Chapter Text
The final lap is a blur.
The car growls under his grip, snarling against the pavement like a beast he’s barely tamed. The final lap is hellfire—rubber melting, gears whining, every turn a coin flip between glory and wreckage. It's one of the last races of his second season, the first season Phainon has a serious chance of winning the championship. So?
Phainon’s laughing. Panting.
Faster, he urges.
He takes the corner hot—hotter than any sane driver would. The G-force slams into him like a wall. Tires scream. His back end skids just enough to send gasps through the crowd.
And then he pulls it back.
Clean.
He rockets down the straight, the finish line blurring into existence. His vision narrows. One breath. One second. One final heartbeat—
Checkered flag.
He crosses the line—and the crowd is screaming with a new record. The kind that gets whispered about. The kind that rewrites stats and sponsorships and makes the world wrap around his little finger.
The announcer’s losing his mind. Fans are on their feet. Pit crews are swearing in disbelief. And Phainon? Phainon peels off his helmet that’s soaked with sweat, skin flushed and adrenaline humming like static under his skin. He throws both arms up in thriumph—a king, a god, a fucking miracle. They’ll say I’m reckless. They’ll say I was lucky. They’ll say it was impossible.
Good. Let them talk.
He loves being talked about. He tosses his helmet to a crew member. Flashes a grin so bright it practically rivals the sun burning down at the noon circuit. Then he starts walking down the pit lane like he owns it while waving to his adoring fans.
It's chaos.
Not the usual kind—not the static buzz of crew radios and tire changes and clipboard-speak. This is Phainon chaos. Reporters scrambling over barricades. Photographers yelling his name. Fans screaming from the stands, waving signs and phones and maybe a few marriage proposals. Phainon doesn’t slow down. Helmet in one hand, suit peeled halfway off, he walks like he’s just won the world—because he kind of has. Again.
A mic is shoved toward him before he can even reach the team tent. “Phainon! That final turn—what were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t.” He grins, teeth bright and sweat still dripping from his hair. “That’s the fun of it.”
Laughter. More questions. Someone says “reckless” and someone else says “genius.” Phainon swallows both up like compliments.
He gives soundbites like candy. A bright smile for everyone. Then he turns to his photogenic side and makes a victory sign with his tongue peeking out from his lips a little, more instagram-worthy than a model. He's got that race for the numbers figured out to the T as well.
“Did you know you just broke the lap record?”
“Hope I didn’t break the car.”
“You looked completely in control out there—”
“I was.” Flash of teeth. “It looked good, right?”
They eat it up.
His crew finally drags him into the tent, laughing and slapping his back. Someone shoves a water bottle into his hand while another throws a towel at his face. His phone is already blowing up on the bench—messages, mentions, calls.
Phainon’s name is everywhere.
And of course, he revels in it.
His team practically pushes him toward the podium, their voices all excited, proud, too loud. His driver’s suit clings to him like it always does. But right now, it’s more armor than clothing. He's ready to face the world.
The trophy gleams under the lights.
Not that Phainon needs it. He knows how this goes: a shiny gold cup, a quick picture, a parade of smiles—it’s all part of the package. But still—he likes it. Likes the weight of it in his hands to ground him that this is his place as a winner, likes the way the crowd roars louder when he holds it. The way the cameras flash.
“Go on, Phainon! You earned it!”
“Don’t leave without the champagne!”
“Smile for the cameras!”
He nods, playing it up. His grin is easy—practiced—but underneath the rush, there’s that familiar itch again. Phainon hates dwelling on that thought, though. It makes him depressed. That faint feeling of wanting something more. Something that will carve his name into people's memory beyond his career.
It must be a challenge... right?
The podium feels huge. He stands tall, the sound of his name echoing in his chest as he watches the press swarm around the stage like bees to a honey pot. They’re chanting his name. His team is clapping. The crowd’s still roaring—all eyes on him. The photographer waves him over, signaling the moment to pop the champagne.
He raises the bottle, meeting the lens with a devilish grin.
“Here comes the fun part,” he mutters to himself. The cork pops with a sharp whoosh—the spray splashes into the air, making a wild arc and drenching everyone within reach.
“PHAAAAINON!” the crowd screams as the foam drips from his hair, his arms, his chest.
“YOU’RE A LEGEND!”
He sprays it across the front row of the stands like a fountain of glory—and they love it. He’s untouchable. Golden.
For a moment, he forgets about the sting in his chest. The itch he’s trying to scratch. The feeling that keeps building up after every stunt, every win. That thought that in the space between everything and nothing—between crashing and coming in first—there’s only the milliseconds that makes his victory margin. People don't adore losers, like he was when he lost everything in his youth. And now, the second place is the first loser already. But Phainon's supposed to be at the top of the world, right? Everything’s perfect, right?
His manager is grinning like a proud parent, hands clapping loudly behind her. “Enjoy it, kid,” she says. “You earned it.”
