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sprout-fics · 2 months

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Oh Muse, Tell me of the Things Done by Golden Aphrodite

(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F! Reader)

Rating: Explicit Wordcount: 5.6k Warnings: None Tags: Greek Mythology AU, Greek God inspired, Human sacrifice reader, God of death and wrath Ghost, Size difference, Size kink, Praise Kink, (Marriage kink if you squint?), PiV sex, Aftercare, Eros and Psyche inspired, Cliffhanger A/N: Part two dependent on reception

They call your fate a tragedy.

It’s a necessary one, the temple priest says, as you weep at the steps leading up to the grand mausoleum- inlaid with gold and obsidian. You wrap your arms around yourself as they tell you of your duty, inform you of your sacrifice. The statue of the god of wrath and death looms tall and menacing behind him, his bone white mask a single flash of pale amidst the dark, swirling robes that cover his limbs. You shiver as you look upon it, flesh cold as you imagine your final moments pleading at his feet.

A sacrifice, they say.

One to appease the god as death ravages your city, an holy offering innocent, beautiful and pure to quell his anger and rage. Eyes rest upon your trembling shoulders in a mixture of hope and pity, and you know even if you cry out none shall aid you. Your destiny is to die at the hands of a god so that they may live, and if it means your life is called for, they shall offer it for you.

You do not scream or struggle as they take you into the temple, you do not speak as they wash you and smooth aromatic oils into your shivering skin. You do not even look at them when they clothe you in a dark chiton and allow a veil to flutter over your despairing, tear-rimmed eyes.

When they close the altar doors behind you, you dare not throw yourself against them in one last bid for freedom.

The altar is dark, black marble columns stretching high above you and vanishing into a ceiling that the candlelight doesn’t reach. Lanterns litter the steps leading up to the sacrificial altar, with opulent offerings of jewels, weapons, and polished bones stacked high. Shadows dance between them, casting long and sinister against the temple walls. Your bare feet skim the cold stone floor as you ascend, tracing your hand against the frigid, dark mirror surface of the altar. You were not told what to do, only to wait.

So you wait, and you wait longer, sitting upon the edge of the altar, trembling and holding in your cries until they break apart inside your throat. The chamber is silent as the grave, with not a breeze or whisper of warm air to comfort your frigid flesh. Eventually only the sound of your hiccuping sobs fills the emptiness, as you weep for your fate, for the tragedy that has befallen you, for how they shall remember your name in poems, until at last you fall asleep splayed upon the dark altar and awaiting your demise.

As you dream fitfully of the ever after, the candles waver and snuff out with a cold gust of wind. Dark eyes regard your pliant form prone atop the piles of offerings.

and quietly, arms reach forward and cradle you to him as you are taken away.

---

When you awake, it is in somewhere new.

You come to far more gently than you anticipated, soft dreams still clinging velvet to your slumber. It takes a moment for you to realize that you’re no longer curled tightly atop the hard surface of the altar, but rest instead upon silk sheets and soft, plush bedding. The veil still drapes across your face, and as you delicately lift it, your surroundings are revealed to you.

It’s a large chamber, far larger than the temple, but sparsely furnished. You lay upon a bed fit for a man larger than any you’ve ever laid eyes upon, adorned with dark sheets and embroidered with gold thread. Torches flicker with a strange black light against the walls- silver dancing along the outer edge of flames. The blazing hearth does the same amidst a mantle of dark stone, stretching upwards into a ceiling you’ll never reach. A mirror and a basin stands in the corner, and beside them curtains blow in from the balcony, where dawn glows yellow against the horizon.

You’re alone.

You’re careful as you creep from bed towards the balcony, the wind ruffling your gown as you stand at the precipice. Below, a stark mountain valley yawns dark and fathomless without end.

The door groans as it opens.

You flinch away from the sound, spinning and feeling terror pool low and vile in your stomach at the sight that awaits you.

It’s him.

Taller than any man, a being of pure power, the god Ghost stands at the doorway clad in billowing dark fabric, his dark eyes boring into your shivering form from behind the stark white of his skull mask. The sheer size of him is enough to send goosebumps racing down your spine, his immortal stature ensuring you scarcely come up to his chest. The strength of his limbs is curled in tight muscle discernible even with his cloak, and when you meet his eyes you think of the space between stars- a void into which no light escapes.

He takes only three strides to cross the chamber.

You cower backwards until your spine hits the railing of the balcony, and as you glance over your shoulder the valley wind roars from the depths. You wonder if it is a more fitting end to hurl yourself from here than face whatever slow death the God of Wrath has ordained for you.

He stops just at the threshold, regarding you as you look up at him with tearful, terrified eyes. At this nearness you can sense the pure energy that rolls off of him in waves, a strangeness that speaks of something far from human, an unfathomable power that your mortal soul will never fully understand.

“Don’t.” Is the first word he ever says to you, looking past you to the valley. He reaches out his hand, not an inch of his flesh visible beneath his gauntlet of white bone. “Come.”

You stay where you are, heartbeat fluttering as you eye his outstretched palm.

“If I was going to kill you, I would have done it when you were asleep.” He intones, voice deep like distant, rolling thunder. There’s a strangeness to it you cannot place, the tone of it ringing between your ears in a distant echo, otherworldly.

“Don’t hurt me, please.” Are the first words you return to him, desperate as a thing wheezes from your lungs.

Ghost stares at you unblinkingly, and despite the black ichor that paints his gaze, his eyes look almost kind.

“Come away from the balcony.” He tells you, his voice softer.

You cast another glance down at the dark valley, swallowing hard, before at last reaching your hand forward and settling it in his cold palm. He draws you inside, out of the wind, and you find yourself hovering near the hearth with its strange, dancing flames.

“Your name.” He tells you, watching as you hesitantly warm yourself, carefully looking at him out of the corner of your eye.

When you tell him, he repeats it. Slow, purposeful, as if tasting a foreign fruit for the first time. It shivers through you, as if he somehow has wound magic through the sound alone.

“You will stay here.” He tells you under no uncertain terms. “In my palace. No harm shall come to you here.”

You blink at that, face falling open with confusion as you turn to him fully.

“Why...?”

Ghost regards you coolly, but when you focus on his eyes you can swear they crinkle with a wry smile.

“I have no reason to hurt my bride.” He explains simply.

“Your...” You echo, blinking. “I...”

“You were given to me.” He tells you, advancing upon you until he’s mere inches away, one arm braced on the hearth so he bends over your smaller, mortal form. “As a sacrifice. I saved you. Your life is mine by rights.”

Fear pulses bright through you, limbs awash with dread as the blood drains from your face. You had expected death, but the daunting reality of this, of being given to a god as a bride...

Ghost must see the terror in your eyes, for he removes himself from you, striding towards the heavy, ancient door.

“I will not touch you unless you ask.” He states, voice lower. “You are free to roam this palace as you like. There is food in the banquet hall.”

He pauses, observing you as you hesitate near the hearth.

“I will return at dusk.”

and with that, your new husband vanishes.

----

True to his word, no one stops you from roaming the palace.

It’s a massive structure, with towering black columns and high ceilings. Obsidian, marble, and gold accentuates every corner, and you find treasures and trophies displayed at every turn. You are entirely alone as you wander, bare feet skimming against the cold tile as you take in your new home. Each room reveals a new wonder. A bath with glimmering water that billows steam from golden fountains, a garden with dark roses that creep along stone walls, a library with scrolls in tongues you don’t understand, and a banquet hall filled with food that doesn’t seem to rot.

You eat until your stomach is full, and with every bite the food tastes more delicious than the bite before. You scrub yourself in the bath, and when you exit you find fresh garments awaiting you, embroidered with glimmering thread. The finery is beyond anything you dared imagine, and quietly you feel your reservations departing you as the thought of possibly escaping ebbs slowly from your mind.

Dusk finds you back at his chambers, watching the shadows grow long against the walls as slumber slowly descends upon you.

You’re on the brink of sleep when the bed dips, and a bare hand curls gently against your cheek. In your half-dreams, you nuzzle into the touch with a languid sigh, feeling the air fan across his palm. Ghost is silent as he lays beside you, observing your restful face with half-lidded eyes. His mask lays on the table beside him, disposed along with his cloak and armor.

You see nothing when you’re roused by the sensation of him tucking you against him, the world engulfed in darkness. Hypnos whispers across your senses as your eyelids flutter, trying to discern the shape of him as he presses in close behind you. Ghost tucks his legs under yours, his massive frame curling around you and his nose burrowing into the junction of your throat and jaw, where he draws in a heavy breath.

“Sleep, mortal.” He whispers there, one massive arm wrapping across your front.

True to his order, and engulfed in the warm sensation of his body pressed against yours, you find the gossamer veil of sleep draw over you once more.

He’s gone again come morning.

You awake alone, and find yourself missing the presence of him.

The banquet hall is refreshed with food of all kinds- delicacies from far lands you’ve never traveled to. You spend an exorbitant amount of time in the baths, dozing gently as steam billows around you. In the library you find a collection of war poems that you devour with eager eyes until the sun begins to slope towards the horizon, and oddly you do not find yourself entirely bored despite being alone in the massive pantheon to which he has left you.

Yet as darkness descends, you find yourself awake in his bed, waiting for him.

When he at last appears, as the moment where all light has drawn away from the horizon, the dark candles snuff out in a cold billow of wind. Plunged into darkness, the only sensation available to you is a hand caressing your cheek.

“Little bride.” He rumbles as the bed dips before you. “Were you so eager to see me you chose to forego sleep?”

Hesitantly, you raise a hand to press his own against your face, feeling the immense size of it dwarf your own.

“Yes.” You tell him in a scarce whisper, as if you’re revealing a tender secret. Your heartbeat thrums loud in your ears, fluttering inside the cage of your ribs as he draws closer. You try to remember the words you had meant to say- a thank you for saving you? Awe at the splendid riches allowed to you? A quiet plea to leave, one which you don’t truly mean?

