#Loyal Followers Forbidden God Au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

anika-ann · 1 month ago

Text

Ochranuj me (Protect Me) - S.R

Part 2/2

Type: medieval/fantasy/fairy tale AU; a part of this pseudomedieval-fantasy AU; part one of this instalment here

Pairing: knight Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 11,6k (🤫)

Summary: You rush to the future king's aid, hoping to heal him. Will you make it in time?

And more importantly - will you be enough?

Warnings: mentions of death, injuries, poisoning, period-typical violence and discrimination, pregnancy, blood, definitely some angst and dark imagery there, polytheism and Slovak language ‘cause I can, protective knight Steve 'cause he's a warning

A/N: Actual title is Ochraňuj mě (Protect Me) …tumblr cannot handle a ň and ě in their title 🙃 DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; fits after the events of the previous instalments

A/N 2: This one has more plot and even more Merlin vibes😇 hope you’ll enjoy anyway. Again, some lyrics from Bílá laň by Vesna. For music, check it out here, for visuals here. There's also some more Slovak language - explained/translated soon after it appears. Enjoy!

Steve held you close throughout the journey, his horse nearly flying through the slowly falling night; his arms, as he was clutching at the reins, were but a sturdy frame around you to protect you from both rain and any fall. He demanded, several times, whether he could improve your comfort in any way, worried your thin hooded coat did not suffice; otherwise, you did not speak a word, your minds consumed by worry and determination alike.

The quiet storm seemed to follow you, not one clap of thunder roaring from the skies; the silence was ominous, the only sounds those of a rush and brewing violence.

The potion sat safely in the pocket on the belt you had sewn yourself, hidden from sight and the first droplets of rain; the vial seemed to burn at your hip, as if the gods themselves had blessed it and filled it with divine power.

But the potion itself was not the solution, no. You were meant to be that.

A lawless solution in a lawful land; a being controlling the forbidden power that had the potential to be both your and Steven’s and your child’s doom and your kingdom’s salvation.

No wonder you had been losing sleep. Your actions were about to be ones of a madman.

But you were not alone.

You let the warmth of your lover’s body shield you from fear and cold alike, closing your eyes and allowing the feeling of ancient power – yours and all of those who had come before you – flow through you, the ominous whisper of a deadly end falling quieter, the rush of the wind by your ears all you could hear.

Steven only prompted the horse to slow down once you were nearing the gates, where the guards prepared to defend and attack the newcomers with their spears raised awaited you.

Steven stiffened and straightened behind you, prompting the horse but to walk the last few hundred yards.

“You have lied, Sir Rogers,” one of the men hollered over the faint noise of rain. “His Majesty the King does not take such crimes lightly, less so at a time like this.”

“I brought a healer,” Steve called in return. He was keeping the distance, still, clearly as to be able to flee with you should it turn out he had displeased the King too much to enter safely, his muscles taunt in readiness to defend.

‘I will protect you both, should be the last thing I will ever do,’ he had said.

He had never taken an oath lightly; yet, this one made your heart feel heavier than most, causing your throat to turn dry whenever your mind wandered to the darker part of his promise. The last thing I will ever do.

“The Prince might be lying on his deathbed – there was no time to waste to gain the blessing of His Majesty. May we pass so she may laid a helping hand?” Steven demanded, his sharp gaze observing the loyal royal servants with wariness.

The Royal Guard wavered, two different orders from their King in conflict: punish Sir Rogers; protect and attempt to save the crown at any cost.

Exchanging glances, they must have come to a silent agreement, however; nodding, they eased their stances but a fraction.

“You may enter. But we shall escort you to the King.”

Steven dismounted the horse with ease without disrupting your own balance at all, offering a gentle and firm hand to aid you.

Your feet barely touched the ground, a little unpleasant sweep to your stomach reminding you of the blossoms you had left lying on the meadow having been gathered for a reason, when one of the guards spoke again:

“And you shall only attend the King unarmed,” he barked, a vicious satisfied tilt to his voice speaking a thousand words of Steven and this man not being friendly at all. “Who knows what other rash decisions you might come to.”

The glare Steven casted the guard’s way was deadlier than any weapon he might have carried, but he obliged without protest, understanding there was no time to argue.

With a smirk, the guard took the heavy sword, his gaze wandering to you.

“And what of your lady healer?” he questioned, the mocking tone igniting fierceness in your chest in an instant, desire to show him that the most dangerous weapon Steven possessed was not of any precious metal, but of flesh and bone and blood. And blood you could spill; with ease that would scare you on any other day but the day where the gods themselves seemed to bless you. “Does she carry any-“

You did, in fact, carry a small dagger, even as that was the least dangerous weapon of yours.

The guard never got a chance to find out.

Steven stepped in front of you the very moment the man moved your direction, shielding you even as you could perfectly defend yourself on your own; gladly would, in fact, just to wipe the ugly man’s smile off his face.

Yet, Steven’s instant display of protective nature over you sent a pleasant heat through your middle.

“She does not,” Steven growled, hand subtly outstretched in front of you, voice once again heavy with an oath, this time much darker than the one he had given to you. “And be careful, Gregory. You touch her – you cause as much as a graze to her skin – and you shall regret to have ever been born. I will see to that.”

Chivalrous and protective to a fault; a shiver caressed your back, not unwelcomed. Steven knew better than most that you could make the man regret crossing you all on your own; but that did not mean he would ever let it come to that.

You were under his protection and he would make sure that everyone was aware of such. Profoundly.

“Unfortunately, you have just given up your weapon, Rogers,” the man hummed back, unbothered, unlike his companion, who was clearly growing both tired and anxious at the interaction.

You, on the other hand, were not; not with the words Steve spoke on the behalf of your safety, a dangerous smile you only had ever got a glimpse of curling his lips menacingly.

“Should you hurt her, even without intent, believe me – I will not need my sword to make you black and blue and red all over. And I shall do so with glee.”

Gulping, the guard did not say another word.

Your own glee at that, however, unlike your fondness for you lover, quickly dissipated.

As you were escorted to the castle and neared the royal rooms, your stomach turned at the intense scent of death approaching; in an instant, you were certain Steven had not lied, nor the royal physician had erred.

It was aconite.

And the prince was dying.

The echo of the whispers and screeches of the trees filled your skull again, the rotten scent turning almost unbearable.

You had felt, sensed death before. It was the natural course of things; eventually, death awaited all souls the gods had lent, the sands in the hourglass of every living thing running out eventually. You had felt Steven nearing this end too and had asked the gods for fistfuls of that sand to add and they had heard out your prayers.

You had scented death before.

But where Steven’s impending end had smelled of misfortune and fate, these rooms reeked of rage and vengeance; perhaps the truly deadliest poison known to man and gods alike.

Tidings, as it turned out, travelled fast in the castle. To stand in front of the King meant to stand in Prince Anthony’s chambers. The luxury of the rooms had not surprised you, even as it had still brought awe; and bittersweet realization that there still were things in this world which no amount of wealth could buy.

Gods of death cared little for bargaining with gold and supposedly precious gems.

The king’s face was pale, yet carried a note of nonchalant indifference. What you could sense, however, was silent rage; the most dangerous of them all. Rage and hunger for blood, for blood of those who had dared to poison his son.

And for blood of those who carried tattoos like yours.

You had forgone your hood moments ago, when the King himself prompted you to do so, demanding for Sir Rogers to reveal the healer Sir Barnes had explained he had been fetching – for whom he had abandoned the orders of his King. You spent a moment appreciating Bucky’s attempts to save Steven some of the wrath of the King.

However, it was painfully clear that the moment you revealed yourself, there was no force in this realm to mollify the ruler.

And you knew why; everyone of your kind living near his lands did.

Many years ago, the King had asked magic wielders, the long-lost outcasts, to give him and his wife a child they had longed for for so long. And they had heard him out; they had aided him.

And then, he had asked for another. Ones said it was out of love for his firstborn child, wishing for them to have a sibling; others said it was out of everything but love, perhaps simple greed. The sorcerers and witches had warned the King: to trifle with life, to grow greedy in the eyes of gods, might result in their wrath. They had warned him that there might be a terrible price. He had ordered them – and they had obeyed, perhaps in hopes to earn favour of people for their kind once more, perhaps in hopes to prove the truth of the divine threats they had voiced.

The King had been blessed with another child.

The Queen had passed several days after.

The punishment to magic wielders was not fit to their alleged crime; and all the people only ever learned of were wretched witches and sorcerers being the ones responsible for their Queen’s terrible death. Those who knew the truth only spoke it in whispers in the darkest corners of the kingdom; those who knew and commanded magic retreated deeper into hiding or left the godsforsaken lands altogether, forced to conceal their nature they were told to feel shame for.

Nature of those properly taught – and stubborn – was revealed by carrying the mark of the Blessed Ones with honour still. On their hands, on their shoulders, on their neck. Their face even, should they have chosen so, wearing the prove of their talent with pride.

And yet. The mark in the form of the tattoo the knights in the room were now observing with cautious curiosity, the very tattoo your Steven always made sure to caress with his fingertips and brush with his lips, might have as well been a brand.

The King knew exactly what kind of a healer you were and despised your mere existence from the very depth of his ash-grey soul.

The whispers of death screeched in your ears again as he glared at you unabashedly with deeply-rooted contempt, power tingling at the base of your spine as if out of spite.

Your choice. Your salvation and your doom. Your victory or your loss.

Your chance.

The face of the King was stoic, but his aura was not. As his gaze burned through you, Steven felt as much too; he shifted slightly, heedless of not carrying a weapon anymore. You could almost hear Bucky’s lament at the gesture, scent Sir Parker’s confusion and admiration, taste the bitter tang of caution coming off Sir Maximoff. The guards stood dutiful and prepared, their emotions mirroring those of their King; only less hearty and yet less contained.

Something flashed in the King’s eye as his gaze moved to your lover; released from the cage of his calculating eyes, you allowed yourself a deep breath, refocusing on the much important matters than petty displays of power from a small man with a large crown.

The room reeked of death and evil, laced with worry, care and hope. You couldn’t but send the smallest of smiles to Sir Parker whose eyes turned wider when the shift in your posture drove the fabric of the cloak slide lower and reveal a larger portion of the ancient symbols adorning your neck, disappearing under the fabric covering your shoulder.

“Do you stand in the way of your King, Sir Rogers?” the King demanded. “After having defied his direct commands? A peculiar behaviour for a knight, a strange show of your loyalty to the crown you offer me tonight.”

Loyal to a fault. Foolish even.

“I stand as loyal as one may be, Your Majesty,” Steven declared, chin raised up proudly, before bowing respectfully.

The King didn’t move a muscle; whether he was foolish enough to believe Steven was speaking of loyalty to him, you did not care to guess nor you cared at all about the ruler. The bed was calling out for you, your magic impatient, reaching out and feeling.

Steven noticed your attention shifting, turning to your subtly, voice quiet. “Can you help him heal?”

As if drawn by invisible force, your steps led you to the bed where the future king of Starkerbürg lied, your quiet footsteps followed by sharp ones, suddenly halting by a simple movement of a hand of King Stark.

A another petty display of power you ignored, your own hand instinctively reaching out, almost touching the invisible intangible aura of death surrounding Anthony, the bitter rotten tang of vengeful death stinging your tongue.

“The poison has spread far through his veins…”

A scoff and half a gesture toward the guards, heavy boots moving again-

“But I shall try, Sir Rogers,” you whispered, glancing at your lover, the faintest of smiles forming on your lips, growing a fraction when you met his gaze, warm with a secret. “For the kingdom, as you have asked of me, good sir.”

For us and our family, rytier moj, the steel in your eyes told him instead, a barely noticeable nod of his a sign he heard your message loud and clear and it filled him with pride. His faith, however your own wavered at the taste in your mouth, filled you with warmth in return.

Bewilderment and quiet indignation hovered in the air of the room, written in faces of Sir Parker and Sir Maximoff. The King’s expression spoke but of a challenge, almost as if healing his son was a trial, a sick game, the hunger for blood outweighing the desire for his son to live.

You pushed away the vile feeling radiating off him, your magic but building an invisible wall to shield yourself; you did not need the poison of his heart and mind. You must deal with another, too man-made.

Sending a prayer for his son’s soul and all those just as foolish and lost as the King’s, you went to sit on the prince’s bed.

As you did so with no healing instruments, salves or potions, nothing but your bare hands, the sudden shift in atmosphere was palpable.

No less palpable than the cold steel suddenly resting to your throat.

The tip of the blade so close that should you move an inch to look at Steven’s expression as one of his comrades stood prepared to harm you, blood would be drawn from your skin.

You heard the commotion behind you, your lover’s outraged voice calling out and a rattle of steel as the other knights or guards stopped him in his tracks.

You believed you had Sir Barnes to thank for that, putting a stop to a defence that would, at the moment, only complicate the situation at hand.

“What kind of a healer are you?” Sir Maximoff demanded.

The only one that can give actual power to the thin hope you all harbour for your Prince to survive, you thought, swallowing the sigh, the truth and the spark of magic prepared to defend yourself.

Yet, as you lifted your gaze to him, you noticed the slight tremble in his hand despite the determination written across his face.

You allowed yourself the smallest tilt of a head as you observed him further, curiosity piqued even as it meant losing precious moments; he was not afraid of you. He did not despise you, certainly not the way the King and many other did.

No, his emotions were of a different breed; as the dots in your mind connected at last, your heart soared.

“The one who’d rather not waste her magic, much needed to try to cure your prince from a poisoning that has no cure, to fight you,” you responded calmly, recognizing he had no true intention to hurt you. The shock sweeping over the room was electric; a suspicion of your nature confirmed. And yet you knew their awe would only grow with another revelation, for you would be the bearer of it. “You surprise me, Sir Maximoff. You had seen magic do good, and yet…”

Blood visibly drained from his face at your implication, his figure suddenly drawing everyone’s appalled eyes like a magnet, fear flashing in his own. His lips did not move, but you could almost hear the prayer he sent to the gods – and the only supposed god there was – for someone. Someone who was not himself.

Now you were certain that you were not wrong; he knew what was tied to him, even as he had been unaware of the fact you could see it when looking at him closely.

“Ah… I see now,” you added then.

His shoulders tensed further, a tremble rushing through the grip on his sword as he awaited your decision about his fate. To even encounter a magic wielder and keeping it a secret was a crime. And should one know their name, know of their whereabouts… a fond smile curled your lips. Fond for Sir Maximoff and your Steven. Brave men; good men.

“I see it as clear as day. You could have not report of it, for the magic wielder made you forget,” you lied easily, Sir Maximoff’s throat bobbing. “Do not worry, good Sir. You are not cursed, nor you are in danger,” you assured him softly, the real truth written between the lines of another. “I can simply feel the traces the magic left on you.”

There were no traces; he reeked of magic. It danced around him in a protective aura, a wild and inexperienced but no less powerful magic, a spell caster by a naturally talented witch or sorcerer who had never been schooled in using their power. Sir Maximoff must have known who had casted the spell; and he protected them in return.

Spells like this were often tied to emotions. One must love deeply to cast a spell as grand as this. You would know.

Perhaps others hadn’t realized, but it was a glaring truth now.

His reaction. The eagerness.

Everyone but Sir Barnes and your Steven were shocked by your nature; yet, Sir Maximoff, Pietro, had been the first to jump into action. A little too eager – to cover up for his sympathy for magic wielders. Allegedly the most loyal fighter against the supposedly harmful effects of magic; acting as such only to throw people off his scent and the scent of whoever bent magic to their will to protect him. Their bond truly must have been strong; a lover or family.

“Please, let me work, good Sir. Let me try to help,” you whispered, hoping your sincerity would speak more than your words.

And that he would understand that you did not only mean you might be able to help the prince; you might be able to help the loved one he was hiding by letting the world see again that magic could do good. After all, such was one of the reasons why you had reluctantly agreed to come here despite the risks.

Potentially preventing a war certainly was a worthy cause.

Preventing Steve from going to war was a cause to lay your life for, even as it whispered of hypocrisy.

But the were divine whispers battling those of death, your instincts telling you this might be the moment. This could be the turning point. Should your magic heal the crown prince, witches and sorcerers could once again begin to feel accepted and safe and perhaps even valued; they could roam freely.

The sword found its way back to its sheath, Sir Maximoff taking a respectful step back.

“Thank you,” you whispered politely, turning your attention to the prince, the heat of his fever seeping into your skin even as you hadn’t touched him yet.

You never got the chance to do so before the King spoke again.

“Very well, witch,” he spat, not bothering to hide his contempt for your kind this time.

A single nod towards the guards; and suddenly Steven was down on his knees, arms twisted behind his back, a sword to his throat, causing your heart to stumble in your chest and something wild burn it your soul.

Your hand twitched to remove the offending object with a slide of hand, to break bones of those who held him with a twist of your wrist and single whisper of language that terrified those who did not understand it.

How dared they? How dared they hurt your love and put a blade to his throat? His own sword, no less?

Steven remained silent in face of the pain and humiliation; accepting it for it was his pain to bear and for fighting would only result in a ruckus no one needed now.

Except you did.

“Remove that blade or I swear to gods-“

“There is but one God, čarodejnica. Work your magic. Should you fail, should you bring any harm to my son, you and your lover shall meet your end. Throw him to the dungeon.”

Your heart stumbled in your ribcage.

It appeared the King then was not a complete fool and understood certain affairs of men quite fine; but he had clearly forgotten just how powerful magic could be.

The temptation to snap his neck for his contempt alone burned hot in your veins, the sword already moving, pushed away from Steve’s throat by an invisible power the guard could not hope to best, your eyes no doubt sparkling with the magic surging through you.

No one touched your lover and got away with it.

No one touched your love.

No one touched the father of your child.

You’d need every ounce of your strength to attempt to heal the Prince, but you would gladly waste all of it if it meant protecting Steven. The fact no knight moved to contain you despite the guard’s sudden struggle sent a breath of hope and satisfaction to your lungs; then again, they did not move to help their friend either.

Damn the human kind.

And they called your kind wretched.

“Release him. At once,“ you threatened lowly, the blade of the sword bending to your will rising higher, now turned to the guard himself. The horror in his eye tasted deliciously dark, the power you had felt been gifted to you blazing hot at your fingertips.

And then Steven shook his head, meeting your gaze imploringly, the heat replaced by cold of vanity.

You did not have magic to spare; this was not why you had come here. To do harm.

But gods, did you want to. The temptation, rich and sweet on your tongue, to spare but a drop of life essence, to nick Gregory’s skin only to draw a droplet of blood so he’d remember not to cross your lover ever again-

“I shall come voluntarily.”

You could have slapped your lover yourself.

“It is quite amusing you believe to have a choice-“

“It is amusing you believe he does not,” you mimicked the King coldly, sending your blazing gaze his way, almost hearing Sir Barnes’ curse in the depth of his mind, as he no doubt questioned his choices of friends and their beloveds.

