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Life on the island was idyllic. Completely rural and free from the grasp of the poison the rest of the world spewed. The island was bountiful and generous. The Pool of Life at the island's tall peak never ran dry, never salted, and the crops grew lush and large. The ground was fertile and the storms of the ocean always raged far away, never touching them. Rain fell frequently but never chased away the sunlight, and the days were long and warm.
And it was all thanks to the God Stark. His blessings were what kept the island a paradise, a safe place for his loyal worshippers. A generous and loving deity that watched over them and kept them safe. As long as they continued their prayers, as long as they worshipped him and lived under his rule.
The island had two Temples, each designed for prayer and worship. One lay in the mainlands of the island, surrounded by their village and their crops and their trinkets. This was the Temple of Prayer. Once each morning and once before bed they would pray together, kneeling at the feet of the statue. It's strong thighs and chiselled chest, the sharp jaw with intricate stubble and those jaded eyes, so fierce despite their monochrome nature. The people were welcome to additional prayer at any time, and Peter often stole into the Temple under the guise of prayer, just to stare at the figure that stood tall and proud above him.
The second Temple lay at the peak of the mountain, near the Pool of Life. It was grander, but smaller. Inside was decorated with finery and silk cushions and the statue that Peter lay awake at night dreaming of. He knew only of these things from his peers, for he was forbidden to enter the Temple of Worship until he became of age. For their Worship was sex. Once, Peter had attempted to steal into the Temple in the blanket of night, but the Guardian Rhodes had caught him at its entrance and had returned him to his bed with a knowing smile.
"Soon, young one," he had said, pulling the blanket over Peter's shoulders and returning to his lonesome post, all the way atop the peak.
Michelle, a girl invested in the arts and literature, turned sixteen a whole five months before Peter's birthday. They were friends, of a sort. Michelle could be a little stunted and a little awkward at times, but Peter found her charming and insightful, and had nursed a mild crush on her up until he first kissed a boy, and realised he was utterly and unarguably attracted to men. Worship began a week after you came of age, and Michelle had visited him the following night of her first worship, sitting on the end of his bed.
"It's... Not like the statue of Prayer. At all. He sits on a throne in the Temple of Worship. But he looks the same. The same face. The same body. But he's naked, Peter. And his cock... It's practically the size of my arm. And he's just... Sitting there. Staring at you, this damned thing stood tall and skyward. It's so realistic, Peter. And you have to touch yourself, let him watch you as you harvest your pleasure, and call his name upon your release."
Peter had listened intently, hugging his pillow to his chest. Worship was required once a week from each person of age, until they reached their mid-life birthday. It was optional from that point, but from what Peter could gather, the majority opted to worship until it was too difficult for their bodies. He went to prayer first thing that morning and stared intently at the statue, trying to imagine the clothed bulge as a cock, thick and long like Michelle had described.
The prayer statue was covered only by a flowing strip of cloth entwined around his hips, but the God Stark was naked aside from that. Peter longed to trace the veins at his flank, to run his fingertips over the mountains of his torso, but touching was forbidden. Nobody, not even the Elders or the Guardians, were allowed to touch the God.
It was rumoured to be punishable by death, but nobody would neither confirm nor deny it, and the only deaths that Peter had seen over his fifteen years had been from old age and a poisonous fish sting that the man had neglected to tell anyone of for his pride.
The Elders whispered that it was a punishment from the God Stark, because sickness and failed crops and poor hunting was only ever a punishment, but even at eight Peter had thought it was pretty silly to go wrestling with a poisonous fish.
Especially when you knew it was poisonous, because the library had a colourful variety of educational texts on wildlife, complete with pictures, and when everyone born on the island was taught from the moment they could walk what things were poke-able and what things were decidedly not. Although the island and its people were far removed from other societies, there were still a small collective of people who took journeys in the small boat to the mainlands, a week's sail from their home. They traded fruits and goods for other goods, things like books and paper and medicine for what natural remedies couldn't cure.
But only the chosen people went. Anyone else was forbidden to leave. It was one of the many banes of Peter's life on the island, the curiosity for the rest of the world that had him frothing at the bit like the horses in the old war paintings, and in trouble more often than not for his restlessness. On an almost weekly basis he found himself kneeling before the God Stark, praying for forgiveness for startling the cows or bumping into an Elder or sneaking into the library in the late of night again.
Frankly, Peter thought there should just be a prayer you said once that covered you for forgiveness for the rest of your life. He felt like most of his days had been spent in front of the Elders or the God Stark, head bowed in faux shame at his latest antic. His Aunt, for his parents had died during a sickness that had swept through the island like a silent death, spent most of her time searching for him or apologising to the other islanders for his silver tongue or wandering mind.
Though most of the people didn't generally host an issue with Peter - He remained polite if a little aloof, and worked diligently at his duties. He was smarter than most people and had devoured his readings early, experimented with medicines and building things like the new water dispersal pipes from sturdy bamboo that helped to feed the crops when the rains were few and far between in the long months of the sun. His favourite person was Steve, a friendly man just a few years his senior who worked mostly with his hands. Broad shoulders and a sun kissed smile.
"The God Stark had something in mind when he designed you," Steve would often say cheerfully, as he had that morning when Peter was reprimanded for talking about the Worship statue with MJ again. Theoretically it was not banned, but it was probably frowned upon to be as lewd as they were.
"I can't help it," Peter whined sourly, handing Steve another stack of books. "I'm not even allowed to look! Not even a peek! And you guys all get to see it whenever you want. Or at least, once a week. My best friend starts waxing poetic about a massive marble wang and I'm not allowed to be curious?" he puffed, dusting off his hands and turning to find Steve looking at him with an amused, nonplussed expression.
"Well. You've got one. And I know for a fact you did some sneaking around with Harley not so long ago. So you've got a vague idea of what one looks like, right?" Steve hummed in response, stacking the books into the wicker basket at his heel. They were relocating them temporarily to fix a splinter in the shelving. Peter paused for thought. He had, in fact, seen a few. Some accidental. Though it wasn't his fault at all that some people were lax about where they did and didn't wear clothing.
"Okay. So... Imagine it a little bigger. And white. And that's pretty much it," Steve simplified, holding his arms out for more books. Peter rolled his eyes and practically threw the next pile at him, doing his best not to pout. So forthcoming with the details. Peter wasn't even why he was so invested in finding out. It seemed to go beyond his natural curiosity, to something almost insatiable. A need, more than a want. But for all his trying, he was no closer to finding out.
"Why are you so curious, anyway? I mean, I can understand being curious. But you're a persistent little shit. Rhodey has caught you a few times. D'you think the God Stark is hot or something?" Steve hummed, and Peter threw a paperback at him with no hesitation, which Steve ducked easily and caught as it fluttered down besides him with a laugh.
"Oh, come on. I mean, whoever designed him clearly wanted something good to look at. I mean, he's marble, and he's got a jawline to die for. And abs. Who gives a statue abs , huh? Who makes a Deity that hot? Especially one you gotta fuck yourself to worship?" Steve chuffed.
"You think he's hot?" Peter asked curiously, turning to lean against the shelf with a sly smile. Steve shrugged shamelessly in response.
"So do you".
Touché .
Peter gave a huff and resumed his work, though his mind was elsewhere. Steve let him think, but now and then had a coy little smile, because it was par on course what Peter would be thinking. And Steve was right. About everything. Cocks were cocks, when Peter thought about it. Sure, they varied in shape and size and thickness. But once you saw about three, you kind of had a good general template. And whoever had sculpted the God Stark either had a hell of a man for reference, or a tasty imagination and a healthy amount of appreciation for the male form. One statue was only half-clothed (barely) and the other was entirely naked.
"You know. I can basically hear you thinking," Steve remarked after a while, and Peter heaved a sigh, collapsing down on the floor pitifully. What was there to say, though? Nothing would change the fact that Peter still had a long, long month ahead before his first Worship. And whilst MJ and Steve were nice enough to give him details, it still wouldn't soothe the itch. Nor the perplexity that there was an itch in the first place.
"Who is he, though? I mean, I know he's a God. I know he's our God. But like... There's nothing, in any other text, that mentions him. Just our culture. A face like that..." Peter trailed off. You weren't supposed to question the ways, the God Stark. Peter could get in high trouble for just that sentence alone, but Steve merely shrugged gently and nudged him into resuming their task. It was getting close to lunch, and Steve didn't want to be here all day.
"Find solace in the fact that you only have a short while to go," Steve teased him gently.
Sure. Big help. Thanks.
Lunch came around and Peter made his way to the food hall, loading his plate up with seasoned potatoes, vegetables and roasted pork before he turned, scanning the mess of tables. MJ and Ned weren't hard to spot, nestled in the corner with a chair set out ready for him. He sunk into it with a groan, arms aching from all the weighted books as MJ grinned up at him, her hair pulled into a loose bun and her dress floral and yellow. Ned greeted him with a wave, nose buried in a book, the sunburn on his cheeks still as red as the day before.
"How was working with Captain Handsome?" MJ asked, brows lifting as she shovelled quinoa into her mouth. Steve Rogers was something of the 'prized meat' of the people, admittedly a glorious specimen of the human male. Broad shoulders, a jaw like a blade and blue eyes like the sky in the long months of the sun. MJ was far more inclined to insult him than date him, but even she and her lack of appreciation for others in a sexual capacity openly admitted the man was attractive.
"Boring. All we did was move books around so the woodsman could fix the shelf. It was dusty and it took hours," Peter complained, cutting into his vegetables. It wasn't half as awful as he made it out to be; Steve was a great conversationalist and they'd both gotten distracted by various books here and there. But Peter longed to do more with his life, more than mundane tasks and gardening and carpentry. He wanted to see the outside world, to explore all the things rumoured to exist out there. Peter had been born on the island and longed for the adventure that he was sure awaited him on the main lands.
"It couldn't have been that boring. I'm sure you managed some... Interesting conversations," MJ noted, eyeing him from across the table. MJ herself was like Peter, but arguably worse. She was open in her questioning of the God Stark. And...Well. Everything, really. MJ practised healing and tending to the gardens because everything else was some form of disagreeable act or influence.
The Elders were apparently rumoured to be in discussion about allowing her to return to the mainlands permanently in the future. Unlike Peter, MJ had come here as a young girl with her family, desperate for solace and peace.
"Hardly. It was like trying to bleed a stone," Peter grumped, and shoved a whole potato into his mouth.
Lunch passed with idle conversation and plans to meet up when the working day was done for snacks and games, and Peter headed off to the crop fields, his second duty for the day. Weeding and tending was done almost religiously, as the island was their primary source of food (sometimes after droughts or bad yields the travellers brought food back from the mainlands). Peter enjoyed the crop tending and the gardening, and often had no complaints when it was on his duty roster.
This season's crops were corn and wheat, potatoes and carrots and beetroots and edible flowers. Rice grains and sprawling bushes of berries that often required their thorns clipped for safe harvest.
Digging his hands into the dirt was soothing and Peter went about tending the crops in a peaceful silence, broken by the occasional hum of a tune or the voices of the others nearby. There weren't that many weeds, since the crops were seen to on an almost daily basis, but Peter still occupied himself by removing large stones, pushing fruit peels and fertiliser into the soil and re-arranging plants that had gone lopsided or crowded. Gardening was both soothing and rewarding, Peter found.
Had the God Stark ever gardened? Probably not. He couldn't imagine a man so regal knuckle-deep in the soil. He'd probably had people for that. For everything, really. The cooking and the cleaning and the fixing and every other duty. The God Stark had probably spent most of his time blessing people and fucking, if the limited teachings on his presence were to be believed. The God Stark had been an apostle of fine drink and fine nakedness, according to their texts. The God Stark's time on Earth had basically revolved around getting drunk and his cock.
