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The temple was at its most peaceful in the late, late hours of the evening. The stars twinkled high above, and the moon shone in bold streaks of white through the pillars as Tom passed by each gap.
One might have assumed that dawn was the best time to visit—only this was not the case. The light of dawn only revealed the desperate. Dawn drew in the boring, unoriginal sort who believed early risers were superior and more productive than the rest. During those hours, the temples were filled with bad-tempered old women and the most arrogant of warriors.
Tom knew better. Work was work, and hard work could be completed during any hour of the day. Thus he only visited the temples when they were silent and empty, when even the most pathetically restless worshipers had turned in for the night. Tom enjoyed these hours; he greatly preferred solitude when he performed his weekly prayers.
His research for his prayers were meticulous. Tom chose and courted his gods with care. Conversations with those who frequented the temples most often. Conversations with the exalted priests and priestesses who kept watch over those who came to pray. Tom charmed them all. He gathered information on which offerings were best received, on what blessings were most common, on which gods were most generous.
Tom took note, and when a need arose, he was armed with what he required to turn the tides his way. Never would he enter a battle without Athena's blessing. Never would his luck run dry while Hermes favoured him. Never would illness claim him so long as Apollo found him worthy.
Tonight, however, Tom did not seek any particular blessing. There was no ulterior motive for this visit—only a desire for a peaceful evening in a sacred place. After a long day under the scorching sun, the cool atmosphere of the temple would be a welcome balm against his skin.
Tom had little time for pleasantries lately, but a few days ago he had overheard a brief conversation between two of the local priestesses. There was discordance amongst some of the gods. Strange happenings had altered the weather, the waters, the animals. Hunters were returning empty handed, claiming their prey had deserted them. Others had been warned to beware an incoming storm.
While concerning, Tom felt that this could not possibly affect him—after all, the gods themselves favoured him. Whatever petty squabbles they had with each other might result in havoc wreaked upon the city, but Tom felt secure knowing that he would not come to harm.
Therefore, Tom had no plans to change his current schedule. When he was not actively courting any deity, he would rotate his offerings amongst those whose favour he had earned. Tonight would be dedicated to Ares.
The stone was cool beneath Tom's bare feet as he padded inside, his offerings laid out on the tray in his hands. A choice selection of meats as well as a goblet of fine wine.
There was a priestess hovering by the entrance as he neared it. She glanced up at him, her lips pursed in recognition. Many here did recognize him, as he was a frequent visitor, but this priestess watched him more cautiously than the rest.
"Good evening," Tom murmured in an attempt to dissuade her discerning gaze.
"Good evening." She eyed his tray for a long moment, then said, "Ares, tonight?"
Tom inclined his head respectfully, though inwardly he was seething with irritation. If she was not a priestess, he might have attempted to have her removed. "Correct."
"The gods are restless tonight. As they have been for nearly a fortnight." She cast her gaze to the inner depths of the temple. Her brows were scrunched, worried. "I have a proposition for you, Riddle. For you are favoured amongst many, and I have an inkling as to what may have caused this disturbance."
Tom was not sure he trusted her to lead him in this. "What proposition, priestess? The hour is late, and I have my own private business to conduct."
The priestess drew back her hood, pulling the shadows away from her face, revealing a serious expression. "A new god for you to court."
A new god. Tom was not one to pray on a whim—his visits to the temples were planned for success. To take the word of this woman, even though she was a priestess, was to tempt danger to his doorstep.
Tom disliked the uncertainty, but his curiosity got the better of him, and so he asked, "Which god might this be?"
The priestess hesitated. Tom could taste her reluctance in the air like stale smoke. "Before I tell you," she said, "I can assure you that I know what you must offer to win his favour. You cannot fail in this."
"Cannot fail," Tom echoed. "Then why do you not make the offering yourself, priestess?"
"You are, as I said, favoured amongst many. The benefit of your offering is that it brings the jealousy of all other gods who witness your new patronage." These words were spoken quickly, nervously, but the logic was sound, and so Tom gave them some consideration.
"Which god?" he demanded.
The air around them went slowly still, a hush settling on their conversation like a leaf drifting down to touch upon a grassy field. Tom felt an unnatural chill settle onto his forearms, which were currently extended to carry his tray of offerings.
The priestess spoke in a whisper: "Deimos." This name breathed out between them in a tone that promised horror.
