Author's Note: This chapter's taken about three straight months of editing and reediting until I almost got sick of reading it and needed to get some help from my best friend...hopefully you, my readers, will enjoy it. That being said, it's almost entirely smut and a whole lot of it (9,000 words in my Word document), but I promise it's relevant to the plot. And in the earliest draft, I was going to quickly sum up the nature of Ares and Aphrodite's relationship and jump straight back into Hephaestus' revenge, but they clearly had their own plans.
What can I say? They're gods and I am a lowly mortal tasked with writing my version of events. ;)
A day prior to that fateful meeting of Hephaestus and Helios, Ares and Aphrodite adjoined again following his return from the latest battle in the mortal realm. Their reunion spent in much their usual fashion, making love and making up for time missed until their lay together in a tangle of blankets and leaden limbs, their bodies were given no choice but to succumb eventually to exhaustion.
Night had already fallen when Aphrodite awakened, gasping because of a stabbing pain, as sharp and sudden as though her heart had been pierced by a blade. Clutching at her breast in distress, blinking against the outset of agonized tears, her first instinct was to seek comfort in the arms of Ares, who had since become a most excellent makeshift pillow in the wake of the numerous times they had coupled in celebration of his homecoming.
(She suspected that she alone knew of the fearsome war god's affectionate ways, how he showered her with devotional words during a lovemaking session, how he would look at her between kisses with a heart-melting tenderness in his eyes, how he would draw her into his arms afterwards. In sleep, he would often curl closer to her, or pull her more tightly to him as though he could not bear be parted from her. He was an immensely physical being: nails passed down his back, or a tug of his hair would spur him into a lustful frenzy, whereas a gentler touch would turn him to clay beneath her fingers.
And yet, he had become so much more than her lover; she considered him her first true companion since she made her debut atop the Olympian mountain, where she had been received, largely, with frosty contempt, and since had come to know his mind as well as his body. Where others found him to be an empty- and hot-headed brute, she saw in him an individual intelligent enough to hold her in philosophical debates, usually in regards to the other's domain, neither quite understanding the appeal that it held to their partner, but nevertheless willing enough to dip their toes into the unknown. To be certain, Ares' knowledge of the immortal court, its members and its customs, had aided in her acclamation, though everyone seemed to care as little for him as they once had her—and on more than one occasion, she wished, saddened, that their fellow deities could behold him as did she, but a more well-concealed, selfish part of her also enjoyed having him to herself entirely).
However, when she reached out for him, she found his side of the bed empty, uncommon because of the two of them it was he who slept more deeply, but not unheard of, particularly following his homecoming from war.
His name formed on her lips, but she was unable to vocalize it when another wave of pain engulfed her. Doubling over on herself, fingers curling over her heart, she could focus on little else besides steadying her breathing—which had initially come out as a sob because of the intensity of it—and worked her way slowly through the excruciating agony.
As the ache faded away to a persistent but dull ebb, she recalled her dream—Morpheus, the God of Dreams, had whisked her away to the battlefield, men engaged ferociously in combat around her, lifeless bodies strewn across the ground beneath her feet, except that she was not herself, she had assumed the form of a soldier in this otherworldly realm. Seconds after her realization, she was pierced through the chest by a spear and the impact of it sent her sprawling. The blackness of what she could only assume to be the veils of death closed in on her, and the last thing she would see before the life left her in this mortal form was a hazy shape with burning gold eyes and white teeth bared in a wolfish leer strolling leisurely over to retrieve his spear...
Inexplicably, she, or rather the soldier she had morphed into in her dream state, had not been killed by the impact, for she found herself walking up to an unfamiliar dwelling, on the smaller side, but carefully maintained, and extending her hand to knock on the door. She was received by a young mortal woman who looked to be about twenty, maybe twenty-one winters, at the very eldest; her face turned ashen at the sight of Aphrodite, who evidentially had transformed into one of the fallen soldier's comrades or his superiors. Her lips formed a name in a desperate plea, and single shake of the head from whomever it was that the Goddess of Love had taken shape of sent the girl crumpling to the floor of the hut, distraught. The now widow curled into herself and clutched at her heart same as had Aphrodite in her wakeful state, and it was then that the goddess had experienced the jolt of pain.
Aphrodite then recognized the agony that had ravaged her for what it was: the heart of a woman who knew then that she had lost the man she loved breaking, one of many to learn that their beloved was killed during Ares' latest spree of destruction, in all likelihood at the war god's own hand. She was not ignorant of the ways of warfare and could accept that some casualties were an inevitability, but, her lover though he was, she could not excuse the fact that he slaughtered mortals for the sport of it.
Their starkly different domains did more than just bring about an indulgent debate, they were their biggest point of regularly occurring contention—his was intended to end lives, while hers was to bring two together harmoniously as one, and his maltreatment of their worshippers and absolute unconcern for her lifework frustrated her to no end. He failed completely to grasp the concept that his playthings were living, breathing beings who hoped, dreamed, loved… and affected her, it seemed, when the bond between lovers was broken.
Perhaps she could persuade him to cease this senseless brutality, as much for her own sake as her supplicants; by the Fates, she hoped never again to experience such a horrendous sensation. Thusly thinking, she swept back her sleep-rumpled hair into a loose chignon and rose from the bed, crossing the room to retrieve from the wardrobe a filmy night-dress that she had stored there on the occasion that they pass the night in the palace of Ares and a provocative mischievousness lead them on nocturnal wanderings, to the gardens for instance, or even the throne room.
