#she has to consult the oracle

[saphic-with-t]

When joking about how ridiculous it is that Fabian is popular I don’t think people realize how insanely cool the bad kids are in universe. As viewers we see their cool moments but we also see them being dorks and lame idiots. Think about their in universe reputations and how you would react to hearing about them if you lived in the same world as them.

There is a group of six people who saved the world 3 different times before they even entered their junior year of high school.

One of them never showed up to any of their classes until their third year and still passed. She is a rockstar and arch devil of rebellion who owns a recording studio in hell where she plays the bass.

One dude threw the greatest party the entire high school has ever seen, is captain of the sports team, and killed the school’s evil principal without facing any punishment.

One performed a motorcycle kick-flip that was doing a jump off of a mansion’s roof into a pool of flaming tartar sauce. Said kick-flip student has created a god, killed that god, brought herself back from the dead, and resurrected a completely different god.

One of the girls is the chosen oracle of all elves and punched her dad so hard he instantly died. Also if you dig deep enough into the political history books it turns out she caused there to be a feud (bordering on full war) between her home nation and the nation she currently lives in.

The quietest kid of the bunch is a super genius who invented a solar lasso that captured and contained an eldritch horror into his van, took 4 years of high school all at once and passed all of them, is currently acing his arcane mechanics and physical Ed studies, and is the second hand man on the school sports team. He also is the drummer for the arch devil’s band and launched a fully working satellite into space before he even started studying arcane mechanics.

Finally the “dork” of their group is an arcane consultant of heaven, became a P.I. after freshman year, is currently in every extra-curricular school club, and is beloved by seemingly all of his underclassmen. Also after he found out that the dragon his party was fighting ate his dad he fucking ATE IT to avenge him.

Obviously we know the truth behind all of these things and the actual way these six dorks act, but think how insanely sick they all sound in universe.

[undying-love]

i would like too see a compilation of all the instances John and Paul were jealous of each other's wives, girlfriends, close friendships, etc..

Jealousy from both sides: A Compilation

John

“It was always the family thing, you see. If Jane [Asher] was to have a career, then that’s not going to be a cozy family, is it? All the other girls were just groupies mainly. And with Linda not only did he have a ready-made family, but she knows what he wants, obviously, and has given it to him. The complete family life. [...] The first time I saw Linda was after that press conference to announce Apple in America. We were just going back to the airport and she was in the car with us. I didn’t think she was particularly attractive, I wondered what he was bothering having her in the car for. A bit too tweedy, you know. But she sat in the car and took photographs and that was it. And the next minute she’s married him. [...] I mean, there were quite a few women he'd obviously had that I never knew about. God knows when he was doing it, but he must have been doing it." (John)

"John woke up the next morning still feeling disturbed; he consulted the Oracle. Swan assured him that Paul and Linda were frustrated and unsatisfied. Their marriage was in trouble, he said, predicting it would break up within the year. Lately Swan’s visions had been astonishingly accurate. Relieved, John began composing a song—a little ditty, really, that would never be released—in praise of the Oracle’s powers. But he still couldn’t understand why Paul and Linda had been together for as long as they had." (Robert Rosen, Nowhere Man (based on John's diaries)

"One time Paul had a chick in bed and John came in and got a pair of scissors and cut all her clothes into pieces and then wrecked the wardrobe. It was because of the pills or for staying up too long. " (George Harrison)

"I came for dinner, and I was the only girl there. John definitely didn't like that. He didn't like me being there at ALL. He was mean and sarcastic [...] At one point, the boys were handing around a scrapbook. John made some snide comment like, "What is SHE doing here?" I got the idea that he thought Paul was an idiot to take a girl so seriously he'd actually invite her to dinner, when all he really needed to do was fuck her AFTER dinner." (Peggy Lipton)

"When I met Yoko years after Mal died, she said John had told her he'd been very jealous at one point of Mal's relationship with Paul." (Lil Evans) 

Paul

"I was jealous because of Yoko, and afraid about the break-up of a great musical partnership. It’s taken me a year to realise that they were in love." (Paul)

"Paul wasn't happy. But the big things that were driving him mad were beyond me. He kept on working and writing, but when John came over, all he could talk about was how much he loved Yoko. That disturbed Paul. In spite of John's obvious happiness, Paul stifled his jealousy with not-very-cute bursts of racist crap." (Francie)

"Paul hates Yoko for stealing the love of his life away from him. No, not Linda…. John! Paul has never forgiven her for that." (Francie)

"My first meeting with John and Yoko was at Paul's house in St. John's Wood, shortly after their bust. [...] It's interesting that John went to Paul's house for shelter because Paul hated Yoko." (Martin Polden)

"I just can’t let John control the situation and dump us as if we are the jilted girlfriends”. (Paul)

"It was as if I was another girlfriend, almost. Our relationship was a strong relationship. And if he was to start a new relationship, he had to put this other one away. And I understood that. I mean, I couldn’t stand in the way of someone who’d fallen in love. You can’t say, “Who’s this?” You can’t really do that. If I was a girl, maybe I could go out and…" (Paul)

"We were always slightly jealous of John’s other friendships. He was the older fellow; it was just the way it was. When Stuart came in, it felt as if he was taking the position away from George and me. (Paul)

“[Stu] and I used to have a deadly rivalry. I don’t know why. He was older and a strong friend of John’s. When I look back on it I think we were probably fighting for John’s attention.” (Paul)

"I’ve wondered many times over the years if that’s what some of the antagonism between Stuart and Paul might have been about, whether Paul suspected something [between John and Stu]." (Pauline Stutcliffe)

"It was the perfectionist Paul who found such an inexperienced guitarist hard to accept and this led to rows and even fights between him and Stuart. I think Paul was also a bit jealous of Stu; until then he had had most of John's attention. (Cynthia)

"Paul hated Stu. It's true that Paul had his eye on Stu's bass, but in fact, he was jealous of Stu, especially of Stu's friendship with John." (Dot Rhone)

[travelingthief]

Apollo as an Oracular Deity

Epithets

Loxias: Interpreter of Zeus’s will

Delphinius: Derived from Delphi, where Apollo has his Oracle

Eutresites: Derived from Eutresis, where Apollo had an Oracle

Patareus: Derived from Patara, where Apollo had an Oracle and where he was said to vacation for six months during the winter

Puthios: The Pythian, in reference to the python slayed at Delphi and established his Oracle

Thearius: Of the Oracle

Proupsius: Foreseeing

Clerius: Distributing by lot

Cledones: Omen in words and sounds

Apollo, as a god of prophecy, was seen as delivering the Word of Zeus to mortals through his Oracles. Most famously, Apollo reigned over the Oracle of Delphi which was said to be gifted to him by his grandmother, the titaness Phoebe. However, there is archeological evidence that the site was initially sacred to Gaia, perhaps until priests from Delos arrived. The Pythia is the name for Apollo’s priestess at Delphi who served as the Oracle. Little is known about how the Pythia was chosen and how she operated, but it is believed she would inhale psychoactive gases from the caverns of Delphi and enter into a trance, uttering words that could only be translated by the priest. She could only be consulted once a month and only during warm months since Apollo was believed to have abandoned his temple during the winter. 

Ways to connect with Apollo’s Prophecy aspect:

Learn about different divination techniques

Try different forms of divination 

Don’t overdo it with divination, i.e. divination in moderation

Design your own tarot/oracle cards

Create your own divination tools

Sources:

Pythia - Wikipedia

APOLLO (Apollon) - Greek God of Music, Prophecy & Healing

Delphi - Wikipedia

[dailyadventureprompts]

Deity: Tergrid, God of Fright

"Terror is the natural state of a child, they know they are small, vunrable, glass fragile. It is only once we grow that we delude ourselves into thinking we are safe, that we are strong, that we have control over the world we live in. Show a grown man how little control he really has, and you will see the child he always was: pissreeking, repentant, and pleading for his mother. " - Gerheart, village executioner

A goddess for those who hold close to the light dreading the unknown or those who wander gleefully into the dark seeking it, Tergrid is a deity of imagined horrors and terrible omens.

Depicted as a young woman always bearing a lantern, myths speak of Tergrid's shadow as a monstrous, murderous thing with a will of its own. Unable to kill the goddess due to the light she carries, it vents it's directionless wrath on those who linger beyond the lantern's glow. This duality, as both as the victim of fear and the source of it defines the brightmaiden's worship; as she is both threat and saviour to those who draw her attention.

Adventure Hooks:

The party arrive at a country roadhouse at dusk, only to find the inhabitants have nailed shut every door and shutter as if preparing for a siege. They say some horrid murderous things are lurking just off the road, and as the light wanes they refuse to let the heroes inside. The roadhouse's residents are terrified and are willing to fight to keep the party out, half convinced the party are themselves the things they should be afraid of... which isn't to say there ISN'T anything else waiting for that door to open. After negoitating their way inside (or forcing the issue) the heroes discover the roadhouse residents were warned of the danger by a mysterious woman who passed through earlier, though none can remember exactly what she looked like.

A knight renowned for his fearless deeds wanders the street in a waking nightmare, seeing threats everywhere and lashing out at phantoms and passersby. Even after being subdued it’s clear he won’t awake, and many suspect interference from jealous rivals in the upcoming tourney. The knight’s meek squire asks the party to help investigate the causes and possible cures of her master’s madness, never suspecting that her suppressed resentment at his recklessness might’ve manifested as a curse.

In desperate need of answers, the party consults an oracle dedicated to Tergrid who has them undergo trials of fear and phantasm so that they might know the truth. Chiefest among these is battling in a dark cave full of shadow monsters, while flickering visions of the future are cast on the wall by the guttering lantern light. The longer they can endure, the more they will know, but that isn't likely to be long unless they fight harder than they ever have before.

