herbivore, but still didn't mind the fact that Mydei largely preferred meat, or that despite Phainon's herbivorous nature, he was still an excellent hunter—a realization that may or may not have wound up in yet another hasty, frantic round on the outskirts of the village. The fact that Phainon had always dreamed of having a big family—which had also resulted in a feverish session, this time on the very bank of the river they'd first met, and had continued to visit almost daily… Thoroughly christening the area.

They had the rest of their lives to learn the rest—and every new day arrived with its dawning realizations and shared understanding.

But they were both still young. Both still ignorant and inexperienced—blind towards what might have been obvious to almost anyone else. Things that really should have been a lot more apparent, given the sheer amount of cum Mydei had filled him with during their week-long excursion in the middle of nowhere.

For example, the sensitivity and swelling of Phainon's chest could have drawn more questions than it initially had—alongside the marked change in libido, but it was easy to chalk both things up to the excitement that came with waking up wrapped up in one another with each new day. Weeks down the line, what Mydei supposed was meant to be the honeymoon period had never worn off, and he wasn't sure it ever really would.

The persistent, repeated nausea was a much greater and immediate cause for concern—more-so for Mydei than for Phainon, who had, at least initially, tried to come up with some arbitrary, half-baked excuse so as to shrug it off.

Once wasn't unusual. Twice was still a coincidence…

After the third consecutive morning, however… There's a long, tense moment where neither of them dare to speak, eyes searching, while Mydei loiters uneasily in the doorway of the washroom, concern pinching at his brows, and Phainon rinses his mouth—a little pale, with sweat plastering his hair to his face.

"Do you think…" Phainon finally begins, throat a bit hoarse, and Mydei exhales a sigh.

"Your scent changed," Mydei points out quietly. "Sometime during the second week after we…"

"Oh." Phainon blinks, eyebrows furrowing. "Huh."

"I'll… Arrange for an appointment with the physician here," Mydei offers, worrying at his lower lip. It's so unlike him to seem so… Unsure, and despite this arguably being something that will demand a lot more of Phainon… He can't help but fuss over him a little—closing the minute distance between them and pulling his head into his chest. He smiles when the lion nuzzles his face into him, a purr building against Phainon's body, Mydei's hands kneading at his waist while Phainon huffs out a quiet remark about Mydei acting an awful lot like a kitten while carding his fingers through his hair.

Somehow, neither of them are particularly surprised by the news.

"Both of you must be incredibly fertile," the physician remarks—an older beta woman with a kind disposition and careful hands. "This is typically only something you see in couples who are…" She trails off, sending a glance between Phainon and Mydei, who nods for her to continue. "The same species. But… It appears to me that you'll be having twins."

Mydei blinks, eyes growing wide and pupils dilating—sharing yet another long, discernible look with Phainon, filled with a depth of meaning only they can possibly understand. He makes out Cyrene's quiet, excited gasp, he thinks, somewhere between where his pulse roars in his ears—he appreciates her presence and her consistent support more than he knows how to convey, but… When it comes to Phainon, it takes precious little for his focus to hone in on him almost exclusively with pinpoint precision. Phainon appears to be only… Mildly surprised, comparatively, but the look in his eyes is something that registers to Mydei loud and clear on an instinctual level—and suddenly it's impossible to even attempt to focus on anything else.

With the fruits of their frantic, long-awaited union—after months of courting—finally tangible. Finally real… The passion and love they feel for one another is nothing shy of dizzying, alongside the reignited need to reestablish what brought them together and here, in the first place.

A dull heat blooms between Phainon's thighs—squeezing together none-too-subtly, with a flush rising to his cheeks that can't quite be attributed to the temperature of the room. Beside him, Mydei shifts in his seat, biting back a hiss from the sensitivity of his length stirring against the seam of his trousers as he crosses his legs to hide his indecency. Phainon's head swims, thoughts growing muddled—yes, he's excited. Thrilled. But… The confirmation of his pregnancy isn't what immediately takes precedent.

The rest of the usual formalities and tips pass in something of a blur—Cyrene's nose wrinkling where she sits, with the physician seemingly none the wiser of the overwhelming wave of pheromones and the musk of arousal that has flooded the room. Phainon's responses are as halting as they are breathless—voice still kind, but not entirely present—and there's a collective sigh of relief that they all share when the physician has finally left the room.