Speaking of beloveds and cursing… you understood what Steven was doing and knew, deep down, he was right, but that did not mean you took any liking to the idea of him being thrown into the dungeons only for you to be allowed to try to save a life of the future king.

What reward. What travesty. What a farce.

“I shall come voluntarily,” Steven repeated firmly, a contrast to the soft smile in the corner of his mouth when his gaze met yours. “As long as no harm comes to her. Promise me.” A single glance casted to Sir Maximoff and Sir Parker, lingering on Sir Barnes, until they all nodded; only then, Steven focused on the King, an insult in its own right. “Your Majesty.”

And then, the strangest thing: the King nodded as well.

“You have my word.”

You trusted little to his word, but you had no choice. Every grain of sand in the hourglass above your heads lost meant the Prince nearing his afterlife. You slowly released the guard from the hold of your magic.

As Steve rose to his feet, Bucky appeared by his side as silently as a ghost, an unspoken question.

“She may feel very faint afterwards,” Steven whispered. “I trust you to take good care of her.”

Then, last reassuring glance your way, almost a reverent faith in your ability to heal the Prince, faith stronger than you yourself perhaps possessed; and then Steve was walking away with the company of two guards, their rough grip spurring you on to be gentle with yours.

The King did not spare you a single glance, on the other hand; whispering to another two pairs of guards who would remain, he turned his back to the room, and left.

To believe you would be left in peace to work on healing Anthony would be more foolish than you believed yourself to be.

The three knights stood guard, silent curious audience, hope pulsing through their auras like hot air pulsed above a fire; a tint of affection coloured their scents, Sir Barnes in particular, bringing a ghost of a smile to your lips.

Much like your Steven, Sir Barnes must have taken his promise with gravity; where his friends were mostly standing vigilant to protect the future king from further harm, you felt him radiating caution and readiness to protect his best friend’s lover.

And yet. As the Royal Guard had moved closer, scrutinizing your every motion, he could not hope to stop them.

The moment you pulled your blessed potion from the pocket on your belt, the sudden force pushing at you had you lose both your footing and the grip on the vial.

By miracle, you had managed to freeze the vial in space, levitating a few inches from the floor where it would shatter to pieces along with the kingdom’s only hope; your own fall was slowed down by Sir Barnes’ prompt reaction to the Guard’s attack, his arms gently but firmly holding your underarms before your bottom could hit the floor.

The spark of gratitude towards him was instantly consumed by the flare of rage ignited by the other man’s rash actions; the guard didn’t seem to mind one bit, a look of pride on his face as he observed you menacingly.

“Just what did you think you-“

“What do you think you are doing, Sir? You could have spilled the potion and level the Prince’s chances to the ground by--- whatver in the Gods you have done. And for what?” you hissed, climbing back to the bed with Sir Barnes kind help, his glare to the man almost as blazing as Steven’s had been; you knew as much without a single glance, sensing his outrage.

“I do not answer to you, witch. But I shall see to my future king not being poisoned by wretched creatures like you.”

And good job you had done, you wanted to snap back, huffing instead, your blood boiling.

Fool. A full idiot.

“That is not how you should speak to a lady,” Sir Parker said sharply, coming to stand by your side, carefully reaching for the vial sting hovering above the ground, grasping it with care and wide-eyed curiosity, extending his hand to you. “Here, my lady.”

A genuine smile spread on your face at his gentlemanly manners and sweet demeanour despite the circumstance, your eyes warm instead of blazing hot when you accepted it.

“Thank you, good Sir. You have a good heart, kind soul and sharp mind, Sir Parker,” you said softly, causing a tint of pink to rush to his cheeks, rewarded by a scoff from the guard who hadn’t stopped watching you with contempt. You turned to him, mirroring his glare. “As for you. Your future king is already poisoned, by a substance that has no known antidote – as your physician told the lot of you, has he got half of the education he should have. Your future king is as good as dead; should this be another poison, it would not make any difference. He is already well on his way to meet his ancestors – I assure you, anything short of slitting his throat or driving a sword through his heart has the potential to pull him pack and delay his quest to death’s altar.”

The guard’s eyes flickered all over you, as if searching for a dagger or a sword as if you were to demonstrate the blood drawing rather than healing.

Oh for gods’ sake-

“I shall not stab your king. This is but a potion to make the healing spell more potent in hopes to possibly help him,” you explained, at last causing the guard to take a step back. “Step back further, all of you. He might trash around as if possessed.”

And with those words, you reached for the prince’s chin to open his clenched jaw and poured the potion down his throat, uttering the first words of the healing spell as soon as the first drop spilled to his tongue, filling the chambers with golden light, power expanding from your palms and exploding at the base of your spine.

The knights and guards alike watched with awe as the bright and somewhat gentle light filled the royal chambers, enveloping the little witch’s body and their Prince alike; it pulsed tenderly as a heart itself, interlaced with rich crimson and purple liquid threads which turned nothing but a shade a moment later, bleeding into the light elsewhere.

The little witch’s face was distorted with exertion and deep concentration, sweat erupting at her hairline; the lines of her tattoo shined silver as she suddenly arched in her back in an almost inhuman shape, an agonized cry piercing the room, her delicately closed eyes snapping open and revealing almost nothing but white with how far back her eyes rolled.

At the pained sound, Sir Barnes surged forward; only for a voice as clear as if spoken to his ear, her voice, calling for him to stand put, to step back.

With bite of the promise he had given to his comrade and the oath he had given to protect those more vulnerable than him in the back of his mind, he clenched his jaw and stood still, his need to intervene spiking when a blood trickled from her nose over her lips and chin, staining her skin violent red.

Her hands trembled, the vileness of hate and vengeance as if seeping into her skin; infection drawn and erased from every cell, every tissue, every muscle, every bone; evaporating from every drop of saliva, bile and the smallest speckle of blood, the black of poison curated for years and years sucked out thirstily and turned into an offering to gods; not for its wickedness, but for its potency. An offering and a humble plea to take back what their own power might have blessed, unwittingly or purposely, surging through the bosorka’s magic.

The light emitting from her palms softened, flickering as a candle in a wind, until another cry – this one so alike to those man like Sir Barnes, Sir Parker or Sir Maximoff released in the heat of battle to sooth their pains and call to last drop of their strength – cut through the thick heavy air and drowned the chambers in a glow so potent, blinding and searing it might have come from the sun itself, causing the knights and guards alike to shield their eyes.

Grains of sand spilled in the figurative hourglass, every single one of them filling the room with a tinkle when it fell on the suddenly sandless bottom.

A new life; a new chance; born out of blinding light into the blinding dark, all the candles and torches put out at once.

When they flickered back to life seemingly on their own, their orange glow illuminated a horrid scene.

Two motionless bodies; one on the bed, one twisted lying on the cold floor just by it.

Sheets stained with blood.

Terror seized the men staring at the image: their future king, lifeless; Sir Rogers’ lover, blood still dripping down her lips, dead as well.

Time stood still.

Until a twitch of fingers and a pained groan resonated through the floor.

Until a miraculous generous expanse of the Prince’s ribcage, rendering the knights’ and guards’ own lungs tight with awe, drawing their gazes. The blood did not belong to him; if anything, his own seemed to return to his veins, bringing colour back to his face, his heavy eyelids moving as if he was but consumed by a dream, his chest beginning to rise and fall in a steady rhythm.

The little bosorka blinked her eyes open, tears of exhaustion pooling, her hands trembling as she attempted to prop up and sit; as she did so, she felt the attention turn to her, a trio of incredulous chuckles and sweet blasphemy spilling from the knights’ lips.

Only the guards’ mouth twisted in snarls like those of an animal, gazes predatory, piercing though her weak form.

She could not appear weak.

She had once told Steven; her kind could not be seen vulnerable, at any circumstance. A weak creature was an easy prey. She might have felt like fainting, like her own legs could not support her weight, the blessing of the gods bleeding out of her flesh and bone and spirit along with the magic she had poured into healing the prince, but she shall stand tall and unrelenting in face of an unjust attempt at seizing her.

Of course such would be her punishment for succeeding, for saving a life; the vultures looking to circle her nevertheless.

No good deed had ever gone unpunished in this godsforsaken kingdom, had it?

She was still strong; she was powerful. And she might be the good kind of a witch, but she could inspire fear all the same; that was what the guards moving towards her shall see and feel.

Feeling Sir Barnes move to her side, his hand reaching for the heavy sword at his hip – a sword that had slayed monsters much bigger and perhaps more wicked than man – she stood to her feet.

She did not even reach her full height when her knees buckled, collapsing on the bed next to the Prince, Sir Barnes quick to tend to her, rolling her over to his arms, her head lulling to side, blood having been wiped away by her sleeve spilling fresh.

The tilt of the bed caused Anthony to snap his eyes open with a gasp, gaze roaming the chambers blindly, one hand outstretched, the other grasping at his throat.

“What in the God-“

“I shall fetch the physician,” Pietro hurried as the Prince continued to look around the chambers in distress, eyes growing wide at the woman lying on the edge of his own royal bed in one of his most trusted knights’ arms. “Or two. Peter, come with me.”

“What--- in the God was in that wine?!”

“Your Majesty!” One of the guards, Hector they called him, the one who had nearly had the life essence of his own future king nearly spilled due to his rashness, rushed to Sir Barnes side just as Sir Maximoff left with Sir Parker, who exchanged a meaningful glance with Sir Barnes, in tow. “Apologies, we shall remove this… adulteress-“

“Care how you speak, Hector-“ Sir Barnes hissed, disdain and betrayal stinging vile in his chest, his joy at Anthony’s recovery under Steven’s love’s miraculous hands burning to ashes at the calculating gazes of the Royal Guard, three more like Hector appearing in the doorway.

Three more.

Sir Barnes was a fierce soldier, fight coursing through his blood ever since the day he had befriended Steven of Rogers, swinging his sword with skill famed all over the kingdom; but he could not fight this. Not five guards at once; and should he best them by another miracle provided by the gods, he could never escape the maze of the castle in the disarray that it was after the boisterous celebrations turned sour, corridors swarmed with knights and guards alike, not while carrying a limp body of a woman in his arms.

And even if he succeeded in that; Steve would have stayed behind.

The King would have not been mollified by his son’s recovery, by Steven’s having brought the healer who rendered it possible. No. He would be bittered by her escape, executing Steven the very next morning in a public spectacle.

Bucky would have never forgiven himself for that; she would have never forgiven him for that.

He had no choice; no on truly had such luxury tonight.

Even as Steven would never forgive him for what he was about to do.

“Allow me to carry her at least,” he whispered to the guards as they circled him.

And perhaps it was another divine intervention; a ray of kindness illuminating the famously ruthless Royal Guard.

They did.

When Sir Maximoff and Sir Parker returned, they found the room in disarray: blood still smeared over the bedding around their future king, who might speak slurred but rapid words of confusion and distress; his beloved, Pepper of Potts sitting by the edge of the bed, cradling his sweat-soaked face in her palms, explaining softly of the poison; two members of the Royal Guard standing tall as they watched over them, another two nearly colliding with them as they led the King himself into the doorway.

Sir Barnes, nor the little bosorka, were to be found.

By the order of the King, the wretched witch was to be executed the next morning for breaking the sacred laws of Starkerbürg by using magic; her lover as well, for harbouring an outlaw; lastly, a servant girl of Asgard, an illegitimate daughter of the late King Odin named Hela, for having attempted the murder of the crown prince and no doubt using magic in the process.

Witches and traitors were to die by fire as not to have a vessel in afterlife and to die a slow painful death.

The Knight of Starkerbürg would receive a mercy; a death by hanging. After all, he might have been wickedly enchanted for all the King knew, for he had served the kingdom well before his shortcomings. His death was to be quick.

But they would all receive an audience.

The knights and the Royal Guard were to watch over each other all night as for none of them to have the foolish idea to save their comrade.

No one tried.

But neither of them slept either, anger, sorrow and injustice served preventing them from getting as much as a shut-eye. That, and fear of another of their comrades, Sir Barnes, following Steven’s example of acting foolishly.

Sir Barnes, trapped in his own cell as not to attempt to free his best friend, spent the night teary-eyed, staring out of the window towards the stars, perhaps wishing on a falling one to save his best friend’s life and praying for it too. Now that would have been true magic, would it not? If all it had taken for a miracle would have been a wish and a single prayer.

The little bosorka slept and did not weep. Only barely aware of as much as her own breaths, exhaustion had consumed her body. And yet her hand protectively sprawled over her belly, even on her last night before entering the longest of sleeps.

Steven wasted away the night banging at the iron bars of his cell, putting his whole impressive weight and strength into his advances and screaming at the top of his lungs to release her at least, the brutal truth of her fate whispered to him by the purest threads of intuition; until finally his feet could not carry him anymore and his arms and shoulder turned black and blue and crimson, just as he had promised Gregory’s would, should he touch his beloved.

It was a dark night for souls carrying such light despite their many broken hopes.

There is this saying, words of a supposedly wise man: the fair ones sleep well.

By the irony of life, the only one doing so tonight was the King, having sentenced not two, but three innocents to death, including the most innocent of human beings; an unborn child of pure love.

Perhaps more people should wish on the falling stars and pray for miracles; then, the saying about the fair ones could come true and not a mere fairytale.

And in the light breeze brought by the cleanse in pouring rain, the birch trees and the yew trees whispered of an end, and not a single soul heard them.

Here is your Eden, here is your grove, here it is where you belong. Like the white doe, protect your soul, so you don’t lose your glow.

Here is your Eden, here is your grove, here it is, where you belong. May it not befall you this great, great sorrow. (sorrow, sorrow, sorrow)

The sparse first rays of sun reflected in the drizzle, playing a charmingly terrifying game of lights and shadows, cool raindrops landing softly.

Crowds of commoners stood, some tall, some crouched, all almost motionless; as if they knew a truth darker than the reason for which they were gathered.

The Royal Guard with their chins raised proudly, serving the whimsical wishes of their king with loyalty and self-perceived honour.

And finally, the knights of Starkerbürg lined up in a double row, skirting the path towards death just as they would for one of their own walking to the altar and then for his bride too.

On the high balcony, King Stark with his pale son and his bride-to-be and Princess Morgana, King Thor and Prince Loki; offered with an almost picturesque view of the high castle walls adorned by rich fabrics coloured in both reds of Starkerbürg and emeralds of Asgard, and of the courtyard with two centrepieces; two stakes and the gallows.

What a crowd; what a spectacle.

And all but for senseless punishment.

Silence hung above the scene, only interrupted by brutal beats of drums, echoing ominously in Sir Barnes’ heart as he stood among his brothers in arms. He had been released just before dawn to clean up. So kindly; so cruelly; to assist the execution of the traitors of the lands. To witness the death of his closest of comrades.

And down the aisle to marry death, led by two members of the Royal Guard, a bosorka with a little one growing under her heart. Her bare feet dragged, her body and power drained; she could not walk, eyes barely open for a slit, gaze drowning in tears. And yet, in her mind, she prayed, her lips moving soundlessly; a testimony to her faith.

She prayed to the old gods; to those whom she worshipped and sacrificed to in exchange for nourishing her magic.

She prayed; for just a speckle of strength, a spark of magic. Perhaps if the stake had caught fire before they’d reach it, the execution would be stalled, long enough for her to gain strength and flee with Steven.

She prayed for him too. And she prayed for the capricious mind of King Stark changing on a whim once more and choosing to spare the life of a good man; the very man to whom she had revealed her magic and trusted him not to use that knowledge against her so many long months ago. And Steven had not betrayed her; he was not to blame, not for her choices nor those of the king.

She had no regrets having come to the aid of her lover whose only sin was merely having faith in humanity, much like she did.

But gods, did she pray. If not to spare her own life or even Steven’s, then to spare the life which hadn’t even got to see the light of day, so truly innocent.

She did not even pray for power for an act of revenge. She only prayed for strength to escape and live in peace with her lover and love and the life they had created.

And she prayed for mercy. Gods, did she pray for mercy.

She prayed for kindness of mankind, for her own lover was a precious testimony that pure kindness lied in the hearts of men still.

But the guards kept dragging her body, for once helpless, on and on; and the uneven stones kept drawing blood from the insteps and soles of her feet, the guards’ steps steadier than her heart as she found strength to tilt her head back to feel the rain soak her face, to glance upon heavens where many gods resided.

A soundless plea as raindrops moistened her lips, eyes fluttering close.

Then, a sound of another pair of feet; of slow and heavy but steady steps.

The guards halted in their march, the bosorka in their hands nearly toppling over.

And yet, the innocent woman mustered enough energy to open and focus her teary eyes, met with a blurry sight of a tall dark-haired man in knight’s armour, his piercing grey-blue gaze as steely and sharp as his sword.

It was not a save. It was all but a petty act of rebellion, a flicker of courage in the man Steven had chosen as his best friend. She thanked the gods for hearing out her prayers still, and praised the souls of the good of mankind all the same.

“Sir Barnes. Step away,” the guard on her right spoke clearly, notes of impatience in his voice, but not of surprise.

“No.”

A single unshakable syllable, cutting through the crowds like a lightning from clear skies.

The guards, taken aback, looked up to the high balcony in a silent wavery question. They could side-step the knight, but he had his sword ready and they had a firm belief he would not let them pass without a fight.

The still crowd broke into a sea of silent barely noticeable motion. No one dared to utter a word, awaiting the response to such insolence with bated breaths. Even the sun itself seemed to shy away, the drizzle slowly ceasing.

“Remove him!” the king hollered, impatient and clearly disappointed in his guards’ incompetence more than by the disobedience of one of the Knights of Starkerbürg.

But perhaps he should have been focused on the latter.

For as per his order to move, the servants of the kingdom did move – but not the Royal Guard.

Instead, two more knights stepped out from their position, each to Sir Barnes’ one side. And they did not touch him, let alone removed him, no. They stood beside him, Sir Wilson and Sir Barton, the tips of their swords gently hovering above the ground, grave and unwavering expressions on their faces.

Sir Barnes did not cast them a single glance, but a brief smile passed his lips, tasting all the sweeter when he saw the flicker of uncertainty and healthy respect towards the wordless threat of having to fight famed swordsmen appear on the guards’ faces.

The six people stood against each other, their hearts louder and more frantic than the suddenly ceased beat of drums.

Gods forgive them all.

“Taking this woman’s life is ten times the crime she allegedly committed,” Sir Barnes’s voice thundered through the courtyard, deceivingly calm and steady. “She came here to our aid – she saved our future king’s life. She came, knowing the risks. One might say she has got what she came for then…” he continued, gathering his breath, voice softening. “But I believe she also came with faith. With faith in good people. Is this truly how we repay her? Is this how we repay kindness?”