Inspiration: Tergrid is a shameless lift from Magic the Gathering's Kaldheim setting, which I've never played but apparently keep returning to as a consistent well of inspiration.

Fear both as a mechanic and motif is something I think is underutilized in D&D which is odd considering it's a game about venturing out into the unknown to face potentially deadly challenges. Fear and risk are what our heroes must endure to experience the wonder and rewards on the other side of their journey. As such it makes sense for a goddess of fear to play a role in the thematic weave of the stories we end up telling.

Speaking in less lofty terms, I also think using the lantern as a symbol for being frightened fucks hard. It's a tiny, fragile, and temporary respite from an ocean of darkness and the threats it contains.

Worshippers: The lost and abandoned, Unseele Fey, Shadowcasters and other denizens of the shadowfell. There is also heavy overlap with the worship of the night goddess Nyx.

Signs: Nightmares, unnatural or living shadows,

Symbols: A Lantern, often surrounded by a circle of darkness.

Artsource

[emmg]

Aftertaste

The Emmrook modern Sugar Daddy AU I've been spinning in my brain like a rotisserie chicken finally got its seasoning. Shoutout to @thepalehorsevictoria's WONDERFUL, AMAZING, ABSOLUTELY LIFE-ALTERING The Internship for delivering the motivational slap I needed to actually finish the first stupid chapter. You're all welcome, probably.

She would look exquisite sprawled out on his pima cotton sheets, wouldn’t she? Perhaps he’d drape her in coins, or bills—her choice, naturally, though one suspects she’d opt for the flashiest, the most garish option, something appropriately Rook. And afterward, he’d collapse into her shoulder, sobbing like a maudlin fool, his tears soaking through the remnants of her ridiculous blouse. A tableau of absurdity: him, the tragic romantic, and her, the irreverent Venus, reeking faintly of cheap vanilla.

Read it here, under the cut, or on AO3

-----

Chapter 1: Oysters Are Gross

At fifty-two years and three days old, Emmrich finally surrenders. He grants Bellara—his chirpy, chattering, insufferably radiant assistant—permission to "set him up." Bellara, of course, is all gleaming eyes and endless sentences, a creature so bright she could burn holes in the wallpaper. He agrees because he is fifty-two years and three days old and it hits him: an unbearable, senseless loneliness. 

He stares blankly at the wall, realizing that the majority of those who wished him well on this fifty-two-year-and-three-day milestone—up to ninety percent of them—are colleagues. 

Happy birthday, Emmrich. Love, Amélie.

Ah, Amélie. His Orlesian once-mistress. The text is a masterstroke of brevity. He allows himself a smile before retrieving his reading glasses and composing a reply. 

Thank you, darling. Always a pleasure.

The message is sent. Amélie, of course, does not deign to reply. 

Well, then. 

His gaze shifts to the bottle of absinthe perched on the counter, a gift from the Dean and faculty, no doubt purchased more out of obligation than admiration. The label gleams mockingly. He frowns, swirls the dregs of his glass, and drains it in a single swallow. 

Bellara, that dainty tempest of enthusiasm, is promptly unleashed to do her worst. He delivers his consent carefully, his back turned to her as she flits about the library, slipping borrowed books back onto shelves. Borrowed, mind you, some three—or was it four?—months ago. The real marvel isn't her returning them but the improbable fact that she remembered taking them at all. He phrases his acquiescence in a way that suggests, naturally, he is the one doing her a favor. (Ha. Of course.)

“Ooooh, perfect!” she chirps, a human hummingbird vibrating with unsolicited opinions. “She’s like so, so pretty. Her nose? Upturned—and that’s super trendy right now. People are flying to Antiva for rhinoplasty because it’s cheaper there. Crazy, right? And she’s tall. Well, not as tall as you, obviously, but still tall. And thin. And just… really, really pretty. Like she totally knows it though. Ugh, I’m probably ruining this. Anyway, she’s so pretty, professor.”

Her voice trails off. 

He stops listening somewhere between "rhinoplasty" and "tall." He has neither the patience for Bellara’s reverence for the human scaffolding of beauty nor the bandwidth to follow her avalanche of adjectives. 

Bellara flutters on, blissfully unaware she’s been tuned out. 

****

“What are we thinking, Manfred?” he inquires, addressing the ties spread on the bed as though consulting an oracle. His arms are crossed, his brow raised. “Cerulean or hunter green?” 

“Woof,” replies Manfred, the household philosopher and occasional canine. 

“Thank you, darling boy,” he sighs, selecting the latter. The cerulean can sulk in the drawer another day. 

He assembles himself with meticulous care, a sacred ritual. The three-piece suit is virgin wool, soft, lustrous, perfect. The vest, of course, matches. His hair, combed back with fragrance-free pomade, achieves that delicate balance of hold without crunch. He is not, he assures himself, some adolescent with a tube of glue masquerading as hair gel, desperate to look like he just emerged from a car wash. No, he assures himself, he is a man of taste.

The finishing touch is his cologne: a concoction of galbanum, juniper, violet leaf, and oakmoss. It doesn’t just suggest expense; it shouts it in carefully modulated tones. The sort of scent that might cause an uninitiated passerby to pause and wonder, “Is this man a connoisseur—or simply insufferable?” Amélie, of course, once called it "enticing." 

Finally, two of his rings come off. Why? Because one never knows. Bellara’s friend might be pretty, but she also might be a thief. No sense tempting fate—or petty larceny. 

He looks in the mirror one last time, adjusts the hunter green tie, and decides he looks exactly like the sort of man who would judge someone for stealing his rings. 

Before leaving, he conducts his usual pre-departure sweep: oven off (because clearly, he’s the type to bake a pie and forget it), television off (lest it drone on to an audience of none), no faucets running (oh, the horrors of a dripping tap), and, naturally, no texts waiting to be answered (as if). This exercise in obsessive futility provides him no satisfaction, only the faint assurance that his house won’t combust or flood in his absence.

He realizes he's doing it out of nervousness.

Only slightly satisfied, he turns to Manfred, the sole companion he trusts for an honest opinion. “Not too shabby?” he ventures, striking a pose that could only be described as overly hopeful.

Manfred, ever the truth-teller, responds in the only way befitting such a ridiculous question: he vomits on the carpet. 

****

The restaurant is Orlesian, of course—where else would one go to feel simultaneously underfed and overcharged? He knows the head chef, a relic of his undergrad years, back when dormitory life was a parade of poorly considered ambitions and even worse hygiene. Xavier, once the proud owner of a neuroscience textbook he never opened, had been convinced he would unravel the mysteries of the brain—until the brain, or rather the workload required to study it, unraveled him instead. 

His grand response to this betrayal? Elfroot—smoked with dedication—and a catastrophic assault on their shared kitchen that left it resembling the aftermath of a culinary riot. Naturally, a few years later, Xavier inexplicably emerged as a celebrated chef, the sort whose name is murmured reverently in food columns and shouted across crowded dinner parties by people desperate to sound cultured. 

It’s a miracle, really, the sort of alchemy only student dorms can produce: turning the least functional among them into the toast of society, while everyone else just gets crumbs. 

He’s early, of course. Emmrich is always early, a man cursed with the kind of politeness that borders on masochism. Being late might suggest a lack of respect, but being early? That’s the calling card of someone determined to suffer. 

He orders an apéritif because sitting idle feels too desperate, even for him. Something stronger than advisable but, then again, he has no intention of driving tonight—or doing anything particularly sensible, for that matter. A Negroni it is. Predictable. As Johanna had so graciously put it, he’s a “basic bitch,” forever drawn to whatever the masses have deemed fashionable this week. 

He's nouveau riche like that. Here he is, nursing a drink that tastes like regret and orange peel, sitting early at an overpriced Orlesian restaurant, the living embodiment of someone trying just a little too hard.

And—oh. Damn her. Bellara was right. Of course, she was right. Why wouldn’t she be? Rook, she’d called her. Pretty, tall, unbearably young. And so very, very pretty—pretty to the point of redundancy. The kind of prettiness that practically begs to be noticed, long pale hair cascading like the overly poetic description she’d no doubt receive in a novel some day. 

“Emmrich?” she says, her eyes darting around the room as though she expects a less disappointing Emmrich to materialize from behind a potted fern. Surely, this can’t be the one.

“Indeed,” he says, and because he’s a gentleman—or at least a serviceable facsimile—he forces himself to stand. Hurrying to her side, he pulls out her chair with an eagerness that feels as rehearsed as it is exhausting. She sits, and only then does he allow himself to return to his own seat, feeling rather like an actor who’s just survived the first act of a particularly humiliating play. 

“Hm,” Rook says. 

She is smiling. This must be good. Surely, it’s good. Someone so young, so lovely, smiling at him. Smiling for him. Or at him? Is there a difference? Does it matter?

“Shall we start with a drink?” he asks, his voice striving for charm and almost, almost getting there. 

“You’re grey,” she says, blunt as a hammer. “Like, almost fully.” 

“Ah,” he says, because, really, what else is there? Words fail him, but her casually devastating remark does not. It feels as though she’s reached across the table and punched him in the throat with that pretty, unmanicured hand of hers, leaving him gasping for dignity. “I am.” He swallows hard and, for one fleeting moment, wonders if shattering his glass and dragging a shard theatrically across his wrist might salvage the evening—or at least end it with style. “Does that bother you?” 

A languid shrug. “No.” She lifts the menu with an air of detachment that makes him wonder if she is reading it or simply holding it to avoid looking at him. “How old are you?” 

Fifty-two-years-and-ten-days, not that anyone’s counting. “Bellara didn’t tell you about me?” 

