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He feels the moment when Phainon’s eyes land on him almost instantly.

Their boy-saviour had changed after his ascension to godhood, though if asked to explain, Mydei would be hard-pressed to say exactly how. In terms of appearance and demeanor, Phainon is just the same as ever, nauseatingly bright and noble as before he had left, but his savior aura seems to have doubled in size. When previously, he stood out in any crowd he was part of, now he positively dazzled, drawing people toward the light he radiated almost effortlessly.

Mydei supposes it is a natural consequence of inheriting the Coreflame of a Titan, and he should not find it so strange. After all, even he had undergone a change when he’d become the new god of Strife, so this was possibly just him comparing the Phainon he knew as a human with the one growing into his divinity.

And yet.

It niggles in the back of his mind, especially when he is not occupied enough to dismiss it as inconsequential. There is a palpable gravity to Phainon’s presence that has the hair on the back of his neck standing, alert and wary like something is coming his way that he needs to stand his ground against. But that’s a feeling that belongs on the battlefield, to be wielded against the foes of men and not against this man who has stood by his side ever since his exile and whom he’d fought most of the Flame Chase with.

There’s no actual cause for his wariness.

He tells himself this as he pushes his doubts aside, returning Phainon’s gaze as evenly as he ever has. He dislikes feeling so uncertain, so he addresses his uneasiness with the same blunt frankness he has become famous for as the other approaches him.

“What do you want?”

The question pulls a smile on the other’s face, one that turns his eyes into charming crescents. It would be pleasant if it were not so overly done. The hero of Aedes Elysiae likes to pretend to perfection, but Mydei knows him well enough to recognize where that mask thins and falls apart. He glares, unimpressed with these games.

“Surely, I am allowed to visit my friend during my hours of leisure?”

He snorts.

“You have no such thing. The Eternal City has more problems than even five demigods can handle. If you need me for something, spit it out and stop wasting my time and yours.”

Laughter rings through the Garden of Life like a bell, and if the others weren’t staring before, they definitely are now, drawn in by the sound of a living god’s amusement.

“The last Kremnos heir should be known not only for his strength but for his shrewdness, too, it seems.” Patiently, he waits for Mydei to reach his side, and beckons him to join him for a walk towards the training grounds.

“There is actually something which your presence can help me with.”

Phainon knows about Mydei’s wariness.

Castrum Kremnos’ prince has never been stupid, contrary to what the citizens might feel about his brutishness, and he has a more finely tuned sense of danger than most. That sense has served Mydei well through the years, and it is even rather warranted in this situation, given that Phainon’s regard as of late has neither been completely benign nor completely . . . friendly.

If this had happened a few weeks ago, his former self might have been more bothered. He would have locked himself in his room and angsted about the ethics of it all, whether his desires were just and right and good . But there is something about carrying the flame of the Worldbearer that has brought shame down as a lesser concern.

Now, what clouds his mind is a hunger and thirst that burns like no other.

It heats his blood, and no matter what he does, it never completely goes away. He has little need for sleep or rest, and cannot tire himself out through work or training like he used to. Every day, the feeling keeps growing, and he is beginning to have trouble keeping it hidden from everyone else, seething as it does beneath his skin. Sometimes, just the sight of a bare neck will drive his insanity higher, urging him to claim, to own, to bite and to seed – 

And never is the urge more untamed as when he is in the presence of the Strife bearer. His friend carries himself like a warrior but is dressed as shamelessly as a whore. One wayward touch and his chiton would fall off completely his shoulder, revealing more skin for all to behold, red on white and pink where his nipples peak out and– 

He breathes deeply through his nose, trying to calm himself.

Definitely, Aglaea has noticed. Very little escapes her gaze, and having ascended earlier than he has, she has an inkling of what he is going through.

She corners him eventually in the Vortex and says as much.

“Coreflames change all of us, in ways that differ amongst the heirs. There is no denying the new nature of your being at this point, nor the . . . compulsions it is causing.”

He tilts his head in thought, considering her words and what she might possibly be trying to tell him, underneath the polite veneer of her diplomacy.

“What would you have me do then, Goldweaver?”

She does not look at him when she speaks, facing instead the constellations that decorate the sky of Genesis.

