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theold-ultraviolence · 1 year

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Hii Irma😁

Did ppl even go on honeymoons back in yee old westeros?!?! Doesn't matter cause Aemond is taking his lovely wife on a honeymoon away from the prying eyes of the red keep

idk much of the world lore so idk exactly where they'd go maybe he'd have a cabin built for them in a beautiful forrest where the above image happens along with adorable horny shenanigans

ilovethismansomuchitsstupidhowattractediamtohim

Nothing Else Matters

Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

A/N: CEE!! you always come through with the absolute BEST ideas. I love you and your big brain. Hope you like this!! CW: PIV sex, unprotected sex, creampie, sex in a lake. Words: 2k.

You’d been betrothed far too young and married soon after.

Mere children you were, too innocent to comprehend just what love could feel like; if it was even real and not just a figment of a bard’s song. That it could indeed be present in a marriage. Yet you were mature enough to know that such an arrangement was a duty to honor and uphold for the sake of the kingdom. A matter of politics, nothing else.

At least something remained unburdened between prince Aemond and you: your friendship.

Never did either of you question the order of things, nor complain about the betrothal, for you’d always been best friends.

You’d been close to Aemond since you can recall, were right there with him – and for him – when he’d lost his eye. When he felt the betrayal from his own kin, it was you whom he had deemed worthy to safekeep his trust, and who continued to do so faithfully through the years of marital life that followed.

As long as you two stuck together, nothing else mattered.

Thus seasons passed.

The sunrises lead to sunsets that painted everything liquid gold and gave ordinary people angelic halos around their hair that could lead anyone to believe that otherworldly things existed, such as love in a marriage.

And it was in those kinds of moments, with the evening dew rising in the atmosphere and a comforting scent imprinted on pillows and sheets, soon Aemond and you learned that some rituals imposed could be blessings in disguise.

As soon as the both of you were conscious of the truth that sneaked into your hearts as you grew older, you decided to find the time to celebrate the year in which you were bound together, in your own ways, hidden away from all prying eyes of the Red Keep or even all of King’s Landing.

The first time, all you did was drink the finest of wines in your shared bedchamber, with your feet bare and nothing but your night clothes, sitting in front of the hearth while sharing stories and gossip like mischievous children reclaiming their right to be silly within the impenetrable walls of stone you grew up in.

Another year, you wore a set of cloaks and visited the Street of Flour in King’s Landing to buy freshly baked treats – even wandering around a tavern and watching a show, forgetting all about the royal titles that mandated where you should or shouldn’t be.

Then another, amidst conflict and tensions rising, your energy only allowed for a moment of rest; the whole day spent in bed and nothing more.

During an aimless flight with Vaghar, Aemond came across an abandoned forest that he didn’t recognize from the maps that he’s studied so thoroughly. Maybe he’d even landed on a magical portal, looking at the wide, crystalline lake that surrounded the land, as blue as his sapphire eye and so crystalline that he could see the clouds above, mirrored in sharp detail. More proof of the otherwordly.

In front of it, he found a cabin, built right from the trunk of a tree, with no apparent sign of life inhabiting it. On his way back home, he couldn’t wait to tell you – and then, show you.

Now, a couple of years afterwards, the little cabin is fully equipped with a spacious bed and a rug. You didn’t need much, when all the other resources could be hunted down and gathered from the surroundings – didn’t need much but each other.

Nothing else mattered except for this faraway sanctuary that you’d found, where you’re able to commemorate another year in blissful solitude.

No prying eyes, drunken siblings, or uninvited remarks.

Nothing matters but the sight of you bathing in the lake, as Aemond sits by the edge of it, focusing on turning twigs and logs into a blazing fire.

He’s in nothing but a silk robe that covers his flushed skin after he’d vigorously fucked you just a moment ago – eyepatch discarded ever since, too, so that he could be eased by the soft kiss of the cold wind on his face.

His nerves are still buzzing from having been buried deep inside of you, with your legs firmly enveloped around his lower back to pull him ever so close to you – memories that flash as he sees your figure floating on the water, just basking in it until you feel it growing warm. Those same, gorgeous legs looking longer as the calm waves that pillow you refract the light – all languid and well spent and so inviting.

He’d jump right in there with you, but the sight you make is too beautiful to disrupt, so he just sits there mesmerized.

You’re a siren, straight out of mythology, when you submerge into the water to then surge upwards, with your hair splayed back and curves glistening with droplets that look like diamonds with the way the sun reflects on your skin.

You turn to look at him from over your shoulder with an impish smirk, before you face him completely and bless him with the image of your breasts and your torso dripping wet, which makes his mouth water and his heart take on a galloping speed.

You swim closer to Aemond, sultrily calling to him, “Māzigon, valzȳrys.”

Come, husband…you even speak as an enchantress would, and he can’t deny that he’s spellbound.

“Come join me, Aemond,” you curl your finger for him to come hither, but he remains in place, still watching – always watching, pondering.

There’s a tenderness that he feels when he sees you smile in such a mischievous way. He remembers the girl he’d befriended a long time ago, now the woman that he swears his devotion to, be it on his knees or linked in hand during royal affairs. His heart contracts thinking about how, even if you live to see one hundred years together, you’ll still remain his precious childhood friend.

“You look so peaceful in there, ābrazȳrys.”

You throw your head back laughing, teasing him with the ravishing line of your neck. “Can’t we be peaceful together?”

Aemond chuckles to himself, gaze turning a little bit darker. “I can’t guarantee there’ll be peace if I go in there with you.”

“Then do what you must, husband. Who’s stopping you?”

“Hmmm.” He looks down with a smirk, considering the crackling embers of the fire by his side: scorching heat like the coiling in his loins.

Then back up at you: soft, yet wild like a watercolor painting.

Is he in the mood for rough ventures or sweet ones?

With one quieter humm he rises to his feet, looking straight at you with utmost potency as he shoulders off his robe and discards it to the side to enter the water and swim right to you, gathering you in his arms.

You giggle as you wrap your arms around him, flashing him with your pearly white teeth and juicy lips that he tastes immediately, before letting himself float on his back, taking you alongside.

You traverse the water like two mating swans, gliding gracefully while locked in a loving kiss.

Right before he takes a deep breath and sinks underwater, to rise dramatically and lift you up by surprise, making you cackle unabashedly – in a way you’d never be allowed to do back home, but so reminiscent of your childlike innocence.

“Keligon, valzȳrys!” You beg him to stop between your shared laughter.

He relents just so he could gather you up in his arms once more, carrying you like a precious babe, so you can lean your head back and soak up your hair while grinning to the sky above.

Aemond nears the shore until he’s able to plant his feet in the soil beneath, and fully support you as you maneuver your legs to wrap around his waist while your arms snake securely around his neck. You nuzzle the crook of it, the underside of his jaw, card your fingers through his damp, silver locks while the tip of your nose grazes the shell of his ear.

“Take me please, dear husband.” You whisper against his temple, earning you a deep humm and the searing feeling of his hard cock bumping against your tummy.

“As you wish, my lady.” He murmurs, with a dilated gaze and lustful mouth as he kisses you with all the emotions he can’t quite convey through spoken word.

You take his erection in hand, giving it a few pumps to drink in his quiet moans, feel it throbbing and ready to let gravity work its magic and wrap him up to the hilt with your fluttering cunt.

You hiss in surprise, never growing fully accustomed to the great size of him buried deep inside – so deep that your clit can rub against his taut pelvis, graze against the coarse blonde hairs on his navel.

Aemond’s legs are so strong he’s able to thrust into you without problem, even though the water is a fine aid – he fucks you sweetly, deliberately, letting you float before tensing his legs and core each time that you come down onto him and make his thrusts hit you harder, deeper.

“Aemond, Aemond, Aemond…” you blabber on his name like a prayer to whatever deity guards these woods, nails digging into the pale freckles scattered across his muscled back.

“What do you want, my darling?” he moans your title in High Valyrian, “ābrazȳrys…” as he walks back to where there’s a slight elevation in the ground so that he can hike up a leg and piston in even deeper, pulling groans right out of your gut, for his slick head keeps bumping and grazing your g-spot in a way that makes your vision go white.

“Ohh, yes…I want…”

“Use your words, ābrazȳrys,” he snickers, and you roll your eyes because how dare he. How dare he ask for the very thing he seldom gives, especially when he has you in such a fevered state, knowing the water cannot soothe you, for it had turned warm hours ago, the longer you spent in it.

“Ahh, I…I want to cum, dear husband.”

“Hmmm…”

You whimper when his pace slows down.

It’s torture.

Needless torture, this game that he plays.

But he wants to see your pleading eyes first.

So he redirects your gaze, holding your jaw in his hand and making you look at him – not the moon creeping up early through the clouds, not the marvelous greenery surrounding you.

No, Aemond needs to see your pupils blown with ardor, your slack jaw and your salivating mouth and your raging pulse that makes your breath quicken and nipples all perked up, glistening with droplets of water, for the lake water splashes your chest each time you bounce on his cock.

When he sees you weakened with unbearable pleasure, does he take mercy.

His grip on your back tightens, the muscles of his legs contract to plunge inside of you harder, harder, harder –

– Until you collapse with a hysterical groan, throwing your head back and tattooing crescent moons on his shoulder blades.

He snakes both arms around your hips, gluing you to him to fill you to the brim with his cum and not let any drop spill and ruin the iridescent waters that envelop you.

“I’d say…” you sigh, opening your eyes to see the gorgeous image that Aemond makes with his blushing skin, lax muscles and half-lidded eye. “I’d say this has been one of the best anniversaries, my prince.”

“Right as always, ñuha gevie ābrazȳrys”

My beautiful wife.

The gal of this man, you swear.

He speaks in the language of his ancestors and you can’t help but contract your walls around him, feeling him start to harden once more. His stamina is truly god-like.

How could you have guessed such a thing, knowing what a calm boy he used to be.

Nothing else matters but this truth that only the two of you know; how childhood friendship can endure, that a marriage pact can evolve.

And what the two of you share, in life and in this moment.

And what you plan on doing for the rest of the afternoon.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen smut #hotd #house of the dragon fanfiction #reader insert #female reader #my writing #ewan mitchell

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hurricane-heatt · 3 months

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for the trope mash up, may i request summer camp au + accidentally married + martian? :P

hello!!!! you’ll have to forgive me for both the time this took and the brief accidentally married bit but it made it in there and it’s sweet i think!!!! i hope u like it :)

seb and mark as camp leaders! they both have their own group of about ten kids and their groups go together on adventure walks in the mornings (an hour for the kids to get all their energy out and then do nice quiet things in the afternoon). the groups joining together is not by choice.

it’s a problem because the two group leaders bicker. a lot. the camp is very underfunded so a lot of the equipment is missing and/or on its last legs. they mostly argue about silly things like Well you had the stove last night so can my kids have it tonight? But we’re toasting marshmallows! You toasted marshmallows last night!!!! no one seems to think why don’t we just collaborate and share a stove. (one of the other camp leaders will sigh and push their own stove towards whoever’s moaning abt it)

they are also deeply competitive on behalf of their camps. children are children and love games and winning and beating each other and seb and mark sort of might maybe use this as an excuse to wind each other up. the whole ethos of the campus is Be Kind Everyone’s a Winner Teamwork all that rubbish. seb and mark, upon hearing there’s a egg and spoon race across the wider camp, are strategically planning who is best suited to compete for their team.

it always comes down to Webber vs Vettel and the kids love it because children are desperate to shout and cheer at anything that moves, especially when the thing moving is their friends and in the background their camp leaders are elbowing each other when one wins and the other loses

anyway. one day they’ve gone on an adventure walk. afterwards one of the kids comes and taps mark and has a very sad little look on her face. she’s lost her camp backpack and it had all of her stuff in it (the way kids bring every item they own everywhere). she’s all teary eyed and nervous and so mark says don’t worry, i’ll go and look for it. can’t have sprouted legs and walked off!

but then mark realises the girl is from seb’s group. so he goes and tells seb and he’s like Oh we’d better go look for it. mark is like Um. We? seb shrugs. says Well she told you so. You have to come with me. It’s only fair actually. Anyway, two sets of eyes are better than one!

(lots of flimsy excuses to spend time with mark, who he’s had a little bit of a crush on since seb started working here last summer, that’s irrelevant, though.)

cue plenty of huffing. but off they go! into the woods! they follow the same trail they did in the morning, up the hill, through the twisty trees, as they’re colloquially named for the way they wrap around both the sky and themselves, the huge and constantly muddy puddle on a concrete path that the kids delighted in getting their boots in.

and it’s a nice day so maybe they take a little longer on the way, while also peering around bushes in case any passersby have been kind enough to drop the backpack in for safekeeping.

maybe seb takes a little longer in the dirt, checking behind trees because when he turns around mark’s got one hand on his hips, squinting into the sun with the other hand covering his eyes and he’s actually really toned and his arms are very nice. he’s noticed before obviously. how could he not. he’s just a guy. but this is different, especially when mark turns to look at him and seb feels particularly caught out when he grins knowingly. Shut up. Keep walking.

and maybe mark lingers a bit behind seb as he runs ahead thinking he sees a glimpse of red on a fence post. maybe he watches because seb’s hair turns golden in the light like a halo and it’s very beautiful. like art, mark thinks, and he wishes he had a camera. or maybe he can keep it all to himself in his memory

seb turns back around when he sees it isn’t the backpack, just a bit of a torn fabric from a tent, and mark sighs but they’re nearly at the end of the trail (a big loop around the campsite) so Surely it must be ahead!

the last part of the walk is always the children’s favourite, a big hill leading into a sunken in field, a valley of sorts. there’s a footpath worn out by adventurers over the years but they all, everytime, get on their stomachs and roll down on the grassy part, tufts sticking to their shirts as they land at the bottom, giggling. seb looks as if he’s itching to recreate it but they carry on down the grown up route.

something catches their eye in the middle of the field, and there sits a bright red backpack, looking very lost. they run towards it as if it’s some precious artefact and they cheer and hug each other and then laugh it off nervously. because they’re stupid.

the running wore them out, though, so they sit on the grass. the kids are fine with the other camp leaders, probably being better behaved than they do for mark and seb themselves, so they’ll take a break. seb notices (after he stops looking at mark who’s leant back on his forearms and looking sweaty and handsome) that there’s little braided stems littered in the grass.

Oh, she must’ve got distracted when making the daisy chains! Easy to do, replies mark with a smile, eyes shut as he soaks up the sun

seb picks one chain up, inspects the way they’re intricately laced into one another, finds some half finished ones too. he gets to work piercing a hole through the stem with his nail, threading it through, over and over until it fits neatly on his wrist. flimsy and delicate but he grins and shows it to mark

mark will smile and say, Can I have one? and seb would say Make one yourself you lazy arse, and then mark would pull himself upright and scramble to launch at seb, who laughs loud and bold like it’s so easy to do. he fights because because he’s no quitter and the smell of grass and the sun beating down on them mixes in their lungs and Oh, look, you’ve snapped it!

seb frowns but stops when he realises he’s now on top of mark, was pinning his wrists to the dirt when he notices his bracelet has broken and fallen off. mark doesn’t say a word, just breathes and looks straight up at seb. they both breathe like that for a while, seb in two minds, a dozen fleeting thoughts while mark looks so calm. how can this be so easy? how can it be so hard?

Pull me up, then. Sure, sorry. S’alright. I’ll make you another bracelet.

so then they sit quietly against each other, knees touching, and occasionally mark let’s out an exasperated sigh as he splits the stem (big hands, clumsy) but eventually there’s a semblance of a bracelet for the both of them. they gather up some of the smaller rings too, to bring them back for the kids. finally, seb hoists the little red backpack over one shoulder, and they make their way back to the camp

it’s late afternoon so they’re getting ready for dinner around the fire, and some of the kids are comforting the little girl who lost her backpack. It’ll be okay! They’ll find it! Mark found my hat, remember! Yeah, and Seb found my pencil case!

when seb and mark return it’s as if they’ve brought home a golden trophy. the girl hugs seb’s knees and they both scruff her hair and say Be careful next time!

the kids crowd around them, hailed as heroes, and one points to their arms and gasps, turning to their friend and giggling. then they’re all in fits of laughter.

What’s so funny? says seb, putting a chain that’s far too long on his hair. everyone keeps laughing and mark looks at him like he’s an angel, with his crown of daisies atop his head. You’re married now! says one of the little boys, and he smacks his hand over his mouth as if he spoke without thinking.

How does that work, then! mark laughs but doesn’t look at sebastian, who’s looking at him with pink cheeks and a wide smile. Because you both have the bracelets on! It’s fairy magic, it means you’re married forever! one girl chimes in, her tone of voice as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I can’t be stuck with him forever! and all the children cackle with laughter and run back to their seats around the campfire as dinner is called, plastic plates on their laps.

and they both should go and help serve the food but instead they just stand there for a little while, watching the flames dance in the pit.

and then maybe mark slips his hand into sebastian’s, just gently, the daisy chains sliding against one another. and seb squeezes, once, and doesn’t let go. like it’s easy.

#guess who got carried away again #sebmark #martian #sorry i’m a sucker for an au

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snowbellewells · 1 year

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Self Promo Sunday: “Got My Angel Now”

This week’s re-run is another that I’ve always been pretty fond of (What can I say? I’m a sucker for the hurt/comfort and emotional angst and healing that could easily have fit into canon, but which the show didn’t always take time for) I initially wrote it after 5x03 “Siege Perilous”, and though some of the events were quickly made canon divergent as the Camelot arc went on, I don’t think it’s so far off as to be ruined for enjoyment’s sake. The title comes from a line in “Halo” by Beyonce, and the lyrics included in the scene breaks are from Christina Perri. (Neither of them, nor our lovely Pirate and Princess duo are mine. I just like to give them quiet moments ;p )

Summary: A post-5x03 one shot where the Storybrooke gang learn of Arthur's treachery much sooner, and in much more painful fashion. (Some whump aftermath and definite CS hurt/comfort involved)

Also available on AO3 and ff.net, if either of those are your preference...

By: @snowbellewells

They should never have trusted Arthur so blindly. Have they learned nothing yet after meeting so many heroes and monsters of myth and legend and finding them the opposite of how they are painted in the tales of old? Oh, aye, the royal had been stealthy – welcoming them to Camelot, throwing a grand ball in their honor, knighting David as a brother-in-arms and seating him in the very Siege Perilous once held by Lancelot himself – but it had made them let down their guard…and now Emma was paying the price.

Standing surrounded in the tower room Regina and Belle use as they research and experiment trying to find a way to communicate with and free Merlin, Arthur’s treachery suddenly comes into sharp focus for all of them. An entire phalanx of Camelot knights – Dave’s supposed comrades – surround Killian, Henry, David, Robin, and Belle (unfortunately Regina is not present to wipe them all out with a wrathful fireball) with swords at their chests or throats, circled closely enough that breaking free or moving to help the last member of their party is impossible.

Arthur himself stands facing Emma, his blade drawn and pointed just above her heart, poised to pierce her chest and make that precious, priceless organ spill its lifeblood and go still. Killian feels himself practically vibrating both with rage at the betrayal and his fear for her; not to mention the bitter anger he can feel radiating off of the prince beside him. He reaches out a hand to clutch Henry’s forearm, feeling the boy nearly jerk forward to his mother’s aid. He doesn’t think these men would hurt one so young, but he is no longer certain.

“Now Dark One,” Arthur spits, his voice harsh with controlled venom, “you and I are going to the tree. Your magic and the mushroom your noble father so kindly procured for me,” here he slants a gaze at Charming, “will show me what to do to free Merlin and to trap you instead, where you rightly belong.”

Killian knows Emma now possesses enough magic in her little finger alone to blow all these men away, but she holds back, as afraid as any of them that magic use will only continue to give the darkness more footholds in her psyche. She slants her eyes from boldly staring Arthur down to seek his. He wants to tell her to fight, to disappear - escape - and he wishes to know what he can do to comfort her, but the words and the knowledge elude him. Instead, his only ease is found in knowing that Emma’s dagger is nowhere near here – not where Arthur can lay hands on it and control his love. Though he does not know where Snow and Lancelot have taken it for safekeeping, it is at least beyond this broken monarch’s reach.