“Bellara said you were rich.” Fantastic. His favorite personality trait. “And lonely.” Marvelous. The perfect companion to wealth, like cheese to wine. “And that you smell good.” Well, thank heavens. If nothing else, he’s fragrant—a consolation prize for his apparent lack of other redeeming qualities. “And…” She leans into the menu, her nose wrinkling in what he assumes is concentration but could just as easily be disdain. Does she need glasses? Should he offer her his? Would that be erotic or just pathetically sad? “Not married,” she finishes. 

There it is: rich, lonely, perfumed, and unattached. A portrait painted in four brushstrokes, with no room for nuance. 

He raises a hand, signaling the server. If he is to endure the rest of this encounter, it will be with a drink in hand, preferably something strong enough to blunt the edge of her candor. 

"And what about you, Rook?" he asks, once her cocktail arrives, a vulgar, lurid concoction so bright it might glow in the dark. Her lipstick smears on the straw (a straw... In this restaurant? Did Xavier finally give up?). "How would you describe yourself?"

Her grin is dazzling, predatory. "Not rich," she declares. "Very, very not rich," as though he might have misinterpreted her financial despair. "So you’ll have to excuse me, because I have no fucking clue how to deal with all these." She gestures broadly at the table. "Utensils. That one—yeah, that. Why is there a baby fork?" 

"It’s an oyster fork." 

"You ordered oysters?" 

"I did." 

"Oysters are supposed to make you horny, you know." 

He tips his head back in silent prayer, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, which sadly offers no escape. "The aphrodisiac effects are largely exaggerated," he mutters, clinging to his last shred of dignity. "They are high in zinc, yes, but otherwise... they’re simply a standard appetizer." 

"I mean, yeah. It’s like swallowing unwashed pussy." 

He chokes.

"But to answer you," Rook says, now smoothing the napkin over her lap with the deliberation of someone unused to starched linens, "literature. I just got into grad school. My brain’s about ready to explode. I’ve spent the last two weeks applying for every fellowship I could find. Leliana—that’s my supervisor—says that’s just how it is. Not much funding for the humanities." 

Ah, he thinks, so the sewer of profanity comes with a surprisingly functional brain. Who knew? 

"And what will your thesis be about?" he asks. "The broad strokes, of course." 

She perks up, her expression suddenly alight with a kind of zeal he recognizes all too well—the sort of gleam he’s seen in his own reflection, mid-tangent, while his colleagues quietly plotted their escape. "The treatment of regional culinary rituals in early Orlesian romantic epics," she announces, her tone brimming with the self-assured pride of someone convinced their niche could save the world. "I’m particularly interested in how feasting scenes reflect class dynamics and metaphysical longing." 

"Feasting and metaphysical longing," he echoes. "An underexplored intersection, no doubt." 

"It is, actually," she says, unfazed. "Leliana thinks it could open up new discussions about the interplay between consumption and identity in pre-industrial Orlais." 

He takes a long sip of his drink. "Well," he says finally, "good to know I will be dining with a pioneer in the field of… gastronomic existentialism." 

"Lucky you," Rook agrees.

"And this pioneer," he quips because he simply cannot resist, "despite devoting her studies to the poetic glow of Orlesian candlelit dinners, cannot distinguish a fish fork from a dessert spoon?" 

"Emmrich," Rook says, her glass drained, the fuchsia stain of passion fruit now blooming on her lips like some accidental masterpiece. "I read about Orlesians fucking each other with cucumbers, then slicing them up for a salad as if foreplay and vinaigrette belong in the same breath. About butter smeared in places it absolutely shouldn’t be—used as lube, naturally—but no one ever writes about the yeast infections that come knocking afterward. About cream dripping off nipples, thighs, mouths, smeared across banquet tables while someone’s ass is planted squarely in a soufflé. Wine bottles being repurposed into toys, and baguettes going places that would make a priest faint." She yawns, lifting her empty glass to hide it. "That’s what I read about," she concludes. "Not whether the trout gets a dedicated fork." 

The evening unravels as such evenings will: chaotically, gracelessly. Her cheeks are flushed from the wine he selected with care—wine she downs with all the finesse of a college freshman, pausing only to declare, loudly and without irony, that her "broke ass is never affording anything like this ever again." He lets her finish most of it, partly because she’s right, and partly because there’s something oddly charming about her bluntness, even if her choice of words makes him long for an eject button. 

By the end of the meal, she’s swaying faintly, her steps wobbling like a poorly directed marionette. Outside, as he contemplates whether to purchase a pack of cigarettes or step directly into oncoming traffic, he notices her face in the streetlight: still so, so pretty despite her vocabulary, which might as well be a butcher knife to his sensibilities. He’s always had a weakness for pretty things, after all, even if he insists to himself that he’s far too sentimental for anything reckless or self-destructive. And yet... and yet... 

He likes her hair; long, absurdly long, as though she’s been growing it since birth for the sole purpose of draping it over her shoulders at pretentious dinners. It’s pale, but not quite; between shades, as though it couldn’t be bothered to settle on a single identity. Almost brown here, almost silver there, the kind of blonde that pretentious novels would insist on calling “ethereal” or “ghostly,” though to him it looks like indecision with a sheen. He likes the gray of her eyes, too, though “like” might be the wrong word—they’re so washed-out they seem more like placeholders for real eyes, a vague suggestion of color. How can something be so devoid of pigment? 

A sharp clink breaks his thoughts. He looks down to see her car keys, glinting on the asphalt. She wobbles as she bends to retrieve them, then squints into the darkness like a drunk sailor searching for shore. 

"I know I didn’t park that far away," she mutters, turning in a slow, unsteady circle. "Ugly silver two-seater. Big scratch on the passenger window. Do you see it?" 

"You are not driving," he whispers, scandalized, his voice shrill enough to summon pigeons. And there it is: the moment he transforms from potential suitor to overbearing mother hen. Splendid. Truly, the very picture of charm. "Allow me to call you a cab." 

"Noooo," she whines, stretching the word to absurdity, her voice pitched somewhere between a tantrum and a drunken lullaby. "I don’t want to trek back up here tomorrow to get my car. I don’t live close, you know." 

"Even so," he presses, his tone teetering dangerously close to because I said so.

"No. Not even so." 

The key wrestle begins, a ridiculous little tug-of-war that makes him feel like he should be calling her "young lady" and throwing out such gems as "Behave yourself" and "Think of the consequences." All the sort of dreary phrases a man her father’s age might deploy with righteous indignation. 

But of course, he isn’t her father. No, no—father figures don’t let their gaze drift, as his does now, to the teasing dip of her blouse, where the faintest edge of black lace peeks out like a taunt. Father figures don’t notice the flush creeping up her cheeks or the sway in her unsteady defiance, nor do they fixate on the maddeningly smug curl of her lips. And they certainly don’t entertain thoughts about how those lips might feel wrapped around—oh, splendid, just splendid. He’s not only lost the moral high ground but seems intent on building a summer home somewhere in the depths of his own depravity. 

But she would look absolutely divine sprawled out on his pima cotton sheets, wouldn’t she? No doubt a far cry from whatever bargain-bin monstrosities she sleeps on—some threadbare polyester set reeking faintly of last week’s takeout. She could lie there, all flushed and glistening, while he buries his mouth between her legs, tasting her like a man starved. And then, if he whispered it sweetly enough, maybe—just maybe—she’d straddle him, her nails dragging down his chest, leaving scratches he’d probably pretend not to admire later. 

And afterward, he would probably cry into her shoulder, his tears dampening whatever remains of her ridiculous blouse. They could discuss Orlesians committing atrocities against food and sex while she smokes one of his cigarettes and he, in his most pitiful depths, silently composes a thank-you note to Bellara for orchestrating this grand act of self-destruction. 

He takes the keys away from her at last and summons a car with his phone. Even an old-timer, tradition-bound relic such as himself can marvel at the efficiency of these cursed apps. 

"I will return them to you tomorrow," he says, holding them out of reach. "May I have your number? You can tell me where to meet you." He pauses, catching himself mid-fall into the abyss of creepy old man territory. Don’t ask for her address, Emmrich. Don't be weird. "Or, if that’s too forward," he adds with a touch of forced charm, "I can hand them off to Bellara. She would probably love another excuse to meddle in our lives."

"Fine, fine," Rook mutters, snatching his phone and jabbing at the screen with the grace of a caffeinated woodpecker before handing it back. 

When the car arrives, she leans in for a half-hearted hug, her small breasts brushing against him briefly, her cheap, aggressively synthetic vanilla perfume wafting into his nostrils like an attack. It smells like something one might spritz on a cupcake, and yet—Gods help him—he finds himself wanting to drown in it. 

Ten minutes later, his phone pings. 

blra said it was your bday. hppy bday

[luriwoo]

true love ㅡ sungho

ೃ ⠀ㅡ part 1⠀◞♡⠀⠀part 2 (coming soon!)

୧ ⋅ pairing. eros!sungho x psyche!f!reader

୧ ⋅ genre. fluff, slight angst, greek mithology!au

୧ ⋅ summary. have you ever wondered if the god of love can fall in love?

୧ ⋅ warnings. greek gods, sungho as "eros"(cupid) and son of aphrodite, y/n as "psyche", mention of sacrifices and monsters, envy, probably jst slight angst, slight use of swearing/cursing, ooc, reader has a slight exact description, i tried to make more sense of this so i added a few things but the story is not altered ´ ᵕ ` probably grammatical errors, if i missed something please let me know!!

୧ ⋅ wc. 1.4k

net. @onedoornet

Once upon a time, a king and queen had three beautiful daughters, so beautiful that even people traveled from all over the cities to get a glimpse of them. That's what your two older sisters tried to believe.

