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cordeliawhohung · 21 days

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Of Sea Foam and Iron [4]

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Hephaestus!ghost x Aphrodite!reader x Ares!soap

a love like fire

wc: 3.5k

You rise before the dawn’s glory has the chance to wash your home in gold.

Not even the doves are up to sing their songs as they bask in the faint glow of the sunrise curling above the horizon. Its pallid light seeps into the bedroom through the shutters over the window where it streaks on the walls in gentle beams. You are still trapped just like you are every morning; nestled between your two naked husbands as they gently snore through their dreams. Their warmth lulls you to sleep, whispers for you to close your eyes once more and rest. It takes significant convincing to coax your limbs into movement. To rip yourself from the heat that surrounds you in this elysian morning.

Like a hare, you burrow your way through swathes of blankets, taking care not to tread on the sleeping figures on either side of you. They wake. You know they do. Snores suddenly ceasing, bodies tensing, eyelids fluttering — but they do not speak. They let you slip away; their little dove, fluttering free from the nest.

Small beads of water clump onto the shutters of the kitchen window, dripping on the sill in tiny pools as you open them. Rain has continued to spit and drizzle over the land for a few days now, but the bulk of the storm has passed. Green foliage and fresh crops have thrived off of the nutrients, covering the oceanside with lush, singing plants. Even the courtyard hums a verdant tune with specks of yellow dandelions dancing in their midst.

But you did not wake up early to stand in the moist, chilly air, or to watch as the brume settles and sways above the earth. You are awake to make bread.

A warm blaze ignites in the stove with embers you steal from the dying hearth. Growing flames waltz before your eyes to a terrifying tune. Fire has always scared you. You watch their amber glow and recall the burning flesh of your fathers hands from a kitchen mishap when you were a child. Seared skin, bubbling with blisters, and quiet curses; it took him weeks to fully heal. To be able to hold your hand without tears pricking his eyes.

Your love for the ocean only grew after that incident. An insatiable urge to let the foamy waves wash over your body, cleansing you. You suppose fire can also clean — can sanitize you until there’s no filth left — but there is more love to be found in briny water than choking flames. Fire cleans by consuming indiscriminately. Water cleans by smothering the grime until you are bare and naked.

How odd, then, for you to be married to a man born and raised by fire.

Simon is the first of the two to rise after you. Half dressed, he carefully shuffles down the stairs, following the scent of warm bread cooling next to a bowl of freshly boiled dandelions. Unlike usual, you hear him approaching. His steps are hardly silent these days with his knees aching from the weather, but he grunts less as he enters the kitchen.

You turn to greet him, and an ambivalent pang twists in your stomach. Simon has been on your mind all morning — or, really, the last few days. Your conversation with John has haunted you in more ways than one, and it’s especially tortuous when you’re living with the ghost. That strange apparition who arrived in your life to whisk you to safety. Not even the simple act of breadmaking could void him from your thoughts. While kneading dough, all you could recall was the way your fingers moved along the scars on his knees in an attempt to quell the agony writhing underneath his skin.

A small act of love — too meaningless to acquit you of your other transgressions.

“Good morning,” you say, voice shorter than you intended.

Simon looks at you for a long moment, fingers curling and uncurling to break apart the stiffness in his joints. “Morning.”

Thick ignominy clogs your throat, and you avert your gaze from the towering stance of your husband for bread and wilted dandelions. You distract yourself as you dress the greens with a healthy drizzle of olive oil and coarse salt, but you are well aware of the heavy feet sliding along the floor behind you. The dull scrape leaves the hair on the back of your neck standing on end, and you regret leaving the windows open.

“What’s this?” He’s close. The closest he’s ever been to you outside of bed, chest nearly against your back as he glances over your shoulder. Heat radiates off of him like the forge he slaves over — as if the flesh of his heart has been torn out and replaced with a crucible. “Horta vrasta?”

Every instinct within you screams at you to look over your shoulder, but you don’t. “Yes. We don’t have any lemons, though. Oil and salt will have to suffice.”

A sonorous hum rattles his chest. “My mother used to cook this,” he recalls.

