Anteros lies on the grass and soaks in the remains of pale sunlight while they argue inside his mother's palace. Even out here in the garden with the sea wind combating with their voices, he can hear everything just fine.
"I didn't send you down there to fall in love," Aphrodite yells. Even though she is angry, her words sound like honey.
"Your brother is bad enough," Ares, the accompanying hornet's nest, "Why even bother with her? A mortal, Eros! They're all vain, they're useless objects."
Anteros sits up to look out at the ocean and his toga falls a little loose on bronze shoulders. The waves are in an angry white fit, but here in the long blades of grass, Anteros has no reason to worry about the tossing and turning of other gods. It's not that he doesn't care about Eros' sudden interest in this girl, Psyche. It's just that he knows better than to expect anything from his brother.
Besides, how can the dispute go anywhere when Ares is a hypocrite? When Aphrodite is so beautiful in her envy?
As for his brother, Eros is Eros.
Eros. "You're just jealous. Both of you," he says, amused as always, "You're getting possessive, so of course I have an interest in her."
They're talking in circles. Such is the way with Love, Rage, and Beauty. If Ares is allowed to sneak off with Achilles, why should Eros be denied a pretty and simple girl? Aphrodite only protests because she sent Eros to do her dirty work and he got other ideas. Psyche is rumored to be beautiful, as beautiful as the goddess, but what does that really matter? Aphrodite knows that mortals all eventually wither, they all die.
Anteros is beginning to believe Ares' influence has made his mother crave blood. As he did with Eros, as Anteros was unable to provide save with copper skin and endless, endless wine. For this reason, though, Anteros believes also that it will pass like the waves pulling away from the white shores.
The lull of angry dialogue is lost to the sigh of the ocean now that the afternoon brings the tide closer. Anteros wonders for a fleeting moment what it would be like to have real arguments. The kind that mortals deal with. He has heard of clever hero kings who battle with the ocean gods, but because they are clever they know to flee. Abandoning dignity is supposedly better than to take arms against a sea of troubles, or so those clever kings might say.
In the meantime, though, Anteros is only here in Aphrodite's garden with a craving for a king of his own. Not for blood, but something too similar; a dead ruler's caress. In the winter, though, he can only want what he cannot have.
This is why he avoids seeing Psyche. It's bad enough that Eros describes the Spring in her eyes and the flowers in her hair, Anteros doesn't want to have to see the blush on her white skin and think of something freshly blooming. He doesn't need to draw any more similarities. At least she is mortal. At least she must face the reasons that Eros might have to leave her. Reasons that all have pouting lips, perfect bones, and ichor in their veins. Anteros might even be among those reasons.
He doesn't realize Love is in the garden until he casts a long shadow across his thighs and face. Anteros can only smile up at him through gold curls.
"You're not angry, are you Anteros?" This is not asked in concern. It's purely for the sake of redundancy, Love's only flaw.
"I know better," Anteros yawns. Love cuts an inviting silhouette out of the sky. His hair is disheveled, his cheeks flush with the rare experience of an argument. Even though Anteros is tired and bitter, he finds himself wondering at what it would feel like to stand and reach possessively at those curls. Grab that jaw and pull him into a forceful kiss for once.
"I know better than to bother. Complaining about what you do only serves to encourage you to do it," Anteros says, "I think I ought to know, after all, I'm the same way."
Eros crouches beside his brother in the grass. He leans forward just enough for his breath to ghost against Anteros' ear. "I think you're my favorite."
"Doubtless."
Anteros kisses his brother's neck and sucks at the thin layer pale skin. There is a lack of pretense in the way he trails his lips down to his collarbone and how Eros groans softly. They fall against the grass, Anteros' arms on either side of Eros' head. Love grins up at his almost twin just before they kiss, tongues fighting against each other.
Anteros feels his brother's legs lock around his hips and he grinds against him through too much cloth. Why does Eros even bother to wear anything at all, especially this flimsy white robe? He finds himself fumbling with the tie. Eros is fighting with his brother's toga. There is the sound of ripping cloth followed by Anteros' dull realization that there are tatters of useless material on his body now. Eros wriggles the rest of the way out of the robe and they crash into another kiss, nude in the soft grass.
Anteros resumes his trail of licks and starts pulling up skin at Love's hips. He laps at Eros's inner thighs, the base of his already hard cock. It swells under his tongue. Anteros swallows Love's wet cock, feels the head slam against the back of his throat with the relentless and harsh buck of hips.
