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It is cold in the clearing outside the Halls of Ares.
The snow beneath him is colder yet as Ares kneels before the small altar he has constructed: the slab of stone honed with his own hands, the small hole dug before it. The candles and incense he has so carefully arranged, smoke and flame trembling in the chill wind.
Atop the altar, Ares' cup is filled with wine and honey, mixed the way he knows Thanatos enjoys.
He holds his hand above it. Takes from his waist the knife he has begun carrying for such things and draws it across his wrist with a shiver. Lets his ichor flow down, gold swirling through the red.
It is a sullying of them both, he knows. Sacrilege, to give oneself to another of one's kind in such a manner.
Perhaps it is fitting that the only offering Death knows is desecration.
Perhaps it is simply their nature.
Once the cup has filled to the brim, Ares lifts it over the hole and pours out his offering. Watches as wine and ichor are consumed by the earth, then draws back the snow to cover the evidence.
Whispers to Thanatos his invitation.
Ares knows better than to make a request of him in such a manner; knows how Thanatos would balk. Thanatos has no love of such things and through them cannot be availed, nor could any order force his hand.
Ares offers what he has to give.
He waits to see if it is accepted.
As the minutes drag on, finally Ares stands. He looks about the clearing with a touch of disappointment, then returns to the warmth of his halls.
It is unexpected when Thanatos appears within his bathing chambers some hours later while Ares lounges in the thermal pool at its centre.
As the green light fades, so too does Ares' calm. He keeps his reaction restrained.
Thanatos hovers across the pool, the steam swirling angrily around him from the sudden disruption. Though his expression is carefully blank, Ares can feel his frustration, his nerves that always seem so tightly drawn now wavering near the point of breaking.
Ares studies the anxious way he taps his fingers against his folded arms without seeming to notice it; the deep shadows beneath his eyes. The many cruel weightings of his work that dare follow him even here.
The carefulness. The hurt.
"You have been busy, my friend," Ares says slowly. "I'd started to think I might not see you."
"There has been much need of me," he says wearily, and sets his feet to the stone floor.
"Indeed. They take too much of you."
Thanatos sharpens. "I give them what my duty requires."
"Of course." Ares shakes his head and sets aside their argument. "Have you now some need of me?"
"Tsch." Thanatos flicks his hair, sinking into his usual pleasant irritability. "You speak as though it wasn't you who called me here."
"I merely offered you my musings—invitation, if you will. And you came." Ares pauses, the quiet stretching stubbornly between them. Finally, he grins and wades across the pool. Lifts himself from the waters and settles his knees to the cold stone floor. Looks up to where Thanatos stares down at him, eyes wide. "So tell me, my friend: how might I best serve Death?"
Thanatos looks away, drawing back his careful disinterest even as the gold flush creeps up his face.
"Khh. Get up," he mutters.
Ares shrugs and slowly rises to his feet. "Where then would you have me, if not on my knees?"
"Really, Ares."
Thanatos flicks at his hair again. Returns to tapping his arm, then seems to notice and abruptly stops. Flicks his hair a third time, staring determinedly at the waters of the pool.
Ares follows the movements, his many telling cracks. Searches for the one most likely to break. He sidles closer, then whispers conspiratorially, "Or was it that you'd rather know more of where I'd have you?"
"Enough of this," Thanatos snaps, anger flaring. "What, have you only called me here to mock me?"
Ares breathes in the sweet feel of it. Lets it bite. Holds back the vicious thing within himself that stretches out hungrily at the scent of conflict.
"I'm not making you stay, my friend," he says with amusement, "nor did I make you come, though I would be most—"
"You couldn't make me stay if I didn't wish it," Thanatos interrupts abruptly, eyes latching onto his own.
Ares freezes, ichor heated in an instant by the familiar invitation. "Of course I couldn't," he says, the thought sinking to his gut.
He steps forward. Reaches across to brush Thanatos' fringe from his face, hair slipping through his fingers like water. Thanatos' eyes don't move from his own, cold and yellow and wanting above their shadows. Ares runs his finger down to his chin, then leans in to kiss him, but before their lips touch, Thanatos disappears.
Ares lets out his breath as the room flashes green behind him.
Turns to where Thanatos has reappeared in the pool where he had been, his effects set carefully across the room.
Lets the familiar burn of their game run over him and returns to lower himself into the waters.
Thanatos watches him, eyes gleaming with a pleasant wickedness, then slips beneath surface, emerging a moment later facing away. In a flash, the jar of scented oil Ares knows he most prefers has been drawn to the poolside from the spread of blankets and cushions where last they'd left it.