Tom knew this god, the god of dread. Soldiers feared him. Artists portrayed him with inconsistency—the only work of art Tom had ever witnessed depicted Deimos in the form of a lion. A god seen by none, or else a god seen by very few. A nebulous presence that Tom had never thought to pray to, let alone to win the allegiance of.
But now Tom saw the appeal. A lesser-known god who was no less powerful than the rest would be a valuable patron to have. All that held the common folk back from worshipping such a god on a regular basis was fear. One wished for a god like Deimos to rain hell upon their enemies. One did not typically think to pray to Deimos during times of peace.
Tom thrust his tray of offerings in the direction of the priestess. "I assume you have a replacement for me." With some satisfaction, he noted her eyes had widened with shock. Perhaps she had expected he would require more convincing.
"They whisper," said the priestess, her voice distant, but she took the tray from him with both hands. "Not to me, but to the others. They hear things." Then she sighed, her shoulders slumping. Was she jealous, then, that the gods she worshipped did not speak to her?
"And they tell you that Deimos requires patronage?"
Her mouth twisted. Perhaps his assumption was not far from its mark. "Wait here, Riddle."
Tom scowled at her retreating form. "That meat was not inexpensive," he muttered to himself. What she brought back had better be worth his while.
When the priestess did return, she was bearing a new tray. A tray full of sweets.
"What are these?" Tom asked, narrowing his eyes down at the various tarts laid out in neat rows on his tray.
"He enjoys sweets," said the priestess flatly. She gave the tray an impatient shake. "Now go, while the temple is quiet. Be your usual charming self, and I am sure you will succeed."
Tom took the tray from her steady hands. On second glance, he noted that the priestess had also added a bundle of dried wildflowers. Altogether, it made for oddness. Deimos had no temple in the area; any decorations left here would be less valuable than those left at a dedicated shrine.
But if the priestess thought these things would be well received, Tom would offer them. He had taken care to wash his hands in the river before coming here, so as to only offer the purest and cleanest items during his prayers. Tom would recite hymns in the voice that made village and city women swoon, and he would place the sweets and the flowers in a pleasing arrangement.
He would do all those things, and he would hope that it worked. If not, then he would return here tomorrow and repeat the process, likely after interrogating the priestess on what Deimos preferred so that Tom could make his own judgements on what to bring.
Tom stepped past the priestess and towards the main shrine, where he would give his offerings. The area was spacious and still; no wind reached in here while he was surrounded by stone walls.
Taking a slow breath, Tom eyed the familiar carvings and artwork laid out around the shrine. Beautiful work made by talented hands.
If Tom had been artistically inclined, he would have added sculptures to his list of possible offerings. As it was, he could only commission such masterpieces, and even then he hesitated to do so, for he felt it was impersonal to offer an item not prepared by his own hands. Tonight was an exception; a means to satisfy his curiosity and reassure the priestess waiting by the entrance.
The room was bathed in the low glow of candlelight, and Tom heard the soft sounds of his own footsteps as he padded towards the altar. His shadow flickered and danced along the walls and the ceiling. Despite having visited this place often, Tom felt ill at ease. His fingers clenched tight on the edge of the tray, the only betrayal of his nerves aside from the insistent thrum of his heart in his chest.
The god of dread. Tom dread nothing, feared nothing; he sought not to appease the gods but to be beloved by them. Tom flirted with mortal peril, but he did it well. He was desirable and skilled with manipulation, and he was mindful of his limits. There was, after all, such a thing as too much attention when it came to the gods.
While Tom was enamoured with the idea of their jealousy, he knew not to push his luck. To have the favour of one god was a blessing. To have the favour of many was enough to make an emperor. So he would watch for danger and not tip the precarious scale he had built for himself. He had worked hard to come this far; he would not lose to a higher power.
Tom set his tray down and slid to his knees. The stone was worn and smooth, cold against his skin even through the cloth of his toga. He cleared his throat lightly, softly. Still, the noise echoed deeply in the wide silence of the shrine, and Tom felt a shiver pass, unbidden, down his spine, raising the hairs on the backs of his arms.
It was time.
"Hear me, Deimos, god of dread, son of Ares, son of Aphrodite," Tom intoned. "You, who are so dedicated that even the greatest of men fear your name in battle, please accept my offerings as a representation of my most deepest admiration of the power you wield." Tom breathed in, placed his palm upon the stone structure of the altar, his voice deepening to a low rasp as he continued, "This city holds its breath under your gaze, as you may be our guardian as much as our assailant. I pray for your continued favour, for the protection of this city from whatever misfortunes may come."
