✨

Phainon grips your hips, his palms slick, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin just above the bone. He can feel the heat radiating from you, the faint tremor in your legs. He pushes in, a slow, deliberate slide, and hums in appreciation. The tight, wet heat of you… God, he’s dreamed of this. For years. He’s dreamed of this exact feeling, of being inside you, the person he knows better than anyone.

But he’s not alone.

He lifts his head, blinking sweat from his eyelashes. Your hair is fanned out over Mydei’s lap.

Phainon watches, mesmerised with a creeping sense of wrongness, as Mydei’s long, elegant fingers card through the strands. It’s not a rough, demanding grip, more of a slow, proprietary stroke. His thumb moves from your hairline to trace a lazy circle on your temple, a gesture so offensively gentle, it makes Phainon’s stomach clench.

You let out a half-moan, half-gasp, muffled against Mydei’s thigh. Phainon feels the answering, involuntary pulse of your cunt around him.

He wants—no, needs—to be the only one making you feel that. He leans down, pressing his mouth to the damp curve of your shoulder blade, tasting the salt and the faint, floral scent of your lotion. He wants to mark you, to bite down, to leave a trace of him that Mydei will have to see later.

He resists. Barely.

Instead, he redirects the impulse, pushing deeper, trying to find a rhythm that is his alone. He’s the one doing the work, he reminds himself. He’s the one whose cock is buried inside you. Mydei is just a pillow. A prop.

Mydei moves his other hand, settling it on your hip, right next to Phainon’s. His fingers splay wide, and the tip of his ring finger deliberately brushes against Phainon’s knuckle.

Phainon’s rhythm stutters. He freezes, holding himself deep inside you, and glares.

Mydei is watching him. His dark eyes are half-lidded, his expression infuriatingly calm. There’s no smirk, no overt challenge. Just a quiet, intense observation. Mydei’s gaze is clinical, assessing Phainon’s rhythm, his grip, his sweat. Phainon reads the unspoken message: She is on my lap. She came to my bed. You are here because I’m allowing it.

A hot, ugly wave of jealousy surges through Phainon. He’s known you since you were kids building forts out of couch cushions. He’s held your hair back when you were sick, he’s listened to you cry over idiot boyfriends, he’s been the one constant. Mydei is… Mydei. A few months of witty banter and shared cigarettes on your fire escape.

How dare he look at Phainon like he’s the intruder?

Mydei’s gaze drops, just for a second, to the point where Phainon’s cock drives into your hole.

Oh.

The realisation is a spike of dark, vicious triumph that cuts through the anger. He feels it, too. Mydei has to sit there, a passive observer. He has to feel your pleasure against his skin, feel the tremors Phainon is causing, but he has to watch. He has to watch your oldest, closest friend be the one to sink into you, to take you, to make you unravel. He’s jealous. He’s just as jealous as Phainon.

Phainon feels a savage smile pull at his lips, a smirk he knows looks feral. “Like the view?” he rasps, low, meant for Mydei alone.

Mydei doesn’t answer. He exhales slowly, before tilting his chin up just enough to meet Phainon’s stare. His fingers curl tighter in your hair—your hair, the same strands Phainon has tugged at to annoy you a hundred times—and drags your head back, forcing your throat into an arched line.

Phainon’s cock twitches inside you.

“I asked you a question,” he says, snapping his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. His grip on your waist tightens, fingertips pressing into your skin. You whimper, and the sound makes him dizzy.

Mydei’s mouth quirks—finally, a reaction. But it’s not the satisfaction Phainon wants. It’s amusement.

“She looks good on my lap,” Mydei says, swiping his thumb over your parted lips. “But she takes you so fucking well. Like she was made for it.”

Phainon’s breath catches. He wants to punch him. You shift, pressing your ass back against him, and his thoughts scatter. Your cunt clenches around him, wet and greedy, your body begging for more.

“Go on,” Mydei taunts. “You want to show me who she belongs to, don’t you?”

Phainon snarls and pulls back, dragging his cock almost all the way out before slamming in again. You cry out, shuddering, your fingers digging into Mydei’s thighs. Your gasps are ragged, muffled against Mydei’s thigh, but it’s Mydei’s stifled groan that sends heat crackling down Phainon’s spine. He watches, teeth bared, as your body jolts with each thrust—watches the way Mydei’s jaw clenches when you whimper, the way his cock strains against the fabric of his pants.

The bastard is aching.

Phainon’s hand leaves your hip, fingers slick with sweat and your arousal, and drags down Mydei’s chest. He doesn’t ask. His palm presses flat against the hard line of Mydei’s cock, and the sharp intake of breath he earns is more satisfying than any taunt.

“That’s it,” Phainon says, working the button of Mydei’s pants open roughly. “Let’s see how long you last just watching.”

Mydei’s cock springs free, thick and flushed, and Phainon wastes no time wrapping his fingers around it. He strokes him in time with his own thrusts, thumb smearing precum over the head, twisting just to hear the way Mydei’s breath hitches.

You’re writhing between them now, oversensitive and trembling, but Phainon doesn’t slow. He fucks you through it, his grip on Mydei ruthless, his voice a low snarl against your ear. 

