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𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑹𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒔

The scent of ichor and ash clung to Ares as he materialized in the gardens of Olympus, his form still crackling with residual energy from the battlefield below. Mortal blood—not his own—stained the edges of his gauntlets, and his eyes burned with that particular fire that came only after a truly glorious slaughter. He could still hear the screams. Still feel the way his blade had sung through armor and bone. Beautiful. Perfect. *Exactly* as war should be. But there was somewhere else he needed to be now. Someone else.

His feet carried him through the marble corridors without conscious thought, past gilded halls where other gods gathered and gossiped. He ignored them all. There was only one destination that mattered when he was like this—wound tight as a drawn bowstring, violence still singing in his veins.

He found her where he always did.

Aphrodite reclined in her chambers, surrounded by silks in shades of rose and gold. The light seemed to love her, clinging to the curves of her form, catching in her hair. She was examining something delicate in her hands—a pearl, perhaps, or some mortal trinket—but her eyes lifted the moment he entered. Those eyes. They saw everything. A smile curved her lips, knowing and amused. "Well, well. Someone's had an eventful afternoon."

Ares stood in the doorway, chest still heaving slightly, fists clenched at his sides. The fury of battle hadn't left him yet. It never did, not this quickly. He was all sharp edges and barely contained violence, and he knew it. "The Thracians were particularly spirited today," he said, his voice rough, edged with satisfaction. "They fought beautifully. Died beautifully."

"Mmm." Aphrodite set aside whatever she'd been holding and rose with fluid grace, each movement deliberate. She crossed the space between them slowly, and Ares felt his breath catch despite himself. "And now you've come here, tracking blood and fury into my sanctuary. How romantic."

There was no judgment in her tone. If anything, she sounded... entertained. "You're the only one who doesn't flinch," he found himself saying, the words pulled from somewhere deeper than he usually allowed.

Her smile softened, just slightly. "Darling, I've seen you at your worst and your best. Did you think a little bloodlust would frighten me?" She reached up, fingers ghosting along his jaw, and he felt some of that coiled tension begin to ease. "You forget—I know what passion looks like in all its forms." Ares leaned into her touch without meaning to, his eyes closing briefly. When they opened again, some of that wild edge had dimmed. "The others think me monstrous."

"The others are boring." Aphrodite's thumb traced his lower lip, and her voice dropped to something almost conspiratorial. "Besides, I happen to like my monsters." Despite everything—the blood, the fury, the violence still humming under his skin—Ares felt his mouth twitch into something that might have been a smile. "Come," she said, taking his hand and tugging him further into the room. "Sit with me. Tell me about your glorious battle, and I'll remind you that there's more to existence than just carnage."

"I like carnage," he muttered, but he followed her anyway, let her guide him down onto the cushioned seats. "I know you do, my fierce love." She settled beside him, close enough that he could feel her warmth. "But even the god of war needs to rest sometimes."

Her fingers found his hair, combing through it gently, and Ares felt the last of that battle-fury begin to drain away. This—*this*—was the only kind of defeat he'd ever willingly accept. "Tell me," Aphrodite murmured, her voice honey-sweet. "Did you at least enjoy yourself?" Ares huffed a laugh, leaning into her touch. "Every blood-soaked moment."

"Good," she said simply, and pressed a kiss to his temple. "That's my Ares."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, her fingers still working through his hair in soothing motions. Ares could feel his breathing evening out, the tension in his shoulders gradually releasing. It was strange, how easily she could do this—unravel him with nothing but gentle touches and that knowing smile. "You know," Aphrodite said thoughtfully, "the others were talking about you at the gathering earlier." Ares snorted. "Let me guess. More complaints about excessive violence? Athena lecturing about strategy over brute force?"