Right, Phainon does. He earned his escape from being a nobody and his rise into the spotlight.
So he enjoys it all. Every flash. Every cheer. Every second of it.
He drinks it all in, like the champagne, letting it get to his head. As long as it lasts.
The silence of his hotel room is a sharp contrast to the roar of the crowd from hours ago.
It’s late. The sun has slipped behind the city skyline, casting long shadows across the floor. Phainon is sprawled the couch after a refreshing shower, his legs stretched out. The adrenaline is still buzzing under his skin, but it’s a different kind of rush now. The party’s later. Right now, he's calm.
His phone buzzes. The name on the screen makes him smirk.
Aglaea—his manager. She’s always got something for him.
manager agy!: Good evening Phainon. Are you coming to the party tonight? We require our star here. There are other teams at the bar to network with as well.
Phainon glances at the message and taps out a quick response, his fingers moving without thinking.
pie-non: 'course. you won't ever see me miss one.
He stands, stretching with his muscles rippling under the thin tank top he's currently rocking. The shirt clings to his body just enough to highlight the sharp lines of his biceps and the faint curve of his chest. The fabric stretches across his torso in a way that makes the whole thing look effortless. His jeans are a little worn at the edges, like he’s had them forever. The belt cinches tight around his waist, the metal buckle catching the light when he walks across the room. Casual. But still… perfect.
Phainon strides over to the mirror on the wall. It’s a simple look, and should look just like he's fallen out of his closet like this. Casual and sexy? Yeah, just on brand.
A quick glance at the clock. The party will be in full swing soon.
He grabs his keys, tossing his phone into his pocket. He exits his hotel room, lightly striding over to the elevator. It dings as the doors open. Nobody’s in here. The elevator dings again as it reaches the ground floor, and Phainon steps out with his hands in his pockets. The warm evening air hits him immediately.
The city’s pulse is different at night. Quieter, but still alive—the hum of distant traffic, the streetlights casting long shadows, neon signs flickering like in the dark. It’s the kind of night where everything feels possible. Where he feels like he could take on anything.
His motorbike waits for him by the curb—sleek, black, all angles and power. It’s the only thing Phainon trusts to get him where he needs to go, fast. His fingers brush the handlebars. He’s already moving, kicking up the stand and straddling it.
The engine roars to life beneath him.
He pulls the helmet over his head, the leather tight against his skin. A second later, he’s revving the throttle. And the bike tears forward, the world blurring in a streak of lights and concrete. In all of that speed, there lies a sort of calm. The wind hits him like a wave, tugging at his clothes. But Phainon doesn’t care. This is freedom. This is where he can thrive.
He zips through the streets, the sound of the bike’s engine cutting through the tranquil night like a blade. Every corner is a challenge, every turn is a victory. In these moments, the city feels like it belongs to him.
The skyline looms ahead, the party waiting, the energy already building up in his chest.
He arrives at the venue, the nightclub already buzzing with noise.
The moment Phainon steps inside the party, it’s like the world shifts around him. The music pulses through the air, a thumping bass that rattles the floor beneath his feet. Lights flash in a dizzying array of colors. Laughter and chatter fill the space, but it all fades into the background. Far away in the dark, some people are already moving in the music's rhythm on the dance floor. He’s used to this. He’s used to the spotlight.
People swarm him as he strides in, congratulating him on the race, patting him on the back, offering drinks—the usual.
“Phainon, man! You were insane out there!”
“Bro, that last turn? I thought you were gonna wreck, but you pulled it off like a champ!”
“Can’t wait to see you race again, man!”
He flashes the usual grin, nodding and laughing as he accepts the compliments with ease. It’s automatic. He’s in his element. This is his world.
Then he sees him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a man sitting at the bar like it were any other regular day. The stranger’s just sitting there, relaxed. Casual. But there’s something about him—something that immediately grabs Phainon’s attention, although he can't tell for a moment what it is. Oh. It's that the stranger isn't vying for Phainon's attention, and that in turn catches it.
Oh, the challenge is on.
The man turns around to order a drink, and that's when Phainon can see him properly. Shoulder-length blonde hair, the tips a bold, fiery red. A small braid tucked to the side, adding a touch of rebellion to his look. He wears a black leather jacket that hugs his broad shoulders. And his matching leather jeans? They fit him perfectly—tight enough to show off a waist that tapers down to everything Phainon isn’t used to noticing—especially not at a party like this.
That’s not even the best part.
The best part?
That ass.
It’s not just the way he sits—like he’s comfortable in his skin—it’s the way his leather jeans mold to him. Kephale above, it's... perfect. Phainon’s gaze drifts downward, and damn if he doesn’t catch himself staring a little too long. Ahem, he hopes it's paired with the matching personality. That'd be the cherry on top. For a second, his mind blanks. The words around him seem to fade away. Even the noise of the party, the congratulations, the thumping bass—it’s all a distant hum.
