Greek Mythology 1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I've never know exactly what to say when writing these, but I've ****been posting on FictionPress for years (under the same name) and I think I've lurked on FanFiction for about as long. This is, however, my first time both writing and posting a fanfic of my own. After literally spending months in the Greek mythology section, which I couldn't have been happier to find, I figured I'd give it a try. **

**I hope you enjoy. :D**

**Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine. If they were, you would've heard of me. ;) That and I'd have no excuse for any inaccuracies.**

**Title credit goes to All Time Low-even if I didn't actually _listen_ to the song until the chapter was nearly finished. In fact, most of my writing music was actually Viking metal, but I think I'm getting a little off-track. **

There was nothing that the immortal ones delighted in more than an opportunity to come together for an evening of amusement, the latest gossip, and, it was all but implied, debauchery, which in turn was discussed at length during the next event. There was no better opportunity to partake in such festivities than a wedding, and this upcoming union would ensure that anyone of any importance would be in attendance. The betrothed alone were enough to arouse curiosity: the newly anointed Goddess of Love, whose supposed beauty paled all others' in comparison, and the husband-to-be, her physical counterpart, the lame, homely, and perpetually sooty god of the forge, who did no justice to his royal parentage.

It was a well-known fact that the king and queen of the sky were not what could be called the finest of parents, often too consumed by their own fighting to pay much mind to their children, though the prospective groom seemed to fare worse than his siblings. Some even whispered behind their hands that he had been literally thrown from the home of the gods as an infant by his own mother, that his unsightliness had offended her, therefore prompting his immediate removal. His landing in the mortal realm only added to the grievance, disfiguring his legs. Happily though, the situation at last took a turn for the better, for he was well-loved by those who fostered him, and highly praised for and encouraged to perfect his craft. Even still, he harbored a deep resentment of the woman who had both abandoned and disabled him, and the result of his combined talent and fury was a splendid throne of pure gold, anonymously presented as a gift to Hera.

Her vanity touched, she at once seated herself, only to be stuck fast. When all others failed, it quickly became apparent that only the maker of the cursed chair could free her of its hold. Such extraordinary craftsmanship could be attributed to one person alone—or more specifically a god who had made a name for himself as the master of metal-working. After he had been tracked down, he unsurprisingly refused to be of any assistance. The thought of moving the throne, his wife and all, to the furthest wing of his palace, where her screams would be muffled, had crossed Zeus' mind, and it was fortunate for her that he was simultaneously facing another dilemma.

While all of this was transpiring, a stunning new goddess stepped forth from the sea foam and took up residence upon Mount Olympus. So lovely was she that all who looked upon her desired her, not the least of which being a handful of his sons, and quite a bit of animosity emerged between them. He saw then the solution to both of his problems, thus offering her hand in marriage to the blacksmith god, on the condition that he release his own bride.

The offer, the hope that he might find love in the arms of the exquisite goddess who specialized in such matters of the heart, was too great for the dejected son of Zeus to refuse. And she agreed to have him! He thought he might burst from happiness.

And it was for that reason that dozens of well-wishers and skeptics alike now flocked to the highest peak to bear witness to their union.

* * *

The bride-to-be paced restlessly around the large and elegantly-furnished room she had been granted, occasionally catching her reflection. Though magnificent to behold, clad in a lavish red chiton so draped to accentuate her generous curves and full bust, with flowers woven through her elaborately braided blonde chignon and glittering with jewels from her ears to her fingers, the sight did little to soothe her. Unease had settled in behind her lavender eyes and crept across the rest of her face. Mortal women dreamed of their wedding day for all their short lives, but she felt as if she were tumbling into a nightmare. She had tact enough to pass herself off as the very embodiment of delight and gratitude—given a position in the court of the pantheon and a husband, all in such short time—when really she wanted nothing more than to bitterly weep or scream in outrage, at the unfairness of it all.

Well, really, the only drawback she could see was her forced matrimony.

Handsome men were in abundance in her new home, and she had so looked forward to sampling all they had to offer, but now, now she was bound to that…that creature. Even if he was not woefully unattractive, she would still have to account for the fact that he had spitefully restrained his own mother on her throne. What if she was next, but suppose, rather than a throne, it was his bed? Ordinarily, the thought might have made her purr with pleasure, but suddenly she realized, stopping in her tracks, that she was supposed to lay with that misshapen fellow, that, in due time, she would be expected to bear him children, and saw herself grow pale in the nearest circle of polished silver.

Could the Fates really be so cruel as to condemn her to birth ugly offspring, a further insult considering she was to be married to a man she would never love? She would rather be stripped of her immortality than suffer such torture. Just as she was feeling faint, her borrowed attendants, all wearing the purple that signified the service of the queen, knocked timidly upon the door and she bade them entrance; along with her title, she was promised a temple further down the mountaintop—that she most certainly would inhabit rather than cohabit with her husband in his—complete with aides of her own, who would dress in robes of pink, her personal preference.

"My lady," said one, giving a deep curtsy, "permit us to assist you with your veil. The ceremony shall begin at any moment and all are eager to behold you."

A second, less caught up in the merriment than the others, who gathered around her with the veil and pins, noticed the pallor of the bride's face, when previously she had been radiating joy. Now, even her eyes looked dull. "Perhaps you should be seated," she suggested, quickly breaking from the rest to draw up a chair, which the newest Olympian slid into with the only the slightest air of apprehension. "Are you well? Would you like some ambrosia to sustain you?"

"That will hardly be necessary," answered the goddess dismissively, certainly not about to reveal her dismay to the women who looked to Hera as mistress, especially when it was she who was organizing the event with a sort of wild zealousness that somehow had less to do with motherly affection for her son and more to do with the concern of additional furniture rebelling. "I am perfectly well, I simply think that the…excitement…of it all has gotten to my head."

She even mustered a smile, though it her performance was seriously lacking in authenticity. Nothing further was said on the matter and she allowed herself to be consumed by a flurry of hands and bodies moving about to secure the veil, all gushing about beautiful she looked. She could not even enjoy the attention she received, a testament to the unhappy state of her mind. The image of a squalling, twisted babe in her arms, mirroring his father, came unbidden to her, and, shuddering, she forced her thoughts instead to stray to the wine that would be served throughout the reception, the only way she might endure the evening and her wifely duty that would follow.

* * *

A wedding, really, was designed solely with women in mind, an opportunity for them to dress themselves in their very best garments and finest jewels, and present themselves to other women in an attempt to be heaped in praise. It was a chance for the hostess to exert her control over the household and freely drape every available service with flowers and ivy or candles, to cover the tables with elaborate centerpieces and rich linens, to yell her head off at her husband if he so much as nudged a petal out of place, a liberty that Hera took full advantage of as preparations were made, until Zeus at last, almost afraid to move about his own palace, threatened to "fetch the accursed chair".

Other than their standard squabbles, it was wine that made such events tolerable for the unfortunate males made to show up, lots and lots of wine. To the great relief of all the desperately bored men, not the least of which being the groom's brothers, Dionysus, the God of Wine, kept everyone's cups full throughout the nuptials, until the ceremony itself came to an end and they were therefore able to fend for themselves. With the floor of the ballroom crammed full of people, dancing to the music provided by Apollo and the Muses beneath the painted murals on the ceiling, two solitary figures lingered near the edge of the room, speaking among themselves.

"No sooner than I finished introducing myself did he take but a glance at me and bolt like one of Artemis' rabbits," Hermes was saying a little too loudly. He had not seen the bottom of his chalice the entirety of the evening and his appearance showed it. His youthful face was flush from over consumption, his golden brown curls all askew, similarly-hued eyes glassy.

"I am not surprised. A coward in life, a coward in death," sneered his companion, having been the one to end the life of the mortal that the messenger god spoke of. He had been a soldier who had tried to flee from the heat of battle, only to meet his end when Ares hurled his spear through his belly, which was much kinder than he deserved. "What does surprise me though is that you let a dead mortal run away from you. The deceased may soon be in need of a new escort."

"Of course I let him run!" Hermes declared gaily, oblivious to his elder brother's scathing remark. "I even was sporting enough to allow him a bit of a head start. You are only the executioner, I cannot imagine you have ever spoken with a soul, and therefore you cannot possibly know how resigned of their fate most are when I come to collect them. It is not every day I encounter one with a little life left in them, and this one was such fun. First, he ran for the woods as he had meant to do before a certain someone gored him…"

As he prattled on, Ares stopped hearing the words themselves, his dark gaze slipped from Hermes to sweep disdainfully over those gamboling about on the dance floor. Having grown thoroughly tired of mingling, what little of it he did, he longed to do nothing more than retreat to his bed chambers, though of course, he would need someone to accompany him. Lascivious like his father, he maintained a string of lovers, but found that one could never hold his attention for very long. And speaking of being easily distracted, just like that, he caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and turned his head sharply to see it in full. In the midst of the room, stood what was easily the most ravishing woman he had ever beheld, twirling about almost vacantly, with the folds of her crimson gown billowing gently around her.

It was as if his every fantasy had be given life in this unknown goddess, all long graceful limbs, and shapely hips, and perfect, perky breasts, with an aura of sensuality hanging about her that turned the ichor running through his veins to fire. He knew then that he had to have her, he longed to capture her luscious lips, tear the dress from her body, and see the curves in full that the fabric teased at. Then he would run his hands over every inch of her creamy skin until she writhed and begged him to take her…and he would…and soon she would be screaming his name, the sound of it echoing all across Olympus.

But what was hers? War in the mortal realm had denied him the opportunity to initially make her acquaintance.

"Who is she?" he demanded of Hermes, who, as messenger, would be unable to avoid the juiciest gossip even if he wished to. As it was, he reveled in such things and possessed a wealth of information about almost each and every immortal, much to their chagrin.

"So then Hecate and I decided that we needed to change tactics…" Somewhere in the midst of the unheard recollection of the epic chase, the patroness of witches must have wanted to join in with the merriment of trying to catch a runaway soul. If the two chthonic deities had chosen to use the full extent of their powers, it would have been a solitary task, and the soul would have been shepherded off to the Underworld in little time at all, but what entertainment was there to be had in doing that? Hermes trailed off, blinking owlishly at his brother. "Who is Hecate?" he asked disbelievingly. "By the Fates, Ares, is your temple built beneath a rock, thus keeping you ignorant?"

"I am fully aware of who Hecate is," Ares bit out, brown eyes having turned a flashing gold, the color of his armor, as they always did when he was properly stimulated, angry or lustful or at war or any number of other things; they were forever changing. (The eyes of the gods were the best indicators of their emotions, the colors associated with their powers occurring naturally within them, sometimes a ring around their pupils, sometimes interwoven throughout the iris itself, which assumed the solid tone usually only when incensed, or using their abilities. For instance, Hermes' eyes would turn a shade similar to his brother's, since he was equipped with the gilded Caduceus, his staff, and Talaria, his winged sandals.) "I was referring to her," he snarled, jerking his head to indicate the goddess who had mesmerized him.

Though he could easily see whom it was that the war god was speaking of, Hermes made a show of flying a few inches into the air to have a better vantage point.

"Ah," he said slowly, making his earthbound sibling want to throttle him, "her." He looked on appreciatively, for a moment seeming to forget the whole purpose behind his ascension. "I swear, you know nothing about anything. That would be the bride herself," he concluded, landing with less than his usual grace. "Aphrodite…" Again turning back to focus on her, Ares tasted the name he had sought on his own lips; it was sweeter than any nectar, but left him thirsting for more. Bride of a different brother (he had honestly lost track of just how many he had) or not, his resolve to have her in his bed grew only more resolute. What a wondrous conquest she would make. "…the new goddess of love, beauty, pleasure, and procreation. Seeing as you asked, I suppose you mean to talk to her, maybe do a little bit of procreating yourself?"

Grinning mischievously, the messenger raised his eyebrows suggestively at his companion, or would have, had he not already vanished.

* * *

Aphrodite bumped into something that felt as cool and solid as one of the marble pillars that flanked the great hall, startling her into opening her eyes. She had always loved to dance, equating it much the same to lovemaking, the freedom to express oneself through the use of their body, but miraculously found herself without a partner. All of the men seemed either too timid or awed to approach her, unless otherwise forbidden by their wives, so, undaunted, she twirled about across the tiles by her lonesome. Her own spouse—she could not stomach the fact that she was now a married woman—had planted himself in a chair alongside the dance floor, apparently content just to watch her. He still seemed somewhat dazed by the events that had transpired. She had closed her eyes then to mask her grimace, hoping that maybe if she squeezed them shut hard enough, spun fast enough, the entire evening might disappear into oblivion, she would wake in a lover's arms and be reassured that it had only been a nightmare.

She was somewhat tipsy and sufficiently dizzy, but her senses came abruptly back to her when she studied what, or rather, who, she had run into—and was not disappointed.

He was a giant of a man, tall and well-muscled; the fact he was dressed as if he just stepped off a battlefield, still wearing his cuirass over his peplos and greaves upon his legs, only further added to his raw masculine appeal. His almost-black locks too were styled for war, worn long and swept back with a strip of leather at his neck, his face unshaven. His hooded eyes were turning the same color as his armor as he conspicuously admired her, a smirk touching his inviting-looking mouth. She stood a little straighter, pushed her breasts forward ever-so-slightly so that he could appreciate her more fully and looked coyly up at him from beneath her thick lashes, a smile gracing her own full lips. Where had this handsome warrior been when she first came to Mount Olympus and why was she meeting him only now?

"A bride of such astounding beauty neglected on her wedding night," he purred, voice deep and husky, all of his earlier surliness replaced with a readiness to flirt, "is truly a pity. Allow me to accompany you." He extended a massive hand to her as the song in the background came to an end and one with a livelier tempo started up.

"It would be my absolute pleasure to keep your company, my lord." Everything about his presence delighted her, not the least of which being the fact that he had remained fully composed, even cocky, when he addressed her; most simply fell to bits, rendered incoherent. (She had even needed to coach one particularly tongue-tied suitor through his own proposition, only to turn him away immediately after.)

She placed her fingers into his rough palm and he captured them, pulling her unexpectedly to him. She had scarcely felt the cold metal he wore before he extended his arm, twirling her away, with the skirts of her dress flying out around her. Laughing gaily, she returned to him, only for her breathing to hitch: this time she was pressed directly into his chest, felt his scorching flesh and solid muscles beneath his tunic; he had willed his protective covering away. The lust he felt for her was palpable, she could smell it as clearly as the wine on his breath, as well as a hint of perspiration, earth, and something sharp and metallic. The hand that was not grasping hers wrapped possessively around her waist and she linked her arm around his neck and they glided smoothly across the marble, every now and again, him making a show of spinning her.

"Have you a name, most mysterious one?" she inquired as they made a full turn across the ballroom, which up until then had been punctuated only with looks of longing as they no doubt tried to envision the other without the restraints of their garbs, and her dance partner surreptitiously guiding her out of the blacksmith god's sights. In a sea of people, they were suddenly very much alone with each other; she was intrigued rather than apprehensive. "I have regrettably not seen you before on Olympus."

"I have many," he responded. "I am known as the God of War, the Destroyer of Cities, the Lord of the Dance," he added, again prompting the melodious laugh from her as he exaggeratedly dipped her backwards and very slowly brought her back to an upright position, holding her so close that their lips were but inches apart, her soft breasts pressed against his hard torso. He inclined his head, though as much as he would have liked to kiss her, he instead brushed her ear with his mouth, and whispered, "But you, my sweet goddess, may call me 'Ares'. And you should know that you soon will be screaming it in ecstasy."

For a moment, when her eyes widened at the unexpectedness of his declaration, he feared that he had been far too bold, that he had all but ruined his chances of stealing her away for the rest of the night, and braced himself for the impending slap. (In all likelihood, the blow would hurt the affronted goddess far more than he, yet she would feel as if her pride had been rightly avenged). Since he spent so much time in war, where profanities and other coarse language flowed freely, along with blood, he sometimes forgot that he needed to censor himself in polite company, especially female, yet with her, he had no such filter, his brain serving only as an interpreter to the demands of his loins. He was not as in control of the situation as he presented himself to be, for he had succumbed almost completely to her spell.

And it seemed she was not wholly immune to his charms, or lack thereof, either, for seconds after she recovered from the shock of his crass words, her lavender eyes were taking on the aroused glow of the pink that rimmed the irises, mirroring everything that he himself felt. Clearly she too had but one thing in mind tonight, and it had nothing to do with the wedding. In fact, she was pressed so closely to him, clinging like ivy, that one would never suspect that, as of a couple hours ago, she was a married woman. (Then again, it was to his lame brother that she was wedded; he could hardly be expected to satisfy a woman's needs. For a war god, he considered himself a scholar in the acts of intimacy.)

Encouraged, he impulsively gave her lobe the smallest of nibbles before withdrawing and hating himself for having to do so. He wished to nuzzle into, press his lips up the length of, her white swan neck, and breathe in the smell of her perfume, roses, vanilla, and the faintest hint of the sea, until he was drunk off it. She would taste even better than she smelled…and it was not just her warm, wet mouth with its pouting pink lips that he was fantasizing about.

Aphrodite could positively hear the thoughts he was entertaining, and she would have liked nothing better than to feel his tongue and calloused fingers exploring every inch of her. Her own lustful impulses were highly improper, almost as if she was making a mockery of the vows she had exchanged not all that long ago that very evening, but it was simply her nature. True, she had been granted her powers to bring love to mortals and immortals alike so that they could spend a lifetime in wedded bliss—and she delighted in it—yet marriage itself was not for her, she could not be confined to one man, especially one whom she did not feel the slightest inkling of passion towards. After seeing the way his eyes lit up when she consented to marry him, having been discarded by his own mother if the rumors were true and desperate for affection, she pitied her new husband—Hephaestus—but passion was her very essence, she needed it to sustain her.

Where there was none, she could not exist; in the few days she had been betrothed, she felt positively suffocated by the lack of it. It was like she was drowning and the harder she tried to break the surface, the heavier the weight of it became, pulling her further downward, crushing her. She was not going to spend her eternal existence as a ghost of herself.

Never before had she felt more alive than now, on the dance floor—having not once broken step as they flirted—with a most magnificent partner, who was, literally, a breath of fresh air. A night spent with him would be her wedding gift to herself. Unwilling to appear too eager however, she tossed her head with feigned indignation, yet contradictorily trailed her fingernails lightly up and down the nape of his neck, leaving a path of sparks against his flesh in their wake.

"Well, Ares, God of War, you are nothing if not self-assured," she proclaimed, doing her very best to sound offended. Such talk though, uncouth as it might have been, did nothing but thrill her, and she was anxious to find out how he planned to go about making her cry out so rapturously; surely there was a good reason behind his confidence. Casting a swift but obvious glance downwards, inspecting him, she added, having to bite back a pleased smile, "Here I thought it was only a dance you sought, when in truth you mean to woo me. I must inform you that I am a married woman."