Silence followed Tom's passionate declaration. Which, he supposed, was to be expected. Nevertheless, a lump had stuck itself in his throat, and he was loath to cough and dislodge it, fearing that such a sound would put off the god he was attempting to woo.
Tom reached for the wildflowers. Their stems were wieldy, bendy. The petals were colourful purples and yellows, crinkled from the drying process. A faint, fragrant scent wafted up to Tom's nose. This was a god who bode dread, a god that liked sweets and flowers.
On a whim, Tom twisted the stems with nimble fingers, winding knots upon knots, connecting the flowers to each other, careful not to disturb their delicate petals. This took long minutes of concentrated effort, but at the end, Tom examined his work, sure that this would be what tipped the god in his favour.
A humble offering, incomparable to the work of any professional artist, but appealing enough to warm even the coldest of hearts. Tom found that many deities were delighted by his deference; they enjoyed the sight of a powerful, attractive mortal so besotted that he would resort to such simple, modest gifts.
With the flower crown held gingerly in his left hand, Tom placed his right hand upon the ground and began a hymn. It was one he knew by heart, and so he did not falter over any of the syllables—the words flowed like wine, then like honey, the cadence of his voice caressing each of the verses with significant intimacy.
Tom lost himself in the sacrality of the moment, of the pure enjoyment he derived from offering this part of himself to the deity he had chosen to pray to. He felt heavenly. He felt the power of his desire fueling each phrase that spilled forth from his lips, and as he neared the end he was gasping for breath—
The sound of his own harsh breathing eventually faded, but the silence from before did not return. Instead, Tom realized, there was a fresh roaring in his ears, a boisterous gust of wind sweeping the shrine, brushing against the candle flames as it circled through, shifting Tom's hair and clothes like the hands of a gentle lover.
Tom's lips parted, rapturous, but no new words emerged. He had been previously blessed with the presence of deities in his life—rarely, but blessed nonetheless—only none were as moving as this. None were so thunderous that they moved him to such fervent, erratic emotion.
Over the course of his life, Tom had lied, stolen, charmed, and seduced. He held himself above all other mortals, held himself only lower than the gods whose favour he craved, whose power he lusted after. Amongst mortals, he was a man of immense capability and unlimited potential. Nothing was beyond his reach. He would relentlessly seek fulfillment of his desires and ambitions. He would succeed.
Never before had Tom felt himself to be on the opposite end of that pursuit. The sought, not the seeker. Never before, until tonight.
Tonight, he was held to the whims of another.
Tom did not dare speak, but with each passing second, the ring of flowers in his hand grew heavier. His back curved as he stretched his arms out, placing his offering upon the altar.
The wind quieted to a hazy murmuring, a lazy hum that swelled within the room. Tom felt feverish all over. He was too warm, too tight in his own skin. But then, oh, the wind returned—it came to brush his cheek, cradling his jaw with a cool touch that tipped his head back in ecstasy.
Tom’s eyelids fell shut, bathing his vision in darkness as he basked in the attention of the divine. The breeze trailed down, pooling in his collarbones like ice water—a glorious reprieve from the sudden heat that had suffused every inch of his body. As he further relaxed, Tom leant into the caress, bowing his head in supplication.
The atmosphere of the temple swirled a second time, prickling the hairs of his arms and the back of his neck. Tom shuddered as a golden light shone through his closed lids.
He knew, then, that his god had arrived.
The gentle touch glided underneath his chin, tilting his jaw up once more. Tom waited, patient, breath held fast in his chest by an unspeakable fear—if he moved or spoke before he was given leave to do so, his amorphous god would abandon him.
"Will you gaze upon me, dear one?"
Tom’s lips went dry, chapped and lifeless without the touch of his god to restore them. Nevertheless, he managed a soft rasp that rang loudly in his own ears: "I would do whatever you asked of me, if you would be so gracious as to permit me."
Then there was laughter. Delightful, melodious laughter that filled a void in Tom's heart, expanding it, drowning it in joy. The grace of his god's triumph sank into him like a blessing, seeping through his skin, changing him. Tom felt himself altered, piece by piece, into a vessel for this divine power.
