Archive of Our Own ^beta

The physiology of interpreting sound is simple.

“Be quiet and listen. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Sound is transmitted as waves of pressure as vibrations that propagate in longitudinal waves, displacing molecules and generating regions of compression and rarefaction that reach the outer ear.

“You promised to be good for me. What happened to that?”

The pinna funnels that kinetic energy straight into the auditory canal, directing it toward the tympanic membrane; as the pressure fluctuates, the membrane vibrates in response.

“Look at you. You’re already shaking, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

These oscillations are transferred through the ossicles, which are the smallest bones in the human body; then, they relay that signal over to the cochlea. Within the cochlea, fluid displacement causes the basilar membrane to shift, stimulating the organ of Corti.

“Is that all it takes? A few words and you’re already trembling?”

Each deflection of these mechanoreceptors convert the kinetic energy into a graded electrical potential; if the voltage threshold is met at negative fifty-five millivolts, auditory neurons fire action potentials that travel along the cochlear nerve.

“Don’t pretend this doesn’t turn you on.”

These impulses travel via saltatory conduction along myelinated axons, leaping from node to node with efficiency. From there, they’re relayed to the thalamus, and finally, to the primary auditory cortex in the temporal lobe.

“C’mon, use your words. Tell me what you need.”

It is here that frequency and pitch are analyzed, constructing meaning in Wernicke’s area as the limbic system assigns emotional valence.

These emotions include, but are not limited to: elation, anger, fear—

“Good boy.”

—and desire.

— ✦ —

A click of a button. A hum of silence. The playback ends.

Phainon is standing completely still in the booth, headphones sliding down around his neck like a noose he hadn’t noticed tightening. There’s a too-loud buzz in his ears. It’s not the shrill tinnitus that sometimes whines in his ears and lingers painfully in his brain after bad equipment tests. No. This is much, much worse. It’s far more visceral.

It’s him.

It’s his own body, his pulse, staccato and stupid. The noise is obnoxious in the way it’s reverberating through his chest as if someone had hit a tuning fork and decided to lodge it right behind his ribs.

Through the soundproof glass, someone waves. One of the engineers gives him a thumbs up, indicating the signal for readiness.

He nods. Cool. Calm. Professional. His body obeys out of habit, but his brain has already begun defecting due to the completely mind-melting moans he heard just moments prior. Despite his attempts at remaining totally chill, he can’t help but note that the booth feels ten times warmer than it did five minutes ago. There’s sweat gathering at the small of his back, under his collar, under the stupid foam padding of the headphones that now sat heavy on his ears.

The screen blinks to life:

[ VOICE TALENT B - PHAINON: SESSION PRELOAD COMPLETE. ]

Phainon looks at the script displayed on the monitor before him, trying to focus his eyes. The white text seems like it's melting at the edges and reassembling itself to taunt him with something more illegible.

He can still hear that voice.

It’s fucking with him.

The weight in his chest feels heavier now, like somehow, something within him had absorbed the weight of every single syllable that stupid Voice Talent A had dripped down his spine and into his ear like hot wax. His fingers twitch where they rest by his side, flexing his palms as if to rid himself of the sweat building at an alarmingly fast rate.

His ears are still ringing from the way that the voice in his ears had sunk into his brain and into the back of his skull like it belonged there, unyielding in its intimacy.

He shifts his weight, trying to subtly move one foot. As if the action could help him breathe better, pretend he’s relaxed. Pretend he’s not vibrating like a wire drawn taut under tension. Maybe if he stands a little differently, the techs won’t hear the buzz of his pulse like he can.

Anaxa’s flat voice chips through the intercom. “Alright, Talent B, ready for sync on line seven.”

The director doesn’t know what he’s asking.

Line seven is a groan; a slow, breathy one. Part shock and part pleasure. It’s not merely ambient filler, either. No, it’s intended to be layered directly under Mydeimos’ last line: “Good boy.”

Phainon exhales like a man walking into his own execution. This was supposed to be a simple gacha game gig. Some throwaway fantasy-themed dungeon crawler with steamy lines and the potential to draw in a fanbase equally as degenerate. He’s done them before.

It’s just a game, he tells himself, another gig. You’ve done worse.

Hell, he’s done much worse. Groans, spit play, and even a fully narrated choke kink scene for a different game’s limited-time SSR character. It was all part of the job. He knew the beats. What this kind of work entailed.

He just didn't know that Mydeimos would be the other lead. Or that he’d sound like that. The way his voice sounded low in his ears, like a knife hovering across your bare throat in a way that was simultaneously enthralling and dangerous.

Anaxa’s voice crackles again. “We’ll go on the beep.”

A beat. A two-toned chime. Red light.

He leans into the mic and moans.

It’s awful. Awful.

He groans the kind of half-assed, stilted breath that actors record when they don’t want to commit. A sound so painfully awkward and mechanical that he can practically feel everyone else’s second-hand embarrassment. It’s the noise of someone imitating sex noises without engaging with the obscene, perverted aspect of it that makes it feel real.

The intercom clicks alive again. “Hold, sorry. Let’s try that again; a bit softer, like you’re giving in.”

Giving in.

Right. Cool. Fine. Love that for him. Yay!

He tries again, opting to tilt his chin down this time. Opens his mouth and lets his breath hitch a little, letting the groan come out rougher, throatier. Rounds out the sound by lifting his tongue slightly, allowing himself to relax into the role. He doesn’t sound like a porn-star, not by any means, but the sound manages to come out a little more organic, a little messier.

Phainon tries not to imagine Mydeimos’ voice tying their lines together in real time. He tries not to imagine the way the game’s audio layers will press their lines together. One voice atop the other, their erotic sounds mixing, and shit, maybe if he could get his hands on the audio file before its release he could—pause. Let’s not go there right now.

Focus, focus.

His eyes shift to the next line. He adjusts the mic stand with trembling fingers.

“Ah—yes, just like that—”

Still slightly scatter-brained, Phainon doesn’t even make it through cleanly. His voice breaks on the third word. Just a little. Just enough to register when he speaks. Just enough to make it sound like he meant it. He can practically feel the silence afterward, feel the way the engineers are leaning in, pleased.

One murmurs, “There it is.”

Despite the fact that he should be feeling pride at being able to do his job like a normal person, for some reason, he wants to bite through the mic. Wants to wrap his teeth around the mesh and sink in until the taste of copper replaces that god awful burn in his cheeks.

This was his job; he needs to focus.

Somehow, miraculously, he makes it through the rest of his solo session without so much as a stutter. He’s drawing his headphones off with shaky hands, trying to will himself to calm his racing pulse to no avail.

“Great take, Phainon,” someone says through the glass, chipper and blissfully unaware of the torture they just put him through. “Let’s cut there. Go ahead and take ten before we swap to the live sync.”

The live sync. Oh, Gods. He doesn’t know what’s worse: the possibility that he’ll have to moan in real-time with Mydeimos, or the fact he might—no, will—pop a boner and someone will most definitely notice. Maybe he should just die instead.

The door hisses open, and a random tech claps him on the shoulder, beaming like Phainon’s not five seconds away from literally combusting.

“You nailed that last part, man. You’ll kill the dialogue track.”

Yeah. Murder it. Bury it deep into a ditch out back and salt the planet. Phainon forces a smile so tight it threatens to tremble, but he manages to somehow maintain his totally awesome and cool facade.

“Thanks,” he says, voice breaking as it reaches a notch too high.

“The break room’s open, and the bathroom’s down the hall. We’ll call you back soon.”

“Gotcha,” he strains, “thanks!”

He tries to remain chill—he really does. Successfully, he manages a few calm steps towards the door before deciding to bolt.

He doesn't walk. He doesn’t politely nod and stroll like a functioning adult. He launches himself out into the hall like a man on fire and doesn’t stop until he’s isolated within the four ceramic tile walls of the bathroom, hunched over the sink with both palms gripping against the porcelain like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this miserable planet.

The fluorescent light hums above him, barely above a murmur. It’s the same faint, persistent noise that he’s learned to tune out—but right now? Right now, it’s a noise far too loud for him to handle. Like a brainworm drilling straight through his skull.

He squeezes his eyes shut, hands pressed flat against the cold countertop, helplessly wishing that it were silent. Completely, utterly silent. No air conditioning whirring, no water still dripping in the sink beside him, no overhead light buzzing and pressing oppressively against his eardrums like static.

Because his head is still full.

Full of sound.

Mydeimos’ voice. Everywhere.

Every word from that session preload—the soft breaths, the subtle groans, the way his breath caught and dragged on certain syllables like it was real—was looping like a broken record inside of his brain.

He opens his eyes. The mirror looks back at him with all the pity of a man witnessing his very own funeral. Phainon’s breathing is labored, like he had just run seventeen laps around the building. Another deep drag of air into his lungs. In, out. In, out. It’s useless; his chest feels like it’s being compressed from the inside, lungs stiff like paper crumpling beneath the weight of the overstimulation. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

“Don’t be a pervert,” he hisses to himself, low enough so that only he could hear. “You are a professional. You are a grown man. Get it together.”

Groaning, he flicks the cold tap on and shoves both hands beneath the blissfully cool stream, then drags them up over his face in a poor imitation of composure. The water is freezing cold, icy to the touch, but even still, it’s not enough. No. It’s nowhere near enough to offer him anything that even remotely resembles reprieve.

What the fuck was that.

What the actual fuck.

He’s done the mildly suggestive lines before, he’s done the full-blown adult work before; that’s simply what comes with the job. This isn’t something that’s new to him, no, not by any possible metric. But the thing is, none of it had ever felt like this. None of it had gotten under his skin like a parasite, worming its way inside, and stayed there. Because none of it—none of it—had been with him.

Mydeimos.

He shouldn’t even know that voice—not in that way, not this intimately—but he does. He knows it. He knows it. For years now. Not just because they’d been in the same niche casting pool, or had been bumped around the same mid-tier projects before Mydeimos really got big, but because—Gods. Gods. He shouldn’t have done it, but he had.