“Does saving a life equals death now?” Sir Wilson called out this time. “Would you sentence a knight to death for saving a life by sword, by his fists? Is this how Starkerbürg rewards its heroes?”

“Is this the justice we want in our kingdom? Do we want to pass judgement not just without reason, but against it?” Sir Barton questioned, the chuckle following his words dripping with bitter irony. “It just might be my time to retire then. For, this kind of justice I do not want to serve.”

Whispers rose through the courtyard, the Royal Guard frozen in place, awaiting their king’s orders. King Stark rose to his feet, gripping the cold stone of the balcony railing with hands burning hot as rage boiled the blood in his veins. A harsh inhale to spit orders was as far as he got –

– before he could speak, other knights began to leave their posts with something akin to glee, full of determination, shock stealing the king’s voice.

“I do not like having a knight’s honour should it mean I let an innocent woman – a hero – die. I would not deserve it then!”

“I could not look my daughter in the eye if I did either. This resembles the twisted plot we reject in the very tales we read together at her bedtime.”

“Shall we really tolerate this?!” Sir Maximoff cried out. “Or shall we finally accept and cherish those with differences if they carry a good heart in their chest?”

Sir Parker. Sir Lang. Sir Maximoff. Sir Quill and Sir Triplett and others. One after another, stepping out. Gradually, the double row reshaped; a group of knights prepared to fight, as steady and impenetrable as the castle’s walls.

The blurry vision of the bosorka could not appear clearer at the moment, Sir Barnes’ cold challenging gaze moving to meet hers, a gleam of warmth and compassion. Her lower lip wobbled as she soundlessly prayed for strength once more, to support the effort; to rise from helplessness back to her power – or at least dignity.

Whispers, as scandalized as awed, swarmed the courtyard-

“SILENCE!”

The voice of authority cut through like a searing hot knife, leaving burns and terrified silence behind indeed, all but the soft sound of the ceasing drizzle and the breeze carrying the prophesies of an end from the tress in the gardens and grooves.

Blood shall be spilled-

Today, today, today…

It will-

“Let us end this absurd charade, this… hideous betrayal to the crown!” the King spitted out. “Guards!Remove them all. If necessary, aim to kill.”

Sharp inhales of horror, wild expanses of chests.

Slow wavering exhales; deflation.

Not a single person moved beyond such.

Not the knights who continued to stand, this time the ones with unshakable pride.

Not the Royal Guard; it was one thing to serve the king no matter how kind or cruel or wise or mad decisions he made behind the castle’s walls; it was a whole another thing to do so under the scrutiny of the public eye.

“GUARDS-!”

Finally, the only person moving at the command was a commoner: a young woman, barely past twenty years of age, brown hair with intense gleam of red, stepping in front of the knights to face the guards still gripping the bosorka’s limp form.

“Wanda-“ Sir Maximoff breathed out a horrified whisper, flinching forward but not moving beyond as she held out her hand as to stop him.

The woman did not turn to the voice, stinking her chin out instead, determination sparking in her eyes.

“Do not fret, brother. You are right. You all are,” she whispered before raising her voice to continue. “This is not justice. This is not reason. ‘tis nothing but cruelty and madness. And I shall not stand on the sidelines when this is my fight too.”

A brave little woman; the voice of reason and goodness, met with a sea of hushed words from the crowds standing witness as she had been. Hands bare of a weapon, she had risen to battle injustice. Awe-inspiring.

Awe-inspiring, even as the king was raging all the more, a curse on his lips, a breath from commanding the guards to kill her too for her insolence.

Little did he know they would meet nothing but bad luck when trying to fight her; they’d lose, miserably so.

Wanda Maximoff was but a commoner, if a sister to a knight; but to the sweet bosorka’s gaze, she glowed. The Maximoff girl shone with the same magic a witch could sense surrounding Sir Maximoff.

She was right, more than anyone but her brother would know – it was her fight too.

“It is everyone’s fight!” a male voice called out from the crowd, pushing through and moving to stand by Wanda’s side. “If she saved the future king!”

“She did. As God is our witness,” Sir Barnes confirmed, the whispers among people rising, urning to shouts.

All hell broke loose; hell to King Stark’s eye at least.

More commoners stepped out. One followed by another; slowly at first. And then, the more people joined, the faster the crowds were moving, forcing the guards holding the bosorka take several steps back as not to get stomped on. Masses continued to flow to the middle of the now non-existent aisle, until there was no audience left.

However, no one moved to fight the two guards nor the rest of the Royal Guard who remained frozen. No one raised their fists or gathered stones or other improvised weapons, no. The common, ordinary people simply stood there; a sea of people that would not part to let the executioners and the prisoner through, as unmovable as mountain.

On the high balcony, the king fumed, at loss of words. King Thor of Asgard, on the other hand, allowed a smile to settle on his lips as he seemed to approve of the spectacle unfolding, and so did his brother.

And then, Prince Anthony, still weakened, propped his hands on the armrests and stood up, speaking to the entirety of his future kingdom proudly even as he addressed his father.

“Father, I believe the people of Starkerbürg have spoken. And so should I. I owe this woman my life. I will not repay her by death.”

His voice, while shaking, carried undeniable determination and authority not to be questioned.

“Sit down, you are still just a boy, you know nothing-“

“No, father. I know enough,” Anthony opposed. “We’ve been hunting those who control magic for too long. Chasing some misguided belief that it’s the magic that corrupted them… I do not believe it true.”

“Like hell-”

“Your son is right in his beliefs,” King Thor spoke up, a slight smile in his voice as it remained on his face. “The truth is that the source of evil is much more universal and is to be found at the very heart of mankind. Magic has and never had anything to do with it.”

The king scoffed, a flash of hungry rage in his eye. “A traitor has arisen from your court, Asgardian. You keep your mouth shut if you know what is good for your kingdom-”

The king of Asgard stood up swiftly, towering above all the royalty present; an embodiment of a not quite intentional threat, built on his impressive height and width of shoulders clad in luxury fabrics and on the heavy sword always resting by his hip for his nation was one of rightfully famed for battle.

The calmness with which he spoke contrasted sharply with his appearance. Or perhaps it did not – with the quiet power of the Asgardian king facing the mad king of Starkerbürg, they appeared as a bigger man and a very small one. If anything, their looks seemed reflect their minds.

“Care how you speak, King Stark. Son of Odin as I am, I am the king now. And we might be in your lands but you do no stand above us.”

King Stark gulped, before breathing in for a retort.

Before he could speak, his son clapped his hands twice loudly, drawing all attention back to himself.

“We witnessed-- ah well, I did not, for I was too busy dying at that time, dying at a hand of an ordinary human, to be clear, to give testimony--- eh, what I mean is, that we witnessed that magic can serve good. And so it should be rewarded as such. Rewarded, not punished.”

“You do not know what you speak of, son. You are not thinking clearly. She casted a spell to manipulate you, much like she manipulated Sir Rogers-”

“She did no such thing, father. As for Sir Rogers,” the prince said, a tired but knowing smirk playing on his lips, “it is true that he might be… bewitched, so to speak, but not differently from how my fiancée has bewitched me. She is, after all, of kinder heart and wiser mind than I am – I shall never repeat that, darling, cherish it,” he added, speaking lower and earning a small admonishing smile from Pepper of the Potts, along with a hint of blush colouring her cheeks.

A fond memory came alive in her mind, a memory of whispering urgently to her beloved’s ear of the witch’s feat she had learned about from the servants. From servants who had learned from Sir Parker – the youngest of the knights, the purest of hearts, causing him to be all maids’ favourite. From Sir Parker; sent by Sir Barnes.

It was her whispers which had delivered the message to the future king’s ear, to the one in power; but Pepper of the Potts had not been alone in her wiseness, nor in her effort nor bravery. The knights; the Maximoff girl; the common people.

It seemed goodness resided in many hearts of mankind still.

“Nonsense!” the king exploded. “The wretched witch has poisoned your mind-”

“Did she? And what of all these people, father? A quite powerful witch she seems in your tale, for a woman barely standing on her feet right now, all but dragged towards her death,” Prince Anthony lamented. “No… it is not my mind that is poisoned. It is yours. Poisoned by grievances of the past, by vengeance. It is time to change that.”

“Anthony, know your place-“

“I do, father. I know it precisely.”

The prince clapped his hands twice again, even louder this time, before spreading his arms ceremoniously, drawing a generous breath to make sure his weakened voice would carry all over the courtyard.

“I execute my right as the crown prince to grant mercy! To her and to my loyal brother in arms, Sir Rogers! Tomorrow, we shall execute the one and only true culprit, Hela Odinsdaughter. Today, no one dies. Today, we mark the beginning of a new era, where punishment fits the crime. Magic is no longer outlawed! Thank you for listening, my folks!”

Chaos of voice erupted among the people of Starkerbürg, astonished gasps, drowning out the voice on the high balcony.

“You have no right nor power to do decide of laws-!”

“No, I don’t,” the prince said, a brief smirk passing his lips. “But I have enough mercies to grant to those whom you’d want to execute before the changes are implemented into the laws of the lands.”

“You-“

“I must say I am most pleased by this development, Your Majesty,” King Thor interjected loudly, the barely contained amusement evident in his voice. “After all, Asgard has never outlawed magic. The fewer differences we have, the stronger our alliance.”

Turning to the crown prince, he extended his hand for a shake between two gentlemen, between two rulers. Prince Anthony only hesitated for a single beat of a heart. His acceptance was rewarded by a genuine smile spreading on King Thor’s lips and a palm covering their joined hands.

The true ruler of Starkerbürg seethed silently behind his son’s back, glaring at the exchange; yet, he did not say another word, his nearly murderous fury hidden behind a sudden mask of neutrality. He recognized that for the moment, he had been defeated.

“You shall make a good king one day, Your Majesty,” King Thor said.

“Oh, I know I will.”

“Anthony,” Pepper of the Potts admonished the man instantly; however, the king of Asgard only laughed, patting the back of Prince Anthony’s hand.

“And with good humour too. What a rare quality these days. A kind of magic in its own right… may the new era begin indeed.”

“Oh? Right now? Good. Finally,” Prince Loki’s voice suddenly joined the conversation, but only for a bit.

For by the next fall of a grain of sand in an hourglass, he was gone; and as fast a lightning strike, he reappeared in front of the bosorka, a swift snap of his fingers as loud as a clap of thunder.

The chains bounding the witch’s wrists and ankles fell open, hitting the ground with a startled step of the Royal Guard back, releasing her so abruptly she stumbled forward, her feet unable to bear her weight, her knees buckling.

She landed on her knees and hands, but never scarped them; instead of the unforgiving ground, her limbs met a fluffy transparent pillows as if made out of thin air, a gasp falling from her lips.

“See, much better,” the prince of Asgard muttered under his breath, taking a step closer to woman.

A whisper of wonder spread through the sea of people remaining stood between the bosorka and the place of execution, the echo of Loki’s name called exasperatedly from the high balcony by his brother.

The prince shrugged, grinning with the mischief worthy of his name.

“What, brother?! The crown prince said it was alright! … oh, right.”

Crossing the last distance between him and the bosorka, he reached for her ashy cheek, fingertips slipping under her chin to raise her head as if to show off her face with pride, the old language spilling from his lips gently: “Teraz si v bezpečí, sestra mágie. Si voľná a my sme voľní vďaka tebe. Spravila si dobro, maličká. Statočná – a ako takú si ťa bude pamätať i história.”

The words, however kind, empowering and mystical to many as they no longer understood the language, barely reached her consciousness; the true magic sprouted from the touch, washing over her body like a tidal wave.

You are safe, sister of magic.

A gasp for air, a sharp arch in her back as her power, all she had given, flowed back into her very soul.

You are free and thanks to you, we all are.

Warmth. Such delicious warm that words could not describe it, in any language known to man or magic wielders, spread through her veins.

You did good, little one.

A guttural sigh of relief escaped her lips, tears gartering in her eyes; her magic enveloped her very being and relit a spark of life, the scrapes on her feet, knees, hands – bruises on her wrists and ankles – beginning to disappear.

Oh brave one – and history shall remember you as such.

Prince Loki’s fingers slipped from her face, held out in a gentlemanly, almost knightly offer.

“May I lend a hand, my lady?”

Awed at her own magic flourishing, surging through the threads of her soul, and at the person responsible for it alike, she reluctantly took the prince’s hand, rising to her feet; the soft pillowy masses dispersed as she did so, a seemingly effortless trick.

“Good sir… your Majesty,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

A satisfied grin appeared on Prince Loki’s face, a hint of fake modesty as he let go of her. “Now now, maličká. You may thank me when we get your rytier here.”

A flicker of a wrist and a powerful green glint in his eye; and the crowds drew a startled breath at the hunched large figure suddenly appearing in the courtyard, his disoriented panicked gaze searching without avail.

Sir Rogers: bloody and bruised, sweat-drenched and exhausted, haunted by the worst nightmare of any man. Losing a loved one.

“I mean, is this not so much more fun?” Prince Anthony called out from the balcony, promptly ignored by everyone but his own fuming father and benevolent bride.

Instead, everyone’s gaze was drawn to a flurry of movement of a young woman stepping to the desperate half-mad knight, the very woman who had been brave enough to step out first from among the commoners.

“Wanda, wait-“ her brother exclaimed, in vain.

The redhead shook her head and smiled, reaching out to softly caress Steven’s shoulder, all but black and blue under the simple shirt he had been stripped to. A gentle gleam of the very red lacing her hair glowed from her palm, an untouchable light. Her hypnotic gaze captured the knight’s attention and froze him in place, magic flowing through him and sealing his wounds, a pure healing power.

Ten beats of thousands of hearts; several grains of sand falling. A mute shock in face of the smiling newly revealed magic wielder.

A generous wheeze for breath.

“You-“

Wanda Maximoff shook her head again, chin lightly beckoning behind Steven.

“Someone is waiting for you, Sir Rogers,” she whispered, her voice as if only carried by wind as Steven turned hastily at the first words spoken, his lips parting with a gasp and blasphemy and prayer all at once.

The rytier sprung forward the moment his stunned bosorka did, bodies colliding and exploding in invisible blinding light of soulmates reuniting, clinging to each other for dear life – for they were still alive to do so.

If a knight should be an epitome of masculinity, strength, built large and steady and with enough force in his body and heart to fight monsters, no one would think less of Sir Rogers should they see the tears soaking into his beloved’s hair or the tremble in his muscles.

If a future mother should be an epitome of femininity, soft and kind and careful, with enough love to heal the world, no one would think less of the bosorka for digging her fingers into her beloved’s shoulder almost violently, gripping onto him as firmly as he was to her.

He held her high, her legs wrapped around his middle, her face buried in his shoulder, his own in her hair, breathing in each other’s presence and warmth. Until they weren’t – parted just far enough to meet in the middle again, faces cradled in each other’s palms, fingers tangled in each other’s hair, lips colliding, teeth clashing, kiss salted with their tears, lips thirsty for love and life.

If love should be honest, kind and delicate, no one would doubt that what they were witnessing was love; nothing delicate about it beyond the frantic confessions whispered, but all the more consuming, raw, and true, uncaring for the audience.

It was only when the need for air overwhelmed them more than reality of still being blessed enough to be allowed to breathe, when they parted lips, tightening their embrace instead; from the witch’s lips, a silent prayer and gratitude to the gods; from the knight’s, all the same.

But where her teary eyes turned to heavens, Steven’s found his best friend’s gaze, his hold on the whole life filling his arms growing even firmer.

A secretive smile played on Sir Barnes’ face, a twinkle of pure joy diluting the utter relief in his irises.

An amused spark in Prince’s Loki’s eye; a brilliant smile on Wanda Maximoff’s lips as she glanced at her brother.

Steven saw them all, his quick mind perhaps lacking some of the facts but understanding enough. He understood he owed them everything and would spend his life repaying that debt, much like to his bosorka.

Silently, he thanked them all; and to all the gods he had ever learned about or heard of, swearing he shall always worship them, every day, fresh tears springing from his eyes at the mere thought of what he could have lost.

But he didn’t. Because of every person standing up for a good cause today; because of people.

The time shall come when people will appreciate the blessings of magic again, his bosorka had told him many times, for so long that he might have been losing faith. But it is not today, she used to say.

Today was the day.

And still, the love bloomed in a lovers’ embrace, under his lover’s heart, and it was more – so much more – than enough.

Or perhaps, if Steven could be as greedy, he would keep holding his bosorka in his arms, carrying her all the way to his chamber where he’d sat her on his bed and kneeled, and ask her to be his; as gods intended, as she’d deserve, as he’d longed for so many endless months.

And she would say yes; yes, she would marry him.

He’d kiss her hands, her ring finger, her belly and spread her on his bed to make love to her, until her breaths of his name were the only thing echoing in the breeze; until the birch trees and yew trees forgot to whisper about deaths and ends, and whispered of love and life and beginnings instead.

Next part in series

S.R. masterlist - contains other knight!Steve fics, independent of this universe

Complete masterlist

Thank you very much for reading; if you have the time and energy, I'd love to hear your thoughts, may they be coherent or not.

May December treat you with kindness which I hope still resides in the heart of mankind 🥰

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x you #knight steve rogers #steve rogers #knight steve rogers imagine #knight steve rogers x reader #knight steve rogers x you #captain america #captain america x reader #captain america x you #captain america imagine #medieval au #fantasy au #fairytale au #protect me #ochranuj me #anika ann #love me tender series

35 notes · View notes

mctherofdragons · 4 years ago

Text

In The Afterglow | 4 | F.W

This is a reposting of Chapter 4 because I accidentally deleted the original post. Please note as of the day I posted this, we are on much later chapters! xx

Summary: The reader is married to George Weasley, and for all intents and purposes, he is the perfect husband. But, despite her best efforts to resist, Fred presents temptation she never knew she’d fall for.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem! Reader; George Weasley x Fem!Reader

Alternate Universe: No Voldemort AU

Rating: Mature, Features EXPLICIT CONTENT!! Mature audiences only.

Trigger Warnings: ANGST, mentions of extramarital affairs, miscarriage, mention of a d&c procedure, cheating, oral sex (female receiving)

Flashbacks are in italics!

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

December 28th.

You slid the hotel room key into the door, taking a deep breath as you opened it. It was an agreement that you would meet at a local hotel. Your story to George was that you had a work emergency, and Fred had just told the rest of the mates at the pub that he was tired. You’d never considered yourself a liar or a cheat, but it occurred to you all at once that as of tonight, you were both. But any thought about your marriage covenant was going, going, gone as you walked into the room, your heart hammering in your chest at the prospect of being completely alone and vulnerable with your husband’s twin. The twin who you were falling madly and irrevocably in love with, despite the protests of your morals screaming into your subconscious.