Night-dress billowing as she moved, Aphrodite strode though the heavy, dark-wooded, double doors that led into a training arena that spanned the length of the war god's palace, constructed beneath the first level. To one side of the doors, just far enough away that it not be knocked askew should the doors fling open—as indeed they did with her arrival—was a section of the wall that was entirely devoted to the war god's collection of trophies: helmets, shields, and breastplates that bore the insignias of the prior owners' nations and offered her glimpses of her reflection (to her eyes, she thought she had an unnatural pallidity to her complexion when she should have had a post-coital flush about her), the different swords, spears, and daggers used by foreign foes felled.
On the opposite side, his own, considerable array of weaponry was mounted at the ready, everything from spears to throwing knives. (Throwing knives appeared to be Ares' 'toy' of choice as of late: during several assemblies for the Dodekatheon to discuss matters of import, he had sprawled across his throne and shown more interest in sharpening one of the small blades to a wicked point than participating in any of the dialogue.)
Save for that, the room was otherwise very utilitarian in its construct, a floor of rather nondescript gray tile, flanked by equally unremarkable gray stone walls with human skull sconces affixed equal distances apart serving to provide illumination. In the midst he stood, back to her, dressed simply in his undergarments as was commonplace during a training session, allowing her a full view of his glorious musculature as he hurled his knives at a human replica in a rapid series of succession, hitting each intended mark with a deadly precision.
The Goddess of Love scarcely even flinched when he whirled sharply to face her, sending a dagger slicing, spinning, through the air to stick in the door mere inches away from where she stood. He returned her raised eyebrow with a sinfully self-satisfied smirk, his eyes such a bright gold that they appeared to be glowing, which, coupled with the shadow of dark stubble dusting his jaw and the aggressive aura hanging round him like a cape when he wore little else, lent him a dangerous, near feral, but otherwise immensely appealing visage that left her dizzy with need.
"Has no one ever told you that it is ill-advised, my beauty, to try sneak up upon a warrior?" he asked of her in a warm tone that contradicted his fearsome demeanor, crossing the room at an unhurried pace, quite obviously enjoying the site of her in the sheer garment as much as she had seeing him wearing next to nothing.
His aura approached first, and seemingly absorbed into her (as closely entwined as their souls were by this time, they had become immensely susceptible to the other's power whether they realized such or not), stoking the fires of her own, sudden surge of hostility as she was reminded of her ghastly dream, any desire she felt for him eradicated. "Perhaps then," said she tartly, puzzling him as he extended his hand to her, "that mighty warrior should not prey upon those decidedly weaker than himself."
"This I promise you, O irresistible Goddess of Love, no other has succeeded in bringing me to my knees," countered Ares, misunderstanding her implication and offending her on top of already being angered, his unnervingly bright eyes continuing to rove hungrily over her as his tongue darted out to moisten his lips as though already tasting her essence upon them. "I am a most devoted worshipper of yours." Again, he reached for her with the intent of catching hold of her dress and pulling her playfully to him, but she took a step back, leaving his fingers to close upon air.
"If that was truly so, you would not treat my domain with such an absolute sense of disregard. Are you ignorant of how many widows are left following a battle? How many women are left to mourn the men they love following your bloody rampages?"
"Whatever you many think, such inconsequentially intimate ties to another do not automatically exempt a man from his ultimate fate—and, should they care about their relations half as much as you foolishly think they do, they would never have engaged in combat," snarled the God of War menacingly, his hackles raising. The wrathful aura outpouring from Aphrodite—his aura, which only strengthened during conflict—was reflecting back at him and nourishing his own growing sense of outrage. "How ignorant of the world are you. A soldier's only love is conquest, power, so much so that they are willing to risk death for the sake of glory, like cattle to be butchered they enter into my domain. And, were those pitiful creatures not meant to be slaughtered, they would not be near so easy to kill; nor would it be such a pleasure to watch the light fade from their eyes and blood seep forth from their fallen forms."
In a fluid motion, he snatched a small blade that had a cruel curve to it from the wall and spun round to launch it at the battered training figure; his aim was true, even from the far side of the room: the dummy's nearly severed head flopped limply onto its shoulder. "I cannot fathom how you can think so well of them, how you could possibly be so fond of something with such little import," he continued with an incredulous shake of his head, "but I suppose then that the devotion of weaklings can make even the goddess of an utterly purposeless domain feel powerful."
"I have mistakenly show fondness to far more repugnant beings," was the acerbic retort of Aphrodite, "one such being a senseless brute whose only claim to power is in his ability to kill those who are not even capable of causing him any real sort of harm. If anything, it is you who lacks any importance to the world; why else would the Fates need appoint a second deity to preside over the act of warfare? Athena is everything that you are not…you speak of glory as though it is something in which you are familiar, how easily does she take it from you."
Eyes smoldering with fury, Ares unthinkingly raised his hand; he had never struck her, would never be capable of laying a blow to her, bruise her in the bedroom though he did in his zealousness, she had no need to worry, if anything his was going to slam his palm against the door to convey to her his anger, but the love goddess simultaneously acted upon instinct rather than conscious thought. Yanking the throwing knife free of the dark-stained wood, she lunged forward, throwing all of her body weight into a wild upward slash at him.