"What a life," Peter huffed as he thought about it, yanking a stray root from the ground. Peter had fooled around a little, but nothing like Steve had implied. A fumbled hand job and a few kisses. Hardly anything compared to others on the island, and a complete polar opposite to the God Stark's experience.
"Do you judge virgins? Or people that don't have enough sex?" Peter wondered out loud, frowning thoughtfully. Did he? Peter didn't know. Apparently they were all perfect in his eyes, loved and protected in return for their loyalty and devotion.
"Are you talking to yourself again?" came a voice from behind him and Peter whirled to see Miss. Potts standing behind him. Pepper wasn't an old woman, in fact she was actually rather young, thirty-something as far as Peter knew. But she was already on the Council, practically an inch away from being an Elder. Well... Still another thirty or so years away, but. Still. Peter ducked his head guiltily and wiped his hands, standing and giving her a short nod of respect.
"Uh. Yeah?" he asked, nose scrunching. Pepper could be intimidating, but she was a wonderful woman and whilst she would often pretend to hold him accountable for his trouble, she would usually just send him home with little to no punishment.
"Mm. Well, head home. You're done for the day. No sense in weeding weeds that aren't there," Pepper announced, giving him a small smile. Though she exuded a hard exterior Pepper was a compassionate and friendly woman and was prone to cutting Peter's duties short so that he had more time to do the things that he liked. She was a studious woman, devout to the God Stark and his history, his teachings and the way of their lives. More often than not she was bent over a book or transcribing works.
"If you're sure," Peter grinned up at her, swiping his hands on his thighs even though Aunt May complained each time they did the laundry, and stood. Pepper eyed him critically, but with a warm smile, helping him to gather his basket. She was no doubt on her way to the Worship temple; whilst most people preferred to complete Worship at night Pepper was one of the few that took the opportunity of it being empty during the afternoons.
He was just heading down towards the path when she called him.
"Oh, and Peter?"
"Mm?" He spun on his heel, squinting against the sun to see her.
"Try not to sneak into the Worship temple tonight", she called, a teasing lilt to her voice as she turned away.
Peter flushed red as the tulips by the Life Pool and turned, scurrying away down the path and towards the gardening huts. He'd... Developed a bit of a reputation, though everyone merely thought it was childish curiosity and not the rampant urge to lick his way up marble abs. Well. MJ knew. And so did Ned. And he was highly suspect that May and Pepper knew for sure too. He put his waste in the compost bin and washed his hands under the faucet before he jogged along the path and through the village towards his house.
May was still attending her duties when he returned, so Peter lounged, read a little, fixed himself a sandwich and then took a shower, scrubbing off the heat from the day. The water was cool on his skin, a welcome relief from the sun. The soap was lavender and soothing chamomile that left his skin soft and smooth when he stepped out. There was still time until supper and he looked thoughtfully out of his window towards the Prayer temple, before digging through his closet.
Clothing was more regulated within the temples, limited to respectful, preferably plain fabrics or those with gentle patterns and no text. Peter usually wore a loose, white silk shirt and fitted pants or a thick black sweater when the weather was cooler. He donned the silk shirt tonight, shoving his feet into his boots and grabbing an apple for the journey. Nobody could tell him off for staring at the Prayer statue, and it wasn't like anyone knew what he was thinking when he stared.
The temple was empty when he arrived, everyone else either on duty or making the most of their free time, since they would Pray before bed anyway. It was Guardian Stephen who nodded at him at the door, a scholarly man who always had an air of you're not worthy of my presence.
Whilst he was a stickler for the rules, he didn't actually seem to care all that much about the God Stark himself, preferring to surround himself with books on medicine, astrology and the sciences. He was a tutor and a Doctor both and Peter found his classes invigorating, even if the man had the social skills of a brick.
Stephen Strange was probably another name to add to the list of those who knew Peter wanted to climb the God Stark like an oak tree.
The temple was cosy and lit by lanterns when he entered, blissfully empty. The room was cast in a golden glow, illuminated and turned into a kaleidoscope of breathtaking colour by the various crystals, ornaments and hanging jewels within. Peter found it a little ironic that you could touch a $2,000 chain of diamonds and silver (he knew it's value only from MJ, who had told him of money and mainland finery often before) but you couldn't touch an old marble statue. Though Peter was sure someone touched it, because he'd never seen a speck of dust atop the man.
Not a grain nor fleck.
There, at the end of the thick red carpet with its gold edges was the God Stark, cast in saturated shadows by the candles, the temple windowless; without lanterns pitch black. The marble was warmed to a soft sunlight shade by the flickering flames, his jaw sharp as steel and his eyes shimmering, intense gaze fixed upon Peter as he strode softly across the carpet, meeting the God's gaze evenly. There was a time he'd shied away from it, scared to meet it for even a second, but these days they were a thrill he chased.
He stopped where the rise of the first step lifted, one of three, though nobody was to walk them. Knelt down as was standard for prayer, though some chose to stand. Peter always knelt, took two knees or one if he was in the mood. Or more accurately, depending on how many prayers and apologies and dirty thoughts he had to wade through. Sometimes his prayers could take up to an hour and Aunt May would have to interrupt him for supper.
Prayers could either be said aloud or within, and Peter cast a quick, keen look around before shuffling closer, pushing his luck and sitting right on the edge of the bottom step. It theoretically wasn't disallowed to do so; only to climb them. And Peter was nothing if not an expert at finding loopholes.
"I know you look exactly the same each time I see you, but I swear you get hotter with every day that takes us close to my Worship," Peter whispered. The God Stark looked above him, iron gaze fixed on the door. The carved silk fluttered, frozen in time around his thighs and his hips. Muscular shoulders squared, stance powerful.
Peter wanted to crawl between those thighs, to lay there as what remained hidden beneath the silks stole his breath.
"I should probably get therapy for this. My life revolves around wanting to see a marble cock. Strange would have a fit," Peter murmured, eyes roaming strong calves, head tipping back to graze over that delicious, carved torso. "I wonder how you'd feel, knowing that. But you were apparently all about sex, so. I don't know. Maybe this is like, some serious ego flattering for you". Peter shuffled, decided to sit cross-legged for comfort. Nobody was here to lecture him on the proper etiquette.
"I bet MJ is just taking the piss out of me, really. You're probably like those Greek statues in the books. My pinky finger is bigger than your dick," Peter huffed, picking sullenly at his shirt. "Though I don't imagine you'd have a very fulfilled sexual life if that was true. Humans are pretty fickle creatures".
Peter still remembered Flash getting laughed at the first time he bathed naked in the ocean, small prick bared to the laughter of the others. Some days Peter thought maybe he understood why Flash was so mean
"I mean, I'm not... Small. I'm not huge either, like you're supposed to be, but that's okay. I'll grow as I get older. I think. I mean, I'm supposed to, right? Were you born with a massive dick? That's gotta be pretty...Uncomfortable. Imagine having a baby and you look down and it's got three legs".
"You must've been a real hit in the old time version of school, though".
"I wonder what things you do judge people on. What about drugs? Underage sex? Babies before marriage? Oh! What about brussel sprouts? You have to judge people for liking those".
"Oh, and pee stuff. I mean, I know you should be nice and not judge people... Outwardly. But anything that belongs in a toilet does not belong in a mouth. And... The other toilet stuff. I can't even muck out the barns. Makes me gag," Peter confessed, surreptitiously looking around the room. It occurred to him that he could reach out, lean just a few inches forwards and his fingertips would brush the lower half of a muscled thigh. Would feel the cold, smooth marble under his touch.
Nobody would know.
Just the two of them. Lowly worshipper and Deity. Boy and God. Human and statue.
Peter gripped his knees with a vice-like hold, teeth settling against his tongue as he steadied himself against the urges. It wasn't worth whatever secret punishment the Elders had reserved for such a crime; nor the improbable outcome that the Stark God was truly all observant and had seen his crime.
"You probably judge me a lot. I know I'm not like.... The perfect worshipper. But I try. I mean, I come to prayer all the time, unless I'm sick. That's gotta count for something, right?"
It ought to. Some people liked to pray aloud, and if Peter had to put up with Mr. Alderson wishing for the pimple on his dick to go away, then the God Stark could certainly put up with a little discreet disobedience. It wasn't like Peter had ever done anything truly unforgivable or out of bounds, he was just...Not in possession of the strongest of wills.
"I gotta go. Aunt May should be finishing soon, but I'll be back in like four hours anyway. Try not to miss me too much," Peter announced, rising to his feet and scrubbing the feeling back into his thighs and calves. He cast a last, trailing look over the God, who stared past his shoulder with a burning, set expression, not angry, or harsh, but... Powerful. Peter let his gaze sweep the strong jaw, the long lashes, and then he turned away.
Aunt May was home when he returned, though just barely, shrugging out of her shawl and wiping at her ruddy cheeks. She smiled at him when he slipped through the door, warm and bright, the crows feet in the corners of her eyes lending them a familiar and gentle droop.
"Peter! How were your duties? Are you hungry?" she asked, ushering him inside with a warm hug. She smelt of medicine and of old books, a soothing memory that settled deep within his chest as he let himself be shooed into the kitchen.
"Eh. They were okay? I mean, I spent the morning working with Steve, which was nice. We talked about all the books and stuff. And then I was on gardening. Nothing special there; I just did some weeding and some pruning. Pepper sent me home early. For good! I mean, I didn't do anything wrong. This time. She was being nice".
Aunt May made soup for supper, thick and rich with vegetables and a small side pot of roasted pork in sweet honey glaze. It left him full and content, sleepy-eyed as they trudged across the path and the island to the Prayer temple, settling amongst the others as the Elders gathered and prepared to announce prayer. Peter shuffled away and knelt between MJ and Ned, casting them a coy smile as he settled down. Chatter before prayer was not forbidden but out of respect many, if not all, stayed silent as everyone got into place.
They all knelt quietly, heads bowed as they said their private prayers, and then the Elders spoke the daily prayer to the God Stark and the chatter became a low buzz as everyone began to stand, began to mingle. Peter stayed to chat a short while, but the day's heat had left him droopy-eyed and it wasn't long before he bid everyone goodnight, leaving Aunt May behind to head for home. His bed was comfortable and warm when he settled between the sheets, breathing out a sigh of contentment as he nuzzled into his pillow.
It wasn't long at all before he was drifting into a peaceful slumber, tucked up and toasty.
Pure white hands, sliding across his hips. Up his sides. Marble white fingertips skating each delicate rib, tracing patterns along his flank. A chest, cold and smooth and hard to his touch, bracing his palms easily. The strange yet undeniably overwhelming sense of being split apart, stretched open and hot around cold, hard flesh. Reaching deep inside him, immovable and solid, practically pressing against the back of his tongue. Leaning down to press his lips against a mouth; porcelain smooth, devoid of heat. Motionless against his own. Pulling back to stare half-lidded into white, inhuman eyes, their burning, blank gaze.
Peter jerked awake with a gasp, fingers twisting in his bedsheets, eyes wild. It took him a moment to process everything, sitting in the darkness of his room, his skin tacky and his cock hard and on the brink of relief.
"MJ can never find out about this. Or Steve," he muttered on a groan as he fell backwards against his pillow, wiping at his temple before letting a hand fall down, on top of his cock which he gripped in a lazy fist through his boxers.
He was fucked. Utterly and inescapably fucked. And probably a little skewed in the head; having sexual dreams about a statue. But fuck, if he couldn't get that sensation out of his head. Being so full, so stuffed, overwhelmed and burning up. Unlike anything Peter had ever felt before.
