Michael slammed the car door shut and leaned back against it to look up at the star-filled sky. He had no idea what had drawn him here, to this muddy stretch of field outside of Athens, alone on a moonless night. He was not the star-gazing type.
He had stood in that same field earlier today, and watched what was supposed to be a straightforward hostage exchange turn into a bloodbath. By the time it was over, three Section operatives and eight Red Cell terrorists were dead, two more operatives were critically wounded, and Michael himself had a bullet hole in his left bicep and a jagged cut on his left cheek where one of the terrorists had gotten lucky with a knife throw. Michael had slit the man's throat with that same knife, blood from the severed artery spraying on his face and hands. Afterwards, still dazed from the fight, he had raised one hand to his lips a licked the coppery-sweet drops from his knuckles. He hadn't even realized what he was doing until he saw Nikita looking at him funny.
It was over now. The Turkish diplomat they were supposed to be rescuing was safely back at the embassy. The peace talks were back on. Operations had declared the mission a success. The rest of the team was on its way home now, but Michael was ordered to stay behind, to monitor signs of continuing Red Cell activity in the region.
So what was he doing here, now?
He shoved his hands in his pockets, picked a direction at random, and walked away from the car. He knew he was looking for something, but he didn't know what. There was a nagging restlessness inside him, pulling at him, fraying the edges of his self-control, setting his teeth on edge. Something was waiting for him in this field. Something had called him here. Something he needed to face.
He was in full mission mode now, all senses on full alert, monitoring his surroundings for hidden threats. He had excellent night vision, and an ingrained knack for sensing movement even when he couldn't see it. There was no way anyone could possibly sneak up on him here, on flat, open ground, with not a hiding place in sight. Which made it doubly shocking when an arm wrapped around his throat, pulling him backwards against a bulky body.
Adrenaline surged through Michael's veins like liquid lightning. Responses honed by years of Section training kicked in without conscious thought. He threw his weight into the pull instead of against it, trying to use existing momentum to throw his attacker off-balance. At the same time, he smashed his head back into the other man's face, and stomped his boot heel down on an instep.
The only reaction he got was an annoyed grunt, followed by a soft chuckle.
"Nice reflexes," a low, deep voice growled in his ear. The pressure on Michael's windpipe increased. He could still breathe, but only if he held perfectly still A large hand slipped inside his jacket, removed the gun from his shoulder holster and carelessly tossed it aside. Michael had a momentary hope that the search would stop there, but the hand returned almost immediately. It pressed flat against his chest, fingers splayed, and slowly trailed downwards. Even through the soft cotton of his shirt, Michael could tell that the palm was broad and callused, and unnaturally warm. It left a tingling heat signature as it moved down his chest, across his stomach, around to his back... It found and discarded the knife strapped in its sheath between his shoulder blades, the backup gun tucked into his waistband, the straight razor in his inner jacket pocket... then thrust between his legs to grope roughly in a place where he couldn't possibly have had a weapon hidden.
Michael's body reacted with another jolt of adrenaline, accompanied by a dizzying rush of blood to his groin. He jerked forward, away from that invading hand, and nearly fell over when the arm at his throat suddenly let go. He regained his footing quickly, and spun around into a defensive stance, facing his attacker for the first time.
The first impression he got was of great height and bulk, but a closer look revealed that the man was actually no taller than Michael, though he was considerably broader in the shoulders. He simply gave off an aura of overwhelming strength, a palpable wave of power that made him seem much larger than he was. Michael, who had never believed in auras before that moment, took an unsteady step back.
The man laughed, teeth flashing disconcertingly white in the starlight. He had black hair down to his shoulders and a closely trimmed black beard. Like Michael, he was also dressed entirely in black, but where Michael's jeans, blazer and shirt blended into the darkness, this man's leather vest and trousers stood out from she shadows in sharp relief. Here and there, bits of metal glinted silver as he moved -- an earring, a pendant, an ornate belt buckle, a sword hilt...
A sword hilt?
"Who are you?" Michael's voice emerged from his bruised throat as a harsh croak. He knew he should be either attacking or running, but couldn't decide which course of action would be less suicidal. Stalling seemed like a reasonable third alternative.
Of course it would be a little easier if his cock wasn't getting more blood than his brain...
"Who am I?" The stranger took a step forward. "You should know. You're the one who invoked me."
The dark, purring tone of that voice was so distracting, it took a moment for the actual words to penetrate. When they did, Michael could only blink.
