The Anterotica

by LucaWLee

During an impending apocalypse, a minor god of sex has to confront and fuck his way through infighting pantheons, each full of evil desire.

The berserker kneeled in the snow. Little flakes danced around on his body, shimmering into liquid on his hot flesh.

“This is April snow.”

In front of him, a man with shoulder length hair, eye-popping delts, and stone pecs. His turgid cock pointed towards the sky, a vector for the liquid masculinity that churned in his massive package. A monument testifying to the god of virility.

“Indeed.”

The god Freyr stabbed his cock into the berserker, or at least, what he could fit into his mouth. The berserker’s tongue swam in intoxicating precum. He worked the glans and the foreskin, flickering his lips between the large muscular veins that ran the massive length.

Normally, the berserker was nature’s beast. Fed from the masculine fluid of skies, musclebound, with length and girth to match. Here, from afar, it looked like a cub suckling a she-wolf, dwarfed completely by size.

Freyr spasmed, and ropes of thick, honey-tinted semen jettisoned from below. The berserker sputtered, coughing, forcing the delicious output into his stomach, but Freyr was unmatched, like a thundering river, and the berserker was forced to yield. He shuddered away from the buckling organ, which covered his face, then his throat, then his chest with hot liquid. Lathered with stickiness, the berserker looked at his god. Freyr touched his forehead, the mere movement causing the many tendons and striated muscles to shift scintillatingly.

“You will find him before Fimbulvetr ends.”

The berserker twitched, his muscles already swelling.

The god turned around, cum dripping onto white snow.

“Do not forsake this gift.”

Anteros prowled through the modern campus hall. His erection-inducing physique was hidden underneath a bulky white sweater, emblazoned with large tacky pink letters: “MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR”. He was sporting equally white sweatpants emblazoned with a bow-and-arrow, which contrasted his olive complexion. Both were borrowed from his brother—mythical of course—he had to blend in somehow. Lots of heads would turn if he strolled in naked.

Multicolored signs pointed towards the main atrium where plastic foldable chairs were carefully arranged in rows, on which various greasy college students were not-so-carefully spilling drinks from plastic cups and celery and stale crackers on the floor. A small poster indicated the theme of the talk: Analyses in Post-Myth Exposure Eschatology.

The keynote speaker raised a laser pointer, and indicated to his title slide on his presentation. He cleared his throat.

Anteros idly groped the faint dickprint on his pants. The seating area was full of fresh meat, full of sexual organs, all pricking up. He could sense it, especially the speaker, whose face flushed as he scanned the room in Anteros’s direction. Anteros slid into one seat at the back.

“Of all twelve regions, three predicted some form of doomsday,” the overhead speakers boomed.

Beside Anteros sat a male djinn, who heaved a heavy laptop over his lap. Anteros itched his arm—a nervous habit. He could feel a small lump in his stomach, he could tell the djinn had not cum in quite a while. It irked him.

“Get this—the regions that did predict some form of doomsday—that’s the Aztecs, Norse, and Hopi, all were extremely adamant. An average of 9.4 self-rated confidence on a scale of 10.”

The djinn caught Anteros’s mischievous eyes. He shifted in his seat and squinted harder at his laptop.

“And of the regions that didn’t, that confidence was very low. Now, we wanted to investigate how the accuracy of beliefs—and strength of beliefs—have changed throughout the years.”

A chart.

“Here’s Mount St. Helens erupting in 2036. Here’s the 2039 Oil Crisis. Notice the spikes near major disasters, notice the valleys near times of relative peace. Which is to say, people do not necessarily know their timeline—here’s a list of all predictions from Mimir about Ragnarok.”

Another chart, this time with many lines, many annotations.

“Looks as accurate as the 14-day weather.”

Polite laughter. The djinn beside Anteros grinned as well, but, now erect, scooted a few chairs to his left.

“BWMC are not good predictors. Here’s a comparison between Aeoleus’s prophecies and Kim Dashner from NBC News about how windy it will get. We’ve taken some liberties with Aeoleus’s wording.”

Anteros rolled his eyes. BWMC—“beings with mythical capacity”—was one of the most god-awful acronyms the 21st century scientific community created. Anteros was getting bored. He really wished he could make that cute djinn cum his brains out. Maybe create a spontaneous orgy. But then he’d be in trouble, especially in public. Instead, he left.

It would have been a painfully average college roam-around for Anteros: walk around, find some hot jocks, hopefully have a little sex, and leave. Anteros figured that if he hadn’t stayed for a boring ten minute speech, the pattern would’ve never been disrupted. But later, a large man dressed only in furs streaked through the college quadrangle, much to many onlookers’ delight.

Including Anteros. The fur-man had a bulky size that made Anteros jealous (or aroused, he couldn’t decide). He had only caught a glimpse, but his biceps and rear delts had a fullness, a sexual fullness that was difficult to describe. Erotic, like little glistering melons in the sun. It was something new.

Anteros made his mind up in an instant. He saw the fur-man slip into a building several yards away. Anteros followed, dodging frisbees. He followed the fur-man up several flights of concrete stairs. This had to have been a berserker—Anteros had seen them in picture-book stories, or on travelogs to Scandinavia, but what one could be doing in Boston was anyone’s guess.

The fur-man stopped on floor six. He fled down the hall and stopped at a wooden door, what looked to be 602—Dr. Haneke, read a sign. Anteros watched in horror as the fur-man ripped the door off of its hinges, the delicate wood splintering into mocha powder on the floor. He started bagging all the books off the shelves into a small brown bag. A small cyclone was created as loose-leaf papers were discarded haphazardly. Wires were flung into the walls.

“Who are you?”

Anteros whipped his head around. Here in front of him was the keynote speaker.

“Dr. Haneke?”

“What the hell did you do with my door?”

“I did not do that. He—”

But he was gone. His parting gift was a smattering of glass shards. Several green papers flew out the window.

“I will call security.”

“Maybe he didn’t like your talk,” Anteros joked.

Anteros, Dr. Haneke, and a cop sporting a very unruly mustache were analyzing the security footage. They sipped very old coffee. They watched as a very large-biceped berserker was tearing down the door on grainy film.

“Did you?” Dr. Haneke smiled weakly.

The cop, who introduced himself as Colonel Gitlis, walked them back to the Mythological Studies wing as they talked.

“The post-myth analyses?”

Post-Myth. Decades ago, massive unrest broke out after artificial intelligence replaced white-collar work—doctors, lawyers, paper-pushers. Government buildings were burnt. Hope was lost. Then, twelve years ago, the gods found humanity at a vulnerable intersection, with nowhere to turn. This was a malleable society, a conforming society, a gullible society.

So they let their presence known. Post-Myth was born. But the gods severely underestimated humanity’s curiosity. They did experiments. New scientific terms were coined. Out of them: “Mythogeneration”, the ability to control weather, oceans, semen, etc, “Mythocapacity”: the amount one could do so, and their favorite, “Mythocriminology”: how police can control all that shit.

You see, Mythocapacity depended on faith. Less people who believed you existed, less prayers, blood sacrifices, whatever, your Mythocapacity decreased. So Interpol decided to ban pantheon worship of any kind. Gods were prohibited from Mythogeneration. A whole battalion of antimythical weapons were developed, out of the same plasmic energy Mythogeneration depended on. All for the goal of pacification. Some minor deities were experimented on in labs, to see if processes could be transferred to soldiers.

Many gods went back into hiding. Some gathered cults underground. The harmless creatures—satyrs, dwarves, djinn (the smokeless fire kind, not the wish-granting kind), were permitted to roam. A few recognizable ones took on minor celebrity roles: Quetzalcoatl opened a very successful restaurant chain, Eros became a queer rights activist.

It was all slightly embarrassing. What were gods to men, and men to gods now? How much did the line blur? If you asked Anteros, the true gods: politicians, trillionaires, people who owned personal mercenaries, were still largely left untouchable.

“I’m supposedly a mythica—a BWMC myself.”

Dr. Haneke cocked an eyebrow. “How is that working for you?”

