Willard
During Zelus's travels, the cat-and-mouse game continues. Almost too EZily.
Nichole
¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸
 From the sultry salsa clubs of Havana to the underground techno havens of Berlin, Zelus had traversed the globe, immersing himself in the world's most vibrant nightlife. Each city transformed into a stage for his celestial dance of competition and camaraderie, testing his prowess against mortals and gods alike. His global journey didn't just broaden his horizons; it allowed him to dive into cultures beyond his comprehension, meeting locals who eagerly introduced him to the nocturnal pulse of their vibrant cities. Universally beloved, his presence requested in the joyful embrace of dance and celebration wherever he roamed. This relentless pursuit of thrill and connection ultimately drew him to Mauritius.

Nestled between the murmuring ocean and whispering palms, Luminous stood as a beacon of vibrant life amidst the tropical splendor. As Zelus stepped into the scene, he was greeted immediately by an explosion of colors. Neon lights in hues of electric blue, vibrant red, and lush green cascaded across the walls, their reflections dancing off mirrored surfaces to create a dizzying spectacle. They pulsed in harmony with the thumping beats of house music, the deep bass resonating with the god's very core, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of his heart.

Attracting both locals and tourists, the club was a melting pot of cultures that promised a hedonistic paradise. The air was thick with the mingling aromas of sea salt and exotic perfumes, crafting an intoxicating atmosphere that heightened the senses. Amid this lively tapestry of people, the god thrived.

¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸

Tonight, his attire was meticulously chosen to blur the lines between the divine and the daring. Clad in white, his ensemble shimmered under the club's neon lights, with the top buttons provocatively undone to reveal a hint of his skin. This audacious choice served as both a nod to his sacred masculinity and a playful flirtation with the feminine, challenging traditional norms and expectations with every swivel and step. A gold chain hung discreetly around his neck, only occasionally catching the light to add a subtle hint of allure.

Moving with fluid grace and fiery intensity, his presence on the dance floor drew admiring glances without even realizing it. His body responded instinctively to the rhythm, each beat a call to which his soul answered, driving him deeper into a state of blinding euphoria. His dance was an open invitation—a challenge to any who dared to match his tireless energy.

As the night deepened, Zelus's dance became more intense and expressive. He existed at the center, a whirlwind of energy that captivated and commanded the space around him. Soon, a man and a woman, both mesmerized by his stamina, joined him. The man, brimming with confidence and a mischievous smile, engaged the god in a competitive dance-off. Meanwhile, the woman, radiant in a flowing dress, sparkled under the club lights, moving towards him with a grace that seemed to match his vigor.

¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸

Caught between these spirited individuals, the god found himself in a playful dance of seduction. He expertly spun the woman, her dress blossoming like a flower in spring, while the man attempted to escalate the encounter with a bold move to steal a kiss. 

*"Not here. I'll find you later."*

Zelus whispered, his voice laced with a false promise as he teasingly shoved the man away. He had no interest in following through; his eyes were set on a *Greater conquest.*

The surrounding crowd erupted with cheers and applause, drawn into the dynamic spectacle. With an inviting laugh, he encouraged more partiers to join the fun, transforming the dance floor into a backdrop of a tropical festival. 

Yet, even amid the revelry, the dancer's gaze continued to wander, ever searching. There, lurking in the shadows of the club, was a mysterious figure who had captured his intrigue from the moment he entered—a presence promising a depth and connection beyond the fleeting encounters of the night.

||
Michael
°ᡣ𐭩 . ° . 𝓢hut up, sit down.
⠀

⠀

"You should not go so soon, mon ange. Stay with me forever, hm?"
⠀
Despite the strain of artificial light, Eros could see her, and the way that her lip trembled with a forlorn plea. The sienna of her lipstick had been streaked by the habitual way that she wet them, and her eyelashes were like inky wax, as thick as stilts. A dress of black fit her better than skin, and there was little space for assumption in its rigidity. By his likeness, she knew how to speak with a perfected amplitude that went beyond the throbbing of incessant bass. On her face, there was a smile, but it was one that suggested a pained understanding to the end of their narrative. Still, her figure pressed close to him, lissome fingers looping through his hair. Her nails, etched into wide, acrylic squares, were the same shade as her mouth. Periodically, they touched his throat, where his pulse would thud without synchrony. 
⠀
"Forever is a long time, starlet."
⠀
A refusal furnished in sweetness. He spoke with a spellbinding depth, as if he saw all of her, and perhaps he did. Words like flora, that were enveloped in covert thorns once held for prolonged time. It was why it had been spoken so lightly, as weightless as drifting feathers. The susceptibility of her eyes was combated by his touch, tilting her chin and keeping her still.
⠀

