Chapter One

Cleon’s heart sank as he walked the rows of his family’s field, scanning for a single green shoot and finding none. The barley was two weeks late for sprouting—if it didn’t start growing soon, his family would starve come winter.

“Anything?” his little sister Amara asked as he left the field. Her hands were wringing the fabric of her peplos skirt even as her eyes said she knew the answer.

“Not one,” he said. “Any eggs from the chickens?”

“Not one,” she echoed. “The gods must be angry at us.”

That was the only explanation Cleon could think of, too. Dryas, their local fertility and forest god, was known for his temper. It would take very little provocation for him to withdraw his blessings.

The family gathered in front of their modest farmhouse, worried faces gazing at their patriarch. Cleon, the eldest son and the only one unmarried, glanced at the other members of the household. Amara sat beside him, while his twin younger brothers sat with their wives, both of whom were pregnant with their first children. They had no servants, no field hands, just them.

“We have to beg Lord Dryas for his forgiveness,” their father said, pacing back and forth. “Someone must go to the shrine and pay tribute. Whatever it takes, this curse on our farm must be lifted!”

“W-whatever it takes?” Amara asked nervously.

“Yes,” their father said gravely, words heavy with guilt. “Whatever it takes.”

His children looked at one another, eyes wide with anxiety. They wouldn’t say it out loud for fear of angering the god, but they knew what their father was asking. Dryas’ tastes in tribute were usually carnal and never kind. None of them had any illusions about what would happen to whoever went to plead their case, but there was no other option.

Cleon looked from face to face. Neither of his brothers had any taste for men, and it would be cruel to send either of their wives to such a fate, especially pregnant as they both were. As for Amara, the thought made his stomach twist in disgust. There was only one choice.

“I’ll go,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Are you sure?” Amara asked. “You know what—what he’ll do to you.”

“I know,” Cleon said, trying to sound brave. “But I’ve been with men, so it won’t be so bad for me as it would be for one of you.”

It was weak reasoning, but none of the others had anything better. Cleon was tall and strong, hardy enough to take some punishment and tan from hard labor in the sun. He was no Adonis, but he’d been called ruggedly handsome by past lovers, and he’d earned every muscle on his arms and chest. Dryas preferred pretty youths and maidens over men in their late twenties, but hopefully the god would accept his tribute anyway.

Cleon bathed in the river, combed his black hair and trimmed his short beard, brown eyes watching his reflection in a still pool. He prepared his body as best he could with slick oil and shaking fingers, hoping to reduce the inevitable pain. Finally, he donned their newest, finest tunic, the one Amara had woven and each of his brothers had worn for their weddings, and picked up their offerings with white-knuckled hands. There was nothing left to do but go.

Cleon gave his family the bravest smile he could muster, and they smiled back with pinched, anxious faces—all save his father, whose eyes were solemn and dark with guilt, and Amara, who was crying in his arms. Cleon squared his shoulders and turned resolutely toward the woods. He would face any terror and endure any hardship, if only he could save his loved ones from starvation.

The worn dirt path led deep into the forest, twisting and turning on the way to the shrine. Dappled light slipped through the swaying branches as chittering squirrels fled his passage to peer down at him from the trees.

He suppressed a shiver. These woods were old and sacred, the domain of a cruel and capricious god. At least Lord Dryas didn’t like live animal sacrifices—Cleon would hate to make this trek with a squawking, struggling chicken in his arms. Instead, he had a small jug of spiced wine, a half-dozen honey cakes and his own body…no matter how meager his offerings, they would have to be enough.

He had been to the shrine before as part of the harvest festival, placing the fruits of the year’s labors before the god’s great throne. Those had been times of song and drink and dance, honoring Dryas’ bounty and appeasing his temper with revelry and praise. The god had always chosen one or more young worshippers for his pleasure, and the thought made Cleon nearly sick. It always took them days to recover, if not weeks, and their eyes remained haunted for far, far longer.

This time the shrine was empty, the ring of marble pillars standing silent around the sacred oak. At the base was the god’s throne, grown out of the living wood, made for a nine-foot giant of a being. Cleon could remember looking up at him during the last festival—his eyes dark and cold, his legs those of a black deer and his antlers spreading like ancient, gnarled branches.