There is nothing to do but watch as Arthur has two more knights bind Emma’s hands and force her none-too-gently from the room behind him, the rest of the guard linger menacingly, to be sure none of them can follow or try to help her until they are well away.

It matters not; he will catch up, no matter where they take her. Emma must only hold on, keep her faith…

I believe in the lost possibilities you can’t see

and I believe that the darkness reminds us where light can be;

I know that your heart is still beating, beating, Darling,

I believe that you fell just so you could land next to me.

So hold on, hold on…

Though naught but a quarter of an hour passes before the rest of Arthur’s men withdraw from them, it is well into the evening before Killian finds Emma in a moonlit clearing of the dense forest which encircles the kingdom. Their group had split up in the hopes of someone reaching Swan that much faster, once word spread of Arthur’s failing to trap the Dark One and how she had used her powers to vanish from his grasp in the courtyard. Killian still does not know what had been done to her before that, but he can only be glad she has outsmarted their treacherous adversary and saved herself. He practically deflates with relief at the sight of her before him, appearing hale and in one piece. He cannot be anything but glad that it is he who will have a moment alone with his love. It does not matter that it has not even been a whole day, his relief upon seeing Emma again is almost too great to bear. The vision of her before him across the clearing is like the first breath of fresh spring air to his weary soul after too long locked away in suffocating winter. The last few hours he has been struggling for breath, consciously forcing his heart not to skip beats in agony and worry for her and what she might be suffering. His joy is great enough to override caution, and he doesn’t take in the raw, unhinged look in her wild eyes, nor the way she fairly vibrates with some unknown strain or injury.

The air around Emma pulses with electricity, and she throws out a hand to ward him off – pulling Killian up short when he feels the force pressing him back. Drawing in a steadying breath and hesitating to truly study her expression of confusion and anxiety, he realizes with a sharp pang in his chest that he is not sure whether she is merely trying to protect him while out of control, or if she truly doesn’t know him in this moment.

Those mesmerizing green eyes which never fail to capture him in their depths, flit nervously from his face, to his hand and hook, to her own trembling fingers outstretched between them, to the trees that surround them, and back again nervously – clearly unsettled and pained. Their emerald depths have never appeared so dark before, as if the forces fighting within to color her very mind and spirit are attempting to spread into even the smallest details of her being. His Swan literally shakes, even as she attempts to hold herself steady, staring at him across the open space. “What are you doing here?!?” she demands, looking shaken and angry, but at the same time as if she wants nothing more than to close the gap, fall into his supporting arms, and hold on for dear life. “I brought myself here for a reason, Killian! I barely got away from them, and I had to use my powers to do it. I can’t risk something like that happening again. I’m too dangerous to be near anyone until I find Merlin – and not when Arthur is waiting. Not until I get rid of this, this…thing inside me. I feel it swirling and clawing… even when it isn’t speaking to me in Rumplestiltskin’s voice, it’s trying to break free. So…y-you can’t be here! I w-won’t hurt you…” Her lower lip trembles, but she looks so firm in her decision and determined to suffer alone in her misery that his heart constricts, breaking a bit more at the sight of her anguish.

He cannot bear to see her hurting this way, to hear the agony in her voice; the yearning loneliness made plain beneath her warning to him makes him continue to inch closer, regardless of the threat Emma thinks she poses. He had known the wretched feeling of hopeless despair she is feeling all too well himself – for years – until she came along and brought more to his life than revenge, brought back the man of honor he once was. He takes another hesitant step forward, cautiously reaching out for her with a gentle hand and equally coaxing voice. “Easy now, Love,” he practically croons. “We can be careful…but you should not – and will not – have to do this alone.”

“Please stop!” she cries out, shooting another regretful look of longing at him.

Killian shakes his head, unwilling to let her go on like this, sure that he can help her, soothe her, and ease her pain if he can only reach her. He watches as Emma continues to tremble, but she remains still, allowing him to approach, even if she does so fearfully. Finally, the very tips of his fingers graze her cloak, then his whole hand rests on her upper arm, gripping gently as if unsure that she won’t still flee.

Just as she did in that circle of stones when their whole party first arrived in Camelot, Emma expels a terribly ragged breath and deflates, falling into him and clutching his shoulders as desperately as he clings to her. Killian breathes again, having barely realized he was holding it, and smooths a hand through her hair. He is not at all deterred by Emma’s moment of weakness, her nearly unhinged power, nor her fear. He is only glad she has finally reached for him in time of need. He will not give her up; he will find a way to help her, show her he will never fear her – whatever betide – and he will not fail to fight for her against any threat or foe. Watching her battle the Darkness within allows him to see, not her faltering, but even more of her strength. His admiration for her has only grown. No one else could understand the allure of the dark and the valor needed to claw away from it as he can.

‘Cause I have been where you are before

and I have felt the pain of losing who you are,

I have died so many times, but I am still alive

So hold on, hold on….

Tenderly, reverently, Killian’s hand travels on – down from the silken waves of her golden hair to trace Emma’s shoulders, then her back, pressing just enough to draw her closer, only to release her quickly when she cries out in pain at even the slight weight of his hands on her back. She tries to swallow her reaction in the next instant – hide it away – but she cannot conceal the wince that escapes as she curls in on herself protectively, nor can he fail to see the stiff way she holds her shoulders now that he is looking for it.

His calloused fingers come to cup her strong chin, tilting Emma’s face to meet his gaze, so she cannot avoid his eyes. “Where are you hurt, Swan?” he murmurs lowly, voice rough with concern. His words might be soft, but they are taut with worry and anger that these brigands would dare to lay a rough hand on his princess. “What did they do to you?”

Emma shakes her head, pulling away from his cautious grip and biting down on her lower lip in that way she has when trying to avoid baring herself to him, especially if the knowledge he seeks might be painful. “It’s nothing, Killian. Don’t worry over it. I…I could have healed it already…if I weren’t worried about using my magic.”

Impatiently, he shakes his own head once, frustrated at her stubbornness and unconcern for her own well-being. “It is not nothing, Emma. Of that I am quite sure.” His words are clipped with the force of his emotion, accent more pronounced, and Emma feels a shiver skitter down her spine that is as much from attraction as foreboding over what he will do when he sees her injuries. Carefully, but firmly, Killian places both hand and hook on her shoulders and turns her around to face away from him.

For a moment, Emma clutches her cloak about her, trying to keep this revelation from his eyes in one last desperate effort, but when pain lances through her shoulders and she cannot bite back the whimper that escapes her, she knows it is a losing battle. Slumping forward, she releases a sigh and ceases to fight against his gentle determination.

“There now, Lass,” her pirate coaxes in that warm burr of his. His hand and hook barely skim over her form as he unclasps and pulls the cloak away. “Let us see, hmm? Everything will be…” However, his voice chokes and trails off before he can finish his gentle reassurance. A strangled noise in his throat and the sudden heavy tension in the air around them tells her without doubt that once the cloak was off her shoulders, the wide neckline and low back of her dress leave the stinging marks on her flesh exposed plainly to his eyes.

Neither of them move for several long, silent moments, and Emma presses her trembling lips together tightly, trying desperately not to let the tears that are welling in her eyes fall. She hisses when the cool metal of his hook gingerly traces the brand burned into her right shoulder, serving to mark her as a witch, and the scattered whip weals she bore rather than admit anything about where her dagger was hidden, further endangering Merlin and the rest of them. The lash marks pulse hotly along with the beat of her heart and the blood rushing through her veins. Somehow, though, the tender care in his touch soothes her a bit, and she relaxes, almost sinking to her knees in relief and exhaustion as he continues. Her eyes slip closed, and she nearly feels safe again until he whispers in a broken voice. “Oh, Love, how could they do this to you? …I am so very sorry, Emma.”

Her tears do fall silently then, and she turns back to him, wordlessly trailing her fingers across his face, up over his cheekbones, wiping his matching tears away. Shushing Killian even as his shoulders shake with silent emotion, Emma leans against his chest and tries for the first time in what feels like ages to let down her guard and catch her breath at the safety she finds in his arms.

Eventually, Killian pulls back slightly, brushing a loose tendril of her mussed hair off her forehead and resting his hand along the side of her face softly. He shifts to take her hand in his and then leads her to the banks of the small river running placidly behind them. Urging Emma wordlessly to sit on a large rock at the water’s edge, he pulls a clean black scarf from inside his long coat, bends to wet it in the cool water, then comes back to crouch behind her. Clearing his throat in a nervous way that warms her heart, Killian asks gently. “Not to be indelicate, Swan, but can you shrug out of your frock for a moment? Hold it up in the front if you wish, but I need to see your whole back if I am to clean your wounds properly.”

Emma dips her head, blushing fiercely, and does as he asks, sucking in a sharp, pained breath once more as she eases the material from her shoulders and the movement stretches the torn skin of her back. Finally, she wraps her arms tightly around her torso, holding the front of the dress up and bracing herself. Hissing as the damp cloth first makes contact with the bloody stripes sliced into her pale hide, she tries not to flinch or wince and make Killian’s task more difficult; however, she can feel Killian’s hesitance and guilt at hurting her more, even in order to help, regardless of how she tries to hold her reactions in.

Slowly, the water begins to cool the enflamed agony, and she eases a fraction, feeling a bit like his ministrations are healing her as well as any magic could. The feel of his fingers ghosting over her back and down her arm as he finishes and tells her she can pull her gown back into place remind her vividly of another time so long ago, when he used another of his scarves to bind a wound to her hand, seemingly reading her mind as he did so and seeing the attraction she had felt for him even then simmering under her skin. His care that day atop the beanstalk had made her ache to trust him, and looking back now, it nearly floors her to realize just how completely she does trust him – so much so that she would place her very life in his hands without question.

Emma feels the warm exhalation of her pirate’s breath on her neck mere seconds before he lightly rests his forehead there, seemingly needing to hold her as he draws in a shaky breath. They are silent for some time; the running water, bird calls, and scuffling of wild creatures in the brush are the only sounds around them. Finally, he eases away and speaks once more, circling to face her as he does so. “Emma, I know you do not want to put yourself at more risk – nor do you want to be forced to use your magic again to defend yourself, or any of us – but you must return with me. We can find some place for you to stay where Arthur and his sorry excuses for ‘gallant’ knights will never know of your return. You must have some salve or medicine and better treatment than I can offer for those cuts, and especially the burn. I fear it could become infected. Regina will be near enough to guard you with her magic this time, and we will not be taken unawares again. I certainly will not be making the mistake of trusting anyone else in Camelot.”

She wants to argue with him, to be strong enough to stay out here alone and in hiding, but she cannot make herself form the words. In fact, she knows with painful certainty that she cannot bear to have Killian out of her sight right now. Weakened and vulnerable, she needs his comfort and his strength, needs someone with some faith and hope that all which has gone wrong can still work out right. Not only will she worry for his safety and the rash action he might take to right the vicious wrongs done to her, but she yearns for his care just now; his steadfast love the strongest thing keeping the darkness at bay, even as her situation grows more dire.

I believe that tomorrow is stronger than yesterday,

and I believe that your head is the only thing in your way.

I wish that you could see your scars turn into beauty.

I believe that today it’s okay to be not okay…

Hold on, hold on…

This is not the end of me, this is the beginning

Hold on…

Later that night, as moonlight filters into the isolated old hunting lodge that Killian and Henry have somehow located in a far-flung corner of the castle grounds, deserted and dusty from long disuse, Emma wakes from a light doze, still uneasy enough not to sleep deeply, despite her wear and strain. Sitting up stiffly, her eyes search the room, seeking her guardian knight, even as his name escapes her lips worriedly. “Killian?” she asks, a soft, plaintive note in the single whispered word.

He stands quickly from where his lithe form had been curled up on a settee near the window keeping watch, himself bathed in dark shadows and moon glow as he steals across the room to sit on the edge of the bed at her side. “I’m here, Love. Are you in pain? Regina is just outside, I can summon her…”

Emma merely shakes her head, reaching her hand out from under the layers of warm blankets she remembers him tucking around her a couple hours before. Looking up into his fathomless blue, blue eyes, she closes her fingers around his hook, hanging on for dear life. “No, it’s not that,” she assures him, gazing up into his face, drinking in every perfect, adoring feature as he stares back at her. “I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t disappear, that you were still with me…” She trails off, looking sheepish but also honest. They might be more than she would usually say, but she cannot make herself take the words back.

He traces his hand across her forehead soothingly, then lets his fingers tangle gently in her hair, pulling her up to press the softest of kisses to her lips. “Don’t worry, Darling,” he murmurs, his caress easing her pounding heart. “It took me centuries to find you. I won’t be letting go of my saving grace now. We will put an end to this darkness and treachery. Our love story is only beginning.”

And with those words Emma is able to fall back into a healing, dreamless sleep.

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @jennjenn615 @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @jrob64 @apiratewhopines @spartanguard @tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @therooksshiningknight @cosette141 @sotangledupinit @bdevereaux @stahlop @kday426 @gingerchangeling @gingerpolyglot @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @killian-whump @artistic-writer @cocohook38 @motherkatereloyshipper @thislassishooked @elizabeethan @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @xsajx @justanother-unluckysoul @drowned-dreamer @anmylica @iverna @kazoosandfannypacks @booksteaandtoomuchtv @scientificapricot @tomeandflickcorner @lfh1226-linda

#self promo sunday #ouat canon divergent one shot #cs post-5x03 one shot ff #got my angel now #cs hurt comfort #emma whump aftermath

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danydragons21 · 2 years

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TSTS Chapter 24: More

Read on ao3 here.

Chapter 24: More

Elain awoke to shimmery sunlight streaming through the curtains. She watched the dust motes float in the silvery shafts for a moment, lamenting the fact that she was awake. Her dream last night had been so lovely, so perfect, that she wished she could have stayed asleep just a bit longer. Maybe if she went back to sleep, she could pick up where she left off? She was incredibly comfortable, so it shouldn’t be too difficult. As she wiggled further into the cocoon of blankets, her back pressed against something hard and solid.

She twisted over, coming face to face with Azriel. He was still asleep and looked more peaceful than she’d ever seen him look before.

Her heart leapt with joy. It hadn’t been a dream at all. It had been real, all of it, and best of all, he was still here beside her. She felt her whole body grow warm with pure and utter contentment.

A moment later, he stirred, eyes blinking open lazily. He looked confused for a second, as if he had forgotten whose bed he was in, but when his gaze landed on Elain, the fogginess cleared, replaced by an affectionate glow.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice thick and raspy with sleep.

If her body was warm before, it was now burning red. “Good morning,” she said shyly, ducking her head and nuzzling into the crook of his neck, unable to hold his golden gaze. “How did you sleep?” she breathed against his skin. Good gods, he smelled delectable. Even after all the… extracurricular activities they’d undertaken last night, she still wanted to bottle up his scent and hold on to it for safekeeping.

“Very well.” She lifted her head up to see him frowning, as if a good night’s sleep was something out-of-the-ordinary. Something to be concerned over.

She settled her torso over his chest and interlocked her fingers under her chin. “I’ve heard that strenuous exercise helps you sleep better.”

He raised an eyebrow, lazily wrapping his arms around her back. “I’d like to think I exercise strenuously everyday. But I still rarely sleep well.”

Ignoring the swooping sensation in her belly at the unspoken implication that he had slept well next to her, as opposed to so many other nights alone, she dragged a finger down the drastic curve of his bicep. She bit her lip as his muscles tensed slightly. Every part of him was rock-solid. It made her soft, supple body feel even more so in comparison.

“It’s your age, then,” she said, now tracing one of the many spidery veins that laced his enormous arms, bulging out from underneath his bronzed skin. She resisted the urge to follow the lightning-like path with her tongue. “I’ve heard that as you get older, you need more and more sleep. That must be it.”

She felt his length harden between them and a moment later, he spun her around. Her back was flat on the mattress and he was hovering above her, each of her wrists clutched in his massive hands and a knee spreading her legs apart.

“You know, Elain,” he said, staring down at her, “I’m starting to think you like provoking me.”

“Who, me?” She batted her eyelashes innocently. She knew he could hear her racing heart, could probably feel it pounding against his own chest, but she was determined to maintain the facade. Determined to make him break before she did.

“Mhhm, you,” he said, bending forward to delicately nose the skin of her throat. “Some might say you’re taking advantage of my competitive nature.”

“How could I possibly take advantage of you?” She managed to hold in the gasp that threatened to escape as he licked down her neck. “You’re the teacher. I’m only your obedient, willing and eager student.”

He groaned against her skin. Threw his head up, dark and large pupils ringed by a small halo of hazel. Transferred the grip of both of her wrists into one hand and reached between her legs with the other. His fingers caressed her slippery folds.

Elain might have been embarrassed by how wet she already was—they hadn’t even done anything yet, for gods sake—but Azriel didn’t seem to mind.

“Eager is right,” he rasped, shaking his head with wonder. He kissed her on the lips, then, hard and hot, like he couldn’t resist. His talented fingers continued circling her, refusing to give into what he knew she wanted, until finally he slid a finger in, meeting no resistance.

It wasn’t enough.

She arched her back. “More,” she pleaded.

He added a second finger.

She winced, just slightly; it had been a long time since she’d had sex, after all, and he was certainly larger than the average male, so it didn’t surprise her that she was rather sore. But that didn’t mean she wanted to stop.

No. No, she didn’t want to stop at all. Not until he was buried deep inside her again. Not until she was once again experiencing the unparalleled ecstasy that came from their physical connection.

“More,” she breathed.

“More? You want another finger?”

She shook her head.

“My tongue?” he very nearly growled.

As good as that sounded…it wasn’t quite what she had in mind. So she shook her head again.

Releasing her wrists and removing his hand from between her legs, he grabbed her breasts, massaging and pushing them together.

“Use your words, sweet girl,” he murmured, dipping down. She thought he was going to focus on her nipple again, but he did something much better, sucking her breast into his mouth. Her entire breast.

“Aaaaazzz,” she moaned, his name a lusty and elongated sigh.

He released her with a pop. “Fuck, your little tits are so gorgeous.” His eyes were glazed. “Do you see how perfectly they fit in my mouth?” His teeth grazed against a taut peak. “I just want to eat you up.”

Holy hells, he was so good at talking dirty. She could barely think in coherent sentences, let alone form the wonderfully wicked words that came to him so easily.

But she had to try, didn’t she?

“Are you going to make me beg for your cock, or are you going to just give me what I want?”

He froze, then let out a dark chuckle. Slowly removed his hands from her chest and sat back on his knees, eyeing her thoughtfully.

“You know, I was going to be sweet with you this morning,” he murmured, drinking in her languid nude body sprawled across the bed. “Was going to treat you like a gentleman would treat a lady.”

“But not anymore?”

“Not anymore,” he repeated. Tilted his head to the side slightly, as if trying to decide what to do with her. A devious smile blossomed on his face.

Little did he know that Elain had absolutely no interest in being treated like a lady.

“Roll over.”

“What?” She furrowed her brows in confusion.

“Roll. Over.”

Full of trepidation and still puzzling over his intentions, she carefully rolled over onto her stomach.

“Knees up,” he said, tapping her leg.

Blushing furiously at the position, but unwilling to disobey an order, she pushed up until the top part of her body lay against the bed while the bottom part angled upwards.

A strangled noise came from Azriel’s throat. “Holy Mother of…” he said hoarsely. Without warning, his cool hands cupped her lower cheeks, pushing them together and apart, together and apart. Elain was moaning unrestrainedly.

“Please, Az,” she whined.

“Please, what?”

“Please. I want you.” Her voice was a desperate little whimper.

“I’m right here, though.”

She huffed with frustration, at his infuriating refusal and the teasing tone of his voice. He was really going to make her say it, wasn’t he?

“Come on, ‘Lain,” he whispered in her ear, his hot breath sending sparks to her brain.

Godsdamn him. “Az. I want you to fuck me. Please .”

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He pressed a searing kiss to the tattoo on the back of her neck. Their tattoo. Waves of pleasure emanated from where his lips met her skin to the rest of her body.