Tom was desperate for approval, for the acceptance of his self as an offering. Permit me, his mind cried, and I will be all that you need. Though his god's laughter brought him great peace, it was not enough. Tom wished to lay eyes upon his benefactor. To be entitled to touch that which mortals could only dream of possessing.
The touch shifted, trailing along his jaw, sidling along the line of it until it stopped just underneath the lobe of his ear. Tom withheld a shaky breath, for he was on his knees, at the mercy of a being he could not see, and though he knew the dread he felt was unnatural, was purposeful, he could not fight it. He would not fight it.
"So bold, for one so young." The god's hand—it did feel like a hand now, Tom thought distractedly, it was no longer a shapeless gust of wind—moved, dragging along Tom's cheek, pressing against the concave, pausing only when it reached the corner of his mouth. "So greedy."
Tom could not deny this, and so he remained silent.
Another laugh filled the lull in their conversation, a soft burst of amusement that sent a shiver of pleasure down Tom's bare arms. He wished to speak, but he was at a loss for what to say. They were so far gone from Tom's original, half-hearted request that he could not even begin to form a coherent response. His god found his ambitions and desires amusing. What was there to say?
"My mother sends her regards, in fact." This tone was distinctly teasing, full of mischief. Tom felt a flush of embarrassment rush to his face. To think he had visited this temple with offerings for Ares. If only he had known sooner—
The pressure on the corner of Tom's mouth withdrew, taking Tom's train of thought with it. "But I digress. Open your eyes, dearest."
Tom's eyes opened without second thought. The term of affection burned in his chest as his sight adjusted to the dim light of the room. He blinked rapidly, searching, and then his eyes met the silhouette, the shape of a man, the stature of a god.
As Tom was knelt upon the floor, his eyes only glanced upon tan, bronzed skin that shimmered gold all over broad shoulders and a defined chest. Tom was transfixed, but wherever his eyes touched an expanse of skin, the shimmer faded, dancing away to the very edges of his vision. The heavenly attributes of this god were lost on his mortal eyes.
Tom was distracted by the blinding gold, by the glimmering facets of light emanating from the god before him, but above the dazzle of gold lay a pair of green eyes. Eyes which blazed brightly in the dark room, filling Tom with a sense of urgency. But his limbs were weak. Even if he were to try and stand, his legs would fail him.
Then his god's hand lowered, the pad of the finger touching upon Tom's lower lip, parting his mouth. An invitation, Tom thought, and so he allowed the name to pour forth: "Deimos."
His god was pleased to be addressed. A smile traced those lush, curved lips, a satisfied hum bubbling just behind. The hand of Deimos left Tom's mouth and moved to his shoulder. The palm nudged him gently backwards, and so Tom complied, knees dragging on the stone floor, uncaring that his toga was sullied by the remnants of burned incense.
Then his god knelt before him. He took Tom's face in both his hands with such tenderness that Tom felt, quite keenly, the distance of their separate existences. Here was an ancient being, the god of dread, the terror of war personified. Tom was miniscule by comparison, dwarfed by the magnificence and splendour that rolled off Deimos in effortless waves.
But now they were level. For the first time, Tom could gaze, unreservedly, upon the visage of his god. A face of mischief topped by a dark mess of curls. Those vibrant eyes framed by delicate bone structure. The beauty of a god. Tom held no doubt that this was Deimos' true form—there was too much honesty in this face, so raw and open, just for him. There was enough affection in that viridian gaze to fill the entirety of this temple, to fill all the streets of this city and beyond.
His god was generous, to allow Tom to feast upon the sight of him, to allow such closeness. If they did not touch, Tom felt he would die. But conviction sang in his bones; his devotion for his god was matched, was met with devotion in kind. He would not be disappointed.
"My name sounds so sweet on your tongue," murmured Deimos. "Sweeter than your prayers, than your hymns. Yet my name is not first to pass your lips with reverence. Many others have answered you, dearest. Only now have you found your way to me. I must express my disappointment."
Tom swallowed thickly. An apology was necessary, but it felt... inadequate. How could he have known that this had awaited him all along? The course of his life had failed to lead him here. It had taken outside intervention to steer him here, to his god, to Deimos.
Dread settled onto Tom's shoulders like a heavy cloak. He fought hard to dislodge it, to focus on the heavenly touch of hands pressed to his cheeks. His god could unmake him, could scatter his body into a million parts over the land and sea. Tom was powerless to stop it. There was only his faith, ardent and unyielding, that sustained his beating heart.