Her act was not fooling him in the slightest and he gave a throaty chuckle in response. "And yet you remain in my arms when a woman truly concerned with honoring her vows would have struck my face and turned on her heel. What say you to that, Aphrodite, Goddess of Love?" he teased. When she tilted her head slightly in bemusement at him knowing her name, he offered as a means of an explanation, "Tales of your splendor have reached even the battlefields, rallying the spirits of the men." He was improvising, having only learned her name moments ago from Hermes, but she visibly reveled in his compliments, which he in turn liked paying her.

Whosoever said he had no social tact had clearly never watched him seduce a woman—though of course a critic would be quick to turn this around and claim that since all he concerned himself with outside of combat was keeping female company, he naturally would be good at procuring it. He had long ago stopped trying to please the others, most of whom tended to behave as if he were a frothing dog that could be provoked into biting at any given moment.

Aphrodite pretended to mull over his words. The hand that had been at his neck moved to run the length of his strong jaw. She loved the feel of him, so solid, so powerfully built, the quintessential male.

"I would say that you boast far too fine a face to be marred by a blow of my hand…" The many rings that adorned it, easily enough to leave a mark if they made contact, caught the candlelight and sparkled. "I would also predict that I would not be the first to appropriately discipline you, for you speak as though this is a common practice of yours, luring wives from their husbands," she mock-scolded. As attractive as he was, it would be almost insulting to think that there had not been others before her, as undoubtedly there would be after (a pattern she herself would follow), but for tonight, the God of War belonged to her, an appetizer, albeit an especially luscious one, to start the feast of men—and women if the whim so struck her—she would consume.

**Author's Note, Pt. II: For easier reading, I decided to split the original chapter in half. (The next one is going to be a lot more fun). Right now, I don't have that much of a plot in mind, so it's currently just my retelling. **

**I'd love to hear what you think. **

**-Impersonating Sugar**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: If you're reading this, I'm happy to see that you stuck with me! Compared to the first part, it was much harder to write and had to undergo several revisions because I'd been also been working on a modern-day, original story and my brain just couldn't bridge the time gap. I'm pleased with the final result, and once I got back into the zone, I had a lot of fun writing it.**

"I confess, in that aspect, I am not wholly innocent," he answered with another roguish smirk, "yet I do not view my actions as immoral. Since I am speaking bluntly, I will further admit that I find no sense whatsoever in the concept of marriage…" He was being more open, this was true, but he withheld the intensity of the disdain he actually felt for it, thinking that it would do little to further ingratiate himself. "Being bound to one person, and them alone for all of eternity…how utterly repressing and dismal." As a product of the most dysfunctional union in all of Olympus, his philosophy was only more strongly reinforced: with marriage came unhappiness. Though they had differing opinions on marriage, her thinking the idea of it wonderfully romantic, a means of expressing one's unyielding devotion to their beloved, the latter part of his speech echoed her own sentiments exactly.

Then, as if he were privy to her thoughts, he added, "Would immortality not be meaningless if every passing day was filled with the same tedium? I merely offer my services to those who seek to lead more…thrilling…lives."

"And you wish you serve me, my lord?" she crooned, a suggestively arched brow accompanying a playful smile. Her pink, previously violet, orbs glowed all the more brightly, in turn making the flames of desire in his belly leap all the higher.

Ares could not recall an instance when he hungered for a woman as fervently as he did her. Again, he grappled with the impulse to devour that sensuous mouth of hers, far more insistent than the first occurrence, and had to twirl her out and away to keep himself from succumbing to it. Aphrodite had contoured so expertly to his torso that when she was but an arm's length away, he felt almost bereft at the loss of her nearness. And yet, he spun her again, and then again after, nearly hypnotized by just the sight of her. She was a vision of unfathomable beauty, so self-assured in her movements, so graceful, so willing to yield to his masterful command of her body, which he further exerted by drawing her unwisely back to him, crushing her into his chest with such forcefulness—not an inch separating them— that the love goddess gave a surprised gasp.

"To answer your question, I wish to _worship _every inch of your magnificent form, use my bed as your temple," her escort breathed, almost hoarse with lust. He stared down at her with a gaze of molten gold, his expression absolutely feral, and unbelievably erotic. A surge of yearning raced down her spine to intensify at her core, leaving her tingly all over. His pelvic bones rubbed enticingly against hers, as well as the start of something far more tantalizing, the evidence of her effect upon him, which throbbed in time to her own sudden, aching need. Those around them ceased to exist; it was only him and herself; meeting his passionate embrace was all that mattered. "I cannot resist your allure for much longer. _Come with me to my quarters_," he urged. Though his lips did not move at this insistence, she heard him clearly in her mind itself.

An appreciative round of applause gave way to another song, jerking her sharply from her reverie, reminding her that she was still in the midst of the dance floor, where all could see her inappropriately entwined with a man who was not her husband. Gingerly she wriggled free of his tight grasp, though only out of necessity; she rather enjoyed being so close to him: the heat of him, those rock-hard muscles. Already, she anticipated that tongues were set wagging, and inwardly cringed. With any luck, as the evening wore on and drunkenness came from the amount of wine consumed, the sight of the pair of them in each other's arms would be forgotten; her secret life—married to one god while gracing the beds of others—would remain as such.

_I will gladly, but let us reunite in the hallway in a short while_, she suggested soundlessly. _Can you imagine the scandal we would create if we were to leave together, especially after all of Olympus has seen us in each other's arms?_

The war god looked less than pleased with the suggestion; his chiseled features betrayed nothing, though she could see the frustration at being denied instant gratification in his smoldering eyes. So there was a hidden side of her charming cohort. Some might have regarded this quick impatience as a warning sign not to get involved with such a volatile god, but she viewed it as a compliment of sorts, knowing that it was only because he longed for her so greatly.

_As you said, our fellows have already seen us, and they no doubt will discuss it, so why not give them a story __**worthy**__ of such gossip? Something far more outrageous will come along to amuse them shortly after, as it always does, and our offenses will be forgotten. If anything it would be I who bore the brunt of the rumors, _he assured her, _which is of little consequence to me_.

In response, she almost imperceptibly shook her head, refusing to be otherwise convinced. _She_ wasa relative newcomer to the court, whereas he spoke with the sort of jadedness that suggested he had been in attendance for some time, and while he presented himself as indifferent to how the others perceived him, she would rather be held in a favorable light.

Aphrodite drifted backwards, out of his reach, the tease, seeming to take delight in his suffering. His erection had not yet reached full peak, thankfully, but every muscle in his body was already taut with anticipation, making for a slight bit of discomfort. _Good things come to those who wait, God of War, _she enticed, her tone honey-sweet. _Rest assured that I will make it worth your while. _

It seemed that the only way to have his conquest was if it was by her terms. Ares was desperate enough to possess the enchantress that he grudgingly agreed to the conditions she had laid out. While the postponement was inconvenient—in that time, he could have already laid her upon his bed, her dress in a silken puddle on the floor—it was within reason.

_Do not keep me waiting long, _he growled, yet contrary to how it sounded, it was more a request than a command. Aloud, the portrait of composure, he said, "I thank you for a most wonderful dance, milady," and lifted her hand to place a searing kiss atop her knuckles, looking meaningfully at her as he did. In the next moment, all sense of subtlety lost on him, his imposing physique turned to smoke, and where he once stood remained only the highly polished stone floor; the vast double doors must have been too far a walk to suit his taste, she decided, nothing if not amused. Regardless of the method he used, _he_ had the advantage of being able to slip from the room without notice, a feat that would be infinitely more difficult for her.

To throw off any suspicion that her intent was meeting back up with her dance, soon to be bed, partner, she managed to wait through the completion of the song that had started when she and Ares parted ways and the one that followed. Certain that she had stalled long enough, she edged cautiously closer towards the doorway. Several times though, her process was impeded as she was intercepted by a handful of guests (goddesses with their teeth bared in huge, superficial smiles and husbands clutching their arms meekly, struggling not to make eye contact) offered their best wishes or generously praised her appearance, or the reception, which she herself had had little involvement in the preparation of. Each gracious, albeit distracted, acceptance of such was another small step in her quest for the exit. When she finally reached it, she took one last backward glance to ensure she would not be missed, and near sprinted down the expansive, well-lit corridor.

Rounding the corner, effectively removing herself from the sight of whomever else might emerge from the ballroom, she found the hall empty, and wondered why they had not agreed to a more specific meeting place, and if, perhaps, she had put off their rendezvous for too long and he had lost interest, unlikely as _that _was.

"I have heard it said that 'good things come to those who wait,'" a low, sultry voice purred in her ear. Sinewy arms encircled her waist with a sense of familiarity as the war god solidified behind her, his mouth moving to press against the joining of her neck and collarbone. "I found the process to be agony, but the reward so very sweet." With that, he resumed his work, peppering the tender area with feather-light kisses.

Shivering with pleasure from the feel of his mouth, she arched her back against him, further proffering her throat, her head nestling into the same juncture on his body. As his fingers splayed across her curvaceous hips, Ares obligingly made his way up the length of it, alternating between sucking greedily, licking, and nipping, unable to get his fill of her, though as he neared her jawline and traveled along it, he resumed his previous method, careful to do nothing that would leave a mark. His path ended as he placed a kiss against the corner of her parted lips, brushed teasingly over them, wanting to make her endure the same excruciating delay of satisfaction that he had. With a forcefulness that he did not expect from one whose gift was love, she caught his bottom lip with her teeth and gave a tug, the electrifying jolt of pain dissolving his resolution to be gentle.

One hand dug, claw-like, into her skin through the fabric of her dress as his most primal desires were unleashed, while the other jumped up to remove the tortoiseshell clip that held her hair in place. He took possession of the long, thick flaxen locks that unfurled, a means of forcing her face upwards and around to kiss her fiercely. Spurred on by passion, she reached backwards, likewise replicating his actions, only she dragged him down to meet her own demands, eliciting a groan from deep in his throat that was equally as arousing for her. Without interrupting the kiss, Aphrodite twisted herself around to face him; their mouths collided with a renewed ferocity as they no longer needed to contort themselves. His tongue pried her lips apart, first engaging hers in battle, before they joined in a dance.

Bed chambers suddenly seeming too distant to suit his purpose, the God of War steered his accommodating prize backwards to the wall. She automatically inched her way up the cool marble in order to straddle him, sleeves of her gown slipping down her arms from the effort, having as little reservation about giving her body to him in the hallway, where they could be detected at any given moment, as he did about conquering it.

* * *

So engrossed in the other's unrelenting lips and roaming hands were they that the goddess who had stepped forth from thin air, having taken it upon herself to keep the very thing from happening, went unnoticed. Not one to take kindly to being ignored, nor particularly enthused by sight of them writhing against each other as if not separated by a barrier of clothing, her eyes flashed murderously and a frosty aura abruptly filled the air around them, sapping the passionate heat of the younger deities' entanglement. Ever reliant on his self-preservation instincts, Ares was the first of the two to become aware of the threatening presence—and cursed her for interrupting; he knew without question who it was that had encroached on them.

Deciding that it was in his best interest not to prolong what he was certain would be a hostile encounter, he attempted to detach himself from his newfound lover's embrace with a great deal of reluctance and an irritated growl that was misconstrued as one of longing. (He had been very vocal in his appreciation of the attention he was paid).

Instantly, he was drawn back in, in a fog of incomparable bliss, as the Goddess of Love dipped her head and almost lazily began lavishing his neck with the tip of her tongue. With a firm pull of her legs, she drew his engorged cock to her beckoning entrance, and rubbed herself against him. His eyes fluttered shut and any thought of the unwelcome arrival vanished—right up until he felt her further intrude in his mind. Invisible hands grasped his head, attempting to lead his gaze over his shoulder, in _her_ direction. He was able to prevent her will from overriding his, from being her puppet, but her influence was otherwise so distracting that he found he could no longer enjoy himself, and glanced backwards on his own accord. Only after he acknowledged her with a glare did she withdraw.

It took her partner's uncharacteristic fascination with something other than herself, especially when she was at her most desirable, for Aphrodite to understand the full extent of the danger that she had otherwise been oblivious to. She first blanched as she glimpsed the interrupting goddess, genuinely embarrassed to have been caught in the act of defiling her marital vows, when previously she had found the risk of it erotic, before her cheeks burned violently red when she saw her in full. Unwrapping her legs from around her companion's midriff, she slid unceremoniously down to the floor; her skirts, which had been hitched up past her mid-thigh for easier accessibility, tumbled back down to their more modest, intended length.

No sooner than she had found her footing, did he turn fully around to face the third party. His massive frame served as a shield from scrutiny as she ducked behind him to tidy herself.

"Good evening, Mother. Enjoying the festivities?" he asked, his voice composed, flat even, a dangerous metallic glint in his eyes the only outward sign of his annoyance. _'Mother'?! _The word made Aphrodite, who now had not a single hair straying from her magically restored chignon, nor lips bearing any sign of swollenness from the aggressive kisses, flinch as she realized that she had just been apprehended in the arms of her husband's far-superior _brother_. How would she even _begin_ to atone for her offenses against the heavenly queen? How would she ever be able to show her face in the courts again?

While she fretted, Ares however stood disheveled and unabashed before the Queen of the Gods when many others would have cowered at the fury in her eyes alone. He had inherited those flashing dark brown orbs—to the untrained observer, they could have been confused for siblings, separated by a few years in physical age—but in anger, as opposed to gold, hers simultaneously reflected the bright blues and greens and purples of the peacock, her sacred bird. With aristocratic features, her rich mahogany hair piled high atop her head, Hera had once been positively striking, though the constant infidelities she endured had reduced to a shell of her former glory, albeit making her an infinitely more imposing sight.

She gave her son a withering stare: she would expect nothing less from him, the abomination from her womb. Nevertheless, it required two to become intimate and she had borne witness to her new daughter-in-law acting as quite the willing participant. (He may have inherited his father's lecherous ways, yet thankfully, as far as she knew, not his methods.)

"I suggest you return to your _husband _at once, my _dear_," she advised the pantheon's most recent addition, not a suggestion at all, but a thinly-veiled order. Every syllable was chipped from ice and seeped in venom, the temper that could rival her own spouse's kept barely at a heel. "And I would further encourage you to depart soon thereafter on your honeymoon."

The cuckolding bride bowed her head and gave a sweeping curtsy in response, essentially dismissing herself. Even a newcomer like she knew better than to incite the infamous wrath of the queen; though Hera's punishments pertained chiefly to the mortal women whom she felt slighted by, Aphrodite suspected that she would be more than willing to make an exception, especially given the circumstances. Rather than try to appeal her case, which would have done nothing more than waste her breath, even if she swore solemnly on the river Styx that such an occurrence would never happen again, she decided it was far safer to flee.

Besides, she was unwilling to offer such placations at any rate: she would be doomed to incur the misfortune that came with breaking what should have been a binding oath, for there were few forces were more driving than that of a handsome man, and the war god might well have been the most impressive of any. To not have him would be something she would regret for the rest of her days.

As she sauntered back towards the ballroom, a quick glance over her shoulder led her to realize that she had an audience—Hera making sure she returned directly to her destination with no trickery, Ares rather intrigued by the parting view. To indulge him, she added an exaggerated swing to her hips, smiling impishly to herself, a gleam of pink glowing against their lavender setting, the last dregs of shame chased off by the more overpowering lust for him. Already, she was scheming on how best to lure him to her bed upon her return from her honeymoon. She would have the entirety of it to plot, taking great care to exercise more caution and covertness during the execution.

There would be no more ravaging each other like depraved mortal youths in deceptively unoccupied-looking corridors.

* * *

Hera wished it was she who was able to wield thunderbolts so that she might smite the chit who, even after being reprimanded, still flagrantly tempted her less-than-virtuous son with her wiles, made an outright mockery of what she herself represented. Initially, she been wary of the lovely new goddess, the chaos she incited upon her arrival—but then it was not _her _bastard offspring fighting amongst themselves and Zeus knew better than to attempt anything himself, lest he meet the same fate as their father's father Ouranos—but soon, she found there was usefulness to be had in the latest arrival, and treated her with the cool civility that was unfamiliar to most others. After all, if they were forge a sort of partnership, they would need to be on good terms. In an idyllic world, with love came marriage, and she fully anticipated her temples to soon be filled to bursting with enamored couples seeking her blessing, singing her praises as she graciously bestowed prosperity and happiness unto them.

Now that Aphrodite revealed her true colors, showing the same fickle hedonism as any other, preferring the provocative nature of her line of work, Hera's hopes for some long overdue positive attention were promptly dashed. The occupants of Olympus just did _not _seem to share their queen's views on the sanctity or importance of matrimony. Several of those residing on its peak had been wedded, including a handful from among the highest ranks, but regardless of social standing, they treated the vows they had spoken as empty words, same as her husband—the almighty king who required more supervision than the most mischievous of children.

Forever bound to a compulsive philanderer, and now denied an opportunity to be appreciated, she would glean a small amount of comfort—and sense of purpose—from being able to preserve the integrity of but one immortal union. Despite its shaky start, Hephaestus' marriage seemed the most easily salvageable, simple enough to correct the weaknesses in it, and perhaps her one chance of doing right by him when she had otherwise failed as his mother. Several variables depended upon its success however: her vigilance, keeping a tight rein on that harlot wife of his, and perhaps most importantly, sending Ares off in search of other pursuits, all the while making him think as if he had done so on his own accord.

With a resigned sigh, the heavenly queen attempted the near impossible: reasoning with her boorish, bullheaded child, not that he could any longer be considered one, towering over her, leering at women, bedding them with the same alacrity as his father.

"_Must_ you stare at her in such a vulgar way?" she asked in a deliberately soft, but genuinely weary tone, edging unobtrusively closer. (She thanked the Fates for the agreeable natures of her daughters, for if she was mortal, her husband and elder son would have brought about the death of her.) The trick to handling him was similar to that of soothing a spooked horse: he was to be approached in a calm, unthreatening manner. Addressing him in anger was practically an invitation to engage in verbal combat—and it was to his opponent's disadvantage, because that was an arena in which he excelled, goading them on and feeding off their escalating emotions, while he himself only seemed to grow more gleeful.

* * *

His mother's voice was lacking its usual severity, but the God of War nonetheless started somewhat at being addressed. Inspired by the vision of perfection that was the love goddess's retreating backside, tightly encased by her dress, his mind had become pleasantly occupied with fantasies of seeing her in her unclothed splendor, which then graduated to images of her performing various…_acts_…for him, and he had managed to forget about Hera's presence anew. He bristled in indignation at being twice interrupted in the midst of something far more appealing than receiving a lecture. His dalliances were of no concern to her, whatever she might think.

Since physical release eluded him, courtesy of that maddening advocate of fidelity, it was she who would become the recipient of his mounting irritation.