Eros' fingers tangle into his brother's hair, pulling him down on his cock. When he glances down, Love sees his thick cock slide in and out of Anteros' lush lips while he jacks himself off in time with Eros' thrusts.
"Faster," he croaks just as Anteros licks up pearls of precum. To his disbelief, his brother's pace instead becomes maddeningly slow. He licks a long, careful stripe from the base of Eros' slick cock to its engorged head so that Eros is almost painfully aware of how fucking good it feels.
"Anteros, come on," Eros whines, almost begs.
Anteros slides up his brother's body, making their cocks grind against each other. "You'll come," he bites at Eros' neck. Love groans.
"And then it will be over. You'll abandon me, like you do with her." Anteros licks his cheek. His fingers wrap around Eros' cock and the love god mumbles something incoherent, but angry.
"What do - y-yes, there, do that again- you want, Ant-ah- Anteros?" He demands just as Anteros twists his wrist. "What do you want?"
Anteros seems to consider the question for a moment. He spreads his legs a little more, straddling Eros so that his brother's cock, wet with his own saliva, is pressing against his taint.
He leans forward and kisses Eros so long that Love wonders if this is even a kiss. Then his lips are at the shell of Love's ear. "Fuck me."
Eros can barely scrape three letters together to make a faint syllable. "Yes."
He reaches up, a hand tracing from the nape of Anteros' gold neck to the small of his back, then to his entrance. There isn't any oil out here, but Anteros doesn't seem to care. He leans into the fingers and soon Eros is pushing one, then two fingers inside of him.
"So tight," Eros almost sounds like he is laughing through his gasp.
So the roles even out, because Anteros won't let them completely switch. Not now, even as those fingers scissor inside of him and his breaths start getting ragged. Anteros closes his eyes, moaning when Eros adds a third finger. He rocks his hips, fucking himself on Love's fingers.
Eros very slowly pulls his fingers out, eliciting a complaining groan from the god above him. He strokes his already wet cock and guides it against Anteros as he spreads his legs for Eros.
Love's cock slides inside of him and Anteros' head rolls back. He bucks his hips once and cries out at the sensation. Eros begins to move beneath him and they are both breathing so hard, so fast. Anteros tries to kiss Eros again, but he can barely keep his eyes open through the sweat and the feeling, the ecstasy of Eros pounding into him.
It's because they fit together, were made for each other. Eros pumps his cock just a little faster and Anteros' hand flies to his own. Love's brother manages to get a kiss this time and they sigh into each other's mouths. Solid white and nothing else suddenly floods both gods' visions and Eros loses in spite of himself. He comes hard inside Anteros, whose lips are suddenly against his neck. He bites at Love's collarbone and the feeling of hot seed pumping inside of him is too much. His body goes taut as he comes and then collapses on top of Eros without any energy or muscle left in his entire being.
Together they lay there cavernous, not truly sated. Neither of them dares to admit it aloud, but Anteros allows himself to wish he were somewhere else.
He goes down to the ocean to be alone.
At first, he is only greeted by the waves and Anteros eagerly falls into the ocean's grasp. Bathing in sea water may not be as good as the springs of water inside, or the shallow pools scented with juniper, but Anteros doesn't want to have to interact with servants or guests, or worse—Eros a second time. His now tattered excuses for clothing still lay upon the grass in the garden, out of his mind or concern. Visitors of Aphrodite very rarely even care about her sons, let alone him. He is at best a confusion to the rest of the world as they search to see his brother in him. When they can't, they move on.
It's for this reason that Anteros is startled when he sees a figure staring at him from the boulders in the garden. From this distance, though, he might look like his brother or even just one of the gold-skinned concubines Aphrodite has invented to live in her domain. He swallows salt water and turns back around to finish his bath unheeded by some voyeur. What does Anteros care? He still is who he is. Being wanted almost feels nice, almost. It might if he didn't loathe everyone here.
When he comes up to the shore to dry off in the afternoon sun, the figure is gone.
That night, Anteros goes to bed alone as he has done for the past three weeks of winter. Even the luxury of his canopy bed and the thousands of hyacinth flowers can't reconcile the fact that he is unattended. Again. He's asleep within minutes and dreams of the hunt, of the underground, of fire. He dreams he's covered in blood.
Anteros wakes covered in sweat.