To the intense astonishment of both parties, the point tore across his up-turned hand, leaving a gash of good size in its wake, and sending droplets of ichor splattering.
As he gave a sharp hiss of pain and recoiled, she disbelievingly looked at the blood-tipped knife in her hand as though unable to recognize it as a part of her body, breathing hard, while he curled his protectively closer to assess the damage, blood dripping thickly through his fingers and down his wrist, though even as he inspected it, it began to seal itself. Contriteness at having wounded him warred with a fierce pride for her actions, and she tilted up her chin defiantly, emboldened by the rage that lingered.
I am no weakling, thought Aphrodite viciously, ready to accept whatever form of retribution might come to her. Her heart pounded, a rebellious strength pumping through her veins, anger, a hint of desire for him even. He alone could bring her to such a state.
For a moment came no retribution as he stared back at her, seemingly also going through a tumultuous maelstrom of conflicting emotions before a look of reverential wonderment softened his features, making him, she grudgingly admitted, beautiful to look at, even if he was still nothing more a vile, bloodthirsty beast. Moving with an uncharacteristic disjointedness as if he were under a spell, he succeeded in finally grasping hold of her dress and tugging her to him, paying no heed to her somewhat half-hearted protest of, "Unhand me, you cur."
Her words held a very different meaning to Ares; it was almost as though she had granted him permission to do with her what he wanted instead, and he stroked down her arm with the hand that did not have a fistful of fabric in it moving to cover hers, prying loose her fingers from around the hilt of the knife to take possession of it with a low, throaty, absolutely lustful growl of, "I can think of no finer sight than you wielding one my weapons, but at present it seems unwise," before launching it backwards over his shoulder not even caring if it hit the target (it did) and inclining his head to devour her mouth. His arousal was infectious, almost as if he had pulled forth her amorous influence and was using it against her, damn him, and she succumbed almost immediately to his insistent lips, following his lead into a particularly graceless open-mouthed kiss.
The faint sound of cloth tearing though lead her to break the kiss and plead ineffectively, as, undeterred, he nipped at her neck, for the safety of her dress, which happened to be among one of her favorites. Her words were in vain, for even as she spoke them, they were punctuated by the garment being ripped off with the ease of a butterfly's wing, fluttering to the floor like flower petals.
"Pure silk," she reproached him lightly, but made no attempt at stopping him as he gave her a sufficient form of an apology for his actions by sucking at her throat and caressing one of her now bared breasts in time to his lips moving against her skin. He paused to soothe the mark with his tongue, fingers of his other hand gliding appreciatively over her rear, before growling wordlessly with lust and moving to place another love-mark; he had come to enjoy marking her in patterns that formed a necklace-like shape as a means of mocking Hephaestus: a chain of them round her neck itself, then a particularly large one atop her bosom serving as the crowning jewel. "I should like very much if my consort was not the only thing of beauty I can keep in my possession."
"I shall lay ruin to the kingdoms of the East then," he rasped out in between his persistent laying and laving of love-marks, "and see to it that you are clothed in nothing but the finest silks and jewels as my queen." Queen, he would have her as his queen; his profession of devotion coupled with his skilled fingers answering the increasing demands of body made her tremble with pleasure, arch into his touch. He swirled his tongue around the tip of a proffered breast. "Though I must say I prefer you in this undressed state."
"And I you."
Down his torso ran her long, delicate fingers, stopping when they reached his undergarments and then hooking her fingertips at the top and tugging them down. Gently, she tipped his chin up so that he met her eyes, now glowing pink as she reclaimed her influence and turned it back onto him, promising him all sorts of delectably wicked things as his pupils dilated all the more, then trailed her gaze downward to his freed cock which stood proudly erect, allowed him but a second to rid himself of his garbs entirely before encircling and stroking the length of him, loving the shuddering breath he drew. Pressing his forehead against her shoulder and groaning deeply, he began a series of quick thrusts into her hand, rutting his hips faster the more she heightened his growing need for release.
It was intoxicating, really, to render an absolutely formidable god such as Ares powerless, particularly on the tail end of the rush of excitement that always came after a quarrel, and she continued to push him closer and closer to shattering until he was almost at his tipping point (that would teach him to call her weak ever again), pleasuring herself as had he, before returning his control to him. As erotic as it was to hold him at bay, she found it equally so—if not more, because never before had she been dominated by a male—to find herself at his mercy. It was made all the better after an intense argument, the sensation and the passion involved heightened.
And assume control he did; faster than a striking serpent, he had her arm pinned behind her back as though to prevent her from dictating the pace of things and her body pressed against the door, her breasts crushed almost painfully against the wood as he aligned his cock with her entrance from behind, sheathed himself, and resumed his frantic pace. Each time he rammed into her, the door slammed against the wall, and soon, accompanying the banging of wood against stone and the heavy panting of the war god in her ear as he tangled his hand in her hair and pulled back her head was the clanging of his armaments falling to the floor as they were shaken loose by the ferocity of their lovemaking, loud enough that it was a wonder that the other Olympians did not come to inquire about source of the commotion.
For her own comfort, Aphrodite decided that their romp would be better suited for the extravagant bed of his, and took it upon herself to teleport them, not breaking their intimate connection, there—and found that indeed it was much more comfortable for the position that they were currently in. She stretched with a catlike luxuriousness across the garnet sheets, her fingers soon twisting in them as he increased the depth of his thrusts, filling her completely and deliciously rubbing that most secret spot.