You reach forward in the darkness, finding the shape of him broad and strong against your palm. There’s smooth skin of scars that litter his immortal flesh, across the wide breadth of his chest, down to his waist, traced across his arm and shoulders and the massive span of his back. He’s bare to you, and you can’t suppress a shiver at the mere thought that you are laying with a God.

“You’re frightened.” He notes at the shake in your hands, attempting to draw away from you.

“No.” You tell him, a hand gripping tighter to his to prevent his retreat. Words clog your throat, lips parted with breath as you feel his coal-dark eyes bore into you in the inkinesss of his chambers.

“Touch me.” You whisper instead.

When he bends to you, he swallows the sigh that pours past your lips.

Ghost defiles you in the way warriors do- pure strength tempered by careful restraint. You splay under him bare, his hands smoothing over your flesh like admiring a masterful weapon. He memorizes the curves and softness of you, humming notes low and deep into your skin as he drinks in your scent like ambrosia. He spends his time admiring the outline of you in the darkness, fingers dipping between your legs and spreading you over large, calloused fingers until you mewl and grip at the fine silk sheets.

“Sweet little thing.” He rumbles, pleased, as you offer him high, keening moans, head tossed back against the pillows. Wetness dribbles down your thighs, coats his hand just as he licks greedy and hot into your open mouth that chants his name. His towering frame bends over you, hauls you to his waiting hands with hardly any effort. Your hands scrape against his shortly shorn hair as he lays claiming bites across your throat and collarbone and Ghost moans against your skin like the pain and pleasure are twin beings.

“Ghost.” You chant in a hymn as his worshipers do when his clever tongue drinks down your arousal at your entrance, and the answering growl that he responds with sends pleasure fissuring down your spine like the earth split open. His hands hold you still as you buck and writhe with your climax, broken sounds filling the empty chamber so loud you think your shout can be heard at the far reaches of the palace.

He shushes you when at last he sheathes himself inside you, the girth of him splitting you wide enough you whimper into his chest. Yet he holds you to him, noses into your hair and whispers low, soothing words as your legs quiver.

“Good.” He purrs as you go pliant against him with a keening sigh, arms looped around his neck and nails digging into the flesh of his spine. “Perfect little bride. They were right to offer you to me.”

You think the nectar of the gods must taste like the glide of his tongue when he kisses you.

Ghost plays the symphony of your flesh like poets play the harp. His massive frame hunches over yours, the sheets tangled around you and his fingers entwined with your own. Each roll of his hips has you choking on a plea, has him huffing hot breaths and growling filthy praises in your ear.

“Made for me. Just me.” He groans, voice grinding deep in his chest as he ruts into you. Slow, measured, infuriatingly not enough. The drag of him inside you threatens to pull you under into madness as you mewl and squirm, desperately chasing the touch of him. “Made to take me, made to be in my bed, in my palace.”

It’s possessive, almost wild with the force of his claiming you. You go to him willingly, tears watering your eyes as you choke on a sob of pleasure. Yet it’s not enough, as he draws your pleasure higher, higher, burning you alive like the inferno of the heavenly sun but refusing to push you over the precipice. You plead his name, dig your fingers into the dip of his spine, ask for divine mercy that he keeps just beyond your mortal reach.

“Say my name.” He tells you, the sound of your coupling echoing out into the chamber- wet and debauched along with your desperate gasps.

“Ghost.” You sob, clinging helplessly to him, laying kisses upon his bare face in the darkness as an offering to the altar of him. “Ghost.”

In return, Ghost bestows upon you your own name, snarling it wild and feral against your lips as you at last fall apart beneath him. You choke on a cry of his name as something great and tender snaps abruptly inside you, races outwards along your limbs with such sudden ferocity you wonder for a moment if you’re been burned alive. Yet the pleasure itself drowns you like the deep and bottomless ocean- a surrender where you try to claw your way to the surface and instead allow the depths to take you.

Ghost growls as he buries himself fully inside the wet clutch of your heat, emptying inside your heaving form with a long, low groan. You feel the spend on him leak from your joining, collapsing against him as you try to remember how to breathe. Ghost adjusts so you lay sprawled atop his broad chest, rising slow and purposefully beneath you as you tuck your head under his chin. A war-worn hand strokes lazy paths against your skin, and you hear him hum with a deep satisfaction at your consummation. You feel claimed in the best of ways, not as one of his beloved war trophies but as his.

When you finally grow restful against his chest, you prop your chin up and try to find the shape of him in the darkness. He’s absent of his mask, you know, and curiously you try to discern his features in absolute blindness. You wonder if he’s as handsome as you dare to dream.

“Why can I not see you?” You ask in a whisper, and Ghost’s hand stills where it traces along the ridge of your spine. He’s tense, and it startles you when he speaks with his voice pitched low, authoritative in a way he’s never spoken to you before.

“As long as you remain here, you will never see my face.” He tells you, his chest vibrating under your palms. “I will care for you, protect you, and you will be mine, but you never see me. Understood?”

You don’t, really, understand. Confusion wrinkles your brow at the enigmatic declaration, but Ghost eases under you as you nod anyways, and the comfort of his gentle touch resumes, and assuages you of your worries until you fall asleep.

In the morning he lingers in your marital chambers, the pale light of dawn glinting off the armor he has donned before you awoke. He sits at the edge of the bed, a bone white gauntlet stroking with surprising gentleness across your brow. You catch it with your palm, kiss across his ivory knuckles as he huffs a warm breath of affection.

“I will return.” He tells you softly, and steps towards the balcony, only to vanish in a billow of smoke.

You lounge in bed in his absence, feeling the pleasurable soreness of your lovemaking imbue itself in your muscles and limbs. Even after a full rest you find yourself exhausted, and it isn’t long before you curl back into the sheets until the chariot of the sun reaches its zenith. Even then, you wince to yourself as you creep from bed, roused by your empty stomach and the mess between your thighs. You don’t make it farther than the basin at the edge of the room before your legs threaten to fail you, and you resign yourself to a few sips of water and washing what you can before collapsing back into bed.

You’re still there when he returns, and Ghost pauses when he hears your empty stomach, hums with dissatisfaction when you tell him of your troubles. With no effort at all, he lifts you into his arms and walks in the way gods do- only several long strides before you find yourself at the baths. Candles cast shadows against the walls, dancing hypnotically as Ghost deposits you at the edge of the water, pausing to disrobe himself of all but his mask before once more lifting you and walking into the baths with you in his arms.

The moan that bubbles up your throat at the heat that ensconses your weary limbs prompts a laugh from the God above you, who releases you only enough to reach for oils at the tiled edge. Ghost is careful, deliberate as he washes you, and despite your protests he insists, as if the act itself is another means of proving his devotion. Yet he can’t resist grazing a rough thumb over your nipples until you squeak, dipping his fingers between your thighs in slow, lazy circles until your legs tighten around his wrist.

Ghost takes you like that, holding you flush to him as his fingers work deftly inside of you, plucking at something bright and powerful until your voice fills the chamber with gasping, wanton pleas. You grip at him as you gush over his palm with your climax, a whimpering sound caught in your chest as he lauds affections into your slick skin.

When you are at last clean and sated, Ghost wraps you in his own cloak before you find yourself in the banquet hall with grapes being lifted to your lips. You know the tale of the goddess taken to the netherworld and having eaten the fruit there, know it meant forever tying herself to a place of death. Yet as your lips close around his fingers as the morsels are fed to you, you can think of no other realm in which you’d rather be.

and silently, you wish you could see the face of the man who has taken you as his bride.

The days are spent as such. You become accustomed to the palace, teaching yourself its interior so you can navigate it blind. You spend hours in the baths, dozing with your head cradled by your arms on the tiled edge. You devour the poems in the library and write your own thoughts on parchment beside them which you find in boundless supply. In the afternoons before Ghost returns you walk on long strolls through his gardens which seem ever changing, blooming with iridescent blossoms and fragrant lilies bright like starlight. You find a harp which seems to offer no sour note despite your lack of familiarity, and wind beautiful music through the obsidian and onyx halls of his home. You find yourself wanting for nothing- not food or shelter or finery of any nature. In return, you offer your love to the God who has claimed you, and to you he returns the same.

Ghost returns to you at sunset, and most nights find your form tangled with his as he takes you whimpering and breathless against the sheets. He seems to know your body like a swordsman knows his blade, invents new ways to pluck at your desire until the only thing you can offer him is reedy, desperate sounds of his name, reminding him you are his. Afterwards he tends to you, and even then you kiss the other shell of his mask as steam billows around you in the baths as your bare bodies embrace.

You find yourself increasingly nocturnal if only to spend the long hours of darkness in his company, talking and touching in the absence of any illumination. You ask him of the poems in his library, of the trophies that adorn his palace, of the emptiness between these walls and how he bore the loneliness that came before you. You ask him of the offerings given to him by his worshippers, of immortality and all things of a god-like nature.

You never ask him to show his face.

Instead you map it with delicate touches in the darkness, trying to instill in yourself an image of his likeness behind the mask. His jaw is strong, and along it you think you feel the smooth skin of another scar that snakes up towards his ear. His hair is short, and you wonder if it is the same dark color as his ember stare. His lips are soft as they press to your skin, as if he himself is the acolyte to your divinity.

As the weeks turn into seasons, and the high winds of autumn reach the mountaintop, he tells you of how he became a God.

Gods are not born. They are chosen, he says. Those of great valor, of devotion and strength are lifted into the pantheon and blessed with immortality, with divinity beyond that of human comprehension. Outliving those who once knew them as human, their legends are inscribed in the songs and poems, spoken of in many tongues until their following becomes great and loyal.

When you ask him with quiet reverence how he became immortal, Ghost’s form goes rigid with something you think can only be fury.

“I was betrayed.” He tells you, voice filled with murderous intent.