“But I’m not going to fuck you.”

“What?” she gasped. She looked over her shoulder to find Azriel on his knees behind her, still staring at her ass while his hands slowly massaged the area. “Why not?” she demanded.

“You think I didn’t see you wince earlier?”

She ducked her head. Of course he saw. Stupid, all-seeing Spymaster.

His hand gently cupped her sex. “And I can see how swollen you are,” he said, running a finger down her seam. “Can feel how tender you are. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” Elain said. And she didn’t. Not at all. She wanted the pain as much as she wanted the pleasure. With Azriel, the two were one and the same, anyway.

He placed another kiss against her tattoo, as if he knew how much she loved it when did that. As if he knew it was her weakness.

She sat back on her heels. Azriel let out a low sound of disappointment, probably because her ass was now out of sight, but he got over it a moment later when she nestled her back against his chest. She could feel his length, hard and thick, underneath her. His broad hands reached around and caressed her chest, twisting the turgid peaks.

“I don’t think it’s very fair that you get to decide if I’m okay enough to have sex,” she said.

She could hear the frown in his voice as he said, “Elain. I’m not going to do something I know will cause you pain.”

She looked over her shoulder, meeting his genuine, worried gaze. It melted her heart a little bit.

“I know,” she said softly. “But like I said. You don’t get to decide that.” She rolled her hips, and as Azriel’s length slid between her legs, meeting no friction whatsoever, he moaned brokenly. “I’ll tell you if it’s more than I can take. I promise.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond, and Elain held her breath in anticipation. But when Azriel tightened his grip on her breasts, she knew she’d won.

“Gods,” he muttered, “I have no control when it comes to you. You could ask me for the fucking moon and I’d probably fly into space and bring you back a piece.”

“I don’t want the moon,” she said, closing her eyes and circling her hips on his lap. “I just want you.”

“Fuck,” he swore. “Lean forward again.” And with a broad hand on her back, he pushed her into the previous position. Elain shivered slightly in anticipation. Moaned raggedly when he drew his length up and down against her slit.

Bliss. That’s what she felt as he shoved inside of her. Pure and utter bliss. They moaned in tandem at how smoothly he slid into her soaking depths. Even though she’d just felt him last night, she’d forgotten how incredible the sensation was. How perfectly they fit together. She was so full, sated to the very brim with his delicious cock.

“Gods save me,” he murmured, cupping a cheek in each hand and spreading her wide, so wide she thought he could look right through her, if he wanted. “This ass, Elain,” he said, lazily thrusting in and out of her, “this ass will be the death of me.” Whimpering at his words and the tortuously slow rhythm, she pushed back against him, silently begging him to pick up the pace. He only chuckled, knowing exactly what she was asking for but refusing to give it to her.

But slow was not the speed she wanted to go.

“If you’re afraid to go fast because you think you’ll finish too quickly, I promise I won’t judge you.” Azriel froze mid-thrust as her words hit him. She grinned into the pillow; provocation was such an underestimated weapon of manipulation. Truly.

Slender fingers wound through the strands of her hair and tugged roughly, pulling her flush against his chest. Elain’s breathing grew even more ragged as his hot lips caressed her neck.

“Has anyone ever told you how absolutely devilish you are?”

“No. Tell me.”

“You’re fucking evil, Elain. You’ll be my goddamn undoing.”

She’d never heard such delicious words.

“Elain?”

Oh gods. Someone was at the door.

In a flash, Azriel slapped a hand over her mouth. Just in time, too, for Elain couldn’t keep in her gasp of surprise. His cock was still inside of her, hot and throbbing.

“Elain, I know you’re awake. Are you still mad at me?”

It was Vassa. Of course. She needed to have a serious chat with her friend about a little something called timing .

Azriel’s hand loosened over her mouth. She glanced at him over her shoulder.

“Reply to her ,” he mouthed.

“No! ” she mouthed back, shaking her head. “ I can’t!”

His eyes narrowed and he pushed his hips further against hers. In the effort to remain quiet, she bit her lip so hard she broke skin.

“You can,” he whispered in her ear.

“I’m awake, Vassa,” Elain finally managed, her voice only shaking…well, a lot. “No, I’m not mad. Just…just a little tired is all.” She met Azriel’s gaze over her shoulder.

“ Tired ?” he arched a brow. She shrugged mischievously, then nearly screamed when he began thrusting into her again, slow and steady. Fuck, he felt so deep like this. One arm was hooked around her chest, fastening her body against his. Holding her right where he wanted her.

“So you’re good? You promise?”

Elain was finding it quite difficult to hold a conversation while stars were exploding in her head. “I’m…I’m good.”

“Okay,” Vassa said doubtfully. “You sound weird.”

Azriel bit down on her shoulder to stifle his laughter.

“I’m good, Vass. So good.”

“ Good, good, good ,” Azriel mimicked, far too quietly for Vassa’s human ears to hear. “You’re such a hard girl to please, ‘Lain. I guess I’ll have to work harder to get more than a ‘good’ from you.”

He didn’t go faster. He didn’t go harder. No. With a gentle but firm hand against her back, he pushed her down until her torso was pressed against the mattress, her ass high in the air, her legs nearly folded beneath her. Honestly, she’d had no idea she was flexible enough for something like this. She was practically bent in half.

Before she could fully register the change in position, he was pushing back into her, and holy hells above. How was he even deeper this way? She was going to explode. She was going to crack into a million little pieces. She was—

“Will you please come out and talk to me, Elain? I’m just…I’m still really worried about last night. Please?”

She was not going to last even a second longer.

“I’m coming!” she cried out, just as her body began to shake.

Hands twisted in her hair, Azriel tugged her back up against his chest and swallowed her scream with a punishing kiss. Devoured her like it was his last meal.

Fucked her mouth as hard as he was fucking her between the legs.

Pleasure, blinding and fierce, wracked through her body. For several glittering moments, she lost track of herself, of her surroundings: the only thing grounding her was the mouth still gently moving against her own.

When she finally came to, Azriel’s lips were hovering over her cheek, his hot breath searing her skin as he panted heavily.

“Elain? Hello?”

She was going to kill Vassa.

“Just give me a moment,” she snapped. “I’ll meet you downstairs in a few, okay?”

A slight pause, just enough to make Elain feel a little guilty, and then Vassa was walking away. Elain and Azriel stayed still until her footsteps faded entirely.

Gently, Azriel extricated himself, separating their bodies. She wrapped a sheet loosely around her body and faced him. He was staring at her with a wary expression on his handsome face.

The full impact of their changed dynamic hit her all at once. They had slept together. Twice. They weren’t even dating! Did Fae even “date,” anyway? She probably should have asked about that beforehand. Neither of them had ever explicitly stated the full extent of their feelings, though Elain thought it was quite obvious how she felt about him. It was his feelings she was still unsure about.

Uncertainty ran its hands down her back. What did this mean for them?

“What are you thinking?” Azriel was observing her intently.

She bit her lip. “I suppose I’m wondering what happens now.”

“What happens now?” he repeated.

She nodded. “Yes. I mean,” she cleared her throat, “In terms of, like, us .”

“Us,” he echoed.

Another nod. “Yeah. I mean, was this a one time thing, or should I expect it to happen again?”

He cocked his head to the side. “Do you want it to happen again?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in her response. “Do you?” She looked down and studied her interlocked hands, rather nervous to hear his response.

He caught her chin between two fingers. Forced her to meet his gaze. “Of course I do.” His voice was low and smoky. “I have plenty of other lessons planned,” he added.

She went lightheaded, a mixture of release and arousal swarming at his words. “Okay,” she whispered, a shy smile blossoming on her face.

The corner of his lip twitched up, his version of a smile. Then his eyes dipped down to her lips, and when they flicked back up, there was a dark and renewed intent burning in them. It didn’t matter that she’d come so recently—she could already feel herself growing wet between the legs again. Honestly, she wasn’t sure she’d ever stopped.

The tension stretched between them, fragile as glass. But who would crack first?

Without warning, Azriel released her chin and climbed off the bed. The moment was gone as quickly as it had come. She would have frowned dramatically if it wasn’t for the utterly glorious sight of his sculpted body illuminated in the dusty dawn light.

When he’d donned his pants, he spoke again. “I have a meeting in Velaris,” he said apologetically.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Is it an Inner Circle meeting?”

“No. You would be there if it was.” She didn’t realize how much she needed to hear those words of assurance until he said them aloud.

“Well, then what’s the meeting for?” Perhaps she was prying too much, but he did just have his cock inside of her, and while there were still no guidelines in place for this—this relationship , or whatever the hell was happening between them—she thought, at the very least, she was entitled to a bit of nosiness.

Azriel exhaled loudly, but she could tell his frustration wasn’t directed at her. He was fully dressed by the time he finally replied. “It’s with Rhys.”

“Oh.” She chewed her lip. “I suppose I should warn you, then.”

“Warn me?”

“Yeah. About…about my confrontation with Rhys. I know I sort of mentioned it to you, but I never went into details. Anyway…I may or may not have yelled at him. A lot. In front of other people.” She winced internally at the memory. While she didn’t necessarily regret what she’d said to Rhys (and while she still wanted to give him a swift kick up the ass), she did wish that she’d kept her temper better. Important words should never be said while in a fit of rage. If Nesta and Feyre had taught her one thing, it was that.

“It’s okay. I’ve already heard about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Spymaster, remember?”

“I don’t, actually. Remind me?”

He shook his head, smiling. “You’re too much.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No.”

“ Good .” She couldn’t fight the bright and wide smile that lit up her face.

Azriel pinched his nose and closed his eyes for a brief moment. “Elain, I swear to the gods…” He inhaled deeply. “I really do have to go. But before I do, I want to tell you three things.

“One: Be on your guard. Don’t take any risks. With the threat of Koschei, and whatever damn shit the Autumn Court is trying to pull, things are precarious right now. Dangerous. If you have a troubling vision, or if you overhear anything suspicious from the Band of Exiles, or if you feel unsafe in any way, summon me. Immediately .” He raised his hand and tapped the back of his neck—the bargain tattoo—in demonstration. “I’ll come right away.”

Elain simply nodded. It seemed unnecessary to tell him that would be her first instinct, anyway.

“Two: I’m going to have to disguise your scent.”

“Pardon?”

He coughed uncomfortably. “If any Fae were to come near you right now, they’d smell me all over you. And you all over me.”

Shit. She had not even considered that very important detail. Even after two years, she still wasn’t entirely settled with all the aspects of her newfound Fae heritage. At least the only other beings near them right now were humans…but Lucien was expected to return today.

Her stomach turned to ice at the thought. The horror must have shown on her face, because Azriel said, “It’s fine. I’ll just cover up our scents, like we did for Nesta and Cassian at the Hewn City. No one will know.” His jaw worked, any softness in his expression gone entirely.

She didn’t know how to explain to him that it wasn’t that she didn’t want people to know about what they’d done; she just didn’t necessarily want them to know, either. But she couldn’t seem to find the words, so she remained quiet.

After disguising her scent, Azriel called his shadows to him.

“Where have they been?” she asked, registering that she hadn’t seen them in a while. Hadn’t seen them since last night, in fact. She grinned as one of the shadows twirled around her wrist playfully before joining its master.

“They were minding their own business,” he said. “As they should.”

Elain laughed. Azriel smiled again. She loved making him smile.

“I really do have to go,” he told her.

“Okay.” As he began to wrap his shadows around himself, she said, “Wait! What was the third thing? What did you want to tell me?”

His eyes gleamed. She began to suspect that he had intentionally omitted the third thing, if only for her to ask. If only for him to get his last wicked word in.

He crossed the distance between them in two long strides, leaning over her where she knelt on the bed, still cocooned in bed sheets. “Three,” he murmured, lightly caressing her face, “Try not to miss me too much.”

Azriel blinked down at her, wearing a ridiculously sinful smirk. For whatever reason, the sight made her heart twist with affection. She loved him when he was confident. Cocky. It was enticing as hell.

But she also knew it was a bit of an act. And despite the fact that she still had no idea where they stood, she wanted him to know that he was just as sexy—just as desirable—with all his proverbial armor thrown off. That she loved every piece of him she was offered.

So Elain sat up on her knees and lightly pressed her lips against his. Didn’t break the soft kiss as she breathed, “Impossible.”

***

The River House was empty when Azriel arrived. He sent his shadows to every room in search of Rhys to no avail. Annoyed that he’d left Elain only to be stood up by Rhys, but knowing he had to wait until the High Lord returned so they could have the meeting, he grumbled and sat down in the living room.

As per usual these days, his thoughts drifted toward Elain. Toward what had happened between them last night…and this morning. He still had trouble believing it had really occurred, that it wasn’t just a secret fantasy that lived in the depths of his dirty, twisted mind. But beneath the cover of magic, he could still smell her scent intertwined with his own, a tangible reminder of what had transpired between them.

He didn’t regret it. Of course he didn’t. No matter what mess came from this (and he was sure beyond reasonable belief that there would be a horrific mess to deal with, one way or another), he knew he’d never regret what they’d done. Some gifts are more costly than others. He’d gladly face the consequences.

No, he didn’t regret it. But he would be lying if he said he was perfectly composed.

It was easy to forget about the potential fallout of his actions when he was with Elain. When she was curled up in his arms, when he was balls deep inside of her, when her sweet mouth sang his name…Elain had a way of making him forget about all of his responsibilities. Made him forget about all the reasons why they shouldn’t be together until all he saw, all he could focus on, was her.

But here, now, alone in the River House with only his thoughts and half-hard cock and busybody shadows for company, apprehension swept in like the tide.

He and Elain had done something irreversible. Not just in the joining of their bodies, though that had been…Azriel shook his head in disbelief. It had been fucking unreal. It had shaken something loose inside of him that he doubted could ever be put back together entirely.

He had no idea what came after this. He had no idea what he even wanted to come from this, let alone what she wanted. All he knew was that the mere thought of never kissing Elain again made his blood boil and his hands shake and some beast deep in his belly growl with uncontrolled fury.

Fucking gods. A distraction. That’s what she was, a beautiful and dangerous distraction. He was the Spymaster of the Night Court, for Cauldron’s sake, and here he was, clenching his fists because he might not ever get to taste the Elain’s Archeron’s sweet mouth again? Pathetic. He was pathetic, and she was a distraction, and this was all going to blow up in his face, and -

“For someone so handsome, you look really constipated when you’re lost in thought like that.”

He stood up and whipped around. “Mor,” he said, and let out a bark of a laugh. Some of the heavy worry in his chest melted away.

They embraced, and Azriel felt his face grow slightly red when she kissed him on both cheeks. Mor, of course, thought nothing of it, and merely fell backwards onto the couch, propping her long, golden legs up on the ottoman and reclining luxuriously.

He sat beside her, smiling softly.

“So,” she began, and his smile fell. He knew that tone of voice like he knew the back of his scarred hand. “Care to share what’s on your mind?”

“Not particularly.”

“Az,” she whined, “I know something is wrong. And you know I’m not going to rest until you tell me, so why don’t we skip the usual song and dance where I beg pathetically and eventually cry out of pure frustration until you feel guilty enough to finally spill your guts and let your best friend know what’s bothering you?”

“Nah.”

Mor glowered at him, and Azriel just barely resisted the urge to laugh. She was funny when she was mad, if only because she never really got angry. At least not with him.

It had always been like this with him and Mor. One look and she was able to know if something was up with him—and vice versa. Sure, she was the Morrigan, and truth was her nature, but it was more than that. She was his best friend, and he hers, and that was that.

Well. That and the fact that Azriel had been hopelessly enamored with her for the past five centuries.

He fell in love with Mor the very first day he met her. Not when he first saw her, necessarily, though she was the most gorgeous female— being —he had ever seen. He remembered that day so clearly: he, Cas and Rhys were in between daily training sessions in Illyria and had a rare moment of rest. They were standing near the water spout when a herd of Fae appeared over the hill. All men, all fearsome, wearing the signature helms of the Court of Nightmares. All men, except for the figure in the middle.

His breath caught in his throat. He had been an Illyrian warrior-in-training for many years at this point, and before then the only females he saw were his mother and his horrendous step-mother. Sometimes, he and his fellow trainees would catch a glimpse of Illyrian females from the nearby towns, but they never stayed long once Azriel came around. Whenever they noticed his shadows, the females would scurry away in fear.

When Mor finished hugging Rhys and greeting Cassian with a big smile, he fully expected her to cringe away from him like all the rest. But her smile only grew wider as she exclaimed, “A shadowsinger! Oh, how wonderful!”

And just like that, he was smitten.

Mor was only visiting for a few days, and he only spent time with her when they weren’t training (which was hardly ever), but with every moment he spent in her presence, he fell in love a little more. She was engaging and kind and strikingly beautiful, inside and out, but most importantly, she looked at him like he was normal . Like he wasn’t some shadow-covered freak with scarred hands and wings he’d just learned how to use. She looked at him and all she saw was Azriel. And with Mor, for the first time in his life, he thought that just being Azriel wasn’t such a bad thing, after all.

Of course, then the whole debacle with Cassian happened, and Rhys had almost killed him in his anger. And Azriel…something broke in him that day. When he found out Mor had chosen Cassian over him, he knew, without a doubt, that love would never find him. It hadn’t surprised him, but it had certainly changed him. And he accepted that day that he would never be worthy of anyone, least of all Mor.

But it hadn’t stopped him loving her from afar. Hadn’t stopped his heart aching whenever he saw her and Cassian laughing and snuggling together. Hadn’t stopped the centuries of pining and self-deprecation and continuous refusal to open up his heart to anyone.

And it hadn’t stopped him from falling for someone else entirely, 500 years later. And the fact that he had fallen for someone who was irrevocably destined for another male…well, that didn’t surprise Azriel in the least.

Mor regarded him with undisguised worry in her brown eyes. “Spit it out, Az.”

“You’re annoying, you know.”

“I know. Now tell me. You know I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

He hesitated. Truth be told, he did kind of want to talk about his situation with someone. There was so much he wanted to sort out, so much confusion weaving tangled webs in his mind, that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to get some advice. But he’d be damned if he was about to tell Mor every detail. No, that was between him and Elain.

“Have you ever done something that you knew you shouldn’t do, but just wanted to do it so badly you didn't care about the consequences?” He was speaking very quietly, even though there was no one else in the house.

Her eyes softened. “Of course I have. I think everyone has.”

“But what if it’s something that affects other people? A lot of other people? What if it’s something that won’t end well no matter what? How do I justify that selfishness if it puts others at risk?”

“Azriel,” Mor said seriously, taking his hand, “if this is about—”

She was cut off as one of his shadows flew in quickly, alerting them to Rhys’ presence mere seconds before the High Lord strode through the front doors.

“Mor,” Rhys said, surprise ringing in his voice. Clearly her presence was unexpected. “Az.” An awkward nod from both males. “Sorry I’m late. Feyre asked me to bring Nyx to her studio in the Rainbow—she wants him to start painting with her—and of course the second we let him loose, he flies right into her supply of paints and destroys at least three easels. He is an absolute monster,” Rhys recounted affectionately, violet eyes glowing like embers.

“Nyx isn’t even here?” Mor exclaimed. “Well, I’m off then. I only have a few hours before I have to return to Vallahan and I’ll be damned if I’m spending it in the presence of you two grouchy males.”

“Cheers, Mor.”

“Ta ta,” she wiggled her hand, then pointed sternly at Azriel. “Don’t think we’re done with our conversation. To be continued.” Then she winnowed away.

“What conversation?” Rhys asked.

“Nothing important.”

“Alright,” Rhys said eventually, though Az could tell he wasn’t fully okay with being kept in the dark. But obviously their relationship was precarious enough that Rhys wasn’t willing to push him for any further information.

The two males eyed each other warily.

“I was hoping to get updates from you about what your spies have been up to,” Rhys began, and Azriel recognized his voice as not that of his friend or brother, but of his High Lord. Well. If that’s how it was going to be…

He took a subtle sniff of his own skin. There, beneath the layer of magic, far too disguised for Rhys to detect, was Elain’s scent mixed with his own. He breathed it in. Let that glorious combination of jasmine and honey fill his heart with something like strength.

