The clack, clack of approaching feet disturbed Strife's concentration and he lost the pattern again. Pouting slightly in disappointment, he dropped his head back over the arm of the throne, shoulder length hair flopping into his face momentarily before obeying gravity and sliding down. His field of view was upside-down and it made him kind of dizzy and that was cool too.

Shoes. Stopping beside the throne. Shiny, silver platforms with the patent leather black shoes on top of them. They caught the light, the high polish gleaming, making Strife wince a bit and direct his gaze further upwards. Black and lots of it. Nice, pretty, glossy black leisure suit. The only hint of color was the heavy, silver chains hanging over that broad, hairy chest the suit opened in front to reveal. Further up again and there was Ares, glaring down at him, mustache and hair all brushed out and burnished. Ares really was bright and shiny today.

"Far out, man," Strife said in approval, his words drawling.

Ares scowled. "And what exactly are you doing here? I thought I had you working in the Middle East."

Strife smirked lazily. "Hey, relax; it's all cool. It's Strife, remember? The dude who brought you the Oil Crisis? No way are those countries kissing and making up anytime soon. In fact, I'm thinking there's gonna be a rise in bombings, hijackings and fun stuff like that. So mellow out, 'k?"

The scowl didn't disappear but Ares nodded once, curtly, then looked around the temple, obviously searching for something.

Unlike many of the other gods, Ares had kept his Olympian temple pretty much the same as it had been back in the day. Except for the bead curtains and a couple lava lamps, you'd never know you weren't still in Ancient Greece. It wasn't like, say, Apollo's temple where the second you walked in, you were blinded by strobe lights reflecting off an ever-spinning mirrored ball hanging from the ceiling, or Cupid's place where the only thing louder than the lime green furniture was the "Saturday Night Fever" eight track he had on constant play. The God of War's temple was still all black obsidian, wooden furniture -- except for Ares' throne, which was marble, and Strife appropriated every chance he got, mostly because it pissed Ares off -- weapons on the walls, dried blood on the floor, and all that jazz. There was that orange shag carpeting in Discord's rooms, but no one besides her went in there all that much so it was easy to ignore.

"Where are they?" Ares demanded.

"Huh?" Strife frowned, wondering what he'd missed.

"The Marx Brothers." Ares' tone was heavy with sarcasm. "My sons, you idiot! Your cousins? Deimos and Phobos?"

"Oh, right, them." Strife nodded slowly, noticing how strange the view was upside-down when he did that. "They couldn't be the Marx Brothers, there's only two of them. But I guess I could be Groucho, Deimos could be Harpo and Phobos could be Chico. No, no, nope, Deimos never shuts up so he couldn't be Harpo; he could be Karl. But Phobos isn't funny so he can't be Chico. Maybe we could be the Three Stooges? I'll be Larry, Phobos can be Moe, and Deimos...I guess he's more of a Shemp, isn't he? We could be the Brady Bunch, you, me, Discord, and them, but we'd need three more people, two more blonds and a brunette and you think Cupid would do it? I don't know, maybe you should ask Deimos and Phobos who they wanna be -- oh, wait, they're not here. I dunno where they are so you should wait until they get back."

Ares just stared at him for long moments, and then he slowly walked around the throne, coming to a stop in front of it. Strife pulled his head back up, blinking a few times as equilibrium reestablished itself, and finally focused on Ares, grinning up at his uncle.

"Strife, take off the glasses." It was said in a completely calm and reasonable tone, and Strife knew that if he didn't obey instantly, he'd wind up with his head put through the nearest wall and that would be a total drag.

He nudged the glasses down, letting them rest on the tip of his nose, then looked at Ares expectantly.

Ares said nothing for a few seconds, studying him closely, suspiciously. Finally he held up his hand. "How many fingers?"

"Three," Strife said without hesitation.

That didn't seem to placate Ares who suddenly reached out and snapped his finger in front of Strife's face. Strife just blinked and frowned. "What's that for?" he asked in mild annoyance.

"Just making sure," Ares replied, sounding reluctantly satisfied.

