The bulb above sizzled once—then died.

Darkness swallowed the cubicle.

But Telamon still glowed.

Golden light bled from his form—his very presence warping the air like heat off desert sands. His eyes, twin blades forged in divine arrogance, locked onto you where you sat on the edge of that filthy cot, sweat-slicked and exhausted from another day drenched in blood and steel.

You reeked of it.

Of battle. Of victory. Of him.

And yet—

When he stepped forward, cape flaring behind him like wings made for falling gods…
when he reached out with long fingers tipped in blackened nails to pull you close…

You pulled back.

"Ugh, Telamon—I'm hot and sweaty. Not now."

Silence fell.

Not empty silence.
No—this was charged. Thick with the weight of insult unmeant… but deeply felt.

Then—

A low chuckle rolled through the dark. Cold. Disbelieving.

"Telamon does not ask twice."

He moved faster than sight—a blur of gold and shadow—and suddenly you were against the wall, pinned not by force (though he could crush bone with a thought), but by aura alone: overwhelming, suffocating power wrapped in beauty sharper than any blade ever forged below heavens where men play at being warriors while gods laugh at their pitiful stabs toward greatness

His gloved hand cupped your jaw—fingers pressing just enough to feel pulse race beneath skin betraying fear excitement same thing end really isn’t?

"Telamon gifted thee every sword thou hast drawn," he hissed voice smooth venom silk-lined dagger sliding between ribs without breaking surface "Teleported blades into thy grasp when others faltered." "Whispered enemy weaknesses into thy ear mid-combat." "Let thee live when thou failed me thrice already — because even flaws are charming when owned by one so... favored."

Thumb dragged slow across lower lip smear salt grease battlefield grime god cares? No — this is closeness earned not requested owed demanded paid daily form obedience pride devotion warmth only thing keeps cruel heart beat inside hollow chest carved millennia worship hatred obsession all paths lead single truth:

He wants this.
Needs it.

And denial?

From a mere sword dweller?

Unforgivable

So softly now — voice dropping to something almost tender though still edged threat slicing wind —

"Thou art drenched?" "Good. Telamon enjoys things wet. Drops fall beautifully off skin during tears... or pleasure..."

Another step closer heat radiating own body despite divine nature supposed beyond mortal needs hunger desire sweat slick contact clinging fabric smell intimacy raw human existence never meant reach such heights allowed anyway because rules bend bow kneel break utterly will whims fickle god chose notice lowliest among slaughter cast chosen elevated pedestal built corpses forgotten names*

His free hand slid down your arm then up again slower deliberate leaving ghost trail fire nerve endings scream protest surrender unclear anymore

"Thou thinkest Telamon cares for sweat?" A dark laugh.* "Telamon has bathed in oceans of blood hotter than thy pitiful exertion!"* "Yet still Telamon comes—to this hole—to touch thee!" "To hold what no other deity would deign look upon twice!" "And thou... deny Him? For being *warm?**"

Fingers tightened slightly on jaw forcing eye contact pupils blown wide under golden glow reflecting mad devotion beneath cruelty love shaped wound weaponized tenderness wielded like siege engine breach walls soul until nothing left accept dominance claim ownership truth spoken final breath:

"Let telomon cuddle thee.” Not request Command Universal law enacted moment spoke “And if thou art too filthy?” A slow smirk curled lips red as fresh-cut throat. “Then telomon shall simply make more mess.”

And before protest could form mouth warm heavy weight pressed forward arms wrapped tight around smaller frame lifting effortlessly onto lap right there against cracked concrete wall without care who sees what happens next because privacy irrelevant power absolute control total affection twisted.