"Have you not realized by now that my every action is meticulously calculated so that I might better bring you humiliation?" Ares snapped, whirling around to face her, his irises burning the precise color of freshly-forged gold as he seethed. "Particularly when Zeus is otherwise engaged with one of his whores and therefore unable to shame you himself." His father was such only by blood, never in name, and certainly not in actions, largely inattentive to his legions of children, save for the precious _Athena_. Their rivalry alone was enough to promote familial rifts: while his half-sister likewise presided over the domain of warfare, _she_ was adored by the god who sired them and granted an advisory role, whereas he had grown up regarded as an embarrassment, which later evolved into absolute hatred, a sentiment he himself echoed. Yet the parent could he tolerate somewhat more was the one whom he was often crueler towards.

"As you are being a hindrance to _me_, rather than hounding _him _as per usual, I can only assume that he has since slunk off to lay with another," he added with as much spitefulness as he could muster. "With your subjects regarding you as a frigid harpy, I cannot say as I blame him for seeking fulfillment elsewhere." Folding his arms as he said his piece, he studied his adversary's haughty face to determine whether he had affected her.

Hera accepted the oral assault with a learned expression of apathy, a defense set in place from years of maltreatment: she would otherwise never have been able to endure the man she genuinely loved publicly adoring all others but her. In time, she came to realize that feeling sorry for herself accomplished nothing, but when she retaliated accordingly, her behavior was seen as inherent cruelty. Her carefully crafted façade of imperviousness seemed almost to provide an _excuse _for her husband to stray; who could love a woman so cold and unfeeling, thought their subjects, long before Ares incorporated it into his tirades. He reminded her most frequently though, a guaranteed means of bringing her pain, for such words still stung as much after the umpteenth time hearing them as they did for the very first.

"I cannot imagine that he has not capitalized on the opportunity," she responded flatly, the colors of the peacock in her irises fading into a neutral brown. "There are beautiful women here in abundance, all more than willing." There it was, she thought with an internal grimace, practically an invitation for him to go and sow his seed elsewhere, even if the last thing he needed was encouragement.

For an extraordinarily satisfying moment, the war god could only blink dazedly at her, so stunned—even confused—by her comment that his anger was temporarily forgotten. The glorious silence was short-lived however.

"Now they are 'beautiful women'," he queried once his initial shock wore off, though his suspicion at her uncharacteristic behavior lingered, "when previously they were nothing more than 'tawdry, filthy, groveling…" With relish, he rattled off a few more of the disparaging adjectives the Queen of the Gods herself had used to describe Zeus' paramours in varying bouts of rage. "…whores'? It sounded _almost_ as though you meant to persuade me into following your husband's example. I wonder, what could have _possibly _led you to alter your stringent philosophy so dramatically? Surely it not could be that you are trying to lure me away from my dear brother's wife, in an attempt to redeem yourself."

He abandoned his feigned contemplativeness and sardonically inquisitive tone to sneer, "Personally, I feel you lost your right to call yourself his mother when you tossed him over the mountainside, left others to raise him, and let us not even touch upon the subject of my own upbringing, but I digress. No, the only thing that you have accomplished here is filling me with a renewed desire to have his consort for myself…and I _will_."

The unfairness of the situation set him on the warpath: his repulsive, deformed brother was granted not only the hand of the most glorious of women, but also their mother's partiality. He wanted neither for himself, not the oppression of marriage, no matter how alluring the prospective wife, nor any of the tenderness that had been withheld since his youth, but damn if he was going to let anyone else have what he did not. As far as he was concerned, sleeping with Aphrodite was now as much an act of vengeance against the family members who wronged him, as it was a personal conquest.

"While I make her mine in every sense of the word, _Hephaestus_…" He spat the name like it was the most vulgar of curses. "…can at least be consoled by the knowledge that he holds your favor." The outline of his form grew hazy, as though he meant to teleport himself off to undoubtedly do something drastic.

"Do you truly him see as _competition_?" scoffed Hera, knowing that as the dignified elder, she should not have allowed herself stoop to his level, but then again she was in need of a foolproof way to catch his attention—that and he had an inherent knack for getting under one's skin.

Her ploy worked: abruptly, Ares returned to his solid state, looking murderous.

While she would have liked nothing more to sink a few of her own barbs into his miserable hide, make his deficiencies known—in that sense they were very much alike—that would not be beneficial to her mission. She had one chance left to reason with him before he inevitably disengaged himself.

Truth be told, _both_ of her sons were an embarrassment: the offensively homely but extraordinarily gifted Hephaestus, the incomparably handsome but atrociously bloodthirsty Ares. The immortals were superficial creatures and it was the latter who better met their lofty standards.

A deep breath enabled her to say what she needed to. Most all of the gods, and goddesses for that matter, save for the ever-modest hearth-keeper Hestia, could be softened up, made more malleable through the use of well-placed compliments. "There is no contest to which of you is superior. You surpass him in strength and far outstrip him in physical appearance…" His looks had been the basis for comparison when his brother was born. After bearing the most attractive of any of Zeus' male offspring, she had come to expect nothing less and got the shock of her immortal life. "You have any number of women at your disposal; do you think the same could be said for him?"

In response, Ares made a noise somewhere between a snort and a scoff, nevertheless happy with the direction the conversation had taken. Unexpected as it might have been, he never tired of hearing praise, particularly when the contender for his second least favorite sibling was being derided in the same breath.

"The only reason he has a wife at all is because of…unforeseen…circumstances involving that accursed throne. The arrangement is beneficial for both: there will be no fights on Olympus for her hand, whereas he will have a companion." He seemed calm enough to be receptive of her request. "I ask only that you stay away from her, that you grant him this small victory, let him keep that which otherwise would never be his…" Hera had not realized her mistake until his eyes, which had cooled to their regular shade, again burned hot. Why in the name of Khaos did 'victory', of all things, an implication that there was a battle to be won, have to slip from her lips? "Courtesy!" she bit out. "I meant 'courtesy'! So help me, Ares, if you lay another finger upon her…"

The God of War had become selectively deaf to all but his clamoring need to prevail over his newfound foe. In an amusingly ironic twist, it was their mother, on a mission to persuade him not to take Hephaestus' wife to warm his bed, who had pitted him against the blacksmith god when he would otherwise have remained fairly indifferent, not even actively pursuing Aphrodite unless presented with another opportunity. Now he had no choice _but _to possess her—delivering the deathblow in a manner of speaking—and would not rest until he had done so.

"For there to be a victor, one's opponent must first admit defeat," he proclaimed. "I assure you that I intend on doing _nothing_ of the sort." Before the queen of the skies could so much as open her mouth in protest, he evaporated, twin embers left blazing in the faint cloud of smoke.

**Author's Note, Pt. II: The character I had the most difficulty writing was Aphrodite, in part because I'm naturally an awkward person. (In high school, whenever I would see my crush, I'd become unbelievably clumsy and drop everything I was holding, and God help me if he actually talked to me!) I let a friend read over it as I was still writing it, and she thought I'd made the Goddess of Love too kind...but in my defense, I can't have an air-headed slut as my female lead or I'd go crazy. Personally, I think she'd be very aware of how others perceived her, and likewise be more sensitive to others' emotions. **

**On the other hand, Hermes, Hera, and Ares (him especially) practically wrote themselves. I just hung on for the ride. Hera might have come across as bit of a nag, but I _do _like her...you've got to give her credit, staying faithful to someone like Zeus. I'll also add that while this pairing is more traditional AresXAphrodite, I wouldn't necessarily say they're my OTP, especially since I've indulged in more than a few AthenaXAres and HephaestusXAphrodite fics. I'm fairly open all different pairings so long as they're believable.**

**Anyways, please let me know what you think. If I had to choose between fresh-out-of-the-oven chocolate chip cookies or a review, I'd take reviews. Virtual cookies for everyone who leaves me one!**

**-Impersonating Sugar**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Here it is, the third chapter, pretty much up a month to the day after I initially published this. I'll admit, I won't always be so reliable with my updates, and I've left my readers on FictionPress waiting for _months _at a time (I don't know how they put up with me)...and I may or may not have thought up something else...or two. (Because jumping between three stories isn't enough! :D)**

**This chapter was brought to you by more obscure bands, and is much more Aphrodite-centric...and, dare I say it, features some very slight Hephrodite. O.O (Has that couple name been used yet, because if it hasn't, I'm definitely claiming it!)**

Aphrodite's heart beat out a frantic tattoo against her breast and echoed cavernously in her ears, but still, she kept her eyes tightly closed. Never had she expected to surrender herself so fully to her husband, and yet, here she was, her small, delicate fingers laced through his meaty, calloused ones, clinging to him as though her very life depended upon it, as he guided her ever closer with a tenderness she had not thought him capable of. His movements were ungainly as he charted the unfamiliar territory, though she found a certain reassurance in the solidness of him. A shiver of anticipation rippled through her body, and she could feel him smile warmly at her.

"Open your eyes," Hephaestus encouraged, coming to a halt.

* * *

Blinking against the sudden onset of light, the love goddess released the breath she had not been aware she was holding. They stood at the edge of a beach, bathed in the glow of the rising sun. Under a swirling sky of rose gold, waves of blush and mauve gamboled against fine, powdery sand that was at present a purplish-taupe in hue. A sight similar to this had been the first thing she had ever known when she assumed solid form and stepped forth from the ocean, only a small assembly of mortals and immortals alike had gathered to greet her.

"Cyprus," she breathed in a voice no louder than the gentle sea breeze ruffling the skirts of her light dress and through her loose, flowing locks (a chignon, to her, felt like the mark of a wife, and she was still unwilling to accept her role as one). To say the least, he was not the brutish god she had initially envisioned him to be. Understanding that it was out of obligation, rather than affection, that she wedded him, he had not pressured her in the slightest to actually consummate their union, to her enormous relief, saying that he would prefer if such an intimate exchange occurred when she believed the time was right—and now _this_. She was nothing short of astounded that he had brought her from Olympus to her beloved island for their honeymoon and touched by the thoughtfulness of the gesture.

"Does this please you?" the Blacksmith God asked, a sort of boyish eagerness creeping into his voice. His dark eyes, identical to his mother's and brother's, except much wider set and flecked with a fiery orange, were wide and anxious as he awaited her reply.

"Very much so," responded Aphrodite, who was positively beaming at the unexpected return to her motherland. She all but pranced forward to place a ginger kiss upon his bearded cheek. The very moment her lips grazed his skin, she became aware of her actions, swiftly withdrew, and stepped back a pace, shoulders hunched and fidgeting uncharacteristically. She could not help but wonder if letting herself get swept away in her joy had been wise, if her demonstration had been more cruel than anything else— it broke her heart as she watched him touch the spot with his fingertips, the faintest of dazed smiles touching his mouth—like she was giving him false hope that something might ever spark between them.

There was a better chance of the Phlegethon, the river of fire in the Underworld, freezing over than her ever being remotely attracted to him. Besides, he was still very much a stranger to her, albeit one to whom she was now wedded, and she was helplessly uncertain how to even _behave _around him, and, why not admit it, still more than a little apprehensive.

Retrospectively, this would make her more sympathetic to her often-flustered pursuers, who would likely be undaunted by her marital status. Her spouse was as much in awe of her as any of the men who had attempted to approach her upon her arrival at the home of the gods, but rather than being flattered in this situation, she was made slightly uncomfortable. He was falling all over himself in an effort to please her, but she could not overlook _how_ he had acquired her as his bride. Knowing well what he was capable of, she was not wholly unconvinced that she would not wind up trapped upon a throne like his mother.

Seeing as the newlyweds began their marriage already rightfully intimidated by their partners, their efforts to get better acquainted initially failed, marked by long pauses and awkward glances out at the shimmering expanse of now-cerulean water as they strolled along the shore (a suggestion that she had tentatively blurted to cut through the uncertainty of what to do now that they were alone with each other, forgetting momentarily that his legs were not strong enough for an endeavor across the ever-shifting sands). Nevertheless, her new husband sportingly accompanied her, except he was a man of so few words, it was almost as if she was taking a walk by her lonesome; it was impossible to determine if there _was_ anything he wished to say, for he kept it to himself, lacking the self-assuredness that made Ares so appealing to her.

Ever since she had noticed the physical similarities Hephaestus shared with his elder brother—the same eyes framed by long black lashes and heavy eyebrows, the imposing height and powerful frames (though the younger's legs did not look particularly robust bound in their golden braces, he more than accommodated for it with a sturdily-muscled torso and arms)—she had been unable to keep from entertaining thoughts of the self-proclaimed Destroyer of Cities, who, despite his bloody line of work, could navigate a dance floor with the greatest of ease and an almost outrageous grace, who could ignite a fire within her with but a touch.

Now _there_ was a god among the divine ones…why could it not have been he who freed Hera from her confines?

Were it they who were adjoined, there would undoubtedly be no walks along the seaside as Eos, bringer of dawn, drove her chariot across an awakening sky, a fact she would be more than willing to overlook, because she would be free to indulge herself in his intoxicating kisses, have that magnificent cock at her service, whenever she wished. With Ares as her husband, there would be passion enough to sate even _her_ craving for it…the very idea of such a union left her tingly all over…War and Love, two powerful, unyielding forces in the world, sharing the same bed. The Fates, however, were not so kind, seeing her bound instead to a spouse with whom she would never willingly lay, let alone, it seemed, be able to converse with.

Finally, in near desperation to break the painful silence that followed another botched attempt (on her part because he had yet to contribute) at finding common ground, because transporting herself back to her temple to escape him seemed inexcusably rude, she made one last effort.

"The ocean is lovely, is it not?" she inquired, lacing her fingers behind her back. "Even when I was on Olympus, I could hear it calling to me, and I wanted nothing more than to go and bathe in its waters." Her brow creased faintly: if she was trying to discourage intimacy, perhaps it was improper to speak of activities that did not require clothing. "I am as much a part of it as it is of me," she amended hurriedly, anxious to give him as little an opportunity to envision her unclothed as possible.

"It is indeed beautiful," he agreed with an animation that had been unseen in the courts, overlooking all perverse implications of his wife frolicking about in the nude and surprising her yet again. What a truly unusual god. "While I am capable of manipulating fire and metal, I too have always been drawn to the sea, though I suppose this could be because I was raised at its shore in my youth. As a babe, I was taken in by the Nereids Thetis and Eurynome, and it was they who…" He trailed off, looking slightly embarrassed by his sudden excessive chatter; he had been inducted into the court of the most powerful of the Olympians, now numbering twelve, but had yet to see himself as their equal, particularly regarding the love goddess, who was, in every way, his antithesis.

Pleased and immensely relieved that she had at last managed to coax more than a syllable or two from him, Aphrodite gave him a bright, reassuring smile and bade him continue, asking him about his time spent with his fosters, suddenly genuinely interested in his reply. (For some time, she had been deprived of good conversation, unable to find it in the company of her fellow Olympians, who were comprised of females who begrudged her and made no effort to better acquaint themselves, or males who seemed to think her incapable of intellectual activity, that she was exclusively a…_physical_…being). Initially he seemed wary of prattling away to his dauntingly attractive wife, but when he sensed the sincerity in her inquisitiveness, he began to more readily open himself to her.

In turn, he dutifully inquired as to her own upbringing, though her childhood was an unconventional one, seeing as she came into being already in this nubile form—and equipped with an intrinsic knowledge of carnal pleasure and how to go about attaining it. She coyly explained that her earliest days were spent strolling along the beach or admiring the pretty things that surrounded her, though wisely omitted that most of the 'pretty things' that caught her eye were the inhabitants of her sacred island, or the fellow immortals who resided in the ocean.

Briefly she recalled one such lover, her very first to be precise. Nerites was the solitary son amid fifty sisters—two of whom were incidentally her spouse's fosters—from the fruitful union of the wizened Nereus and his wife Doris, and so heavily indulged was he that he rarely strayed very far from the depths. A hidden treasure of the sea so to speak: with eyes of turquoise and flaxen hair, he could be distinguished easily as one of the handsomest men, or gods, of his time, making her disinclined to share him, though this was ultimately to his detriment. When the time drew nigh for her to take her place among the other deities on the highest peak, he outright refused to accompany her on her journey, much preferring to remain amongst his familiars. Disappointed but not unreasonable, she proposed a compromise, wanting always to keep him by her side: he would be gifted with a most extraordinary pair of wings so that he could divide his time between herself and his loved ones accordingly, visit her in the skies and still return to comforts of home.

The spoiled young god remained unyielding; if she sought his company so greatly, _she_ could travel to visit _him_, he had rationalized, the fact that she might be restricted by her duties (as the more influential immortals tended to be) lost on him. And besides, he explained as if speaking to someone exceptionally dense, _wings _would be utterly impractical for a sea-dweller: they would only become sodden and therefore cumbersome.

Back and forth they went, until at last, in a shamefully juvenile fit of rage, and determined that no woman but she would ever again know his embrace, she turned him into a shellfish, saying that he could spend the remainder of his days at the bottom of the ocean for all she cared. Her little tantrum, she reflected, might not bode well with Hephaestus' caregivers, and could make for a tense reunion on the off-chance he would ever decide that the trio needed to become acquainted, though in her defense, she meant to lift the curse, only she had concealed him far too well.

And speaking of Hephaestus…he was now fully engaging her as they ambled along; the protective walls both had set in place to initially shield themselves from the unknown entity to whom they were constrained had begun to crumble. Their mutual appreciation of the sparkling waters had since led to the discovery of similar childhood origins at the edge of Poseidon's realm, which in turn had been largely influenced by a shared eye for aesthetics.

Aphrodite watched her husband evolve from the ostracized god who had callously imprisoned his birth mother on the golden throne (a fitting treatment, she decided, now that she had met the rather unpleasant woman), into a slightly bashful individual with an affinity for fashioning beautiful objects with his hands and a seemingly gentle, kindly disposition. He, in turn, was coming to realize that the goddess who had effortlessly captured the hearts of all their immortal neighbors was nowhere near as haughty nor aloof as he envisioned, finding her instead to be astonishingly warm and personable. The queen of the skies had admittedly soured him to all of those who occupied the 'upper realm', and his personal biases had subconsciously bled onto his wife. Calling the Lady Hera 'mother' was unthinkable, especially after others stepped into her role, loving him far better than she ever would or even _could_: his only full-blooded brother, who wore on his legs a soldier's greaves as opposed to braces, suggesting that he had remained in her care on the mountaintop, seemed to harbor a very deep dislike of her himself.

Motivated by a warped sense of allegiance, however, Ares had turned up unannounced at his forge, demanding the same thing all of his other 'visitors' had more diplomatically hinted at, freeing their queen from the confines of his specially-made golden throne. Generally the master smith was a nonviolent fellow, but the near-constant stream of harassment over a most unworthy cause had pushed him to his very limit, and he summoned a storm of metal shards to send his hostile sibling retreating back in the direction from whence he came.

But for the time-being, he would no further dwell upon that particularly distasteful branch of his family tree, not when he had such delightful company…

They talked and walked for a good while longer, until the love goddess realized that she had been quite negligent of her husband's condition, and was ashamed of her thoughtlessness, especially since he had made every effort to be attentive and indulgent. Though he tried valiantly to pretend that the pain in his legs was no bother at all, the tiniest of audible winces betrayed him.