“Of course.” Azriel schooled his face into its usual icy and stoic expression. “Let’s begin.”

***

Following Azriel’s departure, Elain bathed and dressed quickly before heading out to find Vassa. Her whole body was still buzzing with energy; she doubted she’d be able to fully relax for the next few hours, she was so worked up.

As she walked through the Manor, Elain looked for her friend half heartedly, her thoughts mostly preoccupied with the events that had transpired over the last 12 hours.

She couldn’t wait for Azriel to return. Sure, they’d have to be careful, would have to take precautions to ensure no one else knew what they were up to, but she was positive they’d find a way to continue her “lessons” discreetly.

Lessons . She remembered, then, that Lucien had also promised her lessons. Promised to teach her how to use her healing magic. Guilt gnawed at her. Even though she knew they did not owe each other anything, she couldn't help but feel like she was wronging him. Like she was betraying him.

Lost in her thoughts, she nearly ran into a wall. “Get a grip, Elain,” she muttered to herself. She was about to continue her search for Vassa when she heard whispers coming from a few doors down.

Inching closer on silent feet, she covertly listened to the murmured voices with her powerful Fae ears.

“...I just don’t understand what you’re waiting for.” That was Jurian.

“I’m waiting for the right time,” another voice—Vassa—said.

“And when exactly will that be?”

A sigh from Vassa, long and weary. “I don’t know.”

Quiet, for a brief moment, and then Jurian spoke again. “None of us know how much longer you have, Vassa. If you wait too long to tell her, it will be too late. And then we will all be doomed.”

“I know. I know . But how can I tell her something like this? How can I tell her of the inevitable horror she will have to face?”

“It won’t be easy. Of course it won’t. But she deserves to know. She has to know.”

“I’ll tell her. Soon. I promise.” A pause. “I just want to enjoy these last few weeks with her. Want to enjoy being her friend before she hates me. Before Lucien finds out and hates me, as well.”

“Give them both more credit. They love you.”

“They don’t know the truth I have been withholding from them. They won’t love me then.”

“You don’t know that.”

Vassa let out a dark laugh. “I don’t know a great many things, Jurian, but I know that they will find it difficult to forgive a betrayal like this.” Footsteps sounded as Vassa neared the door. “I’ll tell Elain soon. Just…give me a little longer, okay?”

Elain’s fingers gripped the wall so hard her knuckles went white. She heard the door open and before Vassa could even begin walking her way, raced silently down the hall with immortal speed and back into her quarters.

As soon as her door closed, she leaned against it, a cold sweat coating her skin. Her heart thundered in her chest.

Vassa was keeping something from her. Something big, something…something that would change everything.

Cold rage vibrated through her bones. She’d thought Vassa was her friend. Thought they shared a special bond. But if the conversation she’d just overheard was any indication, Vassa had been lying to her from the very beginning. Had been holding imperative information over her head, entirely unbeknownst to Elain, who had never felt more foolish. She’d been blinded by Vassa’s gregarious nature, taken in completely by her fraudulent friendship and misleading words, and the entire time Vassa had been keeping something from her that would seemingly affect every aspect of Elain’s life. That would apparently endanger her life.

What should she do now? It was obvious that she wasn’t entirely safe at the Mortal Manor. Not with Vassa and Jurian keeping such a secret from her. Not with the inevitable danger of Koschei and all the complications he brought with him.

But would she be safer at the Night Court? Koschei had managed to break through the boundaries in Velaris, as well. And while she no longer trusted Vassa and Jurian, their conversation made it clear that Lucien was just as unaware of the secrets the mortals were keeping as Elain was. And she knew without a sliver of doubt that Lucien would never hurt her. That he would protect her at all costs.

And if Lucien wasn’t at the Manor, then Azriel would be. The very thought of something happening to her while Azriel was around was laughable.

She recalled their conversation from this morning. If you overhear anything suspicious from the Band of Exiles, or if you feel unsafe in any way, summon me. Immediately.

Azriel would want to know about this. Of course he would. But Elain did not know what he would do with the information. He might decide it wasn’t safe for her at the Manor anymore. He might tell Rhys and Feyre, who would surely make her leave if her safety was no longer ensured.

And she was a spy. This was her duty. Her responsibility. She was placed at the Manor to find out what the mortal queen was hiding, and she was closer than ever in discovering what that was.

And most of all, whatever this secret was, it was about her. She deserved the truth. And she deserved to be the one to uncover it.

The pace of her heartbeat slowed significantly. She straightened up. Smoothed down her skirt. Took in a deep, calming breath. Exited her room with her head held high and a soft, serene expression on her face.

By the time she found the mortal queen, Elain’s smile was as believable as ever. “Hello, my dear,” she cooed, wrapping her arms around Vassa and ignoring the ache in her chest as Vassa hugged her back.

“Oh, Elain!” Vassa said, and if Elain didn’t know better, she’d think the relief in the queen’s voice was genuine. “I’m so glad you aren’t angry with me.”

Vassa’s words from weeks ago echoed in her head. “What good are secrets between those you love the most?”

The memory further confirmed what she already knew: Vassa did not care about her. She never had.

“I could never be angry with you,” Elain said.

No lie had ever tasted so sweet.

Please let me know your thoughts <3

#elriel #elrielfic #elain #azriel #elain acotar #elain archeron #pro elain #elain acosf #post acosf #azriel shadowsinger #elrielfanfic #acotar #acotarfic #acotar fanfiction #tsts #theshadowsthatsing #danydragons21

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eldritchamy · 1 year

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Do the wlw in that nunnery show die? I just... I need to know because I can't do that shit again anymore. I can't trust again

this is more awkward to answer than you'd think because the show actually opens with Ava already dead, and the plot starts when she comes back to life

major spoilers below the cut

The show opens with Ava as a dead body.

Her body just happens to be in a place where a supernatural fight breaks out, and someone shoves a halo into her body for safekeeping to keep demons from being able to sense it.

This has the unexpected and unprecedented side effect of raising Ava from the dead, and she becomes the halo bearer by default since she already has it in her.

Over the course of the show, Ava DOES suffer two fatal injuries. One we see her recover from on screen in the span of a 20 second "I can't lose you" speech from Beatrice.

The second injury happens in the final episode, and there's a cliffhanger where she disappears, and goes to a place that should be able to save her life. Season 2 ends with the implication that she has already recovered and is alive, and the showrunner has confirmed it was intended to be read as Ava being alive and Beatrice leaving the OCS to be with her.

I will warn you that the ending is ABRUPT in the same WAY as a "the lesbians say they love each other and it's immediately cut short" thing (it basically IS that minus one of them dying), but they are both alive at the end of season 2. I can understand why a person would be hesitant to watch.

But like, I watched it after it was already cancelled by Netflix, not knowing how canon the gay stuff was going to be, and I had a GREAT time watching it and really enjoyed it.

And I mean there's always fanfiction, I'm sure Avatrice are good inspiration for a lot of fun stuff. (I have not read fanfics for anything since Carmilla, but I've thought about reading some Avatrice if there are any really good ones going around).

The writing is very funny in places (Sister Camila is comedy GOLD) and the plot is SHOCKINGLY interesting. I went in expecting to have to more or less tolerate a bunch of Catholic doctrine type stuff but it ended up being a really interesting and layered takedown of oppressive systems and christofascism and was actually WAY better than it had any right to be based on the premise. And it has probably the best fight choreography I've ever seen on tv (specifically in Season 2), like it actually felt like some of the choreography was inspired by Atomic Blonde (one shot in particular used the exact same camera trick to make it seem like a single shot fight scene) and The Old Guard, both of which have EXCELLENT fight scenes.

I won't pretend the season 2 ending is what you want it to be, especially given the show does not currently have a path to a third season, but the show does end with both characters alive, and the show overall is VERY worth it.

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xiakha · 2 years

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FFXIVWrite2022 Prompt #16 - Deiform

"Why does it look like that."

Lahabrea diverted his attention from the labors of this past moon, several yalms tall, it was but a miniature prototype of its final form. "What, the arms?"

"The arms are normal enough, if multitudinous, no the tentacles, the wings... The face."

"Are you not inspired by His divine form?"

Emet-Selch turned his head so Lahabrea could tell he was looking, even with his mask on. Somehow, his glare was communicated too, even with his mask on.

"It just... I'm not inspired to reverence for sure." And it only inspired prayer insomuch as someone would pray that it would go away.

Or at least turn away.

"His form and visage are meant to inspire reverence through awe."

Sure, thought Emet, if you meant it was another word that almost meant full of awe.

"Besides, we ill need worship of our creation. All of this talk of gods is to signify the power that it will have, not that it should act or serve as one."

"Our course is already charted to include sacrifice of half our remaining population. As it stands, everyone on the Star is to lose someone close to them, whether it be to this new aether-hungry creation of ours or to the Final Days that this is supposed to stop. And you expect them to think logically about it?"

Lahabrea shrugged, "That concern is left up to the rest of the Convocation. I simply need to make sure this summoned being is capable of the tasks we assign it."

Emet wondered briefly what other parts of Lahabrea's personality that the man had sloughed off as unnecessary and crystalized for safekeeping.

"As part of the rest of the Convocation and minder of the Underworld and all it entails, I am telling you right now that it's going to happen. People will want to talk, in one way or another, to it as part of their grief and loss."

"So be it?"

"And I'm going to tell you now that people will not be pleased to have to worship or otherwise interact with that hideous thing."

"...Are you criticizing my design aesthetic, Emet-Selch?"

If you can call it an aesthetic, "Nay," Emet said instead, sighing bitterly, "I am merely observing and admiring your consistency." Pandæmonium was of course also designed by him.

Lahabrea rotated his head in the exaggerated way that you do when you want someone to know you're rolling your eyes. "Look, I can only do so much with dark aether. You want white feathers and halos, and you'd need to use much, much more light aether, and we all agreed that we cannot be relying on light aether for this."

"Fine, but why not use the crystalline imagery of the original designs?"

"It may be useful as effigy to worship, as you so insist will happen, but again, crystals are too inert for our purposes. We need more than merely capture the aether, you know."

Emet slumped his shoulders and threw his hands up, "Very well then, Lahabrea, I suppose you are the specialist in creation magicks here, not I."

Lahabrea looked long and hard at the prototype, "I can give it a mask, if that would suit you?"

But Emet was already out of earshot.

***

Much, much later, after another disastrous sacrifice had been made and now the halved and halved again population was in uproar, Emet approached Zodiark, still functioning even if its core was walking amongst them again. He sat down next to it as he did once every moon. Of course he couldn't bear to look at it, but that was for more reason than just its monstrous form.

"Hello again, Hythlodaeus," he began.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite #FFxivWrite2022 #endwalker spoilers abound #wordvomit #a short scene

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twstedstoryshop · 2 years

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Oooh, how about some HCs for Vil, Malleus, & Riddle in a alien space AU? Humanity advanced to the point where we could interact with other species in this AU, who’s the alien/what planet did each of the boys come from and what is their job? Any significant culture tidbits that are unique to their species?

If you want to include the Reader, Reader can be one of the best and most accomplished space explorers who specializes in cataloging new species of aliens and learning as much about them as possible for the development of future earth-friendly interactions :))

I hope this wasn’t too vague lol, I don’t request stuff often!

I hold up my hands. I say, "Aliens..." and that's it. -Shopkeep

Alien AU with Vil, Malleus, and Riddle

Did you know that there is a planet out in the galaxy that has a carbon-rich composition? Basically, it’s a planet that could be made entirely out of diamond. Yeah, Vil is definitely a creature from that kind of planet.

He’s an alien born from the diamond material. I see him having a sparkling, crystalline body and eyes that look like they shift color when you look at it from a certain angle. I also see him having a very long, tall, and lithe body. Feet that end in sharp points and long, slender claws.

Taking notes from his Overblot design, perhaps he has diamond crystals forming a halo-like crown from his head and other crystals that fan out around his waist like how it does for his bodice.

Has some sort of telekinetic or crystal manipulation power that lets him control crystals. He often uses it to keep a number of beautiful, diamond feather-like tails to trail after him. Can fan out his “tails” as a threat display, to beguile/charm, and as a weapon. Those gems cut!

Vil is a guardian of his home planet among others of his species. I get the feeling a lot of people would be greedy over the diamonds found only on his world and he often has to scare and fend illegal miners off.

Though he is a fierce protector, I bet his planet’s culture may spend a lot of time preening themselves. Shining and shaping their bodies to be the most beautiful around. Vil is among one of the more popular diamond aliens for the hard work he puts into grooming himself.

I imagine him staying within his guardian position, but he may be more open to negotiations for better trading and revenue with other planets between the diamonds his home makes and materials beyond their world. He wants to see his planet flourish but not with thieves trying to hurt the environment.

Basically, a beautiful ambassador that’s gonna charm the hell out of you to start an ethical business with his home world.

BIG SPACE DRAGON. He’s a huge creature that borders on the line between so beautiful but also so strange and foreign. Has a wyvern-like body structure with wings that are structured like how a bat’s wings are. His “hands” are pretty much the wings and they connect all the way down to his ankles.

The membrane is a beautiful glassy green and when he takes flight, you can see the stars shine through them.

His skin is a smooth, but tough leathery black that has an iridescent property to them. When he moves in the light, it’s like a rainbow shines across his form.

Definitely has multiple eyes. He has his main vibrant green eyes and then a couple more positioned between where his horns are. Also split jaw because it isn’t an alien dragon unless it’s unhinging its jaw and having three jaws lined with razor sharp teeth.

Malleus is a mysterious alien entity that not a lot of people have been able to make contact with or research him. The only evidence people know of his existence are distant photos of him. What looked to have been a comet streaking across the sky at first was actually Malleus in flight. He was moving so fast and with such force that he was able to appear like a comet.

Malleus leads a very lonely life as per usual. He’s a creature that safekeeps his galaxy, flying across the sky and visiting various planets to make sure they’re doing okay. He does have friends in the form of his caretaker and two other aliens that act as his entourage but they trail far behind him. It takes ages for them sometimes to catch up to him while he patrols his galaxy.

Couldn’t he just stop and relax for a while? Well, that’s kind of a problem. You see, like how a shark constantly needs to keep swimming forward, Malleus is the same in that flying around the galaxy keeps him alive. The cosmic energy of the galaxy is drawn to him, powering him with his alien abilities. If he just stopped and hunkered down somewhere, he would be basically stopping himself from gaining energy and would slow his functions down to deathly levels.

So sadly, Malleus flies around the galaxy as a lonely creature, doing a thankless job people don’t even realize he’s doing. Maybe one day there could be a ship that could keep up with this celestial dragon and join him in his galaxy patrols…

Literal child of the sun. He is an entity born from the heat and flame of a sun. He looks like a humanoid composed entirely of flame with burning bright eyes and two wisps of fire that make his signature heart antennae.

You’d think a person born from the sun would keep himself far from other living beings, but actually Riddle has access to a suit that allows him to not harm other living beings. The suit also maintains a comfortable high temperature for him to live in.

Riddle has made contact with other intelligent lifeforms you see, be they human or otherworldly, that’s up for you to decide. Either way, with this communication, people have been able to study him, figure out what kind of alien he is, and actually offer him a chance to step off his sun home.

Since his first contact and being able to leave his sun, Riddle has now started to lead a somewhat normal life. Learning what he can, learning about other living beings, and figuring out what he likes! Even as an alien, Riddle is still a studious and hardworking individual.

While he can lead a more enriched life, Riddle needs to still stay within the system of his sun. He is connected to that sun, whatever happens to it, same goes for him. He also needs to spend a good amount of time returning to the surface of his sun to bask in its energy before going back to doing his own thing.

I imagine the others of Heartslabyul being other humans or aliens that were the first people to make contact with Riddle. In due time, the relationship of researcher and subject turned to fast friends between all of them and Riddle is really grateful to this team for reaching out to him. Even though it seemed like he was an untouchable sun that would burn anyone who got too close.

Right now, Riddle is still in the midst of learning rapidly at the space station positioned in his solar system. At the rate he’s going, it wouldn’t sound too far-fetched for him to eventually be another researcher himself.

#lovelygrimoire #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #twst scenarios #twst imagines #vil schoenheit #malleus draconia #riddle rosehearts

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dwellordream · 2 years

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“Relatively few women, even of the elite class, were literate; if they did learn to read, their education was closely linked with religious training, since young girls, like boys, learned their letters by reading the Psalter. There is no evidence that girls attended school; instead they were taught by their parents or by a private tutor. If they continued their education, they would advance to reading other texts of scripture and the lives of saints. Girls almost never had access to classical texts or training in grammar, rhetoric, and philosophy, the customary secondary curriculum for young men. Girls who had no schooling at all would still gain some familiarity with the scriptures and saints’ lives by hearing the texts read aloud during church services, by seeing images on icons or on church walls, or by listening to stories told by their parents.

Daily devotions at home, whether in the form of spiritual reading, veneration of icons, private prayer, or attendance at services in a private chapel, played a vital role in the lives of Byzantine women, who for the most part led a secluded existence in their homes and may have derived little emotional satisfaction from their arranged marriages. The princess Anna Komnene provides a rare glimpse into the domestic life of a family with well-educated women, in this case the imperial family, commenting that “many a time when a meal was already served I remember seeing my mother with a book in her hands, diligently reading the dogmatic pronouncements of the Holy Fathers, especially of the philosopher and martyr Maximus [the Confessor].” In another passage Anna describes her mother as “reading the books of the saints.”

Women who could afford it, like the future saint Mary the Younger of Bizye, kept an icon in their bedroom. As we shall see later, Mary performed her private devotions before this icon; we also learn from her biography that a lamp burned all night long before her icon of the Virgin, giving a faint light to her bedroom (Life of Mary of Bizye 9). The anonymous account of miracles at the Pege shrine in Constantinople relates an incident of the late ninth century that demonstrates the potentially disastrous consequences of excessive veneration of icons. A noblewoman named Helena Artavasdina was particularly devoted to two images of the Virgin and the archangel Gabriel at the church of Pege. When they fell to the ground in the earthquake of 869, she asked the abbot for permission to take the images home with her for safekeeping. She then placed them in her bedroom, where she burned candles and incense before them. Eventually she lit such a profusion of lamps and candles that her house caught on fire (AASS III.882D–83A)!

Relevant here is the well-known passage from the Chronographia of Michael Psellos, describing the passionate devotion of the eleventh century empress Zoe to an icon of Christ Antiphonetes (“the one who responds”): She had made for herself an image of Jesus, fashioning it with as much accuracy as she could. . . . The little figure, embellished with bright metal, appeared to be almost living. . . . When she had met with some good fortune, or when some trouble had befallen her, she would at once consult her image, in the one case to acknowledge her gratitude, in the other to beg its favour.

I myself (writes Psellos) have often seen her, in moments of great distress, clasp the sacred object in her hands, contemplate it, talk to it as though it were indeed alive, and address it with one sweet term of endearment after another. Then at other times I have seen her lying on the ground, her tears bathing the earth, while she beat her breasts over and over again, tearing at them with her hands. If she saw the image turn pale, she would go away crestfallen, but if it took on a fiery red colour, its halo lustrous with a beautiful radiant light, she would lose no time in telling the emperor and prophesying what the future was to bring forth.

The procreation of children was one of women’s most important functions, and barrenness was a great sorrow. Sterile women or women who were pregnant but subject to miscarriage might wear protective amulets in the form of inscribed prayers rolled up and placed in a tube or stone pendants inscribed with prayers or images of apotropaic motifs such as the Holy Rider (a warrior saint) or Chnoubis (a demon, the “roaring womb”). Other such pendants were intended to protect women from menstrual disorders or to ensure successful childbirth. Some women also owned small icons or pendants depicting female saints, such as Marina and Theophano, thought to be intercessors for safe pregnancy and childbearing.

As we shall see later, barren women often had recourse to living holy men or women or visited saints’ shrines to pray for the gift of a child. If successful in conception, a woman’s next hurdle was the delivery of the baby. Some women would make confession and take Holy Communion when they first began to suffer labor pains. Normally women gave birth with the aid of a midwife. Sometimes, however, in the case of prolonged labor or an abnormal breech presentation a woman or a family member would seek divine aid to facilitate the delivery of the child.