With a gentleness that spectacularly contradicted his forceful claiming of her body, he carded his fingers through her hair, trailed them down along her spine, again skimmed along one of her buttocks, this time giving the cheek an admiring little squeeze, before stroking down and over her thigh to tease her swelling bud. The path that his calloused hand had travelled had set her nerves ablaze, creating within her a deep aching need for him to caress every inch of her skin, she had nearly whimpered with the sheer desperation to be touched by him, and then, when he reached his final destination between her legs with his usual mastery, she did cry out, momentarily rendering Ares immobile, gritting his teeth with the effort of restraining himself, as he teetered precariously at the edge of a pleasurable freefall.
There was something demeaning to be said about one losing himself and spilling his seed before their lover had been fully sated.
Whilst attempting to regain some semblance of control, the war god began to move again within her, this time at a deliberately unrushed pace, rolling his hips to near withdraw his cock only to plunge into her anew with long, slow strokes, making a conscious effort to devoting more attention to the sensual torture of his goddess, who quite plainly enjoyed this turn of events were her soft moans and sighs, the arch of her back, any indicator, than to his own persistent desire for release.
Suffice to say he was far from mastering the skill, but he had come to the realization some time ago that he could manipulate the Goddess of Love's influence and turn it upon her, however slightly it may have been, ruthlessly heightening her arousal to the point of agony, just like she would him. Whether it was his favored lover in his bed or a fallen soldier on the battlefield pleading for his mercy, the intoxicating rush of power he held over them, the euphoria that came with the ability to wield life or death in the case of the latter or grant either pleasure or pain (and then obviously pleasure following the pain) in the case of the former, filled him regardless. He already had her positioned like an ever-so-willing slave before him, why not exert the extra power over her?
Sweet merciful Mother Gaia.
The sensations and stirring within her body he was creating—the burn of her skin as still it hungered to have those skillful fingers run over her, the way her nerves thrummed with need and tightened particularly in her lower abdomen in response to him rubbing the crowning jewel of her sex, his cock rubbing still a more sensitive area—were all divine in their own right, but combined together were gloriously overwhelming and she bowed her head when her muscles became too water-like to support it upright, and moaned her appreciation with utter abandon. She was quite certain that he possessed only two hands, marvelously talented though they were, and yet she felt him everywhere, in answering her unspoken plea to caress every inch of her, in sweeping aside her hair to kiss her shoulder, she felt him between her legs—oh, did he make his presence known there—, in the form of gripping her hips to keep her perfectly aligned with his godhood which made no sense to her because they were otherwise occupied, by tending to her otherwise badly neglected breasts. But she did not question it, could not bring herself to wonder at the impossibility of it, not even when he seemed to have developed the ability to kiss her shoulder and the hollow of her throat at the same time, all the while sucking hard to leave another of his love-marks on her neck itself.
Closer and closer she came to every part of her shattering in what promised to be a breathtaking flood of incomparable ecstasy.
Except then, he withdrew. His fingers, his lips, his cock, gone all of them, and in a manner most unbefitting of a goddess she whined in bereavement at their loss when she still so badly needed to be released from the aching prison that had become her body. "Your cruelty is unparalleled," she managed to breathlessly protest, earning from him a low, throaty chuckle.
"As is your insatiability, dearest," said he, to which she did not argue, hoping that being in agreement with him would faster bring about the reward she sought. Despite him keeping her positioned in a kneel, he wrapped an arm round her belly and lifted her so that her back rested against his chest, and nuzzled her neck with a light scratch of stubble and murmured his usual endearments, a promising gesture of good things to come. Yet still he would not touch her how she wished, seeming to find it humorous to keep things nearly chaste with those feather-light kisses of his and the only other point of contact being made with her body being where he held her to him!
Very well then, she would bring herself to the completion she longed for. No sooner than she reached down to pleasure herself in his absence did he easily catch her wrists in one large hand, restraining her from doing so and laughing affectionately as again she expressed her frustration at being denied.
"Ares!" she cried out in exasperation, unsure if she was cursing his name, or beseeching him to show her some shred of mercy—though she expected that he was enjoying her suffering entirely too much to indulge her (in a play at innocence and ignorance at what she needed of him, he interlinked their fingers, and rested his chin on her shoulder to better watch her squirm, purring in her ear, "Tell me what you want of me, my beauty," before nibbling the lobe ); if he wished her to beg though, she would, so great was her rising desperation. Was this how her mortal playthings felt when she forcibly kept them in such a state? If it were, she swore to some unknown higher power that, if he would just set her free, she would never again so wickedly torment a lover of hers…or at least not prolong their suffering unnecessarily.
In a sudden burst of realization, her eyes grew wide. Not only was he doing to her exactly what she did to her mortal lovers, but he was using her power to do so! She sensed he was still learning the extent of what he was capable of doing with it, starting off gradually like once he had surely done with a wooden training sword, so who better than she to show him how it should properly be used? She had only given him but a taste of her power earlier.
"I want you, God of War, Conqueror of Cities, Destroyer or Nations," she answered in an appropriately breathy, needy, and entirely submissive-sounding tone of voice, earning from him a satisfied growl and with it the wiggle room needed to enact her scheme. "I want to feel your cock within me and your hands upon me."