"But I am capable of mercy," crooned his god, a saccharine promise of redemption. His hands slid, lovingly, to caress Tom's forearms. "In this, I will be merciful. For you, my dearest, my devoted."
It was easy to fall into those words, to accept the gift of mercy as it was given to him. There would be a price to pay, but Tom had already stripped himself of caution. He overflowed with his worship; he would satisfy all that his god desired of him, and he would be blessed with trueness in return. Deimos would love him. Him and no other; in return, Tom would cease his visits to the temples for the rest of his life.
All this failed to pass between them in words, but the truth of these realizations struck Tom with great clarity. The intent of Deimos existed within him, guided to him by those divine hands that now drifted down the length of his arms. Delicate fingers encircled Tom's wrists, trapping him in place.
This shift in dynamic failed to disturb him; he was here of his own volition. The illusion of shackles was a weak representation of the real hold Deimos had over him. And so he was mollified when those hands slid further yet, palms pressing against his own, fingers entwined.
Then Deimos lifted their joined hands to brush his lips over Tom's knuckles. It was an innocent kiss that bestowed both pleasure and affection, yet it also served as a vow—a guarantee of further gratification.
Tom felt beloved by his god. He revelled in the thrilling touch of golden skin against his. Deimos' eyes bored into his own, prying him open. Tom allowed it, laid himself bare, welcomed the invasive gaze that sought to expose him. This was what spurred him to speak. "Your mercy sustains me," he breathed. "I am grateful."
"You are grateful," responded Deimos. His tone was lazy and teasing as he released Tom's left hand. Tom felt immediately bereft, but this misstep was rectified as Deimos placed his palm against Tom's chest, above where Tom's spirit pulsed beneath the layers of muscle, blood, and bone.
Then Deimos smiled, sultry, an expression that would have served to drop Tom to his knees if not for the fact his knees had yet to leave the floor since he had entered the room. Deimos leant close, his mouth scarce inches from Tom's ear as he whispered, "You are grateful, my love, but are you mine?"
"Yours." The promise was effortless; he would swear it again and again.
His god's fingers clenched, pulling the fabric taut, rough cotton scraping against Tom's sensitive skin. Yet everything paled in comparison to the hand still wrapped around his, soft as silk, sparking stardust in his veins.
"No other," Tom swore, his voice high and strangled, "never again."
Again, that delighted laughter.
"No other," echoed Deimos. His fingers trailed downwards, tracing a dangerous path before they hooked against the sash of cloth wound around Tom's waist. "Such jealousy you will inspire when I claim you. Will they come for you, when they realize?" Deimos smirked, the corner of his mouth curled with the flames of wickedness. "Will they cry for you? Will they fight for you?" Another brief pause, filled only with the ragged sound of Tom's breathing, prompted Deimos to drag him near so that their chests were nearly touching. "Which cities shall I ruin in your name, Tom Riddle?"
All of them. None of them. Tom no longer cared for any of it—he was parched, dying, and there was a great need building low in his throat. All he was, all he would ever be… the pinnacle of his existence was this very moment.
Deimos pulled him closer, closer, closer, until Tom's vision was consumed by brilliant green.
"They will fear your name as they do mine, if only because of what I will do to them if they dare speak it."
Then those cruel lips descended, closing over Tom’s with a searing heat that at last loosed the dam in Tom’s throat, drowning him in his own arousal. The steady hand at his waist moved to grip his hip, firmly guiding him down, down, down. As his body was bent back, Tom’s hands scrambled for purchase against the solid swell of his god’s bicep, but the flesh beneath his fingertips was marble, smooth and unyielding, slipping just out of reach.
So Tom fell backwards, cradled only by his faith, a feather carried by the breeze. Yet even with this gentle pace, he was left overwhelmed and panting as his shoulder blades settled flat against the cold floor.
A knee slid between his legs, parting them. "Do you fear me?"
The answer evaded him. Tom could only tremble and gasp for breath against the lips of his god. Then Deimos shifted, mouthing relentless kisses down the column of Tom’s throat, hot and bruising, no doubt a further effort to devour him whole.
"What do you fear?" A hand skimmed along the inside of his thigh, rucking up the hem of his clothes.
Tom feared death. He feared the agonizing, inevitable end of his existence.