"Oh, come on, Unc; you can trust me." It sounded reasonable to Strife, but Ares snorted in contempt.

"One word for you, Strife: Woodstock."

Strife rolled his eyes. "You're never gonna let me forget that, are you?"

"You can't forget something you don't remember," Ares pointed out acidly.

Strife was tempted to roll his eyes again but Ares sort of had a point. He had vague impressions of a stage and really loud music and sometimes he had flashes of actual memory, a crowd, rain, weird stuff. Why he'd been there though and what he'd done, he never could remember. He didn't remember anything for a few days afterwards either. At some point he'd woken up feeling majorly hung over and Ares had flat out forbidden anything "recreational" from that point onwards. Stupid rule, as far as Strife was concerned.

"I have things to do," Ares announced, abruptly changing the subject. "If those two morons show up, tell them to find me and have some damn good excuses for not being here, or I'll hand them their asses on a platter."

"Ten-four, Unc; loud and clear." Strife pushed his glasses back into their proper place with a grin.

Ares shook his head, irritation obvious. But he said nothing more, just vanished in a flare of silvery blue light.

Strife snorted, then pushed himself up a bit with one elbow while he fished in his back pocket with his free hand. Ares may've had the whole war thing all covered, but he tended to forget just who Strife was; he was strife, it wasn't just a name. Strife was by no means an idiot and he'd learned years back how to fake sobriety just fine, thank you. A moment later he came up with a slightly bent joint complete with clip, a flick of power had it lit in a fraction of a second.

He took a long drag, holding it in for a moment before releasing it with a grateful sigh. The buzz had been starting to wear off and since he'd taken care of the assignment Ares had given him, he had a few days off and intended to be achieving a higher state of consciousness during all of them. Another drag and his eyes slid half-closed as the familiar languid feeling settled deeper inside of him. Demeter really did grow the best shit.

The joint was nearly gone some long time later when movement distracted Strife from his contemplation of the thin lines of gray running through the black marble of the throne's back. He didn't react to the movement, seen out of the corner of his eye, mainly because he wasn't sure it was real. Not that he'd ever admitted it to anyone, but even two months after that last Grateful Dead concert, he was still occasionally seeing things that weren't really there.

He stayed perfectly still, knowing that if it wasn't real it would eventually just go away. But it didn't. In fact it became more defined. Two figures creeping along the right wall, staying in the shadows as much as possible. It might've worked; whatever they were wearing was blending in pretty well, except for the glaring blond, Farrah Fawcett perm they both sported, that caught the light easily. Then a nervous giggle broke through the silence, quickly followed by a hissed, "Shh!" And Strife knew he wasn't seeing things.

"Busted," he said loudly, then smirked and took another drag as the air was filled with surprised yelps and a couple of rather inventive curses. Phobos really did have a mouth on him when he decided to actually use it.

"Didn't see you there, cuz," Deimos said with ill-concealed annoyance. The two stepped out of the shadows, twin glares focused on him and Strife's smirk widened. On any other day he would've been confronted by faces that were mirror images of his, except for the blond part, but this was...different. Oh, it was still a little like seeing himself, but he'd never worn make-up that thick before; heavy blush, thick red lipstick, eyeliner, shadow, and those had to be fake eyelashes. And he'd certainly never wandered around wearing fishnets or a black corset and -- oh. Right. His smirk took on a wicked edge.

"Your daddy's looking for you, you know," he said, letting a touch of sarcasm enter his tone. "You two were supposed to be somewhere that wasn't Transsexual Transylvania."

Phobos' eyes narrowed but instead of saying anything, he brushed his hand over Deimos' arm, a light, seemingly irrelevant gesture. But Deimos nodded and grinned, giggling again.

"You're not gonna say nothing, Strife," Deimos said confidently, walking towards the throne, Phobos following. "If you did, guess then we'd have to tell Dad about you and your 'friend' there." His gaze rested on the joint for a moment before moving back to Strife's face.