Thus, when Anna, the mother of the future St. Theophano, had undergone hours of agonizing labor without results, her husband ran to the church of the Virgin at the Bassos Monastery in Constantinople and brought back a girdle that was hanging on one of the church columns and apparently had miraculous powers. As soon as he applied the piece of cloth to his wife’s abdomen, her pains eased, and the baby was born with a smile on her face (Life of Theophano 3).

In another case a woman in labor was unable to deliver the infant because it was trying to emerge feetfirst. In desperation doctors were summoned to cut up the fetus while it was still in the womb in order to save the mother’s life. Before they began the operation, however, someone remembered that he had a piece of the cloak of the recently deceased patriarch Ignatios, which had been distributed to the faithful at the time of his funeral. As soon as the holy relic was pressed against the woman’s abdomen, the baby turned to a headfirst presentation and was safely delivered (Life of Patriarch Ignatios, PG 105:564A–C).

Women also played an important role in funeral ceremonies, washing the corpse and preparing it for burial as well as accompanying the funeral cortege to the cemetery, wailing and singing laments. They also would faithfully attend commemorative services for the recently deceased on the third, ninth, and fortieth day following death and prepare the traditional kollyva, a confection of sweetened boiled wheat, dried fruits, and nuts distributed in remembrance of the dead on anniversaries.

Visiting churches filled a spiritual need and enabled women to leave their homes for a socially approved purpose. Many girls and women went to church services on a daily basis (see Life of Thomaïs of Lesbos 8), some even twice a day, like the nine-year-old Styliane, daughter of Michael Psellos: “She would attend vespers readily, taking part in the doxology and in the chanting of hymns. Nor did she ever miss devotional services, participating and worshipping with joy. She would stand there quietly with deep emotion, expressing her reverence for all that was chanted, listening attentively and not letting any detail escape her. Then she would sing the Psalms of David along with the choir. . . . [She also went] to chant the matins, taking part in the choir of psalmodists.”

St. Thomaïs, we are told, visited churches regularly and rejoiced in the allnight hymnody; one of her favorite sanctuaries was the famous Church of the Virgin at the Hodegoi monastery, where she used to pray before an icon of the Mother of God (Life of Thomaïs of Lesbos Life of Thomaïs of Lesbos 12). The ninth-century pious matron Mary the Younger was also noted for her assiduous church attendance, walking to services twice a day, in all sorts of weather, even though she had to cross a stream to reach the church. Her biographer seems to suggest, however, that there may have been some stigma attached to public worship for women: he almost apologizes for the fact that Mary had no private chapel at home in which to say her prayers but had to go to a church, and he notes that during the course of her devotions she took care to remain in the darkest part of the church, where she performed genuflections until the sweat dripped from her body.

When Mary moved to the larger city of Bizye, she stopped going to church and began to worship at home, “prostrating herself before an icon of the Mother of God and chanting the appropriate prayers, along with the book of Psalms, which she understood perfectly. The change was due neither to indolence nor to sloth, but to a prudent reticence and, since she was in a populous city, to a reluctance to come into the sight of one and all, native and foreign.”

There is very little textual evidence about the churchgoing habits of village women. Every village, however, had a church where a weekly liturgy was probably held. These churches were supported by modest donations from the local community, as can be seen from surviving inscriptions. In 1265, for example, the inhabitants of the village of Kepoula (in the Mesa Mani) funded the construction of the church of the Hagioi Anargyroi with gifts of cash, ranging normally from one quarter to one nomisma (a gold coin sufficient to purchase an olive tree or two sheep). In most cases the wife’s name is listed alongside her husband’s.

On the island of Naxos in 1288/89 each of the nave frescoes in the bema of the Panagia “ste¯s Giallous” at Hagiassos was funded by a different couple from the village or, in one case, by a mother and her son. The ambiguous position of women at public worship services was symbolized by their relegation to certain limited areas of the church. Women were often separated from male worshippers, restricted to a narthex, an upper gallery, or a side aisle, depending on the size and plan of the church structure. Menstruating women and women who had recently given birth were not permitted to enter the church proper but were relegated to an outer narthex or vestibule. Menstruating women were allowed to come to the church precincts to pray but could not receive communion.

The segregation of women at church services may have been motivated by a desire for preservation of order and decorum; elegantly dressed and perfumed women could be a distraction for male worshippers. The early fourteenth century patriarch Athanasios I criticized noblewomen who came to Hagia Sophia not out of piety but to show off their jewels and finery and painted faces. Later in the century a Russian pilgrim described how at the same church the women stood behind translucent silken draperies in the galleries so that they could observe the services but could not be seen by the men in the congregation. Sometimes male congregants behaved badly, pushing and shoving and using abusive language. For this reason, it was safer for women and children to have their own separate area in the church.

Indeed, portraits of female saints are found on the north or left side of metropolitan churches, confirming the presence of women congregants in the north aisle of such churches. Participation in Religious Processions In addition to attendance at regularly scheduled church services, extremely pious women, like Thomaïs the Younger, would also attend nocturnal vigils and processions through the streets. Among such events were the weekly Friday procession in Constantinople from the Church of the Virgin at Blachernai to another church of the Virgin at Chalkoprateia, and the ritual procession that took place each Friday evening at the Blachernai to witness the “usual miracle” of the supernatural lifting of the veil that covered an icon of the Mother of God.

At the Hodegoi monastery every Tuesday morning the famous icon of the Virgin Hodegetria, reputedly painted by St. Luke, would be carried outside the church in procession and perform miracles that healed men and women alike. We also know of an annual Constantinopolitan festival procession of Agathe (May 12) in which female spinners, weavers, and wool carders participated; although details of the ceremonies are unclear, they seem to have involved solemn entrance into a church, offering of ornaments to icons, and the singing of religious songs. Women were also members of confraternities, such as the one in Thebes devoted to the veneration of the icon of the Theotokos of Naupaktos. Each month the devotees of the icon, clergy and laity alike, would carry the icon in procession, with holy hymns, to a different church, where it would remain for the next month.

At Eastertide breads decorated with birds’ eggs were baked, presumably by women, and might be offered to the local village priest as a gift. At this time of joyous celebration entire families carrying lanterns assembled in the streets singing hymns and even danced before the church doors on the evening of Holy Saturday. Visitation of Shrines and Pilgrimage Women would also make excursions to local shrines, either in family groups on feast days or as individuals, seeking to be cured from sterility or illness or praying for the recovery of a loved one. They would seek the intercession of a saint or holy personage by the veneration of relics or an icon, such as that of St. Anastasia Pharmakolytria (“she who cures poisoning”) (fig. 10.1).

Chapel spaces decorated with images of female saints, especially St. Anna (mother of the Virgin Mary), may well have been intended for extra-liturgical devotions by female worshippers, such as prayers for fertility and the well-being of children. A particularly vivid description of a barren woman in fervent prayer to the Virgin for fertility is found in the early ninth century Life of St. Stephen the Younger. Stephen’s mother, named Anna, produced two daughters early in her married life but failed to conceive again. Desperate for a son as she approached menopause, she visited many churches dedicated to the Virgin, especially the shrine at Blachernai, where she went daily, in addition attending without fail the Friday evening vigil service, in which “she offered supplications and prayers: standing before the holy image of the Mother of God, in which She is represented carrying in her arms her son and God.”

Three times she repeated a prayer to the Virgin to be freed from the bonds of sterility, reminding the Virgin of her own mother, Anna, who had also been afflicted with childlessness. Accompanying her prayers with genuflection, she fell asleep and saw a vision of the Virgin telling her that as of that moment she has conceived. Anna awoke to find the vigil service over and went home chanting hymns of thanksgiving. After the baby’s birth and the requisite forty days of confinement at home, Anna went with her husband and newborn child to the Blachernai church, and there, with tears flowing fast, she made a prayer of thanksgiving before the same icon of the Virgin.

At one point she raised the child in a position of prostration and pressed his head against the icon, dedicating Stephen to the Virgin. Then she and her husband bowed their heads before the icon and prostrated themselves at full length on the floor of the church (Life of Stephen the Younger Stephen the Younger 4–6). This is one of the fullest surviving descriptions of a Byzantine woman at prayer. Although many of the examples cited describe women’s devotion to the Virgin Mary, they prayed with equal fervor to Christ and to saints of both sexes. Female pilgrims frequented healing shrines dedicated to male and female saints alike.

Even women afflicted with typically feminine complaints like sterility, failure to lactate, or excessive uterine bleeding might seek help from holy men as well as women, or from their relics. Women seem to have had relatively free access to the tombs of saints, even when the relics were deposited at male monasteries; at those monastic complexes where entrance was denied to members of the female sex, women might send a servant to fetch for them a vial of holy oil or holy water, or on occasion they might resort to disguising themselves as eunuchs! Women also seem to have freely approached holy men in the streets, seeking their verbal blessing or a laying on of hands.

Although in the early Christian centuries female pilgrims made the long and arduous journey to the Holy Land, after the seventh century there is no evidence for long-distance pilgrimage by women. The exception that proves the rule is to be found in the biography of the eleventh-century St. Lazarus of Mount Galesion, which tells the tale of a Constantinopolitan nun who disguised herself as a man with the intention of going to Jerusalem. She joined a group of pilgrims traveling via Ephesus and along with them made a detour to visit the holy man on his pillar on the nearby holy mountain and to hear his homily.

Lazarus immediately saw through her disguise and scolded her, saying that women should not travel all about in this fashion and opposing pilgrimage in general with the words, “Wherever anyone does good, there is the true Jerusalem.” There is some evidence for what might be termed “middle-distance” pilgrimage. Miracle accounts which provide such information attest women’s journeys of up to seventy-five or one hundred miles; we read, for example, of female pilgrims traveling from Nicaea or Prousa to Constantinople, from Verroia to Thessalonike, from Chios to Ephesus.

Women from all levels of society visited healing shrines and holy men. Tombs with miraculous relics and saintly individuals with charismatic powers would be approached with fervor by women from imperial and aristocratic families, as well as by prostitutes, maidservants, beggars, and peasant women. In fact faith healing was often the only recourse for poor people who could not afford to consult physicians trained in traditional Greco-Roman medicine. In thanksgiving for miraculous cures, women would make cash donations or ex-voto offerings to a shrine, ranging from humble gifts of oil or wax to expensive illustrated manuscripts or liturgical furnishings; miracle accounts preserve the records of such pious gifts, as do some epigrams originally engraved on icon frames or embroidered on a liturgical cloth.

Pilgrimages to saints’ tombs and living holy men were not only made for the purpose of obtaining miraculous cures. Pious laywomen might visit a holy man to request advice, confess their sins, or seek intercession, as can be seen from the stories of the numerous female visitors to the stylite saint Lazarus on the holy mountain of Galesion near Ephesus. Some pilgrimages could also acquire a festive and recreational aspect, especially if they coincided with a saint’s annual feast day and a panegyris or fair. A particularly vivid description of the pleasure experienced by a female pilgrim in her visit to a rural shrine is to be found in a fourteenth-century text on the miracles of St. Eugenios of Trebizond.

It relates how a certain Barbara, wife of a court official, “cherished what one might call a divine and boundless affection for the famous church of the . . . great martyr Prokopios and the surrounding area. Westerly winds come from the so-called Mountain of Mithras which rises above, and especially in spring people come there and enjoy the flowers and plants and take great delight in the sight of their bloom and in the thick grass.”

Charitable activity was another manifestation of female piety. As in so many cultures, good works on behalf of the less fortunate members of society were a socially acceptable outlet for the energies of middle-class and aristocratic women. For Byzantine women, philanthropy was a direct expression of their Christian faith: in ministering to the poor, they believed they were serving Christ; in feeding the hungry or clothing the naked, they were feeding and clothing Christ (Matt. 25:31-46).

Some women expressed their concern for the needy by making donations of money and property to charitable institutions, such as hospitals, poorhouses, and orphanages, or to convents and monasteries whose mission included the provision of food to the poor. Others engaged in “hands-on” activity, handing out alms to individual beggars, weaving cloth to sell to raise money for charitable purposes, or visiting the sick or prisoners. Some women might even go to a public bathhouse to bathe and feed poor people (as did the mother of the author of Empress Theophano’s biography; see Life of Theophano 18) or wander around the marketplace seeking out homeless people so as to pay their debts (Life of Thomaïs of Lesbos 15).

These pious benefactors were primarily motivated by their concern for the afterlife; they believed that the performance of charitable works on earth would help ensure their salvation in heaven. And just how did Byzantine women imagine the afterlife? Several texts survive that purport to present a female vision of purgatory and heaven. I refer, for example, to the eleventh-century Apocalypse of Anastasia, to the vision of Theodora embedded in the Life of Basil the Younger, and to the deathbed visions of Psellos’s young daughter Styliane. Alas, all these visions were in actuality penned by men, and we cannot tell whether there is any specifically feminine element in the images conjured up of the afterlife.

Nonetheless, since we have no better evidence, let us look at excerpts from one of these visions, Styliane’s dream of paradise, ten days before her death, as recounted to her mother and reported by her father: When the man with the keys [i.e., St. Peter] opened [the gate], we entered. We were in a garden filled with trees and fruit, also with plants that had thick branches and were joyous to see. There were furthermore all kinds of roses, lilies and many other fragrant flowers. As I stood there gladdened by the loveliness of the garden, I saw, a little further on, a man sitting. He was of such enormous height that he reached the sky, while all around him in a circle stood his servants, dressed in white [i.e., the angels].

The girl then saw two angels hand to God a tiny sickly baby that recovered its health after being placed in God’s bosom; Psellos tells us that the infant was a symbol of his daughter’s soul. The girl had a second dream-vision of the Virgin entering her bedroom, carrying the baby Jesus in her arms. She then handed the girl the shorter of two branches that she held in her hand, symbolizing her imminent death. Although issues of spirituality within women’s convents fall outside the purview of this chapter, I should like to end with some observations on the often close relationships between laywomen and monasteries.

First of all, it is important to remember that many Byzantines, both men and women, took monastic vows at a later stage of life. A frequent pattern was for a woman to enter a convent after she was widowed; less often a married couple might decide to separate once their children were grown and to take the habit in separate monastic communities. A third option was for men and women to take the monastic habit on their deathbed. Sometimes entrance into a monastery in middle or old age was a practical decision, since the monastic community would take care of its ailing members in their final years and arrange for proper burial and commemorative services after death.

Thus laypeople often lived with the intention of eventually taking monastic vows, and they might associate themselves with a local monastery well in advance of taking this step. I have already alluded to one type of connection, that of lay visitation to holy shrines at monasteries in search of healing from disease or barrenness, for prayers for the physical safety or spiritual salvation of relatives, or in fulfillment of a vow of thanksgiving. These female pilgrims often brought with them ex-voto gifts, such as lamp oil or candle wax, and took away various sorts of pious souvenirs, such as vials filled with holy oil or water and clay or lead tokens impressed with the image of the saint.

Laywomen might be engaged with monasteries in other ways as well, as patrons and donors. At the highest levels of society, empresses and other female members of the imperial family or wealthy noblewomen might offer large sums of cash and property to support the establishment of a new monastery or nunnery or to restore one that had fallen into disrepair. The motivations for donations on such a lavish scale were multiple: foundation of a nunnery where the donor and her female relatives might spend their declining years; provision for highly desired burial within the sacred space of the monastic church; insurance that prayers would be said in perpetuity for the salvation of the donor and her relatives; expiation of sins and thanksgiving for a prosperous and blessed life on earth; or, on a more mundane level, creation of a tax haven, since properties donated to a monastery were immune from taxation.

Such founders might also contribute the essentials for liturgical observance: eucharistic vessels, vestments, liturgical books, and textiles, as well as icons with frames of precious metal. Other lay donors made offerings expressly in exchange for commemorative services on the anniversary of their death. On the days of memorial services for benefactors of the monastery, donations ensured that the illumination of the church was more extensive than usual, the nuns were offered special dishes in the refectory, and distributions of bread and wine were made to beggars at the convent gates.

At the lower end of the economic spectrum, poor women might work as servants at a convent or accompany their mistresses who took monastic vows later in life, while some impoverished widows took the monastic habit to ensure food and nursing care in their old age. A typical case is that of Zoe Syropoulina, who in 1271 found herself a widow with no living family members to help support her. She made an agreement with the convent of Nea Petra in Thessaly to donate to the monastery her ancestral property, including three vineyards and four fields, on condition that she be admitted as a nun without any entrance fee, receive the tonsure, and be maintained for the rest of her life. It was further understood that at the time of her death Zoe was to receive proper burial and be commemorated at the convent with requiem liturgies.

Strange as it may seem at first sight, some laywomen became benefactors of monasteries on Mount Athos, even though they were prohibited from setting foot themselves on the Holy Mountain. Women made such donations for two primary reasons: one was practical, to receive an adelphaton, or annuity, that included provision of basic foodstuffs for life—wheat, cheese, oil, wine, and legumes. The second and more common purpose was the receipt of spiritual benefits, the prayers of the monks for the salvation of one’s soul and/or the souls of relatives. Several women donors specified that they made these donations, so-called psychika or “spiritual gifts,” as a way of establishing spiritual links with the Holy Mountain that they yearned to visit.

One woman wrote wistfully in her act of donation, “When I heard about the Holy Mountain, my soul thirsted for the living God, whether I too might have a share in the Holy Mountain . . . and I too wanted to be commemorated on the Holy Mountain.” Another female donor of property and cash to the Great Lavra on Mount Athos noted that she and two co-owners offered this gift so that they might “be commemorated as brethren of the monastery both while living and after our death.” It has been suggested that this alludes to membership in an honorary confraternity, such as is attested at other monasteries, that would ensure commemoration by the monks in perpetuity.”

- Alice-Mary Talbot, “The Devotional Life of Laywomen.” in Byzantine Christianity

#alice-mary talbot #byzantine #religion #early middle ages #high middle ages #medieval #history #christian

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hobidreams · 4 years

Text

may 1861.

here, the world vanishes and you are unafraid to dream, to want.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: fluff! words: 1.2k contains: historical au, teenage!yoongi, literally just cute stuff

moonlit throne index. this is drabble ten. start from the beginning?

You knock three times, three short raps, then push open the door to the crown prince’s private library. Sunlight invades the room unabashedly through the intricate window design, bathing the entire space in the warmth of a spring pleasantly acquiescing to summer. You inhale the scent of the aged wooden bookshelves and the worn paper they house. You feel yourself finally relax, having worked all the morning away.

At first, with the silence, you think you’re alone. You try to brush off the disappointment as you wander among the shelving, trying to decide what you will study today. You’ve just pulled a collection of herb properties off the rack when there’s a rustling, a crisp page turned with a careful hand.

“You’re back again?”

The drawl is only reserved for especially lazy times and it seems today is one of them as you peer through the newly-made book hole to find the prince lounging comfortably on the seat beneath the window. He shifts back when you make brief eye contact, drawing in the socked feet on the bench to make room.

“Yes, seja-jeonha. I’m back.”

It’s been three months since he gave you permission to access this normally off-limits space, as you mentioned needing more books to study with in conversation with Eunuch Kim. The first time you came had been profusely awkward: two bodies sitting stiffly across the room, too acutely aware of possibly being scrutinized by the other person to get anything done. But you tried again. And again. Soon, you were stealing away to the library whenever it was possible, if only for half an hour. It gradually became natural for you to share the widest seat, where the most sunshine reached (to ease the strain on your eyes, he reasoned). It didn’t take long after that before you were both ditching your rigid shoes, facing each other while he brought his knees up and you crossed your ankles, taking care that your chima skirt covered anything inappropriate.

Why he still insists on acting as if he’s surprised that you’re here, you don’t know. But you’re happy to play along if it means these afternoons keep going.

“Table,” he says, not even looking up from his book.

“Pardon?”

“Table.”

Okay… Still holding the text you picked up earlier, you shuffle to the desk on the other side of the room and gasp.

