Transfiguration
by Mythdefied
August 2003

Autolycus shifted his weight slightly onto his right foot as he stared at the gold disk before him. A replica of the sun, it hung on the pale marble wall just behind the altar, glinting in the torchlight. This wasn't one of Apollo's main temples, in fact it was rather small and out of the way and Autolycus had a sneaking suspicion that the disk wasn't even solid gold, but he still made no move to either take it or leave. All he had to do was lean over the alter, snag the disk and go; there weren't any traps, he'd spent enough time standing there staring to notice if there were. He'd always had a fairly accurate internal clock -- a helpful thing in his line of work -- and it was telling him that he'd been standing in the same place for ten minutes now and he still couldn't decide one way or another.

It was one thing to suspect that the disk wasn't pure gold but he wouldn't be satisfied until he'd taken it down for a closer look, and therein lay the problem. If he took it, even to just have a look, would that suddenly conjure up his current godly shadow? And was it even right to refer to Strife like that?

The first time had made sense; Autolycus had been in Strife's temple trying to get hold of a set of ornamental silver throwing knives, so it hadn't been too great of a shock when Strife had shown up and punished him for it. Although that punishment.... Autolycus hadn't exactly been put off from stealing from other gods. Still, that didn't do anything to explain Strife's presence in Aphrodite's temple. Autolycus didn't claim to know everything about the gods' interactions with each other but he did have an inside track in the form of Hercules and last he'd heard Strife wasn't spending a great deal of time hanging around with love gods. Of course there were always Aphrodite's priestesses. Autolycus had spent a fair amount of time with those lovely ladies himself so maybe they provided the same services for gods; it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, but he didn't quite buy it either. Which left him with the suspicion that he was being followed, watched, and that bothered him -- but not as much as it should've. So far the consequences of being caught in gods' temples hadn't exactly been unpleasant, enlightening, yes, but not exactly unwanted.

That didn't mean it would continue though. It could've just been coincidence those two times, so what if he took the disk and instead of being caught by Strife, he found himself confronted by a very angry Apollo? Humans he could escape from but gods were a far different matter and without Hercules or Xena there it was a deadly risk. But...he was the King of Thieves; the most daring and successful thief to ever live and he'd pulled himself out of more near-fatal scrapes than most people ever saw. Ballads were sung about him, he had legends attached to his name that grew with each telling, every street thief in Greece admired him and even the people he robbed respected him; he had a reputation to live up to and turning away from this because of a vague fear wasn't an option. He wouldn't respect himself if he allowed that to happen.

"Come on, Auto," he said with a resigned sigh, "it's only your life."

A quick look around showed no sign of anyone, mortal or god, so bracing one hand on the altar, he leaned forward and gripped the side of the thin disk. It was surprisingly heavy, lifting his hopes a bit that it might be solid gold after all; certainly he needed more than one hand to lift it. He leaned his hips against the altar for balance and grabbed the disk with both hands. Another attack of paranoia -- justified in his mind -- made him look around again. When he was satisfied he was still alone, he lifted the disk from the wall.

The disk had been hung with a basic piece of rope on the back, which Autolycus saw as he lifted it up. He also saw that the back was a dull gray instead of the bright gold of the front. It was stone. Gold painted stone. He had a brief moment to come to terms with the fact that this had all been a wasted effort -- and then a smooth hand was gripping the back of his neck, forcing him down further over the altar.

Autolycus immediately dropped the disk, wincing at the loud clatter it made on the altar but more interested in trying to keep himself upright than in any attention he might attract from the guards outside. Besides, the guards were really the least of his problems here. He braced himself on the altar but it was a highly polished marble and as the pressure increased on his neck his hands began to slip. Sweat broke out on his palms from the effort of holding his position and that made it impossible to keep any sort of purchase on the already slick stone. Losing his grip entirely, he cringed as he waited for his face to slam down into the altar, hoping the resulting broken nose wouldn't damage his good looks too much. But the impact never came. Opening his eyes hesitantly, Autolycus found himself with an up-close view of the pale marble, but his face wasn't touching it. He was so very close, but the hand on his neck had stopped him from slamming into it.