Once the door shut behind you, you turned to see Fred sitting cross-legged on the bed. He stood up quickly, practically falling over his long legs to get to you. “Hi,” he whispered, cupping your face and planting a soft and longed-for kiss on your lips. You pulled off your scarf and jacket, laying them on the bed.

You moved to pull yourself closer to Fred again. A wave of calm washed from your fingertips to your toes as you buried your face into his maroon button-up shirt. Fred had this way about him: he was both strong and gentle; funny yet serious; forbidden yet sweet. He smiled, using the hand that wasn’t keeping you cling to his chest to stroke your hair.

“I missed you, Fred,” you admitted softly, not looking up. You noticed he was holding you tight. His embrace was almost protective, as if he let relaxed even a bit you would fall apart right there.

You stepped back for a moment, sighing as you sat down on the edge of the mattress. You were exhausted. A bit of a stress-induced headache was beginning to form behind your eyes. While you would normally want to be tucked in your bed with a cup of tea and a few aspirin, tonight the only painkiller you wanted was Fred. He sat next to you, allowing you to turn to look at him.

“This isn’t right.”

Of course, you were stating the obvious. Fred nodded in agreement.

“I know.”

Fred intertwined his fingers with yours, bringing your hand up to plant a few soft kisses on your fingers.

“George told me...about what happened a few months ago...I’m sorry, y/n. I wish I’d have known.”

“No one knows. Even if they did what could they do? I haven’t told anyone. Not even your mum, although, maybe it would keep her from constantly asking about another grandchild.”

Fred looked at you and all at once felt his heart shatter again. There was something about you that left him mystified and unhinged. It was as if you two had been cut from the same pieces of marble - two statues fated to be next to one another but never touching. He wasn’t sure if he believed in God, but if he had, certainly He had made you two from the same substance.

Fred placed a hand on your cheek. His gaze pierced yours. He spoke honestly, and you recognized that for the first time in a long time, you felt whole again.

“I wish I could give you the world, y/n. I would have given you anything, everything if you were mine.”

You wanted to pull away. Surely, George telling Fred about your miscarriage must have meant he was still bothered. Yet, not in the way that would make him hold you at night or ask you how you’ve been. It was more so in a way that caused you both to sit in silence at the dinner table, forks scraping against plates as neither of you spoke. Knowing that life with Fred would be different felt like a thousand tiny daggers ripping into your flesh, each of them dripping with guilt and shame.

To silence Fred, you brought your lips to his. All at once, the space between you was nonexistent. It was as if gravity had brought you two together like magnets. Fred gently laid you back onto the bed, moving to kiss your neck tenderly and purposefully. His breath tickled the wetness on your skin as he spoke.

“I want you to know that you are the most perfect creature I’ve ever laid my eyes on,” he whispered, before continuing to kiss down toward your collarbone.

His hands found their way to the hem of your tee shirt and you didn’t move to stop him. He pulled your shirt off over your head, tossing it onto the floor. Fred took a deep breath and began to plant his lips lovingly, down between your collarbones and onto your tummy.

When Fred finally hooked his fingers into the sides of your panties, he looked up at you. He waited for you to give him the go-ahead. His patience was like a warm breeze washing over you. It had been so long since you felt waited for, not pushed.

“Promise not to tell,” you said softly, giving him permission to go further.

“Our little secret.”

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ

6 years earlier.

You took a deep breath, shaking your hands out in an effort to stop some of your nerves. “You look stunning,” your friend assured you. It was the night of the Yule Ball, and it so happened, your first real date with George Weasley.

“Do you think he’ll like my dress?” you smoothed your hands over the maroon lace of your gown. The dress you had chosen was floor length with a full skirt and lace bodice. The sweetheart neckline perfectly hugged you in all the right places. It was still puzzling to you, as you slipped into your heels, that George had finally asked you out.

“He would be a bloody idiot to think you looked anything other than drop-dead gorgeous.”

Always a loyal Hufflepuff, you were thankful for your friend’s ability to cheer you up. You grabbed your clutch, following your friend out of her dormitory.

“Now, come on, we don’t want to miss the opening waltz.”

——-

When you arrived at the top of the stairs, you were excited to see George waiting for you at the bottom. You took in the sight of your date, a bright smile spreading quickly across your face. His long hair was resting perfectly just above his shoulders. To add, he was wearing surprisingly nice dress robes, considering his little brother’s ensemble was dreadful. From what Fred had told you, the two of them had scraped up money together all year to make sure they had something fit to wear to the ball.

When you reached the bottom of the stairs, George extended a hand to you. You took it and he leaned down to give you a gentlemanly kiss on the hand. You blushed a darker shade than your dress, feeling a million butterflies burst to life in your stomach.

“You look like a Princess,” he purred. You could have melted into a puddle right there. It was as if everyone else in the room no longer existed as George led you into the Great Hall. It occurred to you that you hadn’t seen Fred, but it didn’t much matter where your best friend was, because every last ounce of your attention was on George.

Meanwhile, Fred sat on his bed, flipping through a comic book. He closed it, feeling like nothing could possibly distract him from the sadness in his chest. He huffed, falling backward onto his pillows and staring hopelessly up at the top of the canopy of his bed. He crossed his arms over his chest as he chewing on his bottom lip.

Fred had secretly hoped George wouldn’t end up asking you to the Yule Ball. In fact, he had tried his damndest to ensure it didn’t happen. George had asked him directly if he had fancied you. But Fred’s ego got the best of him and scoffed, stating he could never view you as anything more than a friend. She’s like my sister, he had said to his brother, hiding the redness growing on his pale cheeks. So George had gone ahead and asked you. Fred, on the other hand, decided it would be better for him to hide away in his dorm all night than to have to see you and George together. If only he had known the Yule Ball was barely a glimmer into what the next several years of his life would be like.

George had completely stolen your heart that night. You had danced until the Great Hall was all but empty. Your laughter echoed above the music. George was quiet possibly one of the most charming boys at Hogwarts. You felt chosen, worthy, and on top of the world.

Best of all, he had walked you back to your dormitory and given you your first real kiss. You had been kissed before, sure, but games of 7 Minutes in Heaven in the y/hn common room didn’t count in your book. He had asked for permission quietly, looking down at his feet. When you said yes, all at once, your lips met. It was quick but sweet. You noted how George’s lips felt like silk. Up close, George smelled woodsy, yet sweet. You felt like you were on the moon, and you went back into your room, falling back onto your mattress with a giggle. Like most girls your age, you were certain it was true love. But, in your rare case, your prediction was correct.

You turned to your roommate and squealed. “I think I’m going to marry George Weasley someday.”

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ

December 28th.

You tossed your head back hard against the pillow, gripping onto the hotel sheets as tight as you could. The only thing clear behind your eyes was a flash of white. Try as you might to hold it back, a loud moan echoed off the hotel room walls. It took a second for you to come back down, feeling two calloused hands on either of your thighs. You heard a soft chuckle and glanced down. Fred was moving from between your legs, fixing his red hair which had now become messy from wrapping your hands in it. You shivered as you felt his warm breath hit the inside of your thigh. You were hypersensitive as you floated back down to Planet Earth.

Fred had kissed his way down your body, whispering quietly about how beautiful every inch of you was. When he had finally reached his destination, you’d realized quickly why so many girls were constantly showing up at the shop to see him. Fred had insisted that you needn’t return the favor. He always made it clear you didn’t have to go any further that night, stating that he just wanted all of the attention to be on you.

“Fred, I--”

Your chest was rising and falling rapidly. The redhead climbed up next to you, smiling contently. He moved a piece of sweaty hair from your forehead, giving you a tiny peck on the cheek.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s been a while since that’s happened,” you noted, trying to make light of the fact that it really had been ages since George had shown you a reasonable amount of intimate attention. He smiled, reaching over to hand you his shirt while had been balled up on the floor. You fastened the buttons as he got a bit more comfortable in bed.

“You deserve to be shown how magnificent you are,” Fred ran his hand down your side and you shivered. He pulled the blankets closer around you. “I wish we could stay like this forever, y/n. You know?”

You both laid in silence for a while. No words need to have been spoken as you pressed your foreheads together, taking deep breaths. Fred allowed himself to kiss you a few times, soft as a feather. His eyelashes brushed against your cheeks.

Now that your high was coming down, clarity of the situation was settling in. There was no turning back now. This was no longer a stolen kiss or a wandering hand. Your brother-in-law had just taken you to the edge of ecstasy while your husband no doubt slept alone at home. You flung the covers off of you, feeling like your were suffocating. As quickly as you could you stood up, eyes darting around the room for your clothing. Fred’s brows suddenly furrowed and he looked at you, concern radiating from his face.

“Y/n, did I—-did I do something wrong?”

“No, no. I did. I have to go.”

As if it were a race against the clock, you quickly stripped out of Fred’s shirt and found your jeans on the floor. You pulled them on, moving next to find your grey sweater. Tears were rolling down your cheeks quickly, and you felt your breath becoming harder to take. It may have been your mind, but you could have sworn the walls of the hotel room were collapsing in around you. You felt dirty and shameful - like every shred of decency you had for your husband was nonexistent.

“Baby.”

You said nothing, shoving your phone and wallet into your purse.

“Baby-“

“Don’t call me that, Fred. I’m not your baby.”

Your words hit him like a sucker punch. He recoiled, but still looked worried.

You laid a few bills out on the table for the housekeeper and quickly rushed out of the room. You heard Fred calling after you as he had moved to open the door in an attempt to catch you.

“Y/n!”

As you hurried down the long hotel corridor, it became harder and harder for you to bring air into your lungs. You just about knocked a businessman over as you rushed into the elevator, hitting the button for the first floor as quickly as you could.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ

September 24th.

“George,” you shook your husband’s shoulder quickly. Your throat felt tight as you hoped and prayed he would wake up soon. Your hand was pressed to your stomach, eyes clenched tight as another cramp ripped through you.

One of his brown eyes opened and he sat up a bit. “Honey?”

“Something...something’s wrong.”

You had been startled from your sleep in the middle of the night to intense cramping, and now the blood wouldn’t stop. Sharp pains were shooting across your lower back. You knew you had to wake George to get you to the hospital.

Just a few weeks earlier, you had made it through the first trimester. You and George had already made plans to tell the family, bursting at the seams with excitement. During the first three months, you hid your condition well, politely declining fire whisky at get-togethers and wearing looser dresses. You had assumed that you had made it through the riskiest part of your pregnancy. For that reason, a few gifts were sitting in the corner of your bedroom. A grandma tee-shirt for Molly and a gift for Fred, too. You and George had agreed there would obviously be no other option for the baby’s godfather.

At the hospital, you were told the news you were dreading. George held onto you as you wept, barely listening as the doctor told you what would happen next. You begged to be allowed to go home and pass the pregnancy naturally. It wouldn’t be possible according to the professionals. George tried to calm you down as the nurse gently prepped you for the procedure.

It was over fairly quickly. George had waited for you in the waiting room, sipping on cheap coffee, and wondering if he should call Molly. He decided against it, knowing she would just be beside herself for weeks. Eventually, a charge nurse came to tell him everything was done.

“We’ll give her some pain medication and she’ll be as good as new in a few days. You’ll want to keep on eye on her though, dear, you know, emotionally.”

George nodded, tossing his empty styrofoam cup into a nearby trashcan and bounded toward the elevator. Upon walking into Room 493, he noticed how pale you looked. He walked over slowly and you looked at him. The anesthesia was just wearing off. You felt woozy, but had a sense of peace as George leaned over to kiss your forehead. He stayed down close to you, moving your hair from your face a bit.

“You did great, sweetheart. You are so brave. I love you. Come on, we’ll get you home, okay?”

The drive home was dead silent as you stared at the window. Rain splattered against the windshield. You wanted to dissolve into thin air, thinking to yourself that ceasing to exist would be better than the ache you felt. It was dawn and you felt yourself staring mindlessly at the cars passing you. Off these people went to work or school, while you had just lost a baby. It was impossible to recall an emotional pain like the one harboring itself in your heart. A deep, hollow sensation sunk its way into you as tears began trickling down your face. Hermione, Fleur, and Ginny all knew the joy of being a mother. But what about you? Why not you?

You pressed your cheek against the glass, letting out the tiniest whimper.

George glanced over at you and reached to grab your hand. The broken noise you had made had distracted him from the road. You clutched his hand to yours, letting your sobs echo against the dashboard. George felt his own tears begin to slide down his cheeks. The realization hit him all at once that you would never be the same - a part of you permanently and profoundly changed.

You laid in bed for days, only leaving to shower. Occasionally, you allowed George to sit you up and give you something to eat. It wasn’t that you were physically in pain. No, the doctors had given you a good amount of painkillers to ease the physical soreness. Rather, a dark storm cloud had enveloped your heart and mind, forcing you to do nothing but lay and stare at the wall. You would weep, sometimes for hours. As if on cue, George would slide under the covers next to you and pull you close to him.

With your face buried deep into his chest, you would allow your whole body to shake, almost screaming. “M-my baby,” you would weep, gripping your hands into George’s shirt. It wasn’t just once that this happened - but for days on end. George would fight his own tears from coming, willing himself to be the strong and protective husband you deserved. The woman he loved had entered that hospital and he wasn’t sure she had come back out. But he would do anything, he promised himself, to be what you needed.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ

December 29th.

The Saturday morning sunshine poured through your window. You stretched contently, noting that George was already gone. Saturdays served to be the busiest days at Weasley Wizard Wheezes. People had more time to shop on the weekends, of course. Therefore, Saturday also happened to be the day you would whip up some food for the twins and head down to help out. You busied yourself mostly with the register and bookkeeping, giving Fred and George more time to be present with customers and take care of other duties.

This Saturday felt different. The feeling Fred had given you the night before was still fresh in your mind as you stared in the bathroom mirror. You looked back at yourself, letting out a deep sigh. Dark circles were present beneath your eyes, no doubt from the restless sleep you had. You laid awake, looking at George, thinking to yourself that whatever category was the worst, you were in it.

__________

The bells of the shop jingled as you walked in. Fred looked up from where he was arranging a fixture of love potions. Your eyes locked in a longing gaze momentarily before George came out of the backroom. Fred immediately diverted his stare. He attempted to look busy as he listened to your conversation.

“The caffeine has arrived!” George greeted, coming over to take one of the three coffee cups you were carrying.

“And you know, your wife comes along with caffeine, George. Cream and two sugars,” you smiled, allowing him to give you a kiss on the lips. While you were mostly joking, you did feel somewhat hurt.

Fred walked over to you next, taking his coffee from you. Up close, you could tell Fred looked exhausted.

“Black with four sugars?” He asked, taking a sip.

“‘Course, Freddie,” you said curtly, heading toward the register as fast as possible. “So what time do we open?”

“Nine,” George said, taking another gulp of his drink.

George glanced at his brother and then back at you, feeling a weird sense that you two were angry at each other.

“Everything alright?” George asked, watching as you busied yourself with wiping the counter down.

“Yes, dear,” you sighed.

“Hey, don’t forget. Ron and Hermione’s New Year’s Eve party is tomorrow, and the three of us are expected to make an appearance.”

George was next to you now, close behind your shoulder. You had made the amateur mistake of wearing a v-neck top. He noticed a small lovebite just above your breast. Or was it a bruise? Surely, it must have been, because you hadn’t been intimate with him in weeks. You did have a tendency to be clumsy. In fact, it was a running joke.

“I know,” you and Fred said in unison. You looked over to see George staring at your chest. You pulled your top-up a bit, hoping he was just enamored with you.

#fred weasley x reader #in the afterglow #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley angst #harry potter fanfiction

97 notes · View notes

angstymdzsthoughts · 4 years ago

Note

Old God AU: LWJ is a deity of sanctuary, purity, and righteousness. During a war between the heavens, Immortals, and the Ghost Realm, the gods sided with a being from the darkness. WWX was a strange half-breed born between a god and human. Cursed with belonging to neither world, and blessed with a strong sense of always doing what is right. When the war ended, the heavens turned on WWX, killing him without mercy when LWJ was away. Upon discovering his death, LWJ demanded [1/5]

OG: justice for killing an ally, refusing to allow anyone near the crypt he'd sealed his lover's body. Even the all powerful LWJ could not keep fighting forever, and after 33 years of endless battle, he was defeated. Whipped 33 times with a discipline whip--able to scar even the strongest of gods, he was then sealed within the cold water cave within the CR. Even while surrounded by his most loyal followers, the seal held strong, leaving him in frigid darkness. [2/5]

OG: Eventually his power began to wane, as those outside the Lan Sect forgot his name and no longer prayed to a god who could not answer. He spent hundreds of years meditating and reflecting on himself. He'd finally resigned himself to his fate; if his power completely vanished, he'd become mortal, and die locked in his desolate cave. When a foreign disciple somehow manages to fall into the cave, breaking the seal that even LWJ could not, he finds himself a devoted worshiper [3/5]

OG: friend, and an unwilling participant in a sect war. While forbidden from physically interfering im human wars, LWJ finds himself offering advise and more to WY and his infectious smile, brilliant mind, and his uncanny ability to annoy a god without fear. His attraction to WY, and WY's odd resemblance to WWX spur him into action, taking on the heavens in search for new meaning to what is right. [4/4...I lied about a 5th part!]

147 notes · View notes

snowflake-of-destruction · 5 years ago

Text

Observation

I can’t write a quick, few line caption to save my life Part 4/8. Based off of the fourth picture of THIS POST because I absolutely could not think of anything to write but “They are so hecking cute. Look at Roxas’s little blush” and so I just wrote everyone else saying they are so hecking cute. Basically. It’s that but wordy. Also, Roxas’s tail wagging motors Axel’s boat across the water because @complicatedandstained said it and nothing that cute can be left out.

@shaky-mayhemm

Part 5/? of Mermaid AU that needs a name

Xion was the first to know. Roxas's younger sister had always been the one he was closest to, more his other half than even Sora. That, and he felt he owed her for how quickly she'd chimed in and claimed Roxas had been with her all day, helping her create shell paths with Dory's parents. She'd even found a way to wiggle one of the shells she had kept for her own collection out of her bag and press it into Roxas's palm without Aqua seeing so he could show proof. Xion hadn't been happy learning that he'd went to the surface without her, and Roxas had only churned the currents more when he admitted he'd spoken to a human. She'd begged him not to go back, and left Roxas sure that no matter how she protested to the contrary that she didn't understand. Axel had proven every story Aqua had told them about sailors wrong even before they'd met properly, but Xion was more concerned that he'd been stalking the same human for weeks and his slip up had been premeditated.

She agreed to keep his secret because she was loyal to a fault. The only times she'd broken a promise was when she'd told Aqua that Roxas had been the one to bet Sora he couldn't last five minutes with his arm stuck in a sea anemone, and that only because Sora had a reaction to the toxin. She hadn't even told Aqua when Vanitas had confessed to her his plans to run away, but then perhaps she should have. Roxas only had to convince her that he wouldn't be hurt and he'd always come back.