“Oh, this is— No…!” You abandon the herbs tome. You struggle to keep your fingers delicate through the excitement as you reach for the new book next to it, one you’ve been wanting to read for so long but could never find for its scarcity. You’d gushed about it to the prince just last week, about how it combines folk stories and myths with factual information of flower species from all across the country. “Seja-jeonha! Did you find this? How did you manage such a thing!”

“No, I didn’t. It arrived with the other books yesterday by chance.”

You don’t quite believe him as you clutch the book close to your chest in glee, practically dancing on your way to the bench. “Thank you,” you say, taking a seat on the spot you’ve started considering yours.

“It was not me,” he insists.

“Thank you so much.” You wiggle slightly, settling in with a wide smile as you watch him refocus on his reading harder, even though you both know he hasn’t turned the page in quite a few minutes.

Even as you peel open the cover of the precious text though, there’s something that captures your attention a bit more. It’s the way the sun has shifted, rays falling differently onto Yoongi’s face to kiss the pale skin beneath his sleepy eyes before scattering out across his cheeks. How the light dapples across the nose that occasionally scrunches in irritation at the countless dust particles floating around, haloing him in a golden glow that you wish you could capture in your memory for safekeeping (and later revisiting, when you inevitably feel the twinge of yearning).

Seeing this view... you think. You want. You wish for this moment to go on for a lifetime. Such desires have never been so startlingly intense and the thought alone is a terrifying one as soon as it slips into your mind but the feeling, the feeling settles in your heart like it has always been there, steadily beating away just beneath your skin.

Yoongi looks up and you snap your head away to the side so hard your neck cracks.

Your face heats with the embarrassment at being caught and you insist on pretending you were looking out the window at the garden, the multicolors bursting into vivacity. You hadn’t noticed the violet flowers coming in but now they seem to be on their way to full blossom, and the sight tugs a smile to your lips. The lotus too, beginning their cycle to beautify the pavilion even more. You’ll ask mother to take you on a walk through the garden soon, under guise of plant care.

“Books are for reading, you know.”

“Huh? Oh. I’m sorry.” It’s an automatic apology, but you know he doesn’t mean it by the gentle half-smile, half-scowl on his face. “It’s just that the pavilion is my favorite. I can’t help admiring it.”

“Why? It’s practically falling apart.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not beautiful.”

He hums a noncommittal noise.

You let the subject drop, finally turning to your reading. It’s usually how these days go. Part of you has always wondered if he remembers these brief, but precious words you exchange before the silence takes over; the weighted book sitting in your lap seems to be all the proof you need. So, you sit back. Enjoy this brief respite from reality with dreams quietly blooming in your chest.

“What are you thinking so hard about? You’ll get wrinkles that way.” Later that night, facing you beneath her blankets, mother shakes a hand free to tap you on the forehead.

“Nothing much…” But you can’t stop the sliver of giddiness that runs through you when you think of today and that wonderful book. “I just… I think that I might like someone a lot.” The other L-word feels too big, too heavy to be used right now, even if it’s the right one.

“Oh?” To your great relief, mother knows better than to ask the identity of this mystery person. Just smiles with a fondness that makes you feel even more fuzzy inside. “Are you going to tell them?”

“I don’t think so. But that’s fine. It wouldn’t make a difference either way.” From the very beginning, you’ve known that the distance between you is too vast to ever be breached. To not fall would have been the most painless, but in hindsight, impossible. If concealing the truth will allow you to be close to him, then maybe that will be enough for someone like you.

Mother rolls onto her back. “It’s your choice.” She shuts her eyes. Just as you think she’s drifted off, she says, “just remember that you are always deserving of love. No matter what.”

You think about those words for a long time until you finally fall asleep.

a/n: we’ve made it to drabble 10! phew. & there is so much more to come. if you’re enjoying the series, i’d love to hear your thoughts on it so far ♡♡ your support keeps me going!

#ficswithluv #bts fluff #yoongi fluff #yoongi x reader #bts imagines #min yoongi #historical au #moonlit throne #rain writes #*clenches fist* he's so mfing cute

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wxldchxld · 3 years

Text

This started out as like, a light piece just to describe what Beck’s workspace looks like and I won’t lie I’m a little obsessed with it. People always ask me like how tf Harper and Beck get along and... this. It’s this. Harper turns into a big sappy baby who lives off of nothing but Loving Her Wife Juice.

I’ll probably go back and edit this a couple of times for typos and other things but I love it so much I just wanna post it rn. And I won’t be putting it under a cut so y’all will have to live with it.

Harper knocked, almost tentatively, on the open door. From outside she could smell the intoxicating aroma of fir trees and herbs, sweetened by dried apples and candied citrus, drawing the attention of any passersby and calling them in. But she lingered there, knocking a second time when she got no response. Somewhere an old record player was crackling as Judy Garland sang about far away places over a rainbow, and a warm voice was humming along with it. Harper gently ran her thumb over one of the embroidered silk foxes among flower petals embedded into the translucent curtain that covered the door. The fabric, a deep ocean blue, shuffled under her attention, and the little creatures looked as if they were dancing.

Even on the threshold of Beck’s workshop, the world felt so slow. Time didn’t abide by schedules and obligations. It flowed like a lazy river on the precipice of winter, slowly but surely crusting over with ice. If she stood still long enough, would it freeze entirely? Or would the warm glow that haloed her lover forever melt away the sharpest crystals and encourage it to move on?

She didn’t need to knock. She didn’t need permission to enter. Not only did she doubt Beck would care, but the building was hers. The city--in its own way--was hers. It was her nature to utterly and completely possess things---to take them into herself to keep. If someone asked, she’d likely have even said Beck was hers.

But she had no claim over this place. It was a feeling that went far deeper than any deed or contract or organization. The magic here was so perfectly interwoven with it that it felt like it belonged to Beck.

Inside the room, there was a little tsk and a rich, quiet laugh. “What are you doing hanging out there like a bat? The door is open.”

The door was always open. Beck still clung to the old superstitions of their people. Ancient rules about hospitality and ways witches ought to behave. Rules made in a time when their people had been valued and listened to, long before Christians had turned them into a target and Google had rendered them obsolete. But Beck claimed it wasn’t about people, it was about magic, and its strange laws that were shrouded in mystery. Magic, she said, liked to know its witches were always open and welcome to it. In return for a witch’s “proper” hospitality, magic would sweep away the bad luck that so often got caught behind closed doors. And--again according to Beck--spirits were much the same, and closing the door on them might cause otherwise benign entities to turn dark with anger.

But Harper had been raised by much less traditional witches. One specifically that would have worn her back end raw with a wooden spoon for letting the heat escape and airing their business out in front of their neighbors.

She pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the room, leaving any lingering thoughts of her mother laid on the doorstep with the rest of her worries.

The apartment was an explosion of barely organized chaos. Dried herbs and flowers hung from the ceiling or were pressed between the thick, heavy pages of spellbooks laying on the shelves beside jars stuffed with candied fruits and tea leaves. Knitwork and embroidery and tapestries and clothing in all states of completion were laid out on tables or hung up from the wall. Live plants in brightly colored pots lounged in the sunlight that poured in from the huge windows on the far side of the wall. There was a collection of open-faced cabinets filled with canisters of wood and glass and stone that sat in clusters with no apparent system of coordination. Above her the high ceilings had been turned into an aerial playground of wooden bridges, little boxes, and plush cushions either nailed into the wall or floating in midair among the drying plants where her most cantankerous familiar could sit and look down on the apartment like a goddess. A fire roared energetically to her right, and to her left there was a small kitchen where an enormous pot of sliced apples was being attended by an enchanted spoon.

It was nothing like the penthouse they shared when Harper left her work to come home. But oddly enough Beck’s workshop didn’t feel cramped or chaotic. It was warm. It was inviting. Everything melted together on the merit that no two things were remotely related to one another in any sensible way. A way that suggested every single item had been purposefully hand picked or handmade by the master of the domain and placed precisely where they were meant to be.

And there she sat, behind it all, nestled among the plants in front of a wall of windows. Her feet were curled up in the plush, gliding rocker beside her, and she was smiling up at her through a halo of sunlight. In this place she was a queen, and her crown was made of braids entangled with wildflowers and encrusted with knitting needles and crochet hooks that she had stuck away for safekeeping and promptly forgotten about. She was holding a little stuffed creature in one hand, and pulling a needle and thread in the other.

Beck always seemed fondly amused by the slow, reverent way Harper entered her domain. Their eyes met for a few gentle seconds, and then Beck looked to her right, where something shimmering and half formed in the sunlight began to move. Harper tried to focus on the spirit, but it collapsed in on itself and turned into a yellow moth as big as her hand, and lazily fluttered into the shadow of a flower by the window.

“That doesn’t unnerve you?” Harper asked, taking a seat in an armchair across from her girlfriend.

Again the blonde let out a breezy laugh that harmonized with the music in the background.

“You spend half your nights in an enchanted necropolis in some undisclosed abyss with only dead people and a renegade faerie for company, and an air spirit unnerves you.” She said, a playful perk in her brow.

Harper scoffed in feigned offense. “Dead things don’t think. They don’t watch me. I don’t like to be watched.”

“What a shame. You’re quite the sight to look at.”

Now Harper laughed, a rare, genuine chuckle of amusement. She wasn’t modest by any means, but Beck’s flattery could still make her heart race and her stomach fill with butterflies. As if it were the first time, even though compliments fell from Beck like droplets of rain in a spring shower.

“Well it’s a privilege. And it’s only bestowed on people I think highly of.”

Beck snorted soundlessly. “I can’t imagine there are many of those.”

“Only one, currently. And I’d let her do anything she pleased.” Harper replied. There was a small, suggestive grin on her lips, and a devilish twinkle in her eye.

“Oh?” Both of Beck’s brows raised and the hand holding her needle pressed against her heart as if she were shocked. “Then I guess I have someone to be jealous of, because you certainly don’t let me do whatever I want.”

Again she laughed, and Beck joined in with her. Harper rolled her eyes, her quick tongue failing her, and said lightly. “Shut up.”

“See?! There it is right there. Always bossing me around.” The little witch clicked her tongue in fake disapproval.

“Anything you want to me.” Harper corrected, still grinning so wide that it hurt her cheeks. “The fact that I don’t let you wreak havoc all across the tristate area is not the same.”

Beck held up both her hands in surrender. “Hey, you say potato, I say tomato.”

“That’s-” Harper halted her correction when she saw the look on Beck’s face that suggested her point was about to be proven perfectly. “Absolutely right.”

It was Beck’s turn to roll her eyes, and then she returned her attention to the project in her hands. Harper leaned forward just a little to try and catch a subtle glimpse, and without a word from the necromancer, Beck raised up the stuffed animal to show.

“Essi has decided that she’s infatuated with snails.” She said, shaking her head.

Esteri was a frequent visitor in their home. Harper could remember when she was born how Beck had practically lived at Frankie’s house and brought the infant home with her when her friend needed rest. Midori and Jari had done just the same, and the door to her penthouse had practically revolved for months as the gaggle of friends came and went. Essi had just turned three a short while ago, and she’d grown into a wild-eyed, challenging little girl. Consequently, one of Beck’s favorite hobbies consisted of indulging her every whim and encouraging her to be as difficult as possible. If that meant making a snail to feed her newest fancy, Harper knew that “Aunty Beck” was more than happy to provide.

“It’s not surprising, between you and Dori I don’t know who lets her play in the dirt more.”

“We play in the garden.” Beck corrected.

Harper refused to give ground. “Gardens are mostly dirt.”

“It’s important for witches to know how to plant and grow.” Her playful tone had gotten a little more serious. Not angry, but carrying a thread of absolute belief. “You could use a bit more time in the garden. And the sun for that matter.”

“Alas my love,” She sighed dramatically, “I am a creature of the night.”

Something soft bounced off her nose and fell into her lap. It was the snail. It’s stupid, smiling face laughing up at her.

“Are you throwing things at me now?” She teased, “Do you really want to start this with me?”

“You’re the one who said I could do whatever I wanted to you.” Beck wasn’t even bothering to contain her wolfish grin.

“You. Not this creature you’ve created. I can’t take an attack like this sitting down. I have a reputation to uphold.” She stood up, stuffed animal clenched in her hand, and slowly walked toward the fire place.

“Don’t you dare!” Beck squealed. They both knew it was an empty threat, that Harper would never disrespect the woman she loved so brazenly, but Beck threw the blankets off her lap and scrambled to her feet in a flash. Harper held the stuffed creature high above her head as Beck latched onto her.

There was a flush of heat that certainly didn’t come from any fire as their bodies pressed together. Beck was all soft curves over surprisingly strong muscles and blue eyes that glittered in the flames.

“Give me that back!” She demanded, trying to sound stern and reaching hopelessly for the toy. The pair stumbled and fell against a wall. When it shook a cascade of lavender petals and thyme leaves peppered them like confetti.

The necromancer curled one of her legs behind her lover’s and held up the animal higher. “I never knew you had this kind of rage inside of you. You know maybe you should go to therapy.”

“I never knew you were so annoyi-OH” Harper swept them both to the side, and Beck only managed to stay upright because she was being held against her so tightly. The little witch huffed, her cheeks flushing. “Oh I’m going to knock you over the side of the head so hard it smarts for a month!”

“See! There it is again! That rage!” Harper teased, merciless. A little childish, even. “Beck it’s me! Please, remember you loved me once.”

“You’re too rotten for loving. You give me that toy right now!”

Harper was shaking with laughter, her free hand wrapped around Beck’s waist as she strained. Beck was laughing too, intermittently. Every few seconds her angry façade would break just long enough for a smile and a chuckle that made her quiver against her.

“Why are you so godsdamned tall?! Was your mother a giant?” Beck’s hand had a hold on her wrist and her nails were just barely scratching the skin that ignited a dangerous excitement in Harper.

“A troll, actually. It’s a wonder I turned out so pretty.” Harper carefully guided them through the room backing them into the perfect position. When her hand was at just the right height, she felt the toy roughly ripped away from her, and the enormous black feline leaped over the both of them with it in her mouth, and (likely sensing what was about to happen) ran out into the hall.

"They say the devil has a pretty face---and Angrboda you’re giving that back!” The smaller witch tried to twist to look at her familiar, but Harper had pulled her tight against her body. Now with her other hand free she tilted up her lover’s chin and kissed her softly, the both of them still intermittently giggling.

They turned again, fingers tangled in one another’s hair, lips locked, the air between them dissolving until her lungs burned but still neither of them pulled away. Not until Harper had backed the witch up to the armchair. She gave her lover a rough push and watched her fall back into the seat, panting and grinning in delight.

She placed a knee on either side of Beck and trapped her against the cushions, reveling in the way she shivered. Her head stooped to whisper in the little witch’s ear. “And what would you let the devil do to you?”

Beck's hands were tightly gripping her hips, trying to pull her even closer. She smelled like apples and wildflowers and everything Harper loved in the world. She was everything Harper loved in the world. Perhaps even the only thing she loved in the world of the living.

“I’d let her do anything she wants.” Beck said beneath her, and the record came to a scratchy stop, and all Harper could hear was the crackle of the fire and the door slamming shut behind them.

#drabbles #my drabbles #i love them so much tho omgggggg

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thegeneralguy · 3 years

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The Champion of Olympus - Hera´s Hatred

Hello everyone! I wanted to take a moment to thank all the amazing support and positive feedback the stories have gotten. I’m very glad this community is so welcoming, and I hope you keep enjoying my creations. Credits to @amalianetwork for the picture and correction.

The thunder palace had been in complete chaos since Zeus announced his plan to stop Typhon and save Olympus. Winged servants flew swiftly back and forth across the residence, organizing the more organizational aspects of such an event like the upcoming ritual. Nervous chatter reigned across the halls, uncertain of what was about to come. It was usually the lesser creatures of the heavens who suffered the most casualties during the original monster´s assaults to Mount Olympus. The celestial Sentinels stood silently guarding the palace´s many different rooms. Their muscular solid gold bodies reflected the shining sunlight entering through the building´s many skylights. They were fierce pieces of weaponry when activated with heavenly power, but until then they represented little more than beautiful statues adorning the already opulent palace interior.

The queen of the heavens watched the palace´s eastern garden with apathy from her balcony on the uppermost level of the residence. Long golden hair was flowing magically around her back, giving the impression of being permanently swinging under a non-existent wind. Her slender frame was covered by a luxurious white robe that shone like the sun itself, with beautiful peacock feathers adorning the neck and sleeves from the garment. She stood impassively watching her servants move in a panic once again due to the capricious whims of her husband. Although she was the queen of the heavens, Zeus outranked her in the divine hierarchy. And that drove Hera mad with anger.

Not to mention her husband´s many romantic escapades, each one of them an extra nail on the coffin of her compassionate heart. After a life full of intrigues and plotting revenge, the goddess of marriage was left ironically with an unhappy marriage, together with eons worth of hateful feelings against her husband. She tried everything to stop him, from harassing his offspring to tear other gods down to shreds out of pure jealousy. But nothing could change the king of the gods, who felt his birthright was taking whatever he pleased, especially sexual satisfaction. His rage was left permanently marked on her perfect body, leaving the scars of her ankles as an imperfect reminder of what Zeus was truly capable of. In the end, Hera limited herself to watch somberly each one of her husbands' movements, waiting for a moment to strike. A knock on the door resonated in the room and Hera turned around to receive her expected guest.

"Come in."

She said with a melodious, but a somewhat cold voice. Like a beautiful snowflake falling on warm skin. The strong celestial Sentinels then opened the door, and Hermes entered the room. He bowed reluctantly to the goddess; his sense of duty much stronger than his utter repulse for the beautiful monster.

"The package you requested, my queen."

He said presenting Hera with a little crystal bottle with shining water inside. The queen got close and grabbed the bottle in her delicate hands. Hermes stood up once again and looked at the goddess. Her beauty was unheard of, making everything else seem mundane and worthless. A curvaceous and elegant silhouette leads to an aesthetically perfect face, her beautiful features harmonizing with each other to the point of being unsettling. Her irises were also an iridescent gold, standing out like beacons from her emotionless expression. But the god of travel could see something dark lurking beneath the otherwise bright eyes. The true form of Hera´s sinister demeanor printing itself as a red halo emanating from her pupils, fading into the shining gold. She was surrounded by a permanent bright halo, completely solidifying her status as heavenly royalty and a warning sign of the unmeasurable power the goddess possessed.

"Thank you, Hermes, you may now leave the premises. I'm sure the king has other tasks for you to complete."

Said Hera with a glimmer of disdain in her voice. The fast god of travel was indeed always busy. As the head of trade on all realms, he was constantly flying back and forth from every corner of the universe. The queen of the heavens always saw someone complicit to her husband´s deeds in him, because Hermes knew everything and everyone of interest for Olympus.

Hermes analyzed the goddess´ unusual rushing of their encounter, which normally ended with Hera insisting on him telling her Zeus´s antics to the point of threatening with violence. But this time, Hera seemed impatient, quickly dismissing him without even trying to squeeze some information out of him. He quickly glanced at the ornamental bottle in the queen's hands.

"If I may ask, my Lady, why is it that you needed water from the river Styx? It is certainly not fitting for a queen to be asking for such mundane favors."

"That's none of your concern, godling. Now please leave the premises, or I´ll have my guards escort you out."

The gigantic automatons opened the door and looked inside expectantly with their solid gold eyes. Hermes sighed and quickly took flight, passing both guards faster than lightning and heading to the outside court. He might be a god, but the celestial Sentinels were heavenly weapons designed to give even deities a hard time, and he had better things to do than being dismembered by the queen´s guardians like some of his half-siblings.

Hera was then left alone in her chambers again. Her unfazed calm expression was briefly interrupted by a sinister smile. Hermes was a nosy deity and he certainly was going to keep investigating, but at least she had bought some time to start executing her plan. It was true that with a simple command she could go to the riverbank in the underworld and get as much water as she wanted, but her plot required absolutely no suspicion from anybody. The god of travel could be curious, but his honor for his duty was stronger than his petty need for gossip, so she was sure he would not talk a word to anyone else about the mysterious gift he brought for the queen. Many creatures in his brother´s hellish realm could sense her overwhelming presence with ease, so this was considered the safest way to acquire what she was looking for.