You wish he didn’t tell you that, because now you’re thinking of him as a child. Young, small; free from scars. Fair skin kissed by the sun — kissed by a loving mother — as she attempts to fix messy strands of flaxen hair on his forehead. You imagine him being embraced by his mother. You imagine his smile before it was ruined by marks and disfiguration; before it was washed away in blood and gore. A twitch in your fingers halts your movements as you go to mix the still warm dandelions in front of you:

Does he still dream of his mother? Does he pray to the gods that you would hold him the same way she used to? How ugly of you — you think to yourself — to be so wary of a man because of the scars on his skin as if his voice wasn’t the sweetest sound you had ever heard when he spoke of the woman who birthed him. As if those scars were given to him over something other than love.

Neither of you speak a word as he retrieves a knife and begins to slice the bread. Help that you didn’t ask for, yet help that you don’t refrain from receiving. His hands are almost as large as the loaf, and though it could easily crumble in his hands, he handles it with nothing but care as the crust breaks beneath the blade.

He’ll keep his distance, if you let him.

You swallow. “Did… you enjoy this meal as a child?” you question.

“No,” he admits. Blunt, but not rude. “But it reminds me of her, so I enjoy it anyway.”

Just as Simon finishes — several slices sitting in pristine stripes in front of him — you hear a yawn from the stairwell. You turn to the source of the noise and find John, chiton hardly covering his chest as he lumbers into the kitchen. He yawns again, hand covering his open mouth, before eyes dripping with delassation land on you and Simon. A smile attempts to flitter across your lips, but it looks just as awkward as it feels.

“You should have woken me up. I would have helped,” he says. It’s unclear as to who it’s directed to, you or Simon, but you have a feeling it’s both of you.

Simon doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder as he replies: “You needed the sleep.”

John scoffs, something light and playful, as he approaches the table with a wave of his hand. Wood squeaks as he drags his chair back, and sits down with a thump. “Making me obsolete over here.”

“I’m makin’ you heal,” Simon retorts.

Breakfast is quiet, save for the savory crunch of fresh bread crust between your teeth. Everyone is too busy nourishing their bodies to stop and talk, but there is a tight atmosphere that hangs heavy in the air around your head. This discomfiture plagues you relentlessly, painfully reminding you just how sheltered you have been throughout your life. Boarded up. A bird locked in a cage. Rather than preparing you for the real world, you’re left writhing about, pecking at the hands that try to feed you, and lazily preening yourself for comfort.

Despite Simon’s apparent dislike — or contempt — for the dish, he’s the first to finish. Plate nearly licked clean, you’re certain the man has never complained about anything in his entire life. He’s never complained about you, anyway, even when he should have. He licks his fingers clean of oil and salt before pushing away from the table.

“I should head to the market. We’re low on food,” he says.

“Simon, love, you’re still struggling to walk,” John reminds him. “Let me go.”

“I can walk plenty fine.”

It’s a lie; an obvious one. He always limps, but it’s been exaggerated ever since that storm rolled in, and you’re reminded as much as you watch him stand to discard his plate. Warm stones and your brittle hands can only do so much to heal the ache that permeates even the toughest parts of him.

“You have work to catch up on. Been too rainy to keep the forge running,” John urges. He’s nearly begging as he stands from his seat and chases after his lover. “Let me go. Worry about work. I’ll take care of this.”

Either Simon is a man who refuses to accept help, or he holds a love so strong that he can’t imagine shouldering any sort of burden onto the ones he cares for; either way, when he finally accepts John’s offer, he does so begrudgingly. Mutters something about how he shouldn’t be out long before pressing a kiss to his cheek. When he decides that wasn’t good enough, he drags John closer by his chiton before truly embracing him.

I would have liked to have married him.

Nothing settles properly in your stomach. Not the oil or bread, nor the delicious greens — the only thing that settles is the guilt. Its roots twist far and deep in your body, strangling every artery and organ until it’s got a hold of your bones. You have ruined something beautiful; become a disgusting stain on what could have been a poignant love story, and you don’t have even the slightest idea on how to mend the damage.

“Would you like to come with me, little dove?”

