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“Mother called. She’s coming to stay awhile. I think it’s happening this time, Ourania.” Aphrodite’s husband, Hephaestus, is generally serious, often somber, but he’s rarely uncertain. Even so, she can’t help but smile when he names her Heavenly. It’s less a pet name between them and more an act of private devotion, an acknowledgement of what they know, what the three of them keep safe from the rest of the Olympians. The brilliant blacksmith, the cocky warrior - they know that the goddess they both adore is so much older, bigger, and more powerful than she usually appears.
And Aphrodite? She glories in it. It’s who she is, after all - the vastness of yearning that keeps the universe in motion. At any given time, she longs for any number of things - but fortunately, at this moment, one of her desires is to hold Hephaestus close, one hand in his dark curls, one on his sooty, muscled shoulder. Even the goddess of Desire knows that it is good to have desire fulfilled, at least some of the time.
“I think she’s finally had enough of his fuckery,” he says, and Aphrodite nods.
“It is more than time, love. You know I don’t like Hera very much -” She’s got plenty of reasons for it, not the least because of what Hera did to Hephaestus, “…but I cannot help respecting her. For all that Zeus is in charge - for the moment - Hera is much better at wielding power. She’s also a titanic hypocrite. Goddess of fidelity, my callipygian backside.”
Hephaestus chuckles, a little, and Aphrodite relaxes a bit. He’s always had a soft spot for his mother, despite all the pain there - and as much as she dislikes Hera, she doesn’t actually want to make things harder for her beloved.
“What do you want to do about that?” she asks, carefully, conscientiously. It’s taken millennia to get to the point where she asks instead of charging ahead with what she wants. Though, because old habits die hard, she adds, “You know you don’t have to do this, you don’t owe her this. Just say the word, and I’ll stand at the gate and keep her out - you know I will. Or we can take this into our hands, and I’ll storm Olympus myself. Give them the surprise of their long lives, with Ares’s spear in my hand, shining with the full strength of my starlight and seafoam. Orrr…”
Her voice goes soft and persuasive, tempting and sweet, “We can just find Ares and go off to bed, let them sort out the mess they’ve made while we make some, mm, messes of our own.” It’s not a ploy, this. It sounds vastly better than getting involved in whatever clusterfuck Zeus has made for himself. She loves a lot of things about Hephaestus, but one of the things she loves most is when he’s taken over by the serious delight of an artist at work, whether at his anvil or in the bedroom as he orchestrates the movements of his partners’ bodies.
He huffs out a breath, and it’s warm and a little smoky, as though exhaled from a living forge. “I want to work on that new girdle for you. And the, uh, test out the thing we were talking about for himself.” He smirks against her shoulder, the way she knows he always does when he’s thinking of something that will make Ares curse and plead.
“Mmm, that sounds much better than -” she starts, but he pulls back, catches her hands, kissing them.
“I know, Ourania, I know it - that’s what I want to do. But what I’m going to do is make up the fuckin’ spare bed and welcome mom. We both know this needs to happen, and…if she’s calling me, it’s serious.” Aphrodite sighs - duty isn’t high on her list of guiding virtues. She’ll do just about anything for these gods she loves - but most other beings, up to and including Hera, would have to make a good bargain with her to get her help, would have to offer her something she does want to make up for the tedium of engaging with their plans.
It’s better for the Universe as a whole that she’s not in charge - and Aphrodite knows it, too. She figured out long ago that making people want things wasn’t pleasant for her, in the end. Oh, she’ll encourage, fan the flames, move things around to grant or deny desires as seems best to her - but she’s done with making people want things. Has been for millennia. Besides, being in charge is such a lot of work, and while she loves it in Hephaestus, it’s not her strong suit.
“Do you need Ares and me to leave you to it?” She’s conflicted, and she hates feeling that way, even as she loves it. She doesn’t want to leave Hephaestus alone in this…but she also very much does want to get away from the politicking and logistics that are certain to follow. She longs to run off with Ares to the place where they brought Harmony, Fear, and Terror into the world, where she first showed him the depth and breadth and height of all she is, and spend a small eternity losing themselves in each other. But she also wants to keep a close watch on Her Majesty of Olympus, to make sure she treats Hephaestus with respect. And, because she’s more than capable of numerous conflicting desires, she wants to have some part in knocking Zeus off his pedestal. Preferably a flashy, glamorous part.
“No. Please, love - I want you both here,” he says, earnest as he always is.
“We both know that your mother doesn’t like me, love - and you know that doesn’t bother me. But we’ve never flaunted Ares to the others…well, you know,” Aphrodite smiles, the curling of her lips that has made poets describe her as ‘laughter-loving,’ “not like things really are.”.
Which has been its own sort of fun for the trio - performing jealousy and denial in public was a wonderful recipe for irritating Hera, and the more straightlaced of Zeus’s children. And all three of them enjoy power games, performances, and causing a bit of a scandal, in their different ways. But that’s all it is - theater as elaborate foreplay. The infamous Net has a place of honor in their shared bedchamber, and sees regular use.