"Oh, the usual tedium." She waved a dismissive hand. "Athena was being particularly insufferable about 'disciplined warfare' versus 'mindless slaughter.' I may have suggested that perhaps she was simply jealous that mortals pray to you with far more *passion*." Despite himself, Ares grinned—a real one this time, not the violent baring of teeth from the battlefield. "You didn't."

"I absolutely did." Aphrodite's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Her face was priceless. All that wisdom, and she still can't figure out a proper comeback when it comes to matters of the heart." She traced patterns on his shoulder absently. "They don't understand you. Any of them."

"And you do?" The question came out softer than he intended. Aphrodite tilted her head, considering him with those impossibly perceptive eyes. "I understand that what they call monstrosity, I call honesty. You don't hide what you are, Ares. You don't dress up violence in pretty strategies or noble causes. You simply... *are*. Raw and real and utterly yourself." Something in his chest tightened. "Most would call that brutish."

"Most are cowards." She shifted closer, until she was practically in his lap, one hand cupping his face. "I've spent eternity watching gods and mortals alike hide behind masks, pretending to be something they're not. You?" Her thumb brushed across his cheekbone. "You've never pretended. Not once. Do you have any idea how rare that is? How... refreshing?" Ares found himself leaning into her touch, his hands coming up to rest on her waist almost instinctively. "You make me sound noble. I'm not. I just like the carnage."

"I know." Her smile was fond, indulgent. "And I like that you like it. I like that you come to me afterwards, all fire and fury, and let me gentle you. I like that I'm the only one who gets to see this." She gestured at him, at the way he'd melted under her attention. "You're the only one I want to see it," he admitted roughly. Aphrodite's expression softened into something almost tender. "Oh, my love. You really do have a way of saying the sweetest things in the most aggressive tone possible."

"I'm the god of war, not poetry."

"And yet." She leaned in, her lips hovering just barely away from his. "You're here with me, letting me run my fingers through your hair like some gentle suitor, instead of raging across battlefields. That speaks louder than any poem."

Ares closed the distance between them, kissing her with far more gentleness than anyone who'd seen him hours ago would have believed him capable of. When they parted, his forehead rested against hers. "The battle was glorious," he murmured. "But this... this is better." Aphrodite laughed, the sound like bells. "Careful, darling. Say things like that too often and I might start to think you're going soft."

"Only for you," he said, and meant it with every fiber of his being. "I know," she whispered back, her smile radiant. "That's what makes it perfect." They stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the world beyond Aphrodite's chambers fading into irrelevance. Ares felt the last remnants of battle-lust drain away, replaced by something warmer, steadier. Something he'd never admit to anyone else existed within him.

Eventually, Aphrodite pulled back slightly, her eyes scanning his face. "You're still wearing half the battlefield, you know. Blood on your gauntlets, ash in your hair..." Her nose wrinkled delicately, though her smile remained. "And you smell like smoke and iron."

"I thought you liked me authentic," Ares drawled. "Oh, I do. Doesn't mean I can't prefer you without quite so much evidence of slaughter." She stood gracefully, tugging him up with her. "Come. Let me take care of you properly." Ares raised an eyebrow. "I don't need—"

"I know you don't *need* it," she interrupted, already guiding him toward the adjacent bathing chamber. "But you're going to let me anyway, because I want to, and because you—" she poked his chest playfully, "—are terrible at taking care of yourself when you're wound up like this."

He wanted to argue. He was a god, he didn't need coddling, didn't need someone fussing over him like he was some mortal warrior returned from campaign. But the way she looked at him, expectant and amused and somehow *caring* in a way that didn't feel like pity or obligation… "Fine," he relented, and was rewarded with a brilliant smile. The bathing chamber was exactly what one would expect of Aphrodite—marble and gold, with water that shimmered like it held starlight. She made quick work of his armor with practiced ease, setting each piece aside carefully despite the blood and grime.

"I've done this before," she said conversationally as she worked on the clasps of his cuirass. "Do you remember? That battle in Thrace, three centuries ago. You came to me looking like you'd bathed in carnage."