“Of all the Chrysos Heirs, Mydeimos is the one called the Undying. He can withstand more than all the other demigods combined, an immensity whose heights are exponentially aggravated by his immortality. It is both a curse and blessing, yet more than that, it is also rather fitting, wouldn’t you say?”

This time she turns to face him directly, as if to gauge his reaction to her next words.

“Your desires will not kill him, Phainon.” 

Gently, she runs her fingers around the rim of the Tidal Fountain.

“Perhaps, this makes him the most well-suited person for the things you require. It is almost as if he was destined to be the subject of your intentions, no?”

He keeps silent, but her words cause a flurry of images to jump to the forefront of his thoughts. Mydei bound helpless, stretched open to receive his attention, unable to escape but also unable to surrender. Mydei struggling valiantly against both pleasure and pain, caught between his lips, teeth, tongue, and phallus. Mydei accepting defeat at his hands, but only after being brought sweetly low hundreds of times, Phainon’s triumph painted inside and outside his body as undeniable proof. Or Mydei gasping in front of civilians, taken publicly by the chosen god of Okhema, struggling to keep his dignity and losing it spectacularly. Phainon imagines stretching Mydei’s legs open for that one and taking him on his lap, so everyone can see clearly where he was desecrating the most secret places of his body. He would spread him like the finest fare in the banquet halls of the Court of Seasons, or bounce him clean under the golden water of the Hero’s Baths, take him whenever the desire arose and cement his claim on this man over and over again to be witnessed by all.

Could he make the lion-prince weep perhaps, drawn to the edge of endurance? He cannot imagine anyone else having dared try; no mortal could ever hope to withstand the might of Kremnos’ most powerful heir.

But a god can.

In him, the Coreflame blazes, boiling his blood at the mere idea of such a possession.

Make him bear your child.

A vision accosts him at that thought, almost violently. Milk spilling from Mydei’s breasts, nipples enlarged and peaked like ripe fruit, with his belly swollen from carrying a child in his womb. A child Phainon puts there, safe and warm in the strongest existing body in all of Amphoreus. He can see himself drinking from that generous fountain, mouth drawing ambrosia drop by drop from the source with careful attention. That isn't impossible, his mind continues to whisper. He can make this dream happen. He is a Titan of Creation, after all. Such things are part of his dominion.

He only needs to figure out how to start, and the rest will follow.

“Lady Aglaea has given me much to think about, as always.”

He thinks some more even as he departs from the Vortex, but it would be a lie if he said he is considering any other option than complete domination.

After weeks of searching through the remaining ancient texts they'd saved from the Grove, an answer finally reveals itself to Phainon, in the surprising form of a minor history of alchemy. Tucked away in a barely legible footnote, was a story of a plague that had apparently ravaged a small town during the early years of Era Chrysea. Alchemists had needed to figure out how to replenish a population all but decimated by a sudden sickness, and the historian was tracking all the different experiments that had been conducted to solve the problem. 

One of the solutions, of all things, was body modification, with the help of a small stone that had been found capable of slowly altering the body of its wearer to express more . . . feminine traits. Once the chest started to express milk, conception was never far behind. However, the alchemists were lamenting over the inefficiency of harvesting the necessary materials. In particular, the stone needed to be mined from the deepest river in Styxia, a feat which would instantly kill any mortal who dares venture into its depths. The body modification plan was eventually discarded for another kind of health serum, but Phainon did not care about that.

He was, after all, no mortal, and he did not need to change the bodies of half a population. He only needed to alter the body of one person, and rivers in Styxia were not something he was afraid of. He departed almost immediately, and found the stone easily enough. They glowed with a muted milk white color in the darkest parts of the river bed, glinting lazily amongst the fish and animal bones they were at home with. The stones were also plentiful and easy to gather, so by the time he arrives back in Okhema, he is carrying more than enough of them to change Mydei into a buxom-bossomed lass until the next era.

This was the easy part of his plan though. The hard part was to place any of the stones near Mydei’s body for prolonged periods of time.

“What do you say about slightly changing the rules of our little spars?”

Mydei easily catches the gauntlets Phainon tosses at him and shrugs a shoulder at his question. A change in the rules hardly mattered. Winning is winning, and as long as the fight remained fair, he did not care to think about such things.