He'd fingered himself, of course, only ever just the once, but that feeling...He couldn't get it out of his mind, thinking about it as he lazily rubbed at his cock with his thumb, pumped himself in short little jerks. His breathing came in soft little pants as he stoked the simmer in his tummy to a small fire, a tingling warmth that ignited him head to toe.
It didn't take much to bring himself to the edge, his fist closed tight over the throbbing tip, rutting like a dog, only just managing to pull his boxers out of the way before he came on a low, hushed whine, hips jerking upwards, teeth on his tongue. He lay there for a short while, chest heaving as he calmed himself, cock softening against his hip and cum cooling to a tacky puddle on his stomach.
"Does that count as worship?" he whispered to the dark, empty room.
Life went on. And the dreams became a persistent itch under his skin, a sordid visitor in the night that left him trembling in the lonely quiet of his room, eyes wild and thoughts scattered. Prayer became increasingly difficult, though an interesting side-effect was that his ventures to steal into the Worship temple were thoroughly vanquished, his cheeks flaming red whenever he even thought about the statue that lay hidden within.
This amused Guardian Rhodes and Steve to no end, who turned their jokes from him sneaking in to him losing his nerve.
"I really can't win," Peter had griped after being teased during lunch hall, throwing a handful of rice at the duo who had only howled harder at his red cheeks and his sulking.
The days ticked by, relentless and steam rolling him towards his sixteenth birthday. Peter marked each day off with bated, nervous breath, jittery and at a loss as to what to do with himself as the minutes turned to hours, to days and nights and more breathless wake-ups. The dreams only became more vivid each time, longer, more detailed. His tongue sliding up a pillar of ivory. His body parting for a smooth mast. Fingertips with no roughness pressing down on his tongue, forcing back the words he longed to speak.
A week.
Peter stared at his calendar, feeling vaguely sick. One week, to the day, and he would attend his first ever Worship. He'd see him. Finally. For the first time. He sucked in a sharp breath, capping his pen and forcing himself to turn around. Blinked away the phantom visage that haunted him as he brushed his teeth and combed his hair and headed out to his duties. Ned was working with him down at the oceanfront that day, and his best friend was chipper as they combed the beach for trash, dead animals and other waste that needed to be cleared up.
"Dude! A week. That's insane. I have a whole half a year to wait before I get a daily excuse to wank off," Ned sighed, picking up a pebble and hurling it at the ocean. "I mean, think about it! Now you can do an MJ and tell me all about it. Except I won't be as interested because, y'know. I'm straight. But still!"
Peter wished he'd stopped talking.
Wished Aunt May wouldn't wink at him when he came traipsing home, nudging him with her arm and informing him the 'big countdown' had started. That his curiosity would finally be sated and he could stop annoying the Elders with all his sneaking. Though she did pause, before thoughtfully mentioning that it had been a while since his last disobedience. Peter kept his head down during prayer, skin prickling under the hot gaze, at the knowledge that he'd imagined those carved hands touching him in places Peter himself hadn't dared to explore.
He kept his prayers simple. Well wishes for his friends and family, bountiful crops, for his first Worship to appease the God Stark. Shuffled out of each prayer with his nerves alight and a stone gaze burning at the back of his head. MJ eyed him frequently, knowing and considering, but said nothing. She doesn't have to; when her words fail her her eyes speak novellas. Peter tried not to feel too judged, but it's a close thing.
The days don't stop. They blend into dark, cool nights and back to sunny days that should drag, but Peter feels like he blinks and it's time for prayer again, to be back under that steel gaze, or to lay in bed, wondering if he'll have a peaceful night or if he will wake in the early hours, chest heaving and the heel of his palm digging into his straining cock. It shouldn't be a problem. In fact, sexy dreams and the frequent pleasure of an orgasm is (or should be) the complete opposite of a problem.
And yet.
The object - quite literally - of his desires is unobtainable. Abnormal. Objectophilia, if the books are to be believed. And yet Peter feels nothing for any other object. Nothing for any other statue. The tiny pricks of the statues in the books make him giggle, and the one small gargoyle-like thing that adorns Elder Stone's private garden repulses him with such efficiency that it used to give him nightmares when he was younger.
And its not like he wants to fuck a statue. Not exactly. No; he wants to fuck the man that it resembles. Wants human, soft hands and lips that move in return. Wants soft, soft hair and eyes with colour. Half his life has been spent wondering what the likeness was in life. What shade was his skin? What colour were his eyes? His hair? Were his lips pale or plush and red?
These questions still haunted him, more so when The Day arrived. He awoke in a fever, sweat slick on his skin as he blinked away the images behind his eyes. Cast aside roaming hands and questing mouths to push himself onto his elbows, then to his feet. He blew out a harsh breath, gaze finding the calendar on his wall, and scowled to himself as he padded to the shower.
He had the day off from his duties - As all who were attending their first Worship did, but for once he found himself longing for the routine, the tasks that would keep his mind and his hands busy. Now there was nothing but the empty house, save for the ticking of the clock in the main room. It was maddening, and whilst Peter could be patient when he chose, such was the day that his nerves frayed like old rope.
He ate for something to do, stripped his bed and re-made it. Did the dishes. Read approximately five pages of a book before throwing himself morosely out of the door. Ned ought to be on laundry duty today - A mild punishment for sneaking about with some of the islands more... Delicate books. The elderly here often needed help with their tasks, and so it fell upon some poor sod twice a week to wash their smalls and fold their bedsheets.
True to word Ned was elbow-deep in frothy water and grimacing like he was shovelling fresh shit with his hands. The cleansing mixture was natural ingredients - For they took care of the island as though it lived and breathed. The scent of lemon, lavender and baking soda filled Peter’s nose, and it took Ned a short moment to notice him, offering him a lopsided grin as he attacked a purple blouse with perhaps more hostility than necessary.
“This place is like some kinda modern Hell. You take a book home to read and they punish you by making you scrub old lady undies,” Ned whined, casting Peter his best help me, I’m pathetic expression.
It failed. Peter had coined that look, damnit. That was the look that had beaten punishments down from genuine shit shovelling to moving about dusty old books. That was the look that had saved his hide from Elder Fury’s mean, singular gaze more than once.
“They might’ve been less offended if you hadn’t tried to steal it with biscuit crumbs on your fingers,” Peter pointed out with a grin, delved elbow deep into the tub. Just because his duties had been suspended - Did not mean that he was forbidden from doing anything. Ned cast him a grateful look, and that was how they passed the next two hours, tackling the pile of laundry between them before hanging the garments on the lines to dry.
In all truth, Peter didn’t mind jobs like this. Sure, it was a little gross, and it was downright foul on hot days, when the steam made you sweat until you were sure you were about to melt. But he enjoyed pulling his weight, enjoyed knowing he was doing something - however small, to help.
“Oh, for sure, they’ll put us down in the history books for this and the God Stark will grant us eternal life and bounty because we washed Elder Pierce’s shitty smalls,” Ned huffed, washing his hands almost violently in clean water once they had finished. Peter snorted.
“Your Mom had to wipe your ass for more than a year,” Peter pointed out, grabbing Ned by the arm and dragging him towards the lunch hall for cold water. Ned pulled a face, and vowed solemnly to neither bear children nor grow old, once Peter helpfully added in some years to come, some other poor fifteen year old would be scrubbing his shitty smalls.
It was near enough time for lunch by then, and Wanda, one of the girls responsible for the cooking, let them take two plates early, casting Peter a knowing smile as they made their way out, and to the beach front, digging their heels into the sand as they ate. Roasted chicken with rice and Chinese style seasoning, spiced vegetables and tiny little bowls of broth. Peter thanked the God Stark for whoever taught Wanda to cook.
“So, what do you think it will be like?” Ned inevitably asked, scratching the metaphorical itch that had clearly been bugging him since Peter joined him. Peter chewed his meat thoughtfully and shrugged, now suddenly at a loss for what it would be like.
Awkward? Most likely. How did one jerk off in front of (at the least, if not directly to) a statue? It would probably, most likely, be the weirdest wank of his life. If not the most mortifying. For all that Peter had bolstered himself through the past months of ravenous curiosity, the reality suddenly sank in. They were just people on an island, worshipping a God that had probably never existed just as an excuse for a peaceful life - and he was to jerk off in front of a statue that a hundred people before him had done the same.
“Bit strange, I think. I mean, I might not even be able to... Y’know. Get it up. How awkward would that be? Do they let you just... Try again after?”
Peter’s birthday had been a joyous affair, plenty of food and baked goods and gifts wrapped in gleaming paper. People playing instruments and the talk fading long into the night. He reminisced on it now; how the giddy feeling of being surrounded by love and attention had held at bay the thoughts.
At least until he was alone in his bed.
“Well, I guess they kinda don’t have a choice, do they? But... How do they know? If you have? Does someone check? Have you gotta spunk into a cup?” Ned and Peter formed equal expressions of disgust at the idea, noses crinkling and food suddenly less appetising. Then Peter thought of MJ, and he shook his head.
“Can’t be. How would they know if a girl had done it?”.
Ned looked at him as if Peter was the wisest man in the world, and Peter felt a pang of sympathy for all involved when Ned’s time came. Not that he was likely to be any better - Stomach already fluttering like it was threatening to bring up his meal.
The afternoon faded into night like the slow burn of a candle wick, blue burning into red and gold, then back to blue, darker and inkier. When the night sky was just verging on black and Peter was about ready to chew his arm off at the elbow, the Elders knocked on the door. Aunt May had left to give him some peace, to offer minimal embarrassment.
Fat lot of good it did, when he swung the door open and was met with several knowing eyes, mouths battling a losing war against smirks. He lowered his head on an embarrassed sulk, following the small herd of people as they led him up the path and towards a small hut. Despite their initial teasing they were kind, conversation flowing in soft spurts.
“Don’t look like we’re laying you to slaughter, boy. Ain’t nothing you haven’t done a hundred times over in your own bed,” Fury offered him, teeth glinting white like blade-edges in the darkness. Peter twitched but said nothing, not willing to follow up his first Worship with yet another punishment.
The hut drew closer, and the Elders stopped outside of it, offering him various encouraging smiles and words as they held the drapes open enough for him to duck inside, steeling himself against what lay within. When he saw the two people waiting for him however he blew out a breath and smiled.
There was Steve, dressed in a half-robe sort of like a Greek toga, and Scott Lang at his side, a cheerful puppy-like man with a daughter on the mainlands and a penchant for jokes and humour. They gave him small waves and matching, reassuring grins when he approached and Steve drew him into a brief hug.
The hut was lit with candles, tens of tiny tea lights on each surface, pillar candles in delicate ornamental holders, rings of them surrounding the giant, wooden tub that stood in the centre, draped in silks. The water within it was steaming hot and tinged slightly blue with the various oils and salts. Flowerheads floated amongst it, tantalising luxury that soothed Peter as he breathed in the floral scents.
“Look who finally gets to stop sneaking around for marble dick!” Scott crowed, and Peter flushed, casting the man a half-hearted scowl as Steve stepped back and cuffed him behind the head.
“Be nice!” he chided, nudging Peter closer to the tub. “C’mon, while it’s still warm. We gotta scrub you like a red wine stain on a white rug”. Peter flushed, suddenly reminded that not only was he gonna be touching himself in that room, but that tradition required he be cleansed and dressed for it - by others.
He was thankful it was people he knew, was comfortable with, head ducked as he began to strip off his shirt, slow and sure. To give him some sense of privacy Steve turned away, fiddling uselessly with various little vials of oils and soaps. Scott gave no such pretence, whistling in appreciation when Peter set his discarded shirt aside.
