The clouds hung gray that morning, drifting slowly by on lazy desert winds. It almost looked as if it would rain, but it almost never did.
Hardly anyone came outside at these early hours—just light enough to see, but not enough to stir the commonfolk. He had at least another hour before any early-morning enthusiasts would dare to roam the sandy streets.
He had grown to know the path quite well, weaving between the least-noticed back alleys of the sandstone and limestone buildings, ducking beneath windows to make sure he remained unseen. He meandered his way until he came beneath the tall, polished-limestone temple—a measly construct in temple terms, but still standing doubly higher than any other nearby buildings. It was nothing like the great, magnificent temples they built in the cities, but was obviously constructed to at least appear more important than any other building in the vicinity. It didn’t have much to compete with, anyways—the only thing around here was pitiful mud-brick and sandstone houses.
He glanced around before slipping through the only back doorway there was. His talons clacked on the polished stone beneath, but the noise seemed to bother him not. He was safe, and most importantly, alone.
He pulled the hood of his robe off, revealing the white, feathery face beneath, beset with a black beak. Tawny feathers covered most of his head, the border between brown and white outlined by black plumage that rimmed his visage. A pair of cautious eyes darted around in their sockets, irises of sparkling amber set in polished obsidian stones—a rare trait, at the very least, that always drew attention—the last thing he wanted right now.
He had made sure there would be no attention to be had, however. He had even gone as far as to withhold practicing his “worship” the first few days—he had simply sat in the temple and waited, making sure no one would come by who might disturb his practice. And no one had.
Slipping off his robe, he made his way past the mock-altars dedicated to dozens of different deities. He had no interest in any of them, though he was careful not to disrupt them, lest it mar his respect. He only had interest in one altar, and he knew where it was.
He approached the inset on the wall covered with glyphs, where a stone falcon statue stood solemnly. Barely taller than an arm’s length, it was no remarkable gaud, but the fact that it existed—and that it wasn’t on the floor like many others—said enough. This was a popular god, popular enough to warrant a small statue and elevation despite the small temple’s obvious lack of decoration.
There was nothing on the stone inset other than the statue. But for that matter, there was nothing anywhere for any god. The ritual bowls and statues always stayed put, but all the offerings—trinkets, valuables, coins—were gone. They cleared them every few days—he had seen them doing it on the days he had come. They needed to, lest things overflow, but he cared not. He had seen half the trinkets on the altars not a day later, on the priests’ persons or in the priests’ pockets. He knew they had no interest in rituals or gods.
Posers, liars, infidels. All-around disgusting people. They didn’t believe in the gods, and if they did, it was only enough to satiate their existential paranoia. All they were there for was to keep the temple clean and reap the rewards—an easy job with a big payout.
But he was different. Convinced, wholeheartedly, that many—or most—of them existed, especially his idol, which was a fading trait in these unkempt lands. Most believed the gods had forgotten them long ago—gods didn’t care for people with no status, much less towns with none.
Horus, the god of the sky. His left eye the sun, his right eye the moon, protector of Egypt. Depicted as a falcon, like the statue before him.
He tossed his linen robe to the floor. Under it he wore nothing but a cheap shendyt, which was little more than a large linen cloth wrapped around his upper waist, hanging down to his knees. He did, however, offset the cheap attire with modest jewelry: a metallic cuff on his ankle and a valuable-looking bib necklace around his neck. Neither were his own—he had found them sitting atop the altar on the days after they had cleared them. They had always cleared absolutely everything, which made these particular pieces peculiar—what was even more peculiar was that they had shown zero signs of wear, as if brand-new. He knew not if someone else had left them, but it seemed impossibly unlikely that they had been simply left there—it almost seemed as if they had been placed there just for him. So he took them, and wore them. It felt a little wrong, but he had confidence in the gods to tell him if it was.
In a different city—one that wasn’t one of the smallest on this side of the Nile—the temple would’ve been much greater. Four times as tall and many more times wider and longer, it would’ve been nothing less than a grand commemoration of the gods’ names. The stone inset would be a grand altar, and the statue might even be of solid gold.
He didn’t need gold to satiate his fantasies, however. A stone likeness would do, and he could even do it with nothing at all.