"That was a good day," Ares mused. "For you, perhaps. I had to scrub blood out of my favorite cushions." But there was no real complaint in her voice, just fond exasperation. "There. Much better." Without the armor, Ares felt oddly exposed, but Aphrodite didn't seem to notice or care. She simply led him to the bath, and he sank into the warm water with a sigh he hadn't known he'd been holding. Aphrodite settled on the edge, her fingers trailing through the water before finding his hair again. She worked through the tangles gently, patient in a way that shouldn't have suited the goddess of passion but somehow did. "Why do you do this?" Ares asked quietly, watching her through half-lidded eyes.

"Do what, darling?"

"This. All of this." He gestured vaguely. "You could have anyone. Gods, mortals, heroes. You could have someone refined, someone who doesn't come to you covered in blood and reeking of death." Aphrodite's hands paused for just a moment before continuing their ministrations. "Do you want me to have someone else?"

"No," he said immediately, more forcefully than he intended. The thought alone made something violent stir in his chest. "Then stop asking foolish questions." Her voice was gentle but firm. "I don't want refined. I don't want someone who hides their nature behind pretty words and prettier lies. I want..." She leaned down, her breath warm against his ear. "I want the god who understands that passion and violence are two sides of the same coin. I want someone who feels everything as intensely as I do, even if they express it differently." Ares turned to look at her properly, water droplets clinging to his skin. "You make it sound simple."

"It is simple." Aphrodite cupped water in her hands and let it cascade over his shoulders, washing away the last traces of ash. "Everyone else complicates things with shame and propriety and expectations. But you and I? We know what we are. We know what we want. And we're not afraid of it."

"I want you," he said, the words falling out unguarded. Her smile was radiant, triumphant, and somehow impossibly soft all at once. "I know. And I want you, my fierce, terrible, beautiful god of war." She leaned in and kissed him again, slow and deep. When she pulled back, her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Even when you track blood through my chambers."

"I'll try to be more considerate next time," Ares said dryly. "No you won't."

"No," he agreed, a smile tugging at his lips. "I won't."

"Good," Aphrodite said, and went back to washing his hair with the contentment of someone who had everything exactly as they wanted it. "I wouldn't have you any other way."

Later, when the water had cooled and Ares was clean of battle's remnants, they found themselves back among the cushions and silks of her main chamber. The sun was setting over Olympus, painting everything in shades of amber and rose gold—colors that seemed made for Aphrodite, that clung to her skin like they were paying homage. Ares lay stretched out, his head in her lap, feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks. Months, maybe. Aphrodite's fingers traced idle patterns on his chest, her touch feather-light and soothing. "Tell me about the young prince," she said suddenly. Ares didn't need to ask which one. "Zagreus?"

"Mmm. He's been using your boons quite effectively, I hear. Though I like to think mine help just as much." There was a playful competitiveness in her tone. "The boy has potential," Ares admitted. "Raw, unfocused fury. He fights like he has something to prove."

"He does have something to prove. To his father, to himself, to everyone who doubted him." Aphrodite's voice held a note of sympathy. "I find him rather charming, actually. So determined, so passionate about his goals."

"You find everyone charming."

"Not true. I find you charming, and you're arguably one of the least charming gods on Olympus by conventional standards." She tugged gently on a strand of his hair in mock punishment. Ares caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Fair point."

"He asked about us once, you know," Aphrodite continued, her voice taking on that amused lilt it always did when she was about to share gossip. "Zagreus. He seemed surprised that we were... together. As if the god of war and the goddess of love couldn't possibly understand each other."

"Most think that."

"Most are fools." She looked down at him, her expression thoughtful. "But I told him that love and war aren't so different. Both require passion, strategy, sacrifice. Both can be beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Both consume you entirely if you let them." Ares considered that, turning it over in his mind. "I never thought of it that way."