Strife just kept smirking and took another drag as he watched them approach. It was interesting, for all they looked alike, they moved so very differently. Deimos was all angles and uncoordination, his movements jerky and clumsy looking, although that was deceptive and deadly to assume that he was a klutz. As awkward as he looked, he could move fast and with purpose and many mortals had died with a look of surprise on their faces after underestimating him. Phobos, well, it was like watching a snake slither across the floor, every movement quick and smooth and he seemed ready to strike at any given instant. But Phobos was also the one that usually held back, he let Deimos do the maiming and killing; he liked to watch.

And Strife liked to watch them. Not when he was sober; it felt too weird then, but when he was in the right "frame of mind," he liked seeing his cousins, watching them move, work, talk in that silent language of theirs, and it was a real trip. Like seeing himself, the blond versions, doing strange shit. He wasn't sure if it made him a voyeur or a narcissist; hell, he was probably both.

"Why didn't you two wear wigs or something?" he asked with passing curiosity. "I mean, if you're trying to pull off that look, you gotta have dark hair." He flicked aside a strand of his own deep brown hair.

"We like blond," Deimos said, climbing up the dais -- and abruptly dropping down onto the top step. Phobos joined him there and the two of them leaned back against the throne, their legs stretched out in front of them. Strife found that he rather liked how the wide, criss-cross pattern of the fishnets looked against their tanned skin. He wondered how it would look on him; too stark, probably.

"You're not gonna go see Ares?" He honestly didn't care what they did, but if they were going to sit there and intrude on his personal time, then maybe he could find a way for them to entertain him.

Phobos snorted in amusement. Deimos leaned his head back on the seat of the throne so Strife was in his line of vision. "We're avoiding him; we think he wants to separate us, Phobos to South America and me back to Asia."

Strife nodded. The twins hated being apart. They could function separately, but they were miserable the entire time, which Ares didn't care one bit about, so it wasn't surprising that they were booking out on him.

Deimos rolled his head to look at Phobos and that pressed the side of his head against the leg Strife had dangling over the edge of the seat. Strife wondered if that hair was as soft as it looked.

"Did Dad say when he was gonna be back?" Deimos reached out, around Strife's leg, to brush the corner of Phobos' mouth with his thumb, fixing a smear of lipstick.

"Nope," Strife shrugged, "just took off, dressed to kill."

"Mom's been trying to get him to go discoing with her; maybe he finally caved," Deimos speculated. The smear was fixed but his thumb still remained there, slowly stroking the side of Phobos' mouth. Phobos was smiling, a blatantly seductive look that Deimos was obviously trying to copy without as much success. He still looked good with that smile though, it was crooked and there was a hint of pink tongue showing. Strife shifted his position, just a bit, enough to ease the strain of the material around his thighs because it was getting a little too tight.

"Discord would sell us out; she around anywhere?" Deimos' other fingers had joined in now, caressing Phobos' cheek and Phobos was leaning into it.

"Think she's still in D.C.," Strife replied absentmindedly, distracted by the increasingly heavy-lidded look on Deimos' face.

"Anyone else around?"

"Uh-uh."

"Awesome," Deimos said, his voice low. His tongue flicked out over his lips then, pink against blood red, and Strife immediately had his free hand on the buttons of his jeans, pulling them open.

"As long as you're down there, why don't you suck me off." He yanked the last button open, sighing a bit in relief as the pressure eased.

The look of utter shock Deimos gave him was almost comical. His hand had frozen on Phobos' face, fingers unmoving and he just stared up at Strife. Phobos turned his head up, looking at Strife with raised eyebrows. Yeah, that little show of theirs had only been meant for each other, no one else intended, but Strife wasn't above simply cutting in and having his own fun.

"What?" Deimos finally said.

"You do know how to blow a guy, right?" Strife asked sarcastically.

Deimos gave him a "duh" look, but the confusion was still there. "Are you serious, Strife? I mean, two thousand years and this is the first time you're coming on to us."

"What can I say? I'm high, horny, and you look hot. So get to it." He tugged his pants down a little, a struggle in his position but he managed, freeing his cock.