“If that’s how the top part looks…”
“Oh, leave off, you whore,” Steve muttered, dipping his fingers into the water to splash Scott gently. Scott ducked it with a grin, but eventually dropped his gaze as Peter began to push down his trousers, cheeks pink and skin hot.
"I'm just sayi- Ow!"
Peter couldn't help a snicker, watching as Steve reached behind him blindly to feel his way up Scott's shoulder, and then to pat-slap him lightly across the cheek. It felt oddly paternal and protective, and served to half distract him from the fact that he was now naked.
Steve took a glance, and then gestured to the tub. "C'mon, in you get," he offered encouragingly, he and Scott using their arms to help Peter safely into the huge vat of warm water. The flowers tickled his thighs and the warm liquid lapped at the curve of his ass.
"Baste me," he announced, spreading his arms as the duo reached for vials of oils and liquid soap. Scott snorted and held a hand out for a high-five and even Steve had to bite back a grin, pulling the cork from a blue vial.
They began at his lower jaw and moved towards his shoulders, touches gentle and soft cloths moving in slow, steady strokes and circular motions. Peter found himself relaxing under their gentle touches, humming listlessly when Steve asked if they could move to his chest.
When they began to drag the strips of soft fabric across his stomach the muscles pulled taut and flexed under their touch, Peter sucking in an ashamed breath as he realised he'd begun to get hard. Neither man said anything though, focused on their work as they poured scented oils over his body and massaged them into his skin, thumbs dragging over his hips.
They soaked his hips and pelvis, rubbed scented oils into his thighs until he was soft and floral and his cock was definitely paying attention. Moved behind him and washed his back, right down to the swell of his ass, where Scott finally whistled.
"Thank God for loony fanatics and their rituals," the older man grinned, shamelessly poking at Peter's ass as they lathered him. He shuffled under the attention, cheeks flaming red as Steve rolled his eyes but didn't disagree, softly massaging pink oil against his skin.
When he felt seasoned like a Thanksgiving turkey, they rinsed him with the water and held out their arms, helping him step from the tub. The next step was to dress him in the fine silks and jewels that all wore on their first worship, a set customised for each person, held for life as a commemorative token.
The garb reminded Peter of the exotic and royal fashions he'd seen in some magazines that Pepper had secreted back to the island. Drapes of jewels dripped down his forearms, a band of chiffon tied above each elbow flowed down into soft, pale blue sleeves Silk wrapped around his thighs and hips and his hands glittered with ivory and silver. It was a delicate, almost mystical outfit, Elvish in inspiration.
Putting it all on took time, and it wasn't long before Peter was fidgeting. Steve put up with it graciously, smiling at him after a moment. "No need to be nervous. All this finery is just...Decorative. All you do is touch yourself and then go home, and it becomes the norm for the rest of your life".
“Well. Most of the rest of your life,” Scott corrected, and Steve rolled his eyes but hummed in agreement. It was...Both not a comfort, and a mild comfort to be reassured in such a way. Eventually it really would become the norm - As much a part of his routine as doing the dishes or making his bed in the morning.
“And... Done,” Steve announced, when the last bangles draped in silk and chiffon had been attached above his elbow and the last glittering drape of jewels and sparkling mesh had been settled over his shoulders. There was a full-length mirror in the hut, off to the side, and Scott helped Peter over to it to take in his appearance.
Peter sucked in a sharp breath when he saw it, eyes wide and gaze roaming the image. The hues of blue and red on his skin made him look regal, lively and delicate. When he met Scott’s gaze in the mirror the older man winked, and then shrugged on his outer robe layer. It was now up to the two men to escort him to the temple, and to stand guard for his first Worship.
The night air was still warm on his skin when they stepped outside, and the journey was made in silence, but it was not uncomfortable as they made their way up the side of the mountain. Peter focused hard on not snagging his fine clothing or letting it trail in any dirt as he moved, and here and there Steve and Scott helped him to avoid bushes or loose rocks.
Peter had seen the Worship temple a hundred times before, but now, suddenly, standing at the edge of the thick red carpet that led into it...He froze. This was it. All the months of waiting. All the dreams. This was his rite of passage. His step into adulthood and into the true worship of his God.
“Go on,” Steve encouraged, gentle and coaxing as he and Scott nudged him forwards across the threshold of the carpet. It was plush and clean under Peter’s shoes. A moment more of hesitation, and he swallowed his nerves and made his way towards the thick curtains that obscured the inner Temple from view.
Behind those curtains was a door, gilded and rich mahogany, and he placed his palms upon it, thrumming with energy. The scent of incense was rich here, fruity and heady as he paused yet again for a fortifying breath, before he pushed open the door.
The room was artfully lit with candles, some pillared and as long as his arm. Most stood on glittering, gold holders, their intricate designs reaching and spiralling upwards. The room was almost a strange mix of Royal and fantasy wealth, with thick drapes and fresh flowers, with plush pillows and a small, wooden shelving segment gilded with gold leaf. It contained various little vials on two shelves, the top shelf marked with an intricate, V shaped symbol and the other one a spiral that more or less represented a penis. The vials contained lube, he realised.
And then he let his gaze find the thing that he had been waiting for.
The statue was settled directly before him, as the statue in the Prayer Temple. But this one was sat on an intricately carved throne that rose high on the back, the statue's hands settled on each armrest, the God’s thighs splayed to present a length and girth that had Peter’s breath hitching in his throat. Gods, but he was huge.
His cock stood tall and proud, it’s long and wide girth reaching for the Heavens, held out from his stomach. Briefly, Peter realised that one might be able to ride him, though it would no doubt be a little awkward.
The rest of the God Stark was comfortingly the same. The same strong jaw, the same fluffed hair, the same toned, glorious abs. Thick, muscular thighs fully exposed. Peter could feel his own trembling as he tripped further into the temple, eventually sinking to his knees on the cleared space amongst the rich pillows and fur blankets.
“Holy fuck,” he managed to whisper, eyes wide and round as he stared. The God Stark’s gaze was directed downwards on this statue, so he was observing anyone who sank into the plush nest, watching them cultivate their pleasure in his name. Peter shivered under the half-lidded, dark gaze, fingers fretting at his clothing as he let his eyes roam the statue.
Fuck, but whoever had crafted this thing needed an award. Every vein, every line, every hair... The detail stole Peter’s breath away almost as much as the sheer audacity of owning a cock that big. It took him almost five minutes of staring to remember he was, in fact, here for a reason, and that patient as his companions were, they would likely not take it in kind if they were stuck outside for too long, with nothing to entertain themselves with.
Peter let his hands settle on his thighs, gaze dragging away from the God Stark to find the small shelving unit, looking across the little vials on the male shelf. He presumed they ranged in thickness, or something to do with their slipperiness. He leaned across a mound of pillows and grabbed the one from the middle, unfussy on what to use.
To his surprise, he was already beginning to get hard again as he let his hand dip through the layers of chiffon, silk and mesh. He let his fingertips ghost his skin, raising his shy gaze back up to the statue. Imagined the God looking appeased, reclining in his throne, ignoring his own arousal for the sake of watching Peter.
Imagined those hands, from his dreams, guiding him in his chase. It was easier, that way, closing his eyes and immersing himself in the memories of his dreams. The trail of stubble along his jaw as the God Stark encouraged him to turn his fleeting touches into wrapped a hand around his length, stifling a whimper. The temple was soundproofed, but he still felt on edge.
The pleasure was a low, background thrum as he stroked himself idly, using his other free hand to pull at the cork of the vial. It took him several attempts to get it free, and he was careful not to spill any of it as he shuffled on his haunches, moving from his knees to sitting on his ass, knees bent and splayed like a whore, pushing his finery out of the way.
The lube was cold and watery when he dribbled it over his cock, sucking in a hissed breath between his teeth. It didn’t sway his steadily growing hardness though, not when he imagined the God Stark kneeling behind him, hands firm and sure as they taught Peter what he wanted from him. When his cock was wet and the slide was easy, he lifted his gaze, sucking his lower lip between his teeth at the steady stare that met his own.
“Is this what you want?” he whispered as he let his hand drag slow and luxurious up his cock, squeezing under the round head, thumb pressing against the tender underside just enough to bring a shake to his thighs again. “Is this what you ask of us?”
Peter let his head fall back, focusing on nothing but phantom hands and his own; coaxing the gentle ripple into a full blown tide, a blazing fire that licked from between his thighs up to his stomach. He let his other hand roam, nails dragging along his skin, dipping into the grooves of his hips and along the soft lines of his muscles, tender with himself as he thumbed the tip of his cock, spread the little pearl of pre-cum there.
The God Stark didn’t have a voice. Not one that Peter could imagine coming from those velvet lips, so instead he filled the silence with his own pants and moans, sinking back onto an elbow as he turned his idle strokes into genuine pumps and short, punchy little jerks. Imagined long, thick fingers curling around his own, controlling the tempo. The warmth of a breath against his temple. The solidness of a chest against his back, warm and heartbeat strong beneath the muscle.
Fuck, but he would be tiny against such a man. The God Stark did not appear to be the tallest of men, but he stood a head or two above Peter, his shoulders broad, his arms muscled, thighs thick. Peter let his mind wander a little, all shame and fret gone as he thought of what Steve would look like against him. Scott. All the other attractive men that roamed the island so freely.
They didn’t occupy his thoughts for long, not when he dipped two fingers into the slick, scentless oil and let them slide from the thick underside of his cock down his balls, to the tight curl of his hole. Imagined work-calloused fingertips there instead, rubbed teasingly at himself and let a loud moan echo from his lips, almost a plea.
“Would you do this, if you were flesh?” he panted into the room, let his index finger push forwards, a steady slide as he sunk his hand down over his cock.
Yes.
Peter jerked, hips bucking and fingertip unceremoniously stabbing him in the prostate, and that appeared to be all that it would take to unravel him, eyes rolling and body slumping, only just aware enough to push his stomach free of silk and chiffon before cum splattered over his pale skin. He only barely remembered to rasp the God Stark’s name in time.
He lay panting there in surprise, blinking up at the Italian style Michelangelo replica paintings that adorned the ceiling of the temple. It had been his own voice, surely. Of course. Unless Scott had decided to have some fun with his wait and crack the door ajar. But still...Peter rolled onto his side, curling up as he looked at the God, which observed him impassively, as before.
He faced several crude jokes, winks and claps on the shoulder when he eventually staggered from the temple, sleepy and sated. Aunt May was home when he returned, still dressed in her scrubs and shovelling eggs into her mouth at an alarming rate. She allowed herself one joke at his expense before helping him out of his finery, carefully folding it all into a silk-wrapped box.
He didn’t dream that night. Sleep was blessedly dark and empty, restful as he sunk into its embrace. He was thankful; unsure of how he’d manage two Godly orgasms in such a short time. Rolling awake in the morning left him leaden, mind on his pillow and not his duties of the morning. And absolutely, most certainly not on all the teasing and the knowing looks he was given at breakfast.
Ned was a fountain of questions, more endless and crude than Peter’s had ever been. Though his were less revering and more of just genuine curiosity. Ned was, quite possibly, as straight as they came, though he had no shame in admitting what men were and weren’t attractive.
MJ was less enthusiastic about her interest, but was undeniably curious, her gaze on another book but her ears well attuned to any words that passed his lips. She only smiled smugly when he admitted she was right - That he’d never seen a cock such as that in all his life.
The days rolled like the ticking of a clock, his life returning to what it had been before. Duties, home life, time with his friends. A 40th birthday celebration. And one week ate into the next, until Peter knew it was high time he went back. Missing a Worship was only acceptable on the basis of things such as mourning and sickness. And on one memorable occasion, when Guardian Barton had actually fallen off the mountain and broken his leg.