"I think you two should go for a walk before going home," Cyrene suggests—a little stern, eyes narrowed in clear suspicion. "I think you both have a lot to discuss. Don't you?"

"Yeah—" They both speak in unison, Mydei's voice a little strained, and Phainon's voice a lot breathy when he finally averts his gaze to look at Cyrene, offering her a wobbly smile. "Can you… Please tell my mother not to wait up for us? I don't know if we'll be back in time for dinner."

They make it at least a somewhat reasonable distance from the village—a little drunk, with more rational strings of thought obscured, hidden within a thick wall of fog comprised of desire and the sheer, unadulterated need to be irrevocably wrapped up inside and on top of the other.

He's wet, he realizes—they both realize. Phainon can feel it, soaking his underwear just as well as Mydei can scent it—his growing hunger causing saliva to slick his tongue as they drift a little closer. Hips and shoulders brushing, grass and wheat tickling their legs, until they finally can't bear to stay off of each other for a single second longer.

They tumble into the soft grass with breathless laughter, limbs tangling just as quickly as their tongues—frantic, hurried kisses being exchanged, and they're undressing before they even realize it. Pulling off their clothing in jerky, impatient movements until they're both bare, the grass tickling the insides of Phainon's thighs and the lips of his flushed cunt as he plants his hooves against the earth, tilting his head back when the alpha scents him with a low, building purr reverberating through him. Nuzzling and kissing and nipping with short, addictive little growls and groans as he traces down the length of his body—as he worships him with his lips and tongue. Turned on and hard and in love and so, so grateful for the gift Phainon has given them both—for what his body has done for them.

"I'm… I'm going to be a father," Mydei finally rasps, voice tight, eyes a little glassy. He sniffles, and Phainon coos, carding his fingers through his hair in a practiced motion that he knows calms the lion down like no other. Mydei blinks up at him, chin perched on his belly—before he nuzzles his face into the relative softness there. He's not showing yet, but Mydei can't wait for him to be swollen with his cubs. For everyone to know that he did this to Phainon. That Phainon did this for—with—him.

"Twins…" Phainon sighs quietly, nails scratching against his scalp, and a low groan shudders through Mydei in response, dark lashes fluttering as he struggles to compose himself before beginning to nose lower—kissing that protective layer of fat overtop of his womb, just above his pussy, that he finds addictive. Phainon's legs splay open wider in silent invitation, Mydei's lips trailing downwards over the softness of his mound, nuzzling into the thick fur there that holds onto his scent so well—to the fur covering his outer lips, with the spread of his thighs and the intensity of his arousal causing his cute little cock to peek out from between his chubby folds, silver fur darkened grey and plastering to his skin from the excess of slick.

Mydei coos, butting his nose against it as he exhales raggedly against his cunt, earning a soft little noise from Phainon that earns a groan from Mydei in turn. Kissing and lapping at his swollen clit until the omega whines from oversensitivity and pushes at his head to urge him lower, to urge him to put his mouth where he really wants it.

Mydei seals his lips around his clit instead—the goat's back arching up off of the ground as a sharp cry escapes his lips and his thighs lock around his head and his hands fist at his thick hair—torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away with the texture of Mydei's tongue.

The press of Mydei's calloused fingers shouldn't take him off guard, but he still gasps when he feels the curl of them inside of him—the tips of his retracted claws dragging against the wet clench of his cunt, pliant, soft and hot around them. He hooks them upwards and he hollows his cheeks, Phainon's hooves stamping unsteadily against the grass as he gasps and writhes—babbling nothing even remotely intelligible as he rapidly approaches his peak.

Mydei presses them upwards insistently, and Phainon's back arches up off of the ground—inner walls clamping down around his digits, attempting to force them out as that sharp and taut tether of pleasure-pain stretches and snaps back with recoil and he squirts over Mydei's chin and neck. The lion finally releases his pulsing, swollen clit to lap up his release from the source, trying to coax him to spill more of it down his throat with a deep, elongated groan as he drinks it up in deep, greedy pulls, pressing down on the lowermost part of his belly despite Phainon's haphazard protests, and Mydei shudders through a release of his own, untouched, cock pressed against the ground.

