Author's Note: After not posting in about two years, I really don't have any excuse for myself, except that I just got so unbelievably overwhelmed by life and wasn't necessarily handling it well. Through it all, I continued to write on and off and was, finally, able to find my way back...back from a very bad place mentally, and back to FanFiction.
To my past readers, consider this chapter an apology. To my new readers, consider this my grand re-entrance. ;)
3,200+ words of pure (what I hope to be) smutty goodness; I've never been so detailed before.
If smut isn't your thing, feel free to skip this chapter-I'm sure that everyone who read up to this point had a good idea what was coming. It won't impact the story line at all, you'll just see a more affectionate Ares and Aphrodite in the following chapter.
The temple in which they materialized in, still twined round each other, was no Olympian structure, but rather one that been constructed by mortals in the hopes of pleasing their goddess. In fact, it was the same one in which she had had her many martial indiscretions, and, at her request, the Kharites had seen that it was properly fitted to her needs—for what she did not specify (she was not about to disclose that it was in preparation for taking a lover later on this day, having deemed already that it would be a fellow resident of the mountaintop), but they complied unquestioningly—and the preparations did not go unnoticed by Ares.
"Your captivating visage belies a most cunning nature," he observed, smiling against her lips while his sharp eyes took in the scenery. Candles had leapt to life, illuminating the room where they now stood; fittingly, it was a bedroom, furnished with the finest silks and drapery, all in eye-pleasing pastel shades, sprinkled liberally with rose petals, and fragranced with the spicy, sweet scent of incense that had, with the Goddess of Love's arrival, too begun to burn. "Were you planning on, perhaps, entertaining a visitor? Dare I…" He paused midsentence to steal a kiss. "…presume that..." Here, his mouth grazed the corner of hers. "…it was my company…" Several scorching, open-mouthed kisses were placed along her jawline, descending towards her throat, which was now free of any bejeweled obstructions. "…you anticipated?"
"But of course," hummed Aphrodite in approval, tilting back her head to allow him full access to the smooth white skin there, her fingers twisting lazily in the errant, still-dampened curls that spilled to his shoulders, her thumbs massaging small circles on his neck. (Whoever had tasted her handsome soldier before she had quite thoroughly marked him up as her own; what fun she would have making him forget entirely about the woman who dared encroach upon her property. Though he currently seemed to think himself the dominate, she knew in her heart that he moment her lips enveloped his cock, it would be her name on his lips, on his mind—he would become her slave and she smiled a wicked little smile at the thought of reducing a god to a beggar.)
His mouth lingered against her pulse-point and he suckled, hard enough to leave a stake of his claims, before the kisses continued, down to the hollow between her throat and collarbone with the gentlest graze of teeth and glide of his tongue. Too soon his lips left her neck, though still his breath caressed her skin. She straightened and cast her gaze down upon the large swordsman hand that had moved to work deftly on the clasp that held her garbs in place, before looking up to watch him greedily drink in her body as the gossamer fabric slid like droplets of water down her body to puddle at her feet on the floor.
Easily she could too have disrobed him, vanishing his clothing and armor with a mere thought, but at present she was as content to marvel at him as he was, looking as though he had just stepped forth from the heat of battle to join her in her bed chambers—her lover now, a warrior though first and foremost—as he was to admire her. How so did she adore being so thoroughly adored by a man. And no mere man was he, from their first encounter he had captivated her, set the standard to which she compared all others.
"You are perfection," growled the War God, his tone as animalistic as his eyes (and truly he looked as if he wished to devour her) as he echoed his earlier sentiments, "in its truest form." Was she ever a sight to behold, standing unclothed before him in all her splendor, the object of his fantasies, the source of his own private torment, now come to life before him, all sleek, supple legs that stemmed off of curvaceous hips, that tapered off a narrow waist, that then swelled into the most perfect pair of breasts he had ever laid eyes upon, her rosebud nipples already peaked in anticipation of his touch. Reverentially, he took one in his hand, pinching it and rolling it between his fingers, elongating it, slowly, so very slowly, utterly transfixed by her.