He sits up shakily and tries his best to recover from the images that polluted his sleep. His breath is loud and he doesn't understand why his heart won't shut up, beat after beat until blood pounds against his eardrums. His mouth is dry. A familiar situation, almost a fond memory if the sting of what he can't have would go away. Anteros knows someone else is in the room. He glares into the dark, but through the fine fabric of the canopy it's impossible to know where the other god is, the moonlight refuses to look his way. Anteros still knows he's there; the only Olympian that could make him dream of blood on his tongue and want it, want it so fucking much.
"Ares, get out of my room. Eros is on the other side of the palace." His voice sounds like a rasp in his own ears. Anteros searches his bedside for a drink and finds his pitcher turned over. The wine has been spilling over the edge of the bed for some time now, if the stain on the marble is any indication.
"He left to be with her tonight." Anteros can't see him, but he can [i]feel[/i] him. His room is usually full of easy night breeze and sweet nectar, but not tonight. Amber swirls and nearly suffocates him. It's hot; he's awake but still sweating as if the dreams hadn't stopped and he's still inside those fiery pits, clawing at the enemies he will never have.
"Then my mother. Or is she bored of you, too?"
"No, I'm the one bored of her."
That's a lie. No one ever gets bored of Beauty, not unless they have Ecstasy waiting in their bed. Ares doesn't, so why not go back to her? What is he doing here?
Anteros finally sees him, standing in the corner by the doorway. There isn't any leather armor distorting his dark figure, but having a nude god in his room isn't much better than if Ares had been dressed for the battles his body is so clearly intended. Ares is still Ares. He tempts the idea of standing, but really? How even are the odds if he stands up to fight against War? At least this way maybe he can act like he isn't threatened.
"You don't believe me? Do you think your mother could really close her slut thighs to anyone? Let alone a god."
"If my brother can, why not her?" he challenges as a reminder that just because he hasn't done anything yet does not mean he wants Ares' company. He's still bitter about before, about how Ares gets to have Eros when he doesn't. The fact that right now neither of them have him does not mean he feels an inkling of kinship with the war god. "Go back to your own palace, Ares, and stay out of my head."
Ares laughs. "I didn't do that on purpose, you were already craving death," he says lowly and takes a step into the room. "I just happen to be the next best thing. You already wanted it."
Anteros reconsiders he decision to remain in the bed. He reaches at his bedside, completely knocking over the amphora of wine so that it shatters into a million porcelain shards. His fingers wrap around the object he was searching for; the club. "Get out, Ares. This isn't some metaphorical toy like with Eros. You come near me, this is going to smash your head in."
Ares, of course, walks further into the room. His knees touch the edge of the bed. Anteros inches up from the sheets as War brushes his fingers against the silk where his feet once were. "You could have called the guards by now, if you wanted me gone," he says, "but you don't and you won't."
Anteros had not until now considered that Ares is being influenced by Love just as his mother was influenced by War. He knows exactly what he's doing. The love god can't stop picturing exactly what Ares wants him to as he strokes the sheets. Except that Anteros knows better, know it would be nothing like that. Not with Ares.
"You are not the next best thing, Ares. Get out of my room." He sounds desperate, he supposed to sound angry.
"You're right, I'm not." He advances up the bed and Anteros is dismally aware of the fact that he wears nothing under the pooled silk sheets. "I'm am the best thing, because you can't get to him. Not with your morals."
Ares leans forward, reaches out to Anteros and the love god panics. He tries to swing the golden club at War, but is greeted with nothing but air. Air all around him and then a vice grip, a shift in weight on the bed. Anteros tenses, and after a moment understands that Ares is now kneeling behind him, pressed against him with an arm wrapped around his chest. It only takes one giant warrior arm to restrain him. When Anteros tries to struggle, his bare back meets Ares' chest and he shivers. What exactly it is that makes him shudder, however, he won't consider. War's breath is hot on the nape of his neck. Anteros drops the club.
"Come on, Anteros. Turn into smoke if that's what you want, I can't stop you," he dares. The sheets are slipping off of Anteros' thighs. He can feel the outline of Ares' hard cock underneath the cloth.
"You aren't him," Anteros hisses and in response, Ares grinds against him with urgency and violence Anteros wants to go on and go on. War drags his teeth along his shoulder. He bites back a sound he refuses to make for Ares' benefit. "He'd never do anything like this."
"That's the point, Anteros. He wouldn't and it's what you want. It's what no one can give you," Ares says and licks a stripe around the shell of the love god's ear. Anteros swears. Did his brother tell War all his secrets? How does he know? His own cock starts to grow and thicken. "It's what no one can give you but me."