"You… Taste different, too," Mydei groans, voice muffled into his cunt as he laps up every trace of his release he can. Phainon's folds are hot and swollen against his tongue, squishing around it when he laps in-between them. "I think," he continues, and Phainon groans quietly, trembling through the aftershocks of his orgasm. "I think if I taste you again I can be sure."

"Mydei—" Phainon whines, weakly tugging at his mane, but Mydei protests by locking his arms around his shaking thighs.

"Or you can—"

"I'm not pissing in your mouth, Mydei," Phainon manages to sound at least… Somewhat stern, to his credit, even with his voice quivering and his vision blurred out of focus.

"Physicians aren't always correct…"

"No," Phainon hisses. "Just—give me your cock already. You did this to me," he grumbles, flushed, "Take responsibility for it."

Mydei blinks, perching his chin on his thigh, gaze flitting between his pretty, wet cunt and his flushed expression as he kneads circles just above his bladder—the reverberation of his purr intensifying when he feels Phainon squirm, when he feels him try to writhe away.

When the alpha's pupils dilate, Phainon already knows he's lost.

Beyond the principal of the matter, Phainon isn't really in need of much coaxing between the slow licks Mydei gives his tender cunt, from his perineum up to where his flushed, twitching clit peeks out from between his folds, and the insistent pressure against his bladder. Mydei's tongue is rough against his oversensitive sex, the deep licks rasping against him making his thighs jump and his breath hitch, while Mydei murmurs quiet praise in a language Phainon doesn't understand yet—

But he hopes their cubs will.

"Fine, fine—" He manages breathlessly, knees turning inwards, squeezing around his head.

Mydei's purr is deafening when the first trickle touches his tongue—pressing it flat against his urethra as his eyes widen. Pungent and rich. His pupils dilate, onyx eclipsing vibrant gold, and he laps against him, swallowing the release in quick, eager gulps, spilling down his throat and pooling in his belly, all whilst Phainon's thighs quiver on either side of his head. Quiet, bitten-off whimpers pour from his lips almost just as incessantly, his little cock jumping against Mydei's mouth. He smothers a lopsided, blissed out grin into his pussy, warmth trickling off of his chin as he tilts his head to seal his lips around his clit once more.

Phainon keens at the tight suction that envelopes him and buckles under the onslaught of pleasure, collapsing onto his back as one last weak stream pulses out of him when Mydei laves his barbed tongue over the sensitive nub. He buries his snout into the sticky, musky fur blanketing his mound—deep, ragged breaths gusting over his tender flesh in time with the long, pointed pulls he gives his clit. Tasting and scenting him all at once; it's no surprise when Phainon shakily pushes himself back onto his elbows that he finds Mydei staring up at him with such visceral hunger gleaming in his eyes. Pupils blown out so wide that he can hardly see any amber—it makes his gut clench with something else, something he hadn't felt in Mydei's presence since…

Fear is still fairly easily confused with lust, where Mydei is concerned. It's but a sliver of ice dropping into the magma that pools behind Phainon's navel, melting just as quickly as it materializes. Being in a predator's grasp like this, having his sharp teeth so close to such an intimate part of him—it's more than enough to have the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, little tail twitching where it's pressed between his body and the unforgiving earth. The fact that he's carrying the lion's cubs is not enough to overwrite his prey instincts on its own, but…

Phainon's only getting wetter from having the alpha's mouth on him. From feeling the graze of his fangs, dropping, along the sensitive head of his little cock, feeling the soft scratch of his retracted claws over the fat on his belly that'll only swell with time.

He's counting down the seconds until he'll be able to give Mydei chase again. But, for now—

He lies back, hands under his knees as he draws his legs up—presenting himself. The motion pulls him from the clutch of Mydei's mouth with a lewd, sucking noise, a thick string of—slick? cum? piss? spit? He can't be sure anymore—connecting his stiff, twitching clit to the lion's kiss-swollen mouth. He pulls his legs further up, the backs of his thighs twinging slightly with the extension, baring his soaked cunt to his mate. Phainon watches with no small amount of satisfaction as Mydei's eyes widen impossibly further, mouth going slack as shallow pants expel from his lips, warm breath ghosting over his swollen folds.