Anteros laughed. “It’s great. I get to pay taxes forever.”

Dr. Haneke motioned up the stairs.

“Spare office up there.”

Anteros could tell Dr. Haneke, being a professor in Mythical Studies and all, was itching to ask. What deity? What myth system? What was Anteros’s day job? Was he broke? But it wasn’t exactly an icebreaker question—an activist movement five years ago made it quite taboo. It was like asking for your sexual orientation.

They exchanged parting words with Colonel Gitlis. Anteros learned the hard way not to mess with non-mythical police. They had guns. Earplugs. Masks. And now weird anti-mythic technology. You couldn’t sex your way out of that. Fortunately, Dr. Haneke was accommodating. Apologetic.

The doctor was youthful, with angular cheekbones and a graceful, swimmer’s body. He smiled often, and had dimples.

“What’s your sexuality, Dr. Haneke?” Anteros asked, waving goodbye to Gitlis.

Dr. Haneke’s face flushed. “That’s not an appropriate question.”

“I know.”

Dr. Haneke wiped the dust off of a gray plastic table. “Please call me Jan.” He pronounced it like “yawn”.

“I’m offended you aren’t curious,” Anteros said.

“What?”

“What type of deity do you think I am?”

“I don’t like to pry, uh—” Jan Haneke scratched his head, realizing he didn’t know the other’s name.

“Guess.”

“Some sort of trickster god. Near Eastern. Hurrian if I was forced to guess.”

Anteros shrugged off his baggy sweater. Almost instantly, his mass expanded threefold. He was wearing a white wifebeater, the straps desperately clinging onto his bulgy delts, and the shirt strained against round, battle-hardened pecs that jutted forward like mountains and made the shirt look like a mini-apron. Rippling obliques armored Anteros’s sides, which connected into wing-like lats, which connected into wings.

Yes, there were wings, a virile pair of golden, silver, and ivory feathered appendages, which swayed the air softly. Jan Haneke had his eyes glued to them, so Anteros beat them once, violently, causing a rush of wind to swirl against him.

“Anteros,” he said, extending a marble-carved arm.

“Anteros,” Jan repeated under his breath. “I know that name. You’re an Erote, like Eros.”

Anteros rolled his eyes as Jan met his handshake, before feeling up his arm. Jan squeezed his tricep, which felt like lead, the sheer weight of it seemed so crushing, fabric-tearing. He should have noticed the huge mass, which should’ve been prominent under that sweater. Come to think of it…

“How did that fit under your…?” Jan said meekly.

“Magic,” Anteros grinned, before leaning into Jan’s ear. “If you think this is impressive, do you want to see the lower half?”

Jan swallowed and undid Anteros’s belt. As if gasping for air, Anteros’s flesh expanded, like a chemical reaction, quads and hamstrings surging in size, circumferences larger than Jan’s torso, calves hissing and shining a dull gold.

Anteros wore white briefs, but it poorly contained the knee-length weapon that hung over a pair of bloated cum factories. The briefs sat to the side of the throbbing flesh as if it were a small eyepatch. His package was simply huge. It stung the air with sex, pre-ejaculate polluting the air. Large veins ran lengthwise into a neatly trimmed bush.

Jan blushed. He fumbled with his own belt but Anteros waved his hands and all his clothes fell into a neat pile by the ratty office chair. Jan caressed the hefty member, which pointed imposingly in front of his neck. He breathed carnally on the head, which was overflowing with lubricant, thin transparent strings dripping onto the laminated floor.

“Are you allowed…?” Jan hissed, but Anteros silenced him with the tip of his glans.

Jan unhinged his jaw to accommodate the girth. He eased onto the massive prick, which buckled with pleasure. Anteros firmly grasped Jan’s nape, forcing his throat to contort. He thrusted forward, causing Jan to gag and claw his nails into Anteros’s beefy shoulders.

The sex god grunted and eased up, sliding his dick out of Jan’s mouth and resting it on his head such that the erotic mixture of saliva and pre-cum oozed onto his blushing cheeks. Jan moaned and nodded again, and Anteros rammed his cock back into him, with Jan squealing.

Eventually, after some accommodation, they found a rhythm. Anteros muscled his way into Jan’s throat, as he slid what he could (about a third) of his cock in and out of the needy orifice. Anteros wiped the sweat off of Jan’s brow, clenching his forehead as if claiming a trophy deer. Anteros’s colossal legs pinned Jan to the desk, the tantalizing smell of it all causing Jan to become woozy. The shlick-shlicks echoed the room, and soon enough, Anteros arched his back upwards and exploded in force.

Anteros admired Jan for trying. As Anteros’s wings, retracted backwards, a waterfall of semen flooded into his mouth. Like a poor swimmer, Jan gasped and swallowed and coughed, mouthfuls of virile elixir being pumped into his esophagus, the excess cascading off his chest and pooling below.

Anteros’s powerful hips bucked again. Quickly, using the brutal force of his arms, he flipped Jan around, cum splattering all over his torso, barely lubricating his hole, as Anteros plunged what Jan could accommodate.

Jan yelped as his ass was violated by the sheer girth and overwhelming fluid, his prostate spasming into arrhythmia. As quickly as he had been penetrated, he arched his back violently, backing off from the monster thing, which continued to spray him in pleasurable warm coats of thick maleness.

It was the most breath-stopping orgasm Jan had ever had. His brain turned a dull shade of white. He couldn’t see. His crotch, his abdomen, up to his throat, everything radiated pure gold-hot pleasure.

“AAAGHHH!“ Jan screamed, as several arcs of his cum shot against the table, his contribution like a sprinkling against the still-cumming Anteros.

Anteros cupped his cock and brought the cum to his mouth, grinning as he tasted it. The two rode out their orgasms, for Anteros, it took several minutes. Jan collapsed from exhaustion, an audible plop as he splashed into the half-inch cum puddle that coated the floor.

Anteros smiled and laid down on top of him, giving him a bear hug. Jan moaned as he felt the choking weight of his pecs on his, the wet cock nestled at his shins, still vaguely throbbing. Every single steely heaving abdomen muscle clung to his thigh. They kissed, exchanging saliva and cum.

“I feel weird,” Jan said.

“You taste good,” Anteros said. He shook his majestic wings, strings of white jism splattering across the room. A stray feather floated down.

Jan thumbed the feather. It was like lace, a deep interwoven fabric of faux flesh.

“I am supposed to report you now,” Jan said, sniffing the feather. It gave off pure unabridged sex.

“You should breathe slowly. I’ll clean your clothes,” Anteros said, cupping his nipple and kneading his pectoral.

“I feel sore all over.”

It was true, Jan felt as if every single fiber in his body was trying to flex out of his skeletal structure. Even his penis was stiff to the touch. Not erect, but stiff to the touch.

“It’s a small side effect of…” Anteros grasped the floor and lifted his hand, indicating the white-hot cum that slithered back down. He licked his index finger.

Jan groaned. His biceps grew rounder. His pecs felt as though they had been pumped with lead. His delts grew heavy. It was as if he had just ran several miles.

Anteros gave his cock a quick stroke.

“Grew a half-inch, probably. The changes won’t be noticeable under a shirt.”

Jan looked down. He had more pronounced ab lines now. His quads looked stronger, more virile, as if he had done two months of heavy training. He reached for his suit jacket, which was doused in fluids.

“Clean clothes would be nice.”

“I’d need to use a little Mythogenesis,” Anteros winked.

“Go ahead.”

Anteros waved and the marring liquids dissipated. Jan put on his boxer briefs and flexed, one arm behind his head, one arm towards the sky. Anteros wolf-whistled.

“Looking good.”

Jan grinned. “Are you staying?”

Anteros shrugged and waved his arms, the milky coats of cum shimmering and disappearing. He donned his whitey-tighties, balls straining against fabric, the footlong flaccid shaft hanging out menacingly from a leg hole.

“No.”

“Why?”

Here we go. Anteros didn’t like followers. It was trouble. They became cum-obsessed, growth-obsessed. Fanatic. The feds would get nosy over musclebound freaks.