War's free arm travels down Anteros' body and wraps around his stiffening cock for emphasis. He's losing. Anteros is losing to Ares of all people. The god licks his lips and attempts to gain some courage despite having the warrior of all warriors holding him against his hard, immortal body. He could crush him without a second thought and Anteros isn't sure how that knowledge doesn't have him paralyzed. Another quaking breath escapes his parted lips when Ares pulls a little at his cock.
"I'm not him either, Ares." He inhales again, tries not to moan. "I can't be my brother. What are you getting out of this?"
Ares' response comes in the form of the war god developing a slow, steady rhythm to jerking Anteros off. The love god answers his own question with a low, shaky inhale.
"You don't give yourself enough credit, Anteros," War says and perhaps from anyone else that might actually be a compliment. From Ares, though, Anteros doesn't trust it, especially not when the god's hand moves lower to massage his ballsack. Without considering what he's doing, Anteros lets his head go back against Ares' shoulder. War's body is hot against his bare, sweat slick skin, almost enough so that Anteros thinks he could burn him. It's so different, nothing like Hades. He barely acknowledges that Ares has let his other arm drop. He can run, if he wants to.
He doesn't. Instead, he turns his shoulders to look War in the eye. God, he can see the fire there and the bloodlust. The destruction that Ares will always crave and that Anteros can feel on his tongue. It's addictive and too late to get away. In those eyes Anteros can see something else, too, something that will make this worth it. The power to destroy anything, even a memory and the ghost of a touch he's missed long enough. The promise that Ares can erase that need in him, make it spill out of him with the dark magic that is a murder. To do that, though, it can't be easy. It has to hurt just as much as any other sacrificial rite.
"Well?" Anteros blinks and realizes that Ares has dropped his hand while he was waiting for—what? A reply? Permission?
"Hurry up, Ares, I don't have all night."
Ares grunts and shoves him down the bed, crawling over Anteros before he can try to regain his position. War holds him down with one giant fist clasped over his shoulder, pressing him into the sheets while his other arm travels back down Anteros' struggling form. The love god refuses to submit to this level, but that's too bad because Ares is Ares. A wolf and an alpha male. His hand latches on to Anteros' hips and pulls him up so that the fair-haired immortal is forced on his knees, hands gripping the edge of the bed.
Somewhere in the back of Anteros' mind, he realizes challenging War is not the best of ideas. Then Ares starts kissing him. First his neck, his shoulders next. Anteros' mouth opens when War starts lapping down the small of his back. Love's brother tries to take advantage of Ares' distraction and sit up or flip over, but Ares is there against him in a flash. Anteros drags his teeth over his lower lip when he feels the war god's cock pressing against his thigh, when he hears Ares panting into his ear. Then he starts talking.
"Come on, slut", he says. Anteros feels his lips move down his neck, Ares pauses at his shoulder and drags his teeth there. He bites and Anteros cries out as he feels the blood drip down his back. "You can do better than that. Beg."
"Who s-says you, ah, deserve better than that?" His eyes shut when Ares starts lapping up the blood, he feels the war god's tongue dart into the freshly made wound. His fingers curl tighter into the sheets, twisting them as he searches for purchase.
"Stop struggling," Ares growls above him. Anteros feels something cool and flat against his back—a knife. "I'll slit your throat."
"I'll heal." The knife slides down his back, then back up. Ares doesn't cut him, not yet, but Anteros wants him to. He needs that hollow, uncomplicated pain. War starts rocking his whole body in time with the knife, so that when it nearly scrapes his shoulder, Ares' cock slides against his entrance. Anteros doesn't feel like waiting and War doesn't know the meaning of patience, but he does know torture. Love's almost twin spreads his legs a little and hears Ares chuckle behind him.
"Like I said, a concubine at best." Nothing like anyone else he's ever been with, ever will be with.
The knife presses against his spine and Anteros inhales sharply as it finally makes a cut. Slowly, too slowly Ares pulls the blade down. He can feel the war god's cock pressing between his thighs, too, and then against his entrance. The blade stays against his spine, still cutting into his flesh. The searing pain and overwhelming sensation of blood threatens to surpass his sense of self-respect. He moans Ares' name and doesn't have the concentration to hate himself for it.
"F-fuck." The only even slightly intelligible things that Anteros can manage are ragged, panted phrases. "Fuck me, Ares, come on…"
War grinds against him, but doesn't press in any further. Anteros tries to raise his hips and feels himself open more to the night air. The demeaning position makes him feel like an offering about to be torn apart. Anteros wouldn't fight that kind of fate right now, if only Ares would just fuck him already.