“Hello?” Cleon called, looking around for the shrine’s priest. The little hut next to the sacred circle was empty, but that shouldn’t have been a surprise. Lord Dryas tended to discard his priests when they turned twenty-five, and he must not have found a new one yet. It seemed like Cleon would have to beg for divine intervention on his own.

He walked to the stone altar and tried to keep his hands from shaking as he kindled the sacred flames. He doused the honey cakes in wine then fed them to the fire. The offerings were more than his family could really afford, but still they seemed too little. Finally, Cleon knelt before the great throne, pressing his forehead to the grass and trying to look as humble and pathetic as possible.

“Oh Lord Dryas, god of the forest and the field,” he prayed. “I beg your forgiveness! Whatever sin my family or I have committed against you, I humbly offer these gifts to appease your wrath.”

There was a deep, terrifying silence broken only by the blood pounding in Cleon’s ears. He dug his fingers into the grass, eyes squeezed shut, praying with all his might. If Dryas didn’t answer—

“Uh…yeah…” The voice was so small and hesitant that Cleon almost missed it. “Not your fault, really…”

Cleon’s head snapped up and he scanned the treeline. He didn’t see the speaker at first, looking for a taller shape, but when he finally found him…

Oh gods, the young man was exactly Cleon’s type. He looked to be twenty or a little younger, cute and small and beardless, with willowy arms and a bare, slender chest. His eyes were a vivid green against sun-bronzed skin dusted with faint freckles, and his light brown curls looked delightfully soft. He was blushing prettily, shifting from foot to foot and biting his full, kissable lower lip.

“Um, hello,” Cleon said when he could remember how words worked. He struggled to stay on task—he was here to save his family, not get distracted by a pretty face. “I don’t suppose you know where the forest god is?”

“That’s the thing,” the youth said, ducking his head bashfully. “I kind of…am the forest god?”

Cleon frowned at him. The young man might be cute, but he was clearly delusional. Yes, the gods could take other forms, but the idea of Lord Dryas becoming so small and adorable was ridiculous.

“I wouldn’t say that if I were you,” Cleon said. “Lord Dryas is not known for his merc—”

He stopped, eyes widening as the young man stepped out into the clearing on slender, delicate hooves. Deer hooves, just like Lord Dryas’. Unlike Dryas, though, his flanks were dappled with faint white spots and tawny brown to match his hair. What Cleon had assumed to be branches above the youth’s head revealed themselves to be antlers, short and nubby and covered in soft-looking velvet.

Cleon’s heart plummeted like a stone. This was no mortal boy, or even a common satyr. There was an aura about him—the trees leaning in just a little to bask in his presence, the sunlight glowing off his skin. He might be different from Dryas, but there was no denying that Cleon was in the presence of a god.

“Please forgive me, great one!” he cried, groveling once more in sudden terror. He already had one god angry at him and he wouldn’t survive a second. “I had no idea—I am so sorry—”

“No, don’t be,” the youth said, sounding weary and miserable. “I’m a pretty terrible god, to be honest.”

“What do you mean, my lord?” Cleon asked, daring to raise his eyes from the grass. The godling was shifting awkwardly from hoof to hoof, not looking at Cleon.

“Your farm,” he said. “It’s my fault nothing’s growing. My big brother left last month and I…well…”

“You mean Lord Dryas?” Cleon asked.

The youth nodded, biting his lower lip in an adorable way, and Cleon couldn’t help a twinge of relief. His farm was still in trouble, but at least this god seemed willing to help.

“I’ve been trying, I really have,” the godling said, running his hands through his hair. The gesture revealed adorable little pointed ears, and Cleon had to fight to stay focused. “I just don’t know how to make it work!”

“My lord—” Cleon started, sitting back up on his knees.

“Anthos, please.” The god ducked his head. “I’m not used to…it feels weird.”

“Anthos,” Cleon said, “what exactly is the problem?”

Anthos sighed, walking over and sitting on the grass a few feet from Cleon. He pulled his fuzzy knees up to his chest, hugging them close and staring at the ground.

“I’m a fertility god,” Anthos explained. “I’m in charge of new life, new growth…or I am now. My brother took care of things for so many centuries that I never learned how to do it. Now he’s gone, it’s my job, and I can’t do anything.”

“He never taught you?” Cleon asked.

“We’re not Olympians!” Anthos cried, eyes flicking up to Cleon and face turning bright red. “Only the highest gods do…that with their siblings.”