Phainon shakes it off. He flashes a smile to the group he’s been talking to and nods politely, but he’s already pulling away. He turns, casually making his way toward the bar—his steps easy and confident, with a cocky tilt to his head.
He leans against the bar, eyes still locked onto the stranger. That wild energy rolling off of him. Something dangerous, something intriguing. He slides into the seat beside him. His hand brushes the smooth surface of the bar, just enough to get the bartender’s attention.
“Whiskey. Neat,” Phainon orders, voice low and confident, his gaze never leaving the man sitting beside him.
Up close, the stranger’s features are even more striking. His face has that rough, untouched edge to it. A strong jawline, lips that look like they'd taste like cherry coke and were made for kissing. Eyes that Phainon can’t quite place. Not just cold. Not just warm. Somewhere in between and somehow both at the same time. Oh yeah. He’s a fucking masterpiece. The stranger looks... majestic, like a god made flesh. Every movement, every little shift in his posture screams that he knows exactly how good-looking he is. It’s effortless. And he's ignoring him. Game's on.
"Have I seen you at the race earlier?" It is an exclusive after-race party, after all. Phainon leans in just slightly, his tone playful and teasing. “You know, I was just trying to enjoy the night, but now I’m distracted.”
The stranger doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even glance his way. "Mechanic," he just says nonchalantly.
Hmm. Phainon smirks, but keeps it subtle, wanting to steal a glance at his hands. This is fun. He’ll break through that composure and make him agree to ravish him. So he watches as the man casually takes a sip of his drink, completely unfazed. Phainon flicks a lock of his hair back and leans in closer, that trademark charm slipping effortlessly into his words. “You look like someone who knows how to handle a good time... I’m Phainon.”
The stranger’s eyes flicker over to him, just for a moment, as though he’s considering whether to even acknowledge him. Phainon can feel the heat building already—and oh, it feels so good to be challenged. Like walking through the tunnel out into the adoring crowd on race days.
Finally, the stranger turns toward him fully. His lips curled slightly as if amused, but still distant. His voice is smooth, but with an edge to it. Like it’s a warning. "Mydei."
Phainon’s mind does a quick scan of the name. Mydei. It’s not one he recognizes. Doesn’t matter, though. Names are irrelevant when you’ve got a body that looks divine like that. Phainon isn’t one to back off, already feeling the heat of the moment. He leans in a little more. But this time, he lets the silence stretch between them. The tension crackles.
“You sure you’re not going to tell me your real name? ‘Cause that’s got to be a fake one.”
Mydei doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he taps the rim of his glass, his eyes never leaving Phainon’s. Measuring him. Interesting. Phainon’s intrigued, his pulse picking up. “It’s real enough for you to remember,” Mydei says wryly.
Phainon’s grin widens. “Mydei,” Phainon repeats with a widening grin, tasting the name like it’s already his favorite flavor. “Gotta admit... wasn’t expecting a name that pretty.” He watches closely, waiting for a crack in that icy facade. An acknowledgment of his flirting. A twitch of a smile. A roll of the eyes. Anything.
Nothing.
Except for the way Mydei lifts his glass again slowly and deliberately. His lips are wrapping around the rim—and Phainon swears he’s doing it on purpose. They look perfect like fruit draped on the rim of cocktails.
“So,” Phainon presses, shifting just a bit closer. “You here with someone?"
That gets something—a soft huff of amusement, barely audible, but Phainon catches it. That’s one point for him.
“Nah,” Mydei replies, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “I’m here for the open bar. You? Here to collect fans like trading cards?”
Phainon laughs, low and unbothered. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s a thing,” Mydei says, tone unreadable. “Didn’t say bad.”
He’s slippery, Phainon thinks as he watches how Mydei’s eyes slide past him, feigning disinterest like he’s not fully aware of the attention being thrown at him. It's the kind of disinterest that begs to be challenged. “Tell me something,” Phainon says, tilting his head, “am I boring you? Or are you just playing hard to get?”
“What if it’s both?”
Damn. He likes this guy.
Phainon lets the silence simmer and takes a slow sip of his whiskey. Lets his tongue run briefly across his lower lip as he sets the glass down. He leans in—just close enough to brush shoulders.“If I told you you’re the best-looking person in this room, would you believe me?”
“No.”
“Shame. I was hoping you’d say ‘thanks’ and ask me to buy you a drink.”
“I already have one.”
Phainon laughs again—more loudly this time. God, this man is sharp. Unimpressed. Effortlessly sexy. And Phainon’s never wanted to ruin someone’s composure more in his life. “You always this difficult,” he murmurs, “or am I just lucky tonight?”
Mydei finally looks at him—really looks.
Their eyes lock, and Phainon swears the air in his lungs gets caught somewhere between inhale and oh, fuck.