Now Deimos' eyebrows went up and he looked like he was going to refuse, but then Phobos touched him. Fingers to Deimos' shoulder, a slow caress downwards. Deimos looked at his brother sharply, frowning. A moment later though, he grinned.

"Okay, cuz, whatever you want," he said easily, turning that grin up at Strife.

Strife was suddenly, absolutely certain he had something to be worried about, but before he could think that over, Deimos was up on his knees, his hand wrapping around Strife's cock, and Strife decided then that thought could wait.

"Not bad, cuz," Deimos said approvingly, sliding his hand up and down the thick length. Strife would've told him to get on with it, but Deimos was ahead of him, leaning over him and wrapping his tongue around the head of Strife's cock.

Strife groaned in appreciation. Yeah, this was the kind of entertainment he'd been looking for. That was a very, very clever tongue, sliding around the head, pushing into the slit, flicking along the underside -- Deimos used his mouth so much, it figured he'd be good at something besides talking.

He proved that beyond a doubt right at that moment by suddenly taking Strife's cock completely in his mouth, sliding slowly down, swallowing him to the root. And he kept swallowing, ripples of sensation along Strife's cock that left him gasping. He wanted to push up into Deimos' mouth, but he wasn't in any position to have the leverage and his pants were hindering his movement anyway. Another swallow around him and he threw the joint off somewhere to the side, freeing both hands to try and work his pants down further. It probably would've been easier to use his powers -- easier if he hadn't been higher than a kite and had Deimos' mouth around his cock, together that pretty much destroyed any and all attempts at concentration.

Then Deimos' hands where there, helping him, his mouth still wrapped around Strife's cock, moving now, slowly up and down. His hands were on Strife's jeans though, working them down over his ass and Strife braced himself, hand on the throne's seat as he lifted his hips to make it easier, pushing himself deeper into Deimos' mouth at the same time. Finally, finally they were down his hips, bunched around his thighs, and Deimos had unrestrained access which he immediately took advantage of.

Strife groaned as fingers moved over his balls, massaging, tugging lightly, as that wickedly talented mouth continued to slide up and down his cock, throat muscles working around him, tongue sliding along the underside. And he wanted to watch Deimos do this. Blond curls were in the way, falling over Deimos' face like a curtain and Strife reached down and pushed them aside, the hair just as soft as he'd suspected.

Deimos' red lips were stretched wide around the base of his cock, his throat working visibly around the length. His tinted cheeks hollowed out every time he drew back to suck and pale blue eyes glinted up at Strife from beneath thick, black coated lashes. Strife groaned again at the sight and thrust up as best he could. It wasn't much in this position, but he needed to move.

He jerked in surprise then when he felt the brush of fingers over his ass, moving inward, fluttering over the sensitive hole. It wasn't something he'd expected and he started to tell Deimos to knock it off -- and was stopped by Phobos' mouth covering his. He tasted of sweet alcohol, cigarettes and the chemical waxiness of lipstick, but he was every bit as talented with that tongue as his brother. He licked his way into Strife's mouth with a confidence Strife couldn't refute, as stoned as he was.

Deimos was sucking him harder, lips sliding faster up and down, mouth so wet and hot and welcoming and Strife tried shoving deeper but he couldn't quite find purchase enough for the movement. Fingers stroking his balls, his ass, and pushing in now, one finger working its way just slightly inside and Strife wanted to spread his legs, give Deimos more room, but the jeans around his thighs stopped him.

Phobos' hands were on him then, shoving his shirt further up, finding his nipples and rubbing them, making Strife shiver and moan into Phobos' mouth. A hard pinch to his right nipple and he yelped, a sound lost against Phobos' tongue. Pulling now, pinching and still rubbing and heat was building there, shooting straight down to his cock, buried in Deimos' throat.

And they stopped. As one, Deimos and Phobos pulled away. Strife's abandoned cock throbbed, aching for that talented mouth, his nipples stung in a pleasantly painful way, his ass felt abruptly empty and he wanted Deimos and Phobos' hands right back where they'd been seconds before. He almost snarled at the two of them, wanted to demand to know what in the hell they thought they were doing, but again, they were ahead of him.