As Thanatos begins to briskly clean himself, Ares wades across the pool. Leans against the wall at his side, watching the movements of his hands. Resists the urge to capture them and cleanse him properly.
"I could do this thing for you, you know."
"I've no need," Thanatos says curtly. "I've no time for this, besides—they're calling for me again already."
Ares does not doubt the truth of it.
"Of course," he says slowly. "I wouldn't want to keep you."
Thanatos clears his throat, but doesn't answer. Instead, he ducks under the water again. When he breaks back through the surface, Thanatos draws himself up to sit at the edge of the pool, the heat of the waters leaving him glistening and warmed with gold. He brings a towel to his hands in a flash and begins to dry himself.
Ares follows the motions jealously. Watches the way Thanatos' eyes flicker over him, and he is a cruel creature, but so is Ares.
"A request, if I may," Ares says suddenly.
Thanatos pauses. "What is it you would ask of me?"
"Though you may have no need, I would still gladly attend to you, Thanatos."
"Tsch." He looks away. "I've little left to attend to, and less time."
"I disagree," Ares says pleasantly, "I'd not take so very long."
He reaches for the vessel of oil that is now more Thanatos' than his own. Takes a measure of it in his palm, then brings it slowly to Thanatos' thigh.
Thanatos frowns, but doesn't move.
"You mean to slather me in your oils, is that it? Do you truly think Death need humour the mortals with such showiness?"
Ares grins. Floats himself lazily between Thanatos' legs and begins to rub the oil into the inside of his thigh. "When did I ever mention your mortals? Humour me."
Though Thanatos scoffs dismissively, he cannot hide the way he shivers.
He does not leave.
Ares hums with satisfaction and oils him until he gleams again, patiently working his way higher. He slows as his hands begin to brush against the soft hair between his legs. Looks up to where Thanatos' eyes are fixed on him, his breath grown shallow.
He pinches his thigh with amusement, then moves to the other leg as Thanatos complains.
Ares' hands were made for cruelty, but how pleasing it is: the way the pain he gives soon bleeds into relief. The way the muscles fall soft beneath such hands as he loosens their hurts.
The way Thanatos lets him take him apart.
When Ares reaches the top of his thigh, he stops again. Glances up at the swell of Thanatos' chest that shifts with his breath; the dip of his sternum. Glances lower, then back to meet his gaze, thrilling at the heaviness between them.
He stands abruptly.
Thanatos jumps and falls back on his palms, gold shooting up his face as Ares grins down at him. He brings more oil to his hands, then leans forward and sets them to Thanatos' shoulders. Pauses as Thanatos' thighs slide against his hips. Steadies himself against pull of the hardness between them.
He stares down into Thanatos' eyes, his pupils large and dark against their pretty yellow, and how easy it would be to take him then, to feed the brutal, building want.
Ares digs his thumbs into Thanatos' shoulders instead and savours the jolt of his pain as the muscle shifts and twitches. Savours the breathy way he gasps.
He kneads the shine, the sweetness into him until Thanatos grows loose and flushed under the working of his hands, eyes shut with ache, with pleasure.
Ares is diligent in his efforts.
He works his way slowly down Thanatos' chest, his abdomen, the dips of his waist.
Frowns at the stubborn tension he can still feel within him, deeper than touch can find, but Ares knows how to ease such a thing.
He is patient. Feasts himself on the feel of his skin and restrains to urge to reach beneath it.
At last, he gently catches Thanatos' hands in his own. Brings them to the floor above his head, shivering at the slick feel of his body against him. Leans down to nuzzle into the crook of Thanatos' neck, then nips at the softness and draws it between his lips.
Below him, Thanatos jumps with a yelp.
"What was that for?" he demands.
Ares runs his tongue over the skin between his teeth, then frees him with a lewd noise.
"You know what I am," he says lowly, lips brushing over that place he knows bleeds best. "You cannot truly expect me to be able to resist the call of such spoils."
He works his way up to bite at Thanatos' earlobe, then pulls away to meet his eyes.
Thanatos glares, face shining. "You would call me spoils?"
"I would sooner spoil you, but I'll treat you as spoils if I must," Ares retorts and shifts his hips against him, sucking in his breathe at the hard feel of him, the slickness, the way Thanatos moans.
"You dare," he hisses.
"And you stay."
Thanatos stares up at him, breath shallow. Squeezes Ares' hand, and it is enough.
