the vessel

Angular, toned, and refined; Hyacinth felt the flush of his body rock against Apollo's with every stride. Their lips tangled together as Hyacinth tasted the heat that broiled through the air itself. Definitive, haunting, and familiar. Unseen were the marks that Apollo had raked across Hyacinth's soul already, long torn and buried across the breadth of his chest. Time and time again the Spartan would return to the other, to his bed, to his side, to every part of him that Apollo permitted. It wasn't for any duty, responsibility, or debt of patronage, but because as much as it was possible to love another, Hyacinth loved the God beneath him. Finality swelled within him, warmth spread like the flames of the sun as he felt himself fill the vessel that Apollo inhabited. Release washed from him once more as his body blanketed the other's, collapsing in a way as he smiled against Apollo's lips. After a brief moment of reprieve he lifted himself enough to look into the other's eyes, Hyacinth's fingers brushed through the curls over Apollo's forehead, the other wrapped around the length splayed between their abdomens.

Apollo was a God and as a God he saw it as his right to lavish those he deemed worthy with his blessings, to elevate them above those around them so his blatant favour was as clear as the midday sun. Pride, strength, and certainty defined the laconic creature and for all that Apollo wished to devote to him Hyacinth didn't want any of it. This was what he wanted; more than the God beneath him, more than the God's blessings, and more than the gifts that could be laid at his feet. Those were meaningless trifles that any deity could have thrown at him - and they had, because one and the same too many assumed a demigod's heart was so easily won. From Apollo all Hyacinth wanted was his affection, his love, and his respect. Those three things held more value than any boon or treasure, those three things were the only immaterial items that mattered to the Spartan. For all Apollo's wealth, they were all that had any value to Hyacinth.

There were plenty that wondered why. Why would Apollo lower himself to an avariel; he was a god, he could have what he wanted. Though it all came in the form of the Spartan. Tethering their souls together had been easy, no second thought about it. Apollo was a vicious enemy; he knew how plagues could deteriorate anyone who stepped close, how to heal them if he wished – none had suffered more so than the wind that had thought they deserved Hyacinth's favor simply because they asked. Apollo's thighs rested on the sharp hipbones of Hyacinth, the Spartan's brutal pace nothing less than what the god wanted.

Framed in the light of either dusk or dawn - Hyacinth couldn't be sure just how much time had passed - Apollo was lit with gold. The fine hairs of his vessel's form were alight with the mystical hue. His skin glossed by the rhythmic passion that seemed to set them both ablaze. It could have been this forever, two bodies with no definitive end or beginning; Apollo was connected inherently to the division of souls. Creatures that were too powerful to remain entwined, Hyacinth thought that in this act that the avariel had been severed from him at some point. Cleaved away and tossed towards the mortal realm, only to be picked up and stitched together after the fateful fall of a discus.

Hyacinth moved, and Apollo easily went. The god bent for no one, no one perhaps except the avariel. Too often he'd watched people bow to him, and he enjoyed that. But his back arched under the calloused hands of a spartan, his vessel reacting easily to the pace that Hyacinth had set. Apollo had chosen a form glorious enough for Hyacinth to have, to ravage, because it was only meant for that. Lips meant once more, ragged breaths between them as Apollo let out a moan of Hyacinth's name.

This tongue that Apollo passed across Hyacinth's had the edge of ambrosia, like the avariel was made more divine with each passing moment. A venom lurked beneath the tarmac there, a spiteful curse that could instil the worst in someone, Hyacinth had seen it done before. That was the true glory of Apollo, his true radiance was that he was both the mallady and the poultice, he was the curse and the prayer all wrapped into one. He brought pestilence and then wove it away with the soft brush of his ichorous tongue. A fiend in divine form, a sinful God and a patron that could only be denied for so long. Inevitably, Apollo always had his way; stubborn as the Spartan was, he could refuse him no longer.

Apollo liked to burn with the heat of the sun. This was no different, as he felt completely filled by the Spartan he was straddling. He was overflowing, bodies that met in a rhythm as ancient as the music of the muses. So many had fought for Hyacinth's heart, over and over again, to the point where killing the avariel had seemed like the best answer. Not for Apollo; sweat slicked skin was now beneath his lips, as fine as the ambrosia the gods loved so much. His fingers threaded through the curls that decorated the soldier's head, the prince of his heart – he'd make him a king, if he could.

Apollo had made his home in Hyacinth, in between the avariel's thighs, deep into his throat as he met the other in the devouring kiss. His mouth plundered Hyacinth's as much as he could, grinning because he couldn't help himself at times. The god's realm had burned, and while he couldn't go back there, for now, he was content to be in the arms of the Spartan that he held dear and above all. There was no other that had ever held close, and while Apollo's list of one hit lovers was long and hard, much like the other bit of Hyacinth he held in his palm, none ever came close to the avariel.