You could wear your First Worship robes to each other, if you pleased, though most didn’t bother. Peter settled on wearing the draped cuffs on his arms and a single, glittering length of chain. He paired them with an open, loose shirt and a pair of white, soft shorts, and when he entered the temple this time, he did not feel half as nervous.
The God Stark remained exactly the same, eyes blank and lips unmoving even as Peter writhed atop the blankets, the God’s name a broken chant on his lips as he scissored himself open, the pleasure coursing through his veins until the God’s name cracked like marble on his tongue as he came.
The dreams resumed.
They were not always the same. Sometimes, the God Stark only touched him in order to make him touch himself; much like his first worship. Coaxing, guiding. Downright commanding, in some cases. When he tries to stroke himself his hand is smacked away, or guided to rest on his thighs while larger hands complete the task for him.
The worst of it - or the best of it, depending on your perspective - were the dreams in which the God would impale him upon that astounding cock, when the God would split him open and stuff him so full he was heavy with it, aching and wantless. When he exhausted and could no nothing except lay lax in the grip of the God as he took his pleasure, using Peter like nothing more than a toy.
The voice began after nearly two months of worship, when Peter was brave from experience and greedy for his pleasure. When it was not enough just to stroke himself, no. He crawled closer and closer to the God each time, spoke to him instead of simply at him. Challenged him. Questioned him. Here and there…
A voice would answer back.
From deep within his own mind it would evolve, somehow soundless but loud enough for him to ‘hear’ in the midst of his own head. Theoretically he knew it was his own mind, wandering and filling in the gaps real life could not... But still. It felt real.
“My hands, or my mouth?”
Everywhere.
“What do you gain from this?”
Everything.
“I wish I could be touched”.
Like this?
He felt heightened during worship, and wondered in secret if everyone did. If perhaps there was a little something extra mixed in with the incense. Heady, close, comfortable. Each orgasm seemed to be more intense than any achieved outside of the temple, so much so that Peter’s masturbation habits outside of worship pretty much died off entirely. Only when he dreamed did he touch himself.
Perhaps he truly was one of those people. Those who drew pleasure from inanimate means.
The weeks trickled into months, summer in full swing with warm rains and days of blazing sunshine that seemed to drag on forever. The nights were hot enough that the battery-pack fans were brought out, and Peter spent most of his nights on top of his sheets, rolling and restless. Even the sanctity of the temples was infringed upon with a series of small, unobtrusive desk fans to prevent people from overheating.
This, of course, meant the worship became a hindrance to most of the people on the island. Luxurious time to indulge became hasty, over-too-quick exploits so they could return to the cool fans and the still-cold waters of the ocean sooner. Peter, however, took luxury in the additional time, the sudden influx of available freedom.
Each time, he shuffled closer. Nobody could see him in here - and if not for the honest respect and fear he had for the God Stark, he’d have touched a lot sooner. It began small, just staring. The odd mindless inch forwards or little shuffle. A leg stretched towards the God as he rocked his hips into his own touch. Eventually he began to reach for him, too, arm out, fingertips straining towards the thick, mouth-watering length.
Inches became metaphysical miles, until Peter found his place at the very base of the throne, as close as he dared to with the very real risk that someone might interrupt him, or that something such as the flooding rains might tempt the Guardians to cut his worship short. He could touch. He knew that so very well. It would take nothing to close those last few inches, to grasp the statue by whatever mile of marble skin he pleased.
Sometimes, the voice even encouraged it.
“I want to touch you”.
Do it.
Touch me.
Take my cock and use it to please yourself.
He kept his lustings to himself, well aware of how strange and perverted they were. Well aware that half the village would offer him some gentle counselling and a large dose of the side-eye if it got around just how invested he was in maintaining the pleasure of their God. MJ had already thought him a little strange, though she had put his musing down to blatant curiosity and his general dislike of not knowing something - Or being restricted from knowing something.
For all of this, however, the real trouble came some handful of months after Peter’s first worship. He had began making the most of the sessions, secreting his own toys (fuck, but his cheeks still pinked whenever he looked at James Rhodes, whom he had squirrelled the list of his demands in return for not sneaking around for a month) in and out. Tentative masturbation became a free-for-all in terms of pleasure.
He was fucking himself stupid on a small dildo when it happened. Rhodes had refused any of his ‘larger’ requests and had bought him a small starter kit of lube, a lone, small dildo and a tiny bullet vibrator he could tend to his aching dick with. On his hands and knees, close to the base of the throne, he mewled as he rocked back against the toy, arm aching but the inconvenience lost in the pleasure as he rode the toy for all it was worth. His thighs were shaking and a particular jolt of pleasure had him jerking forwards, hand shooting out for stability.
It took him several seconds to realise that beneath his palm was cold, smooth marble. The revelation made him jolt backwards, grinding down hard on the toy as he scrambled to retreat. It served only to nail his prostate harshly and he cried out as he came, falling forwards onto his elbows, cum splattering his stomach and the pillow beneath him.
That was opening the floodgate, so to speak. He panicked, at first. Hyperventilating as he waited for lightning to strike him down - Or worse. For Elder Fury to strike him down. But Scott, on Guardian duty that day, merely winked at him and made a crude blowjob motion as he slipped from the temple and nothing came for him as he scrambled his way down the mountain. He couldn’t sleep that night, fret and worry building the anxiety within him, but the days passed as they always had, and by the time his next worship came, he was aflutter for a completely different reason.
He could touch the God Stark.
And he did. Only small, fleeting touches. He didn’t dare to lay a hand fully on him as he had before. But on his next worship he forwent touching himself completely for the first half an hour, chewing his bottom lip and squirming in nervous excitement as he shuffled closer, closer, until he could brush his fingertips across a cold, solid kneecap. It sent a thrill down his spine, a secretive burst of confidence that had him stripping his cock frantically, head tipped back to stare up at the God.
The next time, he dared to lean close enough that his breath formed a cloud against the God’s calf, panting weakly as he fingered himself until he came with a broken rasp, voice cracking on the pillar of his pleasure. Time and success only served to make him bolder, the voice within himself encouraging it.
Touch me.
Reach for my cock.
Let me feel you. Cum on me. Cum for me.
But for all he grew bolder, he still didn’t dare to touch the God’s cock. For all that he roamed the island, sneaking glances at everyone else and wondering if they too had discovered touching, he didn't dare to do more than collapse between the God's spread thighs, cheek laying on the cold stone and gaze fixed on that pillar of delicious, carved skin.
It continued for weeks. Kneeling between the God Stark's spread legs, resting his cheek on the soothing coolness of his flesh, fingers buried within himself or wrapped around his aching cock, eyed fixed and tongue licking at his teeth as he imagined wrapping his lips around the man.
"I've never fucked anyone before," he admitted quietly, fucked out and sleepy after a worship. His lashes were dipped, brushing the pale marble on each slow blink. "I've fooled around a little. Kissed some people. Kinda... Palmed a guy? But I've never had anyone inside me".
And that was when the idea - or at first, the fantasy - nestled in his mind. The position of the God's cock, at full mast and away from his toned stomach, the spread of his thighs...It was doable. Peter was small, slender. He could fit. Could straddle those muscular, firm thighs and sink down onto that thick, solid cock.
The idea had him shivering, cock weakly twitching against his thigh. The notion followed him right back to his bed, where he worked himself into a trembling, exhausted orgasm to the daydream of riding the man, of stubble blazing a red path down his neck as they fucked, slow and languid like they had all the time in the world. And Peter was nothing if not determined, and by the morning he had set his mark. He would fuck the God, the consequences be damned.
He began small. Determination may have fuelled him, but he still lacked the immediate bravery to simply...Hop right on. Peter was often the type to make brash decisions, but with this he knew he had to be careful. Quite possibly the worst thing he could do was get caught impaled on the statue he was forbidden to even touch, so he began to plan, to prepare.
Midway through his next worship, he inched close and closer to that monstrous appendage, hands shaking as he lifted one from the God’s knee, sucking in a sharp breath and listening acutely to his own thundering heart as he watched each millimetre of space disappear. The first touch had him jolting, fingers of his other hand spasming around his dick.
It was the same as the rest of him, nothing but cold, smooth, solid marble carved into shape.
Yes.
He stifled a whine, fingertips brushing the thick cock again, before he steeled himself and pressed his arm forwards with intent, fingers sliding along cold stone until, just barely, they met around it, and he breathed out a breathy laugh. Fuck. He was doing it.
“I’m touching a God’s cock,” he giggled, fingers flexing around the thick marble. The adrenaline rush hit and he snorted, his own cock momentarily forgotten as he traced the shape of it, the thick line of the cut head, the delicate veins and the lone thick one that traced the underside, the divot of the crafted slit on the fat tip.
The carving was exquisite. The marble was smooth and polished under his touch, even in all the delicate dips and curves. He replicated his touch with the hand on his cock, lashes fluttering as he copied the delicate, fleeting touches and the gentle grip. Wondered how the God would react to such gentle caressing. Would it drive him wild? Would he bear it through gritted teeth, exercising restraint? Or would he bear it for all of several seconds before he surged forwards, pinning Peter down and taking?
It didn’t take him long to cum after that, and when touching no longer made him feel like he was leaning over the edge of a cliff, he used his mouth. He didn’t waste time hesitating, not this session, shuffling past Guardian Rhodes and collapsing straight into the space between the God’s thighs, no longer qualmed about the violation. The God had become... Comfortable. Familiar. It wasn’t just about sex - though that was the majority.
He was... Comforting. Safe. Peter felt almost cherished as he let his lips brush the ivory flesh for the first time. It was silken against his skin, a vast white ocean under his tongue that he explored in fat, wet licks. His breath fogged the polished stone and left it damp and pearly, combined with the slick sheen of his saliva as he lapped from the round, fat balls at the base to the tip, moaning weakly. Suckling on his toy was often not enough to sate his desire - it was slim and small and it might as well have just been two fingers. Okay - but not enough. But the God Stark’s cock…
The fat, curved tip stretched his lips so wide his jaw almost immediately began to ache. His balls were smooth, almost perfectly round and resting on the carved pillow of the throne seat as he licked at them, pursed his lips to kiss each one.
Yes.
Take me.
He came before he could even try to suck the beast of a cock that he nuzzled his cheek against as he came down from the bliss, but he vowed to try it next time, staggering from the temple on shaking legs. When he showered he closed his eyes and imagined leaning back against a broad chest, imagined strong arms flexing around his abdomen.
He didn’t sleep that night, tossing and turning, restless over both guilt and excitement. Prejudice against his own desires. By morning his mouth and his ass ached and his head felt like someone had gripped it and was squeezing. Lack of sleep had worn him down and he crawled into the lunch hall for breakfast, Aunt May already at the medical hut to treat a little girl that had tripped getting water in the night.
Ned took one look at him and cringed in sympathy. “Rough night?” he asked, clapping Peter on the shoulder and handing him a plate laden with bacon, eggs, grilled chicken and tomatoes. Peter gave a soft whine and sank into his seat, head low and shifting subtly to relieve the ache of his thighs and his asscheeks.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Peter grumped, stabbing at a rasher of bacon with his fork. Lack of sleep often left him grumpy, and breakfast was mostly silent as he chewed, mind elsewhere. He could stop this. All of it. Learn to live with the dreams until they faded. Continue his worship like every other inhabitant of the island - A ritual of life. A chore.
He could be normal.
And yet.
He was rinsing his dish when the vague scent of spices and exotic perfumes reached his nose, and he turned to find the intense gaze of one Stephen Strange fixed on him. He blinked, hand pausing on the dish, before he continued to scrub it slowly, frowning when the man merely hummed thoughtfully and handed over his plate.