There’s no smirk. No blush. Just cool, golden eyes that flicker with something a little dangerous. “Depends,” Mydei says. “You planning on wasting my time?”
Phainon’s grin sharpens to something slow and electric. “Not if you let me take you home. You know, take a spin with all this,” he gestures to himself. "You down?"
A second ticks by. Then another.
Without a word, Mydei's eyes pick up the challenge, like a lion roused from sleep. "And how do you think you'll match me?"
For a moment, Phainon forgets his position. The absolute confidence the stranger has challenging him back is going right to his dick. He catches himself swallowing with his Adam's apple bobbling. Then he smiles sweetly. Mydei’s absolutely got Phainon's gears going now, though. "How will you be able to figure that out for good if you don't come with me?" Then he leans in, his hand sliding casually onto Mydei’s thigh—a warm, firm pressure that says I know what I want, and I’m pretty sure you want it too.
Mydei doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t even look down at the hand. "Alright."
“You got any boundaries you wanna set beforehand?” Phainon asks, voice dipping into that low, velvety tone. The one to signal that his victory can only be achieved by being given willingly.
The answer is fast. Crisp. Like a blade slicing through any illusion of intimacy. “No feelings.”
Phainon’s brow arches, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Aw, that’s cold,” he teases, brushing his thumb along the inside of Mydei’s thigh—deliberately, slowly. “But fair.”
He leans back just a bit, one elbow resting on the bar as he lets the weight of his presence settle. Still cocky. Still relaxed. “Me, personally?” He shrugs. “Don’t ask for seconds. No marks—can’t be caught up in a scandal, y’know?” He flashes that trademark grin, all pearly teeth and shameless confidence. “Wouldn’t look great on the leading driver.”
Mydei rolls his eyes so hard Phainon almost hears it. “God,” he mutters, “you’re insufferable.”
“We good? Need me to sign anything beforehand?” Phainon offers, squeezing his thigh lightly again. Hits him with the beam of his signature wink, the one that makes his fans faint on the spot. “Like an autograph or a no-kissing clause?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Mydei, in fact, doesn't faint. Just finishes off the last of his drink and sets the glass down with a firm clink. Shrugs. “Not like anyone would ask for seconds from you anyway.”
That earns a laugh from Phainon—bright and amused. Oh, he's so not giving up. “Oh? You do realize who you’re talking to, yes?”
Mydei turns to him with that same bored, sharp-edged stare. Voice flat. Dagger-sharp. “Your driving lacks refinement.”
"You wound me," Phainon chuckles, pretending to be disappointed that he can't tell if he’s just insulted his driving or his dick. But at the same time, he’s thrilled by how he’s said it, the way he could say so with an unabashed ego. “C’mon then, pretty boy." He draws close, lips at his ear. "Let’s find out if I can show you my refinement, shall we?”
They slip out of the party like shadows. Phainon is leading with that smug confidence in every step, bouncy and full of energy. Mydei trails behind lazily, just enough to suggest he’s not being led—he’s allowing this.
The night air is cooler than the heat of the club, crisp against Phainon’s skin as he unhooks the helmet from his bike. He turns, holding it out to Mydei. “You don’t look like the kind of guy who wears helmets, but hey—I’d hate to ruin that pretty head of yours.”
Mydei takes it without a word. But the raised brow he throws Phainon says plenty. He observes the bike like one who knows what he's doing and is intimately familiar with the workings of a machine. “Probably doesn't have brakes,” he chuckles. Seems like he's thawing.
"Would you really want that?" Phainon trills. He straddles the bike and starts it with a sharp, growling roar that cuts through the night. “Oh, it has ‘em. Just doesn’t mean I use ‘em.”
Mydei rolls his eyes, but climbs on behind him, arms sliding around his waist. Tightly. Securely.
“Hold on,” Phainon says over his shoulder, voice smug. “I don’t go slow for anyone."
“I got that from watching you nearly crash three times today,” Mydei replies dryly.
“That’s called flair, babe.”
The bike takes off, tires slicing into the night and engine snarling like they’re part of Phainon’s heartbeat. He cuts through corners like they were made for him. Leans into turns so much that they go almost horizontal.
“You always drive like this?” Mydei shouts against the wind.
"What, fast? Dangerous? Sexy?” Phainon fires back. “Yeah, pretty much!”
He feels Mydei’s grip tighten around his waist. "I meant reckless.”
“You’re still holding on though!”
“Only because I don’t wanna die before I ruin you!”
Phainon laughs, a wild and exhilarated trill, the sound stolen by the wind. He tilts his head back slightly. “Oh, so that’s the plan tonight?”
“Thought it was your plan!”
“Mine was mutual destruction. But hey, I can compromise!”
The bike eats the road, city lights blurring past. Phainon’s grinning so hard that his cheeks hurt. Mydei’s pressed against his back, firm and warm and exactly where he wants him. He doesn’t even notice the red light until they’re nearly through it.