Late nights. Headphones plugged in. Phainon had listened, and he’d—he’d—oh. He really shouldn’t be thinking about that right now.

His fingers curl tighter against the sink edge.

He’d jerked off to that man’s voice. Way too many times to admit. Indulging himself in those late-night clips and recordings he’d found—various combinations of fan comps, cutscenes, assorted outtakes. Phainon is ninety-nine percent sure he has cycled through every compiled video of Mydeimos’ older work, where his voice was richer and rougher with casual teases dropped between dialogue takes.

Heat flushes down the back of his neck recalling those moments. All the times he’d been at his desk, forehead pressed against the too-warm wood, panting as he’d hungrily fist his own cock to the low sounds of Mydeimos’ deep voice. All the times he’d pressed his hips into the mattress with wired earbuds carelessly jammed in, grinding out gasps into his pillow with Mydeimos’ voice as company, the hot heat of his sinful tone feeling as if it had gone straight into his bones—being reduced to nothing more than a panting animal in heat, high on lust as he loses himself in the satin quality of his words.

And now he had to work with it. Pretend to be unaffected. Like he wasn’t already halfway dead from shame.

One of the stall doors creaks open, and he freezes.

Footsteps, measured and slow, echo into the tiled room.

A pause.

“Oh. You’re the one who’s making all this noise,” came a voice. Shit. It was the voice.

No.

Phainon’s pulse spikes like a gunshot, his spine locking up in something worse than fear.

That voice doesn’t belong in the real world. It belongs in his headphones. In late-night shame spirals. In the recording booth next to him—never with him beyond his fantasies, and definitely not here, not now.

He straightens automatically, hands flying to smooth down his shirt like he hadn’t been melting into the mirror. There’s a mantra repeating itself in his head—act natural act natural act naturalactnaturualactnatur—but his mouth betrays him, pulling an awkward laugh that rings too high and squeaky in the tense air.

“Yeah…haha, I uh…went to pee?”

Okay, that was not natural. At all.

Phainon runs a hand through his hair as if it could brush away the embarrassment gnawing at him.

His eyes snap onto Mydeimos’ face almost instinctively as he heard his laughter ripple out of him, deep and smooth, and dammit, Phainon can’t even pretend like it doesn't melt straight through his ribs. The sound is so rich and genuine and fills up the room like it belongs there. Phainon immediately feels the heat crawl up his cheeks, his face burning hot enough to evaporate the tap water he had splashed all over his skin.

“Yeah? Well, I’m glad to hear that my co-worker is staying hydrated,” Mydeimos replies, flicking on the faucet.

It’s a joke. A normal, work-acquaintance joke. But for some reason, Phainon—Gods, how awful, he can’t even stop it—flushes an even deeper crimson, mortified.

“Hah—yeah. Gotta…flush the system,” he strains.

Mydeimos chuckles, laughing again, but this time it’s worse. He glances over with a sideways grin of subtle amusement, like he’s already found a crack in Phainon’s composure and is curious enough to pry.

“That’s certainly one way to put it.”

The sound of his voice and low laughter rolls into the air like darkened honey, and Phainon decides right then and there that, maybe, life is worth living.

Clearing his throat, Phainon tries to redirect the conversation to something that wasn’t his bladder. “So, that was you in the booth before, right? Doing the—uh…sword fight scene?”

“Yes, that was me,” Mydeimos confirms coolly, raising a questioning brow at Phainon’s choice of using an innuendo. Extending a freshly rinsed hand, he introduces himself. “I figured we’d run into each other sooner or later. I’m Mydeimos.”

Phainon knows his name. He knows it. But hearing it offered like that? In person? With Mydeimos’ infuriatingly and stupidly handsome and gorgeous and angelic face to say it to him? It’s different. Completely so. He wants to savor the sound. Keep it as a recording so that he can loop over and over again…for completely innocent reasons. Yep. For sure. Not like he was going to get off to it or anything.

Hoping that the shake in his palm isn’t noticeable, his own hand—already clammy from sweat—meets Mydeimos’.

“Yeah, neat.” Neat? Who the fuck says that? “I’m Phainon—but you probably already knew that. I mean, I’d hope so, seeing as how we’re working on this project…together.”

“Right,” Mydeimos says.

Phainon tries to ignore the fact that their hands haven’t let go. Tries to ignore how Mydeimos is looking at him, and maybe he’s crazy, but that gaze is lingering just a little too long on Phainon’s face, like he’s trying to read something unsaid.

He clears his throat again. The noise is too sharp, echoing stupidly loud in this teeny tiny tiled room. How long has he been in here now?

He finally lets go of Mydeimos’ hands like it burns—because honestly, it does—as he takes a half-step back in a desperate attempt to reestablish some semblance of personal space before he legitimately implodes.

“Yup. Right. Well.” His voice cracks. He tries to swallow down the humiliation it brought by pretending it simply didn’t. “Good to, y’know, meet you properly. Officially. Not just through the pre-load.”

That sounded weird. Phainon swears he can be super charming and witty when he needs to be—it’s just that finally meeting Mydeimos has his entire nervous system completely fried beyond comprehension.

Mydeimos looks at him. “Likewise,” he replies. “We should head back before someone starts looking for us.”

Phainon exhales like he’d survived a bomb threat being neutralized. He watches as Mydeimos dries his hands with efficiency, folding the paper towel and tossing it clean into the bin before angling his head at Phainon with a casual, unreadable calm that’s either mercy or mischief.

“Shall we?” Mydeimos asks, propping the door open for Phainon, tilting his head as if to indicate that he can go through first.

“Oh, yeah—yep.” Phainon blinks rapidly, bowing his head as a show of gratitude as he walks through, heart hammering in his chest.

The hallway feels too short; the distance between the bathroom and Recording Studio 2A felt so laughably insufficient for how much emotional damage Phainon was sustaining per millisecond. Every step was tainted with the hyper awareness that, soon—too soon—he’s going to be stuck in a soundproof booth for the next hour or so with Mydeimos. Not adjacent. Not alternating lines. Together.

The live sync meant a number of things. It means that they’ll be doing dialogue in real time. That was manageable. It means that they would be matching each other’s pace. Phainon can do that. He’s a professional, after all. But the fact that they’ll be breath-to-breath? Having to encapsulate the emotions and intensity of something that cannot be described in any other way than unadulterated sin? Just the mere prospect of it has him fraying at the seams. He prays to whatever Gods that are out there to spare him, just this once.

One of the assistants grins as they both walk in. “Perfect timing! You guys ready for the dialogue read?”

Phainon strains to remain as charming as possible. “Of course.”

Mydeimos nods along with him, humming like this is a walk in the park.

The booth door closes behind them with an ominous fizzle of sealed air.

Neutrally, Anaxa gives them a brief rundown of how this scene would play out. “Phainon,” he says flatly, “remember, your character is trying to keep control, but he’s already lost it. Lean into the frustration.”

“Right. Got it,” he mutters, cheeks prickling with heat.

“Mydeimos,” Anaxa instructs, “your character is being penetrated, but he’s on top.”

Phainon pushes out the mental image of Mydeimos on top of him.

Hesitating, Phainon takes a spot right of the microphone. Trying to give Mydeimos as much room as humanly possible. He doesn’t even bother to try and pretend otherwise. Not when his palms are already sweating like crazy again.

Mydeimos notices—Phainon is sure of that—but just chooses not to say anything. Instead, he puts on his headphones and gives a little testing “check-check” into the mic. He’s clearly relaxed, folding his arms in a way that’s almost infuriating with how calm it is.

Phainon fumbles with his headset and fights the urge to scream. Get a grip, he tells himself. You’re an actor. A professional. You’ve done live reads before. You’re not twelve.

The intercom chirps after a pause. “Alright, Talents A and B, let’s jump straight into line nine. Phainon, that’s your gasp cue. Mydeimos, you’ll follow right after with line ten. We’ll go on the beep.”

Phainon’s entire body was already failing him, and all they’ve done is stand in place. His knees feel like they might buckle beneath him at any moment. He proceeds to adjust the mic like it’ll shield him from the inescapable reality that he has to moan in front of Mydeimos. At Mydeimos.

And, to make matters worse, Mydeimos will moan back.

Line nine should be simple. A breathy hitch—flustered, surprised. A noise that’s indicative of being touched somewhere far more…vulnerable. Then, Mydeimos' line would follow.

The director makes a thoughtful noise through the glass. “Take your time. Make it intimate.”

Phainon’s stomach plummets.

Intimate. With Mydeimos.

He shifts on his feet like it might shake the thought loose from his head, but it’s already festering in his brain.

Intimate. Got it. Totally doesn’t make Phainon want to explode.

The beep sounds. The red light flashes on.

Phainon sucks in a breath and lets out a shaky, startled exhale. His mouth opens before he thinks, and the sound that slips out is soft. Unsteady. Not quite a moan, but not quite a gasp either. It hangs in the air for a moment before Mydeimos' voice rings out between them.

“Just like that,” Mydeimos breathes, rich and husky.

It’s a murmur delivered so irreligiously low it feels wrong to hear.

Phainon’s brain blanks entirely. It wasn’t even the line itself—which was standard script stuff, just a mere three words strung together—but it was just the way he said it. Slow, syrupy amusement with a mercilessly sinful undertone. Fuck.

How the hell was he supposed to survive the next sixty-something minutes?

Don’t react. That’s what Phainon tells himself, knuckles going white, fingers curled into fists. Don’t let him see it. Don’t let him know.

He risks a glance out of the corner of his eye. Mydeimos is watching the script on the screen before them, expression as calm as ever. Cool and unreadable.

“Line eleven,” the intercom hums. “Same beat, but with a little more breath on the front half, alright? Let yourself fall apart. Mydeimos; line twelve, interrupt when it sounds right. No beep this time. Go with the flow.”

“Ahn…” his voice breaks, stuttering like he’s skipped a heartbeat. “You, fuck—don’t stop talking, do that again—”

Mydeimos interrupts, exactly as instructed.