"It's not a great position," Deimos said, his tone perfectly reasonable as he stroked the inside of Strife's thigh. "We should move to the floor."

Strife frowned. They had to be up to something with the way they were both smiling at him, but he didn't get what. His whole body craved a return of their attentions and he couldn't think straight enough through the lust to figure it out.

"C'mon, cuz; don't you wanna fuck my mouth?" Deimos' tone was almost wheedling, but his smile was coy, deep red lips curving upwards, swollen and glistening with moisture from being wrapped around Strife's cock.

Phobos leaned down, blond curls teasing over Strife's neck and shoulder, his tongue dipping into Strife's ear, and his words were a bare whisper, "I wanna rim you, Strife."

Strife couldn't recall the last time he'd moved so fast. It was kind of a blur, shoving off of the throne, trying to yank his jeans off at the same time, somehow not colliding with either of the twins or whacking his head on the stone dais when he ended up sprawled there on his back. He was still trying to peel off his jeans when once again Deimos was there, helping him, stripping them off his legs and throwing them to the side.

Finally, freedom. Strife celebrated it by raising up onto his knees, grabbing a handful of Deimos' soft, blond hair and shoving his face down. He caught a glimpse of Deimos grinning just before that wonderful mouth slid down over his cock, right where it belonged. And Deimos had been right; this was exactly what Strife wanted. No restrictions on his movement, nothing holding him back, he slammed himself into Deimos' mouth, deep into his throat, gasping as the muscles tightened around him, rippling and massaging his cock with each thrust in. It couldn't have been comfortable for Deimos, bent in half like that, mouth stuffed full of Strife's cock, but Strife couldn't have cared less, he was getting off like this and that was all that mattered to him.

Hands on his ass, spreading him open momentarily distracted him, but the almost gentle bite of teeth into his hip reminded him that he wanted this. He spread his legs more, giving Phobos room, and coincidentally, giving him more leverage to shove as deep as he could into Deimos' so very hot mouth.

Wet and slick, and Strife moaned. Deimos' tongue on his cock, Phobos' in his ass and this was better than any artificial high. They were such beautiful twins like this, such sluts in their corsets and make-up, fucking him two different ways with their lovely tongues, and why the hell hadn't he done this before? Strife let his head fall back, his grip on Deimos' hair tightening as his hips thrust, harder, faster. He bit his lip as Phobos' tongue worked its way deeper into him, fluttering, making his ass clench and it was so fucking good. He pushed into Deimos' mouth, then back against Phobos' tongue and suddenly Deimos' fingers were behind his balls, pushing hard against the perfect spot and Strife yelled.

He twisted Deimos' hair around his hand and yanked Deimos into his next thrust. "Swallow it," he gasped out, holding himself half way inside Deimos' mouth so he could feel that wonderful tongue on the head of his cock, shuddering as he came in heavy spurts. He looked down, wanting to see Deimos take it, and found his cousin watching him, pale eyes gleaming as his throat worked to swallow every drop. Strife forgot how to breathe.

The tongue was gone from his ass and it was Phobos who caught him when the muscles in his thighs abruptly gave out. He whimpered when Deimos' mouth slid off his cock, already wanting to get back in there and try it again.

Phobos pulled the glasses from his face, setting them carefully on the seat of the throne. "I want to see all of your face, Strife," he explained quietly, then bent down to brush his lips over Strife's.

Strife tried to lean up into the kiss but Phobos was already drawing back -- and Strife was suddenly flipped over. Deimos' hands on his hips, Phobos' on his shoulders, helping to turn him.

"Hey!" Strife protested, but Phobos had a good hold on him and Deimos was pulling his hips up. Another protest died on Strife's lips, choked off in a strangled gasp as Deimos' cock nudged him open and pushed inside, his own spit the only lubricant. Thanks to Phobos' tongue and that incredible orgasm, he wasn't as tight as he could've been, but it'd still been a few centuries and it fucking burned. His hands were on Phobos' arms, fingers digging into tanned skin as he clenched his teeth against the pain. Deimos didn't give him any chance to get used to it, just pushing in steadily until his hips rested against Strife's ass.