“Come to my hut, before tonight’s prayer,” the man announced ominously, before turning on his heel, striding away in a swish of that long, red woollen coat. Doctor Strange always had an aura of mystery about him, and did nothing to dissuade the notion. He often spoke in riddles, dressed like he belonged in a history book, and his medical practises could be described as... Alternative.
He was also infuriatingly intuitive and all-knowing, and Peter nearly dropped the plate he was holding. Fuck. Did he know? But he couldn’t. Guardian Rhodes had been on duty for the past several weeks. The only times they’d seen each other was during meals and prayer - their duties far fetched from each other.
Peter chewed on his tongue as he scrubbed the dishes, hasty to get away. Stephen Strange was a high, well respected member of the community. If he knew and he told someone else... Peter feigned feeling sick and the panic in his eyes and the flush to his cheeks must’ve really sold it, because Maria Hill took one look at him and sent him home.
When he pushed through the door he barely managed to shut it behind him before he fled to his room, sinking onto his bed with shaking legs. Fuck.
"Fuck!"
Panic quickly turned into exhaustion, his mind dizzy with all the possibilities. It could be anything from a forgotten appointment to the very real possibility that Strange had figured out what he was doing. He sank further, listing sideways until his head hit the pillow and he breathed out a jagged sigh, eyes rolling backwards.
“You want to stop”. It wasn't a question. It made guilt sink deep in Peter’s stomach, the God’s hands heavy on his hips, stilling their languid roll. He let out a soft sound, moving with the hand that ever so gently pulled on his soft hair, lifting his head.
“I don’t want to. I should. But I don’t want that,” he admitted, body twitching as a large hand trailed its knuckles down his stomach, tantalisingly close to his cock but not giving him what he needed. Colourless eyes bore into his with an intensity that stole away his breath.
“Don’t”.
It was a command, nothing less, and Peter felt the song of pleasure coiling through his veins, flooding him with relief as the God Stark used him like little more than a fleshlight, lifting him up and down atop his cock in slow drags that stole his breath.
“Do it. Fuck me”.
Peter jerked as he blinked awake, lips open on a gasp. Aunt May was hovering above him, brows furrowed and lips downturned.
“Peter? Maria said you were a little sickly, darling. You do look flushed,” she worried, petting at his forehead, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her the flush was from arousal, not nausea.
“I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep well last night. It made me kinda headache-y,” he half-lied. It was true, in a way. His rough night had left him groggy and grumpy, a mild headache prodding at his temples. Aunt May didn’t look convinced, feeling his forehead and pursing her lips. After a moment she leaned away, arms folding and gaze soft.
“I’ll get you a rehydration sachet and a painkiller. Oh! And Doctor Strange caught me on my way out. He said not to forget you have an appointment with him, before prayer tonight. I thought you were all caught up on your routine checks, but... I suppose we may have forgotten one,” she grinned, shrugging easily as she turned away.
Peter blanched.
Lunch was a quiet affair. Aunt May refused to let him out of bed so they sat together atop his covers, plates of sausages, potatoes and gravy balanced on their knees as they talked about anything and everything. Ned’s birthday was coming up soon, and Peter had been browsing a variety of magazines for present ideas.
The day trickled on, Aunt May going back to her duties and Peter restlessly cleaning the house, unwilling to fall asleep lest the dreams accost him again. He wasn’t sure he could face Strange with such fresh imagery. An hour before prayer, he donned a jacket and shuffled out of the house, heading towards Strange’s secluded, well-gardened home. Herbs of all kinds grew in neat rows and painted the air around the house with a strong aroma as Peter raised his hand to knock.
The wood pulled away from his knuckles and he spooked when Strange was quite suddenly stood before him, looking at him blandly. “I imagined it would’ve taken you longer to psych yourself up for arriving,” the man noted, turning on his heel and motioning Peter into the room with an airy wave.
“Um. I guess that depends on why I’m here?” he managed, blinking in confusion as he followed the Doctor into his well decorated home. He was distracted by a painting, ornate and Napoleon, and almost ran into the outstretched hand that proffered him a vial. He jerked and eyed it warily, gaze lifting to Doctor Strange, who looked bored.
“You may wish to be gentler with yourself, next time you Worship. Your incessant shuffling at breakfast was embarrassing to witness,” the man drawled, and Peter actually barked a laugh, relief almost making him collapse onto the detailed rug under his feet.
“Oh my God! I thought it was something important. Fuck. What even is this?” he asked, laughter dying as he took the vial and ignored the thoroughly unimpressed gaze he was levelled with.
“Chamomile, with some clove and arnica for numbing. I’ve no doubt your...Enthusiasm is appreciated, but I have no interest in treating you for an anal tear because you’ve-”
“Right! Thanks. Thank you. Sure. No anal tears. Got it,” Peter yelped, retreating hastily. This was not a conversation he wished to have. At all. It was quite like admitting a phallic disfigurement or something to a family member, and he raised the vial weakly in salute as he felt blindly for the door.
“Stretch thoroughly, beforehand. Inflexible penetration increases the risk of external and internal injury,” Strange added, gaze firm and disturbingly knowing as Peter tripped out into the dusk air, clutching the vial to his chest. Strange seemed to be looking straight through him, one brow raised as he shut the door on Peter’s gaping.
Chamomile. And clove.
Penetration. Inflexible penetration.
“Oh my,” he choked, staggering backwards. Doctor Stephen Strange knew.
The notion haunted him all the way back to his house, and all the way throughout prayer, staring at the God Stark’s carved ankles in abject horror, hyper aware of the Doctor kneeling not even thirteen people across from him. His heart pounded and the moment prayer ended, Peter fled to his room, heaving over the edge of his toilet bowl.
Except.
Doctor Strange was a stickler man. He followed the rules. He spoke like he belonged in a Shakespearean play. And instead of marching Peter by the ear to the Elders, he’d given him a salve that would soothe and numb. Had given him advice on stretching.
Peter cocked his head, lips downturning and musing the issue. It was... Plausible that Strange didn’t know. After-all, the man was to-the-point to the extent of being downright rude sometimes, and he’d not once mentioned anything statue related. So... He just thought Peter was too enthusiastic during his worship.
Right? Right.
Right.
Peter squared his shoulders. Yes. Right. Logic. Logic was a thing he could do. A thing he knew how to do. He forced himself to brush his teeth and wash his face and crawl into his covers, still feeling vaguely sick as he reached down against the gap between his mattress and his bed, fingertips brushing the little vial there. He sucked in a breath and withdrew his hand, back under the covers as he closed his eyes.
This was it. He was going to do it.
Peter Parker was going to fuck a God.
Peter Parker did not fuck a God for three more worships.
He tried. He really did. The first worship that followed his traumatic experience with Doctor Strange, he marched right up that mountain and almost immediately turned right back around upon seeing the Doctor standing guard at the door to the temple. His march back down was slightly less determined.
The second time, his courage faltered inside the temple, and he merely fell to his knees, leaning over the statue, sloppily closing his mouth over its marble cock and suckling, lashes fluttering as his drool trickled down, rolling over the God’s round, smooth balls, pooling in their crease, his tongue slick over the rounded, fat head.
The third time he could only return to his previous nest in the pillows, watching the God through lust-clouded eyes as he bounced on his dildo and played into the daydream of being manhandled, fucked up and down on that glorious mast.
It was the fourth worship that Peter steeled his nerves for. Tired of chickening out, Peter took advantage of the fact he had the house to himself, preparing much like he had for his first ever worship. He showered thoroughly and then ran a hot bath, pouring in the oils he’d garnered through trade of service.
When the water was slick and scented he soaked himself in it, basking in the heat and the heady scent of rosehip and flora. He hesitated when he was dry and clean, before kneeling on the bed, ass presenting high in the air, dipping his fingers into the plastic tub of lube Guardian Rhodes had slipped him two weeks prior.
He breathed out, letting his fingertips skim his thighs, curving along the back of his thighs and across his asscheek, until a wet fingertip slid over his hole, firm but gentle as he applied pressure, eyes closed and body relaxed as he felt his muscle give and give, until his finger sunk in as easy as breathing.
It wasn't nearly enough, but it was still good as he pressed it into the soft warmth of his body, down to the last knuckle, avoiding his prostate. He didn't want to cum. He just wanted to stretch himself, enough that he could enter that temple and sink down onto his cock. To fill himself to just the right side of too much.
He pulled his finger back in a slow drag, before beginning a gentle, thrusting pace. He didn't want to take too long; not if he didn't want to risk his Aunt barging in. The easy glide of his finger was smooth for his body to adjust to and within less than a few minutes he shifted his hand, let the tip of a second nudge against his rim before pressing deep.
By the time he was scissoring his fingers the lust was warning his cheeks and he felt like he was going to explode if he didn't get stuffed full soon.
He let his fingertips drag along his insides one more time before withdrawing them, wiping them on his towel before he rose shakily from the bed, stashing the vial and moving towards the box wherein his original worship outfit resided. He opened it and sank down onto his haunches, eyeing the silky fabric and the glittering adornments.
It would look a little ridiculous, to go all dressed up like it was his first time, but Peter wanted to look special. Wanted to have this one thing. To feel pretty as he sank down onto a cock for the first time. So he withdrew the draped sleeve bands and the headwear, chose a pair of silk shorts that relatively matched and the loose, flowing over-shirt.
He combed his hair and let it take its natural curls, applying balm to his lips and moisturising what skin wasn’t covered with silk and mesh using coconut butter and honey. When he felt preened and pretty, he smoothed down his outfit and slid his feet into the ceremonial shoes, biting at his lip as he slipped from his house and out into the cool beginnings of the night.
When he crested the mountain, he breathed out in relief. Steve was standing in front of the entrance to the temple, wrists crossed and a demure expression on his face that lifted into teasing amusement when he saw Peter.
“Date night?” he asked as Peter came closer, prompting a deep flush along his cheeks.
“Just felt like being pretty,” Peter shot back, sidling around the other man and towards the temple door. Steve didn’t look like he believed him, a half-grin on his face as Peter scurried past and pushed at the door, head ducked and swearing under his breath. He felt stupid; but the anticipation was creeping through his veins, the lube trickling down his thighs.
As the heavy door fell shut and he advanced, the God’s eyes fell upon him, and he shuddering, sunlight and pleasure ignited within him. The temple seemed as hazy and as charged as his first worship, the candles and incense lending to a ritual feel as he stepped closer, footfalls light and shy. The God sat, unmoving.
Peter crept across the blankets and pillows, moving to kneel right at the feet of the God. He shuffled and let his cheek rest atop a muscled thigh, breathing out and closing his eyes as he forced himself to relax. Forced himself to feel the low thrum of energy around him, the cold plane of marble under his cheek.
“I hope that you can forgive me,” he murmured, fingers trembling as he braced a hand on the God’s knee, forced himself to rise. In all of his exploits he had never dared to touch above the God’s cock, had only ever dared to skate his fingertips across the mountains and crevices of his abs, the thin veins that stood prominent like rivers.
Now, he rose to his knees, lips parted, wide eyes staring at the carved irises of the God as he moved to hover over him, hands braced on those broad thighs, let his gaze roam the carved jaw and the dipped cheeks. The approval in those eyes. He sucked in a breath, leaning closer, until mere centimetres kept them apart.
Touch me.
“I want to,” he agreed quietly, raising one trembling hand between them, until his palm hovered in the space by the God’s jaw. He steeled his nerves and shifted, pushed his hand closer until his fingertips breathed across the delicate dusting of stubble along the edge of his jaw. It felt no different to the rest of the God, though it was textured as close to hair as stone could get.
