Blood & Steam

The baths of his estate were carved from dark marble, veined like old scars. Mortals would have called them decadent, but Ares knew they were nothing more than practical: a god of war needed water deep enough to cover him, heat strong enough to seep into bone.

Tonight, the steam was thick as smoke, curling against the columns and clinging to the ceiling. The water stank faintly of iron even though no blade had touched it. It always did.

Ares stripped without ceremony and lowered himself in. The first shock of heat prickled over his skin, chasing the tightness from his muscles. He exhaled slowly, watching ripples spread across the surface.

For a moment, he tried to let the bath do its work. His body loosened, breath steadied, blood cooled. But the scent lingered. It didn't matter which oils he poured in, there was always iron, copper, memory, and more recently, shame. They did not leave him just because he scrubbed at his skin.

He lifted his arm from the water. Droplets ran down scarred muscle, tracing pale lines and raised ridges. He flexed his hand into a fist. The steam did not hide what he was.

He closed his eyes thought of her anyway.

It infuriated him how easily she intruded. The lavender, citrus, and parchment of her magic had threaded into his senses so deeply it rose unbidden now. He imagined her scent cutting through the steam, imagined her presence leaning over the bath. He cursed under his breath, low and raw.

This is wrong. She is not yours.

But his body did not listen to reason. His chest tightened, heat pooling low inside him. He pressed a hand against the marble edge, veins taut with restraint. He hated it.  Hated how she could undo him without even being here.

His hand drifted lower, traitorous, curling around his hard length in the water. He should have resisted, should have mastered it, but the thought of her had already undone him. His thumb smeared the slick bead at the crown, and the heat that pooled low inside him flared hotter, sharper. He closed his eyes, he could see her in front of him. The word mineflared in his mind, savage and unyielding. The need for her bloomed deep inside his chest.

She would kneel for me, wouldn’t she? Brave enough to meet my scars, bold enough to wrap her soft fingers where mine are now…

He stroked slowly at first, deliberately, the water lapping in rhythm with his hand. His grip tightened, rough and demanding, pumping the full length of him with steady strokes, his fist twisting at the crown to smear the slickness over the flushed head. Veins rose in his forearm, shoulders straining, breath shuddering out of him. The steam thickened, tasting of iron and lavender both, as if the bath itself carried her into him. Each breath dragged her name closer to the edge of his lips. The smell of her magic now mingled with the musk of arousal and soaked his thoughts until the bath itself seemed filled with it.

He imagined her perched on the marble lip of the bath, dress hitched above her knees, eyes wide but unflinching. He saw her leaning down, hair spilling forward, fingertips grazing his jaw before trailing lower. His hand squeezed harder, pumping faster, matching the image of hers stroking him with devotion. His breath hitched, sharp as a blade’s edge. 

You’d touch me, wouldn’t you? Even knowing what I am. Even knowing the blood will never wash away.

His strokes quickened. Water slapped against the marble, echoing the sound of his own pulse. He pictured her mouth then, her pink lips parting, hesitant only for a moment before she would take him in, eyes glistening as she gagged softly around his cock, yet never pulled away. He groaned, the sound swallowed by steam. His hips lifted from the water as though chasing the phantom of her mouth. Say it, he heard her whisper in his mind, say how much you need me, how you’ll never be rid of me, say how you are mine. The phantom of her voice tangled with his own ragged breaths, dark and consuming.

He imagined her lips sliding down over his cock, the wet heat of her throat taking him deeper with every stroke of his fist. His pace grew brutal, water splashing with each thrust of his hips. You’d choke on me, wouldn’t you? he thought savagely, and still beg for more.

The fantasy deepened, his mouth descending first, worshiping her, licking her open until she sobbed with pleasure, fingers twisting in his hair. He would give her everything - his strength, his loyalty, his very life, and he would die for her, kill for her, without hesitation. He saw her, every part of her, and he belonged to her. Only then, her thighs spread beneath him, cunt slick and welcoming, would he thrust inside, cock plunging into her with merciless force. He could almost feel her body clench around him, hear the sharp cry torn from her throat as he filled her to the hilt. Their magics collided, sparking, fusing until he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. Mine, he thought with every violent stroke of his fist, even as the darker truth coiled beneath. He was hers, utterly, forever, devoted in worship and bound by need.

His hand worked faster, rougher, squeezing the thick length as though it were her cunt wrapped tight around him. Say my name, she pleaded in his mind, let me feel you break for me. His breath turned to growls, to curses, to her name gasped like a prayer. Release crashed over him in violent waves, hot seed spilling into the bath, lost instantly in the swirl of steam and water. He shuddered, head falling back, throat raw with the sound of her name.

His throat ached with the need of it. He ducked under the water fully, the heat closing over his head. Sound vanished. Only the thrum of his heartbeat remained, pounding like a war drum in his ears. He held himself there until his lungs burned, until pain forced out thought.

When he broke the surface again, he dragged air in hard, chest heaving. Steam curled into his mouth, hot and wet, unsatisfying. Nothing had changed.

The scent of iron was still there. So was hers.

He pressed his palms flat against his face, fingers digging into his temples. 

You’re a fool. The god of war completely undone by longing for someone who could never be yours.

Mine, he had thought in the frenzy. But in the silence after, he knew the sharper truth: he was hers, only hers, and he would never escape that bond. He would have laughed if the truth hadn’t tasted so bitter. He wanted to claim her as mine, to chain her to his side like gods before him had done. But each beat of his heart whispered the deeper law: he was the one chained, bound to her completely. Possessor and possessed, conqueror and conquered, torn between the hunger to own her and the devotion that made him kneel. 

Across the water, the polished marble walls reflected him in fractured shards. A dozen versions of himself blurred by steam: soldier, monster, god, man. He did not know which one Lily had seen when she looked at him. He did not know which one she wanted to see. Probably none of them.

The bath should have soothed him. Instead, it left him restless.

Ares rose in one motion, water streaming off his body in rivulets. The air hit his skin, cold against the lingering heat. Drops ran down his shoulders, down the curve of muscle, pattering against stone like rain as he left for his room without even glancing at the towels.  

The steam still clung to him as he strode from the chamber. He did not look back at the water. He knew what he would see: a reflection he could not endure.

And beneath it all, the echo of her scent lingered, stronger than the iron.