The shuddering, breathy gasp that escaped her lips drew forth an answering growl from Ares and increased the pressure being applied to the bud—to the point of being almost painful, but even still blindingly, almost dizzyingly erotic—as he continued the worshipful treatment. No man, no god, had ever been able to overwhelm the Goddess of Love in her own domain, and yet she found herself yielding to his will, beseeching him with her soft pleasured mewls, her fingers digging into his sinewy arms in a desperate bid for balance, to continue this most exquisite form of torture.
Her unexpected, yet absolute submission to him had his cock harder than it had even been and he was too happy to oblige, his talented fingers switching to replicate their actions upon the other breast, and he watched her through heavily hooded eyes, rasping out a second pronouncement of her beauty, before he ducked his head to draw her achingly sensitive nipple into his mouth, his eye contact with her unbroken. His tongue emulated his earlier motions, moving in time with the hand caressing her. Her head fell back on its own accord, her eyes half-shut, her breathing coming in fast pants, as she clung to him, the strength of him the only thing keeping her tethered to this world. With the aftershocks of her climax still crashing over her, she scarcely registered him having laid her upon the edge of the bed, nor him lowering himself to a kneel before her (his armor now willed away to enhance his mobility but not his peplos), to taste the essence of her arousal that glistened in the curls surrounding her entrance.
No gesture of supplication was this, for he left another love-mark of good size upon her innermost thigh before parting them with ease to kiss the outer lips of her sex, same as he had her mouth, giving an involuntary groan of sheer pleasure after the first long, languid stroke of his tongue. Her taste was intoxicating, heady and sweet as honeyed wine.
A firm but gentle tug round her ankles had her legs draped over his shoulders, enabling him to better continue his services, of which he resumed eagerly, serenaded by the sound of her moans that soon turned into unrestrained cries of rapture. His name, uttered as devoutly as if from a worshipper at a temple, was music to his ears and he intensified his efforts so that he might hear it over and over again. She was rendered incapable of forming words though with the introduction of a long finger gliding up into her core and the careful attention he began to pay with his lips to the crowning jewel of her femininity. Shortly thereafter, he inserted a second finger, curling them to rub that rough patch of nerves deep inside her, further driving her wild with the sensation, and reveling in the power he had over that beautiful body that was so deliciously responsive to his touch.
For as much his own enjoyment as hers, Ares coaxed his goddess to brink of ecstasy, fingers pumping rhythmically in and out of her, sucking the throbbing nub, making love to her with his hand and tongue, all the while using his free hand to keep her hips flush against the silken sheets, try as she might to arch them up to better meet his mouth. He then kept her suspended perilously at the edge until she could stand no more, entreating him with a strained, near incoherent, plea for release. Then, only then, did he oblige her and permit her to freefall into a blinding abyss of bliss.
Wave after wave of pleasure rolled over her, threatening to drown her in their intensity; colors previously unseen exploded behind her closed eyes. Again, she clung to him in a desperate bid to tether her immortal soul to her body, lest it float away to the paradisiacal Elysian Fields and remain there forever after.
Ever so gradually, awareness broke through the haze engulfing her, like the rising sun on a misty morn, and her senses returned to her in stages. Her body was warm, flushed all over, her muscles and nerves sang a heavenly chorus; she felt rather than saw his lusty gaze rove shamelessly over her as though admiring his handiwork. By the Fates, she had not expected a being of warfare to be so thoroughly versed in the arts of intimacy—she scarce had strength to bat an eyelash.