“Goodbye, Jan,” said Anteros, shrugging his clothes back on. Jan wouldn’t rat on him. Even if he did, with Anteros’s city-bounce strategy, nothing was (hopefully) traceable. Getting slightly more ripped wasn’t a crime—perhaps he’d started a cycle of steroids. Neither was a hearsay report, there were too many of those these days.

Jan stared hollowly, as the olive-naped god exited quietly. He looked hardly divine, rather mournfully ordinary with the baggy clothes. If it were not for Jan’s sore muscularity, hours later, he would’ve questioned if the encounter had happened at all.

American Supersonic Rail East, or ASRE for short, was a dingy, beat-up bullet train that came with an acrid smell, like a mix between ammonia and pear blossom, much like dry semen. Like the pole grips had been used for strippers at a bachelor party. Anteros crouched on a plastic sheet, flicking his ID card against his wrist—M: male, Class M1HC: Mythic 1, high concern (he had previously taken part in a small armed rebellion in Ohio, mainly to screw some hot soldiers). The car was empty. It was past midnight.

He shook his head and scratched his midriff. Earlier, he had seen the cockthrob beserker again. He was all ready to forget about Boston, but, two ticket lines to his right, the beserker had purchased a one-way ticket to Washington. Anteros wasn’t about to meddle with him. He was sure that Jan could replace the papers, fix up the office again. He’d be fine. But he had caught himself vaguely traveling in the direction of D.C. during his wanders.

That berserker made eye contact too. He had run away, Anteros only caught a quick glimpse—the vivid sharp contours of his package, the glistening thighs. Of course, he was leaving behind Jan, who really was a good fuck. Most men had issues with such a big cock. Some shied away. But Jan took it headfirst, his golden hair, blue eyes, rosy cheeks, all cum covered…

Anteros felt the blood rush into his member. The train whistled through the dark, black glitter of tunnel lamps dancing through the grime-covered windows. He looked around the empty carriage and slipped his cock out.

Even his heart skipped slightly. He spat on the thing, letting it glow and glisten in the dark. Honestly, it was beautiful. Sixteen-or-so inches of engorged sex-god genitalia. Huge droplets of pre circling tight foreskin. He stood up and grinded against the grip pole, letting it coat over with clear fluids.

He gripped and thrust against the pole. Anteros frowned, the train screeched. The doors behind him creaked. Then, they were torn open. Metal scrapes and glass shards flew. Anteros shielded himself, then stared.

In front, was a lion-headed man, with a yellow-brown mane glistening down his striated back. He had to be at least eight feet tall, his exploding body comically large against the small backdrop of the train. His shoulders and traps flew across his body, as if he had a brace around his neck, his pecs and quads bulged outwards so obscenely that body sweat drooped a foot in front of his stacked stomach. He wore a metal codpiece, embroidered with gold and fat egg-shaped rubies, which, despite the hard material, felt rather snug against what was probably a monster cock that rivaled his own.

The beast pointed a large, straight, onyx knife against Anteros’s chest, and lunged.

Anteros barely rolled right before the blade plunged into the dinky plastic seat, ripping it to shreds. He lost the sweater and pants. Usually, the visual of his growth spurt would at least intimidate a little. Not this one. The lion-man hybrid was the most massive hunk of moving flesh he’d ever seen.

And he was damn quick too, swiping again. Anteros yelped as the edge of the knife grazed his obliques, lacing the floor with blood. Anteros ducked and pushed wildly, but he was too deft.

Anteros beat the air with frustration and swept up air, flying to the back of the current train car (no, the wings were not just for show). He concentrated on the sparse sexual energy around him, sweat forming on his nose like morning dew, the beast growling and pounding the floor beneath him as he barreled towards him. Anteros raised his arms and channeled him dead-on.

As if punched in the groin, the lion-man keeled over, hunky arms around his waist. The metal around his waist creaked, a visible dent forming on the right. That had to hurt. He growled and shivered with visible arousal, saliva dripping from his fangs as he ripped off the gem-crusted garment as if it were papier-mâché.

Exposed, the package was so obscene Anteros had to stifle a laugh. At least two feet of pure tawny flesh pointed dangerously above two swollen cum factories. Each testicle swirled around angrily, thanks to Anteros’s burst of Mythogeneration, causing plump blobs of pre-ejaculate to coalesce around the fat angry tip, a shlucking noise as lube fell from the codpiece.

“You!” he growled, in equal parts pain and pleasure.

Anteros swallowed. Usually, such an effort from him would reduce any opponent to a masturbating, ass-fingering, cumming mess, gods included. But he had never faced someone so different, so virile. Now, with the beast’s cock pointed to him like a lance, mane dripping with anticipation, he had just made him angry and horny. Already exhausted from the effort, Anteros was tackled by the lion-man with ease.

Anteros winced as they tumbled onto the floor. The lion-man pressed a brutish, diamond-shaped quadricep on his throat, the sartorius bulging towards Anteros’s carotid. He grunted and flipped him.

“You fucked up. I’m gonna get fuck the shit out of you,” he snarled in his ear.

Anteros felt his back entrance prodded by a massive prick, completely lubricated with precum.

The beast pressed the blade against the back of the neck.

“You better not squirm, or you’ll bleed,” he hissed.

Anteros wanted to reiterate—he was the god of requited love, a sex god, born from Ares and Aphrodite, the most brutal and vicious sexual conquerors ever respectively. He was forged to equal his primordial brother Eros, as a close companion. They had sex, of course, it wasn’t considered incestuous because gods had children in much stranger ways (see: Teshub), and the Greco-Roman lineage was as thin as a pine tree anyway. Point is, Anteros would fight-fuck Eros—Cupid, the primordial god of love himself—and sometimes win. They’d wrestle and suck each other’s cocks and ram each other up the ass brutally hard, all for friendly sibling competition. Somebody had to tame Eros’s libido, otherwise half the pantheon would be sucking his cock. These vicious fuck-sessions would last weeks on end until one tapped out.

Anteros would not have been a very good sex god if he couldn’t take a throbbing twenty-something-inch cock deep in his innards and ride it out and find immeasurable pleasure in it, but it did take heavy adjusting. He had to concentrate not to pass out, because the lion-man was merciless. It occurred to Anteros that he probably needed information, which meant the mouth stayed intact, but the ass could be as demolished as possible.

He wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. The beast snarled and stuffed his mammoth dick into Anteros, letting a low breath out as he slammed tip to base again and again. Anteros felt light-headed and grasped onto a plastic seat in front of him. His eyes welled up with tears, but he looked up slightly and gave the beast a toothy grin which reflected on the window, as if to say: that’s it?

The blade was pressed on his nape firmer, the fucking rushed faster. The lion-man’s tongue lolled in concentration. Saliva dripped onto Anteros’s back. He was evidently full of fucking pleasure, and Anteros had no trouble understanding why—being trained with Eros’s massive prick makes your asshole recover fast and get real tight. A little bit of Mythogeneration too. Anteros was gyrating on beat to his rhythm. His length may have been laudable, but his discipline didn’t match Eros at all.

The lion-man gripped his left wing, which fluttered helplessly, as he pumped Anteros full of seed, each burst splattering his insides as if someone had jammed a firehose in there. Anteros moaned with pleasure, the visible bulge in his stomach thumping around as the beast continued to pound away, squelching with the sheer lubrication of semen, which overflowed onto the floor.

It was in the beast’s nature to mark his territory. He pulled out, letting an orgasmic pop as his turgid cock spewed cum onto Anteros’s muscular back, his rear delts, his cordillera-like spinal erectors, bursts of cum so powerful they shot onto the back of his tousled dark hair, and the chair in front of him. Anteros came himself, the fat cock spasming into his upper abs, his chest, being funneled around his neck, onto the floor in front of him. Juices splattered the windows above and dripped down, like a slasher movie that used liquid goo instead of blood.