"That's because you experience it, darling. You don't need to analyze it." Her fingers resumed their gentle exploration, tracing the lines of old scars that even gods couldn't fully erase—marks of honor, of battles won and lost. "But it's true. When I look at you, I see myself reflected back. Different expression, same intensity."

"Poetic," he murmured. "I have my moments." She bent down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Do you know what else I told him?"

"What?"

"That you're surprisingly thoughtful when you want to be. That beneath all that rage and bloodlust, there's someone who understands devotion in its purest form." Her smile was soft, private—meant only for him. "He didn't believe me, of course. But then, no one ever does until they see it for themselves." Ares felt something warm unfurl in his chest, something dangerously close to what mortals might call happiness. "I'm not thoughtful."

"You brought me spoils from that temple in Corinth. The one dedicated to me."

"That was just—"

"You remembered that I mentioned liking their artisan's work three years ago in passing. One comment, Ares. One comment years ago, and you remembered." She raised an eyebrow, challenging him to argue.

He couldn't. He had remembered, had thought of her the moment he'd seen the temple, had taken perhaps more satisfaction than necessary in claiming its treasures in her name. "You notice everything about me," Aphrodite continued, her voice dropping to something more intimate. "The way I prefer rose oil over jasmine. How I like the cushions arranged. That I get restless when there are too many days without some drama or excitement to observe." Her hand cupped his cheek. "You pay attention, my love. That's devotion. That's care."

"I just..." Ares struggled for words, for once in his existence finding himself at a loss. "You matter. The details matter because they're part of you."

"See?" Aphrodite's smile was radiant, triumphant. "Thoughtful." He made a noncommittal sound, but didn't argue further. Outside, the sky deepened to purple, stars beginning to emerge like scattered diamonds. The sounds of Olympus—distant music, laughter, the eternal hum of divine power—filtered through the walls, but here in this space, it felt like they were the only two beings in existence.

"Do you ever tire of it?" Ares asked after a long moment of comfortable silence. "The games, the politics, the endless cycle of mortal worship and divine drama?" Aphrodite hummed thoughtfully. "Sometimes. But then something interesting happens—a new love story, a delicious scandal, a god of war showing up at my door covered in blood and looking at me like I'm the only thing that makes sense in the cosmos." She grinned. "That tends to revive my interest."

"I don't look at you like that."

"You absolutely do. It's one of my favorite things about you." She traced the line of his jaw with one finger. "You look at me like I'm a conquest, a mystery, and a refuge all at once. Like you can't quite believe I'm real, even after all this time."

"That's because sometimes I can't," he admitted quietly. "Can't believe you're here. With me. That you choose this—choose *me*—when you could have anything."

Aphrodite's expression softened into something achingly tender. "Oh, Ares. My fierce, impossible love." She shifted, moving so she could look directly into his eyes. "I don't choose you despite who you are. I choose you because of it. Because you're honest and intense and unapologetically yourself. Because when you love something, you love it with the same totality that you bring to war. Because you make me feel understood in ways no one else ever has."

"Even Hephaestus?" The question came out before he could stop it, bitter and sharp-edged. Her expression didn't change, didn't show hurt or anger at the mention of her husband. "Hephaestus is brilliant and talented and deserves respect. But he doesn't understand me. He loves the idea of me—beautiful, perfect, his divine wife. But you?" She leaned in close, her breath warm against his lips. "You love the reality of me. The goddess who gets bored easily, who craves drama and passion and intensity. Who isn't always kind or good or gentle. You love me as I actually am."

Ares reached up, threading his fingers through her hair and pulling her down into a kiss that held everything he couldn't quite put into words. When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers. "Always," he said simply. "I will always choose you. Always want you. Always—"

"I know," she whispered, her hands framing his face. "I know, my love. And I will always be here, waiting for you to come back from your battles. Ready to gentle your fury and remind you that there's more to existence than blood and war."