Subtly beginning to reclaim her influence (and with it, mastery over the excruciating need for her climax though her body was still wound tight as an archer's bowstring), she raised their interwoven fingers to her lips, pressing the tips of the index and middle ones against them before sliding them into her mouth and sucking lightly at them. She twisted her upper torso to look back at him, forcing him to lift his head from its resting place to capture his gaze and give him a coquettish smile around his fingertips, flicking her tongue against the calloused pads while simultaneously rolling her hips against his, side to side, fore and back, taking great care to rub against his cock.
Now that she had gotten his attention, she guided his hand (his other came to lay upon her hip leading her into a rhythm that he enjoyed) down to her breast and placed his fingers, warm and wet from her mouth, upon it and he obligingly began to massage her the way he knew she liked him to ("When you entreat me so prettily, you know that I can deny you nothing"). Mewling at the exquisite feel of it, she turned back around so that she could lay her head against his shoulder and bask uninterrupted in the ecstasy, pressing harder against him to indicate what she truly desired of him as she continued to match the movements of her body with the motions of his hand.
Whether the war god was feeling generous enough to indulge her, had begun to grow affected by the surging aura of her influence, or had simply at reached the exhaustive limit of his patience, which admittedly was not much, her wish was granted. By now, she was thoroughly accustomed to his rough maneuvering of her body to his liking, but the speed in which he had turned her round to face him, seating her in his lap like it was a magnificent makeshift throne, brought forth a gleeful squeal that turned into a deep, luxurious sigh of absolute bliss from both as he settled himself inside her.
Slowly, savoring each other, they began their intimate dance, the war god's hands gliding tenderly down her back to cup her buttocks and coax her into a steady rhythm with shallow thrusts that she sensed gave him no danger of a premature release, which she permitted, knowing well that when her power began to affect him, he began to air on the more selfish side of pleasure-seeking. Let him continue to think he held the power here, it was she riding atop him and she reveled in the exhilaration that came with having him in a subservient position when he was more oft than not, by her allowance, the dominant, the only man to ever have her submit.
Fingernails digging roughly into the soft skin, he leaned forward to add to the half-completed collar of love-marks encircling her neck, but she stroked his jawline, raised his chin, and made his eyes meet hers, rewarding him with a light kiss before pulling coyly away and using the distance she created between them to marvel at him.
Those sensuous lips of his were parted, begging to be properly kissed; his breathing was ragged as she began to increase the depth of her thrusts. The ordinarily but always beguiling gold irises gazing deeply into hers were intermingled with rose undoubtedly from borrowing her influence, hooded, and worshipful, and glazed with lust, but the color was what intrigued her most. She had never imagined such a thing to be possible, gods being able to use another's abilities—certainly she knew that a greater being's power could bring a heel to a lesser divinity's, but the defining characteristic of their union was that theirs was one of equals, equal importance, both being members of the Dodekatheon, strongly differing but otherwise equal powers…
…did that mean then she could channel his aura? Sometimes she was sure that, particularly in moments such as this, when their bodies moved seamlessly as one, skin against skin, their hearts beating as one, theirs was one soul and that it simply existed in two separate forms.
Just like she had when reclaiming her own, she focused on calling his influence to her, reaching experimentally out for it with unseen fingers, unsure of what to expect. While on the physical plane, her lover's body continued to respond eagerly to hers, she was met with some unconscious resistance and, amused, for she expected nothing less of him, she decided that she would just have to 'persuade' him to surrender to her. Securing a fistful of his hair and scratching at his chest with her other hand, she gave his head a jerk upward to devour his mouth, tongue clashing with his as the pace of their lovemaking grew more rapid. His energy burst forth like spirited steeds from their stable, and abandoning any apprehension she may have had at harnessing it, she again reached out, seizing the reigns of his control.
The moments that followed as she wrested to gain mastery of his power she would akin to trying to tame an unbroken colt as, still unknowingly, he continued to resist her—and it showed in their lovemaking. Both sought to dominate as they rocked against the other: her nails drew his blood with their second pass over his skin, down his ribcage and the arm she had gripped hold of when she released his hair; meanwhile, his grip turned bruising as he slammed into her over and over again, matching her thrust for thrust; sweat slickened their skin and, when their lips could be torn away from their partner's, they panted from the exertion. The mattress groaned in protest, and its occupants in their arousal.
She would have her victory over him, and it would be all the sweeter knowing that he had fought valiantly against her…it was then that she felt something snap into place and suddenly his power seemed to race through her veins, though it presented itself in the form of an all-encompassing longing to see him submit to her, to have him laying beneath her like her usual supplicants.
Aphrodite seated herself atop Ares' muscular thighs, already missing the fullness of him within her, but determined that any further pleasure he experience be solely administered or withheld by her choosing.
"From the moment I laid eyes upon you, you were mine," she murmured against his lips and he made an indistinct noise of agreement, perhaps, thinking like she had earlier, that compliance was the quickest way to achieving the gratification he sought, which was unusual in itself because while he regularly professed that it was he to whom she belonged, he had never acknowledged himself to be hers. "Give into me," she continued, the velvety tone cloaking her words and belaying the command, catching hold of his bottom lip and giving it a light tug with her teeth, earning from him a low moan (she would never tire of the delicious sounds he made), at the same time pushing against his chest.