“Oh? This?” he breathes, a quiet, drawn-out sound. “You like that?”

The next sound that escapes Phainon is rawer than the first. More of a whimper than a breath, something akin to a bitten-off sigh. It wasn’t scripted. It wasn’t planned. It simply slips free, and he knows he’s fucked.

“Mm,” comes a reply, the sound gentle. Phainon swears he can almost feel the hum of it on his skin. “You sound so pretty when you fuck me like this.”

That’s not the line. That’s not the fucking line.

That same dangerous tone, tainted with something seductive and taunting, had engulfed Mydeimos' voice entirely, pouring into Phainon’s ears with a dizzying effect. Clenching his jaw shut, Phainon’s head snaps toward him; it's a miracle his headphones don’t fly off.

His jaw unhinges. Shuts. Opens again. Nothing comes out. He flips a mental page of the script. He’s read it at least five times before this, he knows what’s on it. Nowhere, nowhere, is Mydeimos expected to say anything remotely close to that.

He stares straight ahead at the screen, face flushing. He understood now. This was improv. Not some accident, not a misread; Mydeimos had intention behind his words. He chose to say that, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Not only is Mydeimos effortlessly smooth and apparently immune to shame—he’s also a natural-born dirty talker. A good one, at that. A terrifyingly good one. Has the instinct for it, apparently.

What the fuck was Phainon supposed to do with this information?

The silence that follows is somehow worse than the aching heat settling in his gut. Worse than the fact he’s trying very hard to stop a very visible problem from appearing in his pants right now. Worse than the fact that he is stuck in a box of stale air and coiled wires and tangled mic cords with Mydeimos.

There’s no feedback, no cut. No intercom coming to his rescue—he’d been abandoned.

Which means that they’re still rolling. Still recording.

Phainon’s mouth had gone completely dry at this point. His tongue felt like cotton in his mouth, a clumsy weight behind his teeth—heart pounding at his chest, trying to crawl its way out and make a break for it. He stares hard at the script. The words stare back at him; useless, void of any real meaning.

There’s a dull roar pressing in from the inside of his skull. He can feel the weight of Mydeimos beside him without even glancing over. The warmth radiating off his body was far too steady. To make matters worse, there’s the lingering scent of something faintly musky and expensive that’s just beneath the scent of the studio air.

He tries to ignore the way his thighs subtly threaten to press together almost instinctively, but it’s no use. His skin feels hot and flushed to the point where it tingles, and that guilty ache is now squirming low inside of his stomach. He swallows, hard.

Daring another glance, Phainon nearly dies all over again. Big mistake.

Mydeimos' mouth is tilted into the faintest curve.

He wrenches his eyes back onto the screen so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash. His lungs feel like they’re aching in his chest, screaming for air.

The next line is forced through clenched teeth. The entire floor feels like it’s spinning beneath him.

He’s not going to make it out of here alive.

“I- If you keep doing that, a-ah… I swear I—fuck, I won’t last—”

The words are delivered with a tremble he can’t mask, sentences coming out mangled and pitched higher than he meant it to be, cracking—breaking under the weight of his poorly controlled arousal. He can hear it. He knows it. And apparently, Mydeimos does, too.

Because Mydeimos laughs.

It’s a small huff, warmed from the heat of his mouth and barely slipping past his lips, private and low enough that it sends a zip of electricity straight down Phainon’s spine. The kind of sound that’s meant to be felt more than it’s meant to be heard. Something about it makes the air shift between them. It shouldn’t feel like anything, but it does. It does.

They’re not even touching, tethered to their spots around the microphone, but the tension filling up the gaps between them feels suffocating.

“Then beg me to stop,” Mydeimos whispers.

There is no way that was in the script. No way in hell.

His hands are shaking now, tremors he can’t possibly hide. He stares at the script, praying that staring would save him from drowning. It doesn’t.

This is a setup, Phainon thinks wildly. A trap. Tactical, psychological warfare. It’s a battle that Phainon has been dragged into against his will.

He can’t breathe—at least not properly. Every inhale feels borrowed, so painfully tight and shallow it hurts. A burning, scraping sensation that leaves him feeling completely winded.

Beg me to stop.

The words skim along the inside of Phainon’s heart, making it clench painfully in his chest. He knows he’s supposed to read whatever line comes after Mydeimos' completely off-script detour, but he can’t, because if he opens his mouth, something horrifying will come out. Something terrifying and embarrassing and completely unprofessional.

A real sound.

And still, no one calls cut.

The booth remains silent, save for the sound of their overlapping breaths. Soft, tantalizing noises that shouldn’t even be audible, but Phainon notices. Hears every subtle drag, every gentle exhale leaving Mydeimos' lips. The script scrolls. Next line.

Phainon’s mouth opens, and nothing comes out. He fails to clear his throat. Then tries again. He fixes his eyes on the screen, breathing in deep once more.

“I—I c-can’t,” he swallows, aborting halfway. “You’re not—playing fair.”

It’s not the line, but he blurts it out anyway, desperate to say something to fill the silence. It’s close enough that he hopes they’ll keep it. At this point, his voice has lost all composure. The sound is stripped of any polish or confidence, coming out breathy and broken. Stripped down to the core, and by Mydeimos' hand, no less.

Mydeimos' reply is taunting: “I didn’t realize we were keeping score.”

Sweat beads at the base of Phainon’s neck. He swears that every labored inhale he takes is poison—thick, heavy, suffocating. Every breath dragging in a heat that leaves him gasping under the weight of it. The next moment is supposed to be the breaking point in the scene. The moment where his character gasps out a plea and confesses that he's close, that he’s going to give out if the other doesn’t relent.

All that comes out of Phainon when he tries to speak is a helpless, breathy, “Please—”

Phainon doesn’t need to glance over to know that Mydeimos is smirking. The bastard. Despite the distance, the next words hit him with a stinging pulse like a pinprick—delicate and precise—lifting goosebumps across the back of his neck.

“My name,” Mydeimos says, so low Phainon wondered if the mic would even pick it up. “Say it like you mean it.”

The words slide straight into him, igniting something frantic in his chest. Say it like you mean it. His whole body is burning alive with shame and something far, far worse—want. Real, dangerous want.

There’s another pause. Phainon is expending all of his available willpower to not just splurge on the floor right then and there. Every part of him is rebelling against the professional, composed exterior he’d been clinging to by his fingernails. His heartbeat is no longer just a frantic, lingering thrum that accompanies both their voices; no, his pulse is a riot, thunderous in his ears.

Say it like you mean it.

The words echo in his head again, viciously dragging their filthy claws down Phainon’s back, searing into his skin.

He’s supposed to respond, supposed to give in. This is the moment where everything falls apart for his character, where he comes undone in one, drawn-out gasp of surrender. But he can’t. He literally, physically, cannot open his mouth.

This is a nightmare. A very specific, tailor-made nightmare created with surround sound and high-definition rendering. Phainon feels sick, pulse racing behind his teeth.

Get it together. Get it together. For the love of everything holy, please, please, please, get it toge—

“Cut.”

The word shatters through the silence like a slap. There’s a pop of static in his headphones before the glass wall lights up. Everyone on the other side is leaning forward with delight. It’s kind of comical, actually, how one of the audio technicians literally pumps his fist in the air. As if they didn’t witness Phainon emotionally flatline in real-time.

He blinks. Ignores the way Mydeimos still hasn’t moved away. Through his headphones, the director’s voice cuts in again, pleased, smooth, and utterly oblivious to the complete trainwreck he had just orchestrated.

“Beautiful tension. That was great chemistry.”

Great chemistry, he says! As if it’s some effortless, little thing that is not at the expense of Phainon’s physical and mental well-being.

“Let’s run that again,” he continues, far too detached. “Same pace. Mydeimos, your improvisation was great—don’t change a thing. Phainon, lean into that last bit a little more. Good work, everyone.”

Another round of nods from behind the glass. Someone makes eye contact with Phainon and mimes the action of fanning themselves.

His throat has the consistency of paper. He feels it when he swallows again. Every part of him has been set alight, transforming his body into one continuous livewire sparking underneath his burning skin. Phainon stares at the microphone like it had personally betrayed him.

Finally, Mydeimos shifts slightly, stepping back. It’s enough of a difference to make Phainon feel the complete plunge in temperature without him practically brushing his shoulder. Cold air rushes to fill the vacuum, and Phainon hates how his first thought is how he misses it.

He needs to sit down. Or lie down. Preferably in front of oncoming traffic. Something crazy and irreversible.

Instead, he exhales shakily, barely audible over the deafening roar of blood in his ears.

Time for take two. Take three. And take four.

By the time that Anaxa claps his palms together with firm finality, Phainon feels like a rag that had been wrung dry one—no, scratch that—five too many times. His voice is frayed, and he can feel the front of his shirt sticking to his chest from sweat.

“We’ve got all we need for today,” he says. “Good work. Our engineers’ll do a sweep for pickups. If we need anything else, we’ll let you know. Don’t wander off too far.”

Phainon is already mentally mapping the fastest exit route out of this accursed studio.

There’s a bustle of movement as members of the sound team start to wiggle around each other. Someone on the other side leans back, stretching with cat-like leisure. Another pair vanishes down the hall, already talking about their evening plans. Phainon stands there, swaying slightly, while someone opens the booth door to give them bottles of water.

Mydeimos graciously accepts them, handing Phainon one before uncapping his own wordlessly and taking a long, long drink. He watches the way Mydeimos' head tilts back, guiltily eyeing every roll of his throat as he swallows—once, twice—casually so, as if he didn’t just unknowingly ruin Phainon’s entire life in just the past hour.

“Back in a sec,” one of the last lingering techs calls through the glass. “Just doing a little file dump and mic recalibration before we pack it up for the day.”

Mydeimos lifts his chin, acknowledging them with a curt wave of his hand. “Take your time.”

The door slides shut behind them with a hiss and click. Definitive in its closure. A second passes. Maybe two.

It doesn’t register until it's far too late that everyone else is gone.