"Truly I am fine," he insisted when she turned to him in concern, about to offer herself as a sort of divine crutch. "Do not trouble yourself over such an inconsequential things as..." He hesitated for a fraction of a second, attempting to think of an excuse that would not make him sound as if he were a weakling, which in turn would make him feel all the more undeserving of her. "…a small pinch from one of these infernal braces." He stooped hurriedly in the act of tinkering with his invention, not fooling her in the slightest; even with her untrained eye, she could see the device had been painstakingly molded for a perfect fit. She could sense the actual reasoning behind his reluctance to leave her side.

"My lord," she prompted gently, mindful not to use any terms of endearment lest she mislead him, "if you are somehow worried that your departure will offend me, I assure you that it is not so. Please, there are several temples built along these shores in my honor, return to the nearest one to rest yourself for a short while." She pointed vaguely in its general direction. Then, with her most reassuring smile, she promised, "I will be able to amuse myself for the time being."

"If you are certain," her husband conceded albeit reluctantly. "I would very much like to continue our dialogue over dinner, if you would do the honor of joining me." Earlier today, she would have made every possible excuse to maintain as much distance between them as she could, but she heard herself consent to his invitation without a moment's hesitation, more at ease in his presence. For a moment, he seemed to be at war with himself, but then he lifted her hand carefully, as if she were fragile as fine crystal, to his lips and placed a light kiss upon her knuckles. "My lady," he said as a means of dismissing himself, before vanishing in a dark cloud of smoke.

At the unexpected contact, every muscle in Aphrodite's body had gone as rigid as a marble sculpture in her likeness. She was grateful that her adverse reaction appeared to have gone unnoticed and released a slow breath as a means of forcing herself to relax; these sorts of interactions would definitely take some time to grow accustomed to. Her encounter with Ares had been so _effortless_, within minutes of meeting him, she felt as if they had known each other for eons. As Hephaestus kissed her hand, she was, for the briefest of instants, thrown back to the night before, when his brother had done precisely the same thing as he took his leave—she would have sworn that the eyes that held hers had taken on a molten-gold hue.

_Oh, sweet Mother Gaia. _Just the thought of those eyes, that absolutely feral expression on his face as he admitted his true intentions to her, turned her from stone to a raging wildfire, hot and ravenous. Shamelessly she undid the clasps holding her dress in place and shrugged it to the ground—her undergarments slid down to rest atop the fabric bunched at her feet, before she neatly stepped out of them. Briefly she entertained the outlandish fantasy of teleporting herself in all of her unclothed glory up to Ares' temple and lying in wait for him, before dismissing the idea as utter folly. She had not the foggiest clue of where or how he spent his days, and furthermore suspected that the others, especially if they thrived on gossip as much as he claimed they did when he escorted her, would somehow become aware of such an immodest deed and talk of it would soon run rampant across the courts.

A long swim she had had in mind since her arrival at the beach, and it was now what she would have to do in order to douse the heat that coursed within her.

The sea breeze came to her and caressed her bared white skin like an experienced lover, cooling her burning flesh and hardening her nipples into rosy peaks. Closing her eyes and spreading her arms wide, tipping her head back in ecstasy, she gave herself over to it. She inhaled deeply as the lapping waves and wind alike whispered sweet nothings to her, before her eyelids flew open and she rushed with all the grace of a woodland nymph down the beach to dive into the crystalline waters…

* * *

…Dripping wet and shining with jubilation at getting to relive her alleged youth, the still stark-naked Goddess of Love paddled back into the shallows and then proceeded to meander up the shore to gather her discarded clothing. How quickly time had passed! The sky was darkening as Helios' chariot ride drew near to completion, and the sand was bathed in a faint, dusky glow; she had given her word that she would reunite with Hephaestus in time for dinner and had to hurry if she was to meet her deadline. First and foremost, she needed to freshen up, and, true to her prior claims that she would never reside under the same roof as her spouse, she experimentally called her attendants for the first time to her aid before promptly materializing at a temple that could not have been further from the one he had retired to unless she travelled to a different island entirely.

Upon her arrival, she was greeted in the entranceway by a trio of minor goddesses, collectively called the Kharites, different in looks: one a brunette, one with hair of gold, and the third with red tresses, but all lovely in face, donning garbs of pale pink that spread wide as they curtsied to her and crowns of myrtle to signify their service.

Formerly among those who waited on Hera, and therefore _more_ than likely forewarned about their new mistress' disregard for modesty, they did not so much as flinch at the sight of her nudity, one taking the bundle of clothes she held at her breast, while the others helped her into a sumptuous robe. Without another word, they gestured her down a brightly-lit hallway that was strewn with rose petals to the bathroom, where more petals still floated atop the glassy surface of the sunken tub, the fragrance of various perfumes lingering in the air. The marble walls (and in one case, a ceiling-to-floor length of polished silver, which duplicated the scene, including the statuesque goddess shedding her robe to descend the steps into the bath) and quartz-imbued floor reflected the soft light cast by dozens of candles and the room glowed invitingly. Flowering quince and myrtle spilled forth from crystal vases on the countertops or tall tapered planters, added a burst of color to the otherwise monotonous white.

Aphrodite leaned her head back against the cool edge of the tub as the warm water enveloped her body, breathing in the scent of laurel and lavender, and allowed herself to be thoroughly pampered by her newly-instated aides. Whatever impressions they might have had of her, they tended to her regardless, rapidly but thoroughly, providing pleasant enough company. By no means did she think herself _entitled_ to such a life of privilege, but it most certainly enjoyable—and, now that she had experienced that lavish lifestyle, she found it difficult to imagine having once been able to function at all without it.

In no time at all, she was blissfully clean, her hair brushed until it shone like the jewels that adorned her, dressed in a flowing gown of blush, and returning to the temple that had been lent to the blacksmith god to recuperate from their lengthy walk. He might have expected her back a little sooner—by now, the sun had dipped below the horizon—but he had failed to specify when he wished to dine with her and surely would appreciate the extra time taken to make her look her best…

…assuming that she was able to locate him.

His aura lingered faintly throughout the structure, but she could find no tangible evidence of his presence. The sconces mounted on the walls lit themselves as she wandered, puzzled, from room to room, calling out his name, only to be answered by her own voice echoing back. They were erratic, those sons of Hera, never where they were supposed to be when she came looking for them. Well, she reflected, one place she knew he would _not_ be was solidifying behind her to enfold her in an amorous embrace like his elder brother had—though their union gave him every right to claim her whenever he so wished, he appeared much too timid to dare attempt something so brazen.

She added discourteous to the list of his recently discovered traits; it had been he who wished to spend more time with her, and she was quite offended by him thoughtlessly brushing her off. He was certainly not doing _her _any favors, there were men enough on the island who would be more than willing to keep company with her, and so thinking, she marched out of the temple, ready to transport to the nearest town, only to stop short when she saw torches flickering on the beach, forming a semicircle around a cloth-covered table. Somewhat shamefacedly, she recanted her prior statement and drew near.

Up close, she could see that the table had been exquisitely laid with a crisp ivory drape, a handful of candles, and a large floral centerpiece that was coupled with a few smaller ones. Surely this grandiose gesture could not have been learned by observing his birth parents' interactions, which were, she had heard, characterized by long periods of frosty indifference or explosive fights. Under the torchlight, she saw Hephaestus beam at the sight of her and rise quickly from him his seat out of respect, before moving to pull hers out for her. She smiled shyly (some of her pursuers had been far more flamboyant in their efforts to woo her, but this one seemed surprisingly _sincere_, again leaving her unsure of how to act) and murmured a word of thanks as he slid the chair back up to the table and commented earnestly on how beautiful she looked.

"I cannot believe that you have gone to so much trouble on my behalf," she stated. It was not actually an obligatory remark; she knew he was lame and the simplest of tasks would have been more difficult for him to accomplish. She felt that she should have been more liberal with her praise of his arrangement, but to do so would only give him unnecessary encouragement and she could not, in good conscience, treat such a kind and thoughtful man in such a callous way.

"It was of no trouble whatsoever," he assured her. "You are my wife and it is therefore my privilege to ensure your happiness." He, on the other hand, seemed slightly glum, she noted, as if he felt his improvisation had not been enough for her, and why would it have been? This was a goddess who was accustomed to having lovers offer to singlehandedly rearrange the heavens for her.

Seeing him so dejected saddened her: if there was anyone deserving of love, it was he, but because he was wedded to her (and using her magic to help him find love would put her in the awkward position of having to turn a blind eye), he would never know it. How cruelly ironic that the Goddess of Love herself was incapable of showing him tenderness—there was no denying that she was touched by thoughtful demonstrations, which certainly made him far more endearing, though they did nothing to improve upon his countenance or ungainliness; beauty fell into her domain as well, she needed it as much as passion…

_Why could I __**not**__ give him affection __**he **__needs, _she thought vehemently, _after all, it is I who presides over all matters of the heart. I will never see him as a wife views her husband, but there is nothing stopping us from becoming friends. Olympus can be a lonely place, especially for two ostracized deities such as ourselves, and I think we both could use one._

"In that case, I would like to express my sincerest gratitude," said Aphrodite, laying her hand briefly over his, leaving it there only long enough to be deemed a friendly gesture. "This has been an absolutely perfect day. Now," she continued hastily as a means of distraction, not yet sure of how to conduct herself in a platonic relationship with a male, "as we were discussing earlier today, where did you say it was from that you drew inspiration for your craft?"

His eyes turned briefly to fire, and at his unspoken command, several humanoid figures who looked as though they had been cast of pure gold appeared to wait on them as he began to speak, his disappointment slowly subsiding, pouring wine and serving them food: bread and olive oil, dried figs, vegetables and cheese, varying meats and fish, and finally fresh fruit. As gods, they had no need to consume mortal fares, only nectar and ambrosia was necessary to sustain them, but nevertheless, most would partake in feasting, not about to let an additional opportunity to indulge themselves pass by. Everything was delicious and they soon slipped back into an easy dialogue…

* * *

What looked like a shooting star fell from the indigo sky and the messenger god came to a halt, hovering in midair at the tableside. The wings of his sandals beat vigorously, keeping him aloft.

"My lord, my lady," he greeted, giving a small bow and sweeping his wide-brimmed travelling hat from his head to hold over his chest, "pardon my untimely intrusion, but I come…" He stopped short, mouth hanging open somewhat vacantly, suddenly left incapable of recalling his duties, even after doing the same task innumerous times throughout his life, as he caught a glimpse of the cleavage that spilled forth from the plunging neckline of his sister-in-law's dress.

A slave to her baser instincts, she gave her bosom a surreptitious push forward, smiling mischievously up at him. "I think perhaps you have come bearing a message?" she suggested, tipping her head coquettishly, inwardly reveling at the attention she received. Subtlety here was key in expressing her interest while, at the same time, not offending Hephaestus. Their youthful visitor she recognized as another child of mighty Zeus, recalling him among those who had vied for hand…and _more _than a few flirtatious glances had passed between the two since then…had it really only been a few days since she had arrived on Olympus, incited the fighting that ultimately led to her being married off?

Hermes' pride swelled at the thought of being recognized as the silver-tongued, light-fingered messenger by the beauteous Aphrodite, only to belatedly realize that he wore his leather satchel at his side, a sure indicator of his position. "I have," he announced without missing a beat, returning his hat to its place atop his golden brown curls as he shook himself from his trance and rifting about in the sack for a scroll, which, upon procuring, he handed off to its recipient—all the while, remarkably, without breaking eye contact with the spectacularly perky pair of creamy breasts. "I come on the behalf of one of our fellows who expressed a dire need for weaponry," he explained unnecessarily as his brother unfurled it, more for the sake of putting on a show for the voluptuous blonde spectator. "Enclosed is a list of his requests."

Perhaps 'demands' would be a more appropriate term, seeing as he was sent by a god who made a habit of never _asking _anything of anyone…

* * *

Last night at the wedding, shortly after Ares left him mid-sentence to pursue the bride, Hermes had gone to seek someone who would actually _listen_ to his stories—Apollo, with whom he had become friends after the incident involving a certain herd of sacred cows, was providing the entertainment, but Dionysus had enough social tact to at the very least _appear _interested in what his brother had to say. En route, he had locked eyes with a goddess who was pretty enough to hold his attention, but of such minor importance that he could not remember her name, not even if he was threatened with having his immortal life-thread cut. They retreated to his chambers and fell upon each other, no sooner was she splayed naked across his bed, his skillful fingers bringing her to the brink of release—the sons of Zeus were many things, but inattentive lovers was not one of them—were they interrupted as the door shook beneath knocking administered with the force of a battering ram.

When the messenger answered the door, a blanket wrapped haphazardly around his waist, he was greeted by the sight of the livid-looking war god, who then had the nerve to entreat his services after shattering the intimate moment.

"While nothing in life gives me more pleasure than running to the four corners of the earth at your or our fellows' bequest, this could not wait until a time when I did not have a woman in my bed, nor perhaps was _clothed_?" he had retorted, gesturing to himself and then throwing a pointed glace backward at his partner.

Though he looked as if he were past the point of being able to see reason, the war god appeared to consider this. "Leave us," he finally barked at the demigoddess, who did not need to be twice told. Rolling swiftly from the bed, she scrambled back into her gown, holding it to her bosom. She slid timidly past them, throwing a frightened look up at Ares, before bolting like a deer, fastening her dress back into place as she went.

The messenger sighed; someone had been foolish enough to ignite his half-brother's infamous temper and it was he who would have to suffer for it. Swallowing his snarky comment about how a long, passionate romp _should_ have been just the thing to cure his foul mood, which retrospectively might have only exacerbated the situation (seeing as he was _here_, rather than with Aphrodite, who, in all likelihood must have been scared off by his aggressive temperament), Hermes automatically took a step backwards into his empty room. Without the assistance of flight, he was a head shorter, and from this standpoint, his visitor appeared far larger and infinitely more menacing than usual.

Conjuring a miniature roll of parchment, he asked in a quite a different tone, stylus at the ready, "Now that we are rid of any prying ears, I believe you had a message that you needed delivered..."

Weapons. The God of _War_ had sought him out, chased off his bedmate, because he wanted _weapons_, little surprise there. Not even the company of the finest woman in all of existence could pull his bloodthirsty sibling's mind from the battlefield. What a frustrating life he must have led, not even being able to find relief from his obsession through fornication.

On the other hand, the younger of the two happened to enjoy nothing more than a vigorous tryst, and tried ruefully to push from his mind the fact that he should have been tumbling about in a tangle of sheets and sweat-slicked limbs at this very moment, focusing instead on the words that he penned. As if he were not _already_ being a nuisance, Ares seemed to think it was as good a time as any to try his hand at creativity, making it abundantly clear that such things should be left to Athena. He wanted, for instance, a helmet that allowed its wearer to see behind him, a self-driving chariot that could be converted into a cuirass, among other, equally odd items, some of which sounded as if he had thought them up on the spot—probably not far from the truth, considering how he hesitated every so often.

"Well, I see you mean to not only deter _myself_ from achieving intimacy, but also Hephaestus." The gripe had tumbled from the sarcastic and rather inebriated courier's lips before he could help himself and he instinctively stepped back another pace, holding his hands up in surrender. "All I am saying is that the construction of so much weaponry…" he amended, a concern for his well-being having an incredibly sobering effect "…and you are quite the visionary…would not leave him a moment to himself, which would be unfortunate because he will be on his honey…"

"That," the elder had interjected sharply, moving forward to close the distance between them, "is _precisely_ the _point_. I would sooner rot for eternity in the deepest pits of Tartarus than see him have her."

* * *

And so went Hermes on gilded wings to Cyprus, to interfere with the marriage of a brother whom he held no grudge towards, lest he be strangled by a different, extremely possessive one, who had staked a claim on the ethereal beauty that he himself desired desperately. Seeing an opportunity to ingratiate himself as Hephaestus pored over the conveniently absent Ares' outlandish list, he offered Aphrodite a dazzling grin and a rose that, true to form as the patron of thieves, he had surreptitiously nicked from one of the very vases decorating the tabletop. If the king of the skies thought his sons' feud over the Goddess of Love was over, he was sorely mistaken, it was only just beginning.

**Author's Note, Pt. II: And Ares makes an appearance after all, ruining things for Hermes, who in turn is interrupting Hephaestus (who unfortunately wouldn't be getting laid anyway...though who thought they were in the middle of something at the beginning?). We have a lot of cock-blocking going on here! The Olympians are pretty much the definition of a dysfunctional family...speaking of, my version of the Pantheon is a little disorganized, with Aphrodite and Hephaestus being the newest additions, when in mythology, I'm pretty sure that Dionysus was the last main god to arrive and Hestia gave up her throne for him, but they all got there eventually, so I'm sure nobody minds ;) . **

**I would like to thank Googlegirl8 for both following and favoriting, Ashen of the Mist for favoriting and leaving a wonderfully long, positive review, along with Danielle for another extremely sweet review. **

**To my reviewers:**

**Danielle: **Thank you for your kind words. I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

**Ashen of the Mist:** I think I actually blushed reading your review or at the very least grinned like an idiot. What a lovely welcome to FanFiction! It was actually because of your suggestion that this chapter is so full of Aphrodite-ness. I tried to develop her more and further get a feel for her character and I'm pretty happy with the result. I'm actually my own harshest critic and my writing process is literally filled with moments where I'm like, "Yes, I'm a genius!" and "Aaaah, I suuuuck!", with not much grey area in between, so I'm very glad that you think it came together cohesively.

**To all potential reviewers: Don't be shy! I don't bite...well, there was that one time, but in my defense I was really hungry. As I mentioned before, reviews are like cookies to me...and they just might make the world a safer place for everyone else. **

**On that note, I leave with the promise that I'm not a (total) lunatic, and bid you all happy reading.**

**-Impersonating Sugar**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Funny story (not really), this chapter was actually fully written about a month ago, but I went back and did a massive overhaul, adding a _lot _more dialogue than in the previous ones. It's therefore about twice as long as the others-because of the wait, I'm going to post the whole thing as one chapter, rather than breaking it up into two. Other highlights include two new goddesses being introduced and some mature content, though in my opinion, it's relatively soft-core. **

**Thank you for your patience and enjoy!**

The blacksmith god tore his attentions away from the parchment and tucked it away in the folds of his tunic. His creative mind was already racing, trying to envision how to covert the odd assortment of items from written word into solid objects, fulfilling the requests to the best of his abilities while not compromising functionality.

"A tall order," he remarked, half to himself, "but it presents a multitude of possibilities. Could you kindly relay the message that I will commence production…" Both his bride and younger half-brother jumped at hearing his voice, having previously become engrossed in conspicuously admiring the other's form and flirtatiously bantering while outwardly saying nothing at all. While Aphrodite let slip from her hand the rose she had been gifted, Hermes did his best to look as if his recipient had held his undivided attention all along; of _course_ he was not envisioning his sister-in-law devoid of any covering! "…once our honeymoon is over?" Anxious as he was to begin his work, his priorities had since changed. No longer was he bachelor: he had been granted a wife after a lifetime of self-imposed solitude, devoted to his craft and his craft alone, truly a one-sided affair. Neglecting such an extraordinary being would be nothing short of blasphemous.