"You are more," he said. "You're everything." Aphrodite's smile was brilliant, luminous, filled with a joy so pure it almost hurt to witness. "And you say you're not poetic."

They fell into another kiss, this one slower, sweeter—a promise and a homecoming all at once. Outside, Olympus carried on with its eternal drama and divine machinations. But here, in this moment, there was only them. Only the god of war and the goddess of love, finding peace in each other's arms. When they finally settled back into comfortable silence, Ares sprawled across the cushions with Aphrodite tucked against his side, her head on his chest. His arm wrapped around her instinctively, holding her close like she was the most precious treasure from the most glorious conquest. "Stay tonight," she murmured, already half-drowsy.

"I always stay."

"I know. But I like hearing you agree to it anyway." She pressed a kiss over his heart. "It makes it feel like a choice rather than an inevitability."

"It's both," Ares said, surprising himself with the honesty. "It's inevitable because I can't imagine being anywhere else. But I choose it too. Choose you. Every time." Aphrodite made a contented sound, snuggling closer. "My fierce love. My terrible, beautiful god of war."

"My goddess," he replied softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "My Aphrodite." As sleep began to claim them both—even gods needed rest sometimes—Ares found himself thinking that perhaps this was its own kind of victory. Not won through violence or bloodshed, but through vulnerability and honesty and the simple act of being present with someone who truly understood you.

The battle had been glorious. The carnage had been exquisite. But this—lying here with her, feeling utterly at peace for the first time in recent memory—this was transcendent. And as Aphrodite's breathing evened out into sleep, as her fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his clothing, Ares allowed himself a small smile. Let the other gods think him monstrous. Let them whisper and judge and fail to understand.

He had this. He had her. And that was worth more than all the victories in all the wars ever fought. "I love you," he whispered into the gathering darkness, so quietly that even she might not hear it. But Aphrodite, ever perceptive, ever aware, squeezed his hand gently in response. She'd heard. She always heard.

She stirred slightly, lifting her head to look at him through sleepy eyes. "Say it again," she murmured. Ares felt his chest tighten—not with the familiar tension of battle-readiness, but with something entirely different. Something vulnerable and terrifying and wonderful all at once. "I love you."

Her smile was soft, drowsy, and utterly content. "I love you too, you know. My fierce, impossible warrior." She traced a finger along his collarbone absently. "Even when you're being difficult. Even when you're covered in blood and ash. Even when you're so wound up with battle-fury that you can barely speak in complete sentences."

"Especially then?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Especially then," she confirmed. "Because that's when you need me most. When you come here looking for something you won't name, but I know what it is. Peace. Understanding. Acceptance." She pressed another kiss over his heart. "Home."

The word settled over him like a blanket, warm and weighty. Home. He'd never thought of anywhere as home—Olympus was simply where he resided between wars, a place to rest before the next battle. But this... her chambers, her presence, the way she looked at him like he was more than just violence incarnate… "Yes," he said softly. "Home." Aphrodite's eyes sparkled with unshed tears—happy ones, he realized with a start. "You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that."

"I'm not good with words."

"You're better than you think." She settled back against him, her warmth seeping into his skin. "Actions speak loudly too, my love. And every time you come to me first, before anyone else, before even celebrating your victories properly—that speaks volumes."

"Where else would I go?" It was a genuine question. He couldn't fathom going anywhere else after battle, couldn't imagine seeking out anyone else when his blood ran hot and his mind raced with the glory of combat. "Exactly." Her voice held a note of deep satisfaction. "Where else indeed."

They lapsed into silence again, but it was different now—heavier with meaning, thick with unspoken promises. Ares found his fingers trailing along her spine in gentle patterns, marveling at how something so simple could feel so profound. "Do you remember," Aphrodite said eventually, her voice dreamy with approaching sleep, "the first time you came to me like this? Not for passion or politics, but just... seeking comfort?" Ares thought back, sifting through centuries of memories. "The siege of Troy," he said finally. "When Athena's champion wounded me."