She then approached a big chest next to the bed, and with a movement in her hand released a golden wave of energy that swiftly seeped into the lock. She heard a complex mechanism on the inside clicking, and then the chest opened. The queen of heaven had many secrets. Some were very easy to hide like her curses against lesser beings from her husband´s bloodline and others were a bit harder due to their intense radiation of divine energy. The true golden fleece for example, along with some golden apples from the Hesperides and Ariadne´s golden thread. Relics she had quickly collected from the terrestrial plane for safekeeping mostly. But on the bottom of the trove laid what she was truly looking for.

Hera pulled out an ornate mirror from the chest and took it to a big marble altar in the far corner of the room. The queen of heaven´s magical ability was rivaled only by a few other deities, and she enjoyed performing all kinds of rituals and curses to execute her will everywhere she needed to. She didn't feel the necessity of dirtying her energy by traveling down to the realm of mortals, far preferring a more indirect approach. The mirror in her hand was one of the strongest divination tools ever created, crafted as a gift from her son Hephaestus from ores coming from the Delphi temple itself. Its ability to watch over the currents of time was only inferior to Apollo himself and the Delphi oracle’s vision. The relic had been the inspiration for epic tales down on the Earth, as Hera allowed it from time to time to fall into the hands of mortals only to plant the seeds of conflict for the goddess´s enjoyment.

She put the mirror in the middle of the altar and took out the tiny water bottle. She then sprinkled a few drops of the Styx´s water on the surface of the mirror, and chanted the required incantation, releasing powerful divine energy from her body into the artifact. The mirror´s surface then became liquid, absorbing the river's water and flowing outside the ornate frame. Hera walked back and watched as a potent stream of liquid mirror flowed down the altar, forming a large puddle in front of her. A strong wave of energy pulsed out of the liquid. Hera raised her hands and finished the incantation, and from the puddle raised an identical copy of the goddess. The only difference was that her light halo was missing, along with her golden eyes, which were a reflective polished silver. Like a mirror.

"Oh, oracle of truth, knower of the unseen and progenitor of the universe´s secrets. Hear my command and show me my destiny."

The doppelganger smiled, as it lifted its robe to show a vast firmament full of stars. A deep vibration came out of the black veil. The marble columns of the queen's chamber vibrated, as a black fog started seeping out of the creature´s robe. An ominous voice came out of the veil, answering the Goddess´s call.

"What is it that you seek, Hera. Daughter of Rhea. Heiress of the heavens."

The fake queen stared impassively at Hera with her mirror eyes fixated on her, the expression vacant like a statue´s. The mirror´s creature was only a conduit for the true knower of all, the origin of the universe. It was unusual for an Olympic deity to contact the primordial progenitor. The magic required was too ancient for it to be remembered, even by the gods. But Hera was an erudite, her thirst for revenge driving her to uncover the darkest secrets of existence.

"Tell me, why is my husband trying to raise a mortal to divinity? What is the truth behind Tartarus´s veil being broken?"

"The balance in Tartarus remains the same. The inescapable abyss has not been disturbed in eons, but I can sense a will to breed discord in the world. Be careful, queen of the heavens. The king acts mostly on a whim, but such a decision is rarely unplanned."

Hera pondered on the answer of the oracle for a moment. Zeus was impulsive and arrogant, but he was not an idiot. He knew the implications of the ancient ritual, and the fact he was so keen on getting all gods involved so the ascension would be guaranteed and a new deity on earth could be born meant only one thing.

"It seems you already know the answer, my child. Look within yourself and act fast. Your time is running out."

The doppelganger then closed its robe and was consumed by the mirrored pool on its feet, leaving Hera alone to meditate on her next move. The words of the oracle resonated in her mind. She could beat her husband in his own game, winning a powerful ally in the process that could help her once and for all to enact her revenge on the king of the gods. Most importantly, she could not let Zeus acquire any more power. The rivalry between her three male siblings was the cause of many disasters in the past, and she couldn´t let the celestial realm suffer due to the quarrel between the gods.

Hera then pulled out the golden sharp head of an arrow from her robes. It was the artifact the bastard Heracles had used to try and harm her with. She held her palm on top of the mirror pool and slid it open with the weapon. Bright golden drops of ichor fell to the molten crystal, and it started glowing as bright as a star. The queen was going to find a knight worthy of Olympus, and she was going to use him as a conduit to spill out her hatred against her husband. Flying in the distance, Hermes witnessed the queen´s spell and heard what Chaos said. Could it be that his father was deceiving everyone? Or was this another of the goddess of heaven´s many antics to move against Zeus?

Dr. Richie Couccou was not having a good day. He woke up too late, he dropped his coffee on his lap on his way to work and was faced immediately with the plethora of problems his patients bombarded him with. Being a psychologist was the dream of his life, wishing to help people find their way through life with the least amount of suffering possible. His specialty was marriage counseling, so he wasn't unfamiliar with the burden marital life could bring. Adulterers, narcissists, abusers, addicts, pathological jealousy, Dr. Couccou had seen it all. When he imagined his life as a young professional freshly out of university, he imagined himself mapping the human psyche and developing exciting new theories that would laurel him with the recognition of his most prestigious peers, only to discover that the academic pathway in his profession leads mostly to a dead-end in careers. His lack of initiative and his unwillingness to take risks pushed him more and more to financial security instead of spiritual fulfillment.

In the end, he specialized in marriage counseling, which was where the money was, in an affluent neighborhood in the outskirts of San Francisco. Couples could put on a very convincing façade of stability, but deep inside the relationships grew rotten with remorse and frustration. The young doctor still conserved an altruistic nature, which when combined with his innocent idealism produced a very professional therapist who cared for his patients and tried his best in finding the best outcome for them. Besides, he couldn't complain about his own life. Living close to a more liberal city allowed him and his husband to live as freely as they pleased, together with a beautiful house and an expensive sedan to complete Richie´s suburbia fantasy.

The young couple had married just a couple of years ago when Richie finished his professional formation. The 25-year old men were madly in love with each other and decided to take the next step and move in together. Mario, his husband, was originally from Honduras and had come to the U.S. to work as a model and an aspiring actor. They met in a club during one of Richie´s very few nightly adventures, and they both hit it off immediately. Mario was everything Richie had hoped for in a man: attentive, charismatic, charming, and very attractive. His job as a model kept him in top shape constantly, in contrast to the young therapist whose body was never awe-inspiring, to begin with, and had only withered more and more due to a poor diet and a sedentary lifestyle. At first, he wondered why Mario was with him, but his new lover´s romantic attention just worked their way into his young heart.

Now just a few weeks shy of reaching the age of 30, Dr. Couccou was settled in a marriage that kept him happy, and had the financial security to live a comfortable life. All those thoughts crossed his mind every time he heard another tragic story about a failed relationship, keeping him sane for the most part and away from the abyss of depression, to which he was prone. Session after session made the man grow more impatient, nervously waiting for the day to end so he could drive home and celebrate his anniversary.

He finished his work schedule for the day on time as usual, and after the routine paperwork, he hopped in his car and drove back home. He remembered to pick up some flowers and a nice bottle of wine to celebrate the special occasion together with his husband. He arrived at the two-story family home just a few minutes after seven, like a clockwork. The sun was already setting down painting the sky in a romantic shade of red. He enthusiastically opened the door with a bouquet of lotus flowers on one hand, and an expensive bottle of wine under his elbow, only to be greeted by dead silence inside his home. The lights in the whole house were off, along with the kitchen stove and the set of candles he picked up at Bath and Bodyworks to illuminate this special evening. Richie hung his keys and left his presents on the dining table, noticing the open envelope of Mario´s accepted citizenship application. Another reason to celebrate, he thought.

"Honey?"

He asked, looking nervously for his husband.

"No. Not again."

He held back the tears in his eyes, as he hesitantly headed towards the garage. Once he opened the door his suspicions were confirmed. His husband´s Range Rover van was gone, so that meant he wasn't in the house. Richie then went back to the formal living room and left himself to be swallowed by the lavish leather couch.

"Maybe he went to get groceries. Maybe he ran late in the gym. Maybe he had an accident and ended up in the hospital."

Anxiety overwhelmed the therapist, the thoughts praying on his fears like hungry vultures. Richie was a prodigiously intelligent man, his only flaw being his foolish naivety. This same couch was a witness when the same scene happened a year ago. The hunky Latino lover he had for a husband wasn't very thoughtful when it came to dates, so this hadn't been the first time he forgot about their anniversary. Last year´s night ended with Richie begging his husband for forgiveness, his only mistake being that he started an argument about Mario´s recent lack of attention. The Latino heartthrob had a way of twisting every problem to his favor, constantly gaslighting Richie into believing he was being too needy and demanding, or that he spent too much time at work. Either way, it always ended with Richie bending to the whims of his husband. Last year Mario had made the generous offer of cooking a very nice dinner for both of them next time they celebrated their anniversary. But judging by the empty dark kitchen, he had forgotten once again.

Richie let out a loud sigh, as he went upstairs heading directly to their shared bedroom. Their bed was not made, and there was an explosion of bright clothes hanging off of every corner of the room, hinting that Mario had gone off partying again, as usual, trying out every outfit in the closet before heading out. The doctor's husband loved the nightlife, leaving Richie staying at home so he could go partying and enjoy the benefits the big city offered. The tired man headed then into the bathroom for his routine before bed. He took off the ill-fitting suit he was wearing, along with his thick-rimmed glasses, and splashed some water on his face. When he put them back on, he was greeted by a vision he was constantly trying to avoid.

He looked with sadness at his body. His naturally thin frame was filling up with some fat, forming a small belly and starting to accumulate on his chest. His love handles were being pushed out by the elastic band on his boxer shorts. His arms and legs were just as slim as they were when he finished puberty, unable to gain the coveted muscle mass every gay man was chasing. His husband signed him up for his gym as an idea to spend more time together, only to be completely ignored once the hunky social butterfly found his usual friends and left him on his own. Prey to his insecurities, he stopped going altogether, much to his husband´s annoyance who wanted him to get in shape. His blond hair was dry and messy, styled in a boring way. He barely had any beard growth on his round, to begin with, unable to hide the soft jawline and little chin, and the one he had was very patchy and light blond, so it was practically invisible. Otherwise, he wasn't a very hairy man, just sporting unkempt armpit and pubic hair, along with some sparse sprinkling around his nipples. His blue eyes were the only feature he kind of liked on himself, being an icy blue that was magnified by the thick glasses he wore all the time.

Richie put on his pomegranate printed pajamas and got into bed. The emotional shock from earlier had exhausted him, along with the stress of his intense work schedule. He then turned to the side to take off his glasses and turn off his bed lamp when he caught a glimpse of the beautifully framed photo of his husband and him on their wedding day. Richie was a bit taller standing at 6 feet and was wearing a black tuxedo that hung off his even thinner body. His soft features shining with happiness. Next to him stood the hunk he married, his beautiful brown skin contrasting with the white tuxedo Richie had bought him for that day. The elegant garment was taut over the Latino man´s body, showing off the volume of his arms and the prominence of his chest. It was tapered to his thin waist, which made him look like he jumped out of a GQ magazine cover. His raven black hair was beautifully styled back, and he was beaming a white smile at the camera. The handsome man was truly a sight to behold. Richie didn't like looking at his reflection because it was a painful reminder of the abyssal difference between them. No wonder Mario never wanted to get in bed with him anymore. He took off his glasses and closed his eyes, unable to fall asleep with a million worries circling on his head.

"Good morning amor"

Richie opened his eyes to the deep melodious voice of his husband. Mario was standing next to his bed holding up a box of chocolates shaped like a heart. Richie put on his glasses and managed to squeeze out a faint smile. He then extended his arm and accepted the gesture without saying a word. His husband remained unfazed, beaming a bright smile, and acting with his usual confidence.

"You didn't wait for me last night. The boys from the gym invited me to a birthday party, so I couldn't say no. Still, I brought some pizza for us to eat late only to find you sleeping!"

The Latino hunk then pouted like a little kid making emphasis on the last word.

"I know better than to wait for you to get home Mario. Besides, you arrived at 3 in the morning, high as a kite. I really thought you remembered this time."

Mario could feel his husband´s sadness in his voice, but he didn't let his facial expression change.

"I still brought you dinner as I promised. I even got your favorite pizza. Come on, let's go have breakfast. I have a photo shooting later and I cannot be late again."

Richie sighed and got out of bed to get ready. He then joined his husband in the kitchen who was sporting one of his usual skintight tank tops that made the defined muscles in his body pop out more.

"The pizza is in the fridge."

He said taking another spoonful of oatmeal without even raising his gaze from his phone. Richie then took out a cold slice and sat down on the opposite end of the kitchen island. He stared at the pepperoni pizza on his plate, unable to take a bite. He took a deep breath and looked at his husband.

"Mario, we need to talk."

The hunk barely raised his eyes from the screen, giving Richie an impatient glare. Even when he was annoyed, he remained strikingly handsome, with sharp masculine features decorated with a dense black beard.

"Does it really have to be now? I´m already running late amor. We can talk when I get back from work."

"No, it has to be now."

Said Richie fighting the breaking of his voice. He had a lot of feelings, but he had to remind himself of his practices at work and how to emote his thoughts without overwhelming his partner.

"I think you´re not paying a lot of attention to me, and that makes me feel sad. Remember when we first moved into this house and had that candlelit dinner on the floor? I miss that Mario. The romantic detail Mario."

Mario´s gaze remained fixed on his husband, meditating the best way to squirm out of the problem. It wasn´t the first time he messed up an important date, but he could always count on his husband´s weak character to do the trick for him.

"I´m sorry amor. I´ve been stressed with work now that my career is finally taking off. My diet is also killing me, making me tired and irritable. You should have a bit of consideration with me. Besides, I brought you your favorite pizza. I remembered. It's just that you know how important these parties are for networking amor. And you´re always at work. You never come to the gym with me. The least you could do is being more comprehensive."

He managed to finish his monologue with a little tear under his eye. Richie fell victim once again to his husband´s bulldozing charm. His bitterness turned quickly into concern for his hard-working husband, who just wanted to make his dream come true. He stood up and headed towards the hunk´s back, embracing his muscular body tightly.

"I´m sorry love, I had no idea you had that much on your head. I´ll take you to dinner tonight, to that fancy place you like."

Mario smiled triumphantly, knowing there was no sin his pushover of a husband was not going to forgive.

"If you really want us to go then fine."

Richie jumped excitedly at the prospect of having a romantic evening with his man again. The sorrow in his heart turned again to the blind happiness that had imprisoned him for a long time. He took his briefcase and kissed his husband´s cheek, who winced a bit at the gesture.

"I'll pick you up at eight."

He said as he headed outside for his car. Mario remained sitting down eating his oatmeal impassively, completely dismissing his husband´s nice gesture.

Richie could barely keep his excitement in check during his day at work. He responded with automatic answers during his sessions, his mind wandering through all the possible outcomes of the night. Mario did care for him, and that made him very happy. It was ironic the best marriage counselor in town couldn't see the shipwreck his marriage was. The therapist remained oblivious to all the red flags life was throwing at him constantly, in the hopes that everything was a product of his overanalyzing mind. He never had anyone like Mario before, his few past relationships being sacrificed to achieve his dream profession. That is why he was so self-conscious about spending so much time at work and not paying enough attention to his handsome man. But this night was going to be different. He was going to take his husband for a nightly stroll on the boardwalk after dinner, and then home for hopefully more intimate marital activities.

His last patient for the day canceled, leaving Richie with two hours to go back home and prepare for the evening. He even made a stop at the mall to buy a luxurious watch for his husband, to surprise him along with his regular anniversary gift. He bought a lotus flower bouquet again and rushed to his home to get ready. This time his husband´s car was parked on the driveway, so he was sure Mario was inside. He stealthily went inside, only to be greeted by an empty ground floor again.

"He must be upstairs."

Said Richie for himself while he quickly hid the expensive presents and quietly headed up the stairs. But as soon as he arrived on the top floor, his blood froze inside his veins as he heard giggles and whispers coming from the furthermost door. He felt vertigo as the hallway appeared to extend, separating him from his bedroom. He approached the ominous door quietly, his heart sinking further down with every step.

"I swear I heard something."

Said an unknown deep voice inside the room. Richie stood in front of the door, unable to grab the knob and see with his own eyes what had been written on the wall for a very long time.

"I told you, he never comes home earlier. Stop being such a pussy. I´ll go downstairs and check so you don't get distracted anymore."

Richie saw the doorknob turn in slow motion, only for the door to open aggressively. The doctor stared then at the half-naked image of his husband, his brown skin shining with sweat. The hunk couldn't keep his cool this time, widely opening his eyes, completely speechless. Both stood in front of each other for an instant in complete silence. Richie diverted his gaze to look inside his bedroom. He saw another muscular man behind Mario, recognizing him as one of the personal trainers working in his husband´s favorite gym. Mario was the first one to break the silence, managing to squeeze out a few nervous words.

"Richie, amor. I know it looks bad, but I can explain."

The doctor didn't wait for another second, storming down the hallway and out the front door. He started his car and sped away from his once safe haven. He couldn't spend another second in there, feeling breathless and heavy. He just needed to get away as soon as possible.

A storm of feelings quickly mined what was left of his rationality. He suddenly recognized all the signs. The late-night escapades, the forgotten details and the general apathy his husband emanated suddenly became beacons for Richie, illuminating the ruins of his falsely happy marriage. His insecurities bubbled up, making him hate himself for even considering that what happened was his fault. He had this talk almost daily with his patients. But he still couldn't let go of the feeling that he simply wasn't enough for Mario.

He stopped at a red light and looked to the back of his car. His untouched gym bag laid on the backseat, almost taunting him for his lack of discipline. If he made an effort to keep up with his gym obsessed husband, none of this would've happened. In the middle of his crisis, he made the absurd choice of heading to the gym. He thought that maybe if Mario saw him there, he would think Richie was trying to be attractive for him, and he wouldn't have the necessity of looking for pleasure somewhere else.

It was already dark when he made it to the 24-hour fitness center. The upscale gym had everything necessary to train a professional bodybuilder, and then some more. The sleek interior with shiny chrome finishing sported mirrored walls on all sides of the establishment, including the reception. The doctor couldn't escape the haunting image of his reflection, no matter where he tried to hide. He nodded with courtesy towards the young clerk checking the patrons in and headed to the dressing rooms. He tried his best in avoiding eye contact with anyone, so no one could see his red eyes or swollen face product of the intense night he was having, and quickly changed into his simple workout clothes, grabbed his headphones, and headed to the training floor.

He instantly regretted his decision in coming to the gym, as he stood there in the middle of the training ground with no idea where to start. Mario had never actually explained to him how to work out with weights, and he never dared to ask any of the trainers that roamed around the room. An infinity of machines of all types and sizes decorated his surroundings, along with four giant mirrored walls that gave the impression of an infinitely big area. Big men paraded around like peacocks, preening their bodies and flexing in front of their reflection. Groups of girls and teenagers chatted next to the machines and the big water fountain where people could refill their drinks. It was an entirely foreign ecosystem for the nervous doctor, who carefully made his way to the free weights area.

He looked at all the big men pumping iron all around him, their sweaty bodies practically bursting out of their tight clothes. He then turned around to face the inevitable. The mirrored wall reflected all of the doctor's miserable existence once again. His graphic tee depicting a cartoonish cow was snug against his midsection, and his black shorts made his legs look even thinner. He pondered in his sadness for a while, reflecting on how little he was in comparison to his husband. No wonder he looked for someone else.

But something happened once Richie turned around to grab the lightest pair of dumbells around. He thought for an instant he saw his reflection blink just before diverting his gaze. He put the dumbells down once again to examine his reflection closely. A wicked smile formed on the doctor´s soft face, completely contrasting with his innocent eyes. Richie felt a chill go down his spine, as he immediately recoiled from the mirror, only for a hand to come out and pull him towards it. The hard mirror of the surface rippled like water, and the doctor soon found himself in an identical mirrored room. All equipment, towels, and water bottles were there, except for the patrons. The new training area was empty, except for Richie, who instantly went back to the original mirror. He could still see the people walking outside, but when he tried to knock on the glass and ask for help, no one realized he was there. His increasingly panicked screams echoed through the big empty hall.