Furthermore, she spoke to him, and he only showed that he listened. Eros knew that she loved him, and while it gladdened him, it did not satiate him. He was starved with longing. He looked to each of his lovers in this way, with calculated delicacy and a flame that singed. It was a dying language, his illustration of love. The only one that spoke it was hard to keep still in his claws.
⠀
Mauritius had suited him, but only for a time. The sun favored the island, for it did not neglect any infested alleyway or sweeping coastline. There was a glow to him here that was universally recognized, swathed in costly fabrics and a spirited smirk. Tourists, like her, glommed to him like a jellyfish, for he was more foreign than the plethora of beaches and the prospering reefs. In such limited time, he was decidedly adored, but it would not prevent his desertion. It was a sadistic choice, to confide in her— he liked to be told to stay, although he knew he would not. Eros could return in eons, when the water was a little warmer or the club was made into something new. He could return, and with new faces, it could be rewritten.
⠀
His fellow gods surely favored him, for the weight of room tilted, and so did the tethers of his interests. The red thread tightened in proximity, and it meant only one thing.
⠀

The finger that held his admirer by the chin fell to his side, but he was not deprived of affection. Men and women alike spent their time nearest to him, beckoning for only a sliver of his regard. His lips were glossy, tasting of a cauldron of mixed drinks, meddled together with each fleeting kiss. Mortals pressed to him and their hands boldly roamed, and he allowed their sins to fill him like a sweet. When the light caught him, it was enough to make a dancer's step foolishly falter— garbed in silken emerald, the color of the gaudy peacock. There were more than a few mere buttons undone, open and halted right at his abdomen. Perspiration mimicked the shine of the fabric, and it gleamed like his eyes, as blue as the country's tides.
⠀
The swan was graceful, even with its weighty, euphoric magnitude. He moved his feet with belonging, as if he had been grounded to the center. Eros had made the shadows his seventh heaven, yet the bird had etched his initials into the dance–floor's median. It had been done without him; the man in white was adorned in eager mortals, flitting around him poorly, in ways that could not replicate his strength. Eros watched, and the near fruition of a kiss caused his lip to twitch. It was a smile, but it replicated the trait of a grinning hound— a predator who was not fond of exclusion.
⠀

Eros departed from his nightly devotee with elegant steps of advancement, as if he anticipated her to follow. The island's humidity left his hair in springy, endearing curls, and his lasting scent of roses was doused in the salt of the sea. A room of passion now, for an undisclosed reason, felt complete— he moved expertly, dancing with and alongside hot flesh, leaving a trail of agonizingly short–lived touches. All of them would want more, but in the face of authenticity, his glances were quick and diverted.
⠀
From the shadows he had come, but a darkness persisted, one that hid beneath a thick, practiced veil. The white–clothed dancer's laughter was deafening, lasting beyond the mortal senses. Eros was closer, closer, closer to the focus of Luminous, but it would be no game without the spillage of blood.
⠀
The god's fingers, clad in silver and assorted jewels, met the hips of a woman like fangs would skin. Her dress was similar— one that the swan had spent his time accompanied by— and while Eros did not pirouette her with the quirks of a gentleman, he pulled her to him like an erotic fiend. Her eyes, a hue darker than his, looked to him with unbroken innocence. She blushed, and he knew it by her dimples. Eros was, without any mistake or indecision, guiding her to something more.
⠀
His foot clomped recklessly but intentionally on the man in white's, and as one hand kept to the lady, the second extended without use. Eros, at last, acknowledged him. His eyes were pouncing him, valuing his garments. That smirk, however, suggested malevolence. He did not step back, nor did he dance onward, invading their separate space.
⠀
"Oh— I've got two left feet in the company of a pretty face."
⠀
His forked tongue was lathered in potency, and Eros neglected the woman despite speaking of her. A ray of purple cast itself downward, reflecting on his layered necklaces of silver. The longest one, complimented with a wedge of rose quartz, seemed to seep in his untapped energy.
⠀
Nichole
¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸

In the cavernous expanse of Luminous, where pulsating bass and frenetic synths sculpted the air, the club throbbed with infectious, rhythmic ecstasy that ensnared the senses of all who entered. Yet a palpable shift cascaded through the throng the very moment Eros emerged from the shadows and stepped into the vibrant wash of neon light. It was as if the atmosphere itself sensed his presence and responded: the beats deepened, becoming sharper, and the melodies wove into more seductive threads, orchestrating a backdrop that seemed custom-fitted to the rhythm of his steps. The sound system, almost sentient, seemed to recognize and resonate with the aura of the man whose movements flowed like liquid fire.