Instead, the blade disappears in a swift movement and then reappears in front of Anteros' lips. His own blood drips from it, close enough to smell and almost taste. At first, he thinks Ares will try to cut his face and he pulls away. There is a delicious sensation of his body pressed further against Ares, but still the war god won't move. He does, however, groan and Anteros smirks when he ears War moan his name.
"Lick it clean, Anteros." A rush goes through his body and though he didn't think it possible, his cock swells more. Precum leaks out when he leans forward and presses his tongue to the cool metal. Part of him is still demanding he that not obey Ares' orders, Ares who he can't stand, who stole from him- but the blood tastes delicious. The liquid is hot in his mouth and Ares doesn't even need to whisper for him to swallow, he does it just to feel the coppery liquid slide down his throat.
Ares grinds against Anteros again, though he holds the knife steady. Anteros realizes the god's cock is already oiled and would hate his confidence if it didn't feel so amazing. The knife now clean and his lips stained with blood, he tries again.
"Fuck me, Ares." For emphasis, he reaches down and strokes himself, barely keeping balanced with his other arm. "Do it, no preparation, just do it."
War stares down at the sight in front of him. Anteros, usually slim and resolute in his virginal beauty pleasuring himself as the blood on his back dries. He licks his lips when Anteros does, unable to get enough of his own blood. He can't wait anymore. War drops the knife and angles his body, hips pressed against Anteros' tight ass and thrusts inside him.
Anteros cries out, nearly howls at the sudden pain. It's what he wanted, practically begged for, but the rush of Ares forcing his way inside still leaves him rendered speechless. His moans are wet from blood and saliva and he can't even consider keeping quiet when Ares pushes the remaining inches of his cock inside. One of War's arms wraps around him to keep him steady. Ares groans into Anteros' ear and together they fill the room with the sound of skin against skin and pleasured, animalistic moans.
Ares doesn't wait for the love god to adjust, he pulls out again and rams back in with a force bound to leave a mark. When Anteros cries out in shock, he doesn't bother to conceal his dark laughter.
Anteros' throat is already dry again from panting. Fucking someone you hate, he realizes, is complicated. Every time he feels good, Ares laughs and he hates it. Every time he squeezes his ass and rocks back in time with Ares' thrust, the war god has to take a shallow gasp. It's tug and pull, winning and losing over and over again. He jerks himself off and bites his tongue to keep from gasping Ares' name again.
The war god is unrelenting. Once Anteros is accustomed to the timing of his thrusts, Ares picks a new angle and fucks him even harder. The arm around Anteros' chest pulls him close enough to bruise, maybe even break ribs. Anteros just presses closer, riding the strokes as Ares pounds deeper and deeper into his ass.
Ares sucks air in and Anteros can feel it, can feel how the thrusts stop having a rhythm altogether. It's too much, knowing how close Ares is. Anteros comes into his hand, followed shortly by Ares. The hot seed spills out onto his thighs and fills him in a way that Anteros has never loved as much as he does now.
War pulls out of him slowly, letting him feel every inch as it leaves his body. Anteros knows he lost, but doesn't care. This will never happen again and Ares would be a fool to tell anyone. With semen and blood drying on his skin, Anteros feels spent, utterly used, but the hollowness is gone.
"God, you really are just a slut," War laughs, "Worse than your brother. At least he doesn't pretend."
He's too tired to argue, but Anteros forces himself to sit up from the stained sheets and spit in Ares' face. The war god doesn't flinch. He calmly wipes his face, eyes trained on Anteros.
"I think it's time everyone knew what you're really like," he says. Anteros tries to think of a protest, still too angry for it to be a plea but suddenly there is a sting in his stomach. Ares is grinning at him and Anteros looks down, confused to see the war god's arm extended into his gut. It takes a slow, painful moment to register that the knife is in War's hand again. The blade has disappeared into his stomach.
"Wh-"
"Better take you somewhere to get healed," Ares chuckles. Anteros doesn't understand, but their surroundings blur and rush by, changing shape. The war god vanishes, along with the knife though the wound remains. Anteros holds his bare stomach and feels the blood seep through his fingers.
He knows he's on a temple floor, but his vision is red at the edges when he tries to understand which one. Anteros feels blood bubble up in his mouth as he collapses back down. It's in a shaky breath that he smells it; a narcotic compound just as his head falls against the black marble, he knows what dark, underground tunnel he is passing out in. Ares abandoned him in the Necromanteion, temple of Hades and Persephone.