Strife had always thought that there were some images that deserved to
be preserved for the ages, pure poetry captured in a single scene: the
killing fields after a battle, the blood soaked ground, the dead and
dying mortals strewn everywhere, the carrion birds only just beginning
to circle. A freshly raided village, would-be defenders lying in their
own blood and offal, some dead, some lingering painfully as they
screamed in agony, their women and children wailing over them, the
smoldering wreckage of their homes and lives around them. The swell of
a crowd as it formed itself into a mob, individuals becoming part of
the whole, a single animal that destroyed and devoured anything and
everything in its path, burning, stealing, raping and killing,
primitive and mindless.
And a young god draped across a low stone bench, fresh from sword
drills, eyes closed, panting, sides heaving like a winded colt.
Multicolored bruises were fast fading and thin cuts along his bare arms
and chest were closing. In moments there was nothing to mar his long,
lean form. He was perfect.
Sliding a dagger from its sheath, the blade making only the faintest of
sounds as it slid free of the leather, Strife slowly walked towards the
oblivious godling. One foot exactly in front of the other he followed a
long crack in the paving stone, weaving a careful, winding path. When
he reached the bench he simply stood there for a long moment,
just...looking. It would be a far better view without those thin, loose
pants in the way, but what was on view was good enough. For now.
“Hello, Deimos,” Strife said, and smirked when Deimos
yelped, eyes snapping open as his whole body jerked in surprise. The
movement was enough to unbalance him and for a few seconds Deimos
flailed with arms and legs, nearly sliding off the bench before he
caught his balance. Strife didn’t offer any help, just continued
to stand over him, watching.
“S-Strife?” Hands braced back on the bench, holding his
weight, Deimos looked up at him, green eyes wide with confusion.
Uncertainty and a touch of fear joined the confusion when his eyes slid
to the dagger in Strife’s grasp.
Strife kept silent for just a few moments longer, enjoying the building
tension and Deimos’ growing apprehension. But too long and Deimos
would bolt, so, moving to straddle the other end of the bench, Strife
dropped down onto it, flipping the dagger at the same time.
“I hear Ares is letting you practice with real blades now,”
he said. “So,” He held out the dagger, hilt first,
“happy birthday.”
It wasn’t close enough for Deimos to reach, not without sitting
up fully, bringing them closer. But Deimos didn’t move, not at
first. He frowned, staring at Strife. He looked even more confused now,
but the fear was receding. Finally he pushed himself up, one leg
falling to the side of the bench, the other bent in front of him as he
leaned forward to study the blade.
“Hephaestian?” he asked, his frown deepening.
“Duh. What other kind of weapon would a god carry?”
“Oh. Uh, it’s just that Dad hasn’t let me use any of
the good blades yet. Just mortal made junk.” He snorted in
disgust and Strife made sure to look surprised when Deimos glanced up
at him. As though he hadn’t already known that, hadn’t
planned to be the first to give him a proper weapon.
“Really? That bites,” Strife said, putting a trace of
sympathy in his tone. “But, hey, now you’ve got a real
blade to work with.”
Deimos still hesitated a few moments more, wariness visible in
everything from the tapping of his foot on the ground to the slow
clench and unclench of his fingers against his thighs. Paranoia was
definitely a family trait, but Strife was willing to bet that Deimos
sensed that there was something more here than what he was seeing.
Good. Strife wanted him a little on edge. It wouldn’t be any fun
if he were too trusting.
When Deimos finally took the dagger, he grabbed it quickly, snatching
it out of Strife’s hand. Strife could have released it in time,
could have simply not let it cut him, but he allowed the blade to slice
into his fingers and palm. The burn of the cuts, the slick feel of
blood seeping over his skin, it was so sweet. He wondered if Deimos
already knew this sort of pleasure; he hoped not. He wanted to teach
Deimos this, and so much more.
“Thanks,” Deimos said belatedly, not looking up from the
dagger as he slowly turned it in his hands, the afternoon sunlight
glinting off the finely honed edges. “But it’s not my
birthday, you know. Not yet.”
“I know.” Strife clenched his hand into a fist, making the
blood flow faster, sticky between his fingers now. “It’s
next month. You’ll be, what, thirteen?”
“Fifteen.” Deimos gave him an unamused look.
“Yeah, big difference,” Strife said teasingly. But there
was a difference. Like Hermes before him, Deimos was growing the mortal
way. From baby to child and now a youth. Two years ago he hadn’t
been this tall, hadn’t shown any signs of the lean muscle so
visible now, didn’t fill out his clothes well enough to draw the
eyes he did now; two years had changed him from a boy to a beautiful
young man. Strife had no intention of letting that beauty go untouched.