He decided the solution was to take her with him next time he saw his sailor. She refused to speak to Axel that first day even though she'd been the one who had snuck into Aqua's rooms years ago and stolen as many volumes as she could of old King Eraqus's tablets for her and Roxas to learn all they could about the now forbidden surface. She refused to even come near. She stayed a whale length away from Axel's lifeboat at all times, keeping only her eyes and the top of her head above water, all the better to glare at the human with. By the end of the night though, the storm of her gaze had broken to calm seas.

For her it was the way Axel looked at Roxas like he was a treasure, but not one to own, just wearing a never-ceasing awe that shone through even when he was acting out other emotions. She liked the way he laughed full-throated when Roxas told a joke and scoffed at Roxas when he said something stupid too. She couldn't hear what was said, but she didn't need to. Roxas was funny. Roxas was dumb. Roxas's human listened, and more than he talked, though she saw him break in sometimes and speak with his hands as much as his mouth. She liked the way Axel kept trailing his hand in the water and then holding his hand above Roxas's head to drip over his face, looking too concerned to have it be mistaken for teasing. She doubted Roxas had even said anything about the dry air.

The next day she bobbed on the surface of the water next to Axel's little boat beside Roxas. He was just as friendly to her: willing to listen, eager to listen even to every thought or question she had, and then provide his own answers and commentary; excited to teach and to learn, but also falling into softness that said he cared about more than knowledge. He didn't look at her like a treasure though, and that remained the difference. He wasn't a human stunned he had discovered merfolk were real. He was a man that was thanking his human gods that he'd discovered her brother.

Xion was satisfied enough she let Roxas come to the surface without her after that (As long as he took her sometimes. She and Axel were best friends now. They'd agreed) and put herself in charge of explaining any long absences.

Vanitas was the first to find out without being told. Roxas didn't even know his estranged brother watched him and their siblings. Vanitas didn't need to follow them to watch them. Master Xehanort had taught him how to see them reflected in a jagged shard of glass he'd salvaged from a shipwreck. He usually watched for information he could pass to his master that would further their plans, or so he told himself, but he found himself observing Roxas' trips to the surface for weeks and not saying a word.

For Vanitas, it was how Roxas hardly stopped smiling for a moment. Roxas had always been the most like Vanitas, the only one out of the group of younger siblings the raven haired merman could remotely understand, quick to anger and slow to show he was happy. Roxas was still too innocent and too easily entranced by simple, stupid things for Vanitas to be able to stand his company for long, but he wasn't obnoxious like Sora's incomprehensible perpetual buoyancy. Until now at least. Roxas wasn't just happy. He was glowing more in the sun than he ever did in the depths where their scales turned luminescent. He kept wagging his tail and it was disgusting . More than that, his shoulders relaxed. It wasn't the slump or slouch Roxas sometimes fell into when he wasn't filled with tension. Roxas looked at home.

It wasn't completely foreign. Roxas belonged with their family; he wasn't constantly ill at ease like Vanitas had been and still was even after leaving and finding the role he had really been born to play. It was significant though, to see Roxas look so at peace with a stranger.

Vanitas decided Xehanort wouldn't have this news, not from him at least. To be happy and at home for a moment? Vanitas could be jealous, but he couldn't refuse Roxas the only thing he wanted himself.

Sora was the last to suspect but the third to know for sure. He was clumsy in following Roxas and would have been discovered easily if his twin hadn't been so absorbed in the only track his mind would focus on these days. And that was what it was for Sora: the complete absorption. He wasn't the only thing Roxas didn't notice. Roxas sat on rocks until his scales started to look crusty and he wheezed. Roxas was startled by a seagull that had been tapping around Axel's boat for several minutes and had been circling overhead long before that, apparently unaware of its pretense until it stood on his hand and squawked in his face as if affronted that he was a fish too large to eat. Roxas had to have a pod of leaping dolphins that he should have been expecting, considering he'd been the one to suggest their swimming route when he and Sora had talked to them that morning, pointed out to him by Axel. Sora would have been worried not endeared if he hadn't been forced to chase Axel's little wooden boat he'd taken from the the big boat when Axel had neglected to secure it properly to the rock island he and Roxas had claimed, and then further failed to notice it starting to float away. Both parts of the couple still didn't seem to notice him when he towed the boat back.

They were lost, utterly lost, and Sora wasn't going to be the one to admit he'd found them.

Besides, he was glad not to be the oblivious one for once.

Kairi was the last one, save Aqua, to see Roxas with Axel and the hardest to convince. Her protective instincts weren't of a sibling that could also be swayed by biased affection, and she hadn't heard the story of how King Eraqus had died enough times for it to seem more like a scary story to ensure good behavior than a tragedy to be mourned like the princes and Xion. It was one thing when she suspected Roxas was just following boats like Xion had told her they'd done half their lives. It was concerning then, but Xion had rattled off the precautions they took, and Kairi had concluded it wasn't her place to interfere. Sora telling her Roxas was in love with a human and didn't care about secrecy or distance was another. Axel didn't seem like the type of human capable of such atrocities as Aqua had warned about, but by the time any of them could know for sure it could be too late. She planned to corner Roxas on his way back to the palace after he'd left his little rendezvous and give him an ultimatum of whether he'd rather stop seeing the human willingly or have her go to Aqua, but then she saw the kiss.

She wouldn't be able to defend why it made all reservations melt away. It had to be witnessed. She could say Axel kissed Roxas like he was the water that sustained all life and he had to drink every drop. She could talk about the contrast of the softness in the way he touched Roxas, as if he'd been trusted with something fragile he'd break and end up broken himself if he did. She could laugh until she cried about how Roxas's tail flapped so forcefully that he'd propelled Axel's boat at least a dolphin-length when they'd shared their last kiss goodbye, and then try to describe how even the scrunched corners of Roxas's closed eyes told their own story of a moment so perfect you felt you could just float away on a current. None of that quite captured the feeling of being there and understanding what the tall tales were speaking about when they included true love's kiss. It all sounded like fanciful nonsense when reduced to words.

Kairi dived and headed back to the palace on her own, swearing that even if all she had was fanciful nonsense, she'd try to defend Roxas and his human when Aqua found out. Then she found Sora coaxing a pod of squid to play a game he'd just invented that involved five different goalposts and several starfish for each player to use as projectiles. She asked if they could talk alone, but ended up helping him convince the starfish that they would have fun playing his game instead. There would be other days to see if they could create a fairytale of their own. She'd be grateful later, because some fairytales didn't just feature princes and princesses but a knight needed to propel it to happily ever after.

Aqua had secrets kept from her for too long and then uncovered in traumatic ways, which should have hardened her heart until there was no softness left, but a combined testimony was hard to argue against. Find someone who cares and shows it even in small actions. Find someone who is your home. Find love consuming. Find a passion that's pure. It's what she always wished for Roxas and for the rest of her charges.

In the end, what call could anyone make but to swim away and let Roxas be happy.

#mermay #akuroku #kingdom hearts #xion #roxas #axel #vanitas #kairi #sora #axel x roxas #mermaid au that needs a name #watch me quite obviously and deliberately bait shaky into drawing Sora creeping unnoticed in the background of future Axel and Roxas pics #protecting them from unseen dangers #mermaid au stories

54 notes · View notes

orghanabolir · 4 years ago

Text

LFRP--Orghana Bolir

The Basics –––

Server: Balmung

Age: 18

Birthday: 12th Sun, Fifth Umbral Moon

Race: Au Ra | Xaela

Gender: Female

Sexuality: ?

Alignment: Lawful Good

Marital Status: Single

Physical Appearance –––

Hair: Purple

Eyes: Lavender

Height: 5’ 1”

Build: Lean and toned. There is no extra flesh on her. Offering her a sandwich would not be out of place.

Distinguishing Marks: Faint minor scars on her limbs

Common Accessories: Commonly dressed in Bolir tribal gear (brown is the primary Bolir color). Orghana does not favor jewelry very much.

Personal –––

Profession: Student | Tribal Emissary

Likes:

Singing and dancing

Her pet sheep, Lambchop

Playing the morin khuur

Wrestling

Dislikes:

Disloyalty

Pollution, harm to nature

Disrespect

Languages:

Bolir, a derivative of Auri (primary)

Auri

Eorzean

Residence: Stays in guest accommodations at her fc in Eorzea, and has a yurt outside of Shirogane. Her home is wherever her family is traveling on the Steppes

Birthplace: Azim Steppes

Religion: The Dusk Mother and Dawn Father

Patron Deity: Dusk Mother

Fears:

Disappointing her parents

Being forbidden to sing and dance

Relationships –––

Spouse: —None

Children: —None

Parents: Her parents are leaders in the Bolir tribe, which is a minor Xaela tribe.

Other Relatives: 1 brother and 4 sisters, all older than her

Pets: Lambchop, a lamb (duh)

Traits –––

* Bold your character’s answer.

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Additional information –––

Smoking Habit: None.

Drugs: None.

Alcohol: She imbibes. She prefers kumis, as it reminds her of home, but she doesn’t mind a nice grassy white wine. She was given Scotch recently, but did note enjoy it.

RP Hooks –––

Performer - You may see her performing somewhere and want to speak with her about her singing or dancing, or perhaps you are looking for someone to perform at an event.

School – Orghana is meant to keep up with her schooling while here. However, she has been favoring performance studies over other subjects. Perhaps you want to recommend other classes or institutions.

Business Interests – Orghana is technically in Eorzea on business involving her tribe. Perhaps you wish to discuss importing fertilizer or fuel bricks from the Azim Steppes.

Hanging out with a friend – Orghana likes to explore Eorzea (on her limited funds) whenever the time affords it. She enjoys restaurants and bars, particularly if there is entertainment, as well as other activities.

Information/Research--Maybe you want to know more about Xaela ways for some reason

What I’m Looking For –––

Friends, as Orghana knows few people outside of the Steppes

I am interested in finding school rp for her

Xaela tribal rp, if her tribe would logically be involved

Other rp that makes sense for her

Limits –––

I don’t like god-moding.

No erp. I’m not against romance, but Orghana is young and inexperienced, and also assumes her parents will marry her off at some point, so a partner would have their work cut out for them.

No permanent damage or death

ABOUT ME –––

I am a teacher in the real world, in the Eastern U.S. I love to log in to FFXIV after work. I prefer in-game rp to Discord. I do use Discord for coordination, and ooc discussion with players when appropriate. I enjoy the PVE side of the game as well if you want to run some content (don’t expect an expert though, I’m a casual player).

Contact Information –––

In Game: Walk-ups are fine, though a tell as a warning is appreciated. At events, feel free to walk on up without a tell. (I struggle with chat scroll when things are super busy, so if I don’t respond, you may need to resort to a tell anyway, sorry!)

Discord: Taly/Orghana #4374

You may contact me in game, or via Discord.

Further Information--

Orghana’s Carrd/Wix can be found at orghana.carrd.co

#ffxiv #ffxir rp #balmung #balmung rp #xaela #ffxiv-crystal-rp #crystal rp #crystal-rp #crystal data center #lfrp #mooglemeet #crystalxivrp #orghanabolir

22 notes · View notes

deans-haunted-baby · 5 years ago

Text

Why I don’t think Michael will side with Chuck in the End

I know there’s theories floating around that Michael may have been deceiving the Winchesters in 15x08. Its true we have no idea what his agenda is or if he’s that interested in playing nice with TFW. They did trap him in Hell with their half brother for a long time so he’s not exactly warm & fuzzy about that. However this isn’t the psychotic, sinister version of Michael from the alternate universe nor is he the same steel cold obedient soldier back in 5x22. He’s changed massively. There’s more humanity in him now than he’d like to admit. In spite of what we’ve seen from Michael in the past, I don’t think he’s interested in harming Sam and Dean, at least not currently. And I just can’t see him running to Chuck, not after receiving all that alarming information. So I'm going to present the following reasons for why he probably won’t turn on the boys. Number 1 being the most important. Adam Milligan.

For however it happened the archangel bonded with a human. The formally resurrected 19 yr old illegitimate son of John Winchester. All those years spent in the cage these two managed to forge an understanding between one another; an unusual strong connection. They're friends and allies. Michael listens to and respects Adam’s opinions even if he doesn’t always agree. Allows him freedom to control his own body. And despite being the ruthless warrior that he still is, Michael’s been shown to be much more merciful, patient and compassionate compared to when the boys last faced him. Because of his relationship with Adam, Michael’s developed a newfound appreciation for humanity similar to his aunt Amara aka the Darkness. He truly cares about Adam and protects him. Like at the diner when he smote Lilith for posing a threat. Then instead of killing the witnesses in front of Adam, Michael chooses to spare their lives by erasing their memories. He even defended Adam to the Winchesters further demonstrating that he does consider his feelings. That’s beyond the person he was when he told Dean “Adam isn’t home right now” all those years ago.

So I have no doubt Michael will do what ever means necessary to keep Adam safe from Chuck, who is hell bent on destroying the world which Adam is part of. Even if that means siding with some old enemies to take him down so be it. As the old saying goes “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”. Of course that doesn’t mean Adam shares any love for Sam and Dean. Hell no. He made that pretty clear at the diner. He has every reason and right to hate them after ten years of failure to save him from Hell. Every reason to make them suffer. Adam deserves to be pissed at the Winchesters and the world for doing him dirty like that. But...for better or worse, Sam and Dean are still his brothers. Its for that reason and that reason alone that I don’t see Michael threatening to go after them later. He knows Adam wouldn’t want that unless (he really is a scheming crazy person deep inside) Michael’s friendship with him is just smoke & mirrors which I don’t believe for one second.

And Adam’s been presented as being a very forgiving, kind soul despite all the pain he’s been through. Revenge wasn’t even on his mind the moment he got out of that cage. It was human food on top of wanting to go back to school or get a job. Meaning he cared more about getting back to some sense of normalcy. Then when Castiel and the Winchesters pulled him and Michael into their crisis, Adam was willing to hear their side and attempted to convince Michael to help them. Why go through that whole charade if Adam just wanted Sam and Dean hurt or dead? They had every opportunity to double-cross TFW while being held captive but instead Michael & Adam chose to put aside their grievances, at least for the moment, and give the Winchesters something useful. Now whether or not the spell actually works (I doubt it’ll be that simple) is the mystery. However this definitely not the last time we’ll see these two characters which brings me to point number 2. Jack Kline.

This is a big one. Why you ask? Well lets go over that scene in 15x08 where Castiel shares his memories with Michael and Adam. There was so much foreshadowing in this moment (from Michael/Adam’s return down the road, to Michael’s unavoidable confrontation with Chuck and finally his eventual encounter with the young Nephilim himself) based on how that scene was shot and edited. The primary objective was Michael watching Jack die at the snap of Chuck’s fingers and reacting to it along with all the other nasty business his dad’s been doing behind the scenes. Talking didn’t seem to be enough to get through to Michael and neither did antagonizing him. His stubbornness and arrogance wasn’t surprising being he is the Prince of Heaven and has a blind idealized devotion for his father as his loyal son. So in order to open Michael’s eyes and get him to see the truth, Castiel focuses his energy on the most ruthless, evil act Chuck has ever committed. Murdering his grandson and Michael’s nephew.

Doing this Castiel shatters that righteous image Michael has had of his father forever because Chuck/God (father of all creation) is suppose to be the embodiment of light, love, hope, peace and benevolence. He created Michael to be his champion of humanity; the guardian protector of Heaven and Earth. Its Michael’s sworn destiny to defend good against evil. And Chuck crossed the line, several in fact. He represents everything Michael was born to oppose. Trying to mess with free will, attempting to destroy everything he created all out of spite because the Winchesters refused to play his games anymore. But above every horrible thing he’s ever done there’s no sin greater than taking the life of his own flesh and blood. A child born of a human (God’s greatest creation) and an archangel (Michael’s younger brother Lucifer whom, despite their conflict, he loved immensely). That is unforgivable. No matter how much he may still love him, Michael has absolutely no reason to trust his father; not after all those centuries of deception. And Chuck has shown he has no regard for human life let alone the lives of his own family which Jack’s death all represents.

Now Michael chose to leave at the end of 15x08 after giving our heroes the spell to trap Chuck and showing them the door to Purgatory. But what’s interesting about that is his reference to the Darkness. It’s unclear if Michael even knows Amara has been released and neither Dean or Castiel ever mention it. I wonder if he can sense her energy. So the question is where is Michael going? Is he planning to seek her out or leaving to confront his father (which I doubt since Chuck is preoccupied with Sam and Eileen at the moment)? What we do know is Michael and Adam can’t avoid the inevitable. They’re as much apart of this fight as TFW whether they like it or not. It all depends on which side Michael ultimately chooses. Will he align himself with the Winchesters or is he going to be on his own side? It’ll be interesting to find out when the show returns in 2020! And I’ve been thinking a lot about what Michael’s interaction with Jack will look like when they’re finally reunited because if its anything like what we saw with Gabriel (or better) that could be a good sign for Sam, Dean and Castiel.

Out of all his paternal family members Jack’s so far met his biological dad (that didn’t go over so well), his grandfather (that didn’t go well either) and one of his archangel uncles. He’s yet to encounter his great aunt Amara the Darkness or his most powerful famous warrior uncle. The original Michael. Those are interactions I’d very much like to see happen before the show ends. But for arguments sake lets say Michael does consider turning on the Winchesters. Not that he would or might but what if he still has doubts. Jack could be TFW’s best chance at gaining Michael’s trust, cooperation and alliance. He could tell his uncle that Castiel and the Winchesters had been raising him as their own; protecting him since he was born. Things I’m sure Michael might appreciate. Or Jack could confide his biggest regret (accidently killing Mary Winchester) as a means to bond with Michael and help him understand the Winchester brothers a little better. Reminding Michael and Adam of redemption and forgiveness. That any pain the Winchesters might’ve caused them has no comparison to what Jack took from Sam and Dean and yet they’re still a family.

It’ll be fascinating to see how they go about the dynamic between these characters considering what happened with AU Michael in S13 and S14. Jack may be a little hesitant of his uncle at first and Michael may be hostile (since he probably knows Nephilim are forbidden) yet curious or a combination of both. Or maybe their first encounter may be a bit softer than expected what with Adam in the middle of things. Michael could become very taken with Jack and protective of him. He was very distraught after seeing those horrifying images of his father killing his nephew. And I could see Adam being their ice breaker (oh the comedic possibilities of this!) he’s a very laidback, likable chill dude not to mention Sam and Dean’s half brother. Yah that little detail is probably going to be the most shocking for Jack since Adam’s never been a blip on the Winchesters’ radar.