The plate in front of you scoots back along the deep, etching grains of the table, and you follow the hand moving it until John is in your view. Your brain processes his question, eyes blinking as you try to come back down to earth.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say in a half-hearted attempt at dismissing his notion.

His smile is faint and exhausted as it crosses his lips, but his movements are just as strong and tempered as the stories would have you believe. Wooden boards creak underneath his weight as he gets on one knee, hands slowly reaching for yours. John relishes the touch of your skin, thumb rubbing along the metacarpals in your hand like he’s never felt anything so soft before.

“It would do you some good to get out of the house,” he insists before pausing. What was a faint smile quickly morphs into a hardly contained grin as he leans closer. You attempt to quell your thunderous heart, yet it does not listen to you. “I’ll take you to visit the ocean.”

Zeal glimmers in the dark pupils of your eyes, and John can no longer contain the curl of his lips or the flash of his teeth. He’s lured you in; hook, line, and sinker — but you don’t care. You have not tasted the brine of home in so long, you almost fear you’ve forgotten it, and you willingly fall into him as he pulls you up from your seat like a fish dangling on thread.

Despite the cool breeze, the market is packed. Freshly slaughtered animals hang up for display on wickedly curved hooks piercing through their meat. They’re so fresh that you swear you can nearly feel the life still buzzing through them; hear the quiet bleat of a lamb crying for comfort. Boisterous laughter ignites as deals are struck among traders, and you find your eyes wandering to wooden tubs full to the brim with mouthwatering produce — you can’t recall the last time you were allowed at the market. Some time ago when you were still a child, surely. Before your father locked you away to keep men from spilling blood over petty vanity.

John rarely lets go of your hand as he splits patrons apart like a knife through flesh. No one dares to brush past you. They eye the dog leashed to your hand, look at his scars and bloodthirsty smile, and they refrain from even glancing at you, lest they tempt the beast into attacking. For a moment, you’re able to be blissfully unaware of it all. Of the bodies swarming behind you as you squeeze freshly harvested tomatoes. Every voice that speaks is muted as you enjoy the artisan goods and handcrafted jewelry — the freshly pressed cheese, the expertly woven textiles, beautiful dyes.

For the first time in years, you’re able to wander the world with child-like wonder rather than dread and trepidation, and you’re not sure what to thank for that. Have you grown undesirable? A wild woman locked up too long? Feral, untamed eyes that only know how to yearn for the world rather than seize it? Or is it because of John, the man who holds so much care for you that you are the only thing in the world that can bend his otherwise immutable stance? Is this the life your father dreamed for you? To not only be respected, but feared?

Once the bag is heavier with food than it is coin, John fulfills his promise to you, and you find sun kissed sand between your toes in no time. Days grow warmer and longer as summer reaches its peak, and your lungs revel in the brackish air, still thick with petrichor. The ocean’s song hums low and strong, a gentle push and pull that leaves your senses tingling. You feel it calling. That insatiable allure that would have you drown in the salt and mist if it called for you to do so.

You stare out at the waves as the wind teases your chiton. That same wind drags billowing clouds along the horizon where the sky meets the sea, drawing away the summer storm that’s been plaguing the city for days. Something swells in your chest. You pray that Poseidon shows mercy with his storms. Simon has been aching for too long.

“Look at this.”

John begs for your attention softly with the brush of his knuckles against the back of your arm. His mellow touch still makes you jump — flinch as if you have been burnt — and you glance to your side as he comes into view. Sand coated fingers brush against a dainty, bone white disk, cleaning it of debris. A delicate fossil reveals itself underneath the grime; perfect bones preserved in sediment to create a completely whole sand dollar. You find your own fingers reaching out on instinct to brush against the fragile shell. It’s rare for you to find one unbroken. Something not shattered into pieces that litter the coastline.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.

“Keep it. It’s yours, now,” he insists.

Warm hands embrace yours as John uncurls your fingers and presses the sand dollar into your palm. You let it rest gentle and quiet, as if a mere onerous thought would force the sediment to crack. You smile down at the object — or, perhaps you smile at John’s enthusiasm. Wild dogs are often known for biting. For reveling in the flesh they sink their teeth into, and chuckling while they savor the blood. But this dog — Ares’s Dog — loves to play just as much as he does fight. Fetching trinkets and bones like childsplay. Returning it to the people he adores most with an ivory grin.