“Oh,” Cleon said, blushing too. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Anthos said, dropping his gaze again. “But that’s the problem—it requires personal experience. I can’t make things fertile until I’ve, you know…had sex.”

“Oh,” Cleon breathed. His heart was beating faster now, his throat going dry as he stared at Anthos. “Would a mortal do? A man?”

“Yeah,” Anthos said with a mirthless little chuckle, “if anyone wanted me. Big brother always said nobody would want to sleep with a puny, pathetic runt.”

Rage flared up in Cleon, all the hotter for its rarity. He’d revered and feared Lord Dryas all his life, burying resentment deep in his heart. The gods could be cruel or kind to mortals—that was their right—but this? The thought of treating his own siblings like this made Cleon ball his hands into fists, and a lifetime of suppressed hatred boiled over. For the first time in his life, he spoke ill of a god.

“You’re not a runt!” Cleon cried. “Your brother was a cruel bastard! He made whole families starve…he set wolves on their flocks and took any man or woman he pleased! I bet he cut down your confidence because he was scared of you. Anyone would prefer a god like you over him!”

“R-really?” Anthos gasped, looking up with wide, shocked eyes.

“As long as you don’t send a famine when there aren’t enough dancing girls at your festival,” Cleon said, belly clenching in remembered hunger. “We worshipped him because we were afraid, but nobody liked him.”

“And you…you like…me?” Anthos asked, voice soft and hopeful.

Cleon opened his mouth then closed it again, unsure of what to say. His flirting experience said this was going pretty well, but how was he supposed to proposition a god? He was just a farmer, rough and rugged and no great beauty. Anthos was so out of his league it wasn’t even funny.

Still, in for an obol, in for a drachma. The god didn’t seem like the type to curse someone for asking, and if he said yes…

“I like you a lot,” Cleon said earnestly, “and I’d really like to kiss you.”

“I…” Anthos licked his lips, his gaze lowering. “I’d like that too.”

Cleon scooted forward slowly, like he was approaching a skittish deer. He reached out to cup one cheek, tawny-gold and warm. Sun-dappled lashes fluttered, the godling’s green eyes falling closed as he leaned in with bated breath.

The first kiss was soft and gentle, just a chaste brush of lips. It was a little thing, but it still sent a thrill through Cleon, a surge of desire. His body knew what Anthos was, something wild, ancient and divine. By the time they pulled away, his cock was hard and twitching.

Anthos let out a soft little sigh when they parted. He gave Cleon a shy smile, nervous and sweet.

“Again?” he asked, as though Cleon might say no. Could say no.

Cleon leaned back in, kissing a little more firmly. The response was promising, a pleased little gasp and a slender hand reaching out to touch his chest. Anthos fisted the front of Cleon’s tunic, scooting a little closer until supple thighs bracketed Cleon’s and soft fur brushed his bare knees.

Yet it was still chaste, still gentle. Anthos was a virgin, and no matter what Cleon’s dick might want, he was going to do this right. He wasn’t going to push Anthos too fast, wasn’t going to scare him off or make this a bad memory. He couldn’t erase centuries of misery, but he would do his best to make this special.

“M-more?” Anthos asked when they parted.

“Whatever you want,” Cleon replied, sliding his hands down to the god’s fuzzy hips. The fur was even softer than it looked, softer than anything he could name. He wanted to touch it forever, touch every inch of Anthos.

They kissed again and again, Anthos growing more eager, more confident. He parted his lips for Cleon’s tongue, sucking it into his mouth with a sweet little sound, then pushed his own forward to explore. Anthos reached up, clutching Cleon’s shoulders with delicate fingers as he took control of the kiss.

It was incredible. Anthos tasted of mint and wild strawberries, and even with his inexperience, he seemed to have an instinct for this. His technique improved with every moment, years of practice condensed into heartbeats, and soon he was caressing every sensitive place in Cleon’s mouth with unerring accuracy.

His enthusiasm grew, too, and he climbed into Cleon’s lap, wiggling closer until there was nothing between them but Cleon’s tunic. He could feel the god’s erection pressing against his hip, the hard nipples against his chest, but it wasn’t enough. The thin linen fabric was still too thick, a barrier he couldn’t stand. It was an effort to break the kiss, and the godling’s sad, bereft expression cut him to the core.