The beast flipped Anteros around again. He was covered from their cum, white globules pooled on his sternum, between two heaving pectorals. The beast held his knife towards Anteros again. Anteros ignored the residual cum still dribbling from their cocks, the beast’s fell hot, like acid rain, onto Anteros’s thigh, and Anteros’s spurted like a morning flower glistening with dew.

The smell of the train could make one faint. Sheer animalistic, masculine potency covered the air like a lead blanket, the sexuality unleashed like a nuclear disaster, a mere mortal entering would be reduced to an erect mess.

“I’ll bite,” Anteros panted. “What do you want?”

“Simple,” he growled. “You know the berserker?”

Anteros nodded quickly. “Yes. He’s headed—”

“You take me to the scientist he talked with. Jan Haneke.”

“He’s in Boston.”

“I checked, he’s not.”

“I don’t know—”

The onyx blade pressed against his artery.

“How…” Anteros asked meekly.

“Find a way,” he huffed.

They got off in Connecticut. It rained. In a small 24-hour diner, they huddled at a distant table, like two bodybuilders desperate for a bulk. The one old sourpuss manning the restaurant gave them a stink-eye as they carried rainwater onto the tables.

“I have someone I can call, but I can’t call,” Anteros said. He was paranoid but sure that agencies probably had his phone tapped. He usually didn’t use it much anyways.

“Use mine.”

It was a flip phone. Anteros dialed slowly. Deliberately. It rang.

A pause.

“...How did you get this number?” a bassy voice. Recognizable. Eros, his brother.

“It’s Anteros. I need a favor.”

He thought of asking for help, but the man flashed his blade. Besides, Anteros wasn’t hurt yet. Just implicated.

“Can your assistant go through any recent calls you got from your office?”

“Finally found a friend?” Eros teased.

“Something like that.”

Since Eros was a public figure, most of Anteros’s ex-flings’ first way to try and contact him was through Eros. The Eros Foundation had to establish a separate transfer line for horny and nosy folk. Eros was pissed at first, but he understood. They were two sides of the same dirty coin.

“Through that anonymous file-sharing site, Derek will send data for the past two days. Phone numbers and recorded messages.”

“Thank you, Eros.”

“The first time in months you call is because of this. I hope you’re doing something other than fucking.”

“Love you.”

Click. Pretty soon, he had a point of contact. The lion-headed man grinned, showing off pearly white fangs that he sank into the coffee in front of him.

“I admire him.”

“He does it for tax purposes,” Anteros shrugged.

“Doesn’t it disgust you?”

Anteros raised an eyebrow.

“Like a flea, from city to city. You should strive to do something like Eros.”

“I’m an Erote. That’s what we do.”

“You can be so, so much more,” the lion leaned in, heavy breath against his face. Anteros jotted down the number on a napkin.

“Will you let me leave now?” Anteros asked, sliding the paper towards him.

“An end is coming, and a new beginning. I see you as a forefather. Remember Maahes.”

His grin widened, his eyes twinkling like mad. As Anteros got up, the man nicked him in the forearm. Just a small swipe, but enough to draw blood. Anteros cursed as he ran out the diner.

“Try not to be so selfish!” Maahes cackled. “We must love one another or die!”

The entire city of New Haven must’ve had exactly one male brothel, because Anteros could feel the sexual energy slipping away like a fine mist. The rain washed blood onto his wrist. He licked his wound. He rubbed his ass. He had used Mythogeneration to get rid of the cum that stained his every crevice, but he still smelled faintly of it. Shitty D-tier Egyptian gods quoting fucking Auden. He had to get his mind off of what it was currently on. He had to relieve pressure.

“We’re closing soon,” a blonde bartender warned, as Anteros nudged a blocky glass door.

So what if he was a little hedonistic? A fucking literal god of love can love a little. Anteros marched towards the dancefloor. He was going to fuck the shit out of someone.

It was nearly empty. There was a dancer with silky features, a lithe body, who sported a g-string that left his package’s size to be easily guessable—large and disproportionate to his narrow waist. His sleek arms were conditioned from the pole. He wore a small pink choker, and bunny ears that flopped goofily onto his forehead.

“Hey babe,” he cooed, setting down a colorful drink.

“You got a room?” Anteros huffed.

The dancer winked, sized Anteros up in his white sweats, and grabbed his hand.

“So,” he said sultrily, mindlessly adjusting his g-string and rubbing a little. “Am I doin’ the fucking?”

His breath was heavy on alcohol. He led them into a room padded with tacky orange lights and a large brown sofa. Anteros sensed out right away that it hadn’t been washed for a while, but he didn’t mind.

Anteros stripped down, and watched out of the corner of his eye as the dancer’s eyes widened like plates, breath becoming labored. Anteros rested his massive arms on the headrest, his triceps caressing the faux-leather, insane striated lats bathed in the seat. The dancer darted his eyes from the feathered wings that angled into the air, and then to the audibly throbbing member that laid between them.

Anteros narrowed his eyes and smiled devilishly at him. The dancer would not be doing the fucking.

The dancer yelped and was evidently scared nothing would fit, but Anteros didn’t care. He forced his muscular arms around his neck, and like pistons, pumped him towards his dick, thrusting against the back of his skull. The dancer massaged his jaw, the girth burdensome, he could feel him gagging as he thrust into his esophagus, the choker breaking off like brittle limestone. The dancer coughed, pre-cum shot out from his nose. Anteros backed off, and the dancer heaved. Just a taste.

“Turn around,” Anteros ordered.

The dancer obeyed in a haze, collapsing his thighs onto Anteros’s muscular stomach, his well-oiled prick slapping the bulk of the dancer’s midriff. Anteros lifted him up, with his spurting phallus coating his entrance.

A little Mythogeneration was needed as Anteros split him in half, he was nice enough not to actually kill him. With the monstrous member bulging out the dancer’s stomach, his huge baseball-sized balls squelching with precum as it massaged his taint, and the dancer’s poor prostate overstimulated and abused, the poor twink came instantly, loosing jizz onto the leather cushion and floor below.

It had been a while since Anteros was pleasured from tip to base. He concentrated, willing the pleasurable innards of the dancer to slacken and expand. He usually didn’t use Mythogeneration to do this, partly out of respect for people’s natural limits, partly because it took away the plausible deniability of him abusing Mythogeneration, and partly because now the dancer would have difficulty walking for the next week.

This time, Anteros didn’t care. He was not only fueled with a burning red rage-induced lust, the ass in front of him narrowed in all the right places, just tight enough to spill over the edge if Anteros wasn’t careful. Anteros plunged the rest of the sixteen inches in.

The dancer let out a guttural, unmistakable scream. He came again, a rope of white coating his marbled thigh. Anteros used one hand to cover his mouth, and the other groping his pillowy ass. On cue, the dancer slowly lifted his rear upwards, each inch of exiting cock painfully molesting his anal walls, waves of unbearable pain mixed with blackout-inducing pleasure.

Before the glans popped out, the dancer fell slowly back onto his sword, the cute squealing and wet moans driving Anteros harder. This was no use. Oh, they were going to have to go harder than that!

Anteros grabbed him under his armpits and lifted him up. Precum spewed everywhere. He got up and forced the dancer into a face-down, ass-up position. Anteros kneeled onto the couch and slathered his hole with his dripping precum.

“Feel that weight?” Anteros hissed, letting his cock drape onto his spine.

He rammed his length in again, this time at a breakneck pace. The plap-plap-plap of muscular thigh against ass buffeted by natural lube and virile testicles was insanely lurid. The young cocksleeve had ejaculated again. He was sure enjoying it.

At least half an hour passed before Anteros felt satisfied enough to cum. Slowly, the boiled-over-rage subsided into raw mechanical habit, the sensual love-making beauty in completely claiming someone. Anteros’s wings caressed the sides of him, like he was his newborn calf. The dancer’s ass was red and sore. Shaking and sweating, several times the dancer would produce an ear-shattering moan and nearly pass out. Anteros had broken down his senses, he’d replaced the labyrinth of buttons in his brain with one dial, labeled pleasure, which he had dialed up in a crescendo.