John MacTavish is very altruistic for a dog, and it worries you. It worries you, because you don’t know what to do with this unfamiliar feeling that twists in your stomach.

“You are… very kind,” you note with a stiff tone.

“Does it surprise you that I am?” he asks, sliced eyebrow quirking.

“I think so,” you admit. Restive fingers carefully curl around the object in your hand. You stare at it as your heart thuds against your sternum, as if attempting to break free from your chest. “All other men before you and Simon love so violently. Enough that they would strike my father, or lunge like snakes poised to bite. Kindness has always been false for me. Something that precedes the terrifying reveal of what people truly want from me. I think… I am afraid to love, or be loved. I’m afraid it will hurt.”

John is silent for a moment. The swell of crashing waves waxes and wanes just like the moon it dances to. Seagulls scream their shrill song for the ocean to dance to. They clash to make their own symphony. It is a tradition you were born and raised on. You could sway to it with your eyes gouged and ears ruptured.

“I’ve been thinking about this for some time now,” you continue. Your toes wiggle in the sand in an attempt to comfort yourself, but you can feel the way the brine burns your eyes. “My fear. I lash out like a child. A wild animal. I do not know how you and Simon put up with such an unruly wife. Anyone else would have…”

Swallowing, you cut yourself off, refusing to finish your thought.

“If it is violent, then it isn’t love,” John concludes, smothering any worries lingering in the cords of your heart. His fingers brush over yours, soft and comforting, and this time, you do not flinch. “Love is not gentle. It rages like fire and consumes more than you’d like it to. But it does not hurt. It never hurts. I promise. And don’t worry about Simon and I. Neither of us are unfamiliar with the strangeness of the heart, or how fear manifests into anger. It’s a fragile balance, little dove.”

With trembling lips, you look at John. For a man with sinewy muscles and scars deep enough to shred them, he looks at you with a softness that nearly makes you crumble. The very foundation of your being weakens and cries out. You could collapse to the ground, and you’re terrified there would be nothing to break your fall.

“You’re quite the poet for a soldier,” you say in an attempt at humor.

He grins. “You find much to think and write about while traveling the lands. Much to love. Including you.”

You understand what John meant when he said love is like fire. Unforgiving flames lick at the heels of your feet, and your heart flutters in preparation to flee. It’s foreign. Uncomfortable. All your life, you have known nothing but the cold, treacherous waters of the ocean — it’s all you’ve ever been — and you fear it may be too late to warm you now.

John does not wait for a response. Does not demand gratitude or reciprocation. Instead, he turns his head where the wind pulls at the dark locks of his hair. His skin glows beneath the sunlight as if Apollo has kissed him a hundred times over, and he smiles at the warmth.

“We’ve been gone too long. Can hear Simon’s mumbling already,” he teases while he adjusts the strap of his bag. “Are you ready to go home?”

Home. He says it like it’s the place where you’ve always belonged. Like your very essence stains the wood and stone that house is built of. It feels wrong for him to give you ownership of something you used to rage so fiercely against. You are undeserving of it. Of any softness they bestow. Yet, you crave it. John says that word — home — and you want to wrap yourself in his timbre. You would have liked to have met him and Simon sooner. It would have been enjoyable making bread for them every morning.

“Yes,” you answer meekly.

This time, you are the one to take his hand. John glances at you like a dog with its ears perked up, and for a moment his expression is unreadable. Shock. Startled. Then, he melts. Fingers interlacing with yours, his quiet mirth washes over you as he tugs you forward, nearly bounding off to follow fading footprints back home. Hand clutching John’s gift to your chest, you smile. It aches and burns in your cheeks as the unused muscles protest, and still it persists.

If what John says is true — that love eats like a raging fire — you will gladly be consumed until you’re used up and nothing but ash. After all, it would be fitting to be destroyed by the only thing you have ever craved.

#ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #soap x ghost x reader #f!reader #of sea foam and iron

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