Phainon blinks, processing the fact that he’s in a suddenly too-quiet room. Stares at the dark glass, the dimmed overheads, and the glowing red mic light that no one has turned off. His stomach drops.

He and Mydeimos are alone.

Alone.

Capital A, elle-oh-enn-ee.

Still standing side by side in the booth where they just spent the last sixty minutes whispering filth to one another into the same microphone, practically breathing in each other’s mouths. Where Mydeimos had spoken the most mind-numbing, dizzying obscenities Phainon has ever heard in his life. Whereas he, seconds away from death, forgot how to use words. How to do the one thing he’s paid to do. Forgot. None of the recordings he’s listened to could ever, ever, match up to the aphrodisiac that was hearing Mydeimos' tantalizing tone right beside him. Right in his ear.

He should leave. Make up a shitty excuse about needing the bathroom, or fresh air, or medical attention. That last one’s probably just true.

Instead, he stays completely frozen, suddenly hyperconscious of the headphones still looped around the back of his neck and the shift of Mydeimos' weight as he leans one shoulder against the padded soundproof wall—eyes already fixed onto him with a look that is anything but helpful to Phainon’s current state of mind.

Phainon takes a greedy mouthful of water. It barely helps; his mouth still feels impossibly dry.

“Are you alright?” Mydeimos asks, voice void of any teasing lilt.

Phainon huffs out a weak laugh. “Yeah. Just… a little warm. It’s fine.”

Mydeimos glances towards the glass window of the booth. It’s completely empty inside—soundless. He shifts his gaze back onto Phainon.

Phainon should say something. A joke. A brush-off. Something to create space between them. Instead, he’s looking at the faint line of sweat that’s slipping down Mydeimos' face. Rolling in one smooth motion from his mouth to under his chin to over his Adam’s apple, then beneath the collar of his shirt.

Faking a cough, Phainon speaks up. “...You were really good. I could never.”

He means it, and the words come out way softer than he had intended. Too honest in a way that makes him wince the second they leave his lips.

Mydeimos squints his eyes a little, studying him. “You think so?”

Phainon nods. “Yeah.”

Mydeimos hums, eyes dropping to Phainon’s lips—only for a fraction of a second—before flicking back up to meet his.

“It was nothing. That’s just what comes with years of experience,” he says, and there’s the barest trace of something smug creeping back in.

Phainon mentally slaps himself. Of course, Mydeimos is good at this—of course, he’s great at everything. His voice, his delivery, his composure. Everything expected of an A-list voice actor. Meanwhile, Phainon had practically choked on his own spit during every single one of his cues.

“But,” Mydeimos continues, almost absently, like it’s a simple, passing thought, “Give yourself more credit. You weren’t too bad.”

There’s a creeping, traitorous heat that climbs up the back of his neck, then to his ears, and spreads like wildfire across his cheeks.

“Oh,” he says, dumbly. “Thanks.”

Oh.

Oh? Really? That’s all he’s got?

His brain is completely useless at this point. Every social script he’s ever learned has completely failed him in the face of one singular casually delivered compliment from the man before him.

Not just any man. Mydeimos. Mydeimos.

Phainon rolls the water bottle between his hands as if it could somehow offer divine intervention. Or at least serve as a distraction. Even the simple act of drinking feels loaded now. Too loud, too awkward, and far too visible.

“Do you always get this flustered after recording?” Mydeimos prompts softly.

Phainon looks at him. Mydeimos isn’t teasing. At least, not in a way that would give him an easy out. There’s no smirk, just genuine curiosity. Somehow much worse than if he was only teasing.

He tries to laugh it off, but it catches in his throat halfway out, a strangled sound. “Not usually. You’re just…”

He trails off.

Mydeimos waits. Gives him room to lie. Phainon doesn’t.

“You’re just a lot,” he finally mutters. “You know that, right?”

That earns a small smile. One that is infuriatingly attractive and stupidly handsome.

“A lot?” He quirks his brow up in a way that’s less questioning and more knowing. “What do you mean by that?”

Phainon doesn’t flinch, but his body betrays him with something close to one. His gut coils tight, heat thrumming beneath his skin. He wants to laugh and pretend that this is all some silly thing.

Mydeimos pushes himself off of where he was leaning and takes a few concise steps towards Phainon. The booth suddenly feels extremely claustrophobic, all four walls slowly pressing in. The air is thick with something dangerous that Phainon knew Mydeimos felt, too.

“You know what I mean,” Phainon says eventually, the words sanded down by restraint. “Do you want to hear me say it?”

“I want to hear a lot of things from you, Phainon,” Mydeimos says, tilting his head, eyes gleaming with something indecipherable.

Indecipherable, but not cold. Curious. Focused, even. Maybe a little too focused.

Heart stuttering in his chest, Phainon’s head is whirling. His brain is frantically flipping through every possible dialogue option like a rolodex on fire. There’s no way—no possible way in hell—that Mydeimos meant that like how it sounded. That was… suggestive. Flirtation. Implicative of something that Phainon didn’t want to be too presumptuous to assume. That couldn’t be right.

Does Mydeimos…? His mind begins to wander before abruptly cutting himself off. No. No, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Mydeimos being interested in Phainon like that? Of all people? Unlikely. Improbable. Completely and indisputably implausible. Nuh uh. Not happening.

Phainon laughs, nervously. The sound feels cheap.

“Well, I hope we get to work together again,” Phainon says, a polite deflection.

The slight curve of Mydeimos' mouth shifts, tilting more at the edges.

“So do I,” he replies smoothly, his voice lower now. Measured. “But that’s not what I meant.”

The air buzzes between them—charged and barely breathable. The silence akin to the anticipative stillness of the static before a violent strike of lightning.

Phainon refuses to look at Mydeimos when he asks it. He doesn’t really trust himself to.

“…What do you mean then?”

Phainon’s skin itches under Mydeimos' weighty gaze, strong enough to pin Phainon in place like he’s being vivisected. He feels vulnerable under his eyes, as if he’s been completely undressed despite every piece of clothing still clinging uncomfortably onto him.

He really should take a step back, retreat.

But he doesn’t.

Feet planted firmly on the ground, he stays there.

Mydeimos doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t dodge the question with a scoff or with a charming misdirect. He just hums instead, tilting his head.

“You really don’t know?”

His voice is soft and mocking—just a touch.

“I—” Phainon flounders. “I have guesses.”

That earns him another laugh. “Guesses are…cute,” Mydeimos murmurs, stepping forward. “But they’re not answers.”

He’s close enough that Phainon can see the brighter flecks of gold in his eyes and the way his lashes cast shadows down his cheek.

“Do you want to hear me say it?”

Phainon wants to. Desperately. His entire body thrums with the need to know just exactly what Mydeimos meant. Not speculate, not imply, not get wrapped up in some double entendre.

He wants to hear the truth, but the words can’t find the strength to climb up his throat and spill out. They can’t. Tongue sitting useless and heavy in his mouth, too stubborn or too afraid to move. He’s not even sure what he’s scared of—what it would mean if Mydeimos did say it, or what it would mean if he didn’t.

Mydeimos inches closer. “You’ve gone quiet.” he observes, brow raised in curiosity. “Is something wrong?”

Phainon’s face flushes. “Well, I’ve embarrassed myself enough for today.”

It’s an honest response. He’s sure that whatever escapes him next will just be useless noise. Nothing he says could possibly hold any iota of intelligence because of the sharp buzz of static ringing in his skull, making it impossible to focus on anything else besides Mydeimos' intoxicating proximity—too much and not enough.

“I’ll make it simple then,” Mydeimos murmurs, voice slipping even lower. A private sound that was designed for only Phainon to hear. “Would you be willing to come back to mine tonight?” There’s no metaphor. No clever detour, no elegant dodge, and definitely no attempt to masquerade his intentions behind professionalism or vague implication.

“Or,” Mydeimos offers, almost offhandedly, like he was talking about the weather or adjusting his tone for the next track, “You could have your way with me right here.”

Phainon’s heart skips in his chest. Then skips again. Then lurches into a sprint.

The space between them doesn’t feel like a few inches anymore—no, the best way to describe it would be like standing on the very edge of a cliff. Toes curled over stone, body pitched over the endless chasm with an indisputable gravity.

He breathes in shallowly, chest tight. His own gaze betrays him as it flicks downwards to Mydeimos' lips, practically devouring the sight before him. Mouth. Jaw. Throat.

He drags his gaze back up.

Mydeimos is watching him, unblinking.

“The mic’s still on,” Phainon says hoarsely, a pitiful attempt at deflection.

“And?”

Phainon stares, mouth still dry. “...They could be listening right now.”

“I can turn it off.” Mydeimos says, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. His eyes catch the light, glinting with subtle amusement.

Phainon waits expectantly, breath caught halfway up his throat.

But Mydeimos doesn't move. He stands infuriatingly still, completely motionless, letting the weight of his words hang.

Phainon tilts his head like a dog, an exasperated huff escaping his lips. “Well?”

“What? I said I can,” Mydeimos replies, deceptively cool, “not that I want to.” Lifting his hand, he beckons Phainon over in a languid motion. “Come. You can turn it off yourself.”

Phainon’s chest rises—falls—rises again. Unsteady, shallow, and weak in nature, like he’s completely forgotten how to take in air properly.

The logical thing to do would be to walk over, flick the switch, and leave with his dignity intact. Say it was nice to work with him. Thanks for the session. See you next time, hopefully. Say anything other than what he’s actually thinking.

But logic is something that has deserted him entirely, now, slipping through his fingers like sand. All that remains is an ache in his limbs and the simmering heat beneath his skin. The magnetic pull in his gut telling him to take what he wants.

He doesn’t move towards that switch. Instead, he takes a single step forward, leaning in just to make sure he isn’t imagining things. The heat in Mydeimos' eyes. The way he’s angled toward him. The weight of every single one of his words.

Phainon just continues to look at Mydeimos. Eyes grazing over his face with a thinly-veiled hunger he’s too honest to try and mask. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, the small gleam of sweat clinging to his temple.