He came without warning. The veneer of pre-cum that glazed the now sticky sofa was quickly replaced with hot Greek ectoplasm. The dancer’s backside swelled and exploded with fluid. As Anteros pulled out, cum flew onto the ceiling, splattering the lights and causing them to flicker, before it rained white on them.

The dancer slumped over, his ass quivering, his cock still hard. Anteros was going to clean up the cum, but since he figured he had already revealed his divine nature, he would allow him to keep it. The dancer would look even hotter with more tone and a bigger package once he’d absorbed the free power. He gave the raw, over-chafed hole a gentle kiss.

Anteros’s phone rang. He left quickly and quietly.

“This is Colonel Gitlis.”

“What?” Anteros asked.

“It’s your friend Jan. He’s dying.”

“Dying? In Boston?”

“Yes, he has you as an emergency contact. He was adamant that you see him. You better come quickly.”

“I don’t know him.”

“He was attacked. Likely Mythogenesis.”

A pause.

“Were you recently attacked?” Gitlis asked.

“Which hospital?” Anteros asked.

Meadowlark Hospital’s white facades melted in with the calm, steady drift of snow. Even with the advent of May, the sun’s gaze blanked, as if shining through thick plastic sheets of clouds. A small, white-clad figure shivered, trudging through shin-length fluff.

The long-term care wing of the hospital wrapped around East, overlooking a small frozen pond. Anteros watched the geese shake scintillating flakes off their tails. A woman escorted him to a small room. It was white brick all over. A cyan hospital bed and a plethora of wires nudged the corner.

Here was Officer Gitlis, arms crossed, face cross.

“You sent… him,” rasped a voice. On the bed was professor of Mythical Studies, Jan Haneke, having been studied a little too closely. Lines of scars darted across his chest, his abdomen, his face, like an atlas of red. Stitches ran across his torso. Large bandages wrapped around his arms.

“I—” Anteros began.

“Look at me.”

“He would’ve killed me!”

“It was a goddess. Sekhmet, I recognize her.”

Anteros traced the lines on Jan’s legs. He tensed.

“Deities aren’t divine, you know that,” Anteros said. “And she spared you. She could’ve killed you but she didn’t.”

“You want me to be glad.”

“I can fix you, but you’re going to have to be in the mood.”

Jan laughed, croaky and labored. “She wanted me to tell her what was stolen.”

“Earlier this week? What was it?”

“All my research on Norse eschatology. Crackpot theory, rejected by most academic thinkers, but my fun little project.”

“I’m assuming you told him everything already,” Anteros said, nodding towards Gitlis.

“Sure. The Norse doomsday, Ragnarok, can’t be stopped, if it does happen, which most people believe is not the case.”

“That’s what the lion-people think.”

“Maybe. There’s also certain references to celestial bodies in the Eddas that could map to coordinates on the Earth. Unsubstantiated, of course. But it could point to certain beings, fundamental to the concept of Ragnarok, that Earth lacks: Surtr, Jormungandr, Fenrir. Giants, sea serpents, wolves. You said you could fix me.”

Anteros nodded. He’d spotted a large white pail in the corner of the room. He washed it.

“Back in a few.”

He turned towards the bathrooms. The men’s was at the end of the hall. It was deathly empty, the bathroom was quite nice, probably only used by patients’ visitors. A small vase of orchids sat between porcelain sinks. The walls were painted white, with blue highlights. Matching blue tiles and popcorn ceiling tiles. He slid into a bathroom stall. It had a small window.

As he unclothed himself, he realized how horny he had been. He had not relieved himself since yesterday at that seedy club, sleeping on the overnight carriage back. His briefs stuck to his pelvis, covered in slime. He sat down, bowed his head and flitted his tongue into his urethra. He had forgotten how sex-flavored his cock had been, the intricate notes of honey and testosterone.

He draped his briefs over his eyes and nose. They were a wall of potency. Anteros’s wings unfurled and shook with pleasure. He licked and cleaned under the foreskin, each fold coating his tongue anew. His testicles pulsed.

It wasn’t difficult to get his engorged member stuffed in his mouth, his pecs serving as a guideline as he rubbed his cock between them. It flowed like the Pieran spring—deep, virile, voracious.

He craned his neck down and went slow. God, he was fucking thick! Each square inch of musky bronzed meat shone with anticipation. He arched his back and flexed his wings, feeling the feathers beat down around his sides. He found a rhythm, bobbing his head up and down, his flexible spine weaving around. He prayed that no one, least of all Colonel Gitlis, would suddenly decide to use the restroom right about now, since morbid shlicking sounds echoed throughout the stalls.

The unmistakable bubbling of orgasm massaged his baseball-sized gonads, each tensing with visible pressure. Anteros fished for the bucket to his side…shit! Where was it?

The first jet of cum hit the roof with punitive force, displacing a ceiling tile. As liquid rained from above, Anteros stood up, ass clenched, trying to hold back in his other spurts, a veneer of pleasure wafting behind his eyes like little red stars. He had left the pail on the sink.

Groaning as he stood up, he let out another unfathomably long strand of god-cum, which pelted the stall door of its hinges and splattered onto the long mirror above the sink, the sheer velocity causing it to crack. Shit, Anteros was pent up, and his own mouth teased out more pleasure than he could restrain.

He barely rushed out, grasping the bucket, as he directed it towards his dick, moaning as he let out the tidal wave of sexual energy into the bucket. He filled it up, the overflow slithering into the sink. He emptied half of it onto the floor, and waved his hands, exhausted, satisfied, and the restroom was clean again. Except for the mirror. He stared at his broken reflection, his third leg dripping maliciously with leftover fluid.

Anteros covered the lid and wrapped it in a garbage bag he found. He hefted it through the hallway and into the room. Gitlis was waiting outside. The bucket stung the air slightly, and as he entered, he was aware how quickly Jan snapped their heads towards the new, not unpleasant smell. Anteros shoved the thing in a cabinet. His senses made him aware of his quickening erection.

“Just have a little. It helps heal,” Anteros said.

“When I’m better, you’re going to help me.”

“I have helped you already.”

“More than what your selfish wings do. Otherwise I tell the proper authorities that you aided and abetted these lion-headed people by giving my info.”

Anteros’s eyes narrowed. “You’re blackmailing me.”

“You’ve also been tampering with Mythogenesis.”

“Why don’t you find Sekhmet and report her for tampering with Mythogenesis. Spend that time better.”

“I think something large is happening, Anteros. I asked Gitlis to stay outside.”

“There’s nothing happening,” Anteros said, but he winced while the words escaped his mouth.

“You’d like it that way.”

“You want something to happen?”

Jan paused.

“When I called Eros’s charity company thing, a secretary hung up on me as soon as I mentioned your name. You’re like a leper, a taboo word to your brother and his people.”

Anteros recoiled. “That’s because they desire me.”

Jan stared, his eyes like blue stones.

“I am desire,” Anteros hissed, approaching the bed.

“Requited desire,” Jan spat back. “In many ways, you aren’t.”

“I’m a god!” Anteros growled, spittle flying.

Anteros slackened, and breathed.

“There’s something so much more here. Let’s get the papers. Find the berserker,” Jan gritted. “Besides, aren’t you curious?”

“No.”

Anteros turned and left, hitting Boston streets. Behind him, he left a trail of comments—thoughts—that bounced through his head like pinball: Eros, Maahes, Jan. All goading him along. Anteros would normally pick a random city at this point. He wanted to go to, say, Baltimore, and continue his personal Saturnalia. Get out of Dodge. What did Maahes call him? Like a flea…

A small ping from his phone. Unknown number. A text: MEET ME AT 34 WINSTON AVE, 9AM. FEELING BETTER ALREADY. ENTIRE BODY FEELS PUMPED.—JAN

Knuckles rapped forcefully against a shoddy green-painted wood.

“How did you get my number?” Anteros shouted towards the door.

“I’m resourceful,” Jan’s smooth voice echoed from inside. “You underestimate me, and overestimate yourself.”