He tells you how he was once a soldier- a warrior that some claimed was already a demi-god. Yet he was mortal when his commander betrayed him, abandoned him on a hill of battle upon which Ghost was buried beneath a pile of rotting corpses, slowly suffocating under the weight of dead men. He had clawed himself free with savage intent, feeling rage become the only emotion known to him. It had taken days for him to free himself of the putrid flesh and decay that surrounded him, and it was only once he stood upon the pile of death that he breathed in his first gasp of immortality. The wrath became him, and he became wrath, or so the legends are said.

When you ask him how long ago this was, Ghost does not answer you.

You try not to think of what will happen when he witnesses your final, mortal breath.

and you try not to wish to see his face before you die.

“Are you hideous?” You ask him teasingly, drawing circles on his bare chest as his fingers idly soak themselves in the spend between your legs.

“Far from it.” He replies dryly, and you place a giggling smile upon his grinning lips.

You try not to dwell on it. There is so much you have to be grateful for, after all. A warm bed, a blazing hearth, clothes, a home, food, endless entertainment, and most importantly a husband who swears his devotion to you every sunset.

Yet in the daylight you find yourself missing him, and in the hollow place of his absence you try not to let temptation take root in the emptiness.

It’s on a cold morning when you find a snake in the garden.

You’re bent over a swath of coal-dark dahlias when you hear it slither behind you. When you turn, you’re greeted with mahogany dark eyes and shimmering green scales. Yet even as you flinch away the serpent doesn’t deign to chase you, regarding you curiously as it speaks in sibilant, seductive words.

“I see the God of Wrath has found himself a muse.” A feminine voice purrs, amused. “Which mortal realm did he steal you away from?”

“I wasn’t stolen.” You retort, shying away as the snake curls closer around your bare feet. “I was an offering.”

Sinister, the snake laughs at you. “And has he refused to let you leave? Are you too afraid to try? He may kill you, hermosa.”

“He wouldn’t.” You manage, tucking yourself up on a pedestal where your dress drapes over the edge. “He loves me.”

“Oh?” The snake asks, curling around the base of the stone, where the light reflects upon its shimmering body. “Are you sure, little muse?”

“Of course.” You reply quickly, even though a shadow casts longer upon your heart with every word spoken by the serpent.

The snake hums thoughtfully, winding itself around the stone slowly, until at last it raises its smooth head to the level of your gaze.

“Then why hasn’t he shown you his face?”

You falter at that, hugging your knees defensively and brow furrowing with dismay. The serpent plucks at the secret doubt inside you that you quietly tuck away at every sunset, that you feel thrum under your fingers as you trace the planes of his face in darkness. You try to conceal it, hardly ever speak of it, but you can’t help but wonder why Ghost refuses to show himself to you.

“Maybe he’s a monster.” The snake goes on. “Grotesque and rotten. The only way he can have your love is if you never see him.”

That can’t be true. Your husband is beautiful and strong, and you know even if he was hideous you would still love him for his fierce protectiveness and tender care. Even if his visage was obscured by scars of battle past, you would still love him.

“He doesn’t trust you, little muse.” The snake hisses quietly, and it sounds strangely pitying, a sadness which you feel plays upon the harp strings of your ribs. “Can you truly be wed to a man who does not believe in you?”

“Ghost loves me.” You repeat in a whisper, mostly to yourself.

“If that were true, he would love you even if you saw his face.” The snake offers, tongue flickering in your ear.

Something dark and viscous simmers in your stomach like tar, and you further hunch in on yourself, uncertain.

“Away with you.” You say at last, refusing to look at the serpent, who laughs wickedly as she winds herself into the bed of dahlias, and vanishes.

That night, when Ghost lays with you, the whisper of his affections feels sour against your skin.

You lay awake even as he sleeps behind you, his massive form curled around you and bracketing you in his warmth. The darkness looms long inside your thoughts, where the words of the serpent echo into the void where light fails to illuminate the face of your husband.

He loves me, he loves me, he loves me.

Yet you know of Ghost’s warning, his oath that you will no longer be his if you see his face. To risk the love he has given you for such a temptation seems sacreligious, a sin for which there is no return.

He doesn’t trust you, the snake whispers.

In the morning, you feign sleep while you hear him depart to realms unknown.

He’ll return after dark. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

You do not find the snake in the garden.

He doesn’t trust you.

“You’re mine.” He huffs, dark and deep against your lips in your bed that night, and you shield your cry of desperation behind a moan. You give everything to him, your entire being, lay it bare before him as the offering you are, knowing he will keep you safe and love you with fierce devotion the way warriors love their oaths.

He loves you.

He leaves at dawn.

but he doesn’t trust you.

The wick burns against your fingertips as you light it.

You approach the bed with silent steps, your bare feet skimming across the stone as they did in the temple at the altar as you’d sacrificed yourself to him.

He loves you.

He’d taken you, spared you, made you his bride. He gave you his palace and all the treasures within, and with it came his love.

You see the broad, scarred plane of his back as you draw closer.

He hides behind a mask, refuses to let you see the one thing that nobody else has ever seen. Not even you, his offering, his bride, his muse, his beloved.

The candlelight illuminates his face.

and you feel your breath catch tightly in your chest.

He’s breathtaking.

The word ‘divine’ does not compare to his likeness, with his eyes closed and his lips parted in sleep. His alabaster skin shielded from the sun is written with scars, but the stories told by them seem like the songs of great poets, wild and magnificent in the way of feral things. Long, blonde lashes swoop gently over his cheeks, still rosy with the exertion of your lovemaking, face slack and open in his slumber.

He’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen.

Even when his dark eyes open, look upon you with despair, he’s still beautiful.

“No.” Ghost speaks in a tone you’ve never heard, full of grief, and it stabs through you like a blade. “How could you?”

“Ghost-” You try, reaching for him as he raises himself from bed, drawing to his full height and towering above you. Yet your fingers are just short as he draws away, towards the balcony.

“Leave.” He tells you, his voice hardening with fury as a cold wind begins to billow around his form, cast in starlight.

“No-” You try, panic bubbling up your throat as you try to move forward to him, pleas for forgiveness upon your lips. “Ghost-!”

“LEAVE.” Ghost bellows as smoke churns wildly about his immortal form, the cold wind slicing against your skin and preventing you from drawing near.

“I love you!” You cry in desperation as tears form, and the mantle of his cloak descends upon his shoulders, bone white replacing his face.

Ghost doesn’t respond, not as he becomes wrath, not as his eyes look upon you with betrayal and despair. You try to move forward, to touch him once more, but when you reach out your hand, skim your fingers against the outline of him-

He’s gone.

As the cold wind retreats, and with it your husband, you collapse to the floor and wail with your despair.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon x reader #simon riley x you #my fic #my writing #call of duty x reader #cod x reader

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 6 months

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hysteria

kinktober, day twenty-eight

a/n: look, we already know that I'm a nerd when it comes to medical history, so this really shouldn't come as a surprise. only thing surprising about it is how fucking long it took for me to finally write this kinda fic, damn, because this fantasy is ancient.

summary: “miss, I’m afraid to inform you that you have hysteria.”

warnings: doctor!aleksander morozova x innocent!reader, smut, dubcon, historical au, medical kink, time accurate sexism, fingering, sex toys (vibrator, fuck machine), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, size kink, squirting, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation

word count: 1607

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist | kinktober 2023

Eyes glued to the clipboard in his hand, doctor Morozova quietly read up from the list of symptoms he had just scribbled down, “…unmarried, insomnia, increased nervousness during social interactions… miss,” he then lifted his obsidian gaze and told you gravely, “I’m afraid to inform you that you have hysteria.”

“I-I do?”

“Yes, I’m terribly sorry,” he laid the papers down on the desk before him, “seems like your womb is not where it’s supposed to be and that can cause all sorts of problems as you can see by your symptoms.”

Fingers weaved so tightly in the fabric in your lap it nearly broke through, ruining your dress, your panic began to bubble out, “what should I do, doctor? Is there a cure?”

“There is,” he nodded, subtly raising a hand up to soothe your nerves, “the way to relieve this disorder is by causing something called a hysterical paroxysm,” he informed, abruptly redirecting his stare down upon the woodgrain of the tabletop, “now, usually, if a woman is married, the husband is to perform the treatment, but since you’re not,” his eyes flickered back up to find yours, “I’ll help rid your body of this ailment.”

“Really? Thank you,” you gasped, “what, uh, what does it entail?”

“Oh, it’s simple enough,” he waved a casual hand, “you just rid yourself of your undergarments and lay down on the exam table for me.”

“I-…” you blinked, eyes wide before you swallowed, “…alright…”

Getting up from the chair opposing his desk, you walked around the flimsy partition set up in the corner. Reaching under your dress, you timidly pulled your underwear down your legs, past your stockings and off. Folding the garment in a neat little bundle, you settled it on the small stool that stood back here before stepping back out from behind the cover.

Now settled at the bottom of the exam table on a seat, he gestured for you to get up onto the slab before you apprehensively did so.

“If you would please just put your feet up in these stirrups,” he adjusted the metal legs below you, “then we can get started.”

As you then shifted, settling your feet into place, your skirts tented and began to ride up, a gust of crisp air kissing your exposed centre and causing your cheeks to heat up.

Hearing his chair scoot closer, you then felt his touch softly ghost from your knees all the way up your thighs till his fingers were gently prying your petals apart. After taking a good look, he then briefly retracted his touch, unscrewing a nearby dark glass jar, swiping up some of the glossy contents before grazing through your folds once more, the cool temperature of the lubrication causing you to suck in a sharp breath.

“Sorry, if it’s a bit cold,” he murmured as he continued to smear it in.

Head faintly shaking, “it’s fine,” you tried just to focus on your breathing.

Pushing your dress a bit more out of the way, he told you, “just try and relax for me, it will go by a lot smoother if you relax,” his touch then suddenly changed, “now, tell me,” zeroing in and pressing down on your clit in a way that made the office around you go fuzzy, “how does that feel?”

Blinking down at him, you found that his vision was already firm on you, “I-… I don’t know… how is it supposed to feel?”

“It’s supposed to feel good,” he rubbed a bit harder, “so, does it feel good?”