“That was red!” Mydei shouts.
“You said no feelings, not no thrill-seeking!”
"You should've let me drive.”
“Babe, you’re not even gonna be walking after tonight. How could I let you drive too?”
Mydei doesn’t respond—but Phainon can feel the amused little snort pressed to his back.
And oh yeah—he’s winning.
The motorbike purrs to a stop in front of his hotel, the engine cooling with a soft tick-tick-tick as he swings his leg over. Mydei’s off behind him, helmet off and blond hair tousled from the wind with his eyes unreadable in the glow of the streetlight.
Neither of them says anything.
They stride inside. The lobby’s quiet. Polished. Sleek. The kind of place that screams “paycheck.” He taps the elevator button with the back of his knuckle. Mydei stands beside him, arms crossed and gaze fixed forward. The doors slide open.
They step in.
Silence.
The doors close with a quiet ding. Phainon moves fast, crowding into Mydei’s space. One hand catches the metal railing, the other slides onto Mydei’s waist, pushing him back—gently, but firmly—against the elevator wall. Their eyes meet for half a second.
Then his mouth is on Mydei’s.
God. It’s so much, so fast—hot, reckless, desperate. Mydei tastes like pomegranate and something sharp beneath it—refusal, pride, challenge. But he melts. There’s no fight, no hesitation. His hands just slide up Phainon’s chest and grab his tank top like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. And when he lets out a soft, needy whine into the kiss—
Phainon’s brain short-circuits.
Oh fuck, that's hot.
His hand slides up Mydei’s side. HIs fingers slip under the leather jacket and grip muscle and heat.
Mydei’s fingers fist in the fabric at his waist. His head tips, opening up to the kiss. He’s pulling Phainon in deeper, closer. The elevator hums under them, numbers climbing slowly, lazily—like it knows. Like it’s giving them time. They break for air, foreheads pressed together, both of them breathing hard.
"You're so hot," he murmurs, voice hoarse with heat.
Mydei blinks, dazed. "Fuck you." He pauses.
Phainon’s laugh is all—low, delighted, dangerous. "You're perfect."
The elevator dings. The doors slide open with a soft chime.
Mydei’s still pressed against the mirrored wall. His chest is rising and falling just a little too fast, lips red and kiss-bitten. Phainon’s close enough to feel the heat off him, to see the faint flush creeping up his neck.
He licks his own lips, grin slow and satisfied. “C’mon,” he murmurs, voice low as he grabs Mydei’s wrist, “you’re not gonna melt in the hallway, are you?”
Mydei doesn’t answer—just lets himself be pulled, like it’s easier than arguing. It is.
Phainon leads him down the hall, sleek walls and dim lighting. Their footsteps are soft against the polished floors. He stops in front of the last door on the right, pressing the key card to the sensor. The lock clicks, green light flashing.
He pushes the door open.
Inside, it’s all glass and skyline—a view that stretches over the glittering city, night spread out like a galaxy beneath them. Cool, expensive, untouched. There are thick curtains for jet leg and privacy, but they're so many floors above the city that they won't need them. Phainon feels a thrill wondering if he’ll be able to see his own reflection in them as he fucks Mydei into the mattress. He quickly kicks the door shut behind them. Doesn't turn on the light, content with how the moon illuminates Mydei's silhouette.
“Shoes off,” he says. He drops his keys on the counter and tosses his helmet somewhere near the couch. “Unless you’re planning on keeping ‘em on. Which—hey, wouldn’t complain. Your boots make you look even sexier.”
He glances back just in time to see Mydei toe off his boots. His leather jacket comes next, peeled away slowly and revealing the clinging black shirt beneath—and those jeans. Those jeans.
Phainon’s throat goes dry. He licks his lips again.
“You always bring strangers home?” Mydei asks, arms crossed again, like he weren’t standing there looking like every fantasy Phainon’s ever had, all at once.
“Only when they look like you.” He closes the space between them fast, one hand catching Mydei’s jaw and the other already sliding around his waist. He loves Mydei's waist, so, so much. He cups it and kisses him again, deeply and greedily—like he hasn’t had a proper taste and gotten hungrier.
Their teeth click once. Neither of them cares.
Phainon presses him against the wall beside the door, hands everywhere—waist, thighs, back under that shirt, just to feel his bare skin under his fingertips. Mydei hooks a leg around his hip and pulls their crotches together. Phainon groans against his mouth at the friction through fabric. Not enough, more... he needs more—
He doesn’t know how they make it to the bedroom.
One minute Mydei’s pinned to the wall, making those quiet little sounds that drive Phainon insane, and the next—Phainon’s kicking open the door to his room, dragging Mydei in by the hips. Their mouths are fused together like they’re trying to win. Mydei's shirt rides up as Phainon grabs his waist. His spine arches just slightly as Phainon kisses down the sharp line of his jaw. And fuck, he's built. Broad chest, tight waist, hips that roll like sin.