"Now, this is what I've always wanted to do," Deimos said, his voice rough. And then he was pulling out and shoving back in. Steady, deep thrusts and after the first shock of it, the pain began to gradually fade, leaving just an intense burn from the friction.

"Fuck, you're so tight." Deimos' words were a low mutter. "Perfect, sweet ass." He shifted angles on the next thrust in and Strife couldn't help the moan that escaped him.

"Yeah; right there, huh?" Deimos shoved forward hard, hitting that spot again, and then again after that, over and over and Strife shivered in a reaction that was in no way due to pain. The burn was definitely still there but now that was a good thing, a counterpoint to the bright pleasure with every thrust deep into him. He pushed back, not even realizing he'd meant to move until he was already doing it, driving his ass back against Deimos' hips.

He let go of Phobos, bracing one hand on the floor because Deimos' hard thrusts threatened to send him sprawling head first into Phobos' lap; his free hand he put to quick use, wrapping it around his cock, hard again and loving the feel of Deimos hitting that place inside him. He jerked himself fast, rubbing the head of his cock with his thumb on every upstroke, groaning at the feel of both being fucked and fucking his own fist.

Hands on his face then, Phobos, lifting his chin, tapping his mouth with a finger. "Open up, Strife."

Strife's eyes snapped open, his hand stilling on his cock at the same time as the head of Phobos' cock touched his lips. Before Strife could decide one way or another on the matter, Deimos yanked his hips back, hard, slamming deeper into him and Strife cried out softly -- and Phobos used the opportunity to push his way in.

Longer than Strife's cock but not as thick; Strife still had a struggle taking it. He hardly ever sucked anyone off and the lack of experience showed as Phobos pushed deeper, hitting his gag reflex. Nearly choking, Strife tried to back off, but there was nowhere for him to go. Deimos was shoving into him so damn, wonderfully, deep with every thrust, only Strife's hand on the floor, keeping them from sliding forward, and Phobos was right there, still pushing in and Strife had no choice but to take it.

"That's it, Strife," Phobos said, his fingers stroking over Strife's cheeks, slipping down to caress his throat. "Just relax into it; don't tense up and you won't choke."

And suddenly Strife found his nose buried in the blond curls at the base of Phobos' cock. Phobos sighed, a pleased sound, then slowly drew back. When the head of his cock dragged back over Strife's tongue, Strife realized something he'd missed when Phobos had first pushed in; there was a metal bar through the underside of Phobos' cock. What one twin had, usually so did the other, and that would explain why Deimos felt so fucking good, rubbing constantly against that spot deep inside Strife.

When Phobos pushed back in, Strife moved his tongue over that bar, tasting the tang of metal, a strange bitterness on top of Phobos' own faintly sweet flavor. The movement brought a deep moan from Phobos and the next push was faster, sliding deep into his throat and Strife relaxed into it, letting Phobos take his mouth.

"Swallow," Phobos said on his next thrust. Strife did, deciding that while it felt strange, swallowing around something that felt far bigger than it looked, it wasn't in any way unpleasant. He did it again and Phobos groaned in pleasure, pushing in harder now.

Deimos seemed to find his brother's rhythm, or maybe it was the other way around, either way, they were both fucking him in perfect tandem, one shoving in, the other pulling out. Deimos was still talking behind him, broken mutters now, telling him how hot he was, how tight and how good he looked with Deimos' cock in him. Phobos wasn't silent for once, gasping and moaning with each thrust into Strife's mouth, and when Strife finally figured out the timing, sucking every time Phobos drew back, that drew an incredibly hot, deep groan from Phobos. His hands moved up to grip Strife's hair then and held him in place while he abandoned any trace of gentleness and proceeded to simply fuck Strife's mouth with no finesse.