“Look at him,” he orders. “Look how much he wants you—how much he needs this.”

Mydei’s fingers tighten in your hair, his hips jerking into Phainon’s fist.

“Are you looking?” Phainon rasps into your ear. Trembling, you lift your head and nod.

Phainon’s grip on Mydei’s cock tightens, his thumb pressing into the leaking slit as he drags his fist down. Mydei exhales sharply. His free hand fists in the sheets, the tendons in his forearm standing taut as Phainon works him relentlessly, matching every snap of his hips into your trembling body. You arch, trying to catch your breath, but Phainon’s other hand pins your hip down, keeping you in place.

“Fuck—” Mydei chokes out. His head drops back, eyes squeezing shut for a second before he forces them open, gaze locked onto where Phainon’s cock disappears into you.

Phainon grins. “That’s right. Watch me fuck her.” He punctuates the words with a twist of his wrist, thumb circling the swollen head of Mydei’s cock. “Watch how she shakes for me.”

You whine, and Phainon slows down, just a little. He doesn’t let Mydei look away, though, pumping his cock until the other man’s breath comes in ragged gasps. When Mydei’s hips jerk, seeking more friction, Phainon yanks him closer with a rough tug, dragging him back.

“You want to come?” Phainon taunts. His thrusts turn uneven, his own control fraying.

Mydei’s hips jerk, a useless, involuntary buck against Phainon’s hand, a reflex of pleasure he’s clearly trying to deny. He doesn’t answer. His eyes—those infuriatingly calm, assessing eyes that have been a thorn in Phainon’s side for months—are finally, finally undone. They’re hazy, pupils blown wide and dark. They’re locked on Phainon’s.

It’s the most satisfying thing Phainon has ever witnessed.

The air in the bedroom smells of the three of you—of sweat; your floral lotion, now warmed and musky; and of arousal. The only sounds are your ragged, broken whimpers, muffled against the fabric covering Mydei’s thigh, the wet, relentless slide of Phainon’s body over yours, and the harsh, slick drag of his palm over Mydei’s length. 

“Answer me,” Phainon demands. He rolls his hips, his knuckles grinding against Mydei’s pubic bone. He’s not just fucking you; he’s fucking at Mydei. He’s proving, with every inch of his cock, that he’s the one buried inside you, the one setting the pace, the one in absolute control.

You cry out, broken moans escaping your lips. Your whole body tightens around him. He feels your walls flutter around his cock, squeezing. So close. Phainon’s carefully hoarded control, his arrogant plan to draw this out and punish Mydei, snaps.

“Look at her,” Phainon says. “She’s so close. She’s going to come for me, Mydei. Right here. On your lap, while you just sit there and watch.”

The jab hits home. Mydei’s hand—the one that had been fisted uselessly in the bedsheets, knuckles white—lashes out. His fingers find your ankle, wrapping around the bone. She’s still on my lap. She’s still touching me. She is still mine to hold.

Hot, ugly, glorious fury strikes through Phainon once more. This wasn’t part of his victory. He was the one touching you. He was the one touching Mydei. Mydei was the passive observer, the prop, the audience. He wasn’t allowed to touch back. 

Phainon pulls himself out and thrusts his cock back in, up till the hilt, until you cry out against Mydei’s skin. Your walls clench and pulse around him, a sweet, greedy milking that wrings a groan from his own chest. Your back arches, lifting you almost completely off Mydei’s lap, your body held in place only by Phainon’s bruising grip on your hips and Mydei’s desperate, white-knuckled hold on your ankle.

The sight of your climax is what melts Mydei’s sardonic mask completely. He groans, hips slamming up into Phainon’s fist. His eyes squeeze shut, his mouth falling slack, as he comes against Phainon’s fingers. He’s lost. Phainon made him lose.

Phainon doesn’t stop, chasing his own release. He buries his cock inside you with one final thrust, and comes inside you, his body shuddering, his victory absolute. He’s won. He’s taken you.

His legs are shaking. He collapses, his full weight coming down onto your back, pressing you down into Mydei’s chest, his forehead resting on your damp, slick skin. He can feel your pulse, a frantic rabbit-beat against your neck. His hand is still clamped around Mydei’s length, sticky and cooling. His cock is still buried deep inside you, softening.

Slowly, sluggishly, he lifts his head.

Crawling away from the both of you, he leans back against the headboard, breathing heavily, before stroking your hair near your temple, a mimic of Mydei’s actions from earlier. 

He’s made a mess. He’d be a really bad best friend if he didn’t clean it up, and Mydei, stoic as ever, ought to help. He’d watched, after all. He’d found pleasure in the sight. 

There’s something about it, something that twists inside Phainon’s chest, hot and insidious. But he bottles it up, and, instead, concedes defeat to Mydei for this one simple thing: taking care of you. 

“I’ll be back,” he tells the other man. “Please make sure she’s okay.”

Mydei nods, and with that simple confirmation, Phainon swings his legs over the bed and pads over to the bathroom to find a towel to clean you up with.