Evidentially, his strength had become hers, for, to her great delight, he fell backwards onto his elbows for balance, certainly surprised at first, but then intrigue curved his mouth into an expectant smirk and alighted his now honey-colored eyes. Every now and again, he would play her games, and, with her presently controlling his aggressive aura, he seemed only too agreeable to it.
"As formidable as you are beautiful," Ares mused, his voice rough with mounting desire and excitement, settling himself flat upon his back, leaving her to top him. She had not realized she had spoken in the exotic dialogue he so often slipped into until he answered her in the same tongue, clearly pleased, and she realized she understood him. "Take me then, Goddess of Love," he invited, unsure of where this fiercer side of her had come from, but reveling in every second of it as he knew with utmost certainty that in her he had met his match, found his soul's mate, leaving her drunk, giddy, with the feeling of conquest, "do with me what you will. Body, heart, and spirit, I am yours."
"You are mine," she repeated, sounding nearly feral. The words were curiously difficult to articulate as the need to possess him, consume him, increased tenfold, the sheer intensity of it nearly ridding her of all cognitive abilities.
Pure instinct had her flattening herself against and sliding up the length of his torso, his hand running over her back and gently over the curve of her buttocks where his fingers had bitten into the soft, silken skin, while she showed no such gentleness, reaching back to grasp hold of his wrist and, with a playful smirk and force enough to leave prints of her own against his skin, forcibly pin it to the mattress (if he really wished it, he could easily have broken free, had her beneath him, but oddly enough, he could not seem to find any sort of fight within him), and again yanked him up into a rough, ravenous kiss, one that left no question of her claims of him. She bit his swollen bottom lip and gave it a tug, stretching it, with her teeth, before pushing him back against the mattress and tilting back his head to bare his throat to her and dipping her head to suck hard at the jumping pulse-point, the deep amber mark left by her lips reinforcing her proprietary declaration.
Briefly, she paused to outstretch his arms almost painfully at his sides and then secure them tightly at the wrist to the bedposts with silken ties that undoubtedly had come from the dress the he could not help but tear off her earlier, positioning him, to his amusement, like a sacrifice at an altar; he had offered himself to her after all. It was his own willingness to play this game, though, not those gossamer manacles, that truly restrained him.
For a moment, she admired her handiwork with a smug and immensely sultry look before returning to the task at hand, leaving yet another series of marks on his neck, forming a sort of collar befitting a mortal slave.
Hot need tightened his every nerve and his cock twitched with the anticipation at being taken in her skillful mouth, though she travelled back down his body with a tortuously deliberate slowness, kissing, licking, nipping every inch of skin in her path, doing everything she could to make him writhe beneath her, buck his hips, and groan with carnal delight. When his reaction particularly satisfied her, she would prolong the torture by pausing every now and again, looking up at him with a wicked smile—the pink of her irises seeming to burn gold, which, with her tussled hair, made her look like a war-faring goddess, the very thought of her riding into battle with him, laying with her after they cut a path of destruction with funeral pyres burning in the distance, illuminating her luscious curves, her perfume mingling with the scent of death, sent a shiver through his massive frame though his blood had turned to lava…
…and he shook anew and strained against the binding on his arms (which to his immense surprise held fast) when she delicately ran her tongue around the tip of his cock.
Finally, finally, when he thought he might go mad with her teasing kisses on his inner thighs and lower abdomen, taking care, he noted hazily, to go nowhere near where he so badly wanted her to, Aphrodite drew him into her mouth, humming in appreciation at the flavor of her own essence intermingling with the saltiness of his body that lingered on her lips and the muskiness of his shaft.
Harder, faster, deeper she sucked and swallowed him over and over again, reveling in the sound of his moans, which now came with total abandon as he tipped back his head against the pillows (inadvertently displaying the dark love-marks she had left on his neck, further thrilling her) and let his eyes flutter shut, in true surrender to her whims. In this heightened, curiously power-hungry state of mind, she could have cruelly kept him teetering at the edge of an ecstatic freefall for all of eternity, until she had him begging for release—even the prideful God of War had his limitations though she had yet to discover how much of her torture he could endure—but his uncharacteristic submission had brought her yearning for release again to an unbearably urgent peak.
Back atop him she climbed, passing her nails from his collarbone to his hipbones, the metallic tang of his ichor akin in her frenzied mind to incense. His eyes flew open and, giving a frustrated growl, he ineffectively tugged again at the silk ties; he no longer wished to lay passively by as she took him, but take him she did, impaling herself upon his length and showing no mercy as she sated herself, riding him with a fury.
Drunk on the feel of victory, she threw back her head and clutched his thighs to balance herself, her breasts bouncing with the intensity of her movements as she continued to use him as would she a human supplicant—a toy intended solely to giving her pleasure.
Sweet release beckoned, she just need give herself over to it.
Her control slipped away, however it was over the war god's power as opposed to her own body.
Ares' force was his own again, indicated by a crunching of the wooden bedposts splintering as he successfully pulled himself free of his bindings and Aphrodite had to laugh at herself for her gross negligence. Suspecting vaguely that she would be feeling the aftereffects come tomorrow, all she could do was hang on for dear life as her former prisoner surged upright, slinging a newly-freed arm around her waist and bringing her with him as he rolled, causing her to land flat upon her back on the mattress.