Moving onto point number 3. Heaven. It’s dying which is why Jack was manipulated into creating new angels to power it up. After all the damage done by Metatron, Lucifer and the Entity it’s left in ruin and without proper leadership. We know as of right now Michael has no intention of going back there. He’s severely withdrawn since learning his brothers are all deceased and probably feels like a failure and a fool. But none the less he’s got unfinished business back home. By the time Supernatural ends someone’s got to be left in charge of things up there, my moneys on either Amara or Michael since he’s the heir to the throne of Heaven. It would be a fitting ending for either of them. Maybe Michael will somehow restore Heaven’s power (with Amara and Jack) and reopen it for the all the earthbound souls. Or maybe in the aftermath of the final showdown against Chuck, Michael will just hang around with Adam and whoever else is left standing on Earth. And finally we reach my last point number 4. Amara.

What do we know about Michael’s complicated history with his aunt? Not much either than the fact that he and his brothers were ordered by Chuck to seal her away centuries ago; with no intention of ever releasing her. Something tells me Amara wouldn’t harbor any kind of affection for Michael, not after what we saw with Lucifer. And we have no idea if she still shares that same connection with Dean as she did in S11 (though rumor has it they got an upcoming storyline together in the back-half of S15) or if she’s even interested in lending a hand in the Winchesters’ business of saving the world. However Amara has been shown, like Michael, to have developed a love for humanity. She’s having the time of her life vacationing all over and taking advantage of her freedom. I don’t think she’d be too thrilled knowing her brother plans to destroy all he’s accomplished and he’s not exactly her favorite person to be around. She’s completely done with Chuck’s crap. He’s alienated her to the point where she wants to be as far from him as humanly possibly.

And if she does still view Dean in a favorable light after what he’d done for her, that could be what persuades Amara into helping TFW. Michael would have to be an absolute moron to attempt an attack (if he decided to make them his enemies) if Sam and Dean manage to get the Darkness on their side. Its canon that she’s far more powerful than the archangels which is why it took all of them combined to lock her away. That said I don’t think Michael’s character is being set up as a villain. We already had AU Michael, been there done that. Nor do I see him and Amara at odds specifically because of their deteriorating ties to Chuck. Could their reunion be pretty heated and violent? Possibly. Its hard to say where they’ll stand with each other when they cross paths, there’s some bad blood between them for sure so they’ve got some family issues to sort through. But as of right now, what’s happening is bigger than both of them and their angst. Ironically Michael and Amara got more in common with each other than they realize.

Both of them were abandoned, lied to and used by Chuck on top of being imprisoned for many years. And they actually care about the world they're currently inhabiting which Chuck wants to end. That’s got to be worth more to them than some old discrepancies in the past. Enough for them to want to put aside their differences and work together to stop Chuck. Imagine how awesome this storyline would be, former enemy family members coming together because of a common threat they’re all facing. Michael and Amara along side TFW, that’s a pretty badass team. I WANT THIS. I want to see Michael get to be a good guy. Become an ally and the honorable hero he was meant to be. Saving humanity whom he now cares about with his human best friend. We deserve to see this version of Michael come into fruition before the show ends.

Anyway those are my thoughts on the Michael/Adam situation. I hope it comes true or most of it anyway. I know Supernatural is building up for a big finish. It would be nice if they didn’t waste two characters we haven't seen for ten years. I want to believe that they have plans for Michael and Adam that don’t include killing them off for shock value and/or villainizing them at the last second. They deserve better than that. 15x08 was a perfect example of how to utilize and develop these characters into the plot. They have so much potential and story left to tell. Lets hope the writers know what they’re doing.

204 notes · View notes

lemonyelixir · 2 years ago

Photo

Oh! Im working on a Au called Forgotten God / Or Forbidden Gods

-Wally is one of the main *forgotten* God , He Loves any new followers but c̸̞̱̆͒̋̅͋̇̋̓̍̆͗̊̊͐̈ũ̶̺͓̮̝̯̯̜͕̘̹͜ȑ̶̡̨͔͓͈̜̤̙̱͇͔̲͖͐̿͒̊̂̆ͅs̸̡̺͎̤̯̟͕̠͉̹̫͂͑͑̎̈́̎e̸̻͍̻̩̻̼̝̘̜̻̿̐ḑ̸͎͔͉̳̦̳̲͎̝͖̻̑̎ gave His only loyal follower *dust haha you seen them in my last post* A a uhm A gift! they forgotten their age. He’s quite afraid of losing them from the last church gotten ruin

-Wally hates touching his own face he has his followers help him when his hair is tangled up

-He’s taller than c!wally he’s 7ft

-he keeps his right side hidden with his hair unless in his god form -he’s rarely in it-

-He loves apples! Just dont cook them he’ll still be confused

-His loyal follower put on a ear clip on his left ear and they put on different ones each day , if Wally get more followers his loyal ones put more or makes a chart of colors

-Stares alot he barley blinks , he accidentally ate grass before when he did

-Home is very quite tall in this au

He always smile @:]

Questions always welcome!!

#WelcomeHomeAu #Welcomehome #wally darling welcome home #Welcome Home Wally #Au #Forgotten God Au Welcome home #Forgotten!Wally #i hope this looks ok #WIP #Heavy Wip

5 notes · View notes

softjeon · 5 years ago

Note

minjoon + greek gods au ;))

— GENRE; fluff, smut | — PAIRING; Hades!Namjoon x Aphrodite!Jimin | — DISCLAIMER; mentioning of cheating, jealousy, nsfw-content | — Wordcount; 3,4k | — written with @cassiavioletblue

The demon yawned silently and stretched, before getting back into a more comfortable position. He could hear footsteps nearing and held his breath, keeping his eyes closed as the noise drew nearer. The moment the heavy door opened, the loyal servant snapped his eyes open, bowing deeply in front of his god. He had opened his mouth to report, when laughter reached his ears and the demon listened up. The noises coming from outside were getting louder and the demon furrowed his brows when the splashing sound of water made him look up, even though his god hadn’t told him to relax, yet.

Being responsible for a well-working underworld could be quite the hassle sometimes. Some newcomers found their new place immediately, fitting right in as if they had always been there but others… not so much. His district administrators had to report to him regularly so that he was in the picture about everything and it was an important way to stay in touch. Yet, he sometimes wished he could just skip it. It was exhausting to listen to all the complaints some of the souls had, some couldn’t forget their mortal lives and some were just regular troublemakers. After a hard day of governing all he wanted to do was sitting a little in the fire and letting the flames lick at his spine relaxingly, but he hadn’t fed his dogs yet, so he would do that first and then go make that fire afterwards.

Surprisingly Cerberus was nowhere in the hallway and Namjoon furrowed his brows. The hellhound normally liked to stay close and so Namjoon was used to being greeted by him after he had been locked away in the great hall listening to ministers for hours. Apparently something else must have caught his loyal dogs’ attention.

The servant noticed the food in the god’s hands, calling out for the dog once. Twice. A bark made him turn towards where the noise was coming from, looking outside the window. What he saw made him gasp and quickly retreat, when Namjoon stood behind him pushing him away to see.

Down by the lake, Jimin was scooping up some water to let it drip over his shoulder as he was knee deep and with his back to his favorite place: the underworld’s castle. Namjoon’s home.

Jimin giggled, as he looked over his shoulder, knowing about his charm too well and how it affected the men around, feeling their stares on his back as they tingled down his spine. The demons around had joined him in his little bath quickly, laughing and kissing each other all around him just with a wave of his hand.

There was another thing he was pretty sure of, that his little show was making Namjoon angry and jealous. Something Jimin loved to lure out from the god of the underworld too much. It was like playing with fire, but he couldn’t keep his hands off him. If he’d burn in his hold, then he’d go up in flames with a smile on his lips. It was not like Hephaestus didn’t know about his lover. He was a coward though, not even trying to say something, too afraid of death. And Jimin loved Namjoon even more for it.

“Ah, that’s why…”

Cerberus adored Jimin. One would think that it was easy for the god of love to wrap all the creatures around his little finger and it was true with people and demons - and sometimes the other gods. Hellhounds weren’t that simply however and so the friendship that had blossomed between Jimin and the dogs had nothing to do with his godly powers but everything with heartfelt affection on both sides. And just as he had thought, there he was, all three mouths open with his pink patchy tongues hanging out while Cerberus tried to catch the droplets of water that were splashing around from Jimin’s games.

Jimin’s eyes flickered up from where he knew Namjoon was watching him behind the window. “Come,” He mouthed, waving the god down with the sweetest of smiles as he yelped, when the dog jumped into the water, wanting to keep Jimin’s attention. “Cerberus!” Jimin laughed and reached out for the dogs, burying his hands in the thick fur. “Get your master, will you? I want him to join the fun.” He gave each head a little kiss.

He didn’t needed to be dragged by his pet, his feet moved all on their own towards Jimin as it was what he wanted to do anyways. If they had been alone he would have been in the water already but he hated it to have his servants watch them. And even more did he hate it when they watched Jimin. Of course he didn’t say anything because he knew that Jimin was well aware of his opinion about the younger bathing shamelessly in front of his demons. And Jimin did it despite his knowledge - or maybe even because of it. The god of love liked to tease, to taunt and seduce, to allure and play. And he took great pleasure in making Namjoon jealous.

Jimin couldn’t keep the smile of his face, when Cerberus had ran towards the palace, barking and jipping at his owner excitedly as if he was trying to tell him something. The god of love took his robe from the side, where he had discarded it earlier, not even phased by the stares of the demon and the lust that filled the atmosphere. His eyes were on Namjoon, and him only. “What took you so long?”

“Oh, you know, work. Might be difficult to understand for someone who deems letting others love him his job but it can get quite stressful here in the real world.” His words had no bite and his eyes twinkled. They always talked like this with his demons around, the soft and gentle words weren’t meant for their ears.

Only for Jimin’s.

“Oh, such a hard working man.” Jimin pursed his lips into a pout as he walked up to the god with slow steps and only then pulled his robe over his head to cover up his body. “You should be resting, leaving others to do the work tonight.” The young god, blinked up at him, licking over his lips slowly, before cocking up an eyebrow. “It seems as if you’re servants don’t have much to do.”

“They do, actually.” He sent his demons a sharp glance. “But somehow they always manage to find distraction when it happens to be near. If I had the choice I’d stare at you too instead of doing my work. Especially with you all naked and wet. You should be careful.”

“Who wouldn’t?” His voice sounded breathy as he leaned in, getting on his tiptoes to whisper into his ear. “But I’m feeling a little cold now…I think I need something more comfortable, any ideas?”

Namjoon bowed his head slightly in an invitation for Jimin to follow him. “The hellfires will warm you up. And they can be quite comfortable as well. Depending on how you found your way to them of course.” Hell and its fires was more what people made of it and less the horrible place that everyone made it out to be. It was his home and he liked it.

Jimin followed the god of the underworld suit, letting his power unravel behind him as the demons shook themselves out of their daydreams. His focus was on someone else now. “Sounds perfect,” Jimin hushed out, as he got up the stairs, pulling up his robe enough so he wouldn’t trip.

The moment the heavy door of Namjoon’s private room’s fell close behind them, leaving everything else shut outside, Jimin caught up to him while his hand wrapped around his arm as he leaned onto the strong god. “I missed you.”

“You should have come sooner then…” Namjoon had turned, hands immediately sliding under the robe that was only halfway tied and opened under his touch. His words didn’t give away how much he had missed Jimin as well but his kiss did, hungry and demanding, while he pressed Jimin’s body against his own.

“You know he doesn’t let me.” Jimin whispered, when Namjoon kissed down his jawline, as he melted against his embrace. Jimin never spoke his husband’s name in front of the god, not wanting to anger him further - but it was no secret either.

“My love,” Jimin whispered, cupping Namjoon’s face to be able to kiss him again and again. This is where he belonged. Right next to him; but unfortunately, fate wasn’t on their side, nor had it been their decision. How could the god of love be with the one ruling the underworld. “Don’t let me go, please.”

“I’m not planning to.” Was the answer, a horse dirty promise with an underlying softness and affection that only someone who knew him would see. “Maybe I should treat you like your husband and keep you from getting out of my sight.”

Jimin let Namjoon manhandle him easily, walking backwards until he hit the bedframe and climbed onto it. “Maybe you should.” His smile was soft, something that spoke of so much love that he had for him.

Once it was only the taste of the forbidden, that had brought Jimin down into the underworld to see for himself what the god was made of. Many spoke of him, some said he was the most powerful man they’d ever met, others told him about his anger but all of them were in awe about his handsomeness. Of course, he wasn’t beautiful like Jimin, but he was close and when the young god had seen the true beauty that had been his heart he knew he had lost his heart to him. He shouldn’t have come down here back then. He had absolutely no business to be with the death, but for Namjoon he came back over and over again.

“You wouldn’t have to chain me to keep me in your sight,” Jimin whispered, when the god hovered over him, “I’m already bound to you.”

Namjoon’s face turned into an uncomfortable expression. “Don’t tell me he chained you up!” He couldn’t have found out about the two of them or it wouldn’t be Jimin at his home, flirting with him but the rage of another god wreaking havoc in his world. However Jimin wasn’t exactly the most faithful person and he had cheated on his husband before so maybe the other simply suspected something. Even though he was just as guilty of adultery as Jimin. One of the rare things the two gods had left in common.

Jimin soothed over Namjoon’s cheeks, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, my love.” The god of love, leaned back down, closing his eyes as he felt up the soft sheets around him. Namjoon’s bed had always been his favorite place to be, especially naked. “You should only worry about my body and how you keep me warm. I’m still a little cold.” He giggled as his hand wandered up to Namjoon’s robe, before undoing it slowly.

“You see, that’s not something I need to worry about.” It was nice to see how comfortable Jimin felt around him as he stretched himself out on his bed, no self consciousness or insecurity left in his eyes. Jimin trusted him - and the other way round of course. Namjoon gave his lover a promising smile before summoning a few small little flames of hellfire that danced around his fingertips, warming them up before he touched Jimin’s skin. Technically he could hurt Jimin with it if he really tried but a handful of flames would bring nothing but warmth to the others skin.

Jimin gasped, arching his back into Namjoon’s touch as he closed his eyes letting him do with him as he pleased. He loved the warmth that always surrounded Namjoon. When Namjoon’s hand moved down towards his hips, Jimin turned around on his stomach, wiggling his bottom in front of him cutely. “Mhm, still cold…”

Namjoon took this as an invitation to plaster his body all over the younger to ‘warm him up’. He loved to feel the god’s soft skin against his own. Too many gods felt invincible and so confident in their beauty and powers that they didn’t take care of themselves but Jimin was excelling in it: his skin was as soft as silk and as rosy as blossom petals.

Jimin loved to feel the weight on him, the soft kisses that were placed against his skin. Namjoon knew how to treat him right. Jimin had never noticed how easily others took his beauty for granted, using him and his body for entirely selfish reasons. He’d learned it, the first night he spend in the underworld, when Namjoon didn’t push himself onto him. It had startled him so much, that he had wanted to kill the god for not appreciating him. Luckily Namjoon was faster, his hand keeping a tight hold onto his wrist and Jimin realized the truth. Namjoon showed him respect.

“This is much better, but there’s one thing…” Jimin looked over his shoulder, moving his hips gently, so Namjoon could feel it right at his groin. “You’re still wearing too many layers..:”

“If it makes you move like this it’s worth it…” Namjoon’s hand came to rest against the other’s hip, guiding him gently against himself. Jimin was pure grace, every arch of his spine was a delight to watch, every shudder of his breath music to Namjoon’s ears. He loved to observe and sometimes, when his willpower felt really strong he liked to watch Jimin touch himself. Jimin could be so eager, so willing and seeing him unravel beautifully in his bed by his own hand was a sight he would never forget. He didn’t have that patience tonight, he needed to feel him. Therefore he gave in to Jimin’s request without teasing or stalling, getting rid of his clothes as effortlessly as possible. He didn’t have the finesse to strip as mouthwateringly and promising as Jimin sometimes did for him, showing just enough of what he had to offer that it had want burning through him until he snapped and pulled the younger in, taking him in whatever half-dressed state he was.

Jimin had turned to watch Namjoon, biting down onto his lip as his eyes took in all of Namjoon’s beauty. He loved seeing the god like this, unprotected and so soft – just for him. If his servants only knew how soft their master could be. It was a secret Jimin would keep forever.

The god of love opened up his legs to invite Namjoon back in between as he kneeled in front of him and Jimin wrapped his arms around his waist. Leaving a trail of kisses along his stomach, he let his hands soothe over the god’s strong thighs and up his bottom. Namjoon tipped his chin up, pushing his legs a little further apart as he kept his gaze on him. “I wish I was mortal,” Jimin whispered, leaning his head into his touch, placing a kiss against the palm of his hand. “So, I could die and you could spare my soul to forever be with you.”

“Would you really like that? Being entirely mine to do with as I pleased?” He ended with a little wink. As much as they teased each other for having caught feelings they both knew that there was something more between them then the usual short-lived lust and passion that would die out after a few decades. This went deeper but they were too scared to really address it or felt too vulnerable baring their hearts for the other entirely. And even if they wanted there was still so much unsaid, so many things they couldn’t change. Jimin divorcing his husband was not an option because Hephaestus simply wouldn’t take it well - and a temper tantrum from a god could mean destroyed worlds. In the beginning Namjoon had thought that his hellfire was what had drawn Jimin in as it might remind him of his husband (Hephaestus was the god of fire after all) but then he had learned that it was rather the opposite: Jimin loved him because he wasn’t like the man he had to marry.

“If I could keep my beauty,” Jimin giggled, stealing a kiss from Namjoon, “Then yes, I wouldn’t care if I get your love in return.” He let his hands wander down the god’s strong arms, feeling him up with a soft touch. Jimin has never said it out loud, but the last time he had parted from him, his mind still hazy from their night that they have spend together, Jimin thought that he might love Namjoon. Maybe almost as much as he loved himself. With a strong grip, Jimin pulled the god flush against his body, heart beating fast as he could feel the heat between them. “You could give me a taste of what it would feel like,” He whispered against his lips, “To be entirely yours.”

“Nothing could take your beauty away, not even mortality or death,” Stated Namjoon confidently, claiming Jimin’s lips for another kiss. Those cheeky little things Jimin placed onto his lips always left him hungry for more and he had a suspicion that Jimin totally knew it. With a little chuckle he leaned forward. This time it was on him to tease, “Who says you deserve it, my pretty lover?”

Jimin pouted cutely, whining as he blinked up at the god. “Because I do. I’m beautiful, I’m giving myself over to you. Don’t you want me? Everyone wants me.” He stated, looking away as if he was offended. “I could ask one of your demons then. I bet they’d love to show me.” Jimin placed a kiss on Namjoon’s neck, sucking on the sweet spot, but not enough to leave a bruise.