“Do you want me to?” Phainon asks, and the words surprise him even as they’re leaving his chest.

Mydeimos exhales through his nose. “No,” he says.

So simple, so clean, but it has Phainon reeling. It was delivered like a line he’s thought about before. Like an answer he had ready. The possibility of that sent a fresh flood of heat through his body.

“You’re not worried about someone coming back?” Phainon asks.

It’s an out, and a very poor one at that. He could say they shouldn’t. That this is a terrible, terrible idea. That the booth is far too small—or that this is the kind of thing that doesn’t stay secret. Any attempt at refusal fails to come out, lodged somewhere in his throat, desire betraying logic.

“No,” Mydeimos repeats, sure and definitive. “We’ll make it quick.”

Phainon’s hand twitches at his side before it lifts up. Hesitating, he brushes at the line of Mydeimos’ mouth, like he needs the reassurance that this is real. That this moment is real. That Mydeimos, in the studio haze that has grown too thick with heat to see straight, wasn't some mirage conjured up by obsession.

“Then don’t stop me,” Phainon murmurs, his words hoarse with devastating want.

There’s a moment of silent reprieve.

“I never planned to,” Mydeimos replies breathlessly.

The space between them is closed with a rush of breath-stealing collision that leaves no room for hesitation. Phainon doesn’t know who leans in first. Maybe it’s both of them. Or maybe, they never stood a chance at all, like some invisible force shoved them together against their will.

All that Phainon feels is the heat and pressure against his mouth, entrancing with its immediate addictiveness. A low sound catches in Phainon’s throat as he fists a hand in Mydeimos’ shirt, dragging him closer, crushing them together like he’s afraid of the mere concept of distance. They’re kissing like they’re dying. Like the thought of air between them was an insult to life itself.

Phainon shudders. All his thoughts have become one big blur—his name, Mydeimos’ mouth, Mydeimos, Mydeimos, Mydeimos. His fingers find his shoulder, then his neck, then tangle into the soft ends of his hair like a lifeline.

It’s not enough. Absently, Phainon’s fingers wander higher, greedier, and then he tugs.

A startled, guttural sound slips out of Mydeimos’ throat. Something halfway between a groan and a curse; the sound of it hits Phainon like a fist to his sternum, dizzying and hot. He jerks back, eyes blown wide, spit-slick lips parted in surprise.

“Sorry,” Phainon rushes to say, “I didn’t mean to—”

But Mydeimos chases him, mouth hot and open as he steals another kiss, deeper this time.

“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs against Phainon’s lips, “Do it again.”

A shiver runs down his spine.

His fingers flex, still twisted in Mydeimos’ hair. Their teeth knock together as their breaths tangle. Mydeimos’ lips are soft. So, so unimaginably soft. They part under Phainon’s with a sigh that cannot be described as anything other than desperate. Deepening it, Phainon tilts his head to the side as Mydeimos slides his hands to the nape of his neck. Heat spills between them as Phainon gasps into his mouth, needy. Their tongues are sliding together, slick and hungry. A low sound tears loose from Phainon’s throat as Mydeimos licks his way in, coaxing every little sound out of him. Saliva clings in silver threads that stretch and snap with each scorching shift of their mouths moving against one another.

Somewhere, far off in the deepest crevices of his mind, the most sensible part of him it screams that he should regret this. But in this moment, Phainon couldn't care less about regret. Couldn't care less about the distant idea of professionalism that was slipping further and further away with every intoxicating brush of Mydeimos’ lips, convincing him the only thing that was needed of him in this moment was to simply give in.

Phainon whimpers against him, fingers tangled in Mydeimos’ hair and pulling tight, desperate to anchor himself in the moment. Mydeimos bites his bottom lip and doesn’t let go, sucking it between his teeth and tugging until Phainon whines again, hips bucking forward without Mydeimos’ permission. Mydeimos drags his tongue along the seam of Phainon’s lips in apology—or perhaps provocation—and whispers against them.

“Gods, you taste so good.” Mydeimos pants, satisfied.

Phainon’s pulse is slamming in his throat. Any attempt at an answer would just result in an undignified sound. Instead, he opens his mouth for another kiss, and Mydeimos rewards him with a deep, obscene drag of his tongue that forces their breaths to melt together.

Mydeimos kisses like it’s war. Phainon kisses back like it’s surrender.

Swiping his tongue over the corner of Phainon’s mouth like he’s savoring the taste, Mydeimos hums, pleased. Stroking at Phainon’s jaw, he forces him to tilt his head back, exposing his throat.

A tremor rides down Phainon’s spine, hot and shivery.

Mydeimos’ lips are hovering right above the long line of his throat, breath warming the sensitive spot below his jaw, but he doesn’t press in. Not yet. His lips part, teeth barely ghosting across the pale surface. He doesn’t bite. His eyes flick up—asking.

A question, unspoken but clear in every careful inch of stillness: Can I?

Will you let me?

It’s subtle. So subtle that anyone else might miss it entirely. But Phainon sees it; the brief flicker of restraint in Mydeimos’ body. He doesn’t verbalize his permission. Instead, he tilts his chin slightly higher, offering his throat in the most silent, resounding yes.

Mydeimos leans in and bites. It’s not a soft, gentle thing. It’s claiming and territorial, with his teeth dragging down to his collarbone. Harsh enough to make Phainon whimper. Harsh enough to make the room spin. The warmth of him, his soft, but strong chest pressed to his, was suffocating—but now in the best way possible.

Their hips are barely moving, only lazily rubbing together, but the slight force of it is still enough to make Phainon’s breath catch in a way that punches the air from his lungs. He doesn’t mean to let it out like that, but it slips out anyway.

Mydeimos’ touch moves along Phainon’s arm, lingering where their fingers meet for a brief moment before guiding Phainon’s touch down lower, lower, until he firmly places Phainon’s trembling grip onto Mydeimos’ waist. Phainon eagerly accepts the invitation to drag his remaining hand to the other side of Mydeimos’ hips. His own hips rut against him mindlessly as he presses his forehead against Mydeimos’ shoulder—fingers clutching onto him like he’ll fall through the floor if he lets go.

Touching is no longer enough to sate Phainon’s appetite; he can’t help but look down at the body under his hands. Slightly damp fabric clings tight from sweat, outlining the shape of Mydeimos’ hips and the pulse of arousal straining in his pants. The press of it onto his own is unbearable, solid and sweltering, every small drag making Phainon grind harder and harder just to feel that pressure again.

“You’re trembling, is everything alright?” Mydeimos points out in a low whisper.

Phainon’s fingers flex tighter against his hips, every small movement becoming increasingly frantic, indulging himself with every press of that aching heat again and again.

“Mydeimos,” Phainon gasps, voice ragged. “Please—I need—”

“Shh, shh,” he murmurs, soothing.

Phainon chokes out something close to a sob, burying his face into Mydeimos’ neck. He’s moving like he has to, grinding helplessly against the unmoving press of Mydeimos’ own erection.

“Slow down,” Mydeimos says, chuckling. “You’ll finish before I even do anything.”

Finish—? Finish?

He’s not that worked up, is he?

…He is.

Gods, he is.

Because Mydeimos hasn’t even touched him below the waist, and yet Phainon’s mind is already reeling, throbbing his pants. He’s already so hot and hard it’s like his whole body is being shoved into a furnace. To make matters even worse, Mydeimos isn’t moving. He simply stays there, close enough to feel and to smell. Close enough to want. But not doing anything. Not dragging those hands lower, not pushing him into the booth wall, not touching him like Phainon’s dying for it—which he is.

Every second Mydeimos stays still, it feels like something inside of Phainon coils tighter in frustration. He grits his teeth, hips twitching instinctually Mydeimos’ breath is warm at his neck, and Phainon aches.

Move, he thinks. Move.

Letting out a whimper, Phainon resorts to begging. “Then do something,” he demands, sharp and breathless. “Ah—hurry, please.”

Mydeimos exhales a quiet laugh, smug. “Oh? I hadn’t realized you were that desperate for me, Phainon.”

Phainon shudders violently, biting down on his lip like he can somehow smother the sounds threatening to break free. He’s still moving, needy, involuntary rolls of his hips. He presses against Mydeimos' arousal, chasing relief and getting none.

Mydeimos tips his head slightly to the side, leaning in, the faintest touch of his nose kissing the shell of Phainon’s ear. Lips brushing close, but not quite touching.

“You want me to touch you that badly?” he asks, his tone pitched low and intimate. Every phonetic unit vibrates and sinks straight through Phainon’s skin, piercing into the marrow of his bones.

“Ah, Mydeimos,” Phainon shudders, hips jerking helplessly forward like he can grind the noise into him. “Don’t talk like that—”

“Oh,” he says softly, breath fanning hot against Phainon’s ear. “But you loved it earlier, didn’t you?” His voice drops even lower, all heat and allure. “Is it my voice, Phainon? Is that what gets you like this?”

Phainon chokes on his reply, clutching tighter to Mydeimos' waist, letting out a strangled noise. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

A huff of laughter, warm and nearly affectionate, ghosts across the edge of Phainon’s jaw. “And you’re still rutting into me like you’ll die if I stop,” Mydeimos whispers. Every word felt as much as it is heard. The press of his lips, the shape of the syllables, and the vibrations of Mydeimos' low resonance. “It’s really endearing that you’re getting this turned on from just my voice, Phainon.”

Mydeimos' hand trails lower, starting with a slow drag down the taut plane of Phainon’s abdomen, fingers savoring the hard muscle, before dipping past the waistband of his pants.

It’s an intrusion too casual, too practiced, as if Phainon’s body had always belonged to him. He moves further, knuckles grazing the soft fabric before his palm slides and curls over the thin cotton of his briefs.

“Gods—please—” Phainon jerks, gasping. The contact feels like a bolt of lightning straight to his spine.

The heat of Mydeimos' hand against the damp fabric makes his knees go weak. He sags against Mydeimos' body, breath knocked straight out of him as his cock twitches beneath the warm touch.