His eyes were blazing hot and bright and feral as he kissed her hard, robbing her of the little breath that had not been forced from her lungs upon impact before turning her unceremoniously onto her belly and grasping her hips to drag her towards him. How quickly had the roles turned, going from goddess to war-prize so suddenly, but she any objections she may have had at being 'dethroned' ended in a pleading whimper as he settled over her, the weight of him comfortable, the fullness of him at this deep angle delicious, the feel of his cock hitting that most special place in her core heavenly. Losing himself to an impassioned wildness, making the entire bed shake with the punishing rhythm of his thrusts, the God of War leaned forward to bite her on the shoulder as he rammed into her, causing her to arc against him and gasp.
Strong fingers cupped the base of her throat, turning her head so that could kiss along her jawline. Eager for more, she twisted in a way that could not possibly be comfortable for her, which enabled him to better attack her lips again. Along with the honey-sweet flavor that was uniquely hers, and the faintest trace of himself, he could practically taste her enthusiasm as she breathlessly moaned into his mouth. He swallowed her moans hungrily, certain that he would never have his fill of her.
Like a thirsting man in want of water, he craved the beautiful goddess laying beneath him as fervently as had he so long ago at her wedding, when he had first beheld her twirling about in that figure-hugging red dress and had known with every fiber of his being that he needed to have her as his own. And now he had her, knew every curve of her magnificent form, knew how to touch her in ways that would make her cry out the loudest, and knew where would make her tremble and softly whimper with need. Too many times to count, he had kissed those luscious lips and every inch of her creamy skin. So familiar was she and the present situation they were in to him, but each time was still as thrilling as their first intimate encounter. With their every encounter, she seemed only to grow more beautiful and irresistible to him.
A hand pressing upon her back had her again splayed on the mattress with a huff of protest, but just as swiftly, he had her flipped over into a position less reminiscent of a love slave, one that better resembled a maiden upon her bridal bed so that he could properly drink her in. Her skin was flushed and dewy, spotted here and there with large amber marks, her perfect breasts rising and falling rapidly with her quick, excited breathing. Her eyes were bright, still awash with gold, as his feasted on her naked form, her mouth swollen from his kisses. Their bodies had disconnected whilst he was exerting his renewed strength to toss her as he pleased, and feeling bereft without her heat around him, he entered her once more, thinking that she was undeniably…
"…my greatest conquest," he growled hoarsely, nuzzling against her neck and deeply inhaling the scent of her. Something floral, vanilla, and a hint of the ocean mixed together potently. The urgency he had felt at finding relief had begun to ebb away, into a stronger need to hold her, cherish her; the rolling of his hips slowed into almost an afterthought.
"You wound me so, God of War." Ever so prettily, Aphrodite pouted, making him want to bite down upon her jutted bottom lip when his head shot up to look questioningly at her, for in his mind that was the highest form of praise. "Here I lay in your bed," she lamented theatrically, all the while affectionately brushing damp hair off his furrowed brow and smoothing it back into the sea of dark waves that framed his face, "and yet you can think only of combat and conquest. I think," she continued with a wicked little smile curving the corners of her mouth, "that I just might be able to persuade your mind to stray from the battlefield."
Even before she unleashed her influence upon him—and he knew from the telltale way her eyes turned a deeper pink that she would be ruthless with her use of it, she had proven to delight in torture as much as he, yet another of many traits that made her so appealing to him—a sensation of warmth had welled up in his chest at the realization that she had spoken knowingly to him in perfect Thracian. In his absence then, had she taken the opportunity to learn?
Never did his goddess fail to surprise him…and he would not mind in the slightest spending the rest of his eternal existence being surprised by her. For Khaos' sake, she alone could convince him to go to a wedding (with the right enticements of course), a mortal wedding nonetheless, under the guise of mortals themselves, so that she could rejoice in the celebration of two individuals finding—with considerable assistance from her—their life's mate. Despite his apathy for mortals, he could suddenly understand with absolute clarity the joy that his lover's precious humans felt when they found and bound themselves to the one with whom they would spend the rest of their very short days. The warmness spilled forth like water from a dam and flooded his veins, from his fingertips as one hand bunched in the sheets in a bid for balance and the other cupped her cheek, to his toes.
"Already you appear less preoccupied," hummed his lover in satisfaction, returning to the dialect that they shared as she leaned contentedly into his touch. "Pray tell me of your thoughts."
"My thoughts are of you, dearest," he professed as he gently passed his thumb over her lips. His earnestness was etched on his face. "You always, even in the heat of battle." Simple as his declaration was, there was a weightiness to those words, and as though the deliverance of the statement had exhausted him, he bowed his head, pressed his forehead to hers, and shut his eyes as he reveled in her presence. This sort of blissfulness, he concluded, must be what soldiers fortunate enough to leave the battlefield with their lives experienced when they were able to return home.
Against his palm brushed her lips as she turned her head in his hand and along his fingers then. Where her forehead had rested against his own was placed a gentle kiss as her arms wrapped tightly round him and a softer one still upon both his closed eyelids. Down his jawline she laid more of those butterfly-light kisses before finishing her path with one upon the corners of his mouth. The skin touched by her lips began to tingle and the earlier heat was stoked into a fire beneath the surface. If he could have just one more he would never again be in want of another thing.