He tried to turn his head, wanting to be sure of the owner of that hand and hoping desperately it wasn't Apollo, but the grip on his neck was too tight to allow for movement. Another increase in pressure, slight this time, and his forehead was pressing against the cool marble. His arms splayed out in front of him, bent over the altar, standing nearly on the tips of his toes, it was one of the more awkward positions he'd found himself in. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable, just a bit humiliating, which was undoubtedly the point.

Out of the corner of one eye he saw the gold painted disk being lifted until it was out of his sight. For a few moments there was nothing else, no movement, no sound, nothing but the insistent pressure on the back of his neck keeping him in place. It made him more nervous than he'd been in years but he wasn't about to say anything. He worked better when someone else provided the material so he'd let his captor speak first, then build a creative story around whatever was said.

Then the disk clattered back onto the altar, making Autolycus wince and jerk under the hand.

"Tsk, tsk; all of this for a worthless piece of crap? I'm disappointed in you, Autolycus." The sarcastic drawl seemed to move over Autolycus like a wave and he found himself relaxing as relief shot through him.

"I didn't know it was fake until I picked it up; wanna point me to the real stuff?" he replied with matching sarcasm, confidence returning now that he knew his captor.

That got a giggle in response. "Yeah, like I'm gonna help you rip off my family. I'm here to make you pay, 'cause you obviously didn't learn any better last time."

"I learned something last time," Autolycus said under his breath. Maybe it hadn't been to keep away from gods' temples, but he kind of doubted that's what he'd been expected to learn to begin with, same as now.

"Why d'you keep doing this, huh?" The question half-taunting, the tone amused, but Autolycus' reply was entirely serious.

"You first, Strife; what're you doing here?"

There was abrupt silence. Autolycus could hear his own breathing, feel the air redirected back at his face when he exhaled against the marble, but there was nothing else. Then a slight movement where Strife gripped him, a thumb sliding back and forth against his neck, a small caress, so very small, and yet it sent a shiver through him that had nothing whatsoever to do with fear.

"I was bored." All amusement had fled from Strife's tone and he sounded equally serious. "I'm not now."

Autolycus sucked in a sharp breath when he felt a familiar wiry body mold itself against him, hips pressing against his, chest to his back, and lips just barely touching his ear. A movement to his left drew his attention and he was just able to make out a pale hand holding...something, it almost looked like a knife hilt with no blade.

"Let's do some more experimenting, huh?" The softly whispered words reached Autolycus' ear on warm breath. "You get off on fear and on pain, so let's see if having them all at once does it for you."

A hissing click and Autolycus' eyes widened as a small blade slid up out of the hilt in Strife's hand. He'd never seen anything like that and even as fear began to make itself known, his pulse speeding up, muscles tensing, he couldn't help wondering how much he could get for something like that. He made a mental note to talk to Salmoneus about marketing opportunities, if he lived through this.

"Relax," Strife breathed the word in his ear, followed by the all too brief touch of a tongue to his earlobe. Autolycus shivered again and he couldn't claim it was all due to fear.

"You've gotta be joking." The words came out as tense as he felt.

Another giggle. "Deimos and Phobos taught me everything I know."

"Oh, that's a comfort." Autolycus rolled his eyes.

"It should be." And just like that Strife was serious again.

Autolycus winced as the knife moved closer, far too close, the flat of the blade pressing lightly against his cheek.

"They're the Gods of Pain and Fear, Autolycus, and that includes the good kind of pain and fear, know what I mean?" The knife slid back, over his cheekbone, up towards his hairline. "They taught me to keep my blades so totally sharp, to always make the shallowest of cuts, and to keep up the distraction. I," flick, "know," flick, "what," flick "I'm doing." Another audible flick of the knife just outside of Autolycus' range of vision, and suddenly the fabric of his sleeves fell away in a slow shower of green.