“What do you have in mind?”

The Deliverer swings his claymore like a toy around his head. Another thing that had changed about Phainon was the casual strength he now bore in doing almost anything he struggled with previously. Where once he needed to exert some effort, now nothing looked difficult for him to do, something which caught Mydei’s eye more and more each day.

It is . . . strange, but again, it was not something worth dwelling on.

“We start our count back to zero. But after every win, the loser must do something for the winner in turn.”

This has Mydei narrowing his eyes.

“What kinds of things? I refuse to do anything degrading or humiliating, Deliverer.”

Phainon laughs softly at his response. “Would you like to set any limits regarding the winner’s demands?”

“No task that requires a public audience to be completed. Again, nothing disgraceful to either party’s reputations. Nothing that Aglaea will have to berate us for.” Mydei racked his brain for any kind of loop hole that he should be wary of, especially when it came to things Phainon could possibly request. Strangely enough, nothing came to mind, but he still feels a tiny gnawing doubt he does not usually like to ignore. While theoretically, there was no loss that Mydei could not turn into victory at some point, he has also learned the hard way that letting Phainon loose with his schemes always invited more trouble than he was willing to handle.

“Is that a tinge of fear I hear in the Strife Bearer’s voice?”

While jokingly said, the statement shut down any of his doubts at lightning speed. 

He scoffs. Loudly.

“Hardly. I accept your new terms, Deliverer, as long as my conditions are met.” When Phainon nods his agreement, Mydei brandishes his spear and points it at his rival, ready to spar and burn off some energy. “Are you ready to lose?”

A smile meets him across the training grounds, wide and happy, but there is something unusual in Phainon’s expression that almost makes Mydei frown. For a split second, it was like there was someone else watching him from behind his friend’s eyes, old and calculating in its patience. It disappears in a blink as Phainon tilts his head and lets out a laugh.

“I’m ready when you are.”

Mydei wins that spar, but it’s not long after when he loses. It’s not a surprise, really. Phainon is as much an equal as he can ask for at this point. Strangely though, instead of requesting his usual treats (books, favorite fruits, meals, inane trophies, things that Mydei has come to associate with Phainon), the Deliverer had started asking him to wear . . . jewelry.

Trinkets large and small, all with the same pearl-like stone set inside a golden moon. First, it was a pair of earrings, then his necklace was replaced with one matching the former. Then a pair of light anklets, followed by bracelets and rings of all sizes. By Phainon’s tenth win, Mydei is dripping from head to toe with his gifts, encircling him in a veritable net of pale cream and fine gold. No one has commented on them, given they look rather similar to his old jewelry, but still. 

“Deliverer, what is it with your fascination with covering me in these baubles,” he exhales almost exasperatedly, as Phainon slips another ring onto his left hand on the eve of his twelfth win.

Another innocent smile greets him, but the hand sliding the ring up his finger does not ease, only tightens its hold, like a wolf clamping down on struggling prey.

“I found them at the market and thought you would look good in them. Don’t you like them?”

The don't look bad, but that was hardly Mydei's point.

The more jewelry he wears, the heavier Phainon’s attention becomes. At this point, he barely leaves Mydei’s side, almost always within touching distance, and always a shade closer than usual, but Mydei finds he does not quite . . . mind it. The Deliverer’s heat is something he’s come to expect, and after weeks and weeks of being so close, he has also come to search for it at times, fueling a burning desire in his gut he is finding harder to ignore the more his inevitable losses pile up. He is touched casually, accidentally, on his shoulders, waist, arms, and whatever place Phainon brushes up against in their close proximity. Slowly, he starts to tingle each time, like a bell lightly struck, and it takes all his willpower to keep from reacting physically.

The heat builds hotter and hotter as the days go by, devouring Mydei from the inside. Was this another change caused by godhood? These unrelenting urges? He tries to control himself, he tries to ease his bodily discomfort every night with fingers and any toys he can get his hands on, but all to no avail. He lays awake, gasping and turning and unrelieved, naked in his bed except for Phainon’s gifts kissing each inch of skin they touch.

