 The fact that he can find such total peace in the God of War’s bed is an irony that is not lost on me. To watch him sleep is a study in contrasts: his pale skin almost luminous against the black silk of my bed. The graceful sprawl of his limbs when I know awake he is as graceful as a cat in a bathtub. A man dedicated to war, raised in a warlord’s home but as pure and innocent as a newborn. His perfection and purity are superficially marred right now, I can see the shine of semen on his thighs and bruises pepper his skin. Not all those bruises were inflicted by me, but I can claim the majority. A wave of the hand and a flex of power and the old marks are gone, leaving only those left by me. I study the soft white skin of my mortal, which was first? There…where I grabbed his arms. Trailing one finger a hair’s breadth across the mark, I make the dark shape of my hands fade; first on the right arm, then leaning over him for the other. Even after a night of loving, his scent, as I support myself above him, is intoxicating and I want him again. I’ll wait for a while: he needs to rest and heal first. The back of his neck. I gripped him hard there, it’s a little red. As I gently mend him I remember the look on his face as I moved towards him: fear and need, he is capable of such great passion. If such a passion were directed to war he would be a warrior to rival Xena. Somehow I’m glad it isn’t. The lips are next; they’re swollen from the force of those kisses. My lips still tingle too: I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time exploring a lover’s mouth as I did with him. My first thought was to kiss him hard and throw him down on the ground, but that mouth…so sweet, so devastating, truly a formidable weapon. I’ll leave his lips kiss-swollen for now: I’m not ready to remove the traces of that. What was next? Teeth and passion-marks…my mouth filled with the taste of sweat, leather, and later his blood, as I lost myself in the feel of his skin under my mouth. I was so hard it hurt, I wanted to hurt back. He cried out when I broke the skin but never said stop. I’ll leave one mark, on his neck, to show he’s mine. He’s lying on his stomach so I can’t see…sometimes being a god is worth all the trouble…I can lie him on his back without waking him. Although, right now he’s so exhausted I could probably tip him out of the bed and he wouldn’t stir. Ah yes, more teeth marks. A thought and they’re gone. Turning him over I can see his worst hurts: the scrapes and bruising over his hipbones. Making love on the bank of a river illuminated only by the light of the moon may sound romantic but there are far too many rough edges lying around. I wish he’d said something: it must have hurt to be pounded into the rocks like that. He stretches as I kiss those hurts better. His hands flung above his head and his long, lean body relaxed and sex-satiated below me. I’m hard again, I want to wait for him to wake, and some things are worth the wait…but patience was never one of my virtues. I find the last injury. Yes, I was rough with him and he was damaged inside. Not badly, but enough to spoil his enjoyment of what I’m about to do. I wake him slowly by rubbing his wounds better with oil-coated fingers. His eyes are dark and sleepy and he smiles like the sunrise. His words are lost in a gasp as I lick him clean and prepare him for our next round. How ironic that I, who crave conflict, should be so undone by a man’s instant surrender and submission. The End
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