At his polite refusal, their guest's somewhat cocky, jovial expression faltered ever-so-slightly and he swallowed hard with the feel of metaphorical fingers closing around his throat. That would not do! The King of the Gods and his queen, drunk on their victory after the Titanomachy, the decade-long battle against and resulting imprisonment of much of the generation before, had honeymooned for some _three hundred_ years. Seeing as, these days, their marriage was fraught with tension, what they actually _did _in each other's sole company for several centuries was anyone's guess.

To the messenger, the timespan seemed far too lengthy a duration to have to endure Ares' displeasure, which could be manifested in a disconcerting multitude of ways. For instance, he might choose to hand-grind Hermes into dust for failing him as a forced accomplice, or he could take the opposite approach, make no attempt at physical retribution whatsoever and opt instead for rendering his younger brother's bed a cold and desolate place by luring away every goddess the courier laid eyes on with his inexplicable appeal to the opposite sex.

Needless to say, Hermes was not about to passively await whatever enactment of vengeance the war god was doubtlessly plotting already…being roped into this insanity was cause enough for annoyance.

His endeavor however was not wholly futile, for he was graced by the presence of the incomparable Aphrodite on his delivery. His elder sibling's borderline obsession with the Goddess of Love was almost justifiable: she was, after all, the epitome of beauty, evoking an all-encompassing desire that no god seemed immune to. Already titillated by his raunchy telepathic dialogue with her, his body had begun to ache with a desperate, searing _need_...those full, dewy lips begging to be tasted…that smooth, unblemished flesh begging to be caressed, every inch…was that dress of hers any lower cut, he would surely see her nipples, imagining them the same hue as the fabric that so barely clothed her.

Any guilt he had initially felt at meddling with Hephaestus' marriage, especially after seeing the mismatched pair appearing to be enjoying themselves upon his arrival, having to be the hindrance that prevented him from consummating the union, dissipated, the new groom becoming nothing more than an obstacle to his modified cause.

"I am afraid, my lord, that I failed to impress on you the severity of the situation. Even now the enemy forces bear down upon them, sweeping through the land like a plague," he improvised, his flair for theatrics compensating for the little he had witnessed of combat. (Thinking that Hephaestus would not be too inclined to accommodate Ares, who had once returned from his forge with every unprotected bit of flesh scratched and bloody, and dented armor, he had altered the original text, making it sound as if the anonymous Olympian who had sent him was entreating a favor for his champion, a brave and righteous general, unwaveringly loyal to his king, a beacon of hope to his men, and…totally fictitious.)

"Without your exceptional weaponry to aid them, I fear it could make the difference between a crushing defeat and a glorious victory, a victory that would be sung of for decades to come." He felt a tad smug at the compelling argument he had raised. No god could resist an opportunity to have praise heaped upon his name, or so he thought. Unbeknownst to him, the master smith happened to be a rare, more moralistic breed of immortal.

Hephaestus' brow furrowed as a battle raged within his psyche. Leaving his wife to own her devices, during a pivotal point in their budding relationship, would make him a poor excuse for a husband, leaving mortals improperly armed would make him feel unworthy of his power, the one thing about himself in which he held any degree of esteem. Surely there was a compromise that could be reached.

"Mayhap I could devote a few hours each night or early morn to the equipment's assembly," he proposed, now involving his bride in the conversation, his tone questioning as he sought her approval, "if such an arrangement would be agreeable to you, of course."

"Be it our honeymoon or not, you must dedicate as much time as necessary to the completion of the task at hand," urged Aphrodite, both out of obligation and sensing some sort of mischief afoot, and finding herself intrigued. "Particularly if the scales could so easily be tipped in the favor of either a 'crushing defeat' or a 'glorious victory'." Her gaze turned quizzically back to Hermes, reflecting that he was so unlike her spouse and her escort from the evening before, lithe while their statures conveyed power, a headful of tawny locks while theirs bordered black, not a single hair to be found on his still-smooth countenance. _You scoundrel, _she crooned,_ this war and the supposed weapons needed to win it are merely a ruse to lure my husband away so that you might have me for your own nefarious purposes._

_My lady, you are as intuitive as you are beautiful, _answered Hermes admiringly, perfectly at ease with allowing her to believe that it had been he who had devised such a scheme. Such underhandedness was highly atypical of Ares anyways, much more tailored to his own methods. _I assumed the marriage was unfavorable to you and thought I might spare you of his wearisome companionship. _Had he approached her sooner, she would have leapt at the chance, viewing it as liberation, though now she was more hesitant; her heart since been warmed exponentially towards the man she had wedded—and did not find his company so wearing after all.

_You are rather bold in your supposition that I wished to be __**rid**__ of my husband_, she reproached him gently, somewhat affronted on behalf of her spouse, even if he had heard nothing but what was spoken aloud, though such feelings slipped quickly away like water through one's grasping fingers. The need for intimacy still compelled her far more than the bonds of friendship, which were yet unfamiliar to her and would likely take centuries for her to gain a complete understanding and appreciation. Almost as if her inaudible words had been a cue, the blacksmith god rose to take his leave.

Something noticeable in the air had shifted, making Hephaestus feel as he had begun the evening with one goddess and ended it with another, identical to in image to his wife. No detail went unnoticed by his sharp eyes however small it was and, even if he appeared diverted by the scroll, he had detected subtle changes in Aphrodite's mannerisms as she beheld Hermes, simpering, preening, minute be they may. The realization weighted down upon him like the burden of Atlas: never would she look at him in such an ardent way. He decided to put an end to the evening, retreating to his safe haven so that he might nurse his hurt feelings in piece.

Such a fool he was, thinking that she might come to love him…and yet hope clung to his heart, truly the cruelest of the curses that had been contained within Pandora's Box. Already he believed himself to be falling in love with her, her allure, her natural charm, eradicating his good sense and his caution. He had an eternity to try and win her heart; the sooner the arms were finished, the sooner he could commence earning her devotion. Visions of jewelry that he could make for her as he worked filled his head.

"A war is looming, I had best begin at once," he remarked, attempting to sound offhanded. "I do hope your evening was pleasurable…" An endearment had formed almost unbidden on his tongue, though he quickly swallowed it back. Trailing off uncomfortably, he made an awkward bow before limping off a pace or two and being engulfed in thick black smoke.

Aphrodite looked somberly at the spot where seconds ago had been her husband. She felt oddly…conflicted…wondering if perhaps she had been the one to hasten his departure, if her subtle flirtatious gestures had gone noticed by him after all. She tried to brush off her unease by assuring herself that it was because of zealousness that he left. "I suppose there is little to be done about it now," she lamented dramatically, referring to their previous discussion, "the fires of the forge have been ignited within him, the warmth of a woman's bare flesh paling in comparison to their heat. How cruel be the Fates to see me denied during my sojourn in Cyprus. Had I only _someone_ to distract me in his absence."

"Considering that it was _my_ doing that robbed you of your husband on false pretenses, I believe it would be only fitting that I be the one to attend you, see that you are deprived of nothing," the messenger gallantly offered, dropping to the ground in front of her.

"You would ensure that I was thoroughly satisfied?" she queried, turning fully around in her chair to face him, willing away the sandals on her feet, and rubbing her toes up his leg. He extended a hand to her to help her from her seat. Though they no longer had need for unspoken communication, the look in her brother-in-law's suddenly gleaming eyes—gold, she noted as her heart gave an excited leap, like Ares'— told her all she needed to hear…

* * *

On a bed of sand, beneath a blanket of blue velvet bedecked in shimmering diamonds, they languidly learned all there was to know of each other's bodies, which were contoured with shadows cast by the flickering torchlight. The whisper of waves lapping against the shoreline nearly drowned out the admiring words passed between long kisses and impassioned sighs and moans. Their hips swayed harmonically against their partner's, their limbs entwined, and their fingers. His hand drifted upwards to comb through, to stroke, her crown of aureate locks reverentially. She arched longingly into his touch, her arms stretching out above her head, gliding along the silken sheets that at her wordless command now replaced the fine, sun-warmed granules on which they had previously laid. A primal cry for release began to build within them and in answer to its consuming call, their joint movements intensified in velocity, no longer lingering and tender but with an air of urgency.

Even after their pleasure peaked into a glorious crescendo that left the both of them gasping, they remained tangled in an amorous embrace, wrapped so tightly together that it was impossible to distinguish where one's form began and the other's stopped.

As the first morning's light crept tentatively into the open, spacious bedroom, Aphrodite carefully extracted herself of the vine-like grasp that pinned her to a warm, bare chest and climbed stealthily off the mattress to prepare herself to adjoin again with her husband…a strange thing in which to call him, seeing as their marital bed yet remained cold, while her own had since been filled. She padded over to the nearest circle of silver and smiled at the goddess staring back at her. Most certainly a night spent with someone well suited her: her face was prettily flushed, making her eyes look all the brighter, her complexion glowing, her hair wild from fingers running through it but never did it hold a more lustrous sheen.

From the bed came an indistinct murmur as the messenger stirred, interrupting her perusal. Glancing halfheartedly over her shoulder she observed him, thinking at first he would wake, only to be proven wrong when he instead rolled over. Well, let him have his rest, she decided, turning back to her mirror to make a couple miniscule adjustments, he had performed magnificently last night and deserved an opportunity to recuperate from the excursion. Already the ardor from the evening before was wearing away, when physically with a man, she loved him, once he had satisfied her, she had a tendency to regard him less fondly, unless seeing in him long-term potential. Enjoyable as her time with him had been, she was feeling somewhat more ambitious; her sights remained set on Ares.

She stole silently across the room to noiselessly ease open her wardrobe and pull from it the first garment to catch her eye. Briefly, she contemplated calling the Kharites to her service, for their aid had become very much appreciated, though immediately after, she decided against it and clothed herself independently; the fewer who knew, the better kept a secret stayed. The only two to know of her tryst were herself and Hermes, whom she hoped would remain silent about it. Her mother-in-law, the Lady Hera, had caught her in the arms of the war god just a couple days prior—the last thing Aphrodite wished was to cause the already-anguished queen any further grievances, that and it was in her own best interest not to turn upon herself that formidable temper.

For the time being, she resolved to act as a good wife would, or so imagined one would behave, following the example set by the Goddess of Marriage—and attempt her hand at fidelity, keeping company only with her spouse, who, curiously enough, she felt a lingering affection towards. Love him, she never would, but she had since come to _like _him quite well and would not mind passing her time with him. Consulting the mirror one final time and deeming the results satisfactory, she vanished in a faint wisp of pearly smoke, unconcerned about leaving her still-sleeping caller behind.

A one-time visitor could see his own way to the door.

In what was fast becoming routine, the assumed meeting spot—today being the beach, since cleared of the extravagant dinner setting—was desolate. The love goddess sunned herself for a little while as she waited, though as time continued to creep by and there still was no sighting of her spouse, she got to her feet, brushed herself off, and gave a slight huff of annoyance, recalling that it had been she who practically drove him away to the forge. 'Dedicate as much time as you need', she had said, which, to his ears, must have sounded more like an attempt to rid herself of him.

This business of being friends was not progressing too smoothly. Though highly attuned to the emotions of those around her, she somehow remained completely and consistently ignorant of _his_ emotional state and sensitive nature, his need for reassurance, and now managed to alienate him altogether.

Seeing as her tactlessness had lead Hephaestus to the assumption that she had little interest in associating with him, what he had initially suggested to be but a 'few hours' of work nightly or during the wee hours of the morning evolved into an endless marathon spent in his smithy. Occasionally, a wondrous trinket would emerge at her temple: once, a most extraordinary necklace that had to have been inspired by her image, delicate and graceful in build, made of gold that was the exact shade as her hair and amethysts swirled with pink to emulate her irises—truly a labor of love. Later came matching earrings and several bracelets of the same design.

While he labored ceaselessly, her days were more leisurely spent: attending the festivals thrown in her name by the residents of Cyprus and Cythera—mortals had an innate ability to sense when their patron deity walked among them— and flitting from temple to temple to arrange love matches in a display of her good will. How she loved the inhabitants of these islands and spent much of her time among them, sometimes simply watching them go about their lives, assuming the form of a human herself. Her wanderings brought her into frequent contact with prospective bedmates, and exercising self-control became more and more difficult with every smile bestowed upon her, each charming word spoken. Still she tried to be cautious, keep the queen of the skies off her trail.

The fear of the repercussions that awaited her, regardless of her immortality, allowed Aphrodite to abstain for an entire, excruciating week. However, the consumption of too much wine at one gala event (her tolerance for the drink had greatly decreased in her mortal guise) stripped her of her inhibitions and she awakened the following morning with a pounding head and a dawning realization that she had spent a second night in the arms of a man who was not her husband.

Remarkably not smote for her trio of offenses, she became recklessly emboldened and her exploits increased tenfold, switching bed partners as quickly as one would change dance partners on a crowded ballroom floor. She simply could not help herself (not even the all-powerful king could master his insatiable desires, so how could she be expected to, particularly when such promiscuity was in her very essence?), and yet, for as many men as she laid with, she was only ever mildly sated.

The need was met, however barely, and she would equate it to thirsting for fine wine, but being given only lukewarm water. After a particularly dissatisfying encounter that resulted in her having to manually guide herself to release once she sent him on his way, she began to worry that Ares had ruined all other males for her by raising her standards for a potential lover exponentially, and that she might never be able to wholeheartedly enjoy the act of lovemaking until she had last lain with him. It was he whom she thought of during her romp with Hermes, he who she fantasized about while tangled up with all others succeeding the messenger. There were ways around this obstruction however: just because she could not yet have him physically, thinking it for the best to stay in the general vicinity of where she was supposedly honeymooning, did not mean that she could not enjoy him _visually_.

* * *

Thus, she began to admit only lovers who bore something of a resemblance to him (the others who did not meet her criteria, she vowed she would return for, after coupling with the war god, therefore ridding herself of the persistent yearning), casting an illusion over them to make up for any shortcomings found. Her latest paramour, a fisherman by trade, a man who had likely never seen battle nor strayed far from his birthplace, now looked the part of a rugged soldier…a divine, rugged soldier, who stood proudly yet submissively before her, bathed in the candle- and torchlight, as she sat majestically upon her throne.

Her throne room was perhaps her favorite room in this temple. The seat itself was draped in cream and accented along the backrest, arms, and three platform steps leading up to it with deep purple, standing beneath a banner of gold fabric and an ivy-covered gray-stone arch, and flanked by mauve curtains and, a little further away, two statues in her likeness. Taupe granite planters filled with lush green vegetation and chased with torches ran horizontally in front of the statues and vertically parallel along an eggshell-colored rug from the first arch to a second, a rounded brass candleholder nestled among the broad leaves where stone met stone, making for four in total. The replica of the God of War, wearing armor that he could not feel as part of the spell placed on him and awaiting servitude, made an especially nice touch.

She rose, descended the podium, and closely circled him, trailing a hand over his chest, his shoulders, his back, as she moved, admiring the accuracy of her enchantment and appreciating the muscle that was naturally his, while under the pretense of assessing him. Mindful that no mortal could stand in the presence of a deific being without facing an imminent death, she retained the form of one herself; her eyes shimmering magenta as she lusted for him revealed her to be anything but. _His_ eyes were not exactly right, remaining an uninspiring brown, for only a god could truly impersonate another—and even then that depended on said god's knack for mimicry in general, all could assume forms outside of their own (and likewise force the transformations of mortals) though, as with every power, some had a stronger grasp than others—but for the most part she was satisfied.

He might well have been her most passable rendition yet, save for the acquiescent expression of a human and those darned irises. Then again, it was not as if she was going to gaze intently into his dark orbs as their bodies melded together into one, for doing so would only shatter the illusion, leave her in dismay.

"How tense you are," she observed, her breath caressing his ear as she gently kneaded his shoulders. Her voice was both soothing—hypnotic even—and sultry. "Surely a man as fine as yourself has serviced a goddess before." A pregnant pause followed. "No?" queried the goddess, continuing her ministrations, increasing the pressure she applied to the tissue and smiling in satisfaction as he melted into her touch. As much as she enjoyed being on the receiving end of explorative hands and lips, she relished the power she had to leave her paramours reeling…_writhing_…in an almost agonizing ecstasy_._ "Then as your first, allow me to introduce to a pleasure unlike any you have ever known."

Ares' latest lookalike groaned deep and hoarsely. "G-gods above," the young man choked out, near overwhelmed by the sensations he was feeling: his muscles turned to water as she rubbed them, his nerves to fire as she sucked softly at his neck. She gave his prickling skin a little nip, causing him to shudder in surprise and longing.

"None of that," she scolded mildly, swirling her tongue over the same spot. "Tonight, you will sing your praises to me and me alone." Ceasing her massage, she let her fingers skim slowly, so very slowly, down his spine and over his buttocks—between his legs, parting them—before stepping back a pace. "Join me," she enticed as he turned around, using her swinging hips as a beacon to guide him to her personal chambers…

* * *

…Up on Mount Olympus, unaware that his image had been closely duplicated for the sake of Aphrodite's fleshly gratification, Ares was spending his evening in much the same fashion, though the two gods' mating styles were as different as their domains. Hers was sweet and sensual, his was fierce and furious.

Sweat beaded on his back, running down the muscular planes in rivulets and stinging as it mixed with the ichor drawn by his partner's raking nails. His hide had been torn to ribbon yet it did not appear to be demonstrative enough of her pleasure, for she found purchase on his shoulder and stretched herself upward to sink her teeth into his neck. With a guttural groan, his eyes rolled back as both ecstasy and agony blazed through his nerves, first at the jugular and then throughout his body, and, in retaliation, fitted his hand entirely around her throat, yanking her free of his and applying enough force to be rewarded with a gasp that was in part in an exhilarated moan, a plea for more of the harsh treatment that the both of them reveled in receiving and administering.

Spurred onward by the look of supplication, he tightened his grip and simultaneously thrust so forcefully into her that he pushed her further up the mattress. She reached backwards to grip the headboard that she had nearly been driven headfirst into and raised her hips off the bed entirely, her legs constricting more tightly around his waist, squeezing her feminine muscles around him and hanging on for dear life as he fell into a punishing rhythm that drove them both closer to climax. It was she who shattered first and the sight of her writhing beneath him drove him over the edge.

No sooner had he recovered from the aftershock, did he withdraw and roll off and away from her with a complete sense of detachment; his needs had been sated—she had benefitted as well, he never left a lover disappointed physically, though a goddess expecting him to behave dotingly would be sorely dissatisfied—and he was through with her. What she did following their tryst mattered little to him, so long as it did not involve bothering him while he tried to sleep.