Which is how, on Phainon’s sixteenth win and their twenty-fifth spar, Mydei finds himself barely holding upright as the Deliverer unclasps his leg armor, the latter on his knees as he pulls off the gauntlets one by one. 

“Here,” he whispers, as he takes out a delicate golden chain laced with more of those white stones from his pockets. “I want to place something on you here,” he says, at the widest part of his bare thigh. Any higher and Phainon’s nose will meet his groin.

Mydei clenches his fists and tries not to fall apart. He is a man of his word, he tells himself. He has never reneged on any agreement he has given, no matter the consequences to himself.

“Just get on with it, hks,” he manages to spit out, and the Deliverer obeys, sliding the delicate chain up his shin, going higher and higher up the muscle until it can go no further, wrapped snuggly around him like the garter of a newlywed. Mydei trembles violently when a kiss is planted delicately over it, and like a dam breaking, that’s all the permission Phainon needs for his mouth to move up that last crucial stretch and swallow him alive through his underwear. 

After that, their spars become more sexual, and become increasingly depraved. 

On some days, they never make it to the training grounds. They have taken to testing each other in bed, a new kind of sparring that has them both grappling against each other in new ways. Mydei allows himself to be wrecked, sometimes welcomes it even, and every time Phainon pulls more orgasms from him than the other way around, another piece is added to his already jewelry-laden body. 

He is still shuddering from sensitivity when Phainon clamps a new pair of rings on to him, this time on his nipples. More white stones, this time, shaped like tiny drops that sway delicately with every breath he takes. When Mydei looks at the mirror, his mouth almost falls open. It looks like he is dripping, as if he is–

“You utter fool, what the hell is–!?”

His protest is cut off when he looks at Phainon. He is staring at his chest, dead-eyed and laser-focused on his handiwork. He is hearing absolutely nothing of Mydei’s protests.

Mydei is about to punch him in the shoulder when Phainon suddenly pounces, rolling on top of him like a giant dog. A gasp is dragged out of him as a mouth closes over one of his nipples alongside its new ornament. Mydei’s chest is suckled and devoured like ripe fruit, feasted on by a hungry god whose appetite is as immense as the world he is said to carry. He tries to resist, to push Phainon off to at least get a little room to breathe, but the Deliverer is immovable, using his newfound strength to trap his wrists above his head with ease. He tries to buck against him instead, but that does nothing but push more of his flesh into Phainon's greedy mouth, pleasuring him even further until he is brought low by the very body he has honed to fight.

By the time the Worldbearer is done, both his nipples are swollen, so flushed and plump atop his chest that any slight breath of air has him shivering with sensation.

“Don’t take them off,” Phainon mumbles into his chest before falling asleep, still nuzzling after his body even after he's practically made a meal of him the past few hours. Mydei has to wear a higher chiton the next day. His body after Phainon's attention is indecent; it advertises exactly what was done to him the night previous. That the rings remain on his chest is something he refuses to explain, even to himself.

Phainon is not deterred by his change in attire. In fact, it only seems to inflame him more, knowing that Mydei has had to change his clothes because of his actions. 

Now, he does not wait for either of them to be in their bedrooms to accost Mydei. Right before a meeting, or even when they accidentally cross each other’s paths in the middle of the day, he will drag him behind a set of curtains, or into any nearby darkened corridor, and play the most indecent game of hide-and-seek with his chest. Though the prince’s neckline is higher now, it still only takes a slight nudge to expose his nipples to the world, and Phainon relishes drawing his chiton to the side to expose the swell of his breasts without having to take off Mydei’s top. He then takes every opportunity to play with his lover’s new buds, ducking his head and aggressively suckling on them for a few minutes, like he is about to die of thirst if he does not suck with all his might, only to right the chiton back on like nothing had happened, leaving the prince on the precipice of arousal for the rest of the day.

It is driving Mydeimos insane. He cannot get a moment’s peace, and his chest is becoming more and more engorged with each passing day. There is now a noticeable plumpness forming on top of his muscles, and when before, his nipples were only the size of pomegranate seeds, now they were like small cherries, obscene in proportion and color because of his lover’s continuous affections. Phainon has taken to fucking him on his back just so that he has easier access to them, mauling them even when he is skewering Mydei’s body with his length. Sometimes he will pull at them with his teeth until Mydei has no choice but to scream into the back of his hands, which Phainon enjoys doing over and over until his lover is hoarse and thrashing from overstimulation. He apologizes by cumming in Mydei's body and painting his insides as white as the stones of his gifted jewelry.