"Mmm. You were so angry. Furious at her, at Diomedes, at Father for allowing it." Her fingers found his, lacing them together. "You stormed into my chambers ready to rage at someone, anyone. And I just... let you. Listened. Didn't try to fix it or minimize it or tell you to be reasonable."

"You understood." The memory was clearer now—his wounded pride, his genuine pain, and Aphrodite simply being there. Not judging, not lecturing, just present. "You've always understood."

"Because I know what it's like to be dismissed. To have people see only one aspect of you and assume that's all there is." She lifted their joined hands, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "They see the god of war and think that's all you are. Bloodlust and violence and nothing more. But I see the rest of it. The honor you have for worthy opponents. The way you appreciate beauty in combat. The fierce loyalty you give to those who earn it."

"You make me sound noble again."

"You are noble. In your own way." She grinned against his skin. "A terrifying, blood-soaked, absolutely unhinged kind of noble. But noble nonetheless." Despite himself, Ares laughed—a real laugh, warm and genuine. "Only you could make that sound like a compliment."

"It is a compliment. I don't do false flattery, my love. I tell the truth, just wrapped in prettier words." She yawned delicately, snuggling even closer. "Besides, someone has to appreciate you properly. Might as well be me."

"Might as well," he echoed, his own eyes growing heavy. Outside, the stars wheeled slowly across the heavens. Somewhere in the mortal realm, wars raged on—they always did. Soldiers cried out for his favor, for his blessing, for his presence on the battlefield. There would be more battles tomorrow, more bloodshed, more glorious violence to revel in.

But tonight, there was only this. Only Aphrodite's steady breathing, her warmth against his side, her fingers still loosely entwined with his. Only the profound peace of being completely, utterly understood by someone who loved him not despite his nature but because of it. "Thank you," Ares murmured, barely aware he was speaking aloud.

"For what?" Aphrodite's voice was muzzy with sleep. "For this. For being here. For..." He struggled for the words. "For seeing me." Her response was to press impossibly closer, her lips brushing against his chest in a ghost of a kiss. "Always, my love. Always."

And as sleep finally claimed them both, wrapped in each other's arms and surrounded by silk and starlight, Ares understood something he'd never quite grasped before. Victory wasn't just about conquest and carnage. Sometimes, the greatest victory was simply finding someone who made you want to lay down your weapons—not out of defeat, but out of trust. Someone who could look at a god of war and see not a monster, but a person. Someone worth coming home to.

His last conscious thought before drifting off was that if this—her love, her presence, her understanding—was the spoils of war, then every battle he'd ever fought had been worth it. Aphrodite, already deep in dreams, smiled against his chest as if she could hear his thoughts. And perhaps she could. After all, when you understood someone so completely, so intimately, words became almost unnecessary.

They had found something rare among the gods—something that transcended divine politics and mortal worship and the endless games of Olympus. They had found each other, and in doing so, had found a kind of peace that neither had known they were searching for.

The god of war and the goddess of love, seemingly opposite but fundamentally the same—two sides of passion's coin, forever intertwined. And in the quiet darkness of her chambers, with the weight of eternity stretching out before them, that was more than enough.

It was everything.

#aphrodite #ares #aphroares #aphrodite x ares #fanfic #greek mythology

thebyrchentwigges

Can you tell us about your headcanons for and view of the Octoboss?

The Octoboss is a J.G. Ballard character who’s wandered into a George Miller film. The Octoboss and Immortan Joe may be the two Miller villains most psychologically damaged by the nuclear war involved in civilization's collapse.

Behind the cut: Writer J.G. Ballard’s overlap with Mad Max, the Octoboss’s surprising failure to launch for a character interested in flight, and discussions of nuclear war, torture, trauma, Mary Jabassa, and even more J.G. Ballard.