Come tomorrow, the wounds he had sustained, the jagged marks gouged into his flesh, the amber bruising from the multiple bites, would be smarting, but for the time being the heavy, drowsy haze that accompanied such a violent entanglement immunized him to the sensations of pain. Surprisingly, he had had ulterior motives for summoning her to his court: regardless of the fact that the dust had not yet properly settled from his last rampage, he was already itching to return to the battlefield and called upon his frequent companion to incite another war. Olympus had become more a gilded cage than a utopia as ennui and restlessness consumed him. (Incidentally, his fellows would liken the celestial palace to a snake-pit; unable to find an outlet, Ares resorted to lashing at out as quickly as a cobra).

He found that his second favorite past-time provided little relief: no goddess could compare to Aphrodite, whom he sought with an almost fevered desperation, though he would vehemently deny any assertions of this and proceed to make whosoever had gall enough to suggest so instantly regret their words—the fact that she continued to elude him frustrated him ceaselessly, and laying with another served only as a bitter reminder. Still, there was no denying Eris' knack for providing a dreadfully bored god with a much-needed distraction. Distract him she had, via a swell of barely-covered breasts shoved right under his nose. True to her capricious nature, she had had her own ideas about how their meeting was to proceed and made her entrance by solidifying wantonly draped—and in a state of partial undress—across his lap as he sat broodingly upon his throne.

"You required my presence, O Incomparable God of War, destroyer of cities and nations alike?" she had asked in an exaggeratedly formal voice which spectacularly contradicted her present position, earning from him a reluctant smirk despite his visibly foul mood. Formalities aside, she swung herself upwards and around to straddle him, adopting a much more familiar tone as she placed her hands upon his chest and gave him a firm push into the leather-bound backrest. "It _has_ been quite some time since we last adjoined, has it not?"

"Had I wished to be ravished, Eris, I would have specifically expressed so when I sent for you. The activity I desire is _combat_," he had stated petulantly, nevertheless making no attempt to stop the fingers that worked busily at the clasp holding his garbs in place nor the ones creeping up the nape of his neck to knot dominatingly in his hair. Almost on their own accord, _his _hands moved to splay across the small of her back and cup her buttocks, crushing her against his chest as their lips and then tongues melded together. Eris broke free of the frenzied kiss to swallow the triumphant grin that she could scarcely contain; formidable be her lord may, he was, as evidenced by his cock straining against the confines of his clothing, first and foremost _very much_ a male, and, like all males, _especially_ those stemming from the branches of Zeus' family tree, easily tempted by a woman's advances.

"Oh, but what of _my_ needs?" she pouted, using his forearms for support as she arched her body, all the more prominently displaying her bosom. "I create for you a situation that ultimately results in the fight you are craving and I find myself still neglected as you embark for the mortal realm to join them...I think not." Her grip tightened, her head tipped back and her eyes closed as he stroked down her collarbone to the crevice of her bust, his desire for combat fast becoming a lust for something else, and she leaned further back, welcoming his long-absent touch. "Yield first to _my_ demands and I shall see after that you as well are pleased."

Such was the dynamic of their relationship, built on the foundation of convenience, a cyclical exchange of 'services', rather than fond sentiments. Through her efforts were many a battle born, hence her usefulness to him, whereas he was among the few who could tolerate her irksome presence long enough to satiate her voracious sexual appetite. She interpreted his lack of a dismissal as an invitation to remain in his bed, and lay beside him in the wake of their coupling, still panting from the exertion, but hoping that he would catch his breath and soon be as eager as she for another session. To her dismay, he appeared to have succumbed already to sleep—and she cursed her brother Hypnos for cutting short her evening. Peeved by his lack of endurance when she had anticipated that their romp would last throughout the night, but euphoric after reaching her peak, her body weightless yet simultaneously leaden, she supposed that she was feeling generous enough to allot him a few hours of rest, give him a chance to recuperate.

Whilst awaiting his awakening, she decided to occupy herself by doing what she did best, making mischief and causing commotion—and it was all the better if she happened to fulfill her side of the alleged 'exchange of services', provide her lover with some incentive. Long were her sights set on two neighboring kingdoms, teetering on the edge of decimating the other since their foundation, though the most recent generation of rulers had attempted to establish a truce—however, should, say, one of their daughters happen to go missing from her chambers in the dead of night, seemingly taken by their new ally, their efforts would be in vain. Chaos, glorious chaos, would erupt as a frantic search for her broke out, accompanied soon after by war, she thought with sinister glee, envisioning herself and Ares riding in his chariot through the midst of things.

Contrary to popular belief, Eris was not wholly devoid of compassion; the girl would be returned of course to her distraught father (assuming he and his realm survived what she expected to be a gruesome ordeal, fueled by centuries' worth of ill feelings), though not necessarily in the pristine condition in which she had been 'borrowed'.

Thick, black smoke engulfed her and she reemerged outside of the curtains that shrouded the bed, fastening herself primly back into her tattered grey chiton, which had been removed and discarded somewhere during the journey to his personal quarters. What a journey it had been: the harbinger of discord shook herself with an ear-to-ear to grin and rolled her neck and shoulders to ease the stiffness that came from being run repeatedly into the hallway walls, leaving spidery cracks in the marble. From between her shoulder blades grew and then unfurled an enormous pair of wings, like those of a gargantuan raven. Throwing back her white-blonde head, she laughed, shrill and echoing, and launched herself into the air with a burst of wind, circling round the room in a preliminary lap before sailing out the window and away into the night.

Out of the darkness arose a cacophonic symphony, horses snorting and pawing uneasily in their stables, eyes round and white, dogs whining or growling, tails tucked low and hackles raised, screams ranging in pitch from accusation to terror from the mouths of mortals, accompanied by a chorus of wails, as Strife swept across the land, inflicting misery and hardship upon all she encountered, followed by that same discordant, resounding laughter…

* * *

…After her immensely productive night turned gradually to daybreak, she returned to Olympus, ready to reap her rewards, her silhouette shadowed against the brightening sky. She plunged into a steep, corkscrew dive, the lesser gods' palaces no more than a blur as she tore up the mountainside, occasionally zigzagging around a tree branch, a statue or fountain that sprang seemingly out of nowhere, before reaching one of the topmost buildings, one reserved for each of the elite twelve, and swooping back into the war god's bedchamber. There she alighted gracefully, silently, despite her initial impulse to cause a ruckus; her wings, nearly double the size of her relatively petite frame, folded as would a bird's and then receded into nothingness, leaving only unmarred skin where they had sprouted. With the temporary elimination of her wings came also the removal of her dress, the cloth trickling down her torso like droplets of water as her flesh turned to vapor.

The mattress heaved a groan when Eris dropped onto it with what was meant to be a jarring bounce, but its occupant did not so much as stir from his slumber; there was no change in his soft breathing. She tilted her head this way and that, eyes adjusting effortlessly to the darkness that still shrouded them, taking in a sight that was beheld by few. Had she not been in this room, masculine in design, decorated in a minimalist fashion in black leather, dark-stained wood, and garnet fabric, multiple times, she would have thought she had encroached upon another god. Asleep, he _looked_ like another god entirely, his features softened, his face uncharacteristically peaceful…not remotely matching her preferred image…she liked her plaything best when making known his lethality, unleashed from the chains of behavioral expectations placed upon him by the immortal society and running rampant, ruthlessly cutting down any man who opposed him. Her gaze turned predatory as she drank in the muscles carved from centuries of real and simulated battle, the deep lines cut into his hipbones, pointing enticingly downward to a prize only _just_ concealed by the low-slung blanket.

Grinning wickedly, she crawled beneath the covers and between his legs to coax him into wakefulness, when the unthinkable happened: her raging libido was briefly eradicated. The very second the point of her tongue glided along his inner thigh, he gave a protesting utterance, addressing as if she were someone else, the second occurrence in the span of a few hours' time. When first he had done so, crying out with a soul-shattering longing for another as he spilled his seed within her, she had thought it might have been deliberate (for she would often do the same, finding the fury and jealousy it evoked in a partner to be far more exhilarating than any ministration), though being twice called by the wrong name seemed much less an erotic gesture and far more an absent-minded inability to sort through and correctly use the appellations of the innumerable women he entertained in her place. She out of any should be memorable.

"Leave me _be_, Athena," he complained, leaving the Goddess of Wisdom's antithesis positively spitting mad…

* * *

…Ares was wrenched from a sound sleep into a very grudging state of semi-consciousness when his half-sister invaded his mind. _If you are to borrow my time, brother, proper etiquette at the very least mandates punctuality_, she reproached, her summons a sharp tug, as though he were a slave at the end of his master's chain_. _He recalled vaguely that he had successfully badgered her into agreeing to a sparring match—truthfully, she had consented for no other reason than to mollify him, however briefly be it may, to keep him from antagonizing those less suited to handle his explosive tantrums—though he was certain that it was not supposed to take place until later that day. Then again… His polar opposite in every way, she naturally favored the earliest of mornings, while he, unless engrossed in warfare (in which he would become manic in his absolute absorption and go for days without rest), would not usually emerge from his chambers until late afternoon.

Still moderately disoriented from the rude awakening, he found himself highly disinclined to move from the pillow that had conformed to the ideal shape, intending to remain there for hours to come. Considering that he could resist an outright command by his mother, the right hand of Zeus could not expect to hold any sway in budging him, but damn if she was not gratingly insistent in her attempts.

"Leave me _be_, Athena," he moaned aloud, keeping his eyes tightly shut; in his bleary state, he failed to realize that his loathed sister would not hear him unless he communicated by the same means as she had—nor that he appeared to have developed the ability to offend without even needing to be fully awake. No sooner had he slipped back into a light doze was he roused by a different woman vocalizing her displeasure.

"The patroness of Athens am I now?" she fumed. "You _dare_ compare me to the likes of _her_?" Hearing the voice itself was enough of a shock, since he assumed he had sent her on her way before falling asleep, but the following slap, hard enough to almost be painful, would have rendered him completely stunned, if not for instead igniting his defensive instincts. He erupted upwards in an explosion of sheets and covers, flicking his hand to cast open a gap within the canopy, allowing for just enough light to enter without blinding himself, and pounced on her, flattening her onto the mattress—to her happy surprise—and effectively immobilizing her. (Why would one need enemies when they had allies who assaulted them whilst they slept?). Her obsidian eyes, ever swirling with smoke and shadows, to the point where staring into them for prolonged periods of time could become dizzying, bore unflinchingly into the gold that was swallowing up his.

"Tell me, my lord, do you mean to take me now as you have your precious Athena?" taunted Eris, who, despite being delighted by the turn of circumstances, was still bristling at the comparison made between herself and that insufferable, self-righteous…there was no shortage of words in which to convey her total aversion towards the other. The half-siblings kept completely different social circles comprised of more minor powers, an implied condition of membership being hostile feelings towards their lord or lady's counterpart and those who followed either him or her.

Confusion sapped her assailant's fury; his ichor was pumping, his muscles tense and ready for the kill, yet his head lagged considerably behind his body, incapable of processing all that much of anything so excruciatingly early. "What is the reason for all this talk of my accursed sister?" he demanded with more weariness than hostility, hearing the name, but temporarily unable to attach meaning to what was being said. For perhaps the first time in his existence, he found himself wishing for a moment of peace in which to gain an understanding of why every goddess on the mountain seemed to feel the need to harass him—and before Helios had even made his first round across the sky at that.

His captive wriggled beneath him until she managed to free her trapped hands, using one to begin a slow path up his arm, over his shoulder, down his back and ribs, and along his pelvis, the other playing almost absently in her long hair, which was strewn across the sheets. Though not emotionally attached to him in the slightest, she would openly admit that she adored his physique. "It was _you_ who made first mention of her," Eris reminded him tartly. "_I _was merely attempting to bring about pleasant start to your day when you dismissed me, using _her_ name to do so," she clarified when met with a decidedly blank expression. "Best learn to distinguish betwixt your paramours; I dare say that none shall be as forgiving of such grave mistakes as I."

Gradually awareness dawned on the God of War, followed by a surge of indignation. "I used _her_ name because it was with _her _I was conversing," he snarled, realizing belatedly that in his delirium, he had spoken orally as opposed to telepathically, thus delivering the message to the wrong recipient, the faint stinging of his reddened cheek proof of his mistake. "She and I have arranged later today for a duel and she sought a confirmation of my attendance—in that immensely grating way of hers; the only arena in which Athena and I will _ever _meet is the battlefield. I should have your tongue for that repugnant assumption of intimacy." Still far from ready to forgive him, whatever she might say, Eris nevertheless obliged his request—an invitation if ever she heard one—taking advantage of his more loosely distributed weight and stretching quickly upward to force entry into his mouth, robbing him of his breath.

She had had no doubt of the effect she would have on him, his anger was fast forgotten and his even faster-hardening cock pressed insistently against her thigh, but at the last moment, jealousy got the better of her as she recalled the first goddess whom she had been confused for, and tightly closed her legs, barricading her entrance. "And what of _Aphrodite_?" she challenged, turning her head away to prevent him from further kissing her; she would otherwise lose her resolve to punish him.

The warning edge in Ares' tone was unmistakable, and again he reflexively tensed as if preparing to strike. "What of her?"

"Is _she_ another _sparring _partner? She cannot possibly be a lover of yours, for since her arrival, she has been betrothed to another—and even as we speak, she is far too busy honeymooning with her _husband_, surrendering herself to _him_,to give you even a passing thought. And such a pity it is. So rapturously you cried out for her last night. Oh, how you must _pine_ for her."

In response, the war god pried apart his gritted teeth to give a humorless bark of laughter. "With your unbecoming envy comes delusions. I have whores aplenty to sustain me: what need have I for any _one_ goddess in particular, be it Aphrodite…or, for that matter, yourself? Certainly you are among my most frequented bedmates, but that has less to do with favoritism and more with _accessibility_," he continued, their constant adjoining leaving him almost able to predict her counter, that of all the concubines he entertained, it was she he most preferred. Arguably, this was true, but life for him would become unbearable should she realize this, and instead assumed a façade of indifference, indifference being the ultimate weapon to use against Eris—she thrived on attention, on getting a rise out of others, a trait the both of them shared. "I expect you gone by the time I am clothed."

Athena, ever the heavily-indulged pet of Zeus, would have her early morning match yet—and then still have time enough to weave a tapestry, or plant an olive tree, whatever useless tasks she performed that somehow designated her more important to the pantheon and the mortals than he. Just the thought of her had the same withering effect on his cock as dousing himself in icy water and, grimacing, he readied himself. Paying absolutely no mind whatsoever to his decree, the personification of discord instead propped herself up lazily on her elbow and watched with interest as he crossed the room in several long strides to the wardrobe, balking as he clothed himself in a short tunic. As he shoved gauntlets onto his wrists, his sculpted, scratched back to her, she rolled noiselessly to the edge of the bed, got to her feet, smirked, and turned again to smoke.

Feeling reenergized, anxious for the impending fight, Ares made quick work of his armor, fastening his greaves and cuirass. He reached then for his helmet, only to find it absent from its usual place…heedless as he presented himself to be, he was positively scrupulous when his equipment was concerned, keeping everything immaculate and always close at hand. Out of his peripherals, he glimpsed a flash of light and turned abruptly to find the source. Eris' eyes followed his to the handsome, gleaming helm nestled beneath her arm before lifting back up to stare defiantly into the face of the god who had killed for far more minor offenses; the corners of her lips lifted upwards and she brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the burnished gold.

"Considering that you have likened me to a harlot, I shall act as one and take what I feel is appropriate payment," she declared. "I believe that this will make a fine incentive for you to tear yourself away from your so far fruitless pursuit of _Aphrodite_ and play with _me_ again." Before he could manage even a step, she fled, prize in tow, her horrid laugh resonating throughout the chamber, seeming to grow louder as the distance between them grew further. He scoffed, she thought that she was spiting him by whisking away his helmet.

As was the case with all his more valued possessions, he could simply call it to him at any given time—but for now, he would let her assume that she held it ransom…indulge her by coming to personally retrieve it, bringing with him… _retribution_…for her cheek and the damage done to his. All dealings with her were maddening…and yet, equally as arousing...

* * *

…Olympus' main palace boasted sprawling, carefully manicured gardens, filled with a kaleidoscopic array of flora and shaded by towering trees. At the heart of them was an expansive training area for its less aesthetically-oriented, more militant occupants.

One such occupant, an attractive, albeit austere-looking goddess wearing her dark locks in a practical knot and clad in golden armor, stood surveying the grounds, turning when she heard the faint footfalls of an approaching god—arriving late as always. Athena reflected for the umpteenth time that her brother had no consideration for anyone else's agenda, having nothing of any real importance to do himself—save for wreaking havoc or lazing about when not needlessly shedding blood…or, she amended, attempting to mount all things feminine in form. She raised her famous grey eyes (which, when infrequently enraged, would fade in color to the hot white of their father's thunderbolts) skyward in a bid for patience at the sight of him.

His slovenly appearance contrasted markedly with her tidy one: his hair hung loose and unruly at his shoulders, giant love-marks discolored his neck, and his lips too were bruised and swollen. Nevertheless, he swaggered towards her with all the self-importance of the peacock his mother so favored.

Small wonder the Fates had decreed the appointment of another God of Warfare, her undisciplined, irresponsible counterpart was sorely lacking; an immortal was supposed to serve their worshippers, whereas he lived to serve none but himself, thinking battle a game of all things, a means of satisfying his unquenchable bloodlust. Laughably, he fancied himself a general, the commander of countless armies, when he made the mistakes of a neophyte hoplite—were he a human soldier, he would, in all likelihood, never be permitted to see combat, and rightly so. She would not tolerate such behavior from her troops, yet somehow had no choice but to endure it from her wretch brother, showing up tardy to a meeting that had been prearranged _far_ in advance (ignoring the fact that she had had to allot time from her duties to accommodate him), arriving ill-equipped for said meeting, failing to bring with him his helmet and shield—out of negligence, over-confidence, or a combination of both, she knew not which.

A champion of fair-play amongst opponents, she willed her own helmet—which had been tucked beneath her arm in order to better enjoy the crisp morning air during her indefinite wait—away. _Her_ shield, however, she was not about to discard, seeing no reason why she should need make any additional sacrifices on his behalf. What next, she be expected to remain motionless as a training dummy, perhaps fight him with a large _stick_ as opposed to an actual sword? And speaking of swords, her now-freed hand darted to her scabbard, closing around the hilt of her blade, her rival immediately following suit.

Drawn swords (or brandished spears, depending on the circumstance) and calculating glances punctuated with distaste were their standard greeting, though as he drew closer still, she noted that Ares wore the arrogant smirk that always filled her with an impulse to slap it straight off his face, or better still, humiliate it away. Soon enough, she promised herself, the vast majority of their duels ended with his defeat.