The people who were so eager to visit the three, actually only did so to admire the beautiful youngest princess, you. You were so beautiful that people even believed your beauty could compare with the goddess Aphrodite, or even better, maybe you were her in person. Your eyes that stood out on your beautiful face, your reddish lips and pretty nose, with shiny and wavy hair, denoting between your soft hands your nails dyed f/c.

Even neighbor cities believed in their judgment so much that they stopped making sacrifices to praise the true goddess because, what would be the need to do it when she was among them?

Since your childhood, you were always the object of admiration and envy for your great beauty and people celebrated for it. And you, terrified that the gods would take revenge against them, your kindness tried to dissuade the divinities, although without any success, of course.

When the goddess Aphrodite found out that her followers stopped praising her, she became enraged, felling completely humiliated; You were such a simple mortal much more inferior to her. It was then that she called one of her sons, Sungho (like the god of love, passion and fertility) with the great objective in mind of just wanting to make you suffer.

"Make this young woman fall madly in love with the last of men, with a cursed fortune in his social position, heritage and personal integrity of which there can be no other wretch comparable to him" Aphrodite snapped at her son.

And with no other option but to accept, he carried out his mother's command. Conducting a light but arduous search, he found said man, who was left in front of your large balcony, with no one else around him so he would be completely at your first sight.

Sungho, hiding under said balcony and ready to shoot a beautiful arrow of pure gold in your direction, got completely amazed the moment you came out through your large window and looked out over your balcony, with the moonlight beautifully detailing your face along with your pretty white silk dress. It was then that from between his long fingers, the golden arrow slowly slipped, accidentally pricking himself with it.

Sungho, the god of love, had fallen in love with you.

On the other hand, your dear father thought about how tired he was of you, don't misunderstand him, it's not that he hated you but unlike your older sisters, you were the only one who hadn't married yet, they even lived with their husbands but you...

As you matured and your beauty increased more and more with the passage of time, you felt like your life slowly became more and more miserable.

You were so beautiful that friends, people of your age and men ran away from you, they believed that you had to be seen and flattered and all de good in the world. Even men didn't ask for your hand because they were scared and couldn't be worthy of your love since you could only feed their hopes, they thought.

So, in a moment of stress, your father already tired of the situation, came to the conclusion that he needed some help, so he decided to embark on a journey to be able to consult the oracle of Delphi in person and ask about your future and dispel all his doubts.

Once your father was on the great Mount Parnassus, he entered to the place and walked until he noticed how in front of him there was a large temple surrounded by springs and fountains, noticing a figure prostrate on a large chair in the center of it, surrounded by a small group of people. And your father, approaching slowly but with a sure step, stood in front of Pythia, the person in charge of the sanctuary "Oh, oracle, will my youngest daughter, y/n, be able to find a husband?"

And the oracle, with a cup in his hand, firmly answers: "On a high mountain rock set up a funeral chamber and in it your daughter dressed in rich finery. Do not expect a son-in-law of mortal lineage, but a cruel monster with the ferocity of a viper, that has wings and flies through the ether, that sows seasoning everywhere, that methodically destroys everything with blood and fire. Before whom Zeus himself trembles, the divinities cower in fear, and the infernal rivers and the darkness of the styx retreat in horror."

Upon hearing those words, your father instantly regretted having visited the oracle in the most profound way, thinking with fear, what kind of creature makes Zeus himself tremble? The most powerful greek god of all?

When the rest of your family and the village found out, they all cried a lot, as if you were destined to die the worst.

And your older sisters, who envied you to death, jumped for joy at your departure behind everyone's backs.

Finally, after a short jog, with a little help they placed you on top of a rock, with a large cliff behind you, and before they even had the chance to say goodbye to you, a great gust of wind came, disappearing you instantly in the blink of an eye. It was Sefiro, the one in charge of taking you to a large forest, leaving you in the middle of nowhere among leafy trees around, who after completing his task, suddenly disappeared.

While you were looking for a way out, a huge palace appeared before your eyes, made of rubies, sapphires and gold. Thinking it was the monster's house, you distrustfully walked to the entrance and when you tried to knock the door it opened automatically. It was then that you decided to enter slowly, noticing the large gold columns, with long silver walls and floors of inlaid stones with various animal sculptures adorning the surroundings, among other things.

Suddenly you heard a voice beside you murmuring "Why don't you rest ma'am? This is your new house and you will have all the time in the world to admire it."

You looked around trying to find the origin of said voice, and although you thought you had hallucinated, you asked to the air "Who spoke?" with great curiosity.

"Me, my lady. You can't see us because we're invisible. We're your maids, and your husband will come at night." When you heard those words, you felt a knot growing in your stomach suddenly. Then you noticed how a nice nightgown was approaching you, hearing a different voice say "this is your nightwear, i hope you like it, if you need anything you just have to talk, even if you don't see us we are everywhere and at your service, please, follow us." And amazed by this fact, you followed the instructions that the voices were telling you, guiding you to your new shared room.

A few moments later when night came and after finishing getting ready for bed, you laid down on the bed exhausted, thinking about everything that had happened in less than a day, nervous about the fact that you would soon meet your so-called husband. Feeling completely horrified when the lights went out and someone lying behind you, suddenly you heard a male voice spoke.

"Hello, I am your husband. I know it's quite strange, but you can't see my face, the darkness is an extra precaution. What I ask of you is that you'll never try to see me, looking at me would destroy everything. And I know this is the first time we've spoken, but I love you and I know that our relationship will last. Please, y/n, I wish that you love me just as much as I love you; we can live together in this palace forever."

When you heard those words, you felt completely enchanted and amazed, his words sounded so warm and soft that you felt like you couldn't possibly deny his requests.

"I don't love you just for your beauty, I mean, I know you're really beautiful, but I love you for how you dealt with everything. I love you because you're kind and you never stopped honoring the gods, no matter how horrible your situation was. I love you because you're perfect, perfect for a man like me." Sungho murmured affectionately behind you, gently taking a lock of your hair in his hands, looking at you completely lost in thought.

That was it, for the first time in all your years of life you really felt it; the true love.

"Are you a monster? Are you an evil creature?" you asked curiously, watching the big wall in front of you.

"No, of course not."

"Then, kiss me please."

[itsalwaysteatimeinwonderland]

Choosing Peace Pt. 11: Despair (Spike x Y/N)

Requested: No. This is part 11 of the multi fic.

Summary: Actions, even when misconstrued, speak louder than words.

TW: None

Word Count: 2.3k

Previous | Next

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Spike spent his days helping you research your curse. To seek a way to set you free would mean a chance for him to be part of your life. For far too long your only companion has been silence and emptiness, and he would give anything to replace those themes in your life. He didn’t have a full plan, just a gut feeling. He didn’t know for sure but he believed you were both close to a break through, at least he hoped so for his sanity. Spending your days searching book after book was getting tiring. He had to do it for you, for him.

You both worked diligently to find some missing link, some type of information that you had skipped. You became engrossed in an old leather-bound book while spike searched for possible books that could contain the appropriate way to break your curse. You take a pause. Joy bubbles in your chest. Disbelief drowns your thoughts. So many years of searching and finally, finally, you were given a partial answer on how to break the curse.

“I found something!” You exclaim.

Spike rushes to your side. You quickly read that an oracle must be consulted. You identify the place, the time but were unsure about what question to ask. As you go further down you find that your curse, since it was caused by a lover’s anger, can only be solved by a lover’s desire.

You wondered what that meant. It seemed too easy. As you keep reading you find out that you have to ask who your soulmate is. Only then will you find the key to break the curse. You grimace. Why did it have to be a lover? Why couldn’t it be a potion. Love is a sensitive topic, a non-issue if you will. But now, it was the only issue. Identify the soulmate, find them, and be free. Simple. Too simple.

You sat back frustrated. Spike, at your side, was excited and giddy.

“You found the answer. The key.” He exclaims.

“It seems too simple.” You mention.

“I think you’re just jaded. Give it a whirl, see where you end up.” Spike encourages you.

You sigh and close your eyes. You envision your life without the curse with a lover, maybe a family… and it all seems too surreal, too out of reach. You decide against the oracle and soulmate solution.

“I’m not doing it.” You announce.

Spike is surprised, “Why not, love? The worst thing that could happen is that it leads you nowhere. It’s worth a shot.”

“I don’t think so. I’ll keep looking for something more realistic. Right now, I need a break.” Without a another word you get up and leave the Magic Shop.

The Scooby gang witness the exchange. They are surprised at Spike’s investment in your life, your lack of interest in this new lead, and confused as to why you chose to walk away.

Your breath is labored, your thoughts in disarray. What if this was the answer? What if all you need is a mate? Someone to partner with? It surely can’t be that simple. Your pace becomes a jog, a sprint, a run. You don’t know where you’re going but you’re going. You’ve lived with this curse so long that the idea of living without it is scary, unknown. You need space. You need time to think.

Spike, back at The Magic Shop, sits back on the chair next to where y/n sat. He is confused, enraged. It’s selfish of him to want her to break the curse. Almost evil to want this more than her. He had plans, a future with her, and she was resistant to exploring her options.

“You think she’s scared?” Willow asked Buffy.

Buffy was dismissive of the whole situation, having her own thoughts about the curse.

“If she breaks it, does that mean she will age?” Xander pondered.

Buffy eventually chimes in, “Spike, you seem very invested in this.”

Spike turns to her, trapped. “She’s a friend. My only friend.” He digs in deep to hurt Buffy.

The conversation is dropped. Due to it being daylight, Spike is trapped at The Shop. He uses that time to formulate a plan on how to approach you, how to convince you.

Night falls and Spike is alive and on the move. He will find you no matter what. He looks at all the usual places. Your house, his crypt. Nothing. He eventually finds you at the look out, alone and confused. He slowly approaches you.

“Love…”

You don’t move but acknowledge him. He steps closer, cautiously.