He placed a hand on the smooth stone of the worn statue and closed his eyes. He flooded his mind with images, filling in the gaps that touch couldn’t provide. The tall, powerful figure standing before him. The soft touch of feathered skin, much like his own. The deep, commanding voice.
The owl slid a hand into his shendyt, beginning to touch himself.
The firm muscles building a strong, robust figure. The muscular curves and creases of an undoubtedly perfect body. The taboo that lay within that armored loincloth, something he so dearly yearned to see—
“Here to defile my altar a third time?”
The voice boomed like a shout, though barely more than an utterance. It ricocheted in his head like a bullet, ripping and tearing his thoughts into pieces in an instant. He froze, one hand still on the statue and the other touching his crotch.
He opened his beak as if to speak, but nothing came out. He could barely even construct a sentence in his head, his thoughts a storming mixture of shock, embarrassment, dumbfoundedness, and disbelief.
His face flushed hotly. His heart raced. His breathing turned shaky and uneven. He slowly pulled his hand from his linen coverings. It was shaking.
“I see you found my gifts.”
The owl stared for a moment before shakily fingering the necklace he wore. He had found it on the altar around the statue’s neck as if Horus had left it for him. Immaculately new, it showed no sign of wear—he had his doubts, but he believed it to be given by Horus himself. But for some reason, his mind seemed unwilling to accept that fact. Everything was coming much, much too fast. He could barely keep his whole body from trembling.
He stared at the statue, unsure of what to do amidst his shock. He was being watched, talked to by a god. The sound of talons clacking wrested him from his thoughts, however, and his breath caught in his throat. It was not just watching and talking. Horus was here. Horus was behind him. He swallowed, an uncomfortable act that took much more effort than it usually did.
The footsteps came right up behind him and stopped. He didn’t need to see anything, not even a shadow—he could feel the god’s presence looming over him like imposing doom. He had never felt so small.
A gray hand drifted slowly over his shoulder and down to his neck, gently examining his necklace.
His whole body tensed as the defined fingers of a god-sized hand slipped under his chin, the bodily warmth radiating from it like sun-baked sands. It was there. It was real. It was touching him.
He glanced down at the clawed fingers. The hand was huge, much larger than his own. Worn yet young digits made their way over the intricacies of his necklace with deceptive gentleness, uncharacteristic of such a tough, strong-looking hand.
It comforted him a little, enough for him to realize he wasn’t breathing. He let out a soft, shuddering sigh that tickled the feathery skin of the fingers on his chest.
“Worthy of royalty.”
The voice boomed again, but still barely more than a murmur. It was much, much closer now. He could feel the air of the words brush the feathers on his scalp.
A second hand slipped around his waist, fingers gently curling around one of his hips, right above his clothes. It did little more than rest there, but it felt like an inescapable grip of iron. His whole body tensed at the touch.
He took a deep breath, focusing on the soothing warmth of the god’s palm on his belly. It calmed him, and he slowly got his breathing under control.
He managed to stop shaking by the time the god’s hands slipped away from his body, the warmth retreating. The looming presence seemed to lift as the god moved away a short distance, but the owl still didn’t have the nerve to turn around.
“You think I don’t feel when you spread your seed on my likeness?” the god said.
“I-I won’t…” he sputtered, struggling to speak, the words sticking in his throat like tar. His voice came out meek and quiet.
“I w-won’t do it again.”
He took in a tenuous breath to calm his racing heart. An uncomfortable length of silence passed.
“You won’t. But sins still carry a price.”
His heart sunk, and his stomach turned.
“I—I’m sorry—”
His apology was cut short by the sound of clinking metal, like chainmail or armor being dropped to the floor. First it was one, then another, then a third, all with a long silence in between them.
“As much as I commend your dedication to my cause,” the commanding voice continued, “I cannot leave before serving you justice.”
The owl wanted to run, but he simply couldn’t. Not just from his nerves, but as if it was an inescapable fate that he was destined to suffer.
The last metallic clink sounded, followed by a long silence. Then, the familiar sound of talons on stone sounded, and that same presence loomed over him once again, only this time it felt stronger.