Dark, glittering eyes met Michael's gaze and held it trapped. "You fought a battle here today. Not one of your sterile modern wars, where men kill from a distance, never meeting the enemy's eyes, but a true battle. I felt it. The hate, the fear, the excitement, the rage... And in the midst of it all -- you. A soul like a sword blade, honed to a killing edge. You called to me, when you tasted the blood of the man you killed. "
He had continued moving forward as he spoke, and now he was standing so close Michael could feel the heat radiating from his skin. He smelled of sweat and musk, smoke and blood. Michael's head was spinning. His cock strained painfully against the seam of his jeans. He took a shuddering breath, fighting for control.
"I don't know what you're talking about. Called you? I don't even know who you are."
"Don't you? I am Ares, God of War. And if you don't know me, Michael, then you don't know yourself."
"You're crazy," Michael whispered, but the words lacked conviction. The man's -- god's -- Ares' presence was a black shimmer in the air, a crackling electric tension that quickened Michael's breath and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He wanted to bury his fingers in that thick black hair and crush his mouth against the god's full lips. To run his tongue over that smooth, gleaming skin. To fall to his knees and worship--
"Stop it!" Michael rocked back on his heels, both hands pressed against his temples. This was crazy, he couldn't afford to let go like this, he had to focus, had to maintain control--
"Why?" Ares' voice was a velvet-soft whisper now. Ares' breath was warm against his ear. "The battle's over, Michael. Relax. Let go. Taste the rewards of victory." He gripped the lapels of Michael's jacket and tugged.
He didn't seem to put that much effort into the pull, yet Michael found himself stumbling to his knees. Ares gripped his hair with one hand and drew him forward. Before he could resist -- before he could even decide if he wanted to resist -- Michael found his face pressed hard against the god's crotch. The feel of tightly stretched leather against his cheek, the thick smell of sex, the harsh sound of Ares' breathing -- the diverse sensations combined into a single red-hot flare of arousal that seared away the last shreds of Michael's resistance. With a low moan, he turned his head and ran his tongue along the god's bulging erection, tasting sweat and leather.
Ares shuddered. A growl rumbled deep in his throat. He pushed his hips forward, and suddenly the leather was gone and Michael was licking smooth, hot skin.
He wasn't even startled -- he was beyond surprise by then, beyond any emotion except desire. He gripped Ares' hips with both hands for support and lowered his head, laving Ares' balls with his tongue, licking the rigid shaft from base to tip, sucking the swollen head for a few moments before bending down to start it all over again.
Ares' breathing grew louder, more ragged. He tightened his grip on Michael's hair and rocked his hips, slowly at first, then faster. Michael slid his hands around to cup the smooth curves of the god's ass, feeling the muscles tense and relax, tense an relax with every thrust.
Then Ares jerked his head back and stepped away. The sudden loss of contact threw Michael off-balance and he tumbled forward, just barely managing to catch himself before his face hit the ground. A moment later, Ares' hand clamped down on his neck, holding him immobile. The tight press of cloth against his cock abruptly disappeared, to be replaced by cool air caressing his overheated flesh. Michael looked down to find that his jeans and underwear were gone. He hoped vaguely that he would get them back when this was all over, but didn't worry about it much. He had bigger things to worry about, like the one that was about to force its way into his totally unprepared ass.
Apparently there were some advantages to being a god, beyond great looks and instant disrobing, because it didn't hurt nearly as much as it should've. There was a single moment of convulsive pain at the initial penetration, but it receded with every passing moment as new, much pleasanter responses drowned it out. Then Ares reached around to pump Michael's cock in time with his thrusts, and suddenly pain was not even a memory. Michael moaned through clenched teeth and dug his fingers into the dirt as the growing tightness in his balls sent the first pulse of blood along his cock. He was briefly aware of Ares' voice crying out wordlessly above him, of Ares' cock throbbing inside him, and then the full force of his own climax washed over him, and he was aware of nothing else.
He wasn't sure how long the oblivion lasted. When sight and sound returned, he was lying stretched out on the ground, fully dressed, alone. His folded jacket was cushioning his head, and his weapons were all gathered into a little pile a few feet away. Only the lingering pain in his ass and the still-tender bruises on his throat remained as proof that the whole thing had not been a particularly vivid wet dream. With a muffled sound half-way between a groan and a curse, Michael rose to his feet, gathered up his assorted belongings, and limped back toward the car.