On Phainon’s forty-fifth win, almost a year since he and Mydei changed the rules of their sparring sessions, Mydei starts to drip milk. He also develops a third hole, one connected to a newly formed womb care of all of Phainon’s efforts the past few months, not that he is aware of the Worldbearer’s hand in his body’s changes.

Once the chest starts to express milk, conception is never far behind.

The phrase from the book repeats over and over again in his head as Mydei writhes on top of him, glowing in his arousal and draped from head to foot with all of Phainon’s gifts, a landscape of golds, creams, and blushing reds. The folds of his new labia stare shyly at him from between his legs, glistening with need as it wets the member it is sliding against, teasing him with juicy slick that is eroding all of Phainon's hard-won control to dust.

He is a sight to behold, the bearer of Phainon’s coming child. His chest has grown so much they now fill his palms when he cups them, soft and tender handfuls just right for squeezing. Now they are tipped milky white, fresh berries dipped in sweet cream, and as Phainon impales Mydei on his lap—slowly, thoroughly, and irrevocably claimed—he takes the time to knead these mounds he’s so carefully tended to draw more nectar to the surface. Mydei’s body obeys diligently, trained to respond to even the lightest of his touches by now, spilling liquid over his hand in little trickles. Together, they create a bounce that draws more gasps from the prince's changed body, a rhythm that proclaims Phainon's triumph like a victory march.

“What have you done to me, Deliverer,” Mydei moans even when his head is thrown back in ecstasy. Phainon does not respond, too busy milking his perfect bearer’s chest even as his pussy milks him down below in turn, virginal no more, the prince's tight heat massaging his length for its own desired sustenance. The Strife God is riding him sluggishly, lost to the feeling of being penetrated in this new way, then leaning forward so that one breast is hanging generously close to Phainon's mouth.

He does not deny his lover. Why should he? This is all that he has been working to achieve for more than a year. He takes the offered bud and envelops even the areola in his mouth, drinking the ambrosia he has worked so hard to help make. It’s delicious--thick and sweet as dessert--and makes him even harder inside Mydei, who responds by convulsing even more around him.

Seed him, the voice in him ravenously urges. Seed him now and it will take.

Mydei's pussy pulses around him, his fertile body only in want of a good sowing, a good tilling, in order to catch and provide its blessed harvest. Phainon obliges, he plows into his lover's velvet walls like a man possessed. His makes sure to ravage all of Mydei's weak spots with every thrust, turning his prince into a frantic overstimulated wreck. When he tries to crawl away, Phainon punishes him with even more sensation, until he is a thrashing mess trapped solidly by his lover's body, unable to do anything but accept. 

When the Worldbearer finally bursts like a summer storm, his come leaves his body in thick waves. He imagines his spend bullying its way into every crevice it can reach, searching for the core of the fruit that will enliven Mydei's body, and he helps them along as best as he can by refusing to pull out, stoppering the entrance so they have the best chance to reach their goal.

Over and over he does this, until Mydei is overflowing despite his intentions. On every surface and every wall, every position is explored to the best of their godly abilities. Together they will make life, he is sure of it. He’s already sent word to Aglaea than both he and Mydei will be unavailable for a week. In seven days, Mydei will leave this room with Phainon’s heir growing in his womb, but Phainon is not one to leave anything to chance and will exert every effort to make sure his desires come true.

He wants to make a new generation of Chrysos Heirs with this man. And based on the way Mydei is meeting his every thrust, the Strife God is more than a willing participant in his own impregnation. Mydei is rotating his hips even as he tries to stay awake, massaging Phainon's cock so that he barely goes soft inside him, his jewels swaying in time with his hips like a transparent veil hiding nothing from his eyes.

He whispers sweet promises into Mydei’s ear as he shoots another thick load into him, and for the rest of the coming days, continues to fill his prince to the brim with as much divine life as his body can bear.

Life bursts forth.