“Get on the bed,” Phainon growls.
Mydei raises a brow, all smug like he hasn’t been seconds from whining on the ride over. “You always this bossy?”
"Well, it's you. How could I not? I'm eager."
Mydei—cocky bastard—smirks as he backs up, climbing onto the bed slowly like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Lays back, elbows propped and legs spread just enough. He isn't making up any illusion of why they're both here.
His tight pants are starting to dent, and he's making no move to hide himself at all. It’s filthy.
Phainon’s tank top is gone before he even joins him, jeans kicked off somewhere along the way. He crawls over Mydei like a man possessed, mouth hot on his throat and hands pushing that tight black shirt up and over his head—
“God,” Phainon breathes, “you’re unreal.”
Mydei grabs him by the jaw and pulls him back down into a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, like he's trying to shut him up. Phainon buries his fingers in Mydei's hair and pulls, eliciting a little gasp that he swallows between their lips. Mydei has his hands all over Phainon's body to explore and test. His touch is neither firm nor gentle, fingertips rough and throughout. Probably like the cars he's tinkering on with care. Oh, how Phainon would love to have someone pamper him like that.
Clothes come off in a rush—Mydei's jeans dragged down, fingers hooking into boxers. He shoves everything away until there’s nothing between them but sweat and skin and friction. Mydei’s head is now tipped back, revealing his throat. Phainon presses down fully, chest to chest and hips grinding in just the right way, hard without giving either of them the time to recoup. Just like Phainon drives.
That whine comes back—and fuck, it does things to Phainon.
His gaze locks with Mydei's as he spits on his hand, saliva pooling in his palm. He reaches between them, wrapping his hand around both of their hardening cocks. The friction sends a rush of heat through Phainon. Then he begins to stroke them in unison, his grip firm, hips thrusting with an abandon of any tact or etiquette.
Mydei gasps, his eyes widening as Phainon sets a rhythm. There's something intoxicating about the way Mydei moans—not soft, not controlled.
"Don't stop," Mydei whimpers unabashedly. His breath is coming in short gasps, his hips thrusting into Phainon's hand. Phainon thinks maybe he’s found his new favorite sound.
The way Mydei's body responds only fuels Phainon more. And he leans closer, whispering, "Wasn't planning to, baby."
He quickens his pace, the squelching sounds of his hand sliding up and down echoing obscenely in the room.
"Phainon—fuck—I'm close," Mydei bites back a moan, teeth chewing on his lower lip. His fingers digging into Phainon's arms, urging him on." His moans grow louder, a symphony of pleasure that drives him wild.
“There it is... Damn, you sound so pretty when you forget you’re pretending to hate me.” Phainon says. And with that, Mydei cries out. The sound echoes in the room as his release spills over Phainon's hand. The sight sends him over the edge as he follows suit, their bodies trembling together in the throes of ecstasy. Their hands and stomach are sticky now.
He pulls back, breathless and exhilarated. “You’re already shaking. Thought you were gonna play hard to get.”
Mydei glares, quivering. “I’m not shaking—you're just sloppy.”
"Oh?" Phainon lets go of their dicks and leans forward before he’s kissing down Mydei's chest, voice husky. "Didn't take you for the squirmy type, then."
“Touch me like that again and I’ll make you eat those words.” Mydei hisses through gritted teeth.
Phainon grins against his skin. “Only if I get dessert first, darlin'.”
He continues kissing downward, tongue sweeping over Mydei's abdomen. Then he hikes his legs over his shoulders, mouthing at his inner thigh.
“You’re wasting time—”
Phainon closes his mouth around a spot and sucks. “Nah. I’m taking my time. Wanna see how many times I can get you to whimper before I even put it in.” Their mixed cum is still dripping down Phainon's hand when he traces it delicately down Mydei's body. He lingers at his entrance. Mydei's breath hitches as Phainon slowly eases a finger inside. He wants to feel out that exact spot that'll send jolts of pleasure through him. Phainon grins. Ah, there.
Mydei whines softly. “You’re such a corny—fuck—”
Phainon leans down, voice low in his ear. “You’re gonna think about this every time you see me race now, huh? Bet you’ll be dripping next time you hear my engine.”
Mydei pants, voice hoarse. “You’re delusional.”
“We’ll see.” Phainon adds another finger, scissoring them gently and making sure to stretch him enough. He watches Mydei's face, drinking in the way his expression shifts from over-sensitivity to pure bliss. “Still think I drive like I’m insane?”
“Y-yeah. This confirms it.” Mydei stutters, his voice thick with need. Phainon curls his fingers to hit that sweet spot deep inside him. It makes Mydei convulse in surprise, head withering in the sheets and sweat pearled on his forehead. “Oh? Want me to go slower, then?”