“Spike, I’m afraid. It’s been so long, I don’t know how to be a human anymore.”

Spike reaches for your hand and gives it a soft squeeze. “Poppet, your compassion and empathy make you human. Not your mortality.”

You turn to look at him, tears in your eyes. He is surprised. He has never seen you this vulnerable. He pulls you into a hug and holds you tight. You break down and hold him as if he’s the only other person in the whole world.

You both stand in silence while the night air is filled with your sobs and sniffles. You look up at him, desperate for an anchor.

“Will you stand by me?”

“Always.” He says as he places his forehead against yours.

Spike was internally a whirlwind of emotions. Always there for her. Always self-sacrificing. He hoped that one day it would pay off.

The next morning you’ve decided to go through with finding the oracle. You’re mapping out your journey, making sure you’re ready for any tests. Spike observes you from afar, hopeful that you’ll find answers, and maybe -just maybe- a way to be free.

You spend the rest of the day psyching your self up for your journey. You remind yourself that you’re there to explore not to commit to any answers. Any lead is a good lead.

You try to sneak out of the house. Wanting to have this for yourself. Spike is waiting for you on the porch.

“Thought you could slip by me?” He says as he snuffs out his lit cigarette.

You sigh, defeated. You knew there was no way to dissuade him. You both embark on your journey. A treacherous walk up a hill, a shimmy in between rocks, a descent into a cave. You come upon a portal, a gateway to another dimension. Invisible to the naked eye but tangible to those who are connected to the super natural. You take a step forward and so does Spike. You stop him.

“No. I have to do this part alone. Wait for me.” You say as you walk into the portal.

Inside there are ornate ceilings, white walls and marble floors. You look around.

“Oracle, I come with a question.”

A form appears. A golden being with closed eyes. “What do you seek, traveler?”

“I… I need to know who my soulmate is.” You wait impatiently.

The figure stalls, breathes in and answers your plea.

The sound is deafening. The answer is not what you expected. Your mind is in disarray. Before you can ask for a follow up, to question his answer, you’re pulled back into the real world. You land on your butt with a loud thud. Spike is standing a few feet away. He hurries to hold you up. You stand there, awestruck and confused.

“Well?” Spike prods.

You shake your head, afraid to give him an answer. You start walking back the way you came. Spike holds you back by your arm.

“Did you get an answer or not?” He is impatient and scared.

“Yes.” You whisper.

Spike can tell it’s not what you wanted. He is perceptive and can read that you don’t want to elaborate. He nods and starts following you back to the beginning of your journey. The lack of expression on your face has him worried. Did the oracle not say his name? Was this all for naught?

You walk in silence. Deafening and loud. You’re in disbelief and upset. How will you handle this? How will you contend with this new information? You didn’t dare tell anyone. This was yours to keep.

Spike was suspicious and unnerved by your silence. He desperately wanted you to have said his name, to have confirmed that he was your soulmate. Yet, nothing. He decides to not push you, to let you process. That night he decides to stay in his crypt to give you space.

As he sits watching TV, not really paying attention, a knock is heard at his door. An odd occurrence since no one ever knocks. He gets up, hoping it’s you. He opens the door to find Buffy. Shy and vulnerable. He doesn’t have time for this. He plans on shutting the door, but she lets herself in.

“Why not me? When did you stop wanting me?” She asks.

Spike is taken aback, speechless. Before he can answer she is pressed against him, face tilted and eyes searching.

“Is it y/n? Is she better than me?”

Spike takes a step back, appalled by the closeness. He can’t do this, not tonight. She grabs him, holds him against his will. He stands there planning his next step.

As soon as Spike leaves you decide to wander the streets searching for something, but you didn’t know what. After a while you realize that you don’t want to be alone. You find yourself at Spike’s crypt. Addicted to his presence, in need of his attention. As you walk in you see Buffy and Spike pressed against each other. You’re shocked but not really. Spike turns to see you, fear in his eyes. Not this, not now.

You turn around without a word. Of course, Spike would seek respite in Buffy. They were meant to seek each other out. You never knew why but you knew they couldn’t stay apart. You fooled yourself into thinking that there was space in his life for you. It is for this reason you didn’t bother with love. It was never real. You pretend to not feel as you run back home.

Meanwhile Spike fights to get free from buffy.

“So, it is her.” Buffy says disdainfully.

Spike growls in frustration and runs after you. He catches up to you as you enter your porch. He reaches for you, but you turn to him.

“Sorry to interrupt.” You say with a bite.

“It’s not what you think.” He pleads.

“Spike, what you do is none of my business.” You try to be defiant, distant.

“She came to me. She wanted me. I was trying to get away.” He begged.

“Like I said, it’s none of my business. You chose, and I respect that.”

“Choose? I choose you. Always you.” He steps closer while you take a step back.

“I’m glad you can always go back to Buffy. I feel it’s best you stay in your crypt from now on.”

“I can’t do this with you Spike. I have too much going on.” You say with disdain and walk into your house slamming your door.

Spike is speechless. He stammers, begs. He basically gets on his knees.

“Don’t do this. It’s not what you think.”

Spike is left alone, in despair, in disbelief. He is shattered into a million pieces. His eyes prick with tears. He withholds a sob. He doesn’t let himself feel, he’s too vulnerable. Anger overtakes his sadness. That damned slayer. Always ruining things for him. That sick and twisted bitch. He is overflowing with feelings and all of them are a form of anger.

He stalks back to his crypt, hoping that the slayer is still there. Fortunately for him, she is.

“Kick you out like a dog?” Buffy taunts.

He is enraged and violent. He lunges after her making sure to hurt her as much as possible. However, Spike is no match for Buffy. Buffy makes sure to put him in his place. She is smug and full of herself.

“Don’t fight what is already done.” She walks towards him. “Now that your little fantasy is broken, are you ready to come back to me?”

Spike breathes in deep, choosing his words correctly. He may not be able to hurt her body but he can hurt her ego.

“The only reason you’re here is because you feel like shit, and hurting yourself by giving yourself up to me makes you feel something. You feel like an outcast, and you’ll never belong. Not anymore.” Spike spits out, bloody and bruised.

Buffy bites her lip. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She knew she could beat him into submission if she wanted to. As she thinks about forcing him into being hers, it dawns on her how she is acting. Her reactions are evil and full of hate. She has turned into the monster in this story. She has sunk as low as she can be. Not only does she feel like dirt, she finds ways to bring herself down even more. She steps back and runs out of the crypt. She is in disbelief of how Spike has dragged her down into his pit of despair.

Spike lays in his own puddle of blood, broken and lonely. Tears stain his face as sobs echo in his crypt. He has lost the one good thing in his life. He was so close to salvation and now he’s back to square one. He knew he didn’t deserve y/n but he didn’t have to lose her this way. He hurts not only for his situation but also for the pain he caused you. How will he redeem himself. Having a soul wasn’t enough. Now in your time of need he wasn’t allowed to comfort you, to hold you. He knew cold and lonely nights await him. He knew that despair and anger were going to be his companions. He wondered if he would ever get you back.

[sunlightmurdock]

The Odyssey | 1.2 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Bradley just can’t keep his hands, or his thoughts, to himself. People are starting to notice.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance (professor / student relationship), age gap (22 / 33), swearing, infidelity, making out, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, handjobs, cum, bradley dislikes her fiancé, deception, also inaccuracies in the timeline of Pompeii and the telling of Greek mythology, very brief allusion to SA at the very end, 18+ minors dni, wc: 7.5k

…

“So there are rumours in the city that Psyche is the second coming of Venus, or the daughter of Venus — something like that. But, Venus — Aphrodite — sends her son Cupid — Eros — to shoot Psyche with an arrow to make her fall in love with something hideous.”

You’ve read stories like this before.

“He scratches himself with the arrow, and falls in love with Psyche the second that he sees her. But Psyche’s two sisters are married already, and no one seems to want to marry Psyche, so her dad starts to think they’ve incurred the wrath of the gods. He consults the oracle, and is told that Psyche is going to be married to this hideous, terrifying dragon-creature.”

“Ew.” You scoff.

He snorts. “This part of the story is where it gets kind of interesting. The oracle says that she is to be left on a cliff for her new husband, and they send her there in her funeral attire. Death and marriage become just the one central theme of being a total transition into the unknown.”

You’re quiet against him. He pauses. The ugly lampshade seems drawn to the rock on your finger, making it twinkle in the light.

“Anyway, Zephyrus — which is the god and personification of the Westerly wind, which is the most favourable of — I’ll explain it another time. Zephyrus gets Pysche ready to meet her fated match, and sets her in a meadow, where she falls asleep. She falls asleep in this perfect place, and wakes up transported to a kind of grove.”

You rise and fall with his chest as he sighs.

“Then, she finds this incredible house, with big golden columns, a carved ceiling and silver walls embossed with wild animals, and mosaic floors,” Bradley glances down at your fingers toying with the buttons on his shirt. He squeezes your waist. “And a voice comes out of nowhere telling herself to make herself at home, and she’s presented with a great feast.”

“The dragon doesn’t sound so bad.” You mumble into his chest, drawing a breathy chuckle from him.

“Well— she doesn’t trust him so easily. She’s impressed, but terrified. But, y’know, he’s her husband, and it’s technically their wedding night. So she lets herself be guided to her bedroom at night where she has sex in complete darkness, with something that she can’t see.”

“The dragon?”

“Well, he never lets her look at him. He always leaves before sunrise and doesn’t allow her to look at him. But she learns to like his visits, and becomes pregnant — in this version, anyway — but her family haven’t heard from her at all, so her husband allows Zephyrus to bring one of Psyche’s sisters to visit her.”

You’ve got plenty of opinions on what you have heard so far, but you keep them to yourself as Bradley continues with the tale.