Namjoon’s eyes darkened visible as he looked at Jimin’s naked form, eyeing the pout on his lips that was too cute not to be taken advantage of and kissed. “They know better than to do anything with you. The desire might be there but I hope their will to live is stronger than their wish to get a piece of you. It would be a short lived pleasure.”

Jimin sighed as he let himself fall onto his back, spreading his legs a little further to give Namjoon the perfect view. “Then who else will show me? If you don’t think I deserve it…” His hands wandered down his stomach, as he let out a soft moan, closing his eyes, the mere thought of pleasuring himself making him shudder.

Namjoon placed his hands on Jimin’s knees, a gentle weight that opened them up a little further even though the young god was obscenely exposed already. He just loved to admire Jimin’s flexibility. It came in handy when they were having quick, rough sex in between their busy time schedules when he could bend Jimin over any surface they found. But like this, in his bedroom was his favourite. When he could take his time.

“Do it if you dare.”

Jimin bit his lip, a shiver running down his spine as he stilled in his movements. His eyes were focused on the god above him, licking his lips in sweet anticipation, before diving deeper. But Jimin stood no chance, not that he wanted to. Namjoon’s hands clasped onto his wrists and lifted his arms over his head, holding them down onto the mattress. The god’s mouth covered his in a slow, passionate kiss that made Jimin moan and arche against his body.

Namjoon’s touch that inflamed his mind and his own desperate need to have him closer. He yearned to be with him all night, making love to his warm body. Jimin wanted every part of him to touch his own. He wanted him to know how much he loved him. It just felt so right to love him and be loved by him. “Take me,” Jimin whispered, “I’m yours.” His heart swelled with the love he couldn’t deny any longer, when Namjoon finally gave in to Jimin’s please, burning up from the reckless desire that overwhelmed him entirely.

He sank into him, slow and deep and swallowed Jimin’s sweet, sweet moan with his kiss. Not even hellfire could make him feel as warm as holding Jimin could and so he indulged himself in his guilty pleasure, hoping that their flame would continue to burn for a long time.

#minjoon #bangtanxm #bangtanarmynet #kwritersworldnet #minjoonrecs #jimin #namjoon #drabbles #flowerwrites06 #ask #imma say it now :D ofc this is not correct mythology #but only half #because fiction and creativity ya know #before the greek mythology police is coming

87 notes · View notes

theharellan · 4 years ago

Text

THE POSITIVE & NEGATIVE; Mun & Muse - Meme.

fill out & repost ♥ This meme definitely favors canons more, but I hope OC’s still can make it somehow work with their own lore, and lil’ fandom of friends & mutuals. Multi-Muses pick the muse you are the most invested in atm. tagged by: stolen from @dansiere tagging: @ghiassan, @deathsreflection, @altuspavus, @windrunnerrs (velanna), @hopewrought, @willbeshot, @seahaloed (iron bull), @asterfed (noctis), @ anyone who wants to steal it! also multis feel free to choose a different character

My muse is: canon / oc / au / canon-divergent / fandomless / complicated (i’m open to roleplaying with non-dragon age characters, and have AUs for other fandoms)

Is your character popular in the fandom? YES / NO. solas is both wildly popular and wildly hated. he’s been more consistently popular than the controversial women in the series, like sera or vivienne, who have only recently begun to get to the point where their tags are less vitriolic (although i’m sure it’s still out there), but there’s still a sizable hatedom that can’t have his name breathed in their vicinity w/o them talking abt how much they hate him. even if you’re currently cosplaying him!

Is your character considered hot™ in the fandom? YES / NO / IDK. again, you have ppl who are super into him and ppl who think he’s ugly. my personal opinion is that i think he’s weirdly pretty, and wish ppl would commit more to his unconventional features rather than try to chisel him into sb more traditionally attractive and that ppl who don’t find him attractive would maybe chill w/ calling him ugly. find him unattractive by all means, but lets embrace the fact that inquisition let their love interests have skin flaws etc and accept that some won’t be our cups of tea.

Is your character considered strong in the fandom? YES / NO / IDK. its hard to deny at this point tbh.

Are they underrated? YES / NO / IDK. frustrating as the hate in the tags he has enough fans that i couldnt say he’s underrated w/ a straight face.

Were they relevant for the main story? YES / NO. he’s the reason the game starts with a bang and not the inevitable dissolution of the conclave b/c the sides are disparate.

Were they relevant for the main character? YES / NO / THEY’RE THE PROTAG. regardless of solas’ relationship with the inquisitor, there are parallels and contrasts in their stories and he also is the reason they survive inquisition.

Are they widely known in their world? YES / NO. fen’harel is well-known and revered, if feared, among the dalish, yet at the same time he’s not remembered for a lot besides locking the gods away-- and the context of that decision has also been lost. as solas he’s relatively unknown until inquisition and especially trespasser.

How’s their reputation? GOOD / BAD / NEUTRAL. again, polarising!! he has loyal agents and people are willing to speak well of him despite everything, including his enemies sometimes (depending mostly on the inquisitor).

How strictly do you follow canon? — generally i try to have a canon basis for my interpretation, even if i interpret the text differently than the author.

SELL YOUR MUSE! Aka try to list everything, which makes your muse interesting in your opinion to make them spicy for your mutuals. — solas is an immortal who is simultaneously jaded and very much invested in the small moments of life. far from being weary of the day-to-day lives of ordinary people, it is systems and orders he is most tired of. he walks an interesting line that feels far less misanthropic than other immortal characters i’ve experienced, yet still he’s quite cynical. as a character who has fought against religious based tyranny before, but in a completely different era, he is in a unique position where what he sees around him is both horrifyingly familiar and yet completely new. it allows an exploration of the wrongs of thedas’ society from an outsider’s perspective. his motivations are complex and multifaceted, often condemnable and yet also understandable. his character arc in inquisition (if befriended, or regardless in the case of my solas) takes him from a dispassionate, disconnected antagonist to someone deeply invested in the people of thedas, deeply conflicted and actively hoping he will be proven wrong again. i think his story is a testament to human (or elven, or dwarven, or-) connection and how even when we resist we can’t resist creating bonds with the people in our lives. i personally see this bond going beyond the inquisitor hence why i play low-approval solas as conflicted as high-approval, if not when it comes to the inquisitor.

Now the OPPOSITE, list everything why your muse could not be so interesting (even if you may not agree, what does the fandom perhaps think?). — solas is selfish and motivated solely by revenge, he’s clinging to a past that clearly no longer exists, if you ignore all the people from it who are still alive. he’s totally unaware of all his flaws and never owns up to any mistakes ever. no, i haven’t listened to a single word solas has said in my life why do you ask. he’s also critical of my faves which means he’s #cancelled, there is clearly no validity to what he’s saying. ksjdf no but in all seriousness i think a lot of reasons ppl don’t find solas interesting are just... weird readings of his character that sometimes have no basis in the text of inquisition, but also there are plenty of perfectly valid reasons to not find him interesting. usually those ppl don’t like... talk abt how much they don’t find him interesting constantly tho. they just chill and aren’t invested in this particular villain. for one thing i think the game missed out on opportunities for exploring how someone who may not have even had a body at the beginning of his existence would feel about gender and sexuality, so making him presumably straight and cis was a boring choice. i also think that the dragon age games being very protagonist-centric hurts solas’ character, there’s no real reason why the inquisitor is the only one who can throw his plans into question but making the player the center of the universe means he’s not allowed to change due to the effects of other companions or NPCs. thank god this is rp and i do what i want.

What inspired you to rp your muse? — i have a history degree so when the inquisition companions were being teased, solas describing bias in primary sources from the memories he’s seen got me interested in him. but my first playthrough i didn’t actually take him with me all too often, i think my main party was dorian-blackwall-varric. i liked him, and i think he or dorian were my first friends in skyhold, but my initial interest was in other characters. between his dialogue that appealed to the historian in me tho and how his spirit opinions sort of turned everything i’d felt about spirits in the last two games on its head, i started vibing with him more the farther i went in. like merrill set me up for the “spirits are people” thing and solas hit it out of the park. then temple of mythal happened, and i did bring solas with me there. i found his dialogue fascinating and also suspicious, i’d just finished masked empire like the day before da:i came out so i definitely thought solas was an ancient elf in the same vein as felassan. it was after temple of mythal that i actually decided to make his blog, although like as one idk linchpin to cement my status as solas trash... i was hit BAD by the banter bug on my first playthrough, probably got like a dozen banters total. but then at some point late in the game i took solas to the forbidden oasis and he wouldn’t stop talking to people, and i really loved his banter with the rest of my party at the time.

What keeps your inspiration going? — replaying inquisition, new DA content when the bioware gods deign to grant us a lifeline, but the biggest thing is my rp partners. i wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the people i write with, new and old. my activity of late hasn’t been the best, work and the summer heat has really been sapping me of energy, and does even during years when we aren’t going through a pandemic. but it’s the thought of my rp partners and love of solas that keeps me coming back.

Some more personal questions for the mun.

Give your mutuals some insight about the way you are in some matters, which could lead them to get more comfortable with you or perhaps not.

Do you think you give your character justice? YES / NO / I SINCERELY HOPE I DO? i have my doubts sometimes, but i think i do ok.

Do you frequently write headcanons? YES / NO / SORT OF? there is no headcanon too small for me.

Do you sometimes write drabbles? YES / NO. but not lately * gestures to the low activity * i’ve been in this cycle where i get anxious abt late replies, so prioritise them, then burn myself out and can’t write the fics i want. i’ve had two i’ve been DYING to write tho i just... need to find the space in my brain to let myself.

Do you think a lot about your Muse during the day? YES / NO. i mean it depends on the day. if i work closing shifts at my store it gets very quiet and boring around 8:30 so i spent the next 90 minutes thinking about character stuff.

Are you confident in your portrayal? YES / NO / SORT OF?

Are you confident in your writing? YES / NO / SOMETIMES.

Are you a sensitive person? YES / NO / SORTA.

Do you accept criticism well about your portrayal? — i’m going to say ‘no’ because like, i don’t ask for criticism. this is a hobby based on my interpretation of a character, if you think i write solas too soft then you’re welcome to think that, but i’m happy with the balance i’ve struck with his internal versus external behaviour and how he changes based upon who he’s speaking to. if you think i’m erasing straight people by making solas pan then ksjdfs. ok.

Do you like questions, which help you explore your character? — yes!!! even if they retread ground already trodden, a) my interpretation may have adjusted since the last time i played or b) a reminder is nice. if it’s new stuff then it’s fun to think about.

If someone disagrees to a headcanon of yours, do you want to know why? — it’d depend on why they disagree. if they just disagree on a subjective opinion about what i took from a certain line, then they’re welcome to their opinion but i don’t necessarily care to hear it. if it is unintentionally hurtful then i would like to know. although rather than a comment i’d rather a non-anonymous message.

If someone disagrees with your portrayal, how would you take it? — same as the above.

If someone really hates your character, how do you take it? — if they’re vocal about it i typically just unfollow / softblock if i was following in the first place. people can feel how they want about solas, but i’ve found over the years that if people really hate solas ooc it can often bleed into their ic interactions. it’s really weird seeing your character being brought up repeatedly in threads with others specifically to dunk on, for no reason other than i guess solas is living rent free in their heads, so at least we have that in common. but anyway unfollowing is just the best choice to avoid getting kinda pressed if i’m having a bad day.

Are you okay with people pointing out your grammatical errors? — roleplay is the wild west of writing, so i think it’d depend on what the error was. coming at me like “you shouldn’t start a sentence with a preposition” would get a laugh, but i don’t edit my replies much if at all and mistakes will 100% happen. pointing out typos is chill so long as you do it politely.

Do you think you are easy going as a mun? — it depends! i’ve learned that being too easy going actually just means i’m subjecting myself to negative emotions to please people. so i’ve gotten less easy going as the years go by. how does one define “easy going” anyway? does asking that question mean i am objectively not easy going? the longer this thought goes on the more the answer seems to be “probably not,” but i like to think it could be a lot worse.

#( long post )#( ooc )#( about me )

11 notes · View notes

twitchesandstitches · 5 years ago

Text

Empress Terezi’s Voracious Pregnancy Pt 1

Part one of a commission I did for @alt-hammer, set in a bloodswap AU where Terezi is the fuchsia heiress, has taken in Karkat and is working to redeem the Alternian empire, with digestion if need be! And repopulating it with her massive fertile self, too.

It is a sequel to a previous commission I did, set in the same continuity; if you want a little more context, that may be helpful to read!

-------------

The world was. In one of the language of its native species, Earth. That it was labeled as such on the updated star charts of the Alternian interstellar archives, and not perhaps ‘Vacant Lot #21519’ was perhaps a big bright sign about how different the reign of the new empress-in-progress, Terezi Peixes, would be. No more war, not if they didn’t have to fight. No more expansion through violence, no more wiping out other alien races, no more injustice for one ancient monster’s lust for bloodshed.

Of course, Terezi mused as she reclined her monstrously gravid body in the comfort of a pleasure ship parked in a sea in a pleasantly cool climate, there were… extenuating circumstances regarding the Condesce’s actions. These had been taken into consideration, and dismissed.

She knew things, now. The knowledge burned in the back of her head, curling at the edges. The visions had shown her so much, and it had given her a better understanding of the situation. It didn’t matter much to her if the Condesce had been manipulated into being a monster by forces beyond her control; a monster she was, and Terezi knew what to do with monsters.

Perhaps, they would call her the Devourer of Injustice. That sounded good, and accurate.

Might be a while before, right now, they called her a true empress; Terezi contemplated the thousands of planets she now controlled, the empire quite firmly in her grip after years of war and battle and political scheming against the Condesce, to finally have her ousted, but the rules of succession were clear: the Condesce, wherever she had fled, was still alive.

No dead empress, no empire for her. She could wait, and manage it by proxy until it was official. In the meantime, she had other plans, and many worlds to take care of.

Terezi’s handmaidens (trolls of every caste, humans of every kind) fussed around her, trying to keep her clothes from popping off their knots, a task hampered a bit by the powerful fertility field she emanated. The handmaids were all outrageously curvy to begin with now, but closer to Terezi, they bloomed into pregnancy, their bellies, breasts, and hips all expanding. Bronya, the purpleblooded leader of the handmaidens, kept an eye on who was too pregnant or not to serve, her enormous body a faint echo of Terezi’s own body, and directed them appropriately.

Terezi enjoyed it, and patted her enormous belly softly, giggling as she felt the eggs growing. Not just eggs, either, though there were thousands of them distending her belly into a massive orb low enough to nearly reach the floor, and extending out by nearly twice her height. Nearly eleven feet long, and over fifteen feet across, her gestation guts packed to the brim with eggs and the developing young of dozens of other species, and she felt more growing in every day!

It felt so good; her door-breakingly wide hips jerked unconsciously at the very satisfying feeling, waves of pleasure rolling out from her core at every sensation from her womb, no matter how minute. She could feel their complexity growing, however gradual and minor now, and it felt… so… good!

What felt even better was the love radiating across from her, from the smaller troll gently rubbing her belly, his small horns sliding protectively against her skin, and shy kisses dotted over the slopes closest to him. Each kiss made a bloom of delights on her flesh, for she was a fuchsia-blood and her blood was so cold, but he was a mutant remnant, his blood as red as the most forbidden candies, and his touch was a sweet burn. The handmaidens cooed and nuzzled around him.

Terezi smiled and stood up. This took some doing, given her sheer bulk; she was very short for a fuchsiablood, but then she wouldn’t grow to her full height for… god. Centuries, probably, of constant feasting to pump as many resources into her body as possible, giving it the lavish attention it needed for a proper imperial figure, and she only had so many calories to spare for her own body. Her powers diverted it all, instead, to her unborn offspring, with only a token amount to fuel her own growth. The handmaidens circled around, helping her up and encouraging her.

Even so, when she met him, she had been barely a few inches taller than his slight, short frame. Now she was almost a full head taller than him, her shoulders broad, her sides enormously thickened, and her breasts swelling so big that if she wasn’t blind, they would have made it very hard to see right in front of her.

And he looked so skinny to her. Well, he didn’t look like anything to her; she had been blind since birth, and she sensed the world in eldritch, alien ways, but she knew what he looked like. And he looked too damn skinny! “Are you eating right?” She said, waving a hand towards a plate piled high with food larger than him. She had fearsome dietary requirements, and it was but a light snack to her. But Karkat always got to eat first, even if she got to tease and taunt him all the while. “Go on, have some!”

Karkat shook his head, and hugged her belly a while longer. He laid a hand against her round belly, claws dragging on her lovingly. “Nah. I’m full up.”

Terezi looked skeptical, but her belly rumbled. “Seriously, I’m good with it,” she said, even as within her thousands of appetites cried out to be sated, so she waved a hand, and summoned forth the dread powers of two sources: the first was the psychokinetic powers of the rustbloods, with the control of goldblood psionics.

And empowering it was something… else. Something that, just for a moment, made her blind eyes glow brilliantly fuchsia.

The plate rocketed to her, and her jaws opened unnaturally wide; rows and rows of sharp teeth gleamed, and a hugely thick tongue telescoped out to snatch it and swallowed it whole, in a single gulp. Plate and all went straight down her gullet. She smacked her engorged lips happily, the food and plate consumed almost instantly.

She was hungry still; she needed something more… filling. And just, too!

She checked the alerts, and she smiled as she saw the report from Nepeta of her latest hunt. “Karkat, we got some business to deal with.”

Bronya bowed, on cue, gesturing so that the other handmaidens prepared all the essential things to avoid little problems like Empress Peixes getting stuck in doorways, or breaking them (again).

With an effort, she telekinetically activated the little drone designed to support her belly and it powered on, floating up and letting her walk in the special strut for a troll woman who had hips nearly six feet across, and carrying nearly four hundred pounds of meat on her backside… per each cheek, no less! Her gigantic butt wobbled sweetly, and as she advanced past Karkat, she smacked her butt into his hip with a flirtatiously blown kiss.

She smirked at the flurry of panic-arousal-awe swelling up in his mind, at once, the emotions mixing with thoughts that translated to her mind as visual images, and very sweet ones at that.

“C’mon,” she said. “Can’t be lazing about all day. Got work to do!” She strode off, her gigantic breasts shifting in their vaporwave-colored robe wrappings, a pleasant contrast to her exposed belly, and the population freshly gestating in it. She had been pregnant for several years now, and she just kept getting bigger. And getting more eggs; and thanks to other efforts, gestating aliens in her, to one day repopulate the worlds her ancestor had destroyed.

And the remnant inside her, slowly digesting every day but working hard to subvert her, whispered that she could make all creation bow to her, remake everything as she wanted. All she had to do… was let the angel in.

Terezi ignored the lingering echoes of the puppet. She felt a sense of resentment from it, and she smirked.

Terezi, her webbed claws gently holding Karkat’s hand and fingering the consort band her human followers had inspired her to give to him, took Karkat and wandered to a marginally busier part of the ship.