“Still kissing the ground more than blocking an attack,
huh?” Strife said, reaching out with bloody fingers to snag a
long piece of straw hanging from Deimos’ bangs.
“I’m getting better,” Deimos said defensively,
jerking his head away from Strife’s hand. A smear of bright blood
remained, though, stark against the white-blond of Deimos’ hair.
And it was a fair amount of hair, long and wavy and it would make a
good handhold, an excellent way to restrain him.
“Yeah,” Strife agreed. “Ares wouldn’t still be
wasting his time kicking your ass around the practice yard if you
weren’t.”
“Maybe I can get him to let me use this at practice,”
Deimos said, slowly twirling the dagger in one hand. “But
he’ll probably make me wait until after I learn the bow.”
His lips tightened in displeasure. Nicely shaped, wide lips. Strife
could so easily imagine how they’d feel against his, soft and
pliant -- or not. Maybe pressed tightly together, resisting until
Strife forced them apart, slid his tongue between them, his fingers,
his cock.
“I like the bow,” Strife said, fingers brushing against his
own lips, leaving the coppery taste of blood behind. “It’s
my second best weapon. I could show you some things.” So many,
many things.
“That’s okay, Dad’s sending me to Apollo.”
“Mr. Shinybritches himself, huh? Careful all that gold
lamé doesn’t blind you,” Strife said with a smirk,
one that widened when Deimos snorted in response.
“I’m more worried about seeing him out of it.” Deimos
grimaced.
“Hmm?” Strife frowned, and then it clicked and his smirk
disappeared. “Oh. Unc’s actually letting Apollo have at you?”
“Well, he didn’t put it like that,” Deimos said, his tone
turning sour. “He said it was time I had a ‘well rounded
education.’” He rolled his eyes.
“You’re the right age for it,” Strife agreed. The
perfect age. Not a child, but not old enough to be jaded and cynical --
or wary enough.
“Who was it for you?” Deimos asked, still twirling the
dagger, eyes fixed on it.
“Ares,” Strife said in a “duh” tone.
“Lucky. At least Dad’s not a complete asshole.”
“True.” Strife wouldn’t mind getting pegged by
Apollo, but only if Golden Boy had his personality surgically removed
first.
“Now I wish I hadn’t told Cupid where he could stick his
offer.” Deimos rested the dagger on one thigh, sighing
regretfully.
“Offer?” Strife raised an eyebrow.
“He’s, you know, sugary and sappy and just -- ugh.”
Deimos shuddered dramatically. “But at least he’s about
more than just getting off. Losing it to him might’ve been kind
of fun -- if he didn’t talk too much. But Apollo? It’s
gonna suck.” He shook his head.
Strife opened his mouth, then closed it again when words wouldn’t
come. He’d always assumed.... Deimos lived in the same temple as
Cupid, after all, so who wouldn’t
assume? And if not Cupid, then surely some other god would’ve noticed
what a fine piece Deimos was and hit it long before now. But...a
virgin? Totally untouched?
Swallowing hard, Strife had to fight back the sudden rush of images and
fantasies that threatened to steal his voice for some time to come.
Deimos naked and waiting for him, eyes filled with anticipation and a
touch of fear; Deimos halfheartedly fighting him as Strife slowly cut
away his clothes; Deimos shackled to his bed -- no...no, it would be
much better to restrain him physically, one hand gripping Deimos’
hair, the other pressing on his back, holding him down as he cursed and
begged and struggled and couldn’t do more than lie there and take
it as Strife slowly worked his cock into that cherry ass.
Strife pushed off of the bench abruptly, clenching his wounded hand
hard. Half closed cuts broke open and the pain yanked him back, made
him focus.
“So why are you still here?” he asked, surprised at how
steady his voice sounded. “You could be home tapping Cupid for a
booty call.” As if he’d let that happen. Now that he
knew...oh, damn if anyone but him was breaking Deimos in.
“Dad wants me staying here today,” Deimos said with a
shrug. “He’s tossing me to Apollo tomorrow, so I guess he
wants to some sort of father-son bonding thing tonight. Whatever.”
“Tomorrow.” Strife managed to keep his tone flat, no
indication of the sudden wave of urgency that gripped him.
“Yeah, in the courtyard at mid-morning. I heard them talking
yesterday and they’re going with the traditional mock-kidnapping
thing. Like Apollo could keep hold of me if I put up a real
fight.” He rolled his eyes again.
“Well, have fun with that,” Strife said. “I’ll
see you around.”
Deimos raised a hand and waggled his fingers goodbye.
Strife quickly headed back into the temple, blood slowly seeping
through his fingers, his mind already filling with ideas. He had a real
kidnapping to plan.