Ares frees the hungry thing he carries to creep over Thanatos' skin in search of his own.
It is different from the way he breathes heart through his battlefields where he is so quick to give, so quick to take. Perhaps it is divinity, perhaps affection, but it takes greater care to work himself into Thanatos, greater care to draw him out.
When Thanatos finally shudders and lets his control begin to crack, Ares steals into the fearful heart of him. Coaxes free the hateful thing Thanatos hides within him: the pain, the rage, the need.
The thing Thanatos calls awful.
The thing that wants to hurt.
Ares draws it tenderly to his chest as it claws against him. Carves at the fear that still haunts him, siphoning away the better part of it for himself. Sifts through its feeble remains for the spark of courage and breathes life to it.
When he feels for the hurt, he finds it still stubbornly locked away. He leaves it reluctantly. He knows how to wait. Instead, he inflames Thanatos' fury and blood lust, the wanting cruelty he so carefully restrains, then breathes them tenderly back into his veins.
As he surrenders to him, Thanatos moans and starts to struggle, muscles tensing with sudden adrenaline.
He is slippery to keep hold of, oiled as he is, his strength no easy thing to subdue even without it.
When Thanatos brings his knee into Ares' side, the brief shock of it is enough for him to break free from his grip. As Thanatos scrambles to his feet and starts toward the door, Ares pulls himself from the waters and shoots after him.
What advantage Thanatos may have with his shifting, he lacks on foot: scarcely has he rounded the pool than Ares catches him around the waist and begins to drag him back. Thanatos snarls and digs at him with his elbows, his feet, the bruising of the blows an enjoyable thing. Ares laughs with delight and walks them back across the room to the corner with its pillows and blankets. Wrestles Thanatos down to his stomach among them, the slide of his skin a thrill against his own as Ares settles heavily onto his thighs.
As Thanatos tries to push himself up, Ares grapples his hands out from under him. His skin is slick as Ares tries to restrain him and it proves pleasingly difficult to do, wary as he is of Thanatos' wrists, ever sensitive to such touch. When finally Ares captures one of his hands it is all the more satisfying, even as Thanatos tears the other free.
He watches with a dark thrill as Thanatos gropes about and finds no leverage, no thing of use to him. Contemplates the effort of catching that hand too, then decides against it. It is more enjoyable to leave him a fighting chance.
Ares forces the hand he's kept hold of to the ground beside Thanatos' head, weaving their fingers back together. Shivers at the thrill as Thanatos clutches onto him even as he continues to struggle.
He works his knees between Thanatos' legs and forces them apart. Hooks his feet over the backs of Thanatos' ankles and locks him in place as he fights uselessly against him, the air between them thick. Laughs and grinds down against the swell of his ass as Thanatos bucks and tries to escape.
Ares digs his free hand down between Thanatos' legs to palm at his cock where it stands hard against his stomach. Clamps his fist around that hardness and begins to work it. Thanatos cries out, reaching back to claw at Ares' arm even as he ruts forward into him.
"I am Death," he snarls, straining to look at him. "You must release me at once."
Ares clicks his tongue with exaggerated disappointment. "Must I truly?"
He draws his hand down his cock one more time, then frees him. Takes no small pleasure from the frustrated sound Thanatos makes before he can stop it, no small pleasure from the way Thanatos' nails draw his own ichor.
"Bring your oil then, Lord Death," he says with amusement.
Thanatos stills, expression drawing flat as a sudden horror spikes cold around him.
Ares pauses, bemused, then saps the cruel thing away with a shiver. Replaces it with courage and watches as he warms. Thanatos lets out his breath abruptly, tightening his grip on his hand.
"Your oil, Thanatos?" Ares asks softly.
Thanatos lets out a low sound—then the bottle appears at his side with a flash. Ares grins and catches its neck. "Ah, you have my gratitude, my friend."
As he starts to bring the bottle between them, Thanatos snarls and shoots out his hand to try and grab it. Ares laughs with delight. Messily upends it over his hips instead, then tosses the bottle away.
It hits the floor with a dull thud.
Thanatos lets his hand fall to the ground.
"I am Death," he says quietly.
"You are mine," Ares says, tongue growing thick with the thrill of its own audacity, "and I'll do with you as I please. And you'll stay because you like it, isn't that so?"
Ares runs his hand patiently over the oil already pooling down into the curve of his ass, then stops, frowning. Squeezes Thanatos' hand as he feels out the fresh knotted hurt of him. Draws the miserable thing within his own skin and takes it apart as best he can.