She saw… an amazing sight as they entered. At least, to her, because there were of course trolls working there. Administrative duties, monitoring reports and information received, wandering around trying to pretend they were doing work… but they weren’t just violets and purples. There were warmbloods, and midbloods, not just ceruleans and up; their uniforms were a rainbow, marked with the sea dragon of her uniforms that marked them as loyal to her rather than the Condesce, and effectively declared them standing behind her on the day came that the Condesce was finally cornered and Terezi took revenge for the suffering of untold trillions.

Her ravenous gut rumbled at the thought.

And, one might note, every single one of the troll women present were pregnant. Not as much as Terezi, but all of them had massive bellies, at least down to their knees, packed with over a hundred eggs each. Their bodies had fertile curves to match; breasts bigger than their heads, at the least, and hips that tended to bump into others, and from the way they kept rubbing their bellies, they quite enjoyed it.

But it was not just trolls there. Her mind’s eye touched hundreds of humans in this part of the ship alone; small ones, skinny ones, tall ones, ones that were head over heels in love with the far curvier and lovely trolls… ah, but that was most of them. And, like the trolls, all the women were pregnant, impossibly gravid. Those who wandered within Terezi’s proximity swelled up even more, their clothes popping and their bellies growing even bigger, and it was this that alerted them all to her arrival.

Well, that, and the thunderous creak of the door as Terezi’s approaching belly wrecked it. Her hips got stuck in it, and with a terrific smashing noise, there wasn't a door at ALL anymore. A novice handmaiden, a ceruleanblood named Chixie who often sang to Terezi, winced.

“Sup,” Terezi said, still holding Karkat’s hand.

Karkat felt it, and squeezed her hand tighter. She squeezed his hand back, glowing with pride. Possibly literally; she didn’t have the best handle on that.

There was a bit of commotion, with whispers about from the ultra-fertile women: ‘It’s the Empress! The Empress is here!...” - Why didn’t anyone let us know!” - “Would have got snacks…” - “Oh… wow, she is getting so BIG…” - “Shit, she is HOT.” - “Oh my god, you didn’t really just say that, I mean we’re all thinking it, but, wow! You humans…!”

Terezi laughed, riding on the votes of confidence, and turned as Karkat greeted a troll approaching them. “Hey, Kirela!”

The troll approaching them was taller than Terezi, despite being younger than her, so bouncy and energetic she skipped from one step to the other; it reminded Terezi of herself, with how enormously buxom the younger troll was. Not as big as Terezi herself, but close! She even had a similar figure.

Kirela came, in a lovely skirt-suit that clung quite close to her figure (thick, even by generous troll standards) and she bowed low. “My empress, why didn’t you call!” She made like she was about to hug her, but restrained the impulse. She blushed, and settled for smiling wide, especially as her own pregnant belly began to swell, eggs spontaneously generating just by being near Terezi. She tried not to swoon from it.

Terezi chuckled, quite fond of her; Kirela had been born when Terezi hadn’t even successfully conquered the empire and set the Condesce into flight. Kirela was a beloved proof of concept, the result of a successful cloning plot to resurrect lost bloodlines and caste spectrums… and her eyes were a bright, lime-green shade that was a victory over the ways of the old Alternia. Just by being alive, Kirela proved they could do better.

“Relax, I’m just checking in on things. Taking the boytoy out for a stroll!” She elbowed Karkat, laughing boisterously.

Karkat scoffed. “Hey, I am a CONSORT! ...Boytoys are temporary, and I’m for life.”

Kirela smirked, a hint of playfulness in her lime gaze. She looked a bit wistful; Terezi thought to ask about her own lover, a rather sarcastic and witty goldblood, but felt now wasn’t the time for personal enquiries. Imperial business called. “I got an update; seems we got my royal duty to take care of?”

Kirela’s eyes widened. “Oh! Well, you’re not strictly required to take time to deal with THAT, my imperial curvaceousness!”

Karkat turned a look towards Terezi. “Come on… you’re not REALLY gonna make people say that, are you?”

Terezi snickered playfully. She didn’t answer him, though. To Kirela, she said, “Listen up, I’m STARVING and the sooner we handle this, the better. All right?”

Kirela nodded. “As you wish! I’ll make the arrangements promptly!”

She left, some senior handmaidens with her, and took the two of them to a distant part of the ship; a high security one, with many guards (most of them either very big, or looking that way with their powered armor to bulk up, and with weapons to match) nodding respectfully at them. Karkat, the greatest of the Empress’ guardians, gave a few of them orders on proper etiquette with weapon handling in his loud tones that would be vitriolic if you didn’t listen to what he was actually saying.

Eventually, they came to a large cell, packed with Condesce loyalists, all of them with wanted posters and bounties. Karkat advanced before Terezi’s gravid gut, her belly advanced just fast enough to prod him onwards, and otherwise cleared the room ahead of her.

Kirela left, to make the necessary preparations; sign the paperwork, finalize the execution rites, announce the ‘hah hah, the Condesce-supporting bastards got what’s coming to them’, and so on. Terezi made herself comfortable, lounging on a throne wheeled out to her by an especially large human woman. Terezi grinned at her, a long time ally from a time when Terezi had sought refuge on Earth, in more uncertain times. “Jade!” She lunged forward, hugging her. Jade giggled, and it was amazing to see Terezi actually lift her up; standard issue armor could only be modified so much, and it looked nearly tight against Jade’s absolutely massive massive body, her shoulders wide, her frame all amazonian hugeness, and her breasts gigantic spheres easily four feet high, and five feet across each! And, just like every woman there, her closeness to Terezi made her extremely pregnant.

She hugged her empress like the old friend she was. In the background, some of the other guards (all trusted confideants and supporters) waved cheerfully to Terezi. Karkat nodded to them, welcoming them by name: “Hey, Chahut” to a very buxom and enormous oliveblood that winked at them, “Xefros, stop saluting!” to a hunky violetblood with a wedding ring on his finger, “Nepeta! Back from the fringes?” In the meantime, Terezi’s handmaidens spread out, both to act as the guardians they were trained as, and to say hello to their friends among the guards here as well. (One of the male handmaids, a human named Dave, sidled up to Jade as she simply picked him up and kissed him in an extremely passionate way. Not entirely professional, but Terezi liked it relaxed.)

This last came to a fairly short but extremely curvy, and buxom, blueblood. She was still wearing the official uniform not of a guard, but of a renegade hunter; a dark coat, in Terezi’s colors, and armor beneath. Most of it did an insufficient job of fully covering her figure and pregnant belly, which was just too expansive for most tailors to deal with. Nepeta Moolah saluted them both, bouncing a bit as she did.

“My Empress!” she said to Terezi, and indicated the prisoners. “Brought you a real FEAST today!”

Ah, so Nepeta was responsible for today’s offering. Terezi gave her a high five. “Good work, Nepeta!”

“All’s in a day’s work, your imperial thiccness!” Nepeta stood back in a guard position, ready to help in the upcoming festivities if she had to.

As Kirela and the other administrators attended to the prisoners, Terezi let herself relax, and her mind wander.

Her poise softened. Her public guise was not needed her, witness only to friends, close allies and those that the world would prosper from their deaths. She abandoned it, the act she personally thought of as Badass But Reliable Empress. The whole point of that particular persona was to be imposing but… friendly, she supposed? It involved a lot of swagger, mostly metaphorically but plenty physically. She could swagger while standing still.

She leaned back, enjoying the sensations of being a mother, the eggs and babies cramming her gestation guts, the way they were packed together so tightly, the light of their growing complexity a pleasant reminder to her.

They could be anything she wanted, whispered a faint voice in the back of her mind. Or perhaps her stomach, like the ghost of a meal that was yet to fully digest. There was some truth to that, and she tried to ignore it.

Terezi had a secret, that not even anyone else there knew. That the immense power she harbored, that she said made her a guardian to all the universe, came from something terrible and… she didn’t even know what it was.

Old texts called the empty, heartless man on the moon the First Guardian of history. One of many, they said.

Though not, as it turned out, immune to the digestion and power assimilation of a fuchsiablood.

Even so, the curl of power, resting in the back of her mind, was always there. And every day, she resisted the urge to fully exploit it. The power to mold her mind into whatever shape she wanted, and the temptation to look forward and shape the future.

Tweak circumstances, random factors, and force her will onto all reality. Make it so that her desires became the future, her hopes molding fate into her own design.

It wasn’t the only power at her disposal. Without thinking too much about it, Terezi exhaled and floated gently into the air, a fuchsia aura gathering around her as she floated up, her immense bulk moving with a surprising amount of grace.

This wasn’t psionics. She had psionics, and this was something else. It was something… older.

She had not told her attendants about this. She had only vaguely told Karkat about it, and she felt guilty about hiding anything from her first and closest confidant.

“I found something on the moon,” she told him once, felt digesting in her belly and the outraged screams of a bested god still loud in her memory. ‘I think we might be able to push the time table on my plan to take things over from the Empress.”

Karkat had looked at her, puzzled and afraid. “How!?”

She had grinned, flexed her hand, and with a thought-

She ripped the entire fortress out of the ground and launched them into space, traveling millions of miles in a few seconds. “I got a bit of a boost.”

Some of the things Terezi had seen in the visions pestering her suggested that there would be consequences towards devouring the… the strange little demon she had digested on the moon. It had been a just thing, killing the creature that had wronged her people so badly. But, if the words from the grateful and ancient rustblood were right… there would be consequences to absorbing the powers of what a few ruined ancient texts called a First Guardian.

Well. That was a later problem.

“Dinner’s up!” Jade said cheerfully as Kirela waved in the guards, and a large number of prisoners. They all had a uniform look; most of them were highbloods (violets, blues and ceruleans, a few in midblood shades, and a sly rust), and they all looked to have been well-fed. Well, until recently, deprived of the comforts and luxuries of grinding people down with the Condesce’s high heeled fascist boot.

Terezi leaned back, jutting her massive belly out, and the hunger twisted so hard it was like her spine was trying to escape. “Your crimes,” she said, though she was so very hungry, and was still committed to her laws. “Are many. Most relevant is aiding and abetting the former Empress, now in exile. Helping her at the expense of, I dunno, literally everyone else in the entire Empire; that puts you, by proxy, guilty of her own crimes. Attempted xenocide, participating in xenocide, the torment of lowbloods, perpetuating the corrupt order of Alternia before me…” Terezi whistled. “And we know the penalty for that.” She smacked her lips. Her guts rumbled. “Don’t we.”

Terezi zeroed in on the rustblood, who was patently ignoring her. “Nepeta…?” The blueblood in question swaggered forward and picked up the rustblood, forcing him over to Terezi. The other prisoners jerked back as the guards raised their weapons to forestall any escape, and the rustblood yelped as Nepeta dragged him over Terezi’s belly.

“What are you doing!?” he demanded. She scanned his mind, and found enough evidence of his crimes to support her belief that he was, by far, the most unjust of them all. It sickened her, but the evil ones tasted really good, and digested so well.

A perfect demonstration!

Ooh. He was chunky. Terezi cooed as she felt his biceps and chest drag across her massive breasts, and she grinned as he recoiled from her impossibly soft body, and the abyssal cold of her body temperature. She gave him no more words, but took a telekinetic grip on him, and pushed him up-

Just as she opened her mouth as wide as possible.

His head slid right into her throat, and she swallowed him whole, not bothering to savor him much. She was too hungry, she was burning! She needed food, now! The babies were HUNGRY! His horns slipped and her throat squeezed him, pushing him so fast he was almost launched into her gut

The prisoners recoiled, the guards watched in mild interest, and Karkat sat loyally beside her, ready to defend her if he had to, and she gulped, dropping her meal right into her belly. It didn’t even make a bulge. She sighed as her digestive fluids went to work; fully capable of melting down even a starship, mere troll flesh and bone had no chance. In seconds, he was digested, and Terezi visibly grew slightly taller.

Mostly, it was just her breasts that swelled up, and her stomach ripple with pleasure. “Mmm… my favorite part of the job.” She batted her eyes, licking her lips again. She felt the tension from the prisoners rise as they now surely understood. There was no hope, no escape. There was nothing for them, but the absolute digestion they had no doubt sent thousands to in their stead, for the Condesce.

She tasted the desperation, and took her moment.

“But justice requires mercy, and I AM justice for all the Empire. So… beg mercy of me, and I will show it to you. I will give you…” she savored the words, and the double meanings she hid. “A second chance.”

A violetblood, more brave than sensible and she couldn’t fault him for that, spat at the ground. “Never!”

Terezi grinned. Bronya, on cue, easily tossed him forwards and he landed right between Terezi’s breasts, with a sloshing sound of her milk disturbed. Her hunger was sated enough that Terezi allowed herself to tease him with a sloppy kiss, the violet’s eyes going wide. Then, she sucked in, and his face and horns vanished into her suddenly gaping jaws.

She enjoyed his taste, slowly and irresistibly gulping him down. He went gradually, her tongue and her mental powers examining every inch of his body and mind, tasting him very intimately

For several minutes, she slurped him like a very meaty noodle, and her breasts pillowed up as he was pushed down. Higher and higher, as his shoulders vanished, than his hips, and his legs. With an increasingly louder slurping sound, Terezi swallowed him up, and finally with a single smack, her breasts were back to their regular height. And she had another meal in her belly.

“You sure no one wants to admit, just maybe, they were wrong?” Terezi said, and gave a mental push. Be honest, she commanded.

Again, and not to her surprise, no one said anything, but a few wavered. She gestured, picking out a few that would not relent, and opened her mouth. One, a tealblood significantly larger than she was, strained her maw as she swallowed her whole, slowly working her curling horns down her throat, and expanding her jaws to fit her all down..

Terezi’s own breasts swelled as the tealblood’s biomass was stuffed right into them.

Then a violet, her blood hue dark enough to almost be purple. She was cunning enough to meekly be still until she was inside Terezi’s throat, and then she tried to use her curved horns to best advantage and tear at Terezi’s insides. Her throat easily absorbed the damage, but Terezi gave credit where it was due. She swallowed in a single gulp, making her own point pretty plain.

Her belly swelled, pressing into her motherly thighs. The hunger faded to a tolerable degree.

She kept eating though, more and more unrepentant prisoners ferried to her unforgiving gullet. A yellowblood; two more teals (one tall, one mid-sized, both plump). Three purplebloods, and they tasted so evil Terezi couldn’t help but devour them all in a single gulp, teary-eyed at how good they tasted, and her body almost triple-bloating with their mass as they went down.

More and more were swallowed, and slowly the group twindled. Terezi kept an eye on their attitudes, gave them the right push here and there, focusing on the ones who could have been hers if not for the wrong sort of choices, if only they’d had a REAL empress to lead them… a good mother.

And finally, her plan bore fruit.

Several of the villains trembled, as perhaps only five of them were left, out of what had been a group of thirty, and then a buxom purpleblood cried out, “Mercy, your imperial perceptiveness! Mercy, mercy!”

Another tried to headbutt her. “You treacherous worm!”

Terezi waved her hand, and all the prisoners but the weeping purpleblood were pushed away. The purpleblood advanced, tears staining her face, and though she was nearly three times Terezi’s size, she fell to her knees before her, head bowed and body trembling.

“My empress,” the purpleblood begged. “Please, I plead to you! I throw myself on your mercy, please!”

Terezi, a swell of pity rising, put a calm thought in her brain, with a hunt of chucklevoodoos boosted to overwhelm even a purpleblood’s defenses. She gaped, and then her head drooped, a dopey smile on her face. “Anyone else certain they want none off my mercy?”

The others capitulated, and fast. One after another, the last prisoners all pleaded, sinking to their knees. Even the one that had called the first mercy-seeker a traitor went to her own knees as well, fear and, perhaps a bit of remorse claiming her resolve.

Terezi gently but firmly hit them with a dose of the chucklevoodoos, and they too gave in.

She extended her mind out, and commanded them to stand up. She worked a minor, mild change to them, briefly making them glow in her blood color. “You’ll have a second chance. You will get your second chance, when your time comes. Now, come here…”

The first one approached her, expression vacant. Terezi floated her up, and opened her mouth wide again.

The other prisoners, rendered into a stupor, gave no reaction and felt no fear. The prisoner in Terezi’s grip smiled faintly, perhaps just at the sight of such impressive cleavage.

Terezi appeared to kiss the prisoner. It looked that way even a she inhaled her heads, her horns. Terezi’s throat bulged as she took the rest of the prisoner in, slowly swallowing her in a sweet, tender gulp. The prisoner was examined minutely, every part of her mind examined in full, her history analyzed.

...Ah. If only this one had the chance to make the right choices.

Terezi gently swallowed, pulling the prisoner fully into her belly. The prisoner curled up, allowing her doom to take her, and though Terezi’s belly had swelled with the prisoner’s sheer bulk, it soon shrank as she was digested in minutes.

Terezi did not allow the soul of her meal to be lost, though, or to be consumed. SHe instead diverted it, absorbing it.

And a new egg appeared in her gestation guts, along with a couple of hundred others that had been gradually impregnated in her by the essence of today’s meals. And the prisoner would indeed get a new chance, and a new life.

Terezi smiled, beckoning the other prisoners.

One after another, with slow and sweet patience, Terezi swallowed them too, and devoured them. It felt almost a sacred thing, a redemptive thing, and she beamed to think that one day, they would be her children. Her belly swelled bigger with each one, eggs multiplying by the hundreds as her fertility influenced the developing eggs and making more.

Five prisoners, than just four. Three now.

Two.

And then, slowly digesting in the pit of her belly, there were none at all. But there were many more eggs, and Terezi’s breasts, her hips, swelled with even greater fecundity.

Jade wiggled, Nepeta squirmed, and Chahut failed to stifle a faint rumble. All the handmaidens did, too. Metal creaked, fabric stretched, and breasts expanded. Nepeta and Jade both felt up their own hips and backsides as they swelled with sudden fertile expansiveness, the armor of Chahut became FAR together and rather insubstantial for her swelling assets, and every single woman in the room grew even more curvaceous, a faint echo of Terezi’s own fertility. The handmaidens… well, they required a lot of them to repair their clothes afterwards.

Kirela squeaked as her skirt strained, and several buttons popped off her suit when her breasts swelled four sizes bigger, literally ballooning outwards! She blushed, beaming and wiggling in place.

Terezi lounged back, feeling quite satisfied, and closed her eyes.

Her eggs were growing faster, her babies were fed. Yet more justice had been served, making herself stronger in the process.

And one day, perhaps far in the future…

Her ancestor would meet the same fate.

Terezi picked up Karkat, leaning back and giving him a kiss. “We are making things happening~!”

#queued #commissions #my writing #fics #twitchy!homestuck #twitchy!terezi #not crossthicc

4 notes · View notes