Limitless
by Mythdefied
February 2005
Strife didn't know why he kept coming back. It would've been too easy
to say it was the sex. True, Deimos was always so pretty down on his
knees, naked, cock so hard and red as he sucked Strife's dick, lips
stretched wide around him. Even prettier on his back, legs pressed to
his chest, holding himself open for Strife. And Strife never did get
tired of listening to those swift, panting gasps, watching as he pushed
slowly into that tight little hole, seeing Deimos take him in inch by
slow inch.
Deimos did let him do things no one else had, or at least no one else
had done it willingly. And there was something to be said for bedding
someone who wanted it, begged for Strife's entire hand up his ass
instead of screaming for him to stop, who would take anything at all so
long as it was Strife putting it there. Deimos never said no. He went
willingly when Strife wanted to chain him in Hephaestian metal, strip
him of his powers, make him bleed inside and out. He came and cried out
for more. He didn't protest when Strife brought in other gods, other
beings and wanted to watch Deimos with them. Even the centaurs only
brought a giggle and a question of what position Strife wanted to see
them all in.
It was actually Deimos himself who brought his twin Phobos, his
perfectly identical in face alone, but his opposite beneath. Sweet to
Deimos' deviance, and he'd been so innocent and trusting; that had
changed by the time they let him go, days later. Deimos sometimes
brought corpses, when the mood struck them, often a fresh young boy,
dead barely minutes by Deimos' hand, still warm, tight, still
sluggishly bleeding from a stab wound to the heart. Sometimes a girl,
but those he usually brought alive, and very young.
They'd never met a line they wouldn't cross together, things that made
even Ares turn faintly green when he learned what they did, but it
never bothered them. Deimos' creativity, his lusts and desires were a
perfect match for Strife's. It didn't always have to be exotic or
taboo, sometimes it felt more...intimate if it was just the two of
them, alone, Deimos gasping and pleading as Strife held him still and
slowly licked his way into Deimos' ass. Deimos returning the favor
before losing patience and just pulling Strife back onto his cock.
Always so painful, so perfect that way.
They could last for days, for eternity in theory, being gods, but
Strife was afraid the whole thing would lose its draw if he stayed too
long, so he always found an excuse to leave. And Deimos always watched
him go, never saying a word, just watching.
But Strife came back, time and again. Maybe he stayed away a few days,
a few weeks, once for an entire year, but he always returned. And
Deimos seemed to know when he was ready, when Strife couldn't fight the
need, the burning desire to have Deimos in any and every way. Deimos
would be there, meeting his gaze, grinning. It didn't matter if Ares
was in the middle of one of his rants or if they were in the middle of
an entire war, Deimos knew, and the invitation was there. Strife never
refused.
They had a small place in the mortal realm, hidden from mortal eyes.
Neither of them were "real" Olympians and while they could crash with
whoever would have them up there, none of the other gods would tolerate
their joint excesses. So they'd found their own place long ago. A one
room cottage, nothing fancy, but what else did they need except a big
bed and room to store their toys? It was the closest thing to home
Strife had ever had, maybe Deimos too, but Strife had never asked. On
days after Hercules had wiped the ground with him, again, it was the
only place he really wanted to be.
"Hey, cuz." Deimos met him at the door, had probably been waiting for
him since they'd seen each other in Ares' temple hours earlier.
Deimos' hands were quick, pulling apart leather knots in Strife's
outfit even as he leaned forward to give Strife a kiss that was nearly
chaste, just a mere pressing of lips. Strife sighed and closed his
eyes, leaning into the kiss, wanting so much more.
But Deimos drew back. He'd pulled open the leather enough to slide his
fingers inside where they stroked Strife's skin, hot against the chill
Strife had felt since he'd run from Hercules.
"Guess the day kind of, heh, sucked, didn't it?" Deimos didn't quite
giggle there, more of a nervous twitter, a habit that Strife found
inexplicably soothing.
"No, Deimos," Strife opened his eyes with another sigh, "I just love
getting my ass kicked by Zeus' bastard. Makes my day, you know?" But
there was no anger behind the sarcasm, just resignation.
"Can't kill him, can't really hurt him; what to do, huh?" Deimos' tone
was calm as he looked at Strife, fingers still stroking. "Or...maybe we
can hurt him."
"What do you mean?" Strife frowned. "We put a real scratch on Jercules
and Zeus will have us scraping chamber pots in Tartarus."
"Yeah, and not in a fun way." Deimos sighed, but it was loud and long,
too theatrical; he was up to something.
"Give, Deimos. What're you pulling?" Strife was suspicious now, but he
couldn't keep the corner of his mouth from turning up, a half smile.
Deimos had yet to disappoint him and the anticipation was...nice.
Pulling his fingers back, Deimos took hold of Strife's arm and stepped
back into the cottage. "C'mon, Strife. I made dinner."
Strife shrugged and followed him in. Sometimes Deimos brought things he
sneaked from Bacchus' temple, delicacies they couldn't get otherwise.
Rare wines and sweets. But as he stepped into the cottage, kicking the
door shut behind him, he smelled the delicious scent of roasting meat.
"Ribs? Cool." Strife's mouth was watering.
"Something like that." Deimos stepped aside with a grin, opening the
rest of the cottage to Strife's view.
A fire pit had been carved out of the dirt floor, all of their toys
pushed to the side to make room for the large spit busy turning over
the fire. The smoke was vanishing even as it rose and the flames never
once leaped out of the pit itself, nice display of control over godly
powers. But the darkly roasted carcass on the spit....
For a moment Strife just stared, then the laughter bubbled out, bright
and loud as an invisible weight disappeared from inside him.
"You like?" Deimos' tone, the certainty there, said that he already
knew the answer.
"Oh yeah." Strife grinned at him, still chuckling. "I love...it." So
close to saying something else, something Strife had never given a
single thought to, never once suspected, and the laughter abruptly died.
Strife found himself just standing there, staring at Deimos. It was a
too-obvious slip, it had to have been noticed and why wasn't Deimos
sneering at him? Making fun of Strife "losing his edge" or going weak
on him; Strife would've done it.
But Deimos was smiling instead, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I
know, Strife. C'mon, let's eat."
Strife let himself be pulled forward, still staring at Deimos, still
not getting it. Deimos knew? How could he know when Strife hadn't? Oh,
he'd never stopped wanting Deimos, lusting after him, the things they
did, craving his company, needing so badly to be with him--
Oh. Fuck.
Looking at Deimos as he held up a long, serrated blade, grinning so
broadly, Strife realized that this time, he wouldn't be making any
excuses, wouldn't be leaving. Not until their jobs forced them to go.
Strife...cared. Why hadn't anyone ever told him that? It wasn't fair
that he hadn't known he had a weakness, that his weakness was blond,
twisted, and so very, very perfect.
The firelight was reflecting off the metal of the blade, gleaming in
Deimos' eyes.
"Dark meat or light?" Deimos asked.
"Uh...dark," Strife replied, never taking his eyes off Deimos.
"Cool, I like white meat better anyway."
And Deimos began carving the dripping flank of what had once been
Iolaus.
Fin
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