“I-I guess so,” your vision fluttered back up towards the ceiling, the doctor’s dark eyes being too much to stand, “yeah.”

“Good, good,” his attentive touch then shifted, “now let me just have a feel inside. Deep breath for me,” your lungs expanded at his command, “there you go,” and his long finger pressed inside, gently curving it around against your walls as he examined, “yep, there it is… your womb, it’s in the completely wrong spot,” he swiftly worked another digit in, watching as you stretched around his fingers, “it’s good that you came in now before it got even worse,” pulling back out, he ended the contact with an unnecessary rub against your buzzing clit.

As he then scooted a bulky and mysterious machine over, you asked nervously, “w-what is that?”

“Just a little apparatus that’s gonna help cure you,” he twisted a vaguely phallic shape into place at the end of the device’s long arm. After noticing your startled expression, you felt his warm hand sprawl across your thigh, “don’t worry, love. It’s all gonna be just fine,” lining it up, “just try and lay still,” he turned a switch and the attachment slowly drove into you.

“Oh my god!” your palm slammed down against the exam table.

“Shh, it’s alright,” he caught your eye till your body slowly began to give in, calming under his gaze. Reaching his right hand up, he tickled your puff as the gadget slowly eased in and out of you, “you’re doing great so far, just relax for me,” you saw his free fingers sneak down to enclose around the apparatus’s knob once more, turning the speed further up.

Feeling like you might fall off the table entirely, you panted, “doctor, I think something might be wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong, love,” he nearly chuckled, “this is how it’s supposed to feel,” smiling as you let go an uncontainable moan, knees nearly closing as you tumbled over the edge, “there it is, good, good…”

Expecting for the machine to be shut off, the doctor instead pushed your trembling knees aside and conjured a bulky ward-like device that buzzed in his tight grip, the other hand firm on your leg as he pressed the vibrator against your sensitive pearl, “ah! Doctor! What are you-”

“We’re not done yet,” he stated firmly, vision fixated on the mess he was turning you into.

The squelching of your pussy cut through the loud buzzing of the gizmos, “but it’s too much, I can’t-”

“You wanna get better, don’t you?”

Fists tight in your dress, crumbled at your waist, you let out a shaky, “yes.”

“Then quit your whining and let me treat you,” his stare snapped up as he warned you, “if you keep that up then I’ll have no other choice but to restrain you, is that what you want?”

“N-no,” the overwhelming sensation caused you to tremble like a leaf.

“Be a good girl and take it.”

When the second wave hit, it crashed into you so fiercely that you let out a lewd scream.

“There you go, that’s it!” the doctor bellowed as your pussy gushed, crying out around the intense toys, “oh, fuck…” unable to peel his eyes away as he finally turned off the machines, additional juices squirting out as they withdrew.

Limbs twitching, you hazily asked, “was that it? Are we done?”

Palming himself through his pants, his gaze stayed glued to your weeping core, “not quite yet, miss… that release of excess fluids was a very good sign, very good sign indeed, but we’re not quite done… there’s still more that needs to get out in order for your uterus to align itself again,” your eyes then flicked down to his fingers as they worked at the buttons on his slacks, swiftly freeing something much bigger than the apparatus he had just fucked you with.

“Doctor?” your eyes grew as he stepped closer, rubbing his tip against you in a way that made your eyes flutter.

Finally meeting your gaze, he uttered, “please, call me Aleksander,” before thrusting his hips forward, stretching you apart with his cock. Fingers digging into your thighs, he glanced back down and smirked, “I think your womb just needs a little reminder of where its home is,” before he slammed in, all the way, pushing the air out of your lungs as his balls nuzzled against you.

“Ah!”

“Just need to knock at its door a bit to call it home,” the tip of his generous length kissed your cervix with every rough thrust, borderline going too deep as you clambered around him, “that’s it, taking the treatment so well.”

Just as you had thought he had settled on a rhythm, he pulled the rug out from under you by suddenly withdrawing his girth entirely, spreading you apart so that he could watch how he made you gape, only to bury himself completely once again, repeating the cycle over and over, relishing in the way it drove you up the wall.

“Fucking hell… I can feel it, you’re getting close, clamping around me like a desperate little whore,” he groaned, watching as after a few more breath-taking rounds, your pussy began to weep once again, “oh, there it is,” squirting out every time he retraced himself, “atta girl,” the fullness he then granted you only persuaded more to appear.

When you were nothing more than a literal puddle in his grasp, Aleksander truly lost control, pounding into your trembling mess before he made it even more so, stuffing you full of his hot cum.

Low groans still flowed from his lips as he retracted from you for good, the sensation of his seed trickling out of you and onto the exam table nearly going unnoticed from how exhausted the treatment had made you.

“Was that it?” you asked weakly, “am I cured now?”

Tugging himself away as he caught his breath, he answered, “not completely,” glancing back up at you with a glint in his dark eyes, “I think you’re gonna have to come back a few more times …”

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historiaxvanserra · 2 months

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All That is Dark Within Me

Pairing: Azriel x Rhys!Sister Reader

Summary: In the wake of Nesta's sacrifice something ancient and long dead awakens, and you with it.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: allusions to sexual assault, and death, grief and longing. lots of dream sequences to keep things extra confusing.

The visions come in flashes of age-worn and the glimmer of Illyrian steel; thinly bladed and lethal, and through the blanket of the dark, the glare of cerulean light pierces the veil of obsidian shadow.

Death came to you as a girl; ravenous and heinous as it feasts upon you. Until all that is left is an assortment of crow-picked bones, interred in some unforgiving blue-darkness, further than Hel. And from that blue-darkness you find breath:

The fetor of decay is thick on your tongue; putrid and so palpable that you can taste it. It lingers there. Festering fruit-flesh in the damp heat and hemlock flowers arch out to kiss the skin that crawls from you. There, in the dark; all maggots and rot in the grave dirt, rebirth calls to you. A hand reaching through the veil of the black.

And you reach back.

The soul; the uneasy ally of the body, nameless as a river, creeps in like the sunlight as it comes back to you with the swiftness of the dawn; golden and ephemeral. It coils itself around you like the ribbons of shadowed sunbeams that come with the first light.

You emerge from your earthly tomb. Arms open. Waiting to become the shadowed ribbons of the firstlight. You are born anew; reaching and aching. Savage and sentimental. Searching for some semblance of touch as you break the surface of the wintry earth. The winter sun dawns over the valley and the earth grieves the loss of you. Sunlight spills onto your body all at once. You are painted in the colors of some celestial body; ichor and carnelian as the heaven-yellow light kisses its way up your spine.

You feel a tremor in the velvet of the earth. You falter with it and a cataclysmic vein of power ripples through the stagnant air; resurrected with you, amongst the dying moonflowers and jasmine, some fallow power.

It wakes from its dormant slumber and rages.

It calls to you.

In fleeting images of age worn bone and a shroud of shadow.

Speaks to you in a language long dead. So old that only the earth itself might infer some meaning from those words whispered on a westward wind. Words so sacred, told in the green tongues of the wilds. It grows in you and festers there. Taking root in your body. A slow, manifesting ache that spreads through you like disease.

Like rot.

The hum of the emerald wilderness lulls you into a misty sense of consciousness as breath comes to you like a bitter memory. That first breath of life burns like cold death as it crawls its brutal way down your throat. The next few tear through you in sporadic succession until you’re choking on the glacial breeze.

The morning air tastes like firewood and fruit flesh as your heart plateaus to a strong, steady rhythm that coaxes movement from you. Unfurling from your fetal position in the dirt you see the world as it once had been; the press of the winter sun into your skin, the draw of the wind as it flutters through the canopy the emerald forest, the darkening horizon and the shadows from the mountain that veil the valley in a misty shroud as the firstlight reigns golden over all.

You crawl from your grave, through the dying jasmine flowers, your fingertips arching and desperate to touch them. To feel the soft velvet of the petals as they give way beneath your trembling fingers. Their descent into decay; a testament to your own rebirth.

It takes a few moments of half-formed joints and muscle coming together to forge you anew but when you stand to your full height you realize that the fleeting remnants of rot and ruin have gone from you.

And in its place; resurrection.

Your girlhood and the innocence of your youth died long ago and what comes back is born wrong. With the knowledge of the ancient darkness from which we are born; and to which we will one day return.

In the distance, through the brush of the fir trees and Illyrian wilderness, a small fire burns golden against the first slivers of morning light, and the dying embers cling desperately to life. Smoky tendrils arch over the tops of the trees guiding you home. You press into the shade of the forest, the thick canopy is dappled in jewel tones; amber, gold, ruby and pale emerald that grant you shelter from the elements as the world turns silent and still.

Feigning peace.

The trees loom ominous overhead, foreboding and resolute, the sounds of the forest having died moments ago. Anxiety weighs heavy on you then, staring out into the dark edges of the forest, you are utterly alone.

You retreat into the darker recess of your mind in the knowledge that, whatever lies beyond, you must face it on your own.

Instinctually, like some archaic muscle memory you bid your wings to come and shield you from the world and the cruel wind. But as old muscles struggle with new life you find that your rebirth is marred with an air of barabarism that bids bile to rise in your throat. You’re brought to your knees in the dirt and a bone-deep sorrow nestles itself deep in the caverns of your chest; finding a home coiled around atrophied muscle and a aching heart.

You’re bereft, and screaming to the deaf stars when you feel the absence of the weight of membranous wings upon your back. The muscles in your back and shoulder blades sear in white-hot agony and trembling fingers trace the brutal scars etched into the skin there. You recoil in disgust and your body feels foreign under your careful hands. Unlike your own-- brutalized and butchered at the hands of the men; consuming and devouring, as they hacked and ravaged the expanse of your body like they had a right to it.

The world blurs at its edges and you remain there until the brush of the forest is cutting and brutal against the soft skin of your calves and thighs. Until you draw blood that falls like rubies at your feet; a testament to your resurrection.

