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maggotmouth · 4 years

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APHRODITE & ARES — no choir.

hllo!! this is a thread moosh ( @svlhouette ) n i started (bt never finished) for the gods event between aphrodite & ares. there’s only 4 replies / sections but i’ve put it below a read more bc i dont wanna clog the dash up! i didnt know wht to call it so i called it no choir, felt apt. listen to it if u like. its a song abt stillness n the temporary nature of love n ppl never remembering ur love story or smthn.

APHRODITE.

she smells of lavender, warm honey on the tongue, of summer. of the seasons, aphrodite most resembles summer – the warmth, the pristine happiness that seems to spread like a virus under the coppice of a heatwave, the long afternoons that seem endless in youth and so distant when looking back in later years.

“tell me what you were like when you were little…” she murmurs, her index finger tracing against the skin of ares' abdomen, bare beneath egyptian cotton, the sweat of both their bodies still ripe in the aftermath of a heated, burning love. neither had spoken for what felt like half an hour, their bodies entwined like rope, tender touches and the lingering feeling of weightlessness. her free hand toys with a stalk of grapes, fingers reaching to press one into his mouth, and her finger lingers against his lips. “what were your dreams, your hopes? who did you want to become?”

hands against his chest ripe with the purple juice of suckling grapes from greedy fingertips, she’s swinging her leg over to straddle him, the hot flesh of her thighs against his hips. as she takes him in her arms her chest drops against the hard muscle of his own. her lips find his, not in a kiss, more of a tickle, gliding against the rough skin in a way that makes her quiver, her hips rocking against his stomach, hands trailing over a scar that marks his torso. her beautiful soldier.

“i wish i’d met you when we were young. that we’d had more time.”

because despite the rare weekends when the god with whom she’s vowed to spend her life is gone from olympus, leaving her dutiless, free to roll her passion into the sweet pants of a feral love in their wedding bed with a man who could make her wet with just a look, it’s never enough. there’s always a hunger within her for more time, more love, more ways to unfurl his body into the sweet, tender shudder of ecstasy and memorise the twinge of every muscle, the way his face scrunches like a locked palm as he reaches it, and the way it feels to be the cause of that passion.

her nose slides along the arch of his own from her position perched above him, knees locking around his waist, her hands travelling to cup around his throat. “do you think you’ll ever run out of hunger? cease to want me? or will it just feed on you until there’s nothing left. nothing but the memory of my kiss.”

ARES.

just another taste, and he’s lit to life with a hunger that goes beyond his control, and an addiction that never seizes to dwindle in intensity. he knows not whether the ordered matrimony speaks of his father’s anger towards her, or his hatred towards him — all he knows is that it drives a wedge into the chasm of their relationship, one that had been hanging from a thread in the first place.

she asks him of his desires, of his youth, and he wishes he could speak words that mirror her essence of lavender, of the heat of july ... but all he’s ever known is the fever of bloodlust and the sea of loneliness he had been dropped into as a child. “more time,” he chooses to repeat, instead of allowing her the answer she searches for, calloused palms coming to press against the soft skin of her thighs and fingertips forming dips in her skin at his grip. oh, how she fits right in his grasp, as if his hands were formed for her and her alone.

“for you, my love? never.” he speaks the truth, his words grazing over plump lips that had graced him with her taste. she had fallen into his grasp before he had known tenderness, and in a touch, she had managed to melt away decades of grief, of suffering, of not knowing his hands were capable of more than taking lives. and just like how gracefully she had been gifted to him, she had been ripped away by a petty feud. how utterly childish of his father.

in a swift motion, he comes to roll across the expanse of his back, his grip tightening on her thighs as he effectively repositions the two of them, her back now pressed against the surface below and his hands now sinking into it. scarred hands gingerly push back locks cascading down her shoulder, revealing otherwise flawless skin marred by marks of his love. “and you? do you yearn for me while sleeping besides him every night? have you missed my touch against your skin?” dipping his head below, he comes to press his lips against the column of her neck, chaste kisses decorating her skin before he continues, “or do you call me here out of loneliness?”

APHRODITE.

they've learned to understand each other in half-translated languages, touch -- once so foreign to him unless in the carnage of war -- slowly becoming a tongue he can recognise, reciprocate, pluck apart the vowels of and mimic in his own voice. still there are secrets that stretch further than the valleys of olympus ever could, there are silences they cannot ignore, and their are childhoods and histories too bloodsoaked for him to unearth, even for her. "we don't have to talk about it," aphrodite utters, a kiss pressed against the softness of his lips, and this is what it means to be a part-time lover. it comes only with the understanding that despite their heavenly bodies and the tales that the mortals will sing of them, theirs will be a story riddled with strife. perhaps that's the saddest kind of tragedy -- when two people who love each other can't be together -- but tragedies have always been her favourite kinds of tales. they breed the best lovers.

he tells her that he'll never cease to want her, though she's seem the flame of zeus' love flicker and die, seen the ways he seeks out other women to quench his boredom, and she finds herself idly wondering if ares will be the same when she is not so new or exciting and there are younger nymphs whose love puts less at stake than the kingdoms their love could unmake.

"never is an awfully long time, fair ares," her breath escapes in a laugh, the roll of their skin made paramount as he places himself above her. there's always a push and pull when it comes to love and lust, so often the same thing when she's buried in his arms, the giving and taking of power like a rush to lovers that time can't compete with. "loneliness..." aphrodite utters, her lips twisting into a gasp as he meets her neck with his mouth. she hungers for the cut of his teeth. "you're just a body, at the end of the day... i'm sure a mortal could sate me as easily." she's toying with him like a cat does string, though it'll only make it more rewarding. games are a common tongue between them, hips rolled like they're dice in a constant battle of who'll crack first. "maybe moreso. there's something exhilarating about the futility of it. from dust they come and to dust they shall return. whereas you'll be here forever... less poignant." can he smell the lies on her teeth? a mortal could never match him. a god never could. the sun itself is no match for the heat he makes her feel.

ARES.

just a body. her words bite, seemingly with teeth sharp enough to pierce skin, but he’s become accustomed to such harmless words masquerading as sharp edged glass, meant to hurt him, meant to push him away. a slight curve of his lips take her words deep into his chest, turn them around, examine them and mull them over, before they’re spit out and labeled as unsatisfactory. “a mere mortal? then why not call upon one in your times of loneliness? why take the risk in angering zeus with our secret affairs when another could sate you just as well?” or perhaps that was exactly the reason why — out of spite for the one who had entrapped her in such a situation ... but then there are glances spared towards one another on days lacking such intimacy, when diplomacy is the setting and their love has no place to settle, and he swears she feels a love for him identical to the one that burns so brightly for her.

a kiss, one with much more strength parts his lips and attaches itself to her neck, drawn out by her gasp. the soft noises that slip past her wine tainted petals leave him wanting more, an unfortunate addiction he cannot seem to curb, despite the warnings that have been laid upon his neck by his father. did the risk push him further into her arms? or was it that while he overlooked the words lacking in what he truly desired to hear, there was a deep fear that she spoke the truth, and there was an urgency to change her mind?

he’s a fool, and he knows this. the mortals sing of it, though they do not know the depth of it, not when it comes to her. even through words that hold none of the feelings he desires, even kept hidden in the shadows, he’s still fully and wholly hers. tainted hands intertwined deeper within her locks, fingertips grazing against the width of them as they fall through like silk. “tell me. why do you return to me?”

#i wish i hd written more bt alas..... work is kicking my ass #⥂ a study of aphrodite ; thea delacroix. ╱ threads.#& ares / august.

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