“We’re still being recorded,” Mydeimos breathes,“it’s picking up every little sound you make. Every gasp, every little moan. Do you want to hear yourself later? Hear how wrecked you sound when I touch you like this?”

Phainon whines. Actually whines like a puppy left too long at the door. A raw sound pitched high in his throat, muffled against lips and tongue, desperate and involuntary. It’s pathetic, pathetic. He tries to catch the noise before it escapes, but it’s far too late. Shame splinters through his body, but the lust drowns it out. Mydeimos doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even tease him for it. Just lets out a low moan in response, grazing his teeth against Phainon’s lower lip. Phainon’s cock throbs beneath Mydeimos' palm, fingers clutching so tight at Mydeimos' waist he’s sure they’ll leave purple-blue imprints later.

Gently, Mydeimos pulls Phainon’s aching arousal out of his pants. The weight of it is heavy in his palm.

“Mydeimos, please,” he begs, voice trembling. “That’s so—fuck, you can’t just say that.”

“I can,” Mydeimos cuts in, “and I just did. You should hear yourself, Phainon. The recordings we just made are nothing compared to how beautiful you sound like this.”

Mydeimos’ hands finally—finally—wrap around the weeping heat of Phainon’s cock.

Phainon’s mouth falls open in a silent cry of relief. He arches into the touch, every nerve set alight, as if it was searing straight through him. White heat rips through him like a blaze in a dry forest. Every threadbare shred of pride burns away under the tight curl of Mydeimos' fingers. Mydeimos' palm is so hot, so firm, that he can’t even think. Can’t even speak. Every thought he has disintegrates completely, reduced to nothing but ash. His cock jumps, eager and throbbing into the grip.

“Your moans sound so much better like this,” he says, “I’ve never heard anything more honest.”

Phainon cries out as his knees threaten to buckle, surging forward into that unrelenting grip. “Ah—shit—!”

His moans are completely unfiltered in the studio’s quiet. Mydeimos begins to stroke him, shifting his hand down with steady precision, before moving back up. Thumb pressing hard against his leaking tip, taunting his slit, smearing and coating his fingers with the slick before sliding back down in one smooth, long stroke, gripping firm at the base of his cock. It’s devastating. Controlled. And worst of all, completely unhurried.

Phainon can’t take it. His hips begin to move on their own accord, grinding slow and hungry into Mydeimos' unyielding grip. There’s no technique, no rhythm, no grace; there’s only the frantic rutting of a man becoming undone. The slick squelch of every pass fills the air like a filthy metronome, obscene in the hush of the padded walls, and Mydeimos doesn’t even bother to help. Just holds firm and lets Phainon fuck into the cradle of his fist like a hungry animal.

“Fuck, fuck, Mydei—” Phainon gasps, desire and shame so thick it coats his tongue.

The words are barely formed around the weight of every feeling squirming inside him. Each breath is slurred with desperation. He doesn’t even realize what he’s done until it’s too late.

Mydeimos’ hand stays in place.

A breath of laughter escapes him, low and amused. “Mydei, huh?” he murmurs, just loud enough for Phainon to hear over the wet drag of skin. “Getting comfortable already?”

Phainon shakes his head wildly, shame slamming through him like a second heartbeat. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, I just—” he stumbles over it, his hips still moving like they haven’t gotten the memo that his brain is falling apart. “It just came out, I wasn’t—”

Mydei tightens his grip ever so slightly, enough to make Phainon whine, his whole body jolting forward with the sharp pleasure of it.

“It’s okay,” he says. “You can call me that. It sounds good—coming from you.”

Phainon makes a noise halfway between a whimper and a moan, hips stuttering. “Mydei,” he breathes again, softer this time.

Mydei smiles, slow and knowing as he watches the way Phainon’s mind completely unravels.

That’s when it hits. All at once. The need.

It crashes through him like a fever, searing and unbearable. It leaves him no room for second thoughts. Not room for shame. Just carnal desire burning in his blood.

He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. Every thrust more erratic than the last, his thighs tremble with effort. It feels too good. The urge to keep rutting forward is so primitive, that his hips piston without thought, relentless in their ravaging; every thrust slams into the unyielding warmth of Mydei’s grip with straining desperation.

His body’s chasing something he doesn’t even have the words for.

Mydei clicks his tongue curiously. “You’ve been on top before, haven’t you?”

It’s a cruel question. It sounds simple, even innocent, but Phainon’s heart stutters in warning, body tightening instinctively. He doesn’t know where this is going.

Phainon nods too fast, frantic. It’s a blatant lie, but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. “Yeah, yes. I have, I—”

“Did you fuck them like this?” Mydei asks, dropping his voice lower, sharpening the words in a bewilderingly sweet manner. “All messy and mindless?”

Phainon chokes down a whimper, hips stuttering into his fist. The words slam into him harder than the touch itself. His teeth sink into his bottom lip hard enough it nearly splits. Absently, he hopes that the pain could tether him to reality, but it doesn’t help. At this point, nothing does. Heat licks up his spine, blooming in violent splashes as he feels himself flushing everywhere: cheeks, neck, chest. Thighs trembling with the effort to keep thrusting.

Then, Mydei moans.

Loud. Lewd. Over the top. Pornographic.

Leaning in close, he makes a show to pant frantically like he’s the one being fucked. Like Phainon’s cock is inside of him, like he’s the one getting ruined. “Oh, Phainon, yes—fuck me just like that. A-ah, just like that. Yes, right there—”

Phainon’s brain short circuits. Overheats. Overwhelming pleasure floods his brain. He makes a wounded noise as his fingernails dig into Mydei’s flesh.

Mydei doesn’t stop. Instead, he groans again, this time, lower, filthier, exaggerating the catch in his breath. “Mmmn, Gods—it’s too deep Phainon, slow down, it’s too much—”

“Stop, Mydei. I—I can’t—” Phainon gasps, his entire body trembling, torn between collapse and climax.

His vision blurs, and he clutches at Mydei like a drowning man searching for salvation. The slick glide of palm and fingers torture him with the same teetering promise of release. Phainon thrusts up again, whimpering. Nothing feels real except the burning pressure in his gut, the unrelenting hand on his cock, and the heat of Mydei's mouth hovering over his skin.

“Let me repeat my question, Phainon.”

Oh, Gods—no.

Phainon’s mind is spiraling—please don’t ask again, please don’t make me say it again—his thoughts crashing over one another in useless repetition as if his panic could somehow, someway, summon mercy. But he knows better.

Mydei’s hand doesn’t let up. Doesn’t stop gripping as Phainon messily thrusts his cock up into the tight, slick grip of Mydei’s fingers. The torment is almost unbearable.

“You’ve been on top before, right?”

Phainon nods again, desperate and frantic. Another broken sound tumbles out of him, high and pathetic. “Yes, I have, I swear I have—”

Mydei’s grip tightens. Sharp and mean. Right at the base, cutting off even the illusion of climax. Phainon keens, the denial worse than the pain. His whole body pulses with the need for release, jolting forward as if he could fuck past the grip, as if the force alone could rescue him from the edge. It’s a need so fierce it borders on something like agony, but it’s hopeless. Mydei shifts, mouth brushing the curve of Phainon’s jaw.

“Somehow,” he murmurs, dangerously soft, “I find that hard to believe.”

Phainon’s voice breaks around his name, torn from his throat in broken repetition. “Mydeimos—Mydei, Mydei, please—”

He isn’t even sure if what he’s saying is cohesive. The name falls from his lips again and again, too fast and too shaky. It cuts through the studio silence, past the faint hum of the recording equipment still blinking; red-hot and bright before them. Just sounds pouring out from his lips as his hips keep on sputtering uselessly.

Suddenly, Mydei’s hand disappears without warning. The loss is immediate as Phainon cries out a wounded noise, hips bucking up into nothing but air, nothing but frictionless need. His cock twitches, his legs shaking slightly as if it still wants to keep chasing what’s no longer being given.

Mydei stands before him, hands working at the zipper of his own pants with ease. When he frees himself it’s done with one, efficient flick of his wrist, thumb dragging beneath the waistband, the elastic snapping softly as he lets his cock rest heavy and swell in his palm.

Mentally, Phainon notes that he’s bigger. Or, at least, longer. A petty fact that his mind clings to. But Mydei—Mydei’s cock is thick. Much thicker. Almost obscenely so. Gorgeous and flushed, the head swollen and already beaded with precum at the tip. Heavy enough that it sways slightly as it’s freed. Phainon’s stomach lurches in arousal, humiliating heat pouring through him as he stares. Mydei wraps his fingers around it with familiarity and pumps once, slow and lazy, just to watch Phainon’s pupils eclipse the blue in his eyes.

“Staring’s not very polite,” Mydei drawls, casual.

Phainon shoots him a glare, but it can’t be interpreted as anything other than weak with the way his hips are trembling in anticipation. His face and chest are completely flushed, lips kiss-bruised, and his chest rises too fast with every breath.

Mydei doesn’t make him wait long.

He leans in, hands sliding beneath the soft cotton hem of Phainon’s shirt. His touch is warm as he slowly pushes the fabric up, revealing the pale, quivering skin inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something precious. Phainon’s abs tense under Mydei’s fingers as he lifts his shirt halfway up his chest before leaning in.

Mydei’s mouth brushes right below Phainon’s rib. He presses a kiss there. Then another. Then one lower, nuzzling his way down the line of his abdomen with tantalizing ease as his lips brush every shallow dip and trembling curve.

When Mydei finally lowers himself between Phainon’s legs, knees touching the carpeted studio floor with an impressive calm, he keeps his gaze pinned to Phainon’s frantic expression. He doesn’t touch Phainon right away, instead simply staring up at him.

The second Mydei’s fingers wrap around him again, the noise that escapes Phainon’s throat is a whiny sob that is far from dignified—the sound warbles and trembles at the edges like he’s already close.