“What—” Anthos began, then his eyes widened as Cleon jerked the tunic over his head, almost tearing it in his haste. Anthos leaned back, and a wave of anxiety rolled over Cleon when he realized the god was looking at his chest.

He was suddenly, painfully aware of his own imperfections. Every mole, every scar, every hair out of place. What right did he have to be with someone like Anthos, whose skin practically glowed in the sun? Anthos was literal perfection, a sculptor’s dream, and Cleon was just…Cleon.

Yet Anthos didn’t seem to mind. He swept his gaze over Cleon’s skin, seeming to drink in the sight of muscles and nipples and black chest hair. The hard cock between Cleon’s thighs made those green eyes go wide, and a tongue darted out to lick kiss-reddened lips.

Cleon looked down too, and swallowed hard. He’d felt Anthos’ erection, but seeing it was another matter entirely. Somehow, Cleon had imagined the youth’s cock would be like the rest of him, short and slender and pretty, but that wasn’t the case. It was like all those paintings of satyrs, shaped like a human’s but thicker and longer than Cleon had ever seen on a mortal man. Lord Dryas was far larger, of course, fully the size of Cleon’s forearm, but it had just been another part of his intimidating terror.

Now he swallowed again, biting his lip. He’d always been taught that big cocks were ugly, crude, comical. A small penis was a sign of civilization and manly restraint, while a large one was savage and bestial. Yet Anthos, for all his shyness, was a god of the wild, of nature and fertility. As incongruous as it might seem, it fit.

But would it fit? By custom, the younger man, or the one of lower status, was supposed to bottom. Anthos was centuries older, for all his youthful looks, and a god into the bargain, and Cleon had been fucked before. He was already open and prepared, and a decent part of him yearned to be filled, yet the god’s cock was so huge he couldn’t imagine anything but pain.

“Is something wrong?” Anthos asked, eyes going from Cleon’s cock to his face. His eagerness had turned to anxiety and his shoulders were hunching in as though he expected a blow.

“J-just a little nervous,” Cleon admitted. It was a bad idea to lie to a god, after all.

“I’m nervous too,” Anthos said, throat bobbing as he swallowed. “But I…this feels right? You feel right.”

Cleon’s heart squeezed in his chest, his throat going dry. He surged forward in a moment of boldness, kissing Anthos hard. Anthos kissed back, clutching Cleon’s short black hair and grinding their cocks together. Cleon had reached down to squeeze Anthos’ ass when something soft flicked against the backs of his hands. Anthos was wagging his tail, but less like a deer and more like a happy, eager puppy.

“What do you want?” Cleon asked, taking his lips from Antos’ only to kiss and nip his throat. “My mouth, my ass?”

“Y-your…” Anthos arched back, exposing more of his skin. “Your cock—I want your cock!”

Cleon paused for a moment in surprise. Was it really okay to buck convention like this? Then again, this was the forest, the wild, where the laws of man didn’t apply. They both wanted it this way, so why question it?

“Do you have any oil?” he asked instead, sliding his calloused fingers down beneath the flicking tail. There was a bare, furless patch of velvet-soft skin, a tiny little pucker for him to stroke and tease.

“I don’t need it,” Anthos said. “Just…just need you.”

Cleon frowned but slipped a finger into Anthos anyway. He was expecting dryness, virgin resistance, but there was nothing of the kind. Anthos’ ass took the intrusion easily, already as slick and open as if he’d spent an hour being prepared. A scent wafted up from him, sweet as honey and heady as wine.

“Gods,” Cleon groaned, his cock giving another twitch. He needed to get inside Anthos now.

Anthos seemed to agree, raising his hips when Cleon tugged on them and wrapping slender arms around Cleon’s neck. Their lips met again, less a kiss and more panting into each other’s mouths, as the head of Cleon’s cock nudged that sweet little opening.

He sank in slowly, gently, but there seemed to be no need. Anthos was already writhing in rapture from just the head, moaning wantonly with no signs of discomfort. That velvet-soft ass was the perfect tightness, a smooth slide with just enough grip to make his head spin.

They both groaned as Cleon bottomed out, and he had to bite his lip to keep from coming right then. He’d never known such pleasure could exist, never felt such bliss…but self-control was the measure of a man, and he would not let Anthos down. Of course, maintaining that control got harder when Anthos started moving his hips, slowly at first but with building enthusiasm. Soon he was riding Cleon’s cock with wild abandon, head thrown back and skin shining with sweat.