But now, what ill could befall him? Who could harm him, with his god by his side, protecting him? For this heavenly touch, Tom would torch the earth, would wage eternal war, would snap at the hands of the deities that had once weaned him on blessings.
So here, at last, was the answer, delivered in an aching gasp:
"My fear is yours."
Deimos grinned wide, white teeth gleaming in the darkness of the temple. "Then, my love, you will fear nothing."
Chaos boiled in Tom’s blood as he felt his clothes stripped from his body, the fabric discarded by reverent hands. Though the stone below him was cold, he could no longer feel it. Though he was laid bare, he felt no shame. Instead, Tom's hands sought the waist of his salvation, stroking fabric softer than silk, tugging Deimos over him like a blanket. He was eager for what would come, ready for all to be revealed to him.
Deimos bent over him, kissed him sweetly, nipping at Tom's lower lip until it throbbed. Then he released it with a soft sigh, sitting back, tracing the harsh tip of his index finger in a curve under Tom's right eye like he wanted to gouge it out. If it had, Tom would have let it happen, would have accepted his pain given as exchange for his pleasure.
Tom would not beg to be touched, but he would not demand it, either. He had never lain with another; his inexperience gave him cause to hesitate. So instead he arched his back, widened his eyes, canted his hips upwards, seeking the flesh of his god, willing those hands to hold him down and take what was presented.
Deimos kissed him again, just as lovely, wet and open-mouthed, his tongue sweeping over the sting of before, soothing it. Ambrosia, Tom thought to himself. This was ambrosia on his lips.
Hands came to rest on Tom's chest, pressing him to the floor, and then finally, Deimos moved lower, seeking, brushing against Tom's half-hard cock. Tom whined, wanton, still unprepared to beg but nearing his limits. His god's touch burned all over—he could not stand it.
"Not quite, dearest."
His god sat back. The heat in Tom's body retreated, escaping into the cool air of the temple, and Ton could have sobbed if not for the fact that his lover's hand was now wrapping slender fingers around his erection, tugging gently, working him to fullness with agonizing patience.
"Your gifts to me are plentiful," whispered Deimos, his motions pausing as his thumb swept over the head of Tom's cock, spreading the moisture there. "I should hate for them to go to waste."
Tom was vibrating in place, his nerves screaming with the tension of his pleasure. Every halting caress toyed with his senses like a knife's edge.
Deimos raised his other hand from Tom's chest. With a simple gesture, Tom's crown of wildflowers flew towards them, landing in Deimos' outstretched palm. Then, with great care, Deimos lowered the circlet onto Tom's head, nestling it amongst the curls. His fingers tangled into Tom's scalp, tenderly adjusting the set of each flower until perfection had been achieved.
"So sweet, my offering," praised his god, resuming his languid stroking of Tom's cock. "So beautiful."
Tom keened, hips restless and arching upwards. The hand in his hair tightened, nails scraping against his skull.
"All you have offered me is accepted," Deimos promised. "And you will be blessed in due time."
Tom couldn't breathe. Each pass of air only winded him. He tried to speak, but a finger shushed him, crushing against his lips. Then the tip of that finger pushed in, and Tom’s mouth flooded with the taste of almonds. He licked at it, searching, and the finger slid deeper in response, coating his tongue with oil.
There was no need to ask. There was only what he was given, all his needs fulfilled, his body an offering, a vessel for desire. The hand on his cock moved lower, exploring. Tom wanted nothing more than for their bodies to press together, to feel his god’s erection against his own, to roll their lower halves as one and breathe their pleasure in melodious synchrony.
A second finger filled his mouth, pushing past his parted lips, stretching his mouth wide. Tom gaped around the intrusion and felt another small kiss against his heated skin, this time against his temple.
More, demanded the hazy part of his brain that remained capable of coherent thought. His god had called him greedy, and he had not denied it. Now it was more apparent than before—Tom moaned softly, panting, and was rewarded with an attentive stroke to his shaft. His thighs fell further open, allowing access—
The warm hand left his cock. Tom whined around the fingers in his mouth, then felt a damp finger trail his inner thigh. He knew, then, that this hand was coated in the same sweet oil spread across his tongue. The finger drifted closer and prodded gently at the pucker of his ass, testing, teasing.
He needed to relax, but his entire body was buzzing with tension, the curve of his spine pulled taut like a bow string as he sought to meet his god’s golden skin with his own.