The first of your tears begin to fall with the rain and you feel like the earth, that had held you for so long, is crying with you. Saltwater that purifies you, and your tears fall like moonlight on the Sidra; sparkling and sacred in the dying light of a new day.

As night begins to gather on the darkening horizon you feel exposed out here in the green expanse of the wilds. The temperatures begin to fall as rapidly with the encroaching night and the dying embers of the fire in the distance becomes a blaze in the dark-- a reckoning or a beacon.

You wrap yourself in the scraps of fabric that had shrouded your body in death and you know that you must face the forest and whatever lies within it. For the bitter wind holds you in its icy embrace and so, you press further into the Illyrian wilderness. The journey to the edge of the forest is long and the sounds of men in the distance is your guide to civilization. The forest becomes a dark symphony; the wind as it caresses the leaves of ancient oak trees and the rustling of the forest floor underfoot, it’s a cacophony of sensation that threatens to envelop you, beneath the leaves and fir trees, to lose yourself in its vastness until darkness descends upon you once more.

By the time you reach the edge of the forest you are close enough that, from your vantage point on the embankment, you can see the orange flames from the campfires as they climb high above the younger trees, the cinders rain down violently on the warriors camped below. These mountains always did have an austere beauty that called to you. Even then. Even as a girl, green and foolhardy with dreams of a life spent following your brothers and Azriel across continents. As a courtier in some distant land where the women were warrior-strong and softly beautiful. Somewhere Ramiel’s long, ghostly shadows could not reach you.

You never did outrun the shadows of the mountain that flanks the valley, you think as a shroud of darkness from the looming monolith blankets the world in a false twilight.

Burrowing down further into the valley of the embankment you find shelter nestled between a felled tree and the jagged moss-covered stone. You find comfort in the heady musky of fir and pine, and soaked to the skin by the morning mildew and blossoming bluebells. There in the valley, the hours pass strangely, against the backdrop of the desolate night, with only the songs of the forest and the sound of the warriors below in the distance to guide you into dreamless sleep.

The hum of the camp behind you lulls you into a sense of misty wakefulness, and every now and then you feel a tremor in the ground, a recollection of the darkness you had left behind. In these fleeting moments you wait beneath some strom-streaked cloud. A heavy velvet darkness descends upon the sky, extinguishing everything in its wake as you acquiesce to dreaming:

Death comes back to me veiled in shadow and flashes of age worn bone as it stakes its claim to me again.

The shadow of the mountain looms like some ill-fated omen over the valley and a red star bleeds into the twilight, casting Ramiel in a bloody halo. The mountain seems to tremble in your wake and the whispers of the Old Gods call your name like a prayer.

A great onyx monolith glitters in the amethyst moonglow and a vein of power hums on the westward wind. You reach out a hand to touch it and the world falls away from you again.Then there is a temple; carved into the stone of the mountain, a great antechamber, shaded in the musk of hemlock and incense as you pass between the sandstone pillars. The pillars themselves are shrouded in climbing ivy and blooming moonflowers that conceal the frescos on the walls.

You can vaguely make out the apparition of a man, cloaked in death. He wears it as some ancient King might. Proud, beautiful and lethal. His great dark wings spread across the landscape and the fae of old in the crowds kneel to him in reverence.

The onyx stalactites become entangled in the light that bleeds from the surface and you come to a stop at the foot of the altar when that myriad of dancing light falls onto you.

You are golden light, refracted and broken divinity-- the memory of some undying Goddess in the pale light.

Unearthly and ephemeral.

The emerald dias is littered with the remnants of the offerings left to a dying God; wilted jasmine and orchids, silver coins, minted with the faces of an ancient king, amphora’s of faerie wine. You sink to your knees at the foot of the altar and you swear you feel the whispers of the dead once more.

You run a fine-boned hand over the collection of offering laid in revereven, made in earnest.

That is when you notice the gleam of thinly drawn steel amongst the dying jasmine. Veiled in the shadows of the mountain; a bloody scythe. The hilt and pommel feel like cool marble in your hand as you raise it to the light that bleeds from the surface. The blade itself is coated crimson and rust and the ferrous smell of blood hangs heavy in the air.

Only false idols are worshiped in flowers and wine alone, you think.

True divinity requires sacrifice.

Out of the devastating darkness steps a figure; shaded in wretched shadows and a devouring black mass as he approaches the dias. As he steps to the altar all the sconces are afire with bluelight; sapphire and cerulean as his robe falls to reveal him in all his divine glory.

The saints whisper my name and his figure, wreathed in shadow and light materializes before you.

Tangible flesh and winged death.

Plumes of incense smoke, like salted-seafoam rise in the mountain air and the flickering blue flame douses me in its seraphic light. Like Venus born from the Kytherian sea. Or perhaps Persephone born again from the dark smoke of Hades.

Plumes of incense smoke, like salted-seafoam rise in the mountain air and the flickering blue flame douses you in its seraphic light. A priestess robed in pomegranate red, with milky, alabaster eyes rises steps from the smoke. The priestess looks like the apparition of a dark celestial body as she intones a mass and the thread that runs between your body and his grows taut, aching and agonizing as it burns through you like the first light.

“The thread of fate is severed and another is forged;

from my power I bestow power upon you,

and from my life-- life.”

The priestess chants and he touches you softly.

Your chest is tight and your muscles cannot be compelled to move. Your body is not your own and all autonomy is stripped from you as that thread that runs from your body to his glows pulsating, liquid gold.

“Stop,” Your voice is hoarse and strained, it echoes around the antechamber until his growl smothers all sound “please stop.” His touch grows cold against your skin and his grip on your arm is a bruising force. Bone crushing and cruel as he brings you harshly to your knees before him.

“Is it done?” His voice is harsh and laden with dark malice as he turns his piercing and deadly gaze upon the Priestess.

She eyes him and nods adamantly, “It is done, Lord.”

She leaves a trail of smoke and ash in her wake as she turns to dust and bone before your eyes. Terror fills you and your heart flutters wildly in your chest as he turns his cold gaze upon you once more.

Death takes your jaw roughly in his grasp, tilting your chin to look him in the eyes. Deep and reckoning, a twilight abyss so black that time and space itself falls away when you’re caught in the depths of his dark gaze. He runs a callous thumb over the sulk of your lip and the wet-heat of your tears fall at his feet.

“Oh, my love,” He coos menacingly, his voice a vacant echo as it ricochets around the chasm of the temple “resurrected from the grave dirt.”

It is a claiming; a devouring as he brings his cold lips to yours.

“To be brutal and mine.”

His words, like a sacred vow, are branded into your skin. There, between the valley of your breasts over your violent heart, in inky lines that same scythe-- age worn bone and blood.

An offering to an Old God. A holy sacrifice, you think as he runs a pointed finger over the hollow of your throat. His skin feels icy cold as he wraps those same fingers around you, pressing against the pulse point with practiced ease. This is it, you think. Death comes to you as an old friend. A darkness so deep that there is nothing before it and nothing beyond it.

But- a thread of light; blinding and golden against the black.

Suddenly Death’s face falters and a smirk spreads across his beautiful pale face when he feels the violent flutter of your heart in the cavern of your heaving chest. Death raises his scythe; a gleam of shadow and age-worn bone as he prepares to give you up in offering-- like a lamb led to the slaughter.

You will not return to the dark.

You are no sacrificial lamb; you are the shadow of a Goddess long forgotten and you will not bend to lesser men.

Nor submit to the will of some ill-fated deity.

You writhe in his hold; poised and ready all the while under the surface some raw divine power, like the light of a bleeding sun, pours out of you. It burns golden and sun-blushed as it spreads through you.

Wilful and ignorant in the face of his wrath you reach for that golden thread.

In a cataclysmic union of the dark and light, death is thrown down against the emerald dias. Brought to his knees before you. The amphora’s and trinkets laid in offering are strewn across the room in the fray and the merlot stains the marble wine red.

“Do not presume to touch me again” Your voice frantic and fragile echoes around the empty chamber and the ghost of his touch on your body makes your skin crawl.

The laugh that you tear from him is like death itself, cold and malignant as he turns his darkness upon you now. His shadows snake their way along the expanse of your limbs as you stumble backwards down the aisle. They curl into you, seeking out the light that bleeds from your skin in bursts of starlight and moonglow.

‘Death-touched girl’, they whisper to you. ‘Lovely bride, you belong to me’.

The temple trembles with a new wave of devastating force.

The mountain quakes and the world falls down around you; The climbing ivy is torn from the ancient and decaying fresco’s and the sandstone pillars give way, sinking and succumbing to Death’s cold wrath, like the trees that bend to the wind. Onyx stalactites fall like tangible night and pierce the earth, creating a cavern so great and so deep that you think it might be the opening to Hel itself.

A helmouth.

Looking down into that cavern. A deep blue-darkness that swallows everything in its wake. The jaws of Death open, awning and screaming as the temple is brought to its knees before you. Beyond the desecrated temple the Illyrian wilderness waits for you. Ramiel casts its long shadows over the valley and from the canopy of the emerald forest you hear a man screaming into the dark.

With only the light of a blood moon to guide you, you retreat into the twilight.

Your legs start moving before your mind has time to process it. So you run. You run. Until your heart is thunderous in your chest and each breath that is torn from you hurts. Still, you run.

Death’s voice whispers on the wind as it howls at a waning moon.

“You know me well, girl.” He says to you, his figure in the treeline like some voyeuristic ghost, “As I know you.”

Your calves burn but you push on, through the thicket and into a clearing. The moon wanes terrible and red at its peak in the night sky and you scream to the deaf stars. Crying for a God who had known your name once.

Only the Gods do not answer.

“Azriel.” You cry his name until your voice is hoarse. But he too does not answer the call.

Death-kissed shadows brush through the trees, appearing again at the edge of the clearing. There he stands, the perfect embodiment of a cruel God. Mercurial and furious as his dark wings spread across the expanse of his back.

Death is a beautiful creature.