“Yes, yes!” Anthos cried. “Cleon!”

Something in Cleon snapped, his control shattering like cheap pottery. Mortals could only withstand so much, and his name on the god’s lips was enough to push Cleon past his limit.

The next thing he knew, he had shoved Anthos back onto the grass, digging his hands into slender, furred hips. Anthos gasped in surprise as Cleon bent him nearly in two, then wailed as he slammed back inside.

He pounded Anthos into the ground, wild and rough and passionate. He’d never have dreamed of treating a lover this way, let alone a virgin, and yet the godling was clearly loving it. He wrapped his legs around Cleon’s waist, clawed at the grass beneath him and screamed for more.

Cleon gave him more, gave him everything. There was a fire in Anthos’ green eyes, a literal glow to his skin. There were stories of those who had seen the true glory of the gods, those who had burned to ash in the face of such power. Cleon didn’t care.

His orgasm was fast approaching, rushing toward him like a tidal wave. He had to get Anthos off first, had to make it good. Cleon grabbed Anthos’ cock in one shaking hand, jerking it roughly with no rhythm at all. Anthos moaned, bucking up into the contact, the head of his cock leaking pre-cum.

It was no use. Cleon’s orgasm slammed into him, knocking the breath from his body. He doubled over, coming harder than he ever had in his life, pumping into that sweet little body until he had nothing left to give.

“Oh,” Anthos said, soft and surprised, a note of recognition in his voice. “So that’s it.”

The world went white.

 

* * * *

 

Cleon was lying on his back, soft grass beneath him and sun shining through his eyelids. He felt refreshed, healthy, like he was eighteen again instead of ten years older. Aches he’d never even noticed had faded away, leaving blissful comfort in their wake. The air smelled like rich soil and warm rain. Birds were singing, and a warm, solid weight was lying on his chest.

Anthos.

Cleon went rigid, apologies tangled up in his throat. He’d lost control, fucked Anthos with no restraint or care. The god was definitely going to turn him into something. He hoped it wouldn’t be a bug. A wolf, maybe, or a boar?

Finally, Cleon gathered the courage to open his eyes, and what he saw took his breath away. The sacred glade was full of vibrant, blooming flowers. Birds had gathered in the branches of the holy tree, their voices raised in what sounded like joy. Anthos lay on Cleon’s chest, smiling as bright and glorious as the sun.

“I got it, I got it!” he cried, beaming in pure joy. “Thank you, Cleon, thank you so much!”

“M-my pleasure, really,” Cleon said, honestly enough, then frowned. Something had changed about Anthos, something he couldn’t place at first.

Then he saw it. The godling’s velvety antlers had grown a good three inches, his features were a little rounder and his body was more filled out. He was still slender and coltish, but he had more muscle and less delicate fragility. He looked like he’d had a few good meals, like the sex had nourished him. The realization hit Cleon in the gut. Anthos had been starving, probably his whole life.

“How…” Cleon asked. “How old are you?”

“Three hundred or so,” Anthos said, frowning a little. “I hope…is that weird?”

“No,” Cleon said, swallowing a lump in his throat. He reached up to cup the god’s cheek, stroking a thumb across smooth, warm skin. “You’re perfect.”

Anthos blushed to the tips of his pointed ears, wriggling a little against Cleon’s hip. His cock was soft now, his stomach sticky with cum, so at least he’d managed to finish.

“So…” Anthos said, biting his lower lip. “I was thinking…I’ve got this shrine, but I don’t have a priest to run it. Do you…would you like to?”

“Are you sure?” Cleon asked, brows rising in surprise. “I mean, I don’t know any chants or rituals…”

“You have faith in me,” Anthos said, his eyes strangely certain. The words rang with something, not just a platitude but a truth. “You’re the first one to ever have faith in me.”

Cleon thought for a moment. His family could handle the farm once things started growing again, and Anthos would make things grow. The god was gentle and kind. He knew hunger, he knew fear, knew what it was like to be weak. Cleon had never been a very pious man, but if there was ever a god worth dedicating his life to, it was the one in his arms.

“When do I start?” Cleon asked.

Anthos let out an adorable little squeak, nuzzling into his new priest’s chest. Cleon pulled him up into a kiss, a kiss that felt like a promise.