She was revived however with the mattress shifting under the extra weight as a newly unclothed Ares joined her. Immediately propping herself up onto her elbows, she beheld him in much the same greedy, lascivious fashion as had he her; he was, in every sense of the word, utterly and incomparably magnificent. Their gazes collided, she murmured her aforementioned sentiments aloud, and her tongue darted out along her lips, further conveying to him her approval. Inching coyly backwards up the mattress as he crept forward with a deliberate slowness served to allow her to admire him further. His muscles flexed beneath perfectly smooth, sun-bronzed skin, his hair hung loose and unruly at his shoulders, which, combined with his predatory, near feral, expression, brought to mind a lion stalking its prey—the thought of being consumed by Ares, to be used as intended solely for his own pleasure, sent a delectable thrill through her.
Demonstrating such submission to a male was an entirely new game to her, an utterly salacious one at that. Finding herself backed against the headboard of the bed, with no possible way of 'escaping' him, she gave him her most seductive smile, arched up against the highly polished wood, and slowly raised her arms up over her head, crossing them at the wrist overtop it as though she were bound to an altar as an offering.
"Ravage me, God of War," she enticed, her voice low and sultry, as his massive frame hovered over hers, one hand braced on either side of her for balance. "Do with me what you intended when first you had me in your arms."
Curiously enough, what was meant to be an open invitation, for he had been overwhelmed by his need to possess her that fateful night when their paths and then their bodies entwined, gave the war god noticeable pause. Ordinarily, he was ruthless in his lovemaking, administering pain as readily as he did pleasure to his paramours, though to inflict injury of any sort upon the love goddess, particularly in an intimate setting such as this, seemed almost sacrilegious.
While touched by the consideration she had not wholly expected him capable of, Aphrodite too felt a trace of resentment towards the goddess who had lain with Ares before herself. If the marks dappling his throat were indicative of the sort of activities that went on in his bed chamber, she could imagine that he likewise had given himself with total passionate abandon to his prior lover, shown no such restraint as he did now. It left her unexpectedly vexed to think that a lesser divinity had experienced the entirety of his potency, body and soul, but not she. Spurned by the sudden bout of enviousness towards the unknown paramour of Ares and an even more intense surge of possessiveness towards the God of War, who was as beautiful as herself whilst simultaneously being the very embodiment of masculinity (a cosmic sign if ever she saw one that he had been intended for her), she abandoned her coquettishly subservient charade in favor of embracing her true bedroom persona.
The sensation of the cool wood against her back gave way to the wondrous feeling of his blazing hot skin pressed against her front as she used his hesitation to her advantage, pushing against his chest to force him backwards, into a seated position, climb astride his lap, and assert her ownership over his mouth. His cock stood proud and erect, easily long and thick as her forearm, if not more so, by her estimation, pressing hard into the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, but for the moment she paid it no mind, tempting though it was. At present, she did not wish to do him what she did to her mortal playthings, bind him in the confines of roiling ecstasy, paralyze him with it, as she worked her wonders upon him.
Her kisses turned bruising, more fitting of a war goddess than a love goddess, her tongue delved into his mouth, and she tasted the essence of herself along with a flavor that was uniquely his. With equal enthusiasm he responded, rutting his hips against hers to create friction with an almost animalistic urgency. However, it was not until she passed her nails down the length of his chest, with force enough to raise angry welts in their wake, did she succeed in doing what she had intended, unleashing the God of War from his self-constructed restraints.
Next thing she was aware of, she was flat on her back, pinioned beneath the comfortable weight of him, with her arms stretched up over head, held together at the wrist in a vice-like grasp. Due to the force with which she landed against the mattress, Aphrodite expelled a breath that was in part a laugh, though it ended on a surprised but immensely pleased gasp as Ares, giving her no warning whatsoever, thrust into her, sheathing himself to the hilt.
Likewise, he uttered a low groan deep in his throat at the velvet warmth of her, and in pure triumph at finally laying claim to the goddess that he had sought for himself from the moment he laid eyes upon her onward. Tormented he had been by a need to have her, every waking hour as well as resting; it was she he saw whilst entwined with another, her name he had rasped out in the delirium following each release. That month of her absence had been the longest in his eternal existence, each day a century in itself—for the deathless ones, months tended ordinarily to pass quickly as minutes.