“Her sister is jealous of how happy Psyche is, in this magical house, with her mysterious husband, you know? — So, she kind of reminds Psyche that he’s supposed to be this gross monster, who will kill the child when it’s born. She manipulates Psyche into wanting to know who her husband really is.”

“So, one night after her husband has fallen asleep, Psyche finds an oil lamp and a dagger — to find out if her husband is a monster, and to kill him if he is,” Bradley shifts his hips, stiffening as you sit forwards and press a soft kiss to the glimpse of his chest under his shirt. “And um… well, she sees him and he’s beautiful. Incredible. She’s so happy. But, she spills oil from the lamp on his skin, and he knows that she has betrayed him by looking, so he leaves her.”

“Why was he so against her seeing him if he was so beautiful?” You sit up and turn around, barely noticing as Bradley catches hold of your knee. He tugs it over his lap and pulls you across him, sitting you against his middle.

“Because he defied his mother by not making her fall for something disgusting. Aphrodite wouldn’t have allowed them to be together,”

“Oh, I understand.” You confirm, resting your hands against his stomach.

“So first, Psyche sees the god Pan. He recognises how in love she is, and she recognises his divinity. Then, she starts to walk the world looking for her love. She starts by going back to her sisters and telling them what happened, but they’re both pissed that her husband was Eros. So, both sisters try to offer themselves as a replacement to him by climbing the rock face and casting themselves to Zephyrus, but they both fall to their deaths.”

You frown, which seems to spark amusement in him. He gives you a calm shrug and tugs at your hips, making you flinch as the cold metal of his belt touches the warm skin of your inner thigh.

“So, Psyche keeps on wandering, looking for Eros. She comes across the temple of Ceres, and finds all of these offerings that are thrown everywhere and — it’s a mess. So she organizes it all, because offerings to the gods shouldn’t be neglected, and Ceres appears to her. Psyche begs her for help, and Ceres acknowledges that she needs it, but can’t offer any help because she can’t go against a fellow goddess.”

You shift uncomfortably, pushing away from his belt and settling against his thigh instead.

“Um… right, so after Ceres, the same thing happens at the Temple of Juno, and Psyche realizes that she has to pledge herself to Venus. This is what Venus wanted all along, right? — So, she turns Psyche over to her two Handmaids, Worry and Sadness, for her to be tortured. They ruin her clothes, and hurt her, and mock her for conceiving a child in a sham marriage.”

Your face creases, frowning back at him.

“Venus leaves her with this huge mass of different grains, and demands that they’re all sorted into different heaps by dawn. But a little ant takes pity of Psyche, and assembles a fleet to complete the task for her. We also find out around this point that Eros is in the same house, recovering from a wound, but he doesn’t know that Psyche is there.”

His hands bracket your thighs, and they have been since he sat you in his lap. Watching his Adam’s apple rise and fall with every word, your lips twitch at the corners as you think of the other day in the library. His lips on your neck.

“At dawn, Venus sets her a second task. She has to cross a river, and fetch golden wool from an untameable, aggressive sheep on the other side. Well, Psyche’s heartbroken and worn down by this point, so she plans to drown herself in the river, but she is saved by a reed and gathers the wool caught on the briars of it.

He can see it on your face that you’re up to something, but he pauses to let you kiss him anyway. Soft, and slow. His hands grabbing firm at your waist.

His lips graze yours, his nose brushing your cheek as he continues on with Pysche’s tale, fingers curling into the pale pink chiffon.

“For her third task, Venus gives her this little crystal vial and sends her to collect the black water from the river Styx. So, Psyche climbs the cliff face to get to it, and as she does,” Bradley is interrupted mid sentence as you press forwards and kiss his mouth once more, then the corner of his lips. He hums softly and tries to recapture his train of thought. “She’s attacked by the dragons that surround it — Jupiter himself takes pity on her and sends his eagle to protect her from the beasts and collect the water.”

Your nose brushes the curve of his jaw, soft lips parted just enough to tickle his skin with your cool breath right before you close them around his pulse point and suck.

He’s holding your hips, nice and steady — he could pull you back and stop you, but he doesn’t. His long fingers dig into the meat of your thighs.

“Keep going, what happens next?” You urge him, pushing lightly at his chest and pressing another longing kiss to the length of his throat. Your fingertips slip under the unbuttoned top of his shirt, skimming the flushed skin underneath.

He swallows, leaning his head back against the wooden headboard. You gasp softly as he squeezes firmly at your waist and lifts his hips from the bed.

“So, for the last trial, Venus sends her to the underworld to collect a dose of beauty from Proserpina, the queen of the underworld,” He’s painfully aware that his voice has grown thick and that he’s blushing like a kid, and suddenly the details of the story seem a little bit blurrier. Then, your tongue dips out from between your lips and wets the spot you had just kissed — exactly the way he does.

“Christ.” He chokes out, letting his head fall forwards to rest against your shoulder. “Do you get off on trying to make me cum in my pants or something?”

It’s at that point that he remembers exactly who he is speaking to, and how you’ve reacted to this kind of profanity before. Nose wrinkled, he’s wincing as he pulls back to look at you again.

You’re smiling. Well, biting at your cheeks in an effort not to, but smiling nonetheless. Your nose is wrinkled too, like you’re trying not to like the idea quite as much as you do.

“Oh, you do.” He scoffs.

“No, I just…” You huff and then shrug, glancing down at that loose button on his shirt. He watches your fingers toy with it absently, painfully aware of how his straining cock is wedged against his thigh. “Hadn’t really thought about myself being sexy before. I mean you’ve given plenty of people orgasms, right?”

He knows better than to answer that question, so he just stares back in response.

“I don’t think I’ve ever come close.” You tell him.

His hands feel electric as they skim under that pretty pink dress, a twinkle in his eyes and a slight quirk to the right corner of his mouth. “Now who’s thinking too much, huh?”

With that, he kisses you. The deep and dirty kind as he presses forwards and grabs hold of the back of your neck. Every time, the surprise gets you and makes you part your lips. His tongue dips into your mouth as he pushes his hips off of bed and into yours. Only, this time, whatever he does has you making the sweetest little sound.

Right against his mouth too, a pleased little mewl. He groans right back onto your lips, fingertips trailing over the fabric of your underwear all of a sudden. You had been too distracted to even notice them creeping their way up your thigh.

Heart racing, your fingers skim into the curls at the nape of his neck, eyes locked on him. Swallowing hard, you glance down towards his just parted lips and catch sight of your lipstick printed faintly on the side of his neck. A beat passes where he just watches you studying his lips, waiting for you to kiss him.

Finally, you lean forwards and your cushioned lips are on his once again. Pouted and oh, so gentle. His fingers curl at the back of your neck, his nose bumping yours as he takes lead and lets you sink into the feeling of him.

Even with the thin linen of his shirt, and the slight crack in the window to the left of the bed, Bradley hasn’t ever felt quite so hot.

“Can I feel you?” He asks against your mouth, trailing the pad of his thumb across your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear.

“If I can feel you.” It’s not an exactly well thought-through plan, you don’t have the logistics of it figured out, but he’s kissing feverishly across your face and, what with it pressing into your thigh, there’s only one thing on your mind.

“I can’t, baby—“

“It’s just touching.” The second that the words are out of your mouth, you’re struck with a strange kind of deja vu. Not here, not with him. An outer body kind of thing. Either way, you aren’t left with much time to think about it as Bradley dips forwards and captures your mouth once again.

You let yourself fall with him, even with little choice once he wraps you in his arms, and he turns the two of you until you’re on your back and he’s between your legs.

This is exactly what got you so worked up earlier, so afraid. It feels so right to be moving in sync with him like this, your hands, your mouths, your bodies. His weight pressing into your stomach and his thick arms bracketing your body, engulfing you in him.

As he nips and rocks and caresses, you’re happy. It couldn’t possibly be wrong if it just feels this easy. His blue jeans are tented, straining against the pink of your dress, his shirt untucked and messy.

It’s like the two of you think of his shirt at once, as he props himself up with one hand and tears open those already loosely attached buttons with the other. All the while, his mouth is hot on yours, deep, soft sounds spilling from his lips.

He pulls it swiftly off of his shoulders and drops it haphazardly onto the floor, then there’s a pause. He’s sitting back on his ankles, both of you struck with the same thought once again. His gaze falls down to your dress.

“Should… Do you want me to take it off?” You figure, bringing your hands up to cover your chest, still blinking at his freshly exposed skin. Wide, angled shoulders, sitting square and rising and falling heavily with each breath. His skin taut with muscles, but without the definition of a man who keeps them for an ego boost. Tanned skin, dusted with light brown hair.

“I want you to,” He gives a slow nod of his head. “But I can work around it.”

“No, okay… I can take it off,” You lift one hand to stop him and swiftly tear it back the second that it touches his bare stomach. “Just— give me a second— the zipper—“

Bradley hooks one arm under your hips, and the other under your back, hugging you swiftly to his body and covering you with his weight. You squeak quietly as his fingers curl around the zipper and his lips work feverishly across your jaw.

The zipper barely whines as he pulls it slowly along the length of your spine, feeling the material go loose between the two of you. His mouth follows the sound south, feverish at your neck and down to your clavicle.

Squeezing your eyes tight shut, you let you shoulders relax and the material fall slack, giving his hands the freedom to tear it off and discard it like he had his shirt. Even so, the second that his warm mouth touches the centre of your chest, you push back into the pillows, scorched by the feeling.

“You want me to zip it back up?” Bradley asks coolly, one of his hands squeezing softly at your balled up fist. You hadn’t even noticed you were grabbing at the bedsheets like that.

“No, I just — — don’t want to watch when you see me.”