“Don’t you dare.”
"Well, don't blame me when you can't walk tomorrow then, darling." Phainon pulls his fingers out, having deemed Mydei loose enough. "How do you want me?"
Mydei rolls onto his hands and knees, pressing his body into Phainon. Their skin slides together. "Like this."
Phainon's breath quickens at the sight of Mydei’s ass, round and inviting and just begging for attention. Fuck, it's perfect. He shifts behind Mydei, positioning and stroking himself. The heat between them is so much he feels like he might wither on the spot if he can't have him right now. Get inside of him and fuck his hole until they're both seeing stars. "This," he murmurs, his hands gripping Mydei's ass and spreading him open, "is fucking flawless."
Mydei glances back over his shoulder, a scowl on his face. "Then what are you waiting for? I thought you said you fucked like you drove."
"Oh?" With a firm grip, Phainon positions himself, the head of his cock teasing at Mydei’s entrance. Despite his own need, he deliberately does it again. Rubs the tip of his cock against the rim. Draws his fingers over the sensitive skin. He takes a moment to savor the anticipation, the way Mydei’s body instinctively pushes back into his fingers, eager for more. "Someone's impatient."
"Just—get on with it—" Mydei groans with just the slightest, delicious hint of desperation. Phainon pushes forward, sinking into him in one smooth motion. Mydei instinctively clenches around him, his walls so tight and warm and just utterly exquisite.
“There we go. Knew you’d take me so well.” Phainon says as he slides in deeper, making Mydei's back arch to fit him in.
Mydei's half gone, eyes fluttering as the tiniest whine escapes him. “Shut up—”
Phainon shudders, feeling Mydei’s warmth envelop him completely. "You're so damn—tight," he gasps, giving himself a moment to adjust before he begins to move. He sets a slow, deliberate pace. He pulls nearly all the way out before thrusting all the way in, savoring the way Mydei’s body responds to him. Then he starts with quicker, shallower thrusts. “God, look at you—meltin’ for someone you met an hour ago. You’re so hot like this.”
Mydei twitches under him, dazed. “Fuck you—”
Phainon interrupts him with a thrust, making his arms buckle, face dropping straight into the pillow. “Exactly.”
Mydei moans, pushing back against him and meeting each of Phainon’s thrusts with fervor. The world outside fades away, leaving only the two of them. They’re lost in each other, wrapped in a cocoon of euphoric heat and delectable thrill. “Y-you always this greedy?”
Phainon can feel the pressure building within him. Loves the way Mydei's body is tensing when he lays a hand on his spine. When he’s tracing its curve on warm skin. Mm, divine. “Only when it’s this good. You feel that, sweetheart?”
Mydei splutters, hole suddenly twitching around Phainon. “Don’t call me that.”
Phainon ghosts his lips over his ear. “What, sweetheart? Gonna tell me you don’t like it while you’re clenching around me like that?”
“Shut—shut up—” Mydei says, voice cracking.
Phainon grinds in, making him feel it, the scorching paradise they were in. “You sound real convincing with your ass so fucking tight around me.”
Mydei's eyes roll back into his head. His lips are parted, his breath ragged. “Because you won’t shut up—y-you’re full of shit—Phainon—ngh—” his hands clutch the sheets, voice a mere croak. “Harder.”
Phainon obliges, picking up the pace. His voice is dangerously low. “Since you asked so nicely, pretty boy.” Mydei makes a strangled noise at that.
With renewed vigor, Phainon slams into Mydei. He’s unrelenting as their bodies move together. The bed creaks beneath them. The sounds of their bodies colliding frantically are filling the room. It sounds and smells of sex, just how it should be. Phainon’s hands grope Mydei’s ass, guiding him, driving them both closer to the edge. He's barely holding back. The feeling of Mydei's perfect, tight ass squeezing his cock is making him see stars. “You close?” he whispers, his breath hot against Mydei's skin.
Mydei chokes on a gasp, keening. “Nnh—yes—”
He thrusts deeper, watches as Mydei’s face contorts in pleasure. Each thrust is sending him closer to the brink. He hits that sweet spot inside him every time he gets deeper. The way Mydei cries out sends a rush of pleasure through him. “Good. Cum for me. Show me how sweet you sound when you let go, darling.”
Mydei moans wantonly, his body tensing as he reaches his peak. He’s babbling wordlessly, pleasure crashing over him in waves. The whine he lets out, that melodious sound, sends Phainon spiraling over the edge as well.
His heartbeat roars in his ears as he fills Mydei with his warmth, pulse racing. He's lightheaded as he throws his head back and squeezes Mydei's hips. Fireworks explode behind his eyes. He’s intoxicated on the high.
He pulls out, then.
His cock is still shivering slightly from his orgasm as he flops onto his back beside Mydei. He’s flushed and lazily smug, one arm behind his head with the other trailing down his stomach. His chest rises slowly. Satisfied. Full of himself.