"And you'll stay because you like it," he repeats softly. "Isn't that so?"
Thanatos exhales sharply as the hurt shifts. Squeezes his hand back and starts to struggle again. "Fuck you, Ares," he mumbles.
Ares laughs, relaxing. Brings his hand down to the seam of him where the oil collects and splits him open with a finger as he works over his hurt.
Thanatos whimpers and buries his head in the pillows.
"Ah, my friend," Ares says with mock sympathy, "I'm afraid such talk is none too wise for one in so compromising a position—though, I do appreciate the sentiment."
"You will rot in the darkest depths of Tartarus," Thanatos gasps, voice muffled. "I'll shave the skin from your bones—you will suffer more than anyone has suffered before and—!"
"Truly?" Ares laughs fondly at the familiar threats, their violence shooting straight to his cock. "I look forward to it."
"You think I'd not? You think—"
Thanatos trails off with a moan as Ares curls his finger into him, stroking cruelly in the way he knows Thanatos so enjoys.
"On the contrary," Ares says, savouring the way Thanatos moves against him, "I've said before that I would be most eager to experience such a thing at your hand. Perhaps later, no? For the time being, you seem quite satisfied experiencing mine."
Thanatos tenses, the gold flush of his shoulders darkening. "I am a god," he says, voice taking on an icy fury. "You'll treat me as one."
Ares pauses appreciatively. "Indeed," he allows, then adds under his breath, "and you are greedy."
He curls his finger over him one last time, then begins to slowly withdraw, knuckle by knuckle, thrilling in the frustrated way Thanatos groans at his retreat.
Ares reaches up to slick himself, shuddering at the feel of his own hand, then sets the head of his cock against him. Swallows thickly at his wanting shiver. Thanatos lets out a low, devastated sound, and it is intoxicating: the panic, the rage, the hurting need that Ares has churned to a boiling point. The way he clings to him all the tighter even so. Ares sucks in his breath at the feel, then roughly breaches the boundary between them, burying himself within him completely.
Thanatos cries out wetly, clawing at the blankets below them, and he is tight and he is pulse and he is his. Ares settles his weight down onto him. Thrills in Thanatos' slightness; how easily Ares can consume him. Thrills in the soft tremble of his tenderest skin against his own where they touch. Ares presses a pleased kiss into the curve of his jaw and squeezes his hand, so delicate a thing in his own. Kisses him again when he finally squeezes back. Feels the muscles of Thanatos' back slide shakily against his chest as he gasps in his breaths.
When Thanatos suddenly grasps back with his free arm to tear his nails over Ares' side, he moans. Tries to move deeper within him in vain. Curses the distance still between them; those hurts he still can't reach. He brings them closer in the way he knows best.
Ares brushes his lips over Thanatos' shoulder, then sinks his teeth into his flesh, and what sacrilege, to break a thing so holy.
Thanatos clenches around him as he yelps, the feel of his pain, the taste of his ichor, so sweet Ares could lose himself in them. As Thanatos clutches his hand, Ares muscles his forearm under Thanatos' chin. Pulls it flush to his neck and locks him firmly in place.
Rocks his hips against him as Thanatos chokes out a sob, struggles subsiding as his last defences fail, and lets the feel of so intimate a sacking overwhelm him.
When Ares withdraws it is a misery, but one he is quick to correct, plunging back within him before Thanatos can recover.
It is a hateful thing, this love they make.
A brutal worship Thanatos would take from him. A brutal thing Ares would gladly be.
Ares gives himself over to it: the want, the blood lust, the claiming of this god that is not his to claim. Drives him into the blankets with the tenderest cruelty and denies him any respite.
Ares holds his pain, his loathing close as Thanatos surrenders. Lets him cry. Lets him break. Tears away from him what hurt he can, then holds together the remains of the fragile thing he has been entrusted with hands and teeth and cock.
When Thanatos comes, a final humiliation, it is with a weak sound, his body straining helplessly as he clings to Ares' hand.
Ares gives himself over to the victory: spears himself deep into the pulse of him, the tense of him, again, again, and claims his own patient release.
Buries his teeth in Thanatos' skin as though he could claim him.
Buries his seed deep within the centre of him as though some part of himself could take.
Collapses finally on top of him, mouth full of his ichor, heart full of his hurt.
Thanatos' back is slick with oil and sweat as it rises and falls shakily under Ares' chest. He studies its timing and slows his own breath to match.
Finally, Ares frees his teeth from Thanatos' shoulder. Runs his tongue gently over the marks left behind, the claim made to his skin already beginning to heal. Ares presses his lips to the wound and strains forward to reach his cheek. Tastes the salt of his tears.