Until, perhaps, he was given an almost chaste one on his mouth even as his lips parted in anticipation of more. Too proud was he to outright give in to begging, but there was a certain beseechingness in his gaze when his eyes flew open to meet pink irises that crinkled at the corners as the Goddess of Love smiled adoringly up at him.
"I love you," she breathed out softly, her declaration every bit as unembellished as his, though no less powerful for it.
Having once, early in his youth, been groomed as heir of Olympus, Ares had grown to be nothing if not eloquent, though in that moment, words failed him spectacularly. His body burned like he had swum through the Phlegethon River. Some unknown emotion, something strange, a fluttering sensation of sorts, though not as unpleasant as it was unexpected, grew in his belly and traveled up his throat to form a barricade preventing any sort of sound from escaping. He did not even know what it was he would wish to say was he capable of doing so, but it was imperative that she make sense of what he could not. Hoping to convey to her in the only way he knew how, he took then the kiss that he so desired from her, his tongue forcing entry into her mouth, and slammed into her roughly enough that her hips left the bed to meet his.
From the savagery of their union, the entire bed quaked anew, the headboard banged steadily against the wall, the slap of skin meeting skin joining the symphony of their lovemaking; all prior romps of theirs looked positively gentle in comparison. Aphrodite needed to throw up her hand and brace it against the wooden baseboard lest she be driven headfirst into it as the war god continued to take her more brutally still, using it as leverage so that he could thrust more forcibly into her.
Her nails on the hand not protecting her against contact with the wood scrabbled frantically along his back as she wondered vaguely if he might split her in two, and they scraped over his shoulder to squeeze hard at his flexed bicep. Her legs wrapped tightly round him, her heels dug in like spurs. Her entire body tensed, tightened, ached—a mix of her climax impending, and the fact that he was hurting her a bit in his desperate claiming of her (tomorrow she would wear a rainbow of bruises along with the 'necklace' of love-marks), and yet she sensed the urgency within him, welcomed his roughness, knowing the meaning behind it, knowing his need for it, pushed her way through the pain, guided him further onward with her influence—and she found purchase on his shoulder so that she might sink her teeth into the tender skin of his throat in an attempt to relieve the ache.
The skin broke and with it came blood; her walls crumbled and with it came liberation. Behind her eyelids lights blurred and blazed like stars and the heavens themselves were rearranged as her grip on him laxed and she sank back onto the pillows. Around his cock, her feminine muscles squeezed. The nearly sobbing cry of his name, calling for him to join her, broke through his lustful craze and sent him with a shaky gasp tumbling into the abyss with her…his powers now hers as he lost himself…her powers now his…back again to their original owners and back again…head over heels he fell into nothingness and everything all rolled into one…heels over head as the shudders racked his body, the strongest he had ever known.
Thoroughly spent, Ares landed ungracefully at her side as his muscles turned to water following the end of his euphoric freefall and curled up against her, draping an arm over her waist and laying his head upon her chest as she consumed what remained of his senses. He inhaled her perfume, listened in contentment to the sounds of her heartbeat and her still ragged breathing, satisfied with himself for being the source of it. Out of habit, she began to card her fingers through his hair—a ministration he did not even know he enjoyed until he had become he a recurring lover of hers, now an act that served to lull him to sleep and make him feel cherished.
"Immortal though I am, you shall nevertheless be the death of me," he murmured groggily, finding it becoming more and more difficult to keep his eyes (rose-tinted gold again as were hers) from drooping shut and trying not to think of the many nights in battle he had gone without rest.
At this, so starkly different from his usual flowing professions of devotion, Aphrodite laughed lightly and kissed his forehead before resuming her slow stroking of his tousled mane. "I am sorry to disappoint you, God of War, but you shall not rid yourself so easily of me in death."
"I would never wish it so," answered he with all the vehemence that a scarcely coherent god could muster. "To imagine a life without you in it would indeed be a fate…" Here, he paused to yawn hugely. "a fate worse than death." Deeper into the crook of her neck he burrowed with a sigh of contentedness, wrapping his leg proprietarily over hers and tightening his hold round her waist.
Tears welled in the eyes of the Goddess of Love and dampened her cheeks, so deeply moved was she that she needed a moment to compose herself. Far from being the first time, she wondered wherever from her lover had learned to speak such astonishingly beautiful words, far lovelier than anything she could give breath to. (She showed her affection in a more nonverbal sort of way). Yet she could not ask such of him, for his soft, steady breathing indicated that he had since passed over into the realm of Hypnos, sleeping as peacefully upon her bosom as a newborn babe laying upon its mother's, and she decided that was a conversation to be had another day.
They did, after all, have a lifetime to spend together.
Author's Note, Pt. II: Am I allowed to say that I like parts of my own work, because I just love the part where Aphrodite cuts Ares' hand with his own knife (again, her doing, not mine). I actually got inspired for their relationship by reading a passage in a Hades and Persephone fic (I've been on an HxP kick lately and thought about giving it a try myself), In the Dog House by IsleofSolitude, and it just made perfect sense to me.
I've already started on the next chapter (I work as a cashier in the real world and it's great for letting your mind wander away and starting to talk to ancient Greek gods) featuring Hephaestus getting his revenge, some good old Olympian family dysfunction, Ares getting hurt again, and a whole lot of angstiness.
Until next time.
-Impersonating Sugar