His voice again cuts through the dark as you sink to your knees in the clearing, “I was there, waiting in the dark when you spilled your first blood.”

He stalks towards you and you scramble to your feet in some desperate attempt to evade him. He is shadow personified and dark eyes turn hazel and amber in the silver light of the moon.

“I am here with you now,” Death curls a shadow in his hand and smiles at you.

“as you run from me still.” He takes a step forward, cradling your jaw in his strong hand again. His thumb trails the line of your cheek.

The sound of a restless lake rings like birdsong in the air and you see the orange flames as they streak across the sky; a firebird as she soars over the shadow of the moon.

“You know my name.” He adds, half-amused as he brings his lips to meet yours in a cold, chaste kiss.

“Say it.” He commands.

You do not answer.

“Say.It.” Death spits venom through gritted teeth and you laugh as light floods the twilight forest.

“Azriel.” His name falls from your lips like some holy vow as light becomes you.

#acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic

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sixteenseveredhands · 11 months

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Prehistoric Figurine of a Harp Player, from the Cyclades (Greece), c. 2700-2300 BCE: this figurine was shaped from a block of solid marble and then slowly sanded into form using pumice and emery

The figurine depicts a musician with a frame harp, an instrument that originated in the Near East and then later spread to the peoples of the Aegean. A sound box forms the section along the base of the instrument, and a small protrusion can be seen near the top of the harp's frame; some experts have argued that this protrusion might represent an ornamental carving of a waterfowl's head, while others argue that it represents a musical extension that facilitates the projection of sound (a feature that often appears on the stringed instruments of the ancient Near East).

This piece measures 35.8cm (about 14 inches) tall.

Musical performances like this are rarely depicted in Cycladic artwork. Depictions of male characters are similarly rare, representing only 5% of the Cycladic sculptures that are known to exist. When male figures are depicted, however, they are frequently shown playing musical instruments, as seen here.

Figurine of a Harpist, c. 2800-2700 BCE: a similar example of a Cycladic sculpture that features a musician with a frame harp

The Museum of Cycladic Art provides a more detailed explanation of the process by which these figures were created:

As we can deduce from the few unfinished figurines that have been discovered so far, the first step in the process was to roughly shape the raw piece of marble into a figure by the impact of a mallet. Emery powder was then used to abrade the surface until it obtained the desired shape and size. Once the desired shape was achieved, the surface was smoothed carefully before the fine work of carving the details started. At the end, the figurine was polished to a high degree that is still amazing.

And according to The Met:

Many of these figures, especially those of the Spedos type, display a remarkable consistency in form and proportion that suggests they were planned with a compass. Scientific analysis has shown that the surface of the marble was painted with mineral-based pigments—azurite for blue and iron ores, or cinnabar for red.

The Cycladic Islands (also known as the Cyclades) are a group of about 30 separate islands in the Southwest Aegean, off the coast of mainland Greece. These islands contain a wealth of natural resources, including marble, emery, pumice, obsidian, and an assortment of precious metals. The prehistoric peoples of the Cyclades made use of these resources for many different purposes, but the marble figurines/sculptures that they crafted during the Bronze Age are perhaps their most famous creation.

The vast majority of these figurines are stylized depictions of the female form. The cultural significance of the sculptures remains unclear; they may have simply been created as decorative pieces/artwork, without any additional function, or they may have been used as fetishes, totems, religious idols, grave goods, or votive offerings.

Sources & More Info:

The Getty Museum: Figurine of a Harp Player

The Met: Cycladic Harp Player

The Met: Early Cycladic Art and Culture

The Museum of Cycladic Art: Techniques

#archaeology #history #artifact #ancient history #prehistoric art #art #sculpture #music #greece #cycladic #bronze age #anthropology #harp

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tiredwitchplant · 6 months

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It's Time for Samhain! (Oct 31- Nov 1)

What is Samhain? In the Celtic calendar, Samhain marks the end of summer and the harvest season, and the beginning of the dark, cold winter months. It falls opposite Beltane on May 1, which represents the beginning of spring and the life-filled growing season.

It’s believed that the veil between the living and the dead is thinnest on Samhain. Historically, people were worried that they would encounter ornery spirits if they ventured outside on Samhain night, so they dressed as ghosts or wore masks to disguise themselves. Folks would leave treats on their front porch or place an extra setting at the table to welcome any friendly spirits who stopped by. You can see how these Samhain rituals easily morphed into our modern-day version of trick-or-treating in costume.

Nighttime bonfires were another of the long-standing Samhain rituals - this one was thought to help combat the impending darkness of winter and the fearful chill that accompanied the idea of roaming spirits. Because the veil between living and dead is believed to be the thinnest on this night, Samhain is also a powerful night for divination and spellcasting by candlelight.

Usual Symbols of Samhain:

Ale or Mead

Pumpkins

Skulls

Besom or Broom

Beans

Cauldron

Bats

Keys

Squash

Pomegranate

Nuts

Apples and Cider

Bones

Herbs and Plants for Samhain:

Rosemary – Associated with remembrance and is needed during this season in taking time to honor the memories of our ancestors and other lost loved ones. Can be used in an incense blend and at ancestor altar

Fall Flowers – Includes flowers like marigolds and chrysanthemums. Are associated with protection and chrysanthemums come in handy with connecting to the spirit world

Apples (the fruit, branches and blossoms) – Is considered sacred to a lot of gods. A good apple harvest means that the gods have shown the community their favor. You can use apples in different rituals, especially divination

Pomegranates – Is associated with the realm of the underworld and helps with communication with the dead. It is also associated with fertility of the fall.

Squashes, Pumpkins and Gourds – Is associated with abundance and provides sustenance for your family when the fields become bare and covered in snow. Is linked to psychic awareness and development and protection.

Mugwort – Is associated with divination and dreaming. Using Mugwort baths or incenses in the rituals can focus on treating depression, especially with the seasons changing

Rowan Trees – The branches and berries are a way to keep evil spirits out of your house and are associated with good health. If you plant a tree near a grave, it will prevent the dead from rising.

Sage – Is associated with cleansing and grounding. Is a great incense to cleanse your home to bring in the new and out with the old

Hawthorn – Has been associated with the gateway between humans and the spirit world. Is also rumored to an area where you can see fairies.

Crystals for Samhain:

Amethyst – Aids in opening one’s third eye and is valuable to be able to see Samhain’s spirits around

Black Obsidian – Is great for grounding and protect from evil spirits. Can be used in scrying when speaking to deities and spirits of Samhain

Citrine – Is used to honor the sun. Aids in prosperity spells and carries joy

Black Tourmaline – Wards off unwanted spirits from your property and can be buried into the ground to protect from psychic attacks and spirit intrusion

Orange Calcite – Orange is a sacred color to Samhain. This stone is associated with one’s sacral chakra and can cleanse and align reproductive organs, sexuality and get creativity flowing

Bloodstone – Known to heal cardiovascular illness and disease. Can help with ancestry links and work

Spirit Quartz – Is great in helping communicate with the spirits of Samhain and releasing old and toxic habits

Lepidolite – Used to appease the fairies that roam during Samhain

Serpentine – Is associated with snakes and aids in remembering past lives. Loki seems to like this stone and may be great to use for him if you work with him during this season

Dragonstone – Dragons are guardians of the earth, spirits of place, and connect us to Mother Nature. Helps say goodbye to the old years and our old selves

Skull shaped Stones – Since skulls are symbols of Samhain, skull shaped stone can help with symbolism during this holiday. They represent the life-death-rebirth cycle, wisdom and our ancestors

Spells and Rituals:

A Samhain Tea (Apple and Hawthorn Berry)

1 apple, sliced

2 Tablespoon dried hawthorn berries (or 4 Tablespoons fresh)

1 cinnamon stick

A pinch of cloves

4 cups water

Honey, to taste (optional)

Combine all ingredients in a small stockpot.

Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer, covered, for 10 minutes.

Strain the plant material from the tea, then transfer the tea into two mugs.

Enjoy one for yourself, and leave the other on your table or front porch to nourish any wandering spirits who may pass while the veil between the living and the dead is thinnest.

A Pumpkin Spell for Prosperity

A pumpkin

Some paint

Go to the pumpkin patch (or local store) and select a pumpkin. Or let the pumpkin choose you.

Bring it home and paint prosperity symbols on it – money signs, runes for prosperity or harvest glyphs (whatever means prosperity to you).

Then place by your front door to invite prosperous vibes into your home this Samhain season.

Bonfire Release Purification Spell

Paper

Pen

Source of fire (bonfire, fireplace, candle flame)

Gather your materials and sit by the fire.

Take a few minutes to just listen to the fire crackling.

Gaze into the flames and connect with this powerful element.

Next begin to think about what habit or person you are releasing this Samhain. Think about why you’re purifying your life from this thing or person.

Then write the habit or person down on the piece of paper.

Fold it away from you 3 times.

Hold it in your hands and allow all of the negative thoughts and energies inside of you to “drain” out of you and into the paper.

Then throw it in the fire and say,

“After this Samhain, never again. Never again. I release _________ from my life by the power of the Samhain fire. So, mote it be.”

How to Make a Samhain Altar

Beautiful autumn leaves or flowers that you collect on a nature walk

A candle

A mugwort bundle

A string of rowan beads

A bowl of apples or a small pumpkin

A hawthorn wand or bowl of freshly picked hawthorn berries

A picture of your ancestors

To make an altar, first find a corner of your home or a table surface where you can arrange a few treasures. You don’t need a ton of space. You could use the top of a dresser, the corner of your desk, an unused side table, etc.

After you’ve assembled your altar, spend some time sitting quietly in the space. Light the candle and/or mugwort wand, sip on a cup of Apple & Hawthorn Berry Tea and meditate on this energetically powerful day.

I could find specific written instructions for a crystal grid but I found a video!

Crystal Grid for Samhain

Let's get ready for Samhain and have a great and safe time!

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ominisgoldie · 3 months

Text

Loving them is like...