Zelus, amid the festivity, felt this transformation abstract his sense of being. His heart, already in sync with the pounding of the bass, faltered, then fluttered—echoing the erratic synths that now underscored Cupid's proud carriage. With the regal bearing of a majestic peacock, he moved through bodies with a grace that was as effortless as it was practiced. His attire, reminiscent of green plumage, shimmered under the club's lights, each turn casting kaleidoscopic reflections that captivated the spectators, binding their attention in a spell as long-lasting as he wished.

However, the God of Love was not alone. Accompanied by a striking woman, she moved through the mass; her attire, a cascade of shimmering black that clung to every curve with deliberate precision. Her dark hair flowed like ink down her back, adding to her allure, yet within Eros's expert grasp, she appeared less a companion and more an accessory—a striking object to be displayed and, inevitably, discarded.

¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸

Now, this observation wasn't lost on the man who eyed the pair with a gaze sharp enough to slice through the haze of cigarette smoke and human heat. He was acutely aware of the game being played—a game where Eros seemed determined to claim victory not just in the night's revelries but over the hearts and minds of those he dazzled. However, a familiar discomfort momentarily disrupted Zelus's stratagems. The sight of the ethereal bird with another stirred unease within the swan, tightening his chest in sync with the darkening pulse of his thoughts.

Though he disliked their proximity—an intimacy he viewed not merely with indifference but with a brewing aversion—his reaction remained cloaked. He cared little for the wandering hands of strangers that seemed to dilute the true worth of the spectacle before them. A brief clench of his jaw was his only outward sign of his inner turmoil as he monitored the vibrant peacock, flaunting his splendor for another.

Quickly mastering his emotions, Zelus molded his features into a flirtatious smile directed at his dance partner. This woman, whose laughter was as melodious as the tunes spinning from the DJ's booth, seemed blissfully unaware of the undercurrents that were dragging the daimon of envy. She danced with a carefree spirit, her hands occasionally reaching up to touch the zeal god's shoulders, her smile bright and inviting. Yet, her touch, while warm, sparked none of the fire that Eros's slightest glance kindled within him. He led her smoothly across the floor, his hands firm yet gentle on her waist, guiding her through the crowd with a precision that belied the chaos of his emotions. Each step and spin with the woman in his arms was a statement, not just of his prowess but of his unspoken challenge.

¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸

His strategy required a blend of careful manipulation of appearances and realities. As he danced, his moves were precise, his laughter ringing clear, but his eyes, those keen viewers, never strayed long from Cupid. This quiet surveillance was his way of retaining control, of not allowing Eros the complete satisfaction of believing he dominated the night. Zelus's mind, ever analytical and sharp, plotted not just steps on the dance floor but moves in a more intricate dance of influence and attraction.

Their game of glances and subtle provocations intensified, mirroring the escalating vibrations of the night. When Cupid intentionally stepped on his foot, Zelus seized the opportunity, transforming his jealousy into the energy that fueled their interaction. He feigned annoyance, his scowl a skillful mix of mock outrage and playful jest.

¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸

*"Watch it, pretty boy."*

He quipped, disarmed by his rose-kissed aroma. Almost instinctively, his fingers deftly unfastened the last two buttons of his shirt in a bold display, revealing more skin, inviting closer scrutiny, and perhaps closer contact. In a selfish swallow, he let his eyes take advantage of Eros's toned muscles on display for him.

"You are lucky I am in the presence of a lady, or this could go another way."

The daimon remarked, his words aimed at his dance partner but his focus riveted on the quartz pendant around the love god's neck. Zelus stood planted, sizing up the man before him. Sensing the tension, the woman tugged at the god's white garment, pleading until she realized it was futile and disappeared into the crowd.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Zelus grasped the crystal with a fierce grip, pulling his prey down a level below his chin. Like a seasoned actor gearing up for a climactic scene, the zeal god clenched his free hand into a fist.

"Someone ought to teach *You* Manners. "

Each syllable mingled with threat and promise, rolling off his tongue slowly and deliberately as if carving the words into the space that dared to separate them.

||
Michael
_ _
࿔*:･❦︎
_ _
With each of the peacock's studied steps, a bombardment to the senses followed. By scent was he often apprehended first— candied and pleasant, sure, but saddled with acidity. As syrupy as a custard, but with enough gratification, the taste of him could leave one sickly and timid. A sugary, sourdough pastry, enriched with a poison filling. As sweet as the ripest strawberry, as pungent as a slab of dark chocolate— Eros was, assuredly, whatever one wished for him to be, yet the denouement was seemingly always the same. The God of Debauchery could chew one up, only to spit them out; like gum, he could stretch one's heart between his teeth, and discard of it when it was void of flavor. He could touch like one's fated paramour, only to feel little within himself. There was a promised thrill, but it only took him so far. It only dusted a selection of colors on the canvas, when there was much left to unwrap.
_ _
Zelus unknotted the ropes of expectation, and dismantled his short–term interests. It was Zelus, his swan in waters of superficiality, that revised the knocking of his heart. So many times had Eros been loved, but he only felt its honesty beneath those eyes of brown, alongside those feet that danced.
_ _

