Need
by Mythdefied
January 2005
Strife drooled when he slept. It wasn't something you'd expect of him,
or any god for that matter, but that was Strife for you, always the
exception to every rule.
There were a lot of things Strife did that weren't what you'd expect
just from looking at him. At first glance you'd think he was a straight
out bad-ass, as happy to kill you as look at you, and Cupid had bought
into that image along with everyone else who didn't know Strife well.
Cupid had expected so many things the first time he took Strife to his
bed. Everything from chains to bloodplay to out and out violence. It
wasn't that Cupid was into any of that, it was more that he'd been
curious. Strife had been an unknown, a mystery, and Cupid was always
too curious for his own good, or at least that's what Ares had said
when he warned Cupid away from Strife.
Of course Cupid hadn't listened -- he tried not to pay any more
attention to Ares than absolutely necessary -- and he'd never regretted
his little "experiment," his decision to try something new
Strife was hardly the gentlest, most caring lover Cupid had ever had.
He could be rough, demanding, selfish and sometimes so intense that the
air around him crackled with suppressed emotion. But he wasn't violent,
never that, and he never went beyond a hard tussle in bed, never pulled
out the knives or chains that Cupid had once expected.
Strife wasn't about any of that. He had his job and he never tried to
deny that he loved it, the plotting, scheming and killings at Ares'
directive or, more often, for his own amusement. That was what he did,
but it wasn't all of who he was.
He could appreciate a gentle touch as much, if not more than a hard
fuck. Cupid thought that maybe Strife hadn't had much gentleness in his
life, that perhaps that was why Strife had let himself be seduced --
because Cupid didn't delude himself into thinking that he'd surprised
Strife by taking him to bed. Strife was too suspicious, always knowing
what every other god was doing, and he'd known when Cupid approached
him, had already been smirking when Cupid had first touched him.
That first time, and many times since, Strife had been so much the
opposite of what Cupid had thought, anticipated. No pain or weird,
acrobatic positions; he'd returned kiss for kiss, his touch not quite
as gentle as Cupid's but far from hurtful either. And he'd let Cupid
hold him afterwards, relaxed into Cupid's arms, stroked his wings until
Cupid felt like a cat wanting to purr.
Strife did have a strong touch and he didn't gentle it, but he didn't
deliberately bruise either, not unless he asked first. And sometimes he
did that, not always with words, sometimes with just a look, his hands
bearing a slight tremble as they hovered over Cupid's skin, not daring
to touch until he had permission to leave marks. And sometimes, Cupid
had to admit, he wanted that too. It never crossed the line, that rough
play never became anything twisted or bloody or horrific, it was
just...release, of a different sort, and there were times when they
both needed it.
Sex, fucking, making love, it was all a form of release, no matter what
you called it, but there were others as well and they could be just as
good, sometimes, maybe better. Like just lying together, touching
without a definite goal in mind, talking even, and that really was
something Cupid hadn't thought Strife would bother with. But Strife did
like to talk, he amused himself and often enough, Cupid too. It wasn't
about the entertainment though, it was about sharing, finding out that
they had more in common than Cupid had ever suspected, finding out that
they'd never run out of things to talk about. That they could laugh
together, understand each other, find what they needed with words as
much as bodies.
"Yurfetrsnyoth." The slurred mumble drew Cupid's attention.
Strife had one eye slitted open. He spit out the feather that had
worked its way into his mouth at some point.
"Said, your feather's in my mouth." It was still a mumble, but far more
understandable this time.
Cupid just smiled. Stretched out alongside Strife, it was easy to slide
a hand out from between them and stroke his fingers down Strife's cheek.
"Mmm." Strife leaned into the touch, his eye drifting shut.
"Go back to sleep," Cupid said, his fingers lingering at Strife's ear,
brushing over the cool metal of his earrings.
"'K," Strife murmured, sliding his bare leg over both of Cupid's.
He rubbed the side of his face against the wing he was lying on, his
hands sliding up a few inches through the feathers before stilling as
he fell back into the sleep he'd never really woken from.
Cupid moved his hand further up to gently card through the tangled mass
of Strife's hair, letting the strands curl around his fingers. It
wasn't as soft as he'd expected from another god, almost straw-like,
actually. Vanity wasn't something that Strife seemed to worry much
with; yet another oddity that made him what he was. So unique.
Cupid hadn't known he'd needed someone like Strife, hadn't known how
much he needed, period. But Strife had, because need was something they
shared in common and something they could, together, assuage.
Strife muttered something soft, incomprehensible, and his tongue
flicked out, catching one of Cupid's feathers and pulling it into his
mouth -- where he began to drool around it.
Sliding his hand from Strife's hair, Cupid grabbed the edge of the bed
cover and pulled it higher. Letting it settle over them, the fringe
brushing his shoulder, Cupid moved his hand lower and let it rest on
Strife's bare hip. Strife didn't move, was too far asleep to feel it,
but Cupid just wanted the contact, wanted to lie there and watch Strife
while he slept. At the moment, it was all he needed.
Fin
__________________________________________
erin.strifesgal@gmail.com
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