Mydei’s lips curve in a way that almost suggests something smug as Phainon’s hips rock up into his hand; his body chases the pleasure, helpless and pliant to every teasing flick of Mydei’s thumb. Pumping him slowly, the pace he set is teasing enough to be unbearable, thumb brushing the leaking slit, catching the warm bead of precum and smearing it down the flushed head.

“Fuck, Mydei—”

Then, wordlessly, Mydei’s mouth falls open slightly, sticking his tongue out. Slick-pink and glistening. Teasing, he taps the tip of Phainon’s cock right against it. A wet little slap. Then again, harder, just to watch Phainon squirm.

There’s a full-body shudder that ripples through Phainon, pulled straight from somewhere needy and desperate in his gut, blooming like molten sap that slides straight down his spine. His knees buckle ever so slightly, only saved by the death-grip his fingers have on Mydei’s shoulder, fingers digging in like he might fall otherwise.

Dragging the thick length along parted lips, Mydei mouths the underside with infuriating laziness. Tongue darting out in little flicks, featherlight and teasing, that leave glistening trails behind. He maintains eye contact the whole time while doing so, lingering beneath the head just long enough to elicit a soft moan from Phainon’s mouth.

Mydei hums, amused. “I didn’t expect you to fall apart this quickly, Phainon.” His voice lowers, molten and mean, taunting as he’s stroking firmer now. “Going to make a mess so soon?”

“N-no—don’t—ah, don’t say it like that,” Phainon groans through clenched teeth, jaw tight.

He can feel something breaking in his chest. His pride, maybe. His sense of his composure. The part of him that used to rehearse professionalism like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Whatever it is, it shatters. Crumbles pitifully in the warmth of Mydei’s mouth and every cruel flick of his tongue.

“Oh?” Mydei’s eyes are bright with amusement, tone faux-innocent. “Why not? Are you embarrassed that you're this close already?”

He circles the head again with the tip of his tongue before he spits, the noise slick and vulgar. Warm spit coats the shaft, shining where it covers Phainon’s flushed skin; Mydei lets the liquid dribble warm and wet down the shaft before pumping again once, twice. Deliberately unhurried.

Phainon pants, breath coming out hot and frantic, stuttering against his own tongue. He can’t breathe right, can’t think past the brutal pulse of his arousal and the alluring glint in Mydei’s eye.

“You know what you’re doing,” Phainon whines.

“I do,” Mydei admits, fisting Phainon’s cock slowly, thumb playing with the ridge of the head, “tell me, which line did it for you? When we were recording?”

Phainon makes a strangled noise.

Mydei tuts. “Come on. Be honest. Was it when I told you to beg me to stop?” His voice dips, the sound intimate. “Or was it when I said that you sounded pretty like this?”

Phainon gasps, cock thrusting forward before he can stop it all while his brain lurches violently. Heat flares through his body so fast and sharp it borders on pain. Biting down the inside of his cheek raw, Phainon tries to suppress another desperate cry as his cock smears more precum across Mydei’s cheek.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how stiff you were,” Mydei purrs, pressing a kiss to the sensitive head.

“You’re being mean,” Phainon whimpers, arousal and frustration tangled so tightly together that they’re indistinguishable—each word trembling under the weight of how badly he wants.

“Maybe I am,” Mydei muses, pressing a kiss to the tip, “but I don’t think you care.”

He pumps again, wrist expertly moving in a way that has arousal swirling low in his gut. The sensation coiling even tighter than it ever has before. His whole body is buzzing with it. Buzzing and burning and begging.

His gaze flickers to where Phainon’s cock twitches helplessly in his hand. “Do you really think you can last?”

Phainon makes an embarrassed sound, hips jerking. “No, fuck—I can, I can,” he gasps, “Just—fuck, don’t stop, please—”

Mydei laughs under his breath. Not cruel, exactly, but dismissive. Dismissive in a way that makes Phainon’s head spin. He squeezes again at the base, wrist twisting on the upstroke, and Phainon whimpers.

He doesn’t want to come off as pathetic. Doesn’t want to look like someone who’s dreamt of this exact moment with one hand wrapped around his cock and Mydei’s voice in his earphones. But Gods, it’s impossible.

“Mm,” Mydei raises a brow, completely unimpressed as he dragged his thumb through the mess on Phainon’s leaking slit. “I’m not convinced.”

His mouth parts, tongue flicking out to taste him. The contact is wet and hot and perfect. Phainon’s entire spine tries to leap out of his skin as Mydei licks another long stripe on the underside, savoring the way Phainon shudders and lets out a bitten-off cry.

He does it again, slower this time, before closing his lips around the flushed, sensitive head and sinking down with deliberation in one smooth, practiced motion. Once. Deep.

Phainon’s whole body jolts like he’s been shocked. “Shit, Mydei—!”

His hips stutter up before he can stop them, instinctive and uncontrolled, but Mydei holds him steady, one firm hand spread across his hip, pinning him into place like it’s nothing. He doesn’t even look strained. Just calm and collected and methodical. Like he has all the time in the world just to take Phainon apart. Lips sliding lower, humming around him, tongue curling around his length casually.

“You keep saying you can last,” Mydei pulls off with a slick sound, his voice barely a whisper, “but you’re already shaking like you’re going to come down my throat. Poor thing. Is it really that easy?”

Phainon wants to say something back—he really does. Wants to deny it. Say something clever, maybe even sexy. But all that comes out is a stifled, helpless moan, head tipping back, thighs quaking as Mydei sinks back down. Pathetic. Trembling with the effort of keeping still. Don’t come. Don’t move. Don’t lose it. Not yet.

A noise claws up Phainon’s throat; the kind of sound that’s pulled deep from his chest. It’s the kind of whine that can’t be described as anything else but needy. His hips jerk, cock throbbing with urgent want. Mydei bobs his head with a patient rhythm, taking him deeper. Swallows around the head as Phainon’s vision starts to go blurry around the edges.

Mydei moans around him, low and deep, and Phainon feels the sound more than he hears it. The vibrations are felt deep in his core, tuned exactly in a way that makes him unravel at the seams.

Phainon barely notices it at first—he’s too lost in the wet heat of Mydei’s mouth, the obscene suction, the way his tongue flexes around him—that it takes a moment to process that Mydei’s other hand isn’t bracing itself on his thigh.

His eyes flick down.

Mydei is stroking himself. Slow, unhurried pulls of his hand around his own cock, fist slick and steady, in perfect time with the bob of his head. Like he’s getting off on this. On him.

Phainon nearly chokes on his own moan. “Fuck, you’re—are you—?”

Mydei pulls off again, just enough to breathe, lips flushed and slick with spit, drool dribbling down his chin. He gives himself another lazy stroke and smirks up at Phainon, eyes glittering.

“Mn,” he hums, tongue licking up a fresh bead of precum like it’s nothing. “What do you think? You’re not the only one enjoying this.”

Mydei takes him back in, hand still working between his own legs like he can’t help himself.

It’s too much. Too much sensation. Too much heat.

Phainon’s heart rabbits wildly in his chest, fingers sinking into Mydei’s hair as the pleasure roars through him like wildfire. Every part of him feels like it’s burning at the edges—a feeling that can’t be helped. The way Mydei’s tongue flattens beneath the length, the way his own groans vibrate through Phainon’s cock, and the way his cheeks hollow on every suck do little to quell the building sensation deep within him.

It feels wrong to look. Shameful. But he can’t help it, already glancing down again. The sight alone nearly undoes him entirely. Mydei, on his knees, lips wrapped around him and cheeks flushed, jerking himself off while taking every desperate inch Phainon gives him. It burns into his retinas, better than any recording he’s come to.

Phainon doesn’t even realize he’s shaking until Mydei pulls off with a slick gasp, eyes flicking up.

“You’re holding back,” Mydei murmurs, soft. “Don’t.”

Phainon stares down at him, dazed. “What…?”

Mydei reaches for him—not for Phainon’s cock, this time, but his hand. Laces their fingers together with a gentleness that makes something in Phainon’s chest lurch. His palm is warm and grounding in a way that makes Phainon’s stomach twist with something sharp and sweet.

“I’ll squeeze your hand,” he says, “if it’s too much. Otherwise, take what you need.”

Phainon’s breath hitches. “You’re sure?” he rasps. “I—fuck, I don’t want to hurt you—”

Mydei smiles in a way that’s utterly devastating. “I want you to.”

He exhales, shaky and overwhelmed. “Okay,” he says, voice cracking. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah—fuck.”

His free hand tangles itself in Mydei’s hair as, suddenly, Phainon is shoving deeper. Hips snapping forward as he fucks into that perfect mouth.

The rhythm is clumsy at first, desperate and shallow, but Mydei doesn’t flinch. He breathes steady through his nose, jaw loose, letting his throat take every inch Phainon gives him. He looks up at him through slightly teary lashes, giving him a look that says I’m okay. Keep going.

That’s all the permission Phainon needs.

He thrusts again with a deep moan, the wet, obscene sound of it nearly drowned out by his own gasping, “fuck, fuck, Mydei, you’re—this is—”

He can’t even bring himself to finish his own train of thought. He chokes on another moan as he feels the way his head pushes all the way back, and then past it. The tight, wet flex of his Mydei’s throat makes stars burst behind his eyes, the suction of it dizzying. His spit slicks down Phainon’s cock, pooling warm around his base, and Mydei moans around him like he likes being used this way.

Phainon lets himself be taken apart, fucking into the mouth of the man whose voice has haunted his fantasies for years. Mydei swallows around him, throat rippling, and Phainon cries out, canting up into his mouth. Mydei moans around him, the vibration sending lightning all the way down to Phainon’s toes.

Phainon shoves himself deeper, both hands gripping tight in Mydei’s hair. Mydei groans, eyes fluttering shut, and lets him. Each thrust is punctuated with breathless, choked gags, and the slap of skin against flushed lips—lewd and slick.

“You—fuck,” he gasps, hips stuttering, “your mouth—your throat, how the fuck are you this good—”

Mydei hums around him, still smug while choking on Phainon’s cock. He takes it. All of it. One hand interlinked with Phainon’s, the other pumping himself in time with Phainon’s stuttering, sloppy thrusts.

