Chapter Text
Phenomaman does not fully understand the appeal of performing 'roleplay' during sex. How does a false scenario heighten arousal? Especially when said scenario is one that could never feasibly happen?
But the appeal of restraining one's partner—that he's beginning to understand.
He watches as Flambae writhes against him, cursing and occasionally bursting into flame. But Phenomaman stays firm and unmoved, one hand holding down both of Flambae's wrists above his head while the other pins him to the bed by the hip.
"Fuck off," Flambae spits out. Literally. His spittle sizzles against Phenomaman's cheek, tingly and pleasant. "You're not turning me into your fucking sex slave, alien bitch!"
Of course not. Phenomaman would never do something so abhorrent. But he can see the way Flambae's eyes darken in challenge. In anticipation.
So Phenomaman indulges him, tightens his grip just enough until bone creaks and Flambae's face tenses. He leans down, lowers his voice.
"I don't recall giving you a choice."
Flambae shudders, but doesn't stop glaring. Spits again. "Try it. I'll fucking kill you, bitch."
In lieu of responding, Phenomaman first ponders how he would treat a human captured for the sole purpose of being bred.
Gently, he decides, making shushing noises, letting the hand on Flambae's hip slide up and down his flank. He lowers his head for a kiss. Humans are such fragile beings—
Searing light fills his vision, and Phenomaman leans back and away as Flambae sets himself ablaze in a renewed effort to escape, writhing and thrashing like wildfire.
It is as if Phenomaman holds captive a living star instead of a human. Beautiful in his brilliance, like the fiery wildflowers that grow along the volcanic regions of his home planet.
(The climate of Urgot-52dc is fickle and extreme, and early Urgotians evolved with the ability to absorb and release heat at their leisure. It is a trait that's been deemed largely useless with the advancement of technology, and the fact that Phenomaman retains full control of this ability is yet another reminder of how brutish and primitive he is compared to his peers.)
He greedily absorbs the fever off of Flambae's form, filling himself with so much of that pleasant dry heat he could feel it in his core, his genitals twitching into life, already longing for the familiar source of that warmth—
The fire sputters, then dissipates, revealing those sharp citrine eyes once more. All movement stops as lush lips part on a gasp, limbs lax with fatigue. Too exhausted to continue his struggle, even when Phenomaman lets go of his wrists to cup his jaw.
Gentle, Phenomaman reminds himself. Like he would an expecting mate. Or at least, one who would be expecting by the end of tonight.
"Don't push yourself, jendeh," he coos, ignoring the heated glower the nickname earns him.
(The fact that the name of those volcanic flowers Flambae so resembles also happens to mean 'whore' in the fire hero's native tongue is a pure coincidence that continues to delight.)
"You can't wear yourself out now."
He pulls Flambae into a kiss, moving his tongue the way he was taught, his vibrassa—or mustache, as Earthlings call it—rubbing against the other's skin.
And while the physical act of kissing doesn't do much for him on a physiological level, he does enjoy his lover's reactions to it.
(He considers the act as the human equivalent of neck rubbing: an exchange of pheromones via rubbing one's neck glands against another's. Equal parts intimate and affectionate.)
Of course, that's when Flambae decides to ruin the moment by biting down hard on his tongue, and the brief flash of tingling pain makes him retreat from the other's mouth and his grip loosen.
In an impressive show of core strength and flexibility, Flambae brings his legs up around Phenomaman's neck, arms moving to finish the triangular chokehold before his limbs tighten, applying enough pressure to incapacitate a lesser being.
Phenomaman, completely unaffected, takes a second to pause and consider. How would he react if his mate were to attack him? If his mate insisted on pretending not to want this?
Not gently.
Phenomaman rises to his knees, lifting one arm and carrying Flambae clean off the bed—before slamming him back down.
Flambae gasps, stunned, the breath quite literally knocked out of his lungs.
Phenomaman huffs, reaching for one of the bright orange items on the nightstand, ones humans use as a supplement to sex.
(Toys, Flambae corrected with that sultry gap-toothed grin, made to survive my flames; he then proceeded to explain how to use each one.)
"I would've been content to treat you gently. Like I would a precious mate," Phenomaman says, threading the long chain of a pair of cuffs through the headboard. He claps the metal on Flambae's wrists. "But it seems you disagree."
Flambae recovers from his daze just as Phenomaman leans back to admire his handiwork. The fire hero snarls, going to attack once more but failing, eyes going wide when he looks up and realizes why. His throat bobs as he swallows. "Y-you—"
"Then again, you aren't my mate. Not yet."
Acting comes easier like this. No script to memorize, no cues to remember, and no director to listen to. Here, the only direction he has to take is that of Flambae's body.
The jolt of muscle when Phenomaman traces the edges of his suit, feeling out that line between skin and aramid cloth.
The sudden hitch in his breath when Phenomaman slips a thumb underneath to grip the fabric.
"Do you know what you are?"
"No," Flambae gasps despite the obvious silhouette of his cock twitching against his thigh. "No, don't you fucking dare—"
Rrriiiiiip.
"YOU BITCH—"
Phenomaman ignores the words that follow, focusing instead on systematically peeling off Flambae's ruined suit until the only tatters that remain are those that cling around his forearms and calves, leaving everything else bare.
Including his half-hard cock.
Phenomaman encloses the warm flesh in his fist and squeezes.
Flambae jolts, his loud cussing bravado breaking into a pained moan, and Phenomaman chuckles as he feels him harden and twitch against his palm. Truly, Flambae's body is more honest that his mouth.
"Let me ask again. Do you know what you are?"
"Let go, you psycho piece of—shit!"
He tightens his grip, arousal rushing through his veins when Flambae whimpers, hips jerking restlessly as if trying to tug himself free.