"You are looking very well-pleased with yourself, obvious disfigurement sustained to your throat and mouth aside. Am I to assume that your evening was…" she began curtly, hesitating as she tried to settle upon an appropriate word to characterize his recreational activities. "…well spent?" she finished with an almost imperceptible grimace. Being a sworn virgin, she found great repulsion from such debauchery, but could easily enough turn a blind, or at the very least apathetic, eye to the lewd conduct of those around her—none of whom made secret their love of all things physical in nature—though as per usual, her half-brother fell into a category all his own. Gleaning pleasure from what, to her, appeared to be nothing short of mutilation, was a perversion almost exclusively reserved for Ares (and possibly his underlings, who were as uncouth as he in temperament and mannerisms).

"It was unlike anything you will ever know," he enthused, his rakish grin broadening before he began chuckling immoderately at the realization that his statement held a second implication. She would remain ignorant of carnal intricacies for all of her days, choosing on her own accord eternal destitution. His voice dropped an octave, grew huskier, as he regained his composure and moved closer each time he circled her. "Tell me, does it not gnaw away at your pride that I am the more knowledgeable, have gained mastery of that which has eluded you for centuries? Am _I _to believe that curiosity has never once crossed your mind, you are contented to never feel the warmth of another's touch…his lips?" he queried, his tongue gliding from between his own to moisten them.

Every step forward he took, she retreated back one; his depravity knew no bounds: he had tried to seduce, steal away, the unfortunate Hephaestus' wife the very night of his _wedding_, proof that sacred oaths held no meaning to him. He could scarcely be expected to honor hers, not that she was about to present him with an opportunity. Whenever he assumed an almost flirtatious demeanor, it was done with the intent of ruffling her feathers, she knew, but there still remained a chance—a hair-thin one—that he take his charade a step further, do irreparable damage.

Ares was enjoying himself immensely, the discomfort and disgust he caused her positively oozing from her every pore—he felt much the same in actuality, but such was war, where exploiting a foe's weaknesses was imperative. Once, when much younger, infinitely more foolhardy, his half-sister had been his greatest conquest, though he was deterred almost before he began, both by her vehemence in maintaining her maidenhood and her pompous disposition. "Even as we speak, your resolve grows weaker," he purred, making another attempt to close the distance she hurriedly increased between them so that he might tangibly observe her skin crawling, "your desire stronger. Your body betrays you, dear sister, your heartbeat quickens as does your breathing. Why play at coyness any longer? Recant your vows of chastity, submit to me…"

Red swam before Athena's paling eyes. The gall of him, thinking that she would ever submit to him or _any_ man for that matter!

"Desist such talk immediately," she snapped acidly, her blade halting him where he stood as she angled it parallel to an especially ugly mark at his jugular—a bruise that to her horrified fascination was rimmed by a circle of tooth imprints. _Tooth imprints_, as if he had had to ward off a ravenous animal from attempting to devour him! Shuddering inwardly, she banished all thoughts of what might occur in the privacy of his chambers and pressed onward. "Your ego is both atrocious and wholly unwarranted. Mere association with you is deplorable in its own right; to _lay _with you would be a fate worse than that reserved for those who reside in the frightful depths of Tartarus."

To her satisfaction, he fell silent as an abandoned catacomb, glancing apprehensively down at the sword aligned with his exposed throat and swallowing hard. Such was the price of his hubris: he had been entirely too engrossed in taunting her to think that he might wind up walking _right _into such a precarious position. If ever a time came when he was capable of being killed, his impulsivity would be what ultimately brought about his demise. _Coward, _thought she triumphantly, relishing the sight of him squirming every bit as much as he did her. _He does though become so much more tolerable when at the other end of a blade. _

Unless giving her most bothersome, useless sibling a healthy dose of much-needed humility, she did not especially care to be at the administering side of one, preferring first to see civil disputes addressed with diplomacy, tact—proof that mortals could rise above their primal instincts. Violence she viewed as a last alternative, something to be avoided altogether if at all possible; that tasteless approach only ever brought about _more_ conflict and strife, casualties along with it, all unnecessary. Needless to say, she tended to have little patience for that aspect of her domain and sought to see things resolved as quickly as possible when such a tumultuous state was inexorable.

And so then entered her vile brother, who had zeal enough towards their Fate-given duties for the both of them, who lived so that he might indiscriminately end lives and send enemies and allies alike on a final ferry ride to the realm of Hades…who collected his wits and came to the realization that he too had in his hand a weapon that served as an extension of his arm.

Raising it sharply upward, he caught the groove of her sword with his own, using the substantial power he had over her to throw her back a pace. There would be no amiable match between the feuding war deities, centuries of bitter rivalry and subsequent loathing forbid it. The duel began in earnest as Athena swiftly regained her footing and lunged forward to meet his advance with a shower of sparks and a resounding clang of metal against metal. With every step, either forward or back, every parry and strike, dust stirred up around them, and a thick cloud soon engulfed their legs. The sun climbed higher into the sky as though to bear witness.

"Perpetual damnation in the blackened heart of the Underworld is comparable—preferable?—to lying with me, is it? Had you the capacity to be as injurious with your blade as you are with your tongue, you would be downright unassailable, assuming of course you refrained from _cowering _behind your _infernal _aegis," her adversary spat when his latest blow was forcefully repelled by the emblazoned Gorgon's head, an image that spoke volumes of his sister's hypocrisy. A favored taunt of hers was to accuse him of cowardice, while _she_ had quite the habit of sending her heroes on errands for her—Medusa's severed pate being a prime example, with Perseus, a stray seed spilled from Zeus' ceaselessly dripping loins, going to retrieve it for her. "_I _have no such crippling dependence upon my equipment."

"So quick to boast of your perceived achievements, yet blinded to your vices," retorted his sister, stepping deftly backwards, leaving his sword to slice through thin air. The strategic workings of her mind matched her evenly with her half-brother's brute strength, but rather than continually engaging him, her intent after the first time their blades clashed was to have him expend all of his energy—energy that would be otherwise used to harass their neighbors—pursuing her. Deflecting his every blow with either her xiphos or the "infernal" aegis, she dodged and weaved skillfully out of striking range, goading him into giving chase. Only a fool would assume that his hulking size impeded his agility; he followed her movements with the speed and precision of a viper.

Just as she predicted, their game of cat-and-mouse began to grate rapidly on his nerves. She could read his mounting irritation on his face: he wanted a challenge, he wanted _confrontation_, not a foot-quickness drill. Nevertheless, she baited him a hair longer. Coupled with his impatience, that temper of his would be, as it always was when they met in other scenarios, his undoing. He became less the experienced, lethal warrior by the minute and more a child waving his wooden training sword around erratically, hoping that luck would lead him to connect with his opponent's body. Having already exerted his…potency…the night prior and therefore entering the fight not quite at his physical peak (yet another reason reinforcing her decision to remain forever untouched), he was only tiring himself faster with his sporadic swinging—as his latest assault whistled past her, she noted that there was significantly less force thrown behind it, exactly what she had been awaiting.

Her sandals shifted positions in the dirt beneath them, as did her tactics from defensive to offensive. Up flashed her blade, not quite directed at his head (for they had an unspoken agreement that there would be no decapitation attempts since neither wore their helmets), but high enough so that his guard left his torso unprotected, presenting an opportunity for her to ram her aegis into his breastplate with vigor enough to set his teeth rattling in his skull. Not allowing him the chance to catch his breath, the Goddess of Wisdom strode forward with the ferocity of a lioness, her xiphos coming at him relentlessly from all angles and directions, sending him into a retreat as he attempted to one-handedly block everything, now probably sorely missing his shield as he once resorted to using his gauntlet in its place.

"Had _you_ the capacity…" Swing. "…to master your infantile need for gratification…" Swing. "…be it bloodshed or fleshly," she chided him in between a flurry of slashes, driving him further back, "I daresay you would be worthy of respect—or at the very least…not be regarded as a source of shame… to our great father. And yet, you relentlessly …make a spectacle of yourself: all of Olympus has been made aware of… how you _yearn _for Aphrodite, all laugh knowing that you _cannot have_ her…however desperately you may wish it. Lo, the fearsome God of War…" Swing. "…reduced to a dog salivating…" Swing. "…for a piece of overhanging meat."

…The ears of the aforementioned goddess pricked with interest at the sound of her name. She had not heard the derisive context in which it was used, materializing just seconds ago in the mountaintop courtyard, deeming that her honeymoon—she regrettably saw so little of her husband that it could scarcely be called much of one, though she _did_ get a generous amount of extravagant jewelry as compensation—had reached its end, but figured that it was worth investigating…

**Author's Note, Pt. II: As I mentioned before, what you just read was a total rewrite, and I've got to say that it might be my favorite chapter yet. I had so much fun writing both Eris (who was actually inspired by a girl I sometimes see at the gym, really petite with long platinum blonde hair and dark eyes-I'm sure she'd be so proud) and Athena-and how they both antagonize Ares. The fight scene was the second I've ever written, so I hope it turned out well. Speaking of firsts (or seconds), I plan to include some long overdue smut in Chapter 5...which I've never actually done before, but I'm looking forward to. **

_**A Love Like War**_ **has gotten a lot more attention lately and I'd like to thank DiizGiirlJess for following and favoriting the story itself and following me as an author, StinkyMuddySocks, annthropologie, Little Girlie Wolf, and Dottie28 for all following and favoriting. I can't begin to describe how much it means to me whenever I see a notification pop up in my email-I keep every single one. I'd also like to thank Ashen of the Mist for yet another wonderful (and perfectly-timed) review.**

**In response to my reviewer:**

**Ashen of the Mist: **Working as an editor sounds like an absolutely awesome job, getting to read the work of aspiring authors and encouraging them to keep at it-and you do it so well. Thank you for taking the time to leisurely review my work, I regularly reread your comments when I need a boost and it will usually keep me going for days to come. I understood what you meant about the mini-tangents ;) and I'm glad it came through clearly-sometimes I feel like I have a tendency to get ranting. The use of descriptions is actually sort of experimental for me, my older stuff, in my overly-critical opinion, was kind of lacking; I also get overwhelmed whenever I see an endless block of description and tend to start skimming, so I try to limit my scenery to about two-paragraphs' worth per chapter. I just love what words can do though. Again, thank you for another uplifting response. I hope that you enjoyed this chapter. :D

**Wishing everyone a safe and happy holiday (assuming that you observe Memorial Day). Until next chapter (which I promise is already under way).**

**-Impersonating Sugar**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Wow, so about this consistently updating thing...I kind of suck at it. I want to apologize for keeping you all waiting****, but sometimes life just gets in the way. Throughout the year, some great things have happened, along with some less-than-great ones, which have gotten me pretty down...okay, honestly, I've been straight-up depressed. Life keeps on moving on though, and I feel like I'm slowly working my way back towards being in a better headspace. Call this cliché, but knowing that people have been reading and enjoying my work (on both sites) absolutely means the world to me.**

**That being said, I sincerely hope you enjoy the next chapter. **

The sound of clashing swords and the indistinct voices of those wielding them led the newly-returned Goddess of Love through the lush gardens to the central training arena—upon arrival, she realized promptly that she was not the only immortal to have been lured there by curiosity. Standing on her tiptoes and craning her neck, she was able to peek past the heads and elaborate hairstyles of the onlookers and see briefly what captivated them so. _A duel_, she thought with distaste, balancing expertly atop her toes, _how utterly __**enthralling**__. _Violence held little appeal to a divine being such as herself, hers was largely a domain of promoting _tenderness_ and _togetherness; _furthermore, there was nothing beautiful to be said of bloodshed. _How deprived my fellows must be of amusement if such coarse displays appeal so greatly to them._

Only then did she catch a glimpse of the participants themselves; one was a goddess she scarcely knew beyond recognizing her as another member of the pantheon's highest court, the other though—delight swelled within her heart, she found herself beaming at the sight of him, at her good fortune—was _Ares_. Suddenly infinitely more intrigued by the demonstration of swordsmanship (that in truth was much more a struggle for dominance between the favored daughter of Zeus and his most despised son), Aphrodite wove and jostled her way indelicately through the crowd to grant herself a better view of the god for whom she had hungered vehemently over the last month. She alone seemed to hold a torch of affection for the evidently unpopular God of War: his opponent, Athena, if memory served correctly, had sent him into a retreat, relentlessly slashing at him with her blade, earning cheers from the spectators. Some strikes he only just managed to ward off, all the while breathing hard out of his mouth, sweat-dampened hair clinging to his face and forehead. The love goddess' hands clenched anxiously into fists, fingernails biting into her palms, leaving small, crescent-shaped indentations.

In the midst of things, her champion came to a stumbling halt, appearing somewhat dazed, unsure of how to proceed; the next second, his lips curled into a murderous snarl. His rival's back was to their audience so it was impossible to determine what she had done to provoke him so, but she instantly after received retribution. A collective gasp arose from the throats of the assembled: faster than striking lightning, the male warrior lashed out at, aiming for his opponent's jugular as if meaning to rid her of her head. Clearly not anticipating that he would follow through, she dodged out of range a split second too late, and while she narrowly escaped decapitation, the tip of his blade kissed her cheek—apparently a grave mistake on his behalf, considering what occurred next.

Storm clouds, black and ominous, rolled in at once to engulf the sun and the endless expanse of blue sky, thunder rumbled and the wind howled, as she drew upon the fury of Zeus himself, something that she and she alone was capable of. (The observing Olympians cowered against the harsh change in the weather, but, like Aphrodite, were entirely too engrossed to flee and braced themselves, some guarding their hair with a hand, all more firmly planting their feet and steeling themselves against the storm). When next her brother struck, Athena batted away his sword easily as one would a buzzing gnat and all following attempts. Though certainly the match had begun with him being the stronger, with this sudden strengthening of her aura, deflecting her blows seemed to require an enormous amount of additional effort on his part.

Each time he held her xiphos at bay, needing now to grasp his own weapon with both hands, the muscles in his arms strained and the veins bulged, his brow creased. He became too focused on entrapping her blade to remember that, unlike himself, she had with her, her shield…which connected soundly with his torso for a second time and sent him staggering. Immediately following her initial attack, his sister dropped into a crouch and kicked his legs out from beneath him…

* * *

…Ares landed flat on his back with a grunt and a dull thud, disgraced and disarmed. The Goddess of Wisdom loomed over her fallen foe, a foot planted firmly upon his upper chest to prevent him from rising, her sword pressed to the hammering pulse in his neck. Loose strands of hair and the folds of her peplos billowed in the wind. From the thin cut she had received ran a small trickle of gold; her mouth was drawn into a tight, foreboding line and her eyes burned white-hot, like the electricity that crackled along the metal point poised to drain him of his ichor and flashed up in the darkened sky, a far cry from the purple they had been only moments before, emulating Aphrodite's—Aphrodite, with whom all assumed him to be obsessed. He had sneered and scoffed at the completely correct assertion, claiming her to be nothing more than an 'opportunity in which to spite their brother', but seemingly not convincingly enough, for Athena had then remarked mockingly that she should like to 'test a theory'.

Gone were the silver orbs at once, replaced instead by thickly-lashed ones of lavender, interwoven with pink, and the unexpectedness stopped him short. His mind reeled in confusion as a wave of emotions entirely unsuitable for the battlefield overcame him. Soft, snide laughter, though, reignited his temper: he had exposed to her his vulnerabilities, been made a fool! Too furious to possibly think of the ramifications, he vowed to wipe that smug smirk (a mirror image of his own, unbeknownst to him) from her countenance once and for all—by removing her head—which had ultimately resulted in this predicament.

Such a situation was, however, nothing he had not evaded before and he attempted to fade away…except his body remained disconcertingly solid. With increasing panic, he managed to raise his hand, which felt as if it had been turned to stone, an inch off the ground to try to call his fallen sword to his aid, but it still remained where it laid in the dirt, when ordinarily it would have returned immediately to its master. None but the King of the Gods, and vicariously through him his favorite child (and she only ever in bouts of blinding rage), could repress another immortal's power.

Chest rising and falling rapidly but laboriously beneath the pressure put upon it, he managed to raise his other hand and turn them both upward and outward in a gesture of surrender. He stared wide-eyed up at his adversary, his irises having turned from a burning ochroid to their usual brown, all of the fight gone from him.

"The courtyard is to be soaked in my blood to repay a mere drop of yours spilled?" he asked her hoarsely, hoping against hope that he might appeal to her governing sense of reason. Applying but a trace more pressure would pierce the already-bruised flesh; pain outside the bedroom was to him an exceedingly unpleasant prospect, to be avoided at all costs. "How highly atypical of you, you who reviles warfare and all who partake in it…unless your contempt is naught but a carefully crafted and diligently maintained façade, set in place so that none will know of the similarities between us. Long have I suspected that the same bloodlust courses through your veins and now you confirm my assumptions. Woe be to Zeus to learn of the shortcomings of his most cherished daughter, his most trusted advisor…"

At first, his attempt at dissuading his sister seemed only to heighten her displeasure, for she placed more weight onto the foot already crushing him into the ground like an insect, before relenting. Known for his capability of bringing out the worst traits of most who faced him, he awakened powerful, violent impulses within her (all directed at him, though present regardless), but never would she consider acting upon them—she was much too disciplined for such behavior and he was not worth shaming their father in a momentary bout of weakness.

"We may preside over the same domain, but that is where our similarities cease and consider yourself grateful for it," she spat, stepping back a pace and allowing him to stand and dust himself off with a sense of unmerited indignation, though she kept her xiphos trained on him should he try, in his usual fashion, to retaliate. "Miserable, sniveling wretch. _Do not_ think to approach me in the near future, I shall not be so inclined to leave your worthless hide unmarred a second time." That being said, she spun sharply on her heel, vanished in a puff of pure white smoke, and the day was as it had been before: the sun shone bright overheard in a cloudless sky, the birds chirped and sang merrily, the remaining war god seethed.

Eyes having returned to molten gold, he strode across the courtyard to retrieve his fallen sword, picked it up and fingered it, fury and hatred churning in his belly. A bitterly sore loser, he wanted to strike his damned half-sister down, assert himself as the superior, now more than ever, but even _he _knew that there was a time and place for instigating fights—and that time had long since passed, though the urge for destruction remained, distancing him further from any semblance of propriety. Something, someone, need feel his wrath in the place of Athena; his blade would not suit his purpose—it had failed him—so he jammed it with an uncharacteristic amount of disgust back into its scabbard, not even bothering to wipe off the dirt and droplets of ichor staining it, before holding his right hand out at his side, clenching it into a fist, and then splaying open his fingers, an unspoken call to his spear.

Mere seconds after the shaft materialized in his palm, did he give a ferocious war cry and send the javelin hurtling through the air, where it sank deeply into the trunk of a tree on the farthest side of the garden. Much like when his weapon would penetrate a human soldier's flesh, sap seeped from the puncture like blood—and dribbled from the doru's point as it soared again into its master's clutches, ran thickly down onto his fingers, a pale comparison though of the lifeblood he sought in place of his half-sister's. Out of the corner of his eye, his primal, predatory instincts fully engaged, he detected movement and whirled abruptly round to face the audience he only now realized he had acquired. His gaze sweeping swiftly and haughtily over them, he noted that the observers were a collection of minor gods.