He imagined cupping that stone-cut jaw, raising the God’s gaze, demanding to be looked at. How powerful would that be? To demand things of a God? To take power in this act. Would the God Stark let him? Would he submit? Would he take the power back?
Slowly, carefully, Peter let his fingers map out the God’s jaw, cradling like the most precious treasure. His face was flawless, devoid of imperfections in the marble and free of scars or birthmarks. Nothing but an iron jaw, styled stubble and a delicate fan of lashes.
Fuck, but the man was gorgeous. The most handsome Peter had ever set eyes on. He slunk down the man’s body, gaze fixed on him, nervous but eager as he stared at the God. At those full, plush lips, the echoes in his mind of how they felt against his own.
He leaned forwards.
Slowly.
Breathed out.
Closed his eyes.
The God’s lips were cold and smooth against his own, unmoving against the soft, sweet press of his lips. It still sang through Peter’s body, still made his heart race within his chest as he breathed against the God’s mouth, thumbs tracing the delicate corners, pressing another lingering, gentle touch to his lower lip.
It was so different to kissing a living person. It almost felt like a rejection, the lack of reciprocation, but it also felt like lighting a firework. Like putting that last puzzle piece in place. Peter made a soft sound against the marble, a sigh of contentment. Touched and filled the time with gentle, feather-light kisses. He knew he was taking too long, but fuck, if it didn’t feel exactly right.
The jewels that adorned him clinked softly together as he shifted, broke the one-sided kiss to rest their foreheads together, blinking down at the stiff cock that demanded the space between them. It would be an awkward and perhaps uncomfortable fit, but there was room enough for Peter to fit there, to sink down atop the God.
It would be easier to turn his back to him, to ride him in reverse. Peter bit his lip, gaze falling to his own hardness. He let a palm drop from the God’s face, let it fall to a broad, rounded shoulder. To his surprise the God was not simply flat where he resided upon the throne, but was a fully carved body, separate from that which he sat atop, though still connected by the thighs and ass.
“How often you must’ve fucked, to build such muscle from it,” Peter mused, running his hand along the map of his arm, each solid, firm rise of muscle, each dip and each vein. Arms like that could probably crush him. Could hold him up against a wall, effortlessly. Could pin him down and keep him there, no matter his struggles.
Yes.
I could.
Peter whimpered, cock twitching against his hip as he shifted, ran his hand along a toned, taut stomach. Would the God suck in a breath? Would those muscles flex and ripple under his touch? Would he chide Peter for taking too long, or would he let him explore? Peter squirmed, patience failing him as he shifted on his feet, bracing his hands against those broad shoulders to lift a knee.
It took some wiggling to set his knee between the God’s hip and the throne, and the marble dug into his bone uncomfortably as he let his weight sink, shuffling awkwardly until the God’s thick cock bumped against his own and he let out a breath of pleased surprise, movements faltering as he looked down. And how small he looked, against the God. So fragile. So breakable against such power.
With shaking, fumbling fingers, Peter grasped at the band of his shorts, hips jerking unwillingly as he tugged them down and let his cock spring free, whimpering when the sensitive, swollen tip rubbed against his skin. How pitiful it looked, against the beast that the God possessed. Peter bit his lip and nudged his hips forwards, mewling as he wrapped a hand around his cock, the shake of his fingers enough to be almost pleasuring as he angled his cock down, against that of the God.
The cold of the marble made him jolt and he stuttered out a giggle as he pressed their cocks together, trying to stretch his fingers around them both. It was too much, far too much. All that he could do was hold them together feebly, pressing his cock against the masted marble so their tips rubbed together.
“You’re going to carve me from the inside out,” Peter mumbled, lashes fluttering as he moved his hand up, fist closing around their tips, jerking them in short, sharp motions. Imagined the lust in the God Stark’s eyes. The reverberation of his moans. How deep would his voice be?
“I can’t wait,” he breathed, pulling his knee and his cock away to stand, hooking his thumbs over the band of his shorts and pushing them down, down to his ankles before he stepped from them carefully. A brush of his hand told he was still wet, still stretched. But he made over to the shelves anyway, selecting a water-based vial of lubricant.
His hands were trembling again as he resumed his earlier position, knee at the God’s thigh, hand on his shoulder. Except this time his free palm went to his asscheek, squeezing and kneading for a moment as he breathed, forcing himself to relax. His fingers, wet and slick, pushed easily into his body, the muscles warm and plaint when his fingertips slid along his insides, sure and seeking.
“I--I want this to be you,” he managed, cheeks flushing even as he drove his fingers deeper, scissoring them gently, testing the give of his body. Would it be enough to take the God? Part of Peter thrilled at the idea that it wouldn’t be. That the God forcing his body to part for him would ache and hurt.
Peter pulled his fingers from the desperate clutch of his body with a tense drag, breath hitching when his fingers slipped free of his warmth. He ought to have wiped them off, but he was too impatient, knowing he had already taken too long.
He set his palms down on the God's shoulders and braced himself as he placed his knee where it had been before, shivering with anticipation as he let his weight sink enough to pull his other leg up, awkwardly kneeling against the God's thighs.
"This... Is gonna take work," he muttered, squirming and mindful of the God's solid cock as he tried to get into a comfortable, stable position. It was quite possibly the least sexiest thing, and he flushed as he glanced up at the impassive face of the God.
"Give me a break, dude. It's my first time," he huffed, hiking his leg up an inch higher. And... Oh. That was pretty much exactly right, actually. When he glanced down he was kneeling directly over the God's length.
It hit him, then, that he was actually going to do this. He was going to have his virginity taken by a statue that he wasn't supposed to touch, let alone fuck.
And it was as thrilling as it was terrifying. He knelt there, chest heaving, head tipped so he could gaze into the God's eyes as he breathed. Tried to gather his courage. There was no way he was getting this far without going to whole way.
Slowly. Slowly. He let his body drop. Lowering himself until something large, round and cold knocked into his asscheek. Despite himself he whimpered in surprise and jolted, freezing on the spot as he squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip.
A shuffle of his hips had the thick head nudging between his asscheeks, forcing them to part over the intrusion and he let out a shaky whine when it finally, finally came to rest against his wet hole.
Fuck. It was gonna cleave him in half.
Peter let a hand fall from the God's shoulders, wrapping around his cock to pump it a few times, hoping the boost of pleasure would be enough to distract him before he reached back, grasping an asscheek and pulling, teasing himself by dropping his weight until the thick tip was pressure against his hole, forcing the muscle to bend and concave.
"F--Fuck. Fuck. Oh my god," Peter breathed, inhaling sharply when he began to feel his body parting just barely for the God. The irony of his last statement was not lost on him as he paused his movements, hips wriggling at the feel of the persistent pressure, the barest stretch. If this was not even the tip…
Peter let himself sink again.
His body began to stretch, opening up for the force of the God as Peter let out a shaky mewl, thighs beginning to tremble. The stretch began to burn as his body separated for the God, swallowing him down and coaxing him deeper. Peter let his head fall forwards as he whimpered, fingers digging into the God Stark’s shoulders.
His hips jerked forwards and he yelped as his body parted to its limits and then with a jolt sucked the rest of the God in, until Peter was left tense and shaking, the tip of a marble God’s cock buried inside him. He let out a pitiful sound, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes as he squeezed them shut, panting against the God Stark’s mouth.
It hurt. A thrumming ache that just erred on a burn. But it was the right side of pleasurable, skimming the verge of too much, and Peter was intoxicated. His cock, trapped awkwardly between them, was a dark pink and drooled like salivating, dripping between them and twitching feebly in the confined space.
Yes.
Yes.
Peter gave a low, broken moan as he let the tension in his thighs go, body greedily sucking in the God Stark’s cock, inch by torturous inch. A slow, steady glide of stone against silken insides that left Peter breathless, moans choked as he felt like he was being stuffed too full, broken apart.
Peter tipped his head, desperately muffling his sounds against the God’s mouth, his skin flushed and fiery as he sank down, impaling himself on the thick length, tears streaking down his cheeks. He licked along the curve of the God’s mouth, scraped his teeth against it desperately when his ass hit cool marble and he could go no further, like the God was at the backs of his teeth.
His frantic kissing slowed, pulling away with the slick sound of drool as he let their foreheads rest together, hips rolling of their own accord as he wound his arms around the God’s neck, half-crossing them so his hands dangled in the air as he rocked, slow and off-kilter as he tried to wade through his scrambled senses.
It felt warm. Almost too warm. Heady and like he was on some kind of fuzzy drug trip. It was like floating, but at the same time being anchored in place by the weight of the cock within him. The sheer size of it meant it settled at rest against his sweet spot, maddeningly not enough with these awkward little hitches of his hips.
Peter sucked in a sharp breath as the pleasure rippled through his body, a cascade of warmth that lit him up from the inside, eyes rolling slightly, lashes fluttering as he opened his eyes, body rocking with the force of his pants, staring into eyes like rich, malt whiskey.
Peter jerked back, crying out as long, long lashes swept those sparkling, molten eyes from view for a moment, strong arms encircling his waist as he almost tipped straight back off the God’s thighs, which flexed under his own, that beast of a cock nudging even deeper into the plush depths of his body.
Peter was no longer sat atop an impassive, ivory statue. Even as the world spun around him, he could feel the warmth of a living body against his own, the flex of each carved muscle as the God Stark breathed, the soft tousle of his hair as he tilted his head, eyes glittering, an amused smirk lilting the corners of his mouth. Long fingers curled against his hips, holding him steady even as Peter held himself at arms length.
“I thought you'd never do it,” the God Stark purred, voice smooth as any silk, the words quirked and rich with coyness as he flexed his arms, hitching Peter closer, leaning forwards with a considering, low hum. Peter was frozen to do anything except stare, eyes wide and still impaled upon the God’s cock, his body unwilling to move.
He felt picked apart as the God stared at him, lust and mischief mixed in, still holding Peter fast upon him as they stared at each other, Peter's panicked breaths near a wheeze.
"I've waited so long for you," the God Stark breathed, arms flexing and pulling Peter closer, until only a bare space separated them, the notion rocking the God's cock against his sweet spot in a way that had Peter whimpering pitifully, overwhelmed and entirely sure he was dreaming or drugged.
“You…” Peter managed, voice weak and barely more than a breathed sound as the God’s eyes roamed his face, searching and apparently approving of whatever he found. He still couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t process it. Science and reality said that this was impossible. He’d been fucking a marble statue. There was no logical answer except for scenarios like drugging and dreaming.
And... Oh, God. Had Dr. Strange mixed drugs into the salve?
But, no. It would take a lot longer for it to work that way, wouldn’t it?
“You took considerable coaxing, little one. I’m surprised you gathered the courage at all,” the God Stark murmured in the lull of his panic, Peter’s body lax and loathe to fight back as the God’s hands slid slowly, reverently up his spine, hands resting at the backs of his shoulders, supporting his weight where he had faltered.
“Coaxing?” Peter ground on out a squeak, tears tacky on his cheeks as the God merely smirked lazily up at him.
Yes.
Peter let out a shuddered breath. The voice inside his head…
“Was me,” the God Stark finished aloud, punctuating the announcement with a sharp, sudden thrust, forcing Peter’s body to bounce on his cock, thighs tensing and eyes rolling at the sudden pleasure that threatened to render him useless.
“My perfect, perfect devotee. Crafted so beautifully. Manufactured just for me”. It sounded so wicked, almost taunting on the God’s tongue as his hands roamed once more, back to Peter’s hips, where he forced the boy to lift and sink in short bounces, using him like little more than a fleshlight. The drag of his cock against Peter’s wet, warm insides was almost too much, his body clinging to each inch and begging to be kept full.