Again, he drove into her, this time harder than the first—his grip on her wrists tightening as he lost himself to instinct, squeezing to the point where, were she not a fellow Olympian, the bone might have splintered—as if needing to prove to himself that this moment was no dream. By the Fates, that time felt even better than the first, and the one following better still—and she matched him thrust for thrust, locking her long legs round his waist to draw him even deeper within her, her feminine muscles taking his cock in a skillful grip, her lips doing so to his in an equally masterful manner, their tongues tangling in time to the steadily increasing tempo of their horizontal dance.
He was unsure of when he had done so, but eventually he had relinquished his hold of her hands, and they stroked over inch reachable of his skin; she scratched at him following an especially rough thrust. Her fingers carded through his hair luxuriously when he buried his face into her neck, busying himself with covering it—then her collarbone, and then those indescribable breasts—in a mosaic of love-marks. Was there even an inch of space between their sweat-slicked bodies, he would have continued further, left no part of her uncovered by his brand.
She was perfection. She was incomparable beauty. She was his. All of his cognitive ability stopped beyond that as Ares lost himself, in every sense of the word, to the love goddess, though in that moment, he knew with inexplicable but utmost certainty, that, at her request, he would level cities, fell armies and nations. At her command, he would rearrange the heavens.
Pledges of his devotion jumbled with praise as they poured forth from him lips with a drunken uninhibitedness. Fortunately for him, they were delivered unconsciously in the Thracian dialect, murmured low and throatily, and otherwise nearly drowned by the symphony of sounds involved in their love-making: the creak of the mattress in protest as he rammed into her, the underscoring tune of their bodies meeting each other over and over again as they both drew nearer to the peak of ultimate ecstasy, accompanied by their ragged breathing, and the delicious sound of her occasional moan.
Sweeter still was when her moans ended on a shuddering cry of his name that was almost his undoing as she tipped over. Beneath him, her entire body trembled, her legs constricted around his waist, her inner walls around his cock. Panting, the God of War's hips stilled, his hands fisting in the sheets so hard that his knuckles turned white, as he fought against his own frantic need for release.
Aphrodite embraced him then, pressed gentle lips against his neck. "Come to me," she whispered breathlessly, placing light kisses there—vanishing every preexisting mark they landed upon—fingers combing adoringly through his hair. (If his particular fixation was with her pulse-point, hers seemed to be his hair.) Such a demonstration of tenderness left him unprepared for the sharp bite on the tendon connecting to his shoulder that he received immediately thereafter. Again, the pleasurable sting of pain threw him into a frenzied state, and he impaled her anew, this time with savagely selfish intent.
Again, she seemed to revel in his rough treatment of her body, spent though she was. Images filled his mind then of her past escapades with previous lovers, all of whom bore a striking resemblance to himself—it was arousal stoking the fire in his veins, not envy as, in his mind's eye, he saw them come undone, felt the almost painful pleasure they experienced in that moment as acutely as it were his own.
The pressure within him built excruciatingly, but still he kept his body at bay. Long had he waited to reap the rewards; if he were honest with himself, he had been unknowingly waiting for her for her the entirety of his existence, never known it until beholding her for the first time in that form-hugging red dress and having her seduce him through her singular dance.
And then the images that followed were what he assumed to be a promise of what was to come, a glimpse of her on her knees before him as he sat upon his throne—in the Olympian council room no less—attentively laving his cock; then the pair of them inside of a tent, a general's tent considering the spread of the table, figurines laid out strategically across a map, before he half-threw her atop it, accompanied also with the same rush of a climax, the thrill of conquest, and the most curious sensation of anticipating this future she offered him…he would have welcomed it even if the most intimate thing to ever come of it was but one final kiss.
With a groan from the depths of his immortal soul, he thrust once more, before surrendering to her.
For a long time after, there they stayed, entwined in each other's arms, War and Love, bound eternally.