_Incredibly _minor gods who had rejoiced in his humiliation…and were of such insignificance that should they somehow fade from existence, or were debilitated by a spear, mayhap, there would be at least a dozen at the ready to replace them. As lesser deities, they would do well to be reminded of just _how_ much more powerful he was than they, the firstborn son of immortal royalty, a member of the Dodekatheon—deserving of respect, though he would just as gladly take from them a tribute of fear.

"Those who wish to offer themselves as a substitution to the vegetation need only remain where they stand!" he shouted, theatrically drawing back his arm and shifting into an exaggerated stance. Abruptly all chatter ceased and the inferior, intermingling immortals froze like deer before a huntsman's bow, questioning the sincerity of his threat. Their terrified reactions did not disappoint, he devoured it like the sweetest of ambrosia—and turned slowly from brandishing his spear as an intimidation tactic to genuinely contemplating the use of a live target as a feasible alternative to _trees_, which in turn had insufficiently taken the place of Athena, and adjusted his footing accordingly. Before he could decide whose existence offended him most greatly, the training grounds were vacated post-haste, all wisely wishing to avoid bringing unto themselves the infamous wrath of Ares.

Hazy wisps of varying shades of smoke were all that remained of the spectators, save for one: golden-haired, graceful, and gorgeous, moving hypnotically towards him with an enticing smile forming upon her lips, completely unfazed by the poised lance.

"What foresight you had to see that the courtyards were cleared," said Aphrodite approvingly, "so that none would bother us during our reunion."

For a second time in the span of a few scant minutes, Ares' body behaved traitorously: what could only be described as elation at the sight of her coursed through his veins, and with it a jolt of lust. She was as beautiful in the flesh as she was in the fantasies he had entertained for well over a month. His anger was almost depleted entirely, right up until he looked into her eyes and was immediately minded of how he had been outwitted by Athena. His temper sparked anew and blazed like a wildfire, the jeers of his adversary and the taunts of his jilted lover were the wood that nourished the flames, encouraging them to grow, leading the inferno itself to burn hotter. The beautiful woman gliding steadily closer made him weak, left him vulnerable, and, in that moment, badly as he desired her, he likewise despised her, deeming _her _the source of his latest grievances…

* * *

…Considering how hurriedly she and Ares were left to their own devices, one could deduce that most would think her a fool for approaching the war god whilst he was in such a heightened state of aggravation, especially after he had seen fit to furiously impale a tree, unquestioningly envisioning it to be his sister. Never in their short acquaintanceship had Aphrodite seen any reason to be fearful of him. If nothing else, she decided that he was more misunderstood than menacing, a god who experienced every emotion intensely, another one of a steadily growing list of reasons why he appealed to her above all others.

Unaccustomed to being threatened, a sudden, very real fright paralyzed her where she stood when his spear came hurtling directly for her as though her breast was its intended target—only to veer off to the side with a calculated deliberateness, passing her by closely enough for the breeze to rustle her dress and muss her hair, before sinking deep into another tree, reinforcing her certitude that he would do her no harm.

Nevertheless quite thoroughly shaken, she gave a breathy laugh to assuage her nerves, and resumed her slow walk to him, smoothing her rumpled locks as if nothing had occurred, as if she had not come close to suffering the same fate as the surrounding foliage. Having golden ichor, the mark of a divinity, flowing through her veins, she would not have, should she have been stricken, died from the blow. Unspeakable agony would have come in place of death, such that the latter would appear a welcome alternative, though quickly she pushed such discomforting thoughts from her mind; the Fates were feeling generous this morn, allotting her a second chance to join with Ares in an intimate embrace when previously they had been encroached upon, made to part ways.

It would be imprudent to air on the side of caution now.

"After such a display, an extraordinary demonstration of your mastery of arms be it may, I am under the impression that my presence is displeasing to you," she observed, her tone light. "May I inquire as to what brought about such a radical alteration of your opinions of me, God of War? A turn of the moon ago, when first our paths entwined, I could say with confidence that you found my company favorable."

By all appearances, the trunk of the gargantuan oak—from which the javelin now protruded—had been his mark all along, when in actuality, the weapon's change in direction was the result of a last second change of heart; somehow, inexplicably, Ares found himself incapable of causing injury to the love goddess. Just because he could not to do her what he meant to do to one of the lesser Olympians did not mean that he need further acknowledge her existence; he would master this weakness he had regarding her, even if doing so meant denying himself the pleasure of _reuniting _with her altogether. No longer would Athena be able to gain the upper-hand in combat by using Aphrodite's image to drive him to distraction, steal from him what should have been an effortless victory: triumphing over her appealed more to him than exacting revenge on Hephaestus for robbing him of what should have been his (ignoring briefly that he did not wish for a wife), if only by an inkling.

He took a purposeful step backwards as she moved closer still with increasing boldness, looking past her fair form and calling again for his spear's return. This time, however, no matter insistently he summoned it to him, curling and uncurling his fingers expectantly until the joints began to protest from the excess use, it remained firmly lodged in the tree's heart. The sap-slicked shaft quivered futilely as it tried to oblige him, but was unable to budge.

Muttering a fluent string of curses that would make even the most seasoned soldiers blush or look sheepishly towards their feet, he paid no mind whatsoever to Aphrodite's query, disappeared in a cloud of smoke, and solidified beside the tree to manually retrieve his weapon, only to discover that the Goddess of Love had materialized right along with him, lounging against the enormous trunk with her arms folded, an eyebrow cocked expectantly, taking from him the luxury of ignoring her. Furthermore, her gown appeared to have been…modified…for lack of a better word, to guarantee that his attention had been thoroughly caught: the neckline plunged deeper towards her bust, a seemingly endless leg could be seen in full from a slit in the billowing fabric. Unfortunately for her, what instead caught his gaze was the abundance of jewelry adorning her from head to toe—Hephaestus' far gentler way of laying claim on what was his.

His searing resentment of her reoriented itself back into a scorching enviousness of the younger god.

So then his half-brother was merely lame, not impotent. Ares felt suddenly that his efforts to keep the blacksmith god from consummating his marriage, that absurd order of his, could well have been what _enabled_ that crippled disgrace of a deity to lay with his beauteous bride: time in the forge allotted Hephaestus a chance to create jewels in which to bribe her to his bed—and, if the numerous trinkets were any indicator, done so with frequency. She was so heavily bedecked with jewelry that the treasury of the Underworld, which, in addition to being the realm of the dead, grew the upper world's prized gemstones as opposed to flowers from its soil, would have looked inadequate by comparison.

"You return to me with amorous intent, yet you come thoughtlessly bearing the insignia of your _husband_, assuming that I will be enticed nonetheless. If intimacy is what you seek, then I advise you to return with haste to _his_ bed before you are missed; I am a being of _warfare, _I have not the means of compensating you for my physical gratification, of providing you with a token—an act in which you have clearly become accustomed," he sneered at last, his lingering contempt continuing to clash with lustfulness, an absolutely infuriating combination. In this granule of time, contempt overpowered lust, enabling him to tear his eyes from the gems winking cheekily at him even though the rays of Helios were diluted by the dense verdant canopy of leaves overhead, and turn his focus instead onto the task at hand, prying loose his spear.

Wiping away much of the viscous coating of sap that clung to his fingers on the hems of his peplos, he propped a foot against the oak to provide himself leverage enough that he should be able to easily yank free his weapon and grasped the wooden shaft tightly. Uttering a noise that lingered somewhere between a grunt and a growl, he yanked the pole hard, but still the javelin was stuck fast. He unleashed another colorful string of profanities, oblivious to the lips he had once longed to kiss, lavished when he had done so, quirking upwards into a catlike little smile despite his spiteful implication that laying with Hephaestus was simply an exchange, trading her body for his gifts as if she were nothing more than a common whore. While his words were intended to be scathing—quite the change from the suave rogue who had claimed a dance, showered her with praise, and stolen kisses on her wedding night—she was unfazed, even encouraged.

It had been envy, she knew, that had sharpened his tongue into a poisonous blade meant to metaphorically wound, he believed she had lain with his brother whilst he himself had had but a taste, a sample, of her affections, leaving him hungering all the more vehemently for her—and then being denied an opportunity in which to indulge himself, the circumstances leaving him wroth. He sorely underestimated her ability to interpret the emotions of others, and remained ignorant that he revealed his own as blatantly as a banner declaring an army's allegiance. (Also unbeknown to the war god, such women of the night happened to fall under her patronage, and with their frequent lovemaking, she regarded them as among her most devout worshippers. Who else but from she would they have learned their trickery?)

"I rather thought my acquired jewels well suited me," she commented, her voice remaining lilting and nonchalant. With even more fabric absent from her gown, to the extent of beginning to resemble more of a night-dress than a garment that anyone with a shred of decency would dare don in public, she sidled along the tree's massive girth to forcibly place herself back into his line of vision. There she made a show of flaunting both them and the features that he paid particularly careful attention to: eyes half-closed as if in a euphoric blissfulness, she swept back her hair with delicate, heavily ring-laden fingers, tipped back her head luxuriously as she did so, so that the dangling earrings swung to and fro at the start of her jawline, and bared her throat, around which was the painstakingly-crafted necklace of amethyst and gold, the start and her personal favorite of the collection.

"Would not you agree?" prompted the love goddess, feeling his eyes rove over her, sensing that his hold on the doru had momentarily slackened though his body tensed predatorily as a different sort of animalistic instinct coiled within his belly. She could only just swallow a triumphant smile. Compared to past lovers, her intended paramour was more immune to her charms, but ultimately, his resistance was futile; no male, be him deathless or mortal, was capable of refusing her, not when she sought him for her bed.

Coyly, she glanced up at him from beneath her lashes, only to see him vigorously shake his head like that somehow that would clear it of the lustful thoughts—the memories of how he lavished the silken expanse of her flesh, how he had fisted his hand in her hair to assume mastery of her and claim that sensuous mouth of hers—filling it. Looking determinedly down at his spear, he set his jaw resolutely, rolled his shoulders testily, and changed the placement of his footing against the trunk, with it his grasp on it.

"To be sure, such baubles accentuate perfection in its truest form," retorted the God of War as he loomed over the javelin, the harshness in which he spit out the words contradicting their complimentary nature. Rage, oscillating in focus between his siblings and the goddess who had fast become the bane of his existence, provided clarity and quieted the persistent yearning he still fostered for her, if only slightly, and he clung to it. "I must express my astonishment that _Hephaestus_ is capable of tearing his hands from your physique long enough to retreat to his forge and allot you a few moments of solitude. Solitude which you are squandering in an attempt to recreate the night of our first encounter: my actions on your wedding night were inspired by a whim that has long since passed."

He then ventured a second attempt at removing his weapon from its bark sheath, having precisely as much success with the endeavor as he had with the one prior.

Oh, but she had wished for him to come to her on his own accord: choosing to exert her influence as a means of swaying him did not seem to her entirely sporting, but then, she rationalized, he already desired her though he fought vehemently against it for reasons unknown—she would simply be _encouraging _him to act upon such impulses; the both of them would feel all the better for it. As an immortal who spend a great deal of time walking amongst humans, she had adopted and frequently referenced a number of their proverbs, one being an implication that all tactics could be used to gain the upper-hand in the domains of love and war; how fitting was it that she and Ares each embodied one.

The irises of lavender swirled with rose before assuming entirely the latter shade as she watched him snarl and curse as he grappled fruitlessly against the tree for the rights to wield the javelin, a smirk playing on her lips and her arms refolded, her own foot now propped against the trunk. Slowly, so as not to overwhelm his senses, she began to heighten, draw forth, the lustfulness that he was forcibly repressing. His powers matched hers in strength, and he outwardly appeared unaffected, throwing himself more forcefully into the task in a seemingly unconscious act of defiance. The veins in his arms bulged deliciously from the strain, and observing such a spectacle made her want all the more to be enveloped in them, be held flush against the equally-impressive musculature of his torso.

"If nothing else comes of our meeting, I should nevertheless like to inform you of the misconceptions you have regarding my marriage," crooned Aphrodite, who had absolutely not the slightest intention of simply correcting any inaccuracies he had pertaining to her union and then leaving him be, "since you are obviously concerned as to its dynamic. Once the clarifications are made, you have my word that I shall trouble you no further. I must respectfully request though your undivided attention; I foresee your much-beloved weapon yet remaining irretrievable." Her motives were far from honorable; if he were to look into her eyes, even but an accidental glance, he would fall entirely under her spell—or rather, seeing as he had yet to succumb like most menfolk she had encountered, become compliant enough to suit her purpose.

Her honeyed words did indeed give him pause, but only to wipe from his brow the sheen of perspiration that had gathered from his efforts, plastering the already sweat-dampened, dark curls to his skin. Immediately after, he further exhibited his increasingly maddening single-mindedness by picking up where he had left off, again taking hold of the damnable doru.

"Say what you must," he responded curtly, staring hard and witheringly down at the almost completely buried bronze point that had not budged an inch, as if his heated glance alone was somehow capable of freeing it, "and then depart."

Beginning now to grow impatient and exasperated that she continued to be upstaged by an inanimate object, she abandoned all sense of subtlety to pull then at his subconscious, like a charioteer manning the reins of his high-spirited steeds…

* * *

...Hard as he tried to remove his weapon, the war god was finding to be increasingly difficult to understand the importance of freeing his spear when the object of his fantasies, the woman he had envisioned while laying with all others, was standing within his reach, all but begging to be ravaged—not, ravished, too long had she been unattainable, he could not even begin to fathom being gentle with her. An image flashed unbidden through his mind, causing him to cease his frenzied tugging: the Goddess of Love with her back to the tree trunk, her legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck, moaning into his mouth, only to throw back her head as the moaning swelled into rapturous cries that rendered her throat raw and voice sultry and hoarse, as he drove her over and over and over again into the rough bark, the scratches left from it marking her forever as his own, ensuring that she would never again have eyes for any other but him, Hephaestus and his 'gifts' be damned.

"Your attention, if you please," she repeated dulcetly. Gentle fingertips ghosted across his unarmored forearm to his elbow, curled softly round it, earning from him a surprised, audible intake of breath; instinct cautioned that doing so would be unwise, but his gaze snapped upwards to meet hers and he found himself transfixed, a statue in his current stance. What next she said—quite obviously enjoying his rapt attention—he scarcely heard, instead intently watching the pillow-like lips that cushioned her words. "My so-called 'tokens' I would regard as more a conferment than compensation, for, a mere half-day into our honeymoon, what should have been the beginning of our eternal unification, my husband was entreated for weaponry and departed soon thereafter to his forge to commence production. I found myself alone for its remainder, so very alone. The nights I found most difficult, having to spend them by my lonesome in my bedchambers."

He needn't know the entire truth, that those lonesome nights she spoke of were anything but, spent with a multitude of men who bore a striking semblance to him, more so once her illusion was cast. None of her replicas though could begin to compare to the original.

"I must confess," said she, casting down her eyes as she played at bashfulness, "married though I am, my thoughts turned often to _you_." At the last part of the statement, her magenta orbs flashed up, her expression intent, hungry—one that would not have looked the slightest bit out of place upon the war god's handsome countenance. Here, she moved away from the tree altogether, ducked beneath his outstretched arms and rose in the triangular opening they formed, wiggling her hips to make sufficient room for herself to be held between them, and gently but firmly pushing down on his knee so that he was no longer resting his foot against the oak, irises of rose quartz holding the molten gold ones.

Achieving the desired result, she relinquished her hold of him, enabling him to act _exactly _as he saw fit.

"An unfortunate turn of events to be sure," murmured The God of War huskily, his spear all but forgotten as his arms encircled her all the more tightly, the softness of her silk-covered curves as opposed to the roughly-hewn wooden shaft now under hand. Fire flowed through his veins, but a shiver traversed his spine as _her _arms wrapped round his love-marked neck, fingers tangling in and twisting around the hair at the nape as she pressed herself against him, looking up at him with longing—a familiar scene, though this time, a very different outcome would come of it, so he swore. "Twice now you and I have met, both instances due to your husband's negligence."

Ares could not resist the urge to speak ill of his half-brother (if there was one thing in this world in which the useless Hephaestus excelled, it would be his unparalleled ability to fall dreadfully short of all spousal expectations put upon him), nor pass up the chance to boast at the success of his scheme. Not only did he have new weaponry that he grudgingly admitted was without flaw, making for a pleasing trophy even if the items themselves were too peculiar to put to use, but today he would at last possess Aphrodite; order had been restored to the universe: he had emerged victorious.

"I would not, however, consider _this_ occurrence to be coincidental. Hephaestus' absence was _my _doing; you will find me unwilling to let another partake in that which is rightfully _mine_," he growled, before he inclined his head to assume ownership of her mouth with a fervor that arose from a month of deprivation.

* * *

…Frown lines creased the forehead of the all-seeing Titan sun god Helios. Mild interest had stopped him in the midst of his route across the sky as he observed the duel between the son and daughter of Zeus—and it had been a much more avid interest that kept him from dispersing like the rest. Was not the goddess with whom the vile Ares presently conversed the consort of another…of Hephaestus? Why then did she appear to address his brother so informally, and even, dare he say, act as if she knew him intimately?

If she had not previously, she most certainly did now. Rather forwardly, she fitted herself snugly into the arms of the God of War and the pair kissed like long-separated lovers that had been finally reunited. Gripping each other all the more tightly, they disappeared in a cloud of smoke, unquestionably off to one or the other's bedchambers to copulate.

Shaking his head and giving a disgusted snort, Helios snapped the reins and spurred his four winged horses back into motion, his chariot plunged down into an arc towards the earth. The chariot itself was made centuries ago by the master smith's own hand, crafted of firelight and gold that blended so seamlessly together that it was impossible to distinguish between the elements. Was ever there a useful god among the relatively worthless, self-indulgent immortals, thought he, it would be the second-born son of Hera: an industrious, reputable fellow, who did not deserve to be shamed so by his philandering familiars.

On the River Styx, he swore to warn the Blacksmith God of, if not bring about an end to, their adulterous ways.

**Author's Note, Pt. II: In the original version of the myth, Helios finds the two already in bed together (just think of the things he s_aw!)_, but I took a couple creative liberties. If those two could just keep it together long enough to get a room, it would solve so many of their problems...Unfortunately, there won't be any smut in this chapter, but I promise there _will_ be in the next one. As I said before I've never done blatant smut, so I'm a little nervous, but I'll do my best to make it good. I guess I have to do some research. ;)**

**As always, I'd like to thank my loyal readers and new readers, and those who favorited, followed, or reviewed _A Love Like War. _**

**Again, wishing everyone a safe and happy holiday season. (I have a thing for posting around holidays, don't I?) Also, reviews are wonderful; if I was a goddess on Olympus, they'd probably be my ambrosia. **

**Until next time. **

**-Impersonating Sugar**


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