Mydei shifts beside him—winces, actually—and sits up, dragging himself to the edge of the bed. No blanket. No shame. His back is to Phainon, shoulders bare and littered with bruises. There's a clear hand print on one thigh. Red. Bruising like a bloom. Gorgeous.
And then there's what's between his thighs.
Phainon watches, heat flickering behind his heavy-lidded eyes as his cum slips down the inside of Mydei’s leg. It’s slick and lazy. Undeniable. It trails all the way down his thigh. Then it catches on the curve of muscle, threatening to drip onto the floor. Claim in motion.
He should probably say something. Instead, he keeps taking in every dip and curve of his body.
Mydei doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t speak. Just sits there with his head bowed. His breaths are steady, but shallow. His hair’s a wreck—golden, tangled, red-tipped strands stuck to the nape of his neck with sweat. His braid’s come undone. His body looks used, worn in, like he’s been thoroughly manhandled.
Because he has been.
Phainon lets out a low breath. Can’t help himself.
“Fuck. You look…” He doesn’t even finish the sentence. Just bites his lip.
Mydei moves to stand and stifles another flinch. His legs don’t quite obey at first. He mutters something under his breath that may be a few expletives. Or Phainon's name.
Either way, it makes Phainon smirk.
“You’re leaking,” he says, far too pleased with himself. He thinks he would prefer it if Mydei muttered his name.
Mydei finally looks over his shoulder. No blush. Just that sharp, cold look. “I know,” he says flatly. Then adds: “You're cleaning your sheets. Not me.”
"Aw, but you decorated them so well!”
A pillow smacks Phainon straight in the face.
He laughs into it, unbothered. Probably turned on. Wraps his arms around it and squeezes. "Y’know," Phainon finally says, voice scratchy both from sex and laughter, "most people at least pretend to cuddle after."
“I’m not most people."
Phainon hums, stretching. “Yeah. Figured that out somewhere between the elevator and the third time you begged.”
Mydei shoots him a look. It’s not quite a glare, not quite flustered. It’s dangerous, though.
“Third time?” he mutters. “Keep talking and you won’t live to see the first.”
What is it with this guy?
"I’m leaving.”
The leather jacket goes on first. His boots. Then the leather jeans—barely buttoned. He just cleans himself up with some paper tissues. Phainon watches how he tosses them into the trash, not making a big fuss. Mydei just cleans his hands in the sink and laces his boots. He walks like if the media were suddenly standing in front of the hotel, there would be no walk of shame to walk.
Phainon amuses himself with a fantasy—what if Mydei wore a red racing suit that clung to his ass like his jeans. What if he were Phainon's competitor, crossing through the tunnel with his helmet under his arm to challenge him? The media would eat up the chemistry they have bantering for fun. In a purely made-up world, in a fantasy, competitors could even be friends. Phainon nearly regrets not making him stay a little longer.
But it's just that—a fantasy.
Mydei's a mechanic. He didn't notice him earlier in the race at all. No one said his name like Phainon's. It wasn't on any of the big flashy screens for as long as he remembers. And he started F1 racing two years ago, after all. Phainon's the only star here. It's lonely on the top by himself. That's exactly why he's picking up hot guys like him to keep him company. So he smiles charmingly. "Bet... bet you’re still feelin’ the results of my driving though. You want a ride home? Could drop you off on the bike." He's a gentleman, after all. Well, maybe a bit of an ass. He grins, "Let the whole city know you spent the night with a winner."
"No, thanks," Mydei says flatly, heading for the door. "Winners... don't drive like maniacs and risk their lives. Break things." Mydei's voice is cold. Somehow, it manages to wound Phainon's ego more than it should. Why's the opinion of some random pretty guy he's had a one-night stand with even bothering him?
"Mydei?"
The man turns around. Phainon doesn't have anything to say. He just wants to see that smoldering amber gaze once more before he is gone, enjoying the way it burns and drowns him like molten gold. His throat is a little dry. His curiosity is getting the better out of him— "And... did you change your mind about my performance on the road?"
"Well," Mydei says, deliberately slow, "only time will tell if you're just a one-season hit wonder or more."
Phainon's expression twitches a little. He's irritated now. How dare he...?!
The door slams shut.
Phainon rolls on his back amidst all the mess, frustrated now. He'll clean up in a moment. The mind image Mydei reminds him of becomes clear now after he's gone: It's like when you're on the podium, you're a king and on the top of the world. But the moment you step down from it, you're nobody again and gotta prepare for the next race, with everyone in your back. The taste of how fleeting glory really is.
He chuckles—then he laughs hysterically, covering his eyes with an arm. He'll shelve this as an adventure and forget about it tomorrow or by the end of the week. There are more press conferences and more races and more hot guys. There'll be plenty of opportunities for Phainon to yank the trophy into the sky and be adored again, after all.