He swung the door open and Anteros beamed. Jan was revamped, gone were the stitches, the bandages, the bruises. Here was a full-grown man, lightly bound with muscle, golden hair, wickedly sharp around the edges. Anteros felt his shoulder, down his side, and grabbed a handful of ass.

Jan giggled and swatted his hand away.

“It’s good you came. We have to get searching.”

Anteros whistled. Of course, he knew that Jan was a professor, but this house was fit for twenty Boston Brahmin. Dark oak banisters darted across a foyer, the scent of leather-bound books melted into a cackling hearth and across cinnamon scented candles. Jan pushed on ornate bronze handles which decorated a door, leading him to a study, equal in aesthetic, draped with detailed notes, several monitors, upon which displayed logs of phone numbers, addresses, maps, the works. Below, Anteros stepped on a bearskin, which reminded him of that berserker who caused all the trouble to begin with. He suddenly felt a little nauseous.

A few rays of morning sun darted through the cool air, just enough to touch Jan in all the right places. He was wearing an unseemly purple bathrobe, possibly nothing underneath, the light accenting his chest.

“I can get comfortable here,” Anteros said, undressing.

“Of course. I’ve contacted Boston Police, contacted six private investigators, I even have the feds on the line. There’s a lot of people looking for information. Not getting a lot back,” said Jan.

Jan turned around and blushed. Anteros understood, it was difficult facing a six-and-a-half-foot tall angel of sex, much less controlling one’s urge to drool obscenely at all the parts.

“And you know about the Washington train?” Anteros said.

“Yeah, that ticket was logged. But you’d think that’s where government intelligence is strongest. And no one’s found a damn thing.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“I think we should go to the coordinates instead. I’ve shared them with the authorities, and they said they were ‘looking into it’”.

Anteros slipped his huge arms under Jan’s and hugged him from behind.

“We’ll find it. We can go.”

“You seem to have had a change of heart. I didn’t even need to ask.”

“Is one of them in Washington?”

“Around there, supposedly. I have housing in D.C., being well-connected has its perks.”

Anteros kissed him behind the ear.

“God, do you ever stop?” Jan said, swallowing.

“Do you want me to?” Anteros groped Jan’s bulge. Like hitting all the right spots all in one go, Jan let out an involuntary moan.

Jan’s cock betrayed him.

“What’s that I feel?” Anteros cooed. “Seven, eight inches? Who gave you all that new meat?”

Jan grinded his hips against Anteros’s overwhelming body. He turned back and kissed him.

“I can’t believe you,” Jan said wetly, saliva dripping.

Anteros kneaded his glutes, which he noticed were more toned. He inserted half, roughly eight inches into the sphincter.

“Ready to take it all?” Anteros moaned.

Jan looked back with wide eyes and a flushed face. He was already on the verge of orgasm, a tent forming in his underwear, but Anteros suppressed it.

Anteros concentrated, using his will to mold Jan’s insides, plunging inch after inch of prostate-stimulating flesh. Jan was going to climax again, his thighs quivering, him dry-humping the air as if trying to spearfish an imaginary low-flying bird. Anteros gripped his shoulders and dulled his orgasm.

Jan whimpered. They were going to have to work on his resistance.

With some magical help, Anteros hilted his length in Jan. Feeling complete and domineering, the lust god’s gonads hefted onto Jan’s rear, ready to fill him up.

Jan was fending off waves of bliss. The feeling of so completely fucked and full was rarely given to a human. Anteros lunged in again, fucking with forces that slammed Jan onto the edge of his desk. He thrusted rhythmically, building up a slow crescendo, Jan moaning on the offbeats.

Then, Anteros grabbed his throat and thrusted, catching a moan in Jan’s esophagus. The two came in unison, semen shooting out in eight directions, covering the nice rugs and expensive-looking furniture in white creamy liquid. A flurry of moans and smiles and kisses and limbs as they collapsed onto the sticky floor.

“You have a nice house,” Anteros said, wiping the sweat off Jan’s brow.

“You’re looking at only the foremost expert on Germanic myth systems on the Eastern Seaboard,” Jan said, staggered breath evening out. “Like I said, you underestimate me.”

Federal Mythocriminology Bureau Agent Levi Drake was a gruff and beady-eyed type, who was close to bald but made up for it by sticking to a strict diet and exercise regimen. He had very little time for anything remotely like Colonel Gitllis.

“Did you see where they went?” Drake demanded.

Gitlis shook his head.

“Mr. Haneke left Meadowlark in one day. Not two to three weeks, one day,” Drake said.

“I don’t know.”

Drake fitted on heavy gloves and a large gas mask. He brought in a white pail and turned it upside down. Some faint, white liquid, glowing slightly gold, ran down to the floor. Gitlis stared at it, wide-eyed, and inhaled, the pheromones stunning him. Erect, he groaned as he came in his pants, Drake observing the reaction with thinned lips, a crude sneer.

Drake stood up and looked at the heavy-breathing Boston Police officer.

“Something fishy is happening. They think we’re not onto them. They think we’re idiots.”

Jan flashed Anteros a white smile, opaque ivory fluid flowing out of his mouth. They kissed, having just fucked, with Anteros needing to quell his insatiable need.

Like little morsels of eiderdown, the National Arboretum had been blanketed by snow. Pine trees grew white beards and frost packed onto the benches, creating frills of icicles. They lumbered towards a location Jan had evidently marked on a map on his phone.

“That’s it.”

It was a statue, once bronze, but blackened with age and touch and whitened with weather. A lustrous man with firm features, agreeable musculature, and an angular face looked upwards, sporting an old war uniform and a tricorn hat. A measly sign displayed a name neither one recognized. Jan tapped on all four sides of the stone base.

“Is this right?”

Anteros playfully rubbed his hand on a bronzed calf. Suddenly, he felt overwhelmingly aroused, ready to explode. He steadied himself. It was an unmistakable bout of erotic aura that he had been subjected to. Gingerly, he touched a vein on the calf again. He visualized the pleasure, which was like a string, a synthwave that flowed through the muscular torso and onto his. He imagined the tension breaking, as if the taut string had been snapped, with the bronze shimmering away and Anteros’s mass quivering with near-climax.

“You’re drooling,” Jan said.

The connection nearly snapped, and Anteros had to flex his arms and clench his ass. A clear spurt of liquid flooded his underwear. Anteros hummed. He had seen a slit, a narrow opening, almost like a lock that was designed specifically to be broken by someone with the right tool. He focused.

Then, a snap. The statue had twisted apart. There was a set of spiral stairs leading down. Jan raised an eyebrow.

They descended. The chamber was dank. Anteros was getting dizzy from going down in circles. At some point, both of them felt a sharp, freezing sensation in their ears, and they turned and saw each other had no clothes on. It was a bit comical, if not concerning.

“You turn me on,” Jan whispered, his giggle echoing down the shaft.

Anteros looked at Jan, who was getting sturdier and dreamier with the constant supply of heroes’ spunk. His shaft practically throbbed with virility today.

The only noises made were the soft footsteps with each fall, and a gentle beating of wings and scraping against the wall. A gentle but steady stream of pre courtesy of Anteros dressed up the place.

They reached the bottom, in a chamber no bigger than a bedroom. A three-foot tall stone statue, near-rectangular in nature, stood atop a ledge, underneath which were placed a smorgasbord of things: unlit candles, dainty plastic candelabras, withering flowers. Anteros rubbed the statue on the nipple. Two small vertical painted lines rose from the midsection up to near its ugly head in what Anteros hoped was not a depiction of some horrific, bestial cock.

As he touched the statuette, a small golden chalice near the wall filled with liquid. It was whitish-pink in nature, thick like paste. Anteros nodded towards Jan, who shrugged and chugged it. The chalice refilled and Anteros brought it to his mouth. It was like tasting cherries and pear blossoms and stale underwear.

Immediately his body tensed. Something was wrong. It was as if poison had multiplied into hives beneath his skin. He was expanding. His soft footlong cock spurred. It was gushing out so much pre that he watered the dead flowers with it. He looked at Jan, who was flexing his chest with a brutish look.