The fingers in his mouth slid out with a wet sound. Tom gazed, through half-lidded eyes, up at his lover. Deimos was faintly flushed in the darkness, cheekbones highlighted by some ethereal magic. His eyes, still green, had dimmed their fiery glow, leaving the smoldering embers of dark passion in their place.
Slowly, Tom felt himself filled as his god’s finger pressed into his arse, opening the ring of muscle. The touch was otherworldly, euphoric—his strain melted away, his legs slackening, his cock throbbing with need. His body was awash with rapture, so much so that as a second finger joined the first, the digits curling in ways that caused his vision to spot with darkness, Tom hardly felt the burn of it. He was stretched and stretched as his lover worked him open, a third finger added, but the pleasure numbed his mind from the pain.
Or, perhaps, there was no pain at all. Only the adoring embrace of his god’s hands on his sweat-soaked skin.
Far too soon, Deimos withdrew. Tom clenched on nothing, hating it. His mouth formed a soundless plea, a call for deliverance. He was too gone to be denied now.
"My offering." His god trailed soft lips down Tom’s chest, reverent.
Tom trembled, gripped Deimos’ forearms with iron fingers, digging his nails into the skin hard enough to draw blood. "Take me," he hissed, squeezing down. He needed to be filled, to relish in the use of his flesh for his god’s satisfaction.
"I am your guardian," breathed Deimos, aligning himself with Tom’s entrance, the tip of his cock pressing in, "your assailant. The god you cry for, the god you worship—" Then he sank in, inch by inch, into Tom’s pliant body.
Tom did cry out, blinking back dampness with wet lashes—not from pain, but from the unbearable torrent of sensation that raged through him, singing across his skin like a fire’s brand.
"—worship me," panted Deimos, sliding to a halt, buried deep inside, so thick and full that Tom could only gasp and clench around the blunt intrusion.
Hands gripped him, bruising, lifting his legs up for better access, his calves dangling over those steady shoulders. Tom spluttered, reaching upwards as he was bent nearly in half. He hooked his hand around the back of his god’s neck, tugging hard, and crushed their mouths together. They breathed as one, wet and desperate. Tom began to rock his hips, seeking friction, chasing the sparks that had only begun to build inside of him.
Then, finally, Deimos set a steady, torturous pace, dragging slowly out before pushing back in. Tom whined and scraped blunt nails down the man’s back, a silent urge for them to go faster, and he was rewarded with a deep, ruthless thrust that made him see stars.
Would there be marks left on his skin, where they touched? It was too dark, too early to tell, but Tom wanted to know that he was marked, that his hips and thighs would purple with the proof of their joining. That he might bear the scent of his lover, merged into his skin, for as long as he lived.
Tom clenched down, a groan pulled from deep in his chest as the cock in his arse slammed into him. His shoulders dragged up and down on the stone floor, rubbed raw from the unforgiving motions of their fevered coupling.
"Beloved," gasped his god, his frantic pace increasing to the point of cruelty.
Tom could take it all. The force of a god was nothing compared to his will. He canted his head back, exposing his neck, rising his hips further off the floor to meet the thrusts that filled him.
Their angle shifted—Deimos bent his head low to mouth at the column of Tom’s neck, scraping his teeth along the veins, sucking marks into Tom’s pale skin. With the next thrust, Tom’s vision flashed with searing light, and he cried out as pleasure shattered inside of him.
Tom’s hands were weak as he struggled to focus. Each heavy thrust of his god’s cock met the same spot, blissful ecstasy burning through his mind like delirium. His cock rubbed against the firm body above him, straining with his need for release.
Deimos slowed. It drew a whimper from Tom, who now clung precariously to the edge of his orgasm. Deimos’ mischievous face appeared in Tom’s blurry vision, his eyes intent and lit with power.
Then Deimos placed a modest kiss upon Tom’s gaping mouth, and the roll of his hips turned gentle, reverent. As Deimos pressed their chests together, their hearts beating in erratic synchrony, their frenzied coupling gradually slowed to the merciful romance of lovemaking.
“I accept your offering,” breathed Deimos, his lips now a hair’s width away from Tom’s own. Their foreheads touched, damp with sweat and flush with exertion. “As a representation of your deepest admiration.”
Tom envied his god’s coherency, for he was unable to respond in kind—his consciousness was lost in the throes of his rapture, in his desire to take and take and take until he could take no more.