Loving Cass is fun. Loving Cass is two am runs for fast food. Loving Cass is jumping into a lake. Loving Cass is wrestling with a friend. Loving Cass is kisses sticky with sugar. Loving Cass is summer. Loving Cass is blood dripping down your sink. Loving Cass is holding him back from fights. Loving Cass is coming second to the training ring. Loving Cass is lukewarm water

Loving Az is cold. Loving az is snowball fights. Loving az is motorcycle rides at night. Loving az is blue light through your curtains in the middle of the Night. Loving az is sex without morals. Loving az is bloody knuckles with hidden secrets. Loving az is the blood on his blade. Loving az is a glass of whiskey on a tired night.

Loving Rhys is exhilarating. Loving Rhys is twists and turns. Loving Rhys is a bouquet of roses. Loving Rhys is finding the darkness blinking back. Loving Rhys is hating yourself, just a little. Loving Rhys is obsidian in your palm, beautiful but sharp enough to cut to the bone. Loving Rhys is the snow under your heels in the city. Loving Rhys is crying, the moon your only witness.

Loving Mor is beautiful. Loving mor is secrets whispered under summer stars. Loving mor is red lipstick on your collar. Loving Mor is the sound of moans mixed with soft music. Loving Mor is finding out that twisted words are not lies. Loving mor is crying in the bathroom, clutching the last bottle of perfume. Loving mor is the first kiss in a romance novel.

Loving Amren is grey. Loving Amren is stormclouds on the horizon. So beautiful, but so ominous. Loving Amren is careful smiles over red wine. Loving Amren is kisses coated in blood. Loving Amren is pearls against a pale throat. Loving Amren is the thrill after a gun goes off. Loving Amren is never quite enough.

Loving Feyre is relaxing. Loving Feyre is not wanting to get out of Bed on a Sunday morning. Loving Feyre is painting together on your porch. Loving Feyre is never having control. Loving Feyre is holding hands with a cloud.

Loving Nesta is intense. Loving Nesta is Sharp black. Loving Nesta is the feeling of riding in a car going so fast you aren't sure it's moving. Loving Nesta is long hair and sharp tongues. Loving Nesta is reaching for something that will self destruct again and again and again. Loving Nesta is crisp nights on the cusp of Autumn and Winter.

Loving Elain is spiraling. Loving Elain is looking over a cliff and falling into the river. Loving Elain is flower gardens that turn out to be Graves. Loving Elain is Burgundy. Loving Elain is calling to the forest, hearing a disembodied voice respond. Loving Elain is knowing you only have a few years to love. Loving Elain is like reaching into wool to find wolf teeth.

Loving Lucien is adventure. Loving Lucien is world maps and suitcases. Loving Lucien is knowing multiple languages. Loving Lucien is warm summer afternoons. Loving Lucien is lovemaking in a field. Loving Lucien is loud laughs over whiskey. Loving Lucien is watching from afar. Loving Lucien is basking in the sun's light, dreading when it shifts.

Loving Tarquin is gentle. Loving Tarquin is the gentle waves lapping on your ankles. Loving Tarquin is watching a bird fly away. Loving Tarquin is kisses under boardwalks. Loving Tarquin is loving the gentle sea, refusing to think of its violent nature. Loving Tarquin is not realizing you are drowning until your lungs begin to hurt

Loving Eris is rough. Loving Eris is getting too close to the fire, but relishing in your burn. Loving Eris is gold on red. Loving Eris is wicked smiles and dry mouths. Loving Eris is fucking in an old Cathedral. Loving Eris is bloodred lipstick smeared over collars. Loving Eris is never going home. Loving Eris is a hard wall to fall back on. Loving Eris is power being hand fed to you.

Loving Jurian is impulsive. Loving Jurian is jumping over walls and climbing trees. Loving Jurian is blades pressed against throats, laughter nicking the skin. Loving Jurian is armor so heavy you almost can't feel eyes burning into you. Loving Jurian is being so good at acting, because neither of you can tell when the other is genuine. Loving Jurian is something you tell yourself is a dream.

#acotar #unedited #headcanons #acotar headcanons #acotar x reader #cassian acotar #nesta archeron #eris vanserra #tarquin acotar #Azriel cotar #rhys acotar #acotar bat boys #acotar mor #feyre archeron #elain archeron

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theancientwayoflife · 6 months

Text

~ Effigy vessel of Xipe Tótec.

Date: A.D. 400 to 700

Place of origin: Border area between Guerrero and Michoacan, Mexico

• From the source: This unique vessel was found as part of an offering inside a grave located in La Luz, an ancient settlement located on the banks of the Balsas River in Michoacán. In addition to the vessel, the offering that accompanied the deceased consisted of nine obsidian blades and six shell beads.

#ancient #ancient art #history #museum #archeology #ancient sculpture #ancient history #archaeology #ancient america #pottery #mexico #mexican #xipe totec #a.d. 400 #a.d. 700 #Michoacán #guerrero #5th century #8th century

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feralbutfluffy · 6 months

Text

62. Convergence

Chapter 62 of Too Wise to Woo Peaceably

It was patient urgency.

It was impatient restraint.

It was being in the eye of a hurricane; everything moving overwhelmingly fast and not at all.

Aziraphale had been stationed on Earth for thousands of years. He had existed for aeons. He had learned so much in that time, experienced so much in that time. He had lived, and felt, and enjoyed, and in the entirety of that duration, in all of those years, in everything he had felt, there had been nothing - nothing - like this.

And had he ever expected to be here?

No, of course not. An angel and a demon, hereditary enemies, digging a grave for their mandated conflict and burying it deep - six millennia under - beneath the comforting weight of friendship, and longing, and care, and love.

And had he ever dreamed of being here?

Yes. Oh, yes.

In private. In secret. Ever since the kiss in the bookshop he had dreamed of it, and he had folded and folded those dreams until they were hardened squares, folded them tiny and tight so he could tuck them away, wedge them between his memories, and pretend they were never there at all.

And now...

His focus was sharp with greed, his entire being overwhelmed by a hunger that yearned to taste the specifics of the moment, that longed to savour them, swallow them down, keep each one somewhere safe and secret and sacred, keep them guarded in his heart, in the back of his skull, in the marrow of his bones.

The damp hair curling against Crowley’s temple.

His pupils, fully dilated, obsidian surrounded by molten gold.

The pulse visibly drumming against his skin.

The sound of rasping breaths being dragged in and out, rough with want.

Aziraphale was pinned beneath Crowley’s angular frame but he felt as if he might be floating, actually, and his heart was in his throat, and he was vaguely aware that it shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t be lodged in his airway making him feel like he might choke, like he might be smothered by the intensity of the love he was feeling, but he couldn’t do anything about it. It was stuck fast.

He pulled his hands from Crowley’s to place them tentatively on his waist, and ran them up his sides and over his back. Crowley shook and closed his eyes, pressing his forehead into the curve where Aziraphale’s neck met his shoulder, and Aziraphale lightly dragged his fingernails down and back up the former demon’s back, reveling in every twitch and shudder.

He wanted nothing more than to wrap Crowley in a tight embrace. He wanted to pull him in and hug him to his chest, cradle his head against his heartbeat, let him hear it repeated and repeated and repeated - I love you I love you I love you - until it sank into his skin, until the truth of it was a part of him, until it eased every harm he had ever done, soothed every hurt he had ever inflicted, as he stroked his hair and kissed his eyelids and drowned them both in the downpour of everything he had ever held back in his denial.

But he thought that would be too close to a feeling of restraint to be welcome, so he kept his arms loose and his hands soft and his touch gentle.

And he trembled with the effort of it.

A ferocious, rocketing need was burning through his body, his nerve endings sizzling and catching alight where Crowley’s fingers grazed his skin, and the small fragment of his mind that was still able to formulate thoughts was picturing the Rod of Asclepius.

It was picturing the Rod of Asclepius and wondering if - in some other telling, in some other rendering - the staff might perhaps have been a flaming sword.

****************************************

Crowley was�� surprised.

He was surprised he wasn't smoking at the edges where his thighs pressed against Aziraphale's.

He was surprised at how easy it felt, this thing that had seemed impossible for so long.

He was surprised he hadn't discorporated from pure pleasure.

He was surprised to be here at all.

He was… surprised.

Aziraphale was touching him. Really, purposefully, intentionally touching him. He was touching his sides, running his nails lightly down his back, and Crowley felt the gentle rake of them like forked lightning down either side of his spine.

And had he ever expected to be here?

No, no. Fuck no, he hadn't expected it but-

And had he ever dreamt of being here?

Yes. No. Not here exactly. For a demon with a banked love that had spanned thousands and thousands of years, his dreams had been embarrassingly chaste. Usually, they were companionable silences; an angel and a demon enjoying a quiet evening together, one having a cup of tea, the other having a glass of wine, nothing to see here, only two peaceful beings and an appalling, enveloping love.

Sometimes they were alternate endings, rewrites of bitter memories or hurtful phrases, doors pried open by his imagination when in reality they'd been slammed shut. Dreams of-

"I don't even like you!"

"You dooooo!"

"....I do”

And dreams of-

“We could… I don't know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.“

“I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

“... Alright. Take me to yours.”

And dreams of-

“I don't think my side would like that.”

“You don't have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We're on our own side.”

“... I like the sound of that, actually.”

And of course, dreams of-

“We can make a difference!”

“...You can't leave this bookshop.”

“Oh, Crowley… Perhaps I could leave the bookshop, but not you. Never you.”

… And other romantic, frothy nonsense concocted by a tired mind sick to the teeth of pretending; it had used his moments of rest to jettison futile thoughts in order to keep him moving, like sandbags thrown overboard to keep a balloon in the air. They never went anywhere, but they were enough. Sometimes, in his wildest dreams, Aziraphale might make a tiny move towards him, might tilt his body, might do something Crowley would interpret as intent, something that would lead him to think of leaning in for a kiss... And he would wake up instantly to find himself on the ceiling, sweaty, flustered, and too agitated to see the angel again for at least a couple of months.