Then, a thumping sound. They both spun back. A large tawny pelt decorated with insignia fluttered down the hole in the middle of the stairs. Anteros recognized it immediately as the berserker’s. Footsteps followed, robust and rhythmic.

“This is an altar to Freyr,” a man called from above. The voice alone made Anteros’s hair stand on end—both bassy and like a fork scraping plates.

Anteros tried concentrating on the steps on which the massive weight thudded as it descended, but with each stomp, his body pulsed outwards. His thighs expanded, each striation hardening like rubber bands, his lats groped outward all alien-like, his pecs sagged forward with newfound weight. He was becoming molded by a mysterious force, being groped all over, each invisible hand inverting his flesh such that it blossomed into hardened musculature.

Anteros let out a gasp as his cock burst forward like a striking rattlesnake. He tried stemming the potent energy coursing through his dickveins, but it darted through his glutes, and up his core, through the peak of his biceps which tore through the air, hot to the touch.

The berserker’s frame entered into view. The physique Anteros so admired from a distance in Boston was in full display: tantalizing lines, 30-inch biceps, as if little watermelons had been snuggled under his skin. A veritable truck of a human being, decked out with a footlong cock that caressed leg pillars, which shook the ground.

It rivaled Anteros’s own physique, which was being boosted by whatever magical testosterone was making his balls spasm. He felt the room shrink against him, he was growing too, up to maybe 7 feet.

Anteros understood the hyper-responsiveness of his body to mytho-sexual stimuli. Once, he had taken a bite from a strange fruit lying in Aphrodite’s closet, causing an erection that lasted weeks. He nearly fucked out the entire catalogue of satyrs and centaurs. He only hoped the current situation was temporary.

The berserker sized Anteros up and grunted in approval.

“You aren’t Norse,” he said. Maybe disapproval, then.

Anteros awkwardly unfurled his wings and spread them so that they encroached the narrow chamber. Shadows of flesh, all three bodies hard-cut and blocky, danced around.

“We were offering our respects,” Jan offered.

“Excellent. Immortal flesh means eternal blood sacrifices,” the berserker said, a large blood-stained silver ax materializing from thin air.

Anteros leaped to a ready position at once. He was not going to be eternally ichor-drained like a wild boar by a knucklehead with 8th century fashion sense. All three of them had so much masculinity and pre-ejaculate oozing that overripe sexual energy hung from the altar air, its energy itching to be released. It was too easy. He concentrated on the berserker’s loins. A nauseating wave of virility washed over him, the berserker had a strong core, a deep, thick, energy that threatened to strangle him. Anteros breathed sulkily and jabbed into it.

In a split-second, the berserker swung and missed, his cock flailing upwards naughtily. He groped his massive gravity-defying cock, as if dual wielding two weapons, and grunted, rubbing the massive red glans of an easily 14-incher. Anteros directed more sexual energy towards him, and he dropped his weapon, frantically groaning as he began pumping his organ with both hands.

Anteros rushed towards him, 400 pounds of Olympian muscle barrelling against an equally unmovable mass, and both hard bodies collapsed at the foot of the altar. The berserker panted, and began throwing punches, swinging between bouts of pleasure. Anteros got caught out, taking an uppercut, the honey-metal taste of blood coating his tongue, his head pounding dizzily. The berserker, seeing his chance, began pleasuring himself at light speed.

Anteros focused. He had to, through heavy breaths. He couldn’t allow the berserker to climax—his enormous erection clouded his judgment and distracted him. He was about to repress an impending orgasm when the bad fluids Anteros consumed earlier threatened to reverse his insides again, and he had to drop to all fours as another growth spurt happened. Jan saw this and picked up a dusty vase of flowers and raised it towards the berserker, but he swatted the projectile away with ease.

It bought enough time. Anteros barely suppressed the barrage of fluid coming out from the berserker, the berserker frustratingly humping the air with orgasm denial. Enraged, he tried getting up, through pleasure and pain, his throbbing cock huge and purple. He staggered and fell again, his heavy chest heaving.

“You should be thanking me!” the berserker said through gritted teeth.

Anteros got up and grabbed the berserker’s ax. He pointed it at the berserker’s chiseled abs, each like a glistening oblong stone.

“I’m helping you stop the twilight of the gods—” the berserker began, but he quickly gasped for air as his cock spasmed, eager for release which was declined.

“You needed to be blessed by Freyr,” Jan observed.

“I have been blessed,” the berserker spat. “And I was deserving of it.”

“All right,” Jan said. “How can we help?”

“Don’t get in the way,” the berserker growled.

“We want to know,” Anteros said firmly.

The berserker rested and heaved up and down, whimpering as he felt his trembling cock.

“I’ll let you orgasm,” Anteros said. “And I’ll make it the best fucking orgasm you’ve ever had.”

The berserker gave him a side-eye.

“I’m finding Surtr. The giant with the flaming sword. I’m going to help kill him,” the berserker offered.

“But if Ragnarok is real,” Jan butted in, “then you can’t change that. Surtr kills Freyr. That’s already prophesied in the Eddas.”

“Anything else you want to know?” the berserker panted.

“How are you planning on doing this?”

“Freyr never told me.”

“Do you know about these Egyptian lion-headed people?”

“What?”

The berserker closed his eyes and concentrated around him. Anteros could tell, there was too much pent up energy. He didn’t want the berserker to self-capitulate.

“Don’t interfere,” the berserker murmured. “You’ll worsen things.”

Anteros and Jan exchanged looks. The latter nodded, and started up the stairs. Anteros stared at his reflection in the berserker’s ax—he looked so much bulkier than he’d ever been—and threw it on the floor. With a flick of his wrist, all imaginary vices around the berserker’s massive prick slackened and he gushed up a fountain, the sticky cum blasting through the small room and shredding through the air, spraying everywhere. The sheer potency of euphoria was perhaps too much, the berserker passed out, his cock still paying tribute as the two hunks left.

They had “rented” a car and were heading down south. Public transit was no longer an option, after Anteros had lost his clothes in the magical spiral staircase to hell, it was easier than ever to be noticed in the public. Next to him was Jan, who now clearly looked like he’d been spoon-fed magical Mythogeneration-like muscle. It was a minivan, but clearly not spacious enough with their colossal frames, with muscles piling on top of every inch of the car. Anteros was stooping down, his shoulders shrugged, his head bowed.

Riding shotgun, Jan, with Anteros’s blessings and Freyr’s concoction, had risen to a veritable 6-foot, 280-pound, 11-inch-cock freak. While he was still dwarfed by Anteros’s size, Jan had become something of a pornstar-come-to-life himself.

And Anteros had suspected that the prolonged contact with magical sperm had done something to Jan. He had budding magical abilities, with his jaw being able to unhinge like a snake, his tight ass giving Anteros uncontrollable wet dreams, his insatiable virility keeping Anteros on his toes. Anteros thought about it. Not many humans had prolonged sexual relations with a sex god, it was forbidden and the god would usually get bored. But things were changing. No mortal should be able to take a now-18-and-a-half-inch cock and be able to live and tell the tale. Maybe the love god was using Mythogeneration subconsciously, transferring powers subconsciously?

They were squirreling towards deep in the Appalachians now. Snow-capped trees dotted rolling hills. Dusk fell, and the road was empty, deathly black like crow’s eyes.

“I need to stretch,” Anteros said.

He stopped in the middle of the one-lane road and got out. He pulled his arms up, and his wings out, like a diagonal cross. His chiseled back, textured lats and rear delts were highlighted in dark contrasts under the moonlight. A long shadow was cast by his towering frame. It felt orgasmic, the many knots in his back muscles untying.

“Where do we sleep?” Anteros asked.

They wouldn’t be able to fit in the back, unless they curled up into little balls.

“In the snow,” Jan suggested, shivering.

Anteros frowned.

“There,” he said, pointing towards a small carved out cliff face several paces in front.

The car was still idling in the middle of the road. Anteros gripped the base of the minivan, took a breath and dragged it into the dirt, his heels dug into the ground, arms and back straining.