All Tom knew was the comfort of this beautiful embrace, the pleasure that threatened to float him into unconsciousness, the careful motion of Deimos’ thrusts that teased his prostate.
It could have been that they were suspended in this state for hours, their bodies connected in the most intimate of ways. And no doubt that such a thing was possible, for Tom could not forget with whom he had lain with. His god would not tire, and so long as his god lusted for him, he would not tire, either. But even if his release was held off for an age, what did it matter? If he pained, he would be healed. If he thirsted, he would be quenched. If he hungered, if he desired—he would be fed.
His fears had been given over. His control was forfeit. All that remained was his devotion and the privilege of his pleasure.
When at last his god deigned to touch him again, to drag a loving hand along the shaft of his cock, Tom could barely muster a sound. His throat was wrecked, his voice squandered on hoarse cries of incoherent ecstasy.
“Come for me.”
Was that a falter Tom heard in that proud, unearthly voice? But there was no time to ponder on it as Deimos stroked him once, twice, three times, and Tom could only obey, coming with an airless scream, his cock spilling his release onto the shimmering skin of Deimos’ hand and wrist.
His god held him through the aftermath, continuing to thrust even as Tom shuddered through every violent sensation that seized his overstimulated body. Harsh panting filled his ears, louder than his own ragged breaths, and then the hands on his hips seized, digging almost painfully into the delicate skin there.
Tom felt boneless, limp with pleasure, but he forced his hips to respond, forced himself to clench down on the length inside of him. His god let out a groan, thrusts halting and erratic. Tom bared his teeth at the rapturous, open-mouthed expression that gazed upon him. Satisfaction purred in his chest. This was his.
“No one else,” Tom hissed, burying his hand in the mess of hair at the nape of Deimos’ neck. He rocked his ass upwards to meet his lover’s cock again and again, discarding his exhaustion, determined to see this through to the end. “No one else but me.”
The head of Deimos’ cock dragged against his entrance, catching on the rim so that just the tip was inside, and then Tom felt wetness fill him as his god came, those perfect lips mouthing silent words against Tom’s chest.
When the golden high of the moment was over and their bodies were slumped on the stone floor, the ringing in Tom’s ears at last dissipated, revealing the peaceful, reverential stillness of before. Tom was curled on his side, breathing deeply, his arse sore and leaking, his cock twitching weakly. There was a heavy warmth pressed up against his back, a chin tucked over his shoulder and arms wrapped around his ribs.
“The floor is hard,” Tom said idly, once he had recovered enough to speak without the impediment of his fatigue.
The face buried in his hair snuffled with laughter. It remained the most beautiful sound Tom could ever recall hearing. “You are greedy, my love.” His god’s voice was warmer, now. More human. Tom relished in the newness of it, in the intimacy of familiarity.
“And if I am?” Tom suppressed a yawn, stretching his arms out to loosen the muscles before he made an attempt to roll over.
“And if you are, I will tolerate it, I suppose.”
Tom succeeded in shifting his body over. His eyes met his god’s piercing gaze. Unbidden, Tom’s hand rose to touch the face that now graced him with a heartfelt smile. “As I am yours, you are mine,” Tom promised. They would worship each other.
Deimos held him by the waist, then kissed him sweetly, languidly. Nimble fingers threaded through Tom’s hair, pushing the sweat-dampened strands away from his face. “If I am to be the sole subject of your covetous ways, then I shall be content enough for a lifetime.”
A lifetime. Hmm. Tom allowed himself a yawn this time, shuffling closer so as to press his cheek against his lover’s chest. It was not a pleasant reminder, to know that his god would outlive him. But there was plenty of time to talk about that, later.
Minutes ticked by. Tom was held and cuddled, his head petted gently. It all felt very nice, but—
“This floor is also cold,” Tom added pointedly.
His god sighed. His grip on Tom’s waist tightened. “Hold on, my love. Mortals tend to feel ill the first time.”
Magic swirled to life around them, a gleaming cocoon of silver threads winding around and around. The darkness temple began to fade from sight as the threads contracted. The sight ought to have been frightening, but Tom felt nothing, only the security of his lover’s arms and the virtuousness of his heart’s awakening.
The world was theirs. Cities would fall in his name, and—Tom recalled the crown of wildflowers on his head, the symbol of their faith for each other—they would grow new life in its place.