It was...impressive, he had to admit, just a few small motions of a knife and his arms were bare and -- bleeding? Just a single red line across his bicep, not dripping or seeping in any way but as the seconds passed he felt the sting, a cold fire that proved that yes, he had been cut. He couldn't help staring at it even though it hurt to strain his eyes so far to the left; it was hardly more than a graze, nothing beyond the top layers of skin, and he had absolutely no doubt that it was deliberate. Strife wasn't exaggerating his skill and Autolycus wasn't sure if that frightened him more or if it...excited him? Maybe both, and he didn't want to think about that, about the way his muscles had relaxed regardless of the fear still very much present within him, or about the way that red line fascinated him with its elegant simplicity.

"Trust me," Strife said, and it was a demand.

Autolycus wanted to tell him to go to Tartarus, to let him up so he could get out of here before this got any stranger, but his mouth wasn't listening to his mind because a soft, "Yes," had already slipped out.

The only response he received was a light pressing of lips just behind his ear, then Strife moved away. No longer pressed against Autolycus' back, he still maintained his grip on Autolycus' neck but there was more room between them now, more room for him to work, Autolycus realized.

He could hear the knife when it sliced, but he rarely ever felt it. Sometimes there was a brief tugging at his vest or shirt, or his pants, but mostly the only time he knew the knife was there was by sound, or when Strife paused to rest it against his bare skin. The blade never seemed to warm, maybe because it was in near constant motion, only spending a few seconds pressed against him, but Autolycus began to crave those brief moments. It gave him something to ground himself on, the cold, solid metal imprinting itself on his flesh, his shoulder, his back, his stomach, his hip, and each time he felt like he could breathe again. When the blade was in motion he couldn't know where it was, what it would do next, when he'd next feel that cold sliver of fire sliding across his skin. He was cut in multiple places, each one throbbing lightly now in time with his heartbeat, only the latest one or two stinging in that way he was coming to anticipate, and by the time he felt them the blade was long gone, cutting elsewhere, material or skin, he wouldn't know until he felt another sting.

His vest was gone, as was the shirt beneath it. They'd long since floated to the floor in ribbons of black and green, sometimes accompanied by the clatter of metal as the instruments of his trade joined them. His pants were barely hanging off of him, held up by the smallest of threads and the press of Strife's hips against his. And Strife was hard. Nothing more had been said, no further contact had been initiated save for the occasional press of the cold blade, but Strife was most definitely aroused, perhaps just by watching his own work.

The hiss of the knife came to an abrupt halt and when Strife stepped back, Autolycus gasped in shock. Without Strife pressed against him he felt cut loose, free from a presence that had grounded him without his knowledge. The hand still held his neck but as the remnants of his pants fell down around his feet, he felt more exposed than ever in his life. Naked save for his boots, and completely open to Strife's gaze; he could almost feel it moving over him.

But Strife said nothing. A firm nudge of a leather-clad thigh and Autolycus spread his legs. Cool air moved over his bare skin, sliding around his thigh and up under his balls, lifting them -- and that wasn't air. His muscles wanted to tense but considering where the knife was, he forced himself to stay perfectly relaxed. Lips pressed between his shoulder blades then and he knew that Strife was pleased with his reaction, or lack of one.

The blade slid up, the touch so light it still felt more like a slight, cool breeze than the sharp, deadly metal he knew it to be. He couldn't help holding his breath when it moved slowly up the underside of his erection -- when in Tartarus had he gotten hard? Autolycus released the held breath, surprise pushing the air from him in a rush. He was trembling, but he'd been aware of that, of the fear, peripherally at least, but how could he not have noticed his own arousal, or that the trembling was in part due to it? But that was why Strife held the knife there, wasn't it, to make him aware of it? Or maybe he just didn't know what was going on here because he was definitely feeling lost. Then Strife's hips pressed against him again, cool leather and cold metal rings a strangely comforting pressure, and that lost feeling receded.

The knife moved upwards, a slow, painless glide up around his hip -- and Strife thrust hard against him. That wasn't a surprise, but everything else was. The movement shoved Autolycus forward, grinding his cock against the edge of the altar and that hurt, but the white-hot fire across his hip was an immediate distraction. He clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out without quite understanding why, only that it would break the strange silence surrounding them, this.