It was in all of the swan's exceptions that his gaze was weighted with patent perception. Amidst clubbers in inexpensive fabrics and gaudy jewelry, Eros could feel him. It was beyond their shared divinity, exceeding the humane boundaries of envy— it was laced with the tremors of fate, of providence. His eyes, infinitely bottomless for a look at him, stayed to his partner of the night. Eros dared to gift him a glance when their eyes evaded one another. Sparingly, Eros watched him, and it became a sadistic method of torment on himself. The intimate chain of gold looped around his neck, catching the light graciously, just for him. The tousled nest that was his hair, an indication to his nightly prances. The fullness of his cheeks when he smiled— however, with Eros's immersion to the spotlight, he was sure he had seen it become a fleeting clench of the jaw. Eros looked to the eyes of strangers, and held his dance partner with ravishing possession as a result.
_ _
The swan's mate had been an unfitting selection, and his eyes ventured to blacken at the sight of her. Her laughter was a jingle that was considerably out–of–tune, befouling the sublimity of his own. In boyish disdain, Eros would not dare to look at her face, as if the magnificence of his beatific glance could bless her with good fortune. If affliction clutched her like pine needles, it would contentedly be his doing.
_ _
His misstep had been pitifully intentional, and in their closeness, his pleasure could not be contained. It was only when Zelus spoke, when his hands boldly touched, that Eros released the woman as if she were an unfilled wine glass. He had heartlessly swallowed down her affinity, and there was nothing left for him to taste.
_ _

*"Watch it, pretty boy."*
_ _
That was the elixir that he was after. The hiss in his inflection, the prompt movement of his hands— it unearthed eons of encounters and confrontations, touches and glimpses. Zelus smelt of the island's crystalline waters, and it fought to resist the beguiling scent that Eros maintained. The club, muggy and sultry, struck his flesh further by its exposure. Eyes, like lavish sapphires, did not stray from Zelus's face, ignited by the way that he ogled him.
_ _
The pendant that illuminated his body shifted with the rise and fall of his chest, and Eros became still in their exchange. His lashes batted with the pattering of Zelus's heart, examining the shape of his lips, as if he had not pecked them incalculable times over. The woman at the swan's hip dwindled in persistence— there was only a subtle glance in her direction, drilling a hole in her skull. The peacock's partner in black lingered, though her gaze wandered to the eyes of solitary men that could give what Eros was giving another.
_ _

A breath fell from parted lips as he was hauled down and beneath Zelus's line of sight. Eros yielded to his force with a compliance that was daringly eager, but his impulses were not to be mistaken for blind subservience.
_ _
Slowly, Cupid took the hand that grappled the pendant into his own, straightening himself. There was a touch, a stroke of his thumb over the swan's knuckles, that only he would discern. Playfully, Eros lifted Zelus's arm, sloppily twirling under his hand. Once he circled back, the ink–haired deity released his hand and harshly forced it back, as if the act unnerved him— his smile said otherwise. With the tempo of a famished cat, Eros leaned in, their cheeks mingling with one another.
_ _

"You should learn to keep your hands to yourself. What would the lady think? Oh— I don't think she liked ranking in at second place."
_ _
Eros leaned back, only for a new perspective of Zelus's attire. There was an endearing approval in his glance, but the electricity of the moment squandered it. With a tickled grin, Eros eyed his performative fist.
_ _
"The least you could have done is helped with my zipper, too. I thought you were a gentleman."
_ _
Eros exhaled, blowing hot air against the outline of his ear as he pulled away. Only inches apart, he was sure that he could hear the daemon's heart, thrashing like the hooves of a horse. He smiled, and his fingers pressed into the portion of Zelus's chest that was exposed. With intent, he scraped his rings of silver upon his skin. Halting at the space between his collarbone and the start of his throat, Eros closed in for a second time.
_ _
"Are you having fun, Z? I adore the sound of your laughter, but not when it's so forced. Really, it's in the company that you keep."
_ _
His voice became quieter, as if any allusion to their bond was a beloved secret to conceal. Lips, so close to Zelus's ear that they could be felt, pursed together. Eros was pressing into him, now. His hand grazed his throat, over the swell of his Adam's apple, and to his chin, before returning to his side. It was a game that defied traditional demands of contention, but a fever ran high just the same, stirring in their minuscule space apart.
_ _
||