"Fucking—stop!" Flambae shrieks, a hint of panic leaking into his voice. "Y-you're—let go!"
"Answer."
"I—I will! If you let go, if you—please!"
Phenomaman lets go, and Flambae immediately tries to crawl up the bed, backing away as much as possible, which isn't very far. He brings his legs up and to the side, curled up in an almost fetal position as his body shakes, amber eyes glaring at Phenomaman over the curve of his bicep.
As if Phenomaman can't force his legs open again with a single hand.
For now, he simply lays a palm on his flank, feeling the muscle jump and tense under his touch.
"Do you know what you are?" he repeats, tone soft.
"Yeah," Flambae licks his lips, then sneers. "I'm fucking pissed."
A foot connects with Phenomaman's chin as Flambae lashes out with a sudden kick. And while it doesn't hurt, he turns his head with the impact to avoid undue damage to Flambae's bones.
Slowly, he turns back around, meeting a defiant gaze.
Phenomaman sighs and stands.
"Gentleness truly is wasted on you."
He walks over to the nightstand, and picks up the spreader bar. He turns around, feeling a jolt of arousal at the way Flambae's eyes go wide, amber swallowed by dilated black.
"Let's try discipline instead, shall we?"
There are many physiological differences between his kind and humans despite the surface similarities, and one of those differences that he finds most intriguing is the mammary papilla. Or the nipples, as they're more commonly called.
He is still unsure why biological males such as Flambae have them since they lack the glands needed to produce milk, but he will admit that they are fascinating to play with.
Phenomaman pinches one of the dusky buds, taking in the way the other whines, trying to twist away. But with his hands cuffed above his head, the spreader bar strapped to his ankles chained to the footboard, and Phenomaman sitting on his thighs, there's nowhere for Flambae to go.
Not that he wants to actually escape, not with the way his cock dribbles and jumps with each harsh pinch, body screaming for more even as his mouth asks for it to stop.
"I wonder," Phenomaman massages the muscle surrounding the bud, savoring the give of supple flesh, "will you lactate once I'm done breeding you?"
"Stop—hah—stop it," Flambae all but begs.
Phenomaman ignores it, just as he did every other plea that came before it.
Because if this scenario were true, if Flambae really were nothing but a disobedient sex slave, that's what Phenomaman would do. He'd answer each disregarded request for mercy with pleasure-pain, until Flambae is broken into being pliant and sweet, begging for his master to breed him and parting his legs without having to be told—
Oh.
Hm…
"Katon?"
He blinks out of his thoughts, glancing at Flambae, who stares back with a furrowed brow. Only then does he realize that he'd stopped in his ministrations, caught up as he was in his thoughts. He also notes the scent of his pheromones in the air, slowly thickening. He didn't even notice he'd gone through the first stage.
Perhaps Phenomaman does understand the appeal of roleplay.
"Katon?" Flambae repeats. "You alright?"
Phenomaman smiles down at him, then pulls at Flambae's nipples, who yowls, arching to try and relieve that sudden torturous tension. Phenomaman simply pulls further outward.
"And who said you can use my name?" he asks, not letting up, even as amber eyes grow wet with tears, heat gathering in his core at the sight. "I don't recall giving you permission to do so."
"M'sorry," Flambae breathes out, face scrunched in agony. Fire licks across his skin. "I'm sorry, please—please, sir!"
Phenomaman lets go, and Flambae collapses back down with a relieved sob, a small puddle of steaming precum gathered on his abs, pretty cock red and heavy with arousal. He flinches in his restraints as Phenomaman reaches for his face, cupping his cheek and smoothing a tear away with his thumb.
"Oh, jendeh," he coos, savoring the bitten-off whimper Flambae lets out. "So pretty when you cry. Now. Tell me what you are."
Flambae's jaw clenches as he hesitates.
Not out of anger, Phenomaman realizes as the other's gaze slides to the side, unable to hold eye contact, but shame.
Which won't do at all. Flambae is confident in all he does and is, and being a perfect broodmare for his master should be no exception. Phenomaman supposes he'll have to help him with that; it's what a good master would do.
Phenomaman closes the distance between their lips once more, and this time, Flambae welcomes him in, sucking on Phenomaman's tongue as if apologizing for biting it earlier.
As they part, Flambae leans up to chase after Phenomaman's mouth, whining when his restraints stop him from doing so. He whines some more when Phenomaman shifts off of him and stands.
"Patience," Phenomaman says, stripping out of his garments, lips twitching at the way Flambae's half-lidded gaze hungrily takes in every inch of revealed skin. He then unclips the chain connecting the spreader bar to the footboard and drags it up, all the way to the headboard and fastens it there, ignoring Flambae's pathetic little sounds as he's practically folded in half, legs held up in the air, though he does place a pillow underneath his hips to help keep him stable.
Once that's done, Phenomaman gets back on the bed, shuffling his way between Flambae's legs and taking in the sight of his opening, bared to the world and already fluttering in anticipation.
He lets his tentacles unfurl from their cavity, shuddering as Flambae's warmth draws them in, their tips tickling at the rim of his hole, drawing a stuttered gasp from his lover.
"N-no!" Flambae starts wriggling again. "Don't—ngah, HAH!"
He bursts into sudden flame, tears sizzling away as his tight little hole gets invaded. Phenomaman sighs at that pleasant heat. If only the bar and chains weren't in the way, then he could lean down and make love to Flambae as his tentacles work him open for his ovipositor—
He pauses, because who says he couldn't?
Phenomaman looks down at Flambae: brows pinched together, eyes glazed over and unfocused, a bit of drool dripping from his open mouth. His lips tilt into a fond smile at the sight.
It's not like his little human can stop him, restraints or no.