“You’re not real,” Peter finally managed to mewl, arms working enough that he could unwind them, pushing feebly at the God Stark’s shoulders. It was pitiful, frankly. Power coiled under each inch of the God’s skin, in muscles and veins and in quantity Peter could never hope to match. The God’s eyes darkened and he surged upwards, until they were chest to chest, the God’s head tipped up, fiery gaze locked on his own.
“You made me real,” the God growled in answer, one hand leaving Peter’s flank to suddenly and cruelly grip at his leaking cock, thumb digging into the drooling slit. “You craved me. You wanted me. You took it upon yourself to fill your pretty little ass with me. To break the rules and fuck yourself upon me. You sowed and reaped your pleasure and this is our reward”.
It was all accentuated with slow, deep rolls of the God’s hips, until Peter’s feeble efforts to break free were shattered, leaving him slumped against the God and moaning helplessly, hips jerking into the God’s tight fist. It seemed like each time his mind began to gain some form of clarity, the pleasure stole it away again.
As if reading his mind, the God Stark let go of his cock, one hand sliding up into his ruffled curls, fingers twisting and gripping the silky locks tight. The other stayed firm on his hip, fingers digging in gently as he raised Peter up again and let him drop, coaxed the teen into bouncing on his cock like it was all his body was built for.
The burn had faded completely, lost in the haze of the God’s thick cock, forcing his ass gaping apart like it had never been before, his stretched rim dragging along the length in a desperate bid to stay stuffed full and filled deep. Peter’s head fell to the God’s shoulder as the pleasure begun to pool, hot and merciless.
His moans were now senseless noise, thighs trembling and the coil of pleasure tightening until it became too much and he cried out, throwing his head back and arching his spine, voice cracking as his cock jerked between them and splattered them both with milky white.
The God didn’t let up, Peter little more than a ragdoll in his grip as the God fucked up into him, teeth bared and fingers bruisingly tight in his hair, thrusts sharp and deep until the God let out a moan, low and rumbled like thunder, buried so deep Peter almost felt as if he was reaching his guts, insides flooded with thick, wet warmth.
“You are mine. Mine alone,” the God murmured, suddenly gentle in the space between their orgasms as he wrapped his arms around Peter, who gave a weak sound at being tipped backwards. But the God Stark held him safely, almost cradling him as he rose, carrying Peter down and to the nest of pillows and blankets, where he draped the boy carefully, down on his knees.
“You take me so perfectly, Peter. Built to take my cock. To be filled with my cum,” the God breathed, one hand moving to cradle his jaw as Peter’s mind finally began to work again, eyes fluttering dazedly open. He managed a soft sound, easily muffled when the God Stark dipped his head, still buried to the hilt, and kissed him as tenderly as a lover leaving for war.
It was so different from the cold, solid mouth of marble. The God’s lips were plump and soft, encompassing his own as Peter groaned, lips parting so the God could lick into him, tongue sliding along his own, suckling softly. It only occurred to Peter that they were both still hard, as though they’d never cum, when the God began to rock into him again, slow, lazy thrusts as though they had all the time in the world.
“This isn’t... You’re not…” he tried feebly, and the God chuckled against him, free hand sliding down between them teasingly. Peter was trapped between the God’s solid body, braced on a forearm and the throw of pillows beneath him as the God pumped his cock in slow, tight motions, thumb maddeningly massaging his tip until Peter was whimpering and squirming wildly against him, hips stuttering and breathing in desperate pants.
“Please," he begged, when the pleasure had him flushed and breathless, and like an answered prayer he bowed between them, almost yelling as he came for a second time. The God soothed him through it, hand leaving his cock to dip between his thighs, one gentle fingertip tracing where his cock was swallowed deep, where Peter’s pink rim was stretched wide around him, slick with cum and tender to the touch.
Just as Peter managed to catch his breath again, the God Stark kissed it away, slow but thorough in devouring Peter, licking into his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip gently, suckling at his tongue until Peter could think of nothing but how the God tasted, the warmth of his mouth and the softness of his lips against Peter’s own. When the God Stark pulled away, just a little, Peter’s mouth was raw and swollen, lips flushed a dark pink.
“This is my power, small thing. All that you feel. All that you desire,” the God Stark purred, hips nudging a fraction deeper so that Peter bowed and cried feebly, helpless to the heat that fizzled through his veins, his cock still as deep pink, still as hard, tender and drooling against the lower portion of his stomach as the God tightened his arms around Peter, hauling him up until the boy knelt boneless above his thighs, shaking in his grip.
“I could keep you like this forever,” the God teased, though there was a note of darkness there, as if the idea entertained him. Peter gave a feeble mewl, hands uselessly pawing at the God’s shoulders as he drove his cock deeper, until Peter’s breath felt choked from his lungs.
“Would you like that, my sweet offering? To be nothing but a vessel for my pleasure, for the rest of eternity? Filled so full of my cum that you can barely move?”
It ought to have been a horror. It ought to have repulsed him. To have filled him with dread and fear. But he could do nothing but whine, high and keening. Could do nothing but try to wade through the fog that filled his mind. As much as none of this made sense, it felt so right. As if this was all he had ever been meant to do. As if nothing was anything but ordinary.
“Why me?” he slurred, when the God gripped his chin to lift his head, blown pupils meeting the God’s amber gaze. His supporting hand left Peter’s hip to lay at his throat, encompassing the vulnerable flesh, squeezing until Peter’s breath wheezed and the edges of his vision strained.
“Because you were made for me, sculpted to be the perfect whore to my appetite. To take my cock and my cum. To be mine,” the God murmured, tender despite his cruel grip. When darkness began to seep slowly into his sight, the God Stark eased off, hands to Peter’s thighs as he pulled him up, sliding him slowly up his cock like a gentle brush stroke, The steady loss leaving Peter breathless and despondent, body heaving when the fat cock fell free of his body’s grip.
“Hands and knees, little one. Present. Show me what belongs to me,” the God purred, nudging at him like too harsh a touch would make him topple. And it might’ve, because his legs and arms barely wanted to work as Peter fell back, writhing onto his side and then his stomach, pausing as the God reached down with a hum of approval, squeezing a round asscheek before his fingers slipped between them, pushing through to the mess of cum and lube that lay sticky and swollen.
Peter whimpered as they pushed inside him, curious and insistent, tugging on his abused rim, rubbing along the silken walls within before withdrawing, a light slap to his ass forcing him to gather his arms and legs, letting his head fall to the velvet pillows as he braced his arms and rose to his knees, ass high in the air, thighs spread and braced so his pink little hole was on display.
It felt right, like this. Face down, ass presented to a God who would ravage him endlessly. Reap his pleasure. This was worship, wasn’t it? Offering himself in his entirely. Nothing but an unwrapped gift for a thick cock. A hand slid between his legs, skating his stomach and applying pressure to his chest. Rising him to his hands and knees, like a true bitch to be mounted.
A hand on his flank. One buried deep into his hair, pulling his head back slowly so he could feel the bow of his neck. When his body trembled so slightly under the tension of the pose, that thick, long cock pressed against his rim again, no resistance but the greedy suck of his body, drawing in each splitting inch. Peter forced himself to remember how to breathe, mind lost on how his body parted for the God, how he rearranged him to his liking.
The steady glide filled him to his throat, stealing anything but helpless sounds as the God draped over his back like a stallion, fingers turned tight in his hair, breath hot against his jaw as he rolled his hips, a slow and deep motion that had Peter’s thighs shaking and his cock rubbing raw against his stomach. Again. Again.
Tears fell freely down his cheeks, a strangled cry cracking on his tongue as he felt how forced apart he was around the God’s drooling length, the slick slide of cum between them both. The overwhelming back-forth drag along his insides.
“I--I...Please. Fuck me. Fill me,” Peter breathed, eyes rolling on a deep, luxurious stroke of the God Stark’s length, each coaxing, firm rub against his sweetness.
“That’s it, young one. Beg. Beg for the blessings of your God". Pressure, and Peter went down limp, hissing when his cock was entrapped between his stomach and the floor. His thighs were pushed together, hips tilted back, and the God was so deep. Almost too deep. All encompassing and filling him to the point off too much as stubble blazed a red path along his jaw, his neck, as teeth scraped and nipped and the hot, white heat of pleasure tore through him like an inferno.
This time, there is no voice left within him, his lips parting on nothing but a rush of air, tears streaking down his cheeks, eyes shut tight and hips jerking, rutting down against the soft velvet as he came again, as rich and full as the first time, his body bearing down on the God and squeezing like a vice. As he let his head fall he could feel that heady flood of liquid again, that creaminess that coated his insides.
“Sleep,” the God whispered softly into his ear as Peter’s eyes fell shut, slow and sure.
He awoke, sore and sated, his head thickly clouded, like surfacing from the deepest of sleep. He moaned weakly, voice sore and rough on his tongue as he shifted, wincing at the sticky, wet mess he found himself in. His ass felt gaping wide, like he’d been fucked by something so large it would never be tight again, and he froze, panic and fear crawling through him.
He whipped his head to the side, but there the God sat, as marble and ivory as he had always been. Not an inch had moved. Peter forced himself to breathe out, to move his aching limbs. He couldn’t bring himself to look back up at that marble visage as he tugged his clothing on, stumbling from the temple with a limp in his step and no heed for the mess he’d left behind.
Steve cast him an amused glance when he staggered into the coolness of the night, one that quickly turned into furrowed brows, a hand extending for him. “Peter? Gods, are you-”
“I’m fine. Fine. Tried something new,” Peter rasped, sliding past him and away from the concerned call of his name. He was... Fuck. Strange must have drugged him. It couldn’t have been real. Or perhaps it was merely a fantasy, so vivid and fuelled by falling asleep. The panic served only to build the hazy weakness of his mind as he fell through his door, a silent yelp of pain his trail as he fumbled for his bed.
He felt so... Open. And raw. Could remember the cool slide of marble as much as the silken drag of flesh. The silence, bar his own breath, and the smooth rumble of a voice not his own. It haunted him as he fell into his room, legs failing him as he collapsed upon the bed. The panic and the haze served to drown him once more, and somewhere between his laboured breathing and the darkness, he jerked awake to a frantic voice.
“Peter! Peter, fuck. Wake up! You have to see this”.
Ned.
It was Ned.
“Wha-” Peter slurred, interrupted on a whelp as Ned grasped him by the arm, hauling him upright and supporting his weight when Peter all but collapsed.
“What happened to you? Tell me later! You’ve got to see this!”
Ned took no prisoners, dragging him by the sleeves like a stubborn horse, out into the startling light of day. Peter raised an arm to shield his face, still draped in the sodden silks and jewels of the night before. He stumbled alongside his friend, still feeling uncomfortably wet and open. Ned hauled him forwards, towards a large gathering of people, where Peter could only wince and mouth apologies as his friend barged them both through, to the forefront, where the Elders were gathered, half-knelt in prayer, half revering over…
Peter tripped to a halt, eyes wide and lips parting. The figure that stood, illuminated by the sun and back to him, was tall, muscular even through the sheer white shirt and slacks that he wore. Dark, fluffy hair ruffled by the wind as he turned. And.
And.
Dark, stormy, golden eyes met Peter’s, daring and almost triumphant, a tint of amusement in their molten hue as the God Stark tipped his head, a familiar move to Peter’s addled brain, and flashed a smirk that had Peter’s body igniting like a struck match.
“Unbelievable, right? But it gets better! This is Tony, he arrived this morning but nobody remembers any boats coming or going. And that's not even the best part!” Ned whispered in his ear, almost drowned out by the roaring in Peter’s ears.
“His name is Tony Stark."