All the blood in his body is channeled towards his cock. His brain is completely void of any oxygen. Phainon can’t think, can’t breathe. The only thing he knows is heat—scalding, all-consuming heat—and the sound of his own wanton moans falling from his mouth. Every thrust is harder than the last, more desperate, more needy. His entire body is flooded with nothing but instinct and pleasure.

He’s whimpering now. Whining like a dog. Every time his cock sinks back into that wet heat of Mydei’s mouth, he makes another sound that he should be ashamed of. But now? Now, he’s far too gone to even care.

“Mydei—” he pants, voice breaking, “I’m gonna—I’m gonna fucking—”

Mydei only hums in affirmation, grounding him. Giving him that permission again without saying a word. Spit dribbles freely from the corners of his mouth as he fists his own length. He’s leaking visibly now, precum beading at the flushed tip of his cock, chasing his own orgasm off the feeling of being ruined.

It breaks Phainon.

He throws his head back with a high moan that borders on a sob, hips snapping harder now, messier, animalistic. “I—I can’t stop—shit, I can’t fucking stop—”

The obscene squelching and gagging noises causes Mydei to groan around him in response, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes.

“Feels—feels too good,” Phainon babbles. “Your mouth’s too—fuck, too wet, too warm, I’m gonna come, I can’t—can’t hold it—”

Mydei doesn’t let up, taking every single blind snap of Phainon’s cock jerking up into his mouth. He looks absolutely debauched. Flushed cheeks, swollen cherub lips stretched to accommodate the intrusion, spit pooling at the corners of his mouth, down his chin, eyes half-lidded, fluttering open just enough to look up at him with that same devotion. Like yes, like give it to me, like this is what I want. He strokes himself faster now, chasing his own high like a man possessed.

Phainon’s sways slightly as he tries to prevent himself from collapsing forward. Gasping frantically as his free hand grips tighter in his hair, hips rutting in tight, frantic thrusts. He feels the way Mydei’s throat tightens around him, how he hums deep and needy.

Then, he’s gone.

He cries out like he’s dying, voice ragged and stripped raw. Phainon’s climax crashes into him like a tidal wave: violent, unbearable, and devastatingly complete.

He pulls back at the last second, more from instinct than control, and the first hot spurt of come hits Mydei across the cheek with a slick, humiliating sound. The next lands high on his lips. Then another, thick and white, painting the flushed skin beneath his swollen mouth, already slick with spit and everything else they’ve done to each other.

Phainon chokes on a noise of surprise. “Shit—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

Mydei’s expression doesn’t twist in disgust.

Instead, he moans.

Hand still working himself to the edge, he groans deep in his chest as the sight of Phainon—panting, weeping, shaking through his release—drives him over. His cock twitches once, twice, and then he’s coming too, spilling over his own fist with a long, low moan that sounds better than any of the noises he’s made for that stupid fucking gacha game.

His mouth parts, glossy, and the mess on his face makes something stir in Phainon’s gut, disregarding the fact that he had already finished. Come streaking his cheekbone, clinging to his lashes, pooling over the curve of his bottom lip; dropping to his knees, he sits in front of Mydei, eyes wide with something close to being horrified.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he gasps, hands hovering over Mydei’s face like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “I didn’t mean to—it just—it was too much, I couldn’t hold back, I’m sorry—”

Mydei’s breath is still unsteady, but his smile is soft. Satisfied.

“It’s okay,” he says, his voice coming wrecked and slightly raspy from having his throat abused moments prior.

He raises one hand, his clean one, and slowly wipes through the thickest streak across his cheek. Then, his tongue flicks out, smooth and practiced, sucking the fingers into his mouth.

Phainon makes a wounded noise.

Mydei hums around his finger as he licks it clean, indulgent in his pace, like he’s savoring the taste of Phainon’s release, as if it’s a gift.

“I liked it,” he murmurs, releasing his finger with a slick little pop. “I wanted it.”

Phainon stares at him, completely enamored. “You’re…really something else.”

Mydei’s brow lifts, smug. “You don’t seem to mind.”

Phainon lets out a sound that was probably intended to be a laugh, he shifts, dizzy on his knees, still blinking as if he wasn’t sure if the room around him is real.

Panting, sweat-damp hair stuck to his forehead like he has a fever that’s actively boiling his entire body. The air’s gone humid with heat; the smell of sweat and sex clinging to the foam lined walls, lingering proof of their depravity.

Mydei hums a slow-paced tune under his breath, then reaches behind him and grabs a towel from the recording booth’s small side shelf. It’s clean, probably intended for sweaty singers, or something like that.

“Here,” he says, voice still slightly hoarse, “You got it on my face, so you might as well help wipe it off.”

Phainon grimaces, face flushing. “Oh my Gods—fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Mydei cuts in, gentle. “It’s okay. You said that about five times now.”

He hands over the towel. Phainon hesitates, then reaches out and starts dabbing delicately at Mydei’s cheek, wiping away any evidence of the aftermath with a careful hand, like he’s handling something fragile. Mydei stays still under his touch, watching him through his lashes with that strange sort of interest. Not quite affection, not quite amusement. But something suspended between them.

“If you’re really that sorry,” he says, “you could make it up to me.”

Phainon’s brow raises. “How so?”

Mydei’s lips tilt into the faintest smirk, slightly lopsided but charming nonetheless. “Mm. Buy me coffee sometime.”

Phainon’s hand stills, the towel pausing mid-dab. He blinks, flustered, brain scrambling to catch up. “I—yeah. Yeah, of course. I can. Absolutely. My treat, definitely. Sorry again—”

“Careful,” Mydei teases, brushing fingertips lightly over Phainon’s knuckles, “you might start sounding eager.”

Phainon flushes deeper. Mydei chuckles.

Once the worst of it is gone, Mydei leans back, grabbing a second cloth to clean his own hand, unhurried like he’s in no rush at all.

He tosses a glance towards the blinking light on the neglected microphone. “…Ah. It’s still rolling.”

Phainon looks over. Yep. Still red and blinking. “…fuuuck,” he groans, flinging his face into his hands. “I forgot it was—oh my Gods—”

Mydei laughs, cocking his head smugly in a quiet sort of way. “Guess that’s staying in the archive, then.”

Phainon hesitates. “…Do you think Anaxa will find out?”

Another low chuckle escapes Mydei’s lips. “Probably. ”

— ✦ —

Anaxagoras hasn’t blinked in what feels like seventeen whole minutes. One eye twitches. His spine aches. Bound to the creaky studio chair, he’s focused on one last pass through the session files. The last bit of quality control before he allows himself to crawl home.

It’s 12:27 a.m.

Everyone’s gone—cast, crew, interns, and techs alike.

They’ve all filed out hours ago with half-hearted waves and yawning mouths. He’s the last lonely figure hunched in the booth, basking in the eye-deteriorating glow of the obnoxiously bright dual monitors. He should really invest in some blue-light glasses.

Scrolling through the final list of tracks, Anaxa listened to every single second of the audio files collected from the past week. Stupid project deadlines be damned, he is leaving with that master folder clean and crisp. His work is something that he prides himself upon, after all. Until his eyes land on something…unfamiliar.

> aud_Take69finalfr(REAL)_v2mastered_FINAL-FINAL.wav

Pause. His eyes narrow.

“…Huh.”

The cursor hovers over the file like it, too, is unsure. There’s no log of a sixty-ninth take. No second mastering. And certainly no “final-final” file because that naming convention is strictly banned under studio policy. That’s how mistakes happen. How did he miss this?

Still, curiosity wins. Against all better judgement, he clicks.

The waveform loads. It’s long. Suspiciously long. Much, much longer than a normal scene file. Maybe it’s a blooper reel, Anaxa tries to rationalize. A cheeky audio gift for the fans. Yes. Yes, that would be good. That would be great.

Soft static. A long pause. There’s an exchange of labored breaths and the rustle of clothes like someone’s shifting.

“The mic’s still on.”

He turns up the volume, just a little.

“And?”

“...They could be listening right now.”

The voices are unmistakable. Phainon and Mydeimos, clear as day. He fast forwards a bit, the audio warping in his ears as he does so. He keeps on listening.

A low whine. More shaky breathing.

There’s another muffled moan. Something hits the mic stand. This time, the panting is accompanied by the sound of something…wet. Slurping. Gagging. Someone actually whimpers. The sound of squelching fills his headphones, sounding a little too…real?

Okay. Okay. This is how voice acting works. This happens all the time, no surprises here. Anaxa has heard stranger and more depraved. He once had to sit through a fully mastered tentacle orgy scene. This was fine. Typical. Expected, even.

The whimpering only gets louder. Then someone lets out a broken, high-pitched sob of pleasure that definitely doesn’t sound scripted. A wet gag. Then another. There’s a soft choked noise like someone trying not to come.

His eyebrows knit. Maybe this is an immersive foley test? A prank? A—

“Fuck, fuck, Mydei, you’re—this is—”

More wet noises. Sticky. Obscene. A sloppy, depraved squelch. A gasp followed by a moan that sounds far too genuine.

Anaxa’s face doesn’t change. Doesn’t even need to hear the next part as his fingers slam the volume dial. Down. Down. Further down. Muted. Silent.

He doesn’t need to hear more. Doesn’t want to hear more. But it’s too late now, as the sounds have become permanently etched in his mind.

No doubt, that is absolutely Phainon’s voice. No doubt, that was Mydeimos sucking him off.

The cursor blinks.

Anaxa closes his eyes, taking his headphones off before placing them gently atop the desk, as though afraid the table would collapse under its weight.

He exhales. Once. Shakily.

Staring down at the file, he renames it with his expression completely flat.

> DELETE_IMMEDIATELY_DO_NOT_OPEN.wav

Then, he opens a second window, pulling up the casting doc before adding a note in bright red, size eighty font. Bolded. Underlined. All caps. Final.

→ NEXT TIME: SEPARATE BOOTHS. NON-NEGOTIABLE.