Another flash of pain, lower, across the side of his thigh, and this time Autolycus couldn't have cried out if he'd tried, it would've been caught on the moan that threatened to escape. Strife was still moving against him, but now instead of hard thrusts it was an almost gentle rocking, one that rubbed his cock against smooth marble and drew all his attention there. The next cut, fast and expert, flicked up his side, then over his shoulder, and the rocking continued and Autolycus realized he was pushing back, no longer satisfied with just lying there and taking it. He arched into the next cut.

After two more slices his back felt on fire, the cool stinging of the earlier cuts a faded memory up against this burning pain that radiated out from every cut, throbbed with every movement as he shoved back against Strife, and seemed to center in his groin. His eyes were still open, his gaze focused on the blurry mesh of light colors in the marble beneath him, although he saw none of it. Everything in him was focused on the feel of the pressure of hips against him, his cock rubbing faster against smooth stone, and the unpredictable flash of burning flame making a map of his skin. Heated trails slid across his flesh, moving downwards; blood, and fear prickled across his exposed flesh. Another hard thrust, grinding him forward and the pain almost wrung a groan from him because he nearly came.

Strife was suddenly draped over him again, chest to his back, bare chest, and Autolycus could feel slickness between them, blood making their skin slide together. He barely held in a whimper of utterly confused emotions. Strife felt so damn good against him, his skin burned from the cuts and the pressure of a body lying on him, and he was afraid this wouldn't ever stop. Another line of hot pain across his arm and this time he saw the flicker of the knife, the pale hand that wielded it. He wanted to close his eyes, frightened now that his face would be next, that Strife wouldn't stop until he'd bled out. But then the knife was discarded, dropped in plain view as long fingers wrapped around his arm, holding it still.

Hard thrusts now, not letting up in the slightest and what had been pain before now felt too incredibly good to bear; it was going to kill him. He'd die before he came because the pain was as wonderful as the pleasure and neither was going to end. Then Strife was there, his face finally within Autolycus' view as he leaned down and closed his mouth over the bleeding cut in Autolycus' arm. The flick of his tongue over the wound, as swift and sharp as the knife -- and Autolycus choked back a guttural cry as he came, splashing all over his legs and the front of the altar.

When the world righted itself again what had to be some long time later, the first thing he became aware of was that the hand was gone from the back of his neck. The next...Strife was licking him. Every cut, a graze or something deeper, Strife dragged his tongue over it and dragged a shudder from Autolycus. The pain vanished with each lick and a quick glance at his arm showed that every cut was likely being closed. The mark was still there, a faint, silvery scar, but it wouldn't be visible unless you knew what to look for.

Strife was speaking, a low murmur, over and over, the same word: Autolycus. Closing his eyes, Autolycus felt it breathed against his back, his hip, his leg as Strife moved down, still licking, closing wounds, lips sliding over blood. His blood. And Strife was licking it off of him. If he could've gotten hard again that soon Autolycus realized he would've, and likely would've come just from hearing Strife say his name like that.

Then Strife moved up, draping himself over Autolycus again but instead of holding him down, Autolycus felt arms slide around him, around his waist and chest. He felt Strife's forehead press against his neck where that hand had held him through all of this.

"Autolycus." It was more audible this time, but still a whisper against his skin. Strife was breathing fast against him but he wasn't hard anymore and his breaths were gradually slowing. His hands, those wonderfully long fingers, stroked over Autolycus' skin, comforting in their sure touch, maybe for them both.

A minute, an eternity later, one hand slid away, the arm moved. Autolycus opened his eyes in time to see Strife take hold of the knife again, but before he could worry or even form a halfway coherent thought about it, the blade retracted with a snick and Strife was pressing the hilt into his hand, curling his fingers around Autolycus'.

"Apollo keeps the good stuff in Delphi." The words slid off his skin, reaching his ears in an exhausted mutter. "Forget about Hera or Ares unless you're suicidal, but if you're real brave, try Discord's temple in Pella. Hermes has some interesting crap in most of his temples and you oughtta check out Cupid's private temple just outside of Chaeronea."

Autolycus didn't reply, just let his thumb slide over Strife's fingers, slowly stroking, back and forth, back and forth.

Fin