And that just about breaks his heart. He thinks back to the phone call he had that night in December, when Malcolm had finally picked up. Bradley had been standing beside your bed with that stupid plastic phone in his hand, keeping you on your side so that you didn’t choke if you puked — and that little shithead had answered laughing.

At first, Bradley had regretted threatening the little weasel. It could have cost him his career, especially if you had decided to flip the narrative on what happened in his car — luckily you hadn’t remembered that part. But god, hearing the arrogance and thoughtlessness, Bradley doesn’t regret threatening to knock some sense into that kid one bit.

And now, seeing what eight years of supposedly loving that kid has brought you to, he doesn’t regret what he’s about to do either. In fact, what he’s about to do might be a little bit to do with the fact that he would purposely like to spite your fiancé.

“Why don’t you want to watch?”

“I don’t know. In case you don’t like me.”

“Oh, I like you,” You hear him breathe out a chuckle as his hand reaches across yours, peeling your fingers off of the bedsheets and stroking his thumb across your relaxed knuckles. “C’mere. Feel.”

As expected, it works like a charm. Your eyes spring open so wide they look for a moment like they’re going to pop right out of your head. Heat spreads like wildfire, starting in the tips of your ears — it engulfs your face and your chest, spreading down your arms with no sign of stopping.

Sitting back on his knees, his chest bare and his shoulders squared proudly, he’s looking you right in the eye as he squeezes his hand around yours. Under your palm, still within the confines of his jeans, you can feel all of him, straining against the denim.

“Okay, but men get erections over ridiculous things sometimes—“ You reason as you pull your hand away from him. He lets it go instantly, but follows your hand away, planting his free hand into the pillow beside you and forcing you to lean back as he comes in close.

You think first of all that you’re ready for what he’s going to say. Then, he leans in closer. All the way past your face until his lips are grazing your ear.

“You want to know why I’m hard?”

“Mm.” You croak out, fingers once again balled into the sheets.

“I’m hard because I can’t stop thinking about how wet you were that night in Venice, and how you kissed me the next morning. You know you talk in your sleep?” His voice against your earlobe makes you shiver and pull back, frowning disapprovingly.

“I do not.”

“You do, baby — do you know how hard it is for a man to get a good night’s sleep when you’re whispering his name?” He turns his head towards your face and kisses your jaw softly, reaching out and grabbing at your hips. He tugs you just a bit closer and the dress falls just slightly. You let it go.

And before you know it, your fingers are curled into his hair, your legs are wrapped around his waist and he’s unhooking that pretty pink dress from your left ankle. The second that it’s off completely, his hands go for his belt. The leather clangs against the metal buckle and against the button on his jeans loudly as he fumbles to work it open one handed. His other hand cups your jaw. His thumb sits on your left cheek, his four fingers sit on your right, he holds your head straight as he sucks at the supple skin of your bottom lip.

“Fuck me…” Bradley mutters, his forehead inches from yours. Looking down between your two bodies, both of his hands abandon their previous posts and go for your middle. Instinctively, you lift your knees, hunching forwards in an attempt to cover yourself. “Stop, honey, let me see.”

“You’ve seen plenty of women.” You remind him, crossing your arms over the unlined, unremarkable, comfortable bra covering your chest.

Bradley teeters on the edge of being amused or upset by your comment. You’re nervous. He’ll give you that one. He looks up at you as he crouches between your legs, “So, I know what I’m talking about, huh?”

With that, he leans down and presses his lips to your stomach, right below your belly button.

“I could look at you all day.” He tells your skin, without looking up from his onslaught of delicate kisses, his fingers walking along the curve of your waist and back down again to your hips. As his hands skim down to your thighs, he takes note of just how much you’re trembling. Finally, he lets his lip graze the waistband of your underwear.

If he was being really truthful, and if he wasn’t holding back, he would’ve popped open the clasp on that bra about a minute and a half ago. Bradley has seen just about every kind of underwear there is to see, and his favourite has always remained the same.

There’s quite simply no better alternative to naked. His mouth works along your navel, headed straight for the apex of your thighs, and he thinks to himself that he couldn’t care less about what kind of underwear you’re wearing, until he sees it.

He’s on his front, face to face with the pink underwear with an embroidered Wednesday across the front. It is, indeed, Wednesday.

“These,” He rubs softly at each of your hips, pressing a wet kiss to the embroidery. “Are very cute.”

“Oh my god, no—“

“But I want them off.”

That’s what that look in his eyes is. You get it now, as he curls his fingers into the sides of your underwear, and it makes your stomach erupt into butterflies. The last time he took your underwear off, he didn’t get that good of a look — this time, you’ll be naked. But, he still has you nodding dumbly at him.

“Wait — yours too.” You realize.

Bradley nods his head, gently guiding the pink underwear down your legs. He’s not looking at your face. He’s practically salivating. “I will. I just want a taste.”

He lifts your legs upwards, slipping the panties off of your ankles, dropping them to the bed and grabbing the backs of your thighs. Legs pressed together and pushed back toward your abdomen just slightly, you can’t quite see his face, but your skin is hot with the knowledge of exactly what he’s looking at.

There’s a moment before you feel anything at all, where you know that he is just staring. It takes everything in your power to make yourself keep still, not squirm away, to not say something stupid.

Then, you feel his fingers right there, trailing through your excitement, examining exactly how you’re feeling about him. You turn your face sharply to the left, aiming for the respite of hiding it in a pillow. But next, he sits forwards and grabs your hips, lifting them off of the bed and bringing you to his mouth.

Right as your heart feels like it’s about to burst out of your chest, you feel his lips on you, kissing softly, following mostly the same pattern his fingers had. The tip of his nose bumps your clit as he flattens his tongue and licks upwards until he’s at that sensitive bundle of nerves.

But he doesn’t stay there. With how you’re trembling against him, he knows better than to overstimulate you. The last thing he wants is to make you cry on your second time at this. His mouth turns towards your thighs, sucking and kissing at random.

Your soft skin, bristled by his rough jaw. He can tell you’re trying so hard to sit still for him. You’re so polite when you want to be.

Then, he’s right back where he wants to be, his mouth presses firmly to your soaked core and he does the exact same thing once again. Familiarity is the easiest path to comfort. His tongue follows that slow, familiar stripe up to your clit and flicks softly at it. Then, he presses impossibly closer and wraps his lips around the sensitive bud, sucking softly.

“Oh—“ You squirm, trying to reach for his shoulders, your thighs pushing back against him.

Finally, he relents. You want to touch him and that joke about ruining these jeans is about to become a reality if he doesn’t do something soon. Your head spins as he moves between your legs and kisses at your mouth, eyes open and blinking as you taste yourself on his lips.

The sound of a zipper breaks through the surprise, eyes widening further as you watch him shove his jeans down his legs.

“Still with me?” Bradley checks, kissing the corner of your lips as his jeans hit the floor. You swallow softly, glancing down at him kneeling between your legs. He’s wearing loose fitted blue boxers — well, you imagine they looked more loose before. All that’s separating him from you is that thin cotton material.

“Mhm.”

“Still want to touch me? — Tell the truth, honey. That’s all I want.” Your eyes are closed, head tipped back as he sucks his way along your jaw. You nod weakly at him, wondering if you look half as wild as you feel.

“Yeah.” You follow his mouth, chasing his lips until he kisses you hard.

You lean in once again to kiss him the second that he pulls back, and then, blinking slowly at him, a fluttering erupts in your chest. Pride surges through your ribs and into your stomach as you take note of the darkened hunger and arousal in his expression.

“But you can’t laugh at me.” You breathe out, willing that funny feeling in your stomach to just go away so that you can focus.

Every single word that spills out of your mouth, Bradley gets that little bit closer to knocking your fiancé on his ass the second that the two of you are back at home. He wonders what this asshole possibly said to you to make you so timid.

“‘M not laughing.” Bradley answers you, his voice calm as his hands skim over your naked hips. He swallows softly as he reaches for his own boxers, settling down at your side as he pushes them down his legs.

Suddenly, you’re far from laughing too. Your mouth is dry as he lays down and pumps his hand once around the length of his dick. It sits just below his belly button, standing to attention, swollen and red. Impressive. Big, like the rest of him.

He tucks an arm under your waist and pulls you across the bed, into him. Your stomach presses into his length while his fingers curl around the curve of your ass, teasing that line between your thigh and your pussy.

“Can I have a kiss?” Bradley whispers, nudging at the tip of nose with his to guide your head back. He knows that’s where your confidence lies. You’re smiling softly as you dip forwards to kiss him, well within your comfort zone. “Thanks, honey. Can I have your hand?”

As he asks, his hand inches forward until you can feel him once again brushing through your excitement. Another slow kiss, sucking softly at your top slip as he pulls back.

The tip of his index finger swipes through gently, his throat thickening his voice with desire. Your hips push back, and the tip of his finger slides in with no resistance.

You press your lips together, presenting your open palm for him to use. Bradley pulls back to look at your surprisingly steady hand. With the hand that isn’t toying between your legs, he takes hold of it and brings it to his dick.

He knows there has to be some natural curiosity buried under all of those nerves, and he’s not into the idea of using you like a doll. He takes your thumb between two of his fingers, swiping it through the pearl of precum on his tip, and down toward his shaft. Then, he lets your hand go.

With the hand that’s between your legs, his finger presses in again, further this time, and you squeeze around him in response. You trail three fingers from the top all the way down to the base of his pelvis. It’s smoother than you thought it would feel. Fuller. Just… not what you were expecting, maybe.

With one finger inside of you, his others explore between your legs, the long digits easily reaching across your lips and stretching towards your clit. You tuck your head between his shoulder and jaw, cuddling close to his chest as your fingers sprawl across the soft, ridged skinned of his length.