So being here, now, was not exactly a dream come true.

He’d never been insolent enough to dream of this.

This was much, much more. Much more. He put both hands out for it, a prayer from a fervent believer. He was tongue-tied, words of devotion caught behind his teeth, and he had burned so many times - in sulfur, in hellfire, in the Bentley after speeding through a blazing M25 - but he had never burned like this.

This was a delicious, heavy smoulder. It made him want to melt into Aziraphale completely, made him want to wrap around him like a serpent basking on a rock, basking on his rock, and wasn’t that just the most romantic frothy nonsense? Only this was no dream, this was happening, wasn't it? This was real.

Aziraphale’s movements were careful, and gentle, and steady, and Crowley felt his touch and thought of reach out your hand and put it on my side.

He felt his kiss and thought of stop doubting and believe.

And he did.

****************************************

Aziraphale allowed Crowley to tug him to his feet.

“Feeling better then, are we?” He said, arching an eyebrow at Crowley’s improved stability.

“Much,” said Crowley, stealing a kiss.

“You could barely walk earlier-”

“Angelic kisses must have restorative properties,” said Crowley, grinning, and their feet tangled as they stumbled across the carpet, Crowley unbuttoning Aziraphale's shirt as they went, bending to press dutiful kisses at each point of skin revealed. Aziraphale sighed happily and allowed himself to be gently pushed back onto the bed, into a pile of blankets and pillows and cushions so deep he was almost buried in them. He laughed as he tossed some to the floor, the laugh dying in his throat as Crowley pulled off his top, the black one with the thin yellow stripes, and stood at the foot of the bed looking long and lean and angular.

Of course Crowley had been bare-chested after the rescue from Heaven, but everything had been so awful then, and there had been so much pain, so much hurt, it hadn’t mattered, hadn’t even been a consideration. But now…

He stood there, any lingering pain pushed aside, his torso marked with pale lines and raised carvings, his bruises splashes of indecent colour on an otherwise pale canvas. He looked brave. He looked alive. And, well, Aziraphale thought it was probably a good thing he’d been a demon really because he was spectacular, and it must be sinful to look quite so tempting.

Crowley dropped the black fabric on the floor and Aziraphale must have been doing something with his face because when Crowley looked up and caught his expression he froze, his pupils contracting slightly, his jaw tightening.

“What? Should I not have-?” There was uncertainty in his voice, fear that he had overstepped, a hollow echo of you go too fast for me hanging in the air between them, and his shoulders hunched inward, the hollows at his collarbones becoming more pronounced with the movement. He tilted his chin up in a gesture of defiance even as he looked down at Aziraphale with a chastened expression, an oxymoron made flesh.

Aziraphale propped himself up on his elbows and smiled at him, and he tried to pour everything into it - his admiration, his wonder, his desire, his fascination, his joy - and he hoped Crowley could see it, wondered if he could feel it radiating off him in helpless waves.

He certainly must have seen something, because his jaw and shoulders relaxed, and one corner of his mouth kicked up into a fraction of a smile, and he came forward to kneel on the edge of the bed, falling forward over Aziraphale, bracketing his shoulders with his arms. He looked down at him, his hair falling forward on his forehead, his eyes wide and imploring.

“Yeah?” Crowley said, and the word was almost-shy, packed dense with apprehension and hope.

Puppy dog eyes thought Aziraphale, and a hysterical giggle almost bubbled out around the heart in his throat. Not puppy dog eyes at all. Serpent eyes. Beautiful, adoring, hopeful serpent eyes.

He cupped Crowley’s face in his hands in such a gentle hold that he was barely touching him. “You are magnificent.”

Crowley didn’t flinch at the touch, but he flinched at the comment, a reflexive recoil, and his lips parted to form the shape of some denial, some interjection, but Aziraphale shook his head minutely and put two fingers to his mouth, staying the words.

Crowley stared at him, his breathing heavy, and Aziraphale was mesmerised by the rising and falling of his naked chest. Crowley flicked his tongue against Aziraphale's fingers and huffed with laughter when he pulled them away in shock. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and retaliated by pushing up to trace Crowley’s collarbone with his lips. Crowley’s elbows almost gave out. He let out a long, shaky hiss, and then his pupils widened again, and Aziraphale felt positively wicked in the most wonderful way.

“Crowley, you are-”

“Lucky,” interrupted Crowley in a low, earnest voice. “So lucky.”

“Shhh don’t be silly,” he said, rubbing at a faint white mark that underlined how very unlucky he had been. “I’m blessed to know you,” Aziraphale said, and put his lips to a thin white scar that crossed Crowley’s chest.

"Blessed," Crowley repeated, his eyes half-closed with pleasure. He gave him a lopsided smile. “Blessed either way,” he said, prodding his chest with a finger, “...Angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile was crooked as he wondered if this would be the thing that pushed him over the edge into a Fall, if this was what would tip him over into something he had been afraid of for so long that the fear felt like an intrinsic part of him. He wondered if this was what would cleave him from Heaven, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the familiar icy terror, the asphyxiating guilt, the feeling of celestial duty stomping on his wants and needs in steel-toed boots, grinding them to dust.

But it didn’t come. There was something - a whisper of censure, a muffled shriek of outrage - but it was so far away as to be almost inaudible, and then Crowley kissed him again and it vanished completely.

There was no going back. He had tasted, for good or for ill, and it had awakened an appetite that couldn’t be ignored, and Aziraphale kissed Crowley back and thought, I’ll be damned.

And he remembered Crowley’s reply of it's not that bad when you get used to it and he thought that if it involved this, then he could get used to it.

Oh, he could definitely get used to this.

****************************************

Aziraphale was smiling up at him. His jacket was... somewhere (now with three fewer buttons), and his waistcoat had been removed and carefully folded (by one sheepish demon feeling guilty about possibly having ripped the jacket). His shirt was fully unbuttoned, hanging loose against his sides, exposing his torso. Crowley had unwrapped him like one of those chocolates Aziraphale liked so much, and now he was lying beneath him panting happily, looking as rumpled as he'd ever seen him, and he loved him, so much, so much, and he thought that if he could, he would reach into his chest and rip out his heart, press it into his hands, close his fingers over it, and he wouldn't feel a thing because after all hadn't it always been there?

And he sat up on his knees, curling two fingers of one hand into one of Aziraphale's belt loops as he used his other hand to drag black-tipped nails down Aziraphale's stomach, eyes creasing in happy satisfaction at the little sounds it elicited. He ran a fingertip along the skin just above his waistband and watched, fascinated, as the angel's skin leaped at his touch.

Aziraphale swallowed, and whimpered, and then said his name, but - unfortunately - it wasn't a mindless utterance spoken in pleasure, it was a question.

Crowley tilted his head and met his gaze.

"Do you-," the angel licked his lips and tried again. "Do you... Do you have an awful lot of experience with this sort of thing?"

Crowley stared at him.

"What?"

"How many times have you...?"

Crowley blushed. Properly blushed. "Er...."

"I just want to know how similar this is to temptations you might have done in the past-"

"You think I do this with-"? Crowley is so indignant he almost chokes. "A kiss, maybe, at most, and that's only if absolutely necessary!"

Aziraphale was the one staring now. "So you've never...?"

"No!" A moment of silence passed while he turned the question over in his head and a thought occurred to him. "Have you?"

"No! No of course not!" Aziraphale says hurriedly, and the quick stab of jealousy that had pierced Crowley's chest immediately disappeared.

"Oh. Right. Good. I mean, okay."

Although Aziraphale is rather pink, and he has been known to lie...

"Are you sure?" Crowley can't help it, he just blurts it out, this needy question, this desperate request for reassurance, for yes I'm sure, and yes you're the only one.

"Quite sure," Aziraphale frowns at him, but his cheeks are magenta.

"You're blushing, angel," he points out.

"Well, I may not have done it before, but I've read things..."

"... Of course you have," said Crowley dryly.

"... So I'm certainly familiar with the theory."

Crowley's eyebrows rose. "Right. The theory."

He nodded at Aziraphale, enchanted as usual, besotted like always. Here he was lying beneath him, struggling to draw breath, flushed with pleasure, and the blessed angel was trying to talk to him about theory.

"I can tell you about it," breathed Aziraphale, "I can tell you about- about- about erogenous zones."

Crowley groaned and buried his face in Aziraphale's neck.

"I could tell you about- about-" Aziraphale stuttered as Crowley nipped at his shoulder with teeth that were slightly sharper than they ought to have been. "... th-th-the different-"

"If you say erogenous zones again, I swear..." growled Crowley, pinching one of his nipples, making Aziraphale arch off the bed with an embarrassingly loud cry. "What do you take me for?"

As charming as he found Aziraphale's love of learning, Crowley didn't think this was the time to discuss theory. All he wanted to do was trust his intuition and keep experimenting and exploring until he discovered how to make Aziraphale see stars.

He would figure it out as he went. He was sure he would.

He always did.

****************************************

In the ensuing hours, Aziraphale and Crowley slowly explored an aspect of humanity they had long ignored.

They made an effort to indulge in human pleasures they had been denying themselves, and after that there were no more miracles.

There was no snapping of fingers, no shortcut taken, no instant gratification. They had waited for so long, wondered for so long. Reverent, trembling fingers explored creases and dips, curves and hollows, millimetre by millimetre.

There was an urgency that shook them both, powerful and electric, and it was the feeling of a door they’d been pushing against forever, shoulder to shoulder, suddenly opening so that they were tumbling through it and falling into each other.

They harnessed it. They channeled it into the gentle pressure of fingertips digging into sensitive skin, and unhurried, leisurely kisses, and deliberate, tender touch, and skin being revealed by degrees, and adoring hands, and worshipping mouths, and achingly slow strokes.

Words were exhaled by one to be inhaled by the other, and their names fell from their lips like prayers, and they were together, and they were inhabiting each others' hearts, and they were inhabiting each others' bodies. Angel, demon...

And neither of them exploded.

And both of them saw stars.

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