OOTD - Ares
Suit or armor?
Suit or armor?
Ares eyes the options laid out before him with barely concealed annoyance.
Option one: a sleek, tailored suit in his typical obsidian black. Subtle power. Threat…adjacent.
Lily would sigh and roll her eyes.
Option two: his classic armor, battered and blood-kissed, still humming faintly with old magic and righteous irritation. The last time he wore it, a minor sea god wet himself.
“Which sends the right message?” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I come in peace…or blood.”
The armor glints in response. Smug bastard.
He turns away.
He’s already sweating, fresh from the bath, steam still clinging to his skin. The suit will have to do. Less "war crime," more "white collar crime."
He pulls on the white shirt first. Clean & crisp. Mortals call this “professional.” He calls it suffocating. Button by button, he seals himself into the illusion.
Athena will be thrilled. So will Apollo, until he opens his mouth.
Do I bring the sword?
It’s a real question.
Because sure, it’s a diplomatic summit. But he knows that diplomacy on Olympus has a body count.
He eyes the gleaming blade resting on the table beside a worn leather holster. Technically, he’s not supposed to bring weapons into the Hall of Twelve.
But he's never been one for technicalities.
He sheaths the sword. If nothing else, it’ll piss Zeus off.
The slacks are next. Slim, dark, another mortal fabrication he never asked for. “You wear it well,” some PR nymph had cooed once, adjusting his collar before a press shoot. He wanted to bite her hand off.
He adds the jacket. Lets it drape just right. He catches his reflection and pauses.
“You look like a CEO who owns a private army,” he says to himself. “Which… is fair.”
His reflection looks sharp. Imposing. Exhausted. Still hated. Still here.
You’re not just a weapon, Lily had said.
And gods damn him, it stuck. Her words still echo when it’s too quiet.
He picks up a ring and slides it on. It’s spun iron with a vein of copper running through. A reminder: war wasn’t always polished. Sometimes it was raw, rusted, personal.
His eyes flick back to the armor.
“Next time,” he says dryly. “If anyone even mentions the trials, I’m coming back for you.”
He throws on the watch, an old mortal thing he likes. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Time. Movement. Mortality. The luxury of change.
Ares exhales.
What’s the goal today? Nod politely ? Pretend he didn’t catch Dionysus snorting ambrosia behind Hera’s throne last time? Keep a neutral expression when someone inevitably brings up “optics” and the fact that maybe war shouldn’t be on the front page?
Fine.
But he’s not apologizing for existing.
He walks to the door, stops, and grabs a dagger. Just a small one, just in case.
Never go to Olympus unarmed. That’s not brooding. That’s survival.
“Let’s get this over with,” he mutters.
He’s ready.
Or close enough.