“I want you both here,” he repeats, “I’m fucking sick and tired of hiding. Games are all well and good, but I’ve got spoiled by this, by…not having to think about all of it, the family dynamics and gossip and backbiting. I don’t want to hide anymore, and if Mother wants my help, she can damn well be civil to my beloveds.”
“Fucking right she can.” Ares’s voice is bright, sharp, like the clash of swords, and when Aphrodite looks up, he’s grinning like an entire battalion of spears. He crosses the room in two easy strides, pressing himself up against Hephaestus’s back, arms draped over his shoulders, hanging off him like some great serpent. Aphrodite steps back, taking it in as she licks her lips - Ares all ruddy, blood always right up at the surface, ready to fight or fuck, against Hephaestus, skin like soot and ash. Red-gold hair on messy black curls - and in that moment, her vast desires narrow to a small handful of things, all of which involve these two gods.
She slinks around them, pressing a kiss to each, then beckons for them to follow.
“But -” Hephaestus starts, “Mother’s coming, I’ve got to-”
“She can make up her own bed, if she wants one,” Aphrodite says, unfastening her night-dark robe from her shoulder, and reaching out, inviting them to her.
Ares leap-frogs right over their husband’s head, twisting in the air to land in front of him, kisses him with enough teeth that Hephaestus winces, and turns to bound after Aphrodite.
“Brat!” Hephaestus calls, wheeling himself after them as they scamper to the bedroom, laughing, “Just wait till you see what I’ve made to keep little shits like you in line, you gorgeous fucking asshole.”
What he’s made, it turns out, is a clever little cock ring, all bright malleable gold, shaped like the self-devouring serpent. And when Aphrodite’s fucking Ares, fucking his delicious ass as he strains against Hephaestus’s hold on his wrists, the little ring constricts around him every time he gets close, choking off his climax and leaving him hissing and spitting, torn between fury and delight. It’s mostly the same for him, after all.
She hums, shifting her hips, before she really starts to give it to Ares. He’s blood-hot around her, clenching around her cock like he’s got to pull her deeper. She bites her lip, flexes, and grows just enough to make him whine - and then he starts begging. What’s the good, after all, of being the Desire that moves the universe, if she’s going to be bound by such silly things as human expectations of form and shape?
Besides, it’s so good for her to hear him beg and be denied - Hephaestus holding him firm while Aphrodite plays at target practice with his godly prostate. He wants it so badly, so badly, that she knows that she’s going to come from his wanting, bursting inside him in a rush of seafoam.
“Aphroditus!” he yells, using one of her names like a curse, “Despoena.” Mistress, he calls her, when he’s really desperate. Aphrodite looks up at Hephaestus, checking in. If it were for her to say, only her, she’d keep him like this forever, or until he says the words that they’ve agreed will make her stop. She’d keep fucking him, riding on his desperation, sweeter and more nourishing than the Meander could ever hope to be, for her.
But Hephaestus - they both trust him to know the limits. To keep them both from going too far, from doing in the dark things they might regret in the light. He knows about shaping things, about heating and beating and twisting without breaking. And he shakes his head at her, winking - so she keeps on, without fear or hesitation. No mercy, only desire, his raw cries better than wine, better than honey.
“Please, please, fuck, please - OW -” Ares shrieks in pain - and then he comes. Clearly, undeniably - spasming around her, pulling Aphrodite back over the precipice of her own pleasure. But when her vision clears, there’s no puddle on his belly, no evidence of release, and his cock is purple-red as ever - red, and maybe even a little bit redder than before, bloody ichor pooling at the base.
“It fucking bit me!” Ares looks like he can’t decide whether to be offended or delighted - and, again, it’s mostly the same thing for him. Aphrodite pulls out, and Ares twists like a weasel, writhing around to kiss Hephaestus soundly. “Beautiful bastard.”
“Mmm. You like it, then?”
“Hang it next to the Net,” Ares says, before collapsing again, cock still hard.
By the time Hera arrives, Aphrodite and Ares are laying in a lazy, fucked-out pile, while Hephaestus pets their hair fondly, and sends his automatons for food and drink. She enters without knocking, and whatever she was going to say falls flat on her tongue as her face goes blank, mouth settling into a hard line. Aphrodite lifts a languid hand in greeting, while Ares flicks Hera a lazy salute. There’s no mistaking the situation, no getting away from the contentment on Hephaestus’s face, or the way his eyes meet hers with a challenge, not acquiescence.
“Fine. Fine!” The Queen of Olympus huffs, throwing up her hands and flinging herself into a chair. “We’ll need everyone we can get on this, anyway.”
She looks like the words taste bitter - but there’s no hesitation in her face. Aphrodite shifts, smile widening - if this whole thing involves Hera having grudging, furious respect for her…this might be more fun than she expected.
“Certainly,” she agrees, voice slow and thick as honey, not bothering to hide the remains of her pleasure, “Now, tell us, o Queen, how are we going to bring the lord of Olympus low?”