They traipsed into the cavern, whose mouth was covered with fallen pines, but the interior was quite spacious. Their breaths distilled into the air, their footsteps echoing across walls hollowly. Anteros overhead-pressed the trees and cleared them.

“Show-off,” Jan snorted.

Anteros laughed and struck a side triceps pose. Jan walked over and began rubbing his bulging growth, wiping snow off of his pecs. His 75-inch chest was built with two big blocks of cement, with Jan rubbing the deep ridge under them. Anteros lifted an arm and flexed his biceps, and Jan licked his massive lat, from wing-like base up into his armpit, then he massaged his traps, his upper back, and ran his fingers several times through his feathers.

Anteros tensed his midriff and Jan began sucking on each ab, like a mini tennis ball, each glistening with sweat and pre-ejaculate when Anteros’s fat soft cock was idling on his stomach. Jan rubbed his 40-inch thighs, each one decorated with a map of veins, hunks of flesh falling outwards like giant keeps on a castle. And Jan made sure not to neglect his calves, which protruded in a powerful semicircle shape, conditioned by the balancing of sheer mass above it.

Now Anteros brought his arms behind his head, in an ab and thighs pose, and Jan raised his arms to feel up his titanic triceps. Soon, Anteros cock prodded at full mast into Jan’s lean belly, an invitation.

Jan was getting really good. Inhumanly good, actually, as if he was turning into a minor deity himself. He hinged at his hips, rearing his ass like a pale moon, and Anteros deadlifted him on his cock. Jan took all 18 inches, his ass heavenly tight. A prominent bulge shot out from his featherweight core, and he rubbed it, Anteros moaning softly as his head was sensually massaged from inside and out.

Anteros used one hand to lift Jan under his thigh and steady him on his mass, and one hand to pry his mouth, coating his fingertips with wonderful saliva. Jan, meanwhile, had one hand on his cock, and one hand reached back, pleasuring Anteros’s nipple.

The god fucked him like a human fleshlight, each inch of wet penis cutting erotically through his ass like a warm knife in butter. They fell into a rhythm, muscular thigh on muscular ass, like beats of a bass drum, with Jan’s moans echoing throughout the cave.

Anteros gave Jan a taste, he came into his ass with five controlled spurts, each jizzstream able to fill a water bottle. Jan’s cock erupted in sync, wasted seed spread across the earth. Anteros, still hard, decided to smear his fat cream-laden cock around Jan’s nips, Jan’s now prominent pecs serving as a rubbing receptacle for Anteros to rut against.

Jan winced as the weapon pressed on his chin, his throat pressured with cock-weight. He was feeling the semen course through his blood already. His pumped veins bulged. He squeezed his pecs against Anteros’s thrusting body.

Anteros came again. This time, he arched his heavy back, and bulleted out more godly sperm. Jan cried in pain as he took it face-first, desperately needing to salvage the elixir, the splooge flooding his eyeline. Anteros growled, his rippling abs pulsating as he covered Jan’s chest, his face matted with sweat, his wings draped over the mess like curtains.

They both panted, heavy grunts and huffs of air, like two marathon runners, each feeling up their bodies, Anteros massaging Jan’s cum-covered torso, Jan wiping the residue off Anteros’s throbbing thing. They felt each other’s weighty mass on themselves, like two large steel girders clashing, each with enough muscle to carry a chariot like an ox. They kissed, trading saliva and semen, tasting honey and eroticism.

Jan blushed and pressed his soft cock against his as he flattened himself on the Erote. He nuzzled him, running his hand across Anteros’s curly black hair. Quickly, his cock had been coated with Mythological afterglow. Jan casually licked where he could, using his hands to scoop the ladlefuls of ejaculate that pooled on his body, bringing it to his mouth for the sweet taste. The cavern was musty hot now, the dusty environment humidified by pained breaths and body fluid.

“What the hell are we doing here?” Anteros murmured, tracing his thumb over Jan’s chest, around his washboard abs. They were already firming up, no doubt about to explode in size again.

“Saving the world,” Jan grinned.

“Don’t you want to turn back?”

“No way. I get to use academic expertise in the field, and have sex and penis enlargement?”

Anteros narrowed his eyes. He made out a raccoon or some other beady-eyed mammal scurrying near the headlights of the car.

“One thing I’ve learned—gods aren’t brave. Literature won’t tell you that,” Jan said, rubbing his eyes. “But, you’re finally going to be someone, Anteros.”

“I’m going to be someone,” Anteros repeated softly, not knowing if he believed a word, as he traced tiny question marks through Jan’s hair, the mortal cradling his flesh as they embraced sleep.

Vote on this story

There’s something about Billy by Ziel Billy seems like perfectly normal, good-looking guy from the waist up. But there’s something going on inside Billy’s weird, super-baggy pants, and Duke and Kevin were determined to find out what it was. 5,442 words Added Feb 2017 19k views 5.0 stars (14 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Multi-balls•Multicock•Infectious

Double dream feat by Ziel Aidan awakes from a surprisingly realistic dream to find things aren't quite how he remembered them. For starters, his dingy dorm room has been replaced with a reasonably sized apartment… an apartment he seems to share with his best friend. But stranger things are in store for Aidan as the morning unfurls. 4,723 words Added Jun 2018 11k views 5.0 stars (6 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Cockfucking•Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Replication•Selfcest •M/M•M/M/M/...

SpoogeQuest by BRK After pissing off his game-developer ex, Vlad finds himself inside an open-world gay erotic fantasy game where everything about him is up to 11—and, unless he undertakes a perilous quest, further changes will await him. 4,829 words Added Sep 2019 11k views 5.0 stars (11 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Multicock•Replication•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Plausible Size Difference•Size Increase•Selfcest•Witch/Warlock/Wizard•Fantasy Realm

ChristMASS by Musclesaber Four men are transported to the North Pole to compete for the title of “The New Santa Claus”. Little do they know what magic can really do to them as one by one, they are each eliminated. 4 parts 9,454 words Added Dec 2020 16k views 5.0 stars (3 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Cum inflation•Hyper Cum•Muscle Growth•Belly Growth•Getting Taller•Giants•Inflation•Christmas •M/M•M/M/M/...

What a dear deer boy by Thatbadwriter Eric’s undersized brother Jayden finally hits his growth spurt—then keeps hitting it. 5 parts 12k words Added Feb 2021 Updated 13 Mar 2021 28k views 5.0 stars (23 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Hyper Cum•Butt Growth•Giants•Plausible Size Difference•Size Increase•Human to Animal/Anthro•First Time/Virgin•Incest•Brothers•Hyper Pheromones•Anthro/Furry •M/M

Lucky devil by beastofmarbas Amidst a global pandemic and after a summer of unrest, a guy cruising at a sex club encounters a mysterious figure and finds himself ensorcelled into a secret society. 5,685 words Added Oct 2021 5,394 views 5.0 stars (2 votes) No comments yet •Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Hyper Cum•Demons•Horror•Supernatural•Halloween•Set during the Pandemic •M/M

Plato’s Atlantis by brazboy A scholar discovers a different version of Plato’s dialogues which has a different take on the causes of the fall of Atlantis: could it be that the tsunamis which engulfed the lost island were of white, hot, human spunk? 2 parts 2,317 words Added May 2022 5,997 views 5.0 stars (2 votes) No comments yet •Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Hyper Cock•Cum Milking•Hyper Cum•Immobility•Giants •M/M•M/M/M•M/M/M/...

A Barber story: The Titan Brothers by Ogrebear Two men from opposite ends of life get a world-changing haircut.  5,252 words Added Dec 2022 9,916 views 5.0 stars (9 votes) No comments yet •Cock Growth•Huge Balls•Huge Cock•Public Orgasm•Hyper Strength•Muscle Growth•Muscle/Strength•Getting Handsomer•Getting Taller•Plausible Size Difference•Size Increase•Age Regression•Hair Growth/Getting Hairy•Retcon•Suggestion•Incest•Brothers•Twins •M/M