Strife had never before in his life been used like this, would never have permitted it. He'd also never been this hard. Hand moving on his cock again, he stroked himself in the same rhythm as his cousins fucked him, feeling the growing tension in his balls, radiating from deep inside where Deimos pounded into him, from the feel of Phobos inside his mouth, thick on his tongue, in his throat. His cock was pulsing in his fist, hot spurts covering his hand, the floor beneath him, his body tensing and jerking with each deep-seated throb, and if his throat hadn't been full of Phobos' cock, he might well have screamed.

"Oh yeah! So damn tight!" Deimos' approving groan caught Strife's attention as he came down from an orgasm that made his first pale in comparison, little aftershocks still shooting through him, shaking him. Deimos' hands were digging hard into his hips, holding him in place as he slammed in again and again until suddenly he went still, moaning long and low.

Phobos' breath caught on a gasp at almost the same moment and he pulled back slightly so that every bit of come spilled directly into Strife's mouth. Strife had no choice but to taste it, thick and almost citrusy. He found himself swallowing without thinking about it, so very much of it. When Phobos finally pulled out, it was only to replace his cock with his tongue as he kissed Strife hard, undoubtedly tasting himself and judging from the moan, loving it. If he'd had anything left to give, Strife would've returned the kiss because Phobos really knew what he was doing, but he was wiped out and needed a few minutes to recharge. Even a god had limits, although, Strife had to admit, being high probably wasn't helping with his stamina.

Strife had no idea who went down first. It might've been Deimos, falling onto his back, which sent him collapsing into Phobos, taking all three of them down. It didn't matter though, they all ended up on each other and Strife thought about sleeping right there, regardless of what Ares would say when he found them tangled up on the dais. But then Deimos levered himself up and off of him and Strife winced at the separation. It woke him up enough for him to roll over, off of Phobos' legs. Unfortunately he rolled the wrong way and ended up falling onto the top step leading up to the dais, knocking his head on the cold stone. Cursing under his breath, he rubbed the back of his head with one hand, but didn't try to get up. His legs felt like the muscles wouldn't be working for a while and laying here for a few minutes wouldn't hurt anything.

"Here." Suddenly Phobos was leaning over him, sticking something between his lips -- a lollipop? Cherry flavored too. "Suck on that a while; I don't like the taste of pot on you." He kissed the corner of Strife's mouth, probably leaving red lipstick there, and then just lay there, stretched out on his stomach, looking down at him.

Strife raised an eyebrow but sucked on the candy anyway. If Phobos was so certain they were going to have a repeat performance, then maybe -- oh, who the hell was he kidding? Strife wanted to return a few favors, see Phobos' lips wrapped around his cock, then see Deimos bent over for him, maybe Phobos sucking Deimos off at the same time. Yeah.

"Got an idea, guys." Deimos was there, stretched out next to his brother, looking from Strife to Phobos, a lazy, satiated look in those pale eyes. "We gotta do this again."

Strife smirked around the lollipop in response; Phobos returned the expression, licking red lips.

"That's not the idea." Deimos crossed his arms on the dais and rested his chin on them. "Well, okay, yeah, it is. But not totally, see, we're gonna need some supplies."

That got a raised eyebrow from Strife but Phobos just kept smiling. He probably already knew where Deimos was heading with this.

"Nothing big," Deimos went on, reaching down to slide his hand under Strife's shirt, "just...stuff. You know, some lights, a few microphones, eight millimeter camera, film; that kinda thing."

"Don't forget the tube socks," Phobos added.

"Nope, can't forget that." Deimos leaned over to kiss his brother, his hand never leaving Strife's chest. "We can use Mom's temple," he said when he let go of Phobos' tongue. "She's got a totally psychedelic bedroom set-up. What d'you think, cuz?" He grinned down at Strife, the expression maybe not quite sane, but what did that matter?

Strife grinned back, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth with an audible "popping" sound. "Groovy."

Then Phobos was kissing him and Deimos was trying to tug his shirt off at the same time and Strife decided that their film debut could wait for a few minutes. Or hours. Or days....