"I think you're more than sure now," he quips breathlessly, a grin tugging at his lips as his heart quickens in excitement. Phainon skims his hands down from his knee-bend to his inner thighs, fingers digging into the finer fur there—pulling at his sensitive flesh. Spreading himself open. Mydei's gaze snaps downward instantaneously—magnetized to the slight gape of his entrance, the slick Phainon can feel dripping from himself in excess—and his scent thickens, cloying with arousal so potent that it sends Phainon reeling for a moment, tongue-tied and lightheaded. "Ah—S-So… Won't you be a good husband and give me what I asked for?"

The air shifts around them, pulling taut with Mydei's sharp intake of breath—his pupils slitting in a heartbeat. Another sliver of ice descends from between Phainon's ribs, evaporating before it even reaches the heat coiling in his gut. His grin widens as gooseflesh spreads across his skin, his own gasp loud in the quiet of the fields when Mydei finally, finally heeds his request—a blur of tan and gold with how quickly he moves, pushing up onto his knees and splaying his hands firmly around the backs of Phainon's thighs. Claws extending, digging in, drawing blood—holding him still, keeping him spread.

It's easy for Mydei to slip inside him with how wet and open Phainon is, the head of his cock pushing in and the grooves crowning it grazing against all the sensitive nerves around Phainon's entrance, pulling sounds from them both—a pitchy, broken bleat from Phainon and what can only be described as a pained, hoarse yowl torn from Mydei's throat. His hands squeeze at Phainon's thighs, blood trickling down from each of his claws and tracking through the omega's fur. His nostrils flare at the sharp but sweet scent, nothing more than excess kindling thrown into the already roaring fire of his own arousal—his cock kicks, still only just notched inside Phainon, as that heat climbs and climbs, flames licking up his spine as his eyes roll back and his balls draw up, tight and full to bursting—

A quiet, soft noise of confusion parts the fog of musk clouding his senses. Phainon's sweet cunt squeezes around him as much as it can, milking him for all he's worth. "Mydei—? Did you… Did you just—"

A growl tears from his lips, Mydei rocking his hips forward to fully sheathe himself inside, Phainon's question cut off by a whine as the head of his cock kisses the tight, twitching ring of his cervix to spill the last dregs of his release directly into his womb. Mydei's claws retract, and his hands find Phainon's hips instead, pulling him snug against his own lap and encouraging his legs to wrap around his waist—sinking deeper into him as he leans down to drag his tongue over his neck and cheeks with quick, frenzied licks, discontent until he can be certain there isn't an inch of Phainon that isn't thoroughly saturated with him.

"Forgive me," he starts, brows pinching together as he noses into Phainon's neck, panting, "I'll give you more—Make them quadruplets, whatever you—anything you want—"

Phainon wails and arches up into him, his swollen breasts pressing into the hard planes of Mydei's chest, a stuttering mantra of yes and please whimpering out of him when he draws his hips back, cock dragging along his sensitive inner walls. Mydei ruts back into him passionately, but at a pace misaligned with his own desperation—deep, measured strokes that set every last one of Phainon's nerves alight while remaining careful not to bully his womb too harshly. He claws at Mydei's back, blunt nails raising red welts along his skin as his legs tighten around his waist, hooves digging into the small of his back to urge him on—forcing Mydei's thrusts to shorten so that he can't pull too far out, keeping Phainon full.

"I—ah—always… wanted a—mmh—a big family," Phainon manages, giggling breathlessly and squeezing the alpha tighter against himself—indulging in the weight and heat weighing him down as he spasms around him, hands scrabbling for purchase across Mydei's skin, slippery with sweat from the sun beating down upon his back, his tail whipping behind him.

Mydei growls huskily, nuzzling further into Phainon's neck, tongue tender as he laves over the bite mark, now a healed, pinkened scar. "We'll have one," he promises. Ravenous and alight and nothing like how Phainon had once imagined his eventual and then-hypothetical partner would react to the news that he'd conceived, and yet…

Warm, satiated, pregnant, and trapped—he's exactly where he wants to be.