Ares squeezes his hand, then carefully begins to extract himself, loosening his arm from its lock around Thanatos' neck. Rocks his hips gently against him one final time, then slips reluctantly free. Rolls to tuck against his side.
Thanatos doesn't react save for a slightest intake of breath. Ares cautiously brings a hand over his waist and gathers him forward against chest. Sets his face into Thanatos' hair and breathes in the warm scent of him. Grasps behind him for a blanket and draws it messily over them both.
Ares runs his fingers up and down the notches of his spine. Carefully begins to unknit their cruelties, wary of the emptiness that comes with such separation. Begins to draw back that thing, that part of himself, that only wants to hurt, to hate, to consume.
That can never be satisfied.
"I'm sorry," Thanatos whispers suddenly, voice muffled against him.
Ares pauses. "You're…sorry?"
"I shouldn't keep asking this of you. I should never have—"
"You think this some great ask of me?" Ares laughs under his breath. "Come, my friend, you know what it is I am."
"You are kind," Thanatos says quietly, then adds more quietly yet, "I don't know what's wrong with me."
For a moment, the air is silent.
Thanatos' hair is still damp, its parting messy. Ares lifts his hand to settle it.
"Nothing is wrong with you."
"I don't need your pity," Thanatos snaps suddenly, tearing away from him, eyes puffy and wild and beautiful. "This was a mistake."
In an instant, Thanatos has thrown his defences back up and ripped his hurt back within them, still raw and inflamed.
Ares shivers at the sudden loss, the sudden distance, that runs over them both. "There are few things I wouldn't offer you, Thanatos, but pity is one of them. Might I offer you something else in its stead?"
The look Thanatos sends him could flay him alive.
Ares would let him.
"What?" he demands.
"You know I am the cause of this," he says gently. "Might I ease it?"
For a moment, Thanatos doesn't answer. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nods. Shudders as Ares bypasses his defences and returns to his careful work without another word. Ares sets aside his own hollow feel and turns his focus to dampening the turmoil he had so gleefully inflamed. Draws from Thanatos' bones what lingering hurt he can and fills himself with it.
Warms Thanatos' courage and watches it take. Watches as he slowly begins to calm, the heave of his breath steadying as his eyes drift shut with relief.
Watches as he recovers, freed now of Ares' own influence.
When he is finished, Ares smiles sadly to himself and sits up to leave.
"Ares."
He pauses. Turns back to where Thanatos is now looking up at him, something so tender in his expression that Ares averts his eyes again.
"Have you some further need of me?" he asks quietly.
Thanatos takes his hand back in his own. "I do."
Ares swallows thickly, then smirks to hide the way it aches. "You're greedy, my friend."
"Shut up."
When Thanatos squeezes his hand, Ares pauses then returns it. With a flash, Thanatos brings a towel to them, studying Ares' face as though expecting some comment as he swipes at himself and fixes the blankets in his matter-of-fact way. Ares raises a brow, but finds he has nothing to offer.
When Thanatos tugs him gently back, Ares lets himself be guided down to the blankets. Lets Thanatos draw him back into his arms and pull him close. Steadies himself with the rise and fall of Thanatos' chest against his back, the beating of his heart. The feel of his arms caught around him, his hand in his own.
Ares freezes when Thanatos brings the other up to his shoulder. Holds himself perfectly still as Thanatos hesitantly feels out the healing hurts he'd inflicted, touch lighter than breath, then moves to find his muscle. Ares tenses as Thanatos begins to rub, odd as the thing is.
"I meant it, you know," Thanatos murmurs suddenly, words brushing against the back of his neck, "you are kind."
Ares laughs.
The lonely sound hangs around them, then fades as Thanatos remains stubbornly quiet.
Ares stares across the room into the rising steam, the wavering candlelight.
Considers releasing his own cruelty back into the air and correcting him.
Instead, Ares brings to his mouth the hand still woven with his own. Presses his lips gently to the usually armoured underside of Thanatos' wrist with its pale scars that refuse to fade.
As Thanatos grows still, Ares sets his blessing, his courage, to him, then brings their hands back against his chest.
After a moment, Thanatos lets out his breath and returns to rubbing his shoulder.
Holds close the hurting thing that Ares is, and to the brutality of War isn't softness also a desecration?
Ares lets his eyes drift shut, the breath of his god light at the back of his neck. Runs his thumb over Thanatos' and lets himself be ruined.