His terrified curiosity bested him, and he looked up. Two glowing eyes looked judgingly down from above, as if staring into the depth of his soul. A stern, stoic face and a black beak stiffened into a stern expression accompanied them, forming a grave, falcon-like face the owl could only label as that of the very god he envisioned in his mind.
Suddenly, one of those gray hands snapped to the owl’s black beak, curling around it in an instant to lock it shut in a firm clasp. It felt as if his mouth had been instantaneously cast shut with solid metal.
“Mmph!” he tried to screech, but nothing but a pitiful, muffled murmur came out.
The other huge, gray hand found its way onto his stomach, pulling him backwards with decided and absolute conviction. The owl’s body moved back with it, but it was stopped as his back connected with the god’s naked front.
The metallic clinks had been Horus’s armor.
The broad form of a muscled, firm body pressed into him. His shoulders pressed into the god’s chest, his back against the god’s abs, and his still-clothed ass against the god’s crotch. A stiff mass pressed up against the owl’s backside. His eyes widened.
The grip around his beak lifted upwards, pulling his chin up and forcing their gazes to meet. All the owl could do was look up with worry, but where he expected a pair of angry, unforgiving eyes, he found a soft, calming gaze.
“I’ve been watching you for a while,” Horus said, “and it would be wasteful to let a form like yours go unused. I shall defile your likeness, as you have defiled mine. A fitting punishment, is it not?”
The owl stared up with apprehension and confusion. He wanted to believe the stories and myths—that his punishment would be severe, given by an unforgiving god with little remorse—but for some reason, he couldn’t. He knew he would face rightful shame for his actions, but Horus’s touch was too gentle. His eyes showed no hate. His voice, however, stayed condescending and authoritative, contrary to his body.
Horus’s other hand slid down the smaller bird’s belly and into his shendyt, undoing the cloth covering with ease. Casting it aside, he exposed the smaller bird, nothing left between the male’s supple, effeminate body and Horus’s own broad, robust form.
The owl squirmed a little, his eyes squeezing shut. He was being stripped and humiliated, his naked body on display for the greater bird’s enjoyment. There was nothing he could do but accept the shame.
That same firm grasp clamped around his thigh, lifting his leg.
“Mmf—” the owl objected, his privates and tailhole exposed as Horus raised his leg high into the air, shamelessly exposing him in full. He wriggled a little, but there was nothing he could do to stop the god from claiming his body, the deity’s cock sliding up between his split legs and against his balls.
It was only now he realized that he himself was rock-hard. The more jarring realization, however, was the size of Horus’s cock.
Deific was an understatement. He had always wondered exactly how endowed a god might be, but he never would’ve expected this. He had always imagined an unrealistically-proportioned dick to pair with an unrealistically-perfect masculine figure, but this was far beyond his wildest expectations.
It was comparable to a horse’s. The size of his forearm at the very least, it was easily twice his own in both length and circumference, replete with similarly-proportioned balls to match. With a pointed tip like his own, it even had a medial ring, exemplifying the daunting image it gave. And it was undoubtedly real, throbbing against his own, teasing him with its weight and warmth.
“Nngh…” he groaned, shifting uncomfortably. His mind filled with unbearable apprehension. He had never taken another male before, lest it scar his masculinity, but while he figured he might’ve been able to take a normal-sized insertion, this god-sized monstrosity was far out of the question.
He squirmed, but his raised leg kept him from putting up any useful struggle. His head swarmed with humiliation, apprehension, and otherwise, but they all melted together to form an overwhelming unease. The shame of his naked body was only half of it—there was still a long way to go.
The god pulled back, that oversized cock sliding against the owl’s balls before disappearing back between his legs. The owl whimpered a muffled plea, stifled by the hand around his beak.
“Do not be afraid,” the god reassured. “I am always gentle with my females.”
Horus readjusted the owl, lining himself up. The smaller bird wriggled uselessly, his heart pounding in his chest.
Warm flesh pressed against the owl’s asshole, smearing warm, slimy precum over his entrance.
“Nnh—” he groaned into Horus’s hand, his back arching as his body shied away from the imminent penetration, hands bracing on the god’s shoulder and the stone statue for balance.

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