"Why aren't you a nervous one?"

He heard a voice talk to him from his back. It sounded like his own, only with a rasp metallic cling to it. He turned around and went white in fear as he saw an exact copy of himself staring back. They were even dressed the same. The only difference was the most disturbing part of that living nightmare: the eyes. The doppelganger sported a pair of mirror eyes, which gave it a supernatural look.

"Wha-at are yo-ou?"

Stuttered the terrified doctor slowly walking backward until his back hit the glass. The reflection smiled broadly; its sinister mirror eyes fixed entirely on Richie.

"I´m you, or better said I´m the worst part of you. The one that haunts you every time you look at yourself. The one who blinded you from the truth. The one that represents the shackles of your pathetic existence."

Richie fought the tears in his eyes and was able to muster a glimpse of courage, answering with all the aggressiveness he could muster.

"That's not true! You don't exist, you´re just a product of my own trauma. I must have hit my head with a weight or something."

The reflection cackled loudly, its cold voice breaking like a tuning radio.

"This is exactly why he cheated us now. Your passiveness, your naivety, and of course your appearance drove him away. But look at me, look at us. Who thinks someone like that would want to be with someone like us? Damn, a Ph.D. in psychology and you´re still as stupid as an infant. You must feel pretty miserable. We wasted so many years of study for nothing."

Richie looked down, the tears finally rolling from his eyes. The monster was right, he was stupid. The signs were there, signs he would´ve recognized on anyone else's relationship. But things got different once it was personal. What was clear turned opaque, as his naiveness drove him to excuse everything he saw and felt.

"Don´t cry! You don´t deserve pity. It is your fault we're miserable, but this situation can change."

The doctor looked at his doppelganger once again. A bright halo of light seemed to flicker around him, making the monstrous eyes glimmer with a golden hue from time to time.

"I was sent here as a catalyst for change. There is someone interested in our innate potential. But first, you must shatter. We can finally put a stop to your insecurities, and be free."

A bright flash of light beamed out of the doppelganger´s eyes, completely blinding Richie for an instant. The air felt heavy, humming with energy and the temperature started rising. The light was gone as soon as it came, leaving the doctor unable to see for a couple of seconds. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes slightly annoyed at the inconvenience, blinking frantically until the blur around him reformed into the weight room. The creature was not in front of him anymore. He looked around, only to find it standing next to one of the bench presses. He approached his double, his face contorted with an exasperated look.

"What the hell was that? I almost went blind! And what do you mean by shattering?"

He asked angrily, his former nervous demeanor replaced by new assertive behavior. He felt animosity towards the creature for trapping him inside this trick room. A new aggressive defense mechanism triggered by hearing the doppelganger´s plan for him.

"Nothing, forget it. As you are now, we´re completely useless for our lady."

Richie clenched his fists tightly, as the light annoyance started turning into sheer anger, an emotion completely unexplored for him. The doctor was usually very calm and passive, rather bending to other people's will to avoid confrontation than approaching issues with an aggressive attitude. But something about the creature in front of him made his blood boil, but he couldn't put his finger on the reason yet.

"What lady!? Besides, I´m not useless"

His angry remarks echoed through the empty halls of the mirror world. The doppelganger smiled knowing the doctor was being lured right where it wanted him to.

"You are useless, there is no question about it. Let´s do a little bet. Prove you're not a failure, and I´ll let you out of here."

The doctor squinted his eyes, giving the creature a suspicious look. But it might be his only chance of getting out of there, so he reluctantly decided to go along with it.

"Fine, what do you want?"

His double then pointed at the bench press; its eerie mirror eyes fixated on Richie´s slightly confused expression.

"Show me we´re not weak. We came to the gym fleeing from the problems you were too weak to face on your own. That is what caused this whole problem. If you want my help you have to earn it."

Richie stood nervously next to the bench. He had never been able to train with weights before, so having his freedom be conditioned on such a test was terrifying, but he didn't see another way of escaping. The people outside were completely oblivious to what was happening inside the mirror, so the only chance of getting out was beating his double in its own game. He laid then on the machine, unsure about how to continue. The creature scowled at him, lifting the barbell and throwing it on his arms.

"You're such a worm. Pathetic."

Richie´s anger returned, fueling his strength. With some effort, he lowered the empty barbell to his chest, and pushed it back up with all his strength, putting it back in its place. He looked at his double expectantly, but the creature's face remained with the same expression of disgust.

"Is that all you got?"

The roof started filling up with thick golden vapor. It looked like ink being dropped in a glass of water. Small tendrils descended towards them, picking up two 45-pound plates and putting them on each side of the barbell. Richie opened his eyes incredulously. That amount of weight would certainly crush him, permanently ending the possibility of escaping. But judging by the doppelganger´s expectant gaze, he sighed and lowered himself back on the bench. His face went red with the effort from pushing the bar out of its base, holding it above his chest. A little droplet of sweat dripped down his forehead.

"What are you waiting for, pussy? Do it."

"I'm not a pussy…"

Grunted Richie as he once again lowered the bar with all his might. He then tried to push it back up, only for the barbell to remain static above his chest. The scared doctor started panicking, completely sure this was going to turn into his grave. But then, all the insults the reflection had thrown at him came back into his head, breeding a violent emotion that provided the energy he needed. With an angry grunt, he started lifting the bar slowly. He felt like his chest was on fire, each muscle fiber screaming in agony as the barbell completed its route and was left back in its base, only for the tendrils to load another six plates on it.

"You disgust me. Again."

Richie didn't even bother to discuss this time, as the violent emotions in his head slowly took control over him. He grabbed the bar with fury and pushed it over his chest with a roar. As the bar fell, the muscles in his chest expanded a bit to the sides, and when he pushed it back up, the pectorals rose a few inches. He then proceeded to repeat the movement, each rep adding mass to his chest like inflating cantaloupes. Once he was done, he put the bar back on its place with a heavy groan and got up from the bench. The evil reflection smiled as the doctor got out of his trance and realized what had just happened to him. He touched the now-massive muscles hanging from his chest, his white t-shirt strained to the maximum, deforming the cartoon on the front. His pectorals twitched with newfound power, his enlarged nipples rubbing against the fabric sticking out like thumbs.

"What happened to me?"

The doppelganger didn't say a word and simply moved towards the squat rack. Richie stood up, tumbling due to his center of gravity changing drastically, and followed the creature. The barbell was already loaded with two plates. The doctor stared at his reflection once again, only to find the same disgusted sneer.

"Do it again you pussy."

The feelings of anger kept bubbling out of Richie. He got under the bar, completely unsure of how to move without falling back. As soon as he got into position, he returned to his trance-like state, performing a squat with perfect form. The bones in his legs cracked and lengthened slowly, along with his feet, which grew gigantic to provide a better base for the exercise. He then proceeded to complete the set, each repetition slowly adding inches to his frame. The vertebrae in his back cracked and elongated, each joint growing stronger to support his now towering frame. When he finished, he was more than half a foot taller, his overstretched t-shirt now looking more like a sports bra containing his herculean chest, and his shorts riding up almost to his crotch. He then threw a sneer at his impassive reflection, which stood there only smiling.

"You're still weak. We didn't deserve someone like Mario."

"Shut up!"

Roared Richie. The golden tendrils then loaded the bar with enough weight to put it well above 300 pounds. The furious doctor then got under the bar and grasped it with both of his hands. He then pushed it up with all his might. The veins on his temples popped out, as his face went red like an apple again. The bar then slowly budged, unhanging itself and resting on the doctor´s slim shoulders. It was marvelous to behold those toothpicks he had for legs support such a monstrous amount of weight. Concentrating on the fiery rage in his stomach, Richie started going down. The muscle fibers in his legs were burning, unable to keep up with the amount of power being demanded from them. As a result, they started to quickly multiply, leaving the doctor with two slightly thicker legs once he finished the first repetition.

But the real change was just starting. He then started going down and up again, his legs working like heavy-duty pistons carrying a massive amount of weight. Each pump added muscles to his thighs, which grew bigger than most men´s waists. The deep divide of his quadriceps etching itself painfully into the muscles, making the skin covering them look paper-thin. His ass swelled so big it looked like it was defying gravity, swallowing the now tiny black shorts and providing the beastly strength he was needing. His calves grew bigger than football to stabilize Richie´s increasing mass. Even his feet grew muscular. During the last repetition, the strain was so much, he felt his legs were dipped in molten metal from the sheer output of energy. He felt his knees buckle, as he felt himself falling on his back. The now-massive cushion he had attached to his rear attenuated the fall.

The doppelganger then let out a crackling cruel laugh. The doctor came out of his trance again, unsure of how to move his much larger lower limbs. He was sweating profusely, the white t-shirt now completely translucent showing the deep divide between his humongous chest. Tears fell down his reddened cheeks, completely overwhelmed by the situation he was in.

"Please let me go. I don't want this. I beg you."

His double then stopped laughing and barked back at him in that metallic voice.

"Beg of me? We don't beg, we demand. You will keep us drowning in misery. Is that what you want?!"

The doctor's painful memory then entered his head once again. A lonely childhood, an unfulfilled dream, and heartbreaking betrayal. His eyes pulsed for an instant in a bright golden color. He managed to get up and sneered back at his reflection, hatred once again taking over him.

"No. I'll stop the misery."

"Then you know what you must do."

He then approached the bar, which was already loaded again by the mysterious force in the room putting it above 500 pounds. He positioned himself to do a deadlift, grasping the bar tightly with both hands and pulling with all his might. Sweat practically cascaded out of every pore and thick veins bulged and pulsated on his neck, and the straining muscles grew. His growl slowly went down a couple of octaves as his Adam's apple grew along with the rest. Two giant triangles grew on the back of his neck, connecting it to his shoulders and leaving the doctor with a pair of massive traps.

The muscles in his back rippled as new nerve connections were made recruiting more mass for the movement. Two thick poles grew along his spine, spreading outgrowth to his lats. The back of the man grew so much, it looked like the spread wingspan of an albatross, each hill and valley carving themselves like on marble. The small t-shirt didn't stand a chance as it fell in tatters to the ground, exposing the sweat coated skin of the man´s back.

As he pulled the bar above his knees, the muscle in his midsection started burning to stabilize the movement. The fat on his stomach melted away, replaced by a convex thick eight pack bulging with veins. His lower back developed strongly, forming an upwards arrow between the muscles.

Once he was able to stand straight, he quickly jerked down to push the bar from underneath. The burning sensation spread to his arms, as his hands grew around the bar grabbing it with a vice-like grip. The forearms formed thick muscular columns with more than enough strength to hold the lift, veins quickly traveling towards his upper arms like a complicated crossroads. The fibers on his biceps ripped and grew rapidly, quickly inflating the biceps to a formidable size. Iron triceps etched themselves to the hinder part of his arms, pumping and growing bigger the more the bar was lifted. Lastly, as he pushed the bar over his head, his shoulders raised and rounded out like big medicine balls, condemning Richie to a life unable to go straight through doors.

With a mighty roar, he put the bar in its place, panting exhaustedly. The man inside the squat rack was unrecognizable, having almost doubled his body mass in lean muscle. The only vestige of his old self remained his soft rounded face, along with his icy blue eyes, which squinted when the wave of pain woke him up from his trance. The doppelganger stared amused at the new Richie, its mirror eyes gleaming with a golden glow.

"Well, this is definitely what I had in mind. We're still not quite there though. You remain a pathetic wuss inside."

Richie looked at his practically naked body and was left speechless. He was completely terrified of what happened to him. This monster had completely ruined his life. He clenched his fists in anger, while he slowly walked towards the creature.

"Look at what you did to me. I'm a freak. I´ll never be able to get back to my life."

The creature looked at him mockingly, smiling cruelly at its creation. Richie´s anger only kept rising until everything else other than his double disappeared from his vision. He took out his glasses, crunching them with his fist. His new body bulged menacingly with new strength.

"Do we want to get back to that life? To be deceived and betrayed? No. We hate Mario, but we also hate ourselves."

Richie thought for a second about what the creature said. It was right in saying he hated Mario, and he hated himself for being weak, for not being enough. But now he was enough. He looked at his body and felt each muscle fiber vibrating with new power. He then looked at his double, which was a physical reminder of his past and the painful betrayal.

"No, I hate you. For being weak. For keeping me down."

The creature glared at the muscular titan towering over it, now inches away from its frail body towering over him. It produced one last cruel smile knowing its purpose had been fulfilled.

"Then you know what you must do. Pussy."

Richie raised his fist with a deafening roar and struck his old self-right in the face. The creature then exploded in a million mirror shards which remained suspended in the air and released the contents of its vessel. A glowing blob of ichor was left floating in the place of where the monster once stood. The doctor stared dumbfounded at the thing he had in front of him. The golden vapor floating on the ceiling then condensed into the liquid, and it started emitting a powerful light that mesmerized Richie. He then moved forward to touch the liquid.

As soon as his fingers made contact with it, the blob glued itself into the hands of the doctor, who then woke up again from the trance for the last time. He screamed in panic as the golden substance traveled up his massive arm, coating it in glimmering reflective gold. The rest of his body got quickly invaded by the liquid, leaving his face for last. His scream was then drowned once the substance entered his throat. He felt the scorching heat of the liquid melting away his mind. Memories of love and romance, from hope and peace, bled out of every pore, being sucked away by the golden coating. The heat then intensified the anger in the pit of his stomach and raised it to his mind, corrupting it. Feelings of hatred and arrogance melted into his brain, molding a new persona out of the doctor.

The liquid then started to melt away his features, making his head grow inside the golden suit. The bones in his jaw cracked and squared off, leaving a prominent glass-cutting jaw behind. His nose broke and rearranged, expanding to a more masculine form. His forehead grew larger, hooding his eyes and printing a permanent scowl on his face. Once the change was completed, the liquid started to seep into the pores in all of his body, stimulating the growth of thick dark body hair that slowly revealed itself the more the coat absorbed into the skin. His armpits and pubes grew thick hair, marinated with his newly acquired masculine essence. A thick treasure trail escalated to a dense covering of his pecs. The liquid on his face then condensed into his eyes, revealing a full bushy beard. His blond hair had grown long on top disappearing on the sides and darkened to a dark shade of brown. As the final drops of the liquid were absorbed into his eyes, he was left with a pair of solid gold eyes, the anger condensing as a red halo surrounding his pupils.

The new man then cracked his neck and flexed his body. He felt incredibly powerful, more than any mortal could ever be. He looked at the mirror and saw his rugged hyper-masculine face staring back at him. He looked very menacing. And he liked it. The titan relished in the satisfaction that gave him in being an intimidating wall of muscle. He had no desire of being nice to anybody because he could bulldoze his way over anything to get whatever he wanted. He was the biggest dick on the planet. Dr. Richie Coccou was reborn in the form of Richard "Dick" Coccou.

"Speaking of dicks."

Grumbled the new goliath as he grabbed his manhood over the makeshift thong he was still wearing. The gold liquid started coming out again of his palm, burning away the garment and coating the already enlarging member. The former small penis then inflated to a menacing size, just like his owner, until it reached the size of a small children´s arm. His balls grew proportionally, like two small pomegranates hanging from a branch. The titan grumbled with pleasure as he played with the large head.

"You´ll have plenty of time for that later, my child."

Dick then looked around attentively, like a predator hearing a small branch snap. The broken glass shards floating around him condensed into a body size mirror in front of him. Out of the deep infinite loop appeared a beautiful woman. Her shapely silhouette surrounded by a bright halo. And her glowing gold eyes cold as ice. Dick smiled, all kinds of lascivious thoughts crossing his mind.

"Do not get distracted by primal necessities my child. You have a mission to accomplish. I´m Hera, queen of the heavens and your ruler."

Dick´s mind was suddenly filled with awe and respect for his progenitor, having been born out of her own blood. He kneeled before her and bowed his head.

"What can I do for you, my queen?"

Hera smiled, very pleased with the results of her spell.

"I gifted you with divinity for one reason only my child: to kill my husband. You know the sorrow of a broken heart, and have a thirst for revenge of your own. You will get your chance, but afterward, your destiny will belong to me. Meet me on Mount Olympus in thirteen days. I will make sure you ascend."

With those last words, the mirror shattered, and Dick was left alone with his hatred. Hera´s work was impeccable, fully turning the intense loyal love of a mortal into her own personal thug. And Dick was the spitting image of a muscular thug. The image of his still husband came to his mind, along with an unquenchable thirst for revenge. He smiled and knew immediately what to do next.

The last patrons left the 24-hour gym at high hours of the night. Mario had been looking desperately for his husband all night without success. He looked around the places he thought he frequented most, like his office or his favorite pizza restaurant. But the meek therapist was nowhere to be found. The last way to look for it was the gym, although Mario was going more out of pure necessity than of real worry for his husband.

He got into the establishment and found it empty. It was unusual to find people after midnight, but not even the janitor was around. An eerie presence haunted the many mirror walls, making the usually cocky Latin hunk feel uneasy. He looked into the dressing room hoping he would find his husband there, but there was no one inside. He shrugged his worries off and thought he´ll find it back home once the tantrum was over. He had to be more careful though, or his citizenship process would be interrupted and he'd have to leave his life there. Richie was nice, but Mario was more into the life he provided other than the man himself.

He stepped out of the locker room and could immediately hear the cold clashing of iron from inside the weight room. Low grunts accompanied the metallic echoes, letting Mario know he wasn't alone in the gym after all. He went inside the room, only to find a behemoth of a man half-naked pumping a monstrous amount of weight on the bench press. A strong musky scent permeated the room, asserting the titan´s dominance over anything that stepped into his dominion. He finished his set and immediately fixed his gaze upon the stud.

"I knew you would come."

His golden eyes completely infatuated Mario, who felt an almost magnetic pull towards the man. He put a hand on his sweat covered giant chest, relishing in the feeling of having such a specimen so close to him. Dick smiled triumphantly, completely aware of the power he now possessed over simple mortals. He grabbed both shoulders of the smaller man with his massive mitts and aggressively pushed him down. Mario was completely enthralled by the intimidating piece of meat he had in front of him. He wanted desperately to please the bigger man, but he was unsure his anatomy would allow it. Dick didn't wait for Mario to prepare, taking his head with both hands and slamming it against his pelvis, impaling the choking stud with his massive endowment. Mario struggled to breathe, tears flowing down his cheeks as big Dick sodomized his face.

"You’re a lousy sucker kid. Let's see if you're a lousy fucker as well."

Said the titan as he lifted Mario like a feather and put him facing down the bench, spreading his legs. Mario already knew what was coming and was glad he was ready. He always found a good fuck or two in the gym at this hour, and this was not going to be an exception. Dick then slammed down the still closed cheeks, impaling his former lover. Instead of feeling the searing pain, he was awaiting due to the sheer size of the manhood, Mario felt incomparable bliss. Every nerve ending in his body was burning with pleasure, his face drooling due to the intense sensations he was feeling. The titan then pumped him full for a while, giving him the best sex, he ever had.

Once it was over, the behemoth took a humongous black shirt that was hanging on a nearby bench and put it on, heading towards the exit. Mario then felt terrible despair, as he ran to the man to not let him go, only to be sent flying away and crashing against a pile of weights. Dick gave him a menacing look, his golden eyes sparkling with anger.

"You will never be able to enjoy intimacy anymore or feel any kind of pleasure. Everything will remind you of tonight, and what can no longer be yours. I will let you live, but the future that awaits you will only be painful. Now, get out of my sight before I change my mind."

His newly acquired divine power gave Dick full power over mortals, including the ability to move the boundaries between pain and pleasure inside them. Mario watched with tears in his eyes as the giant walked forward into a mirrored wall next to the entrance, and was swallowed by it. He had no idea this hateful god was his once pure-hearted husband, corrupted by a jealous´ goddess hatred against the one who had been her greatest lover.

#musclegrowth #transformation #championofolympus

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