It’s not the most comfortable for him, stretching his arm around you like this, but he’s so entranced in watching you touch him that he forgets to mind.

You gasp sharply as his finger presses deeper than before, curling into a spongy part of your walls. Bradley kisses the sound away, his free hand coming up to cup the side of your throat.

“Does that feel good?” He whispers against your lips, kisses growing eager as he pushes his hips forwards, rocking himself against your bare stomach. You squeak back, nodding your head at him.

“Can you show me what to do?” You’re both being so quiet, sharing breaths and whispering even though you’re just about as close as two people could possibly be. Bradley takes your hand again, at once he pulls his finger out of you and dips yours between your own legs. Reeling, you just watch as he circles your clit with your fingers, soaking them before pulling back.

By the time he wraps your hand around his cock, eclipsing it with his own, it’s plenty slick. He lifts it slowly, and drags it back down, pumping it a few times on his length.

“Just like that, little firmer — yeah — yeah, that’s good,” He murmurs, now able to reach back between your legs more directly. He captures your mouth into one of his specialty dizzying, open-mouthed kisses as he presses his middle finger back into you. “Fuck, you’re so, so wet.”

It occurs to him briefly that maybe he’s in too deep — if this is how his first attempt at trying to convince you to further your studies has ended. It doesn’t stop him in the slightest.

He slows his motions next, rocking his hips into your hand as his ring finger hugs his middle and toys at your entrance before easing into you. You gasp, wincing slightly.

“Shh, shh… does that hurt?” Bradley whispers, searching your face for answers as your hand stills around him.

“A bit.” You croak out.

“Come here, honey, just give it one second. Tell me if it hurts any more.” Your head drops back down to his chest as the rough pad of his thumb circles at your clit. Trusting his expertise, you put your attention into touching him instead, guiding your hand up and down along his length. He pants softly, his heartbeat thudding against your cheek.

Slowly, he starts to work his fingers into you, moving them just barely to accommodate you to the feeling. A gentle curl of the two digits has you crying out softly into his bare skin. His cock twitches in your hand in response.

It’s been a long time since he has felt so out of his depth. He’s afraid of stepping a foot out of line. He wants you to trust him. It’s why he hasn’t yet snapped open the clasp on your bra — he doesn’t want to grope at you like some animal and scare you off. Getting to that point seems like a long stretch away.

But, the way you exhale softly and lift your head to kiss at his neck calms his nerves just a bit.

As his fingers push in further together, spurred on by the needy mewling noises you’re making, Bradley suddenly remembers the throbbing in his dick.

A pleased moan spills from your swollen lips as you drag them across his collarbones and along the protruding vein in the side of his neck, your hand still loosely working at a steady rhythm around him.

“Faster.” He hums into your mouth, rocking his hips eagerly into your hand as he curls his fingers into you. You keen helplessly into the feeling, squeezing your palm tighter and doing exactly what he had. A simple up and down tug.

“God, you’re the sweetest fuckin’ thing.” He doesn’t swear with you often, and really you’re not much of a fan of men with dirty mouths usually — but this, the gravel and desperation spilling from his voice has you throwing yourself at him, rocking yourself onto his fingers. “Taking it so well.”

Your mouth hangs open, legs spreading wider apart for him to angle himself closer. Bradley studies the look on your face, breathing heavy, knowing that if he does see you in his classroom in September, he’s in big trouble.

He’s not sure how he’ll ever look at you again and not think of this wide-eyed, trusting expression on your face.

His free hand comes up to brush your hair back off of your forehead, not quite noticing the lovestruck way you’re watching him as your stomach starts to tighten and tremble. His lips press softly to your forehead, just above your eyebrow, and then your cheek, just below your eye.

“You’re perfect.” He whispers, smiling at the way it makes your mouth hang open in a rounder shape. Then, he leans in and sucks softly at your bottom lip. “How’s it feeling?”

You swallow through the dryness in your mouth, suddenly remembering to close it, then you try to nod at him. “Good.”

“Real good, or just good?” He nudges at the tip of your nose with his, fucking his hips into your hand as his skilled fingers drive the thoughts out of your head. Another slow, dirty kiss and it feels like you might just melt into him and become one if he does it again.

“Real good.” You whimper.

You’re hugging his fingers so tight that you wouldn’t even have to be touching him for him to still be on the verge of cumming already. He gasps and covers your hand with his, slowing it around his cock as his fingers continue into you relentlessly.

“Was — Did I hurt you?”

“The opposite.” Bradley reassures you, breathing hard as he starts to slowly guide your hand along him again. “You almost made me cum.”

Your eyes hurry open, right as something Bradley does makes you squirm right into him and gasp out loud. He watches you watching him, trying to see what you’re doing, what it looks like.

“Oh — mm, don’t… you want to?” Your other hand comes up to grab firmly at his thick shoulder as your eyes squeeze shut again. You can barely feel your legs. Bradley grunts softly in your ear, his thumb working firm circles around your sensitive clit.

“Not ‘til you do.”

Luckily for him, he doesn’t have to wait long. Well, really there is nothing lucky about it. His moves are tried and tested. Before you know it, you’re coming all over his hand, babbling against the hot skin of his neck as you try to find the right word. Legs trembling, you cling onto his shoulder as he rocks your other hand around his length.

You can feel how close he is, how close he wants to be to you. He’s practically engulfing you, turning his face towards your neck and groaning enough to make you wish he hadn’t ever stopped touching you.

“I’m gonna cum.” Bradley seems to realize at once that you probably aren’t going to like what’s about to happen. He kisses you hard as he untangles your fingers from his and takes over, pressing his weight into you, chasing his own high.

Grabbing firmly at your waist, he pulls you against him and breathes hard into the crook of your neck, making it unmistakable as he groans your name. You watch, lips parted, as he coats his hand in his release, the fluid dripping onto his taut, shaking stomach.

“God, fuck—“ Bradley pants, swallowing hard and letting his head fall back against the pillow. So much for trying to keep his hands off of you.

You push yourself up so that you’re sitting, curling your knees up to your chest, taking a moment to observe him while his eyes are closed. All golden skin and soft lines, broad and strong. If he existed all those years ago, someone certainly would have wanted to carve him out of stone too.

“So, how does that myth end?”

He hums in amusement from beside you as his blurred thoughts start to come back to him. He’d almost forgotten what you had both even been talking about. He swallows thickly and glances down at the mess he has made on his hand.

“They survive it all, and get married,” He answers simply as he pushes himself up from the bed and searches for something to clean himself with.

Making a trip to the shared bathroom on this floor would probably be frowned upon in his current state.

“Their baby in the story goes on to be Voluptas — she’s known as the goddess of sensual pleasures.” He settles on a hand towel that seems untouched, and wiping off his hand and his stomach, then his dick. He turns around and finds you staring at him like he grew an extra head.

Quickly, you stand up and look towards the window like you hadn’t been staring.

“They went through all that just for it to be fine in the end.” You muse, shaking your head slightly as you grab your pyjama set and step into them, buttoning the shirt over your bare chest.

Now clothed in his boxers, Bradley presses his chest into your back and mouths softly at your neck.

“That’s how it always goes, more or less, right?” He decides, closing his eyes finally, turning his face towards your hair. You hum quietly. There’s a soft pause as his hand brushes over your bare stomach under your pajama shirt and then grabs firmly at your waist again. He sighs. “I should go.”

There’s no way he’ll be able to sneak out of here in the morning. You’ve all got an early checkout and with everyone being on the same floor, he’s just asking to get caught sneaking out of your room.

You whine quietly and turn towards him.

“Really?”

“Unless you want to explain to the class exactly what I was doing in your room all night, baby, yeah.” He murmurs, kissing the top of your head. Despite your tired protests, you do let him leave without either one of you speaking about the line you have once again crossed.

He lets himself into his room, shirt barely buttoned, belt barely fastened. Luke is sitting upright with his back against the headboard of his twin bed, eating a packet of miniature cookies and watching an Italian dub of The Golden Girls.

They meet eyes, silent as the door clicks shut behind Bradley. It’s 3:45am. Luke hasn’t seen Bradley since they parted ways after the class dinner at 10pm.

“Hey, buddy.” Bradley mumbles, kicking his shoes off and already starting to unbutton his shirt.

“Hey.” Luke mumbles back, eyeing Bradley curiously. They haven’t spent much time together recently. Luke has noticed that he basically has the room to himself.

He scoops up a handful of the cookies and fills his mouth as Bradley strips out of his jeans. His head is turned strictly towards the staticky television, but his eyes peek quickly across at the lipstick mark on Bradley’s neck.

Again, Bradley doesn’t want to talk about it. He makes the most of his couple of hours of sleep and drags himself out of bed once again all too soon, packing his belongings for another day of travel. They make small talk as the two of them head down to the lobby.

Luke walks right ahead, greeting Robin’s tonsils with his tongue before he greets her verbally. Bradley strolls behind, dropping his bags to the floor and stretching his neck from side to side.

“So, what’s in Monteriggioni anyway, Brad?” Zoe asked, draped across the couch with her arms folded over her chest. She’s wearing a little pink tank top, looking at him over the top of a book she’s reading for him. This is the least hungover he has seen her in weeks.

“It’s a walled town — but we’re staying around forty minutes away from there.” He explains, dropping his sunglasses down onto the bridge of his nose.

“Where?” Abigail pipes up, sipping on a bottle of water.

“It’s someone’s house. He takes study assistants through the summer. Worked with him a couple of times.”

“You know so many cool people.” Zoe hums, turning her head and grimacing as she comes eye to eye with Luke’s hand groping at Robin’s ass over her levi’s cut offs. Bradley makes a soft sound of acknowledgement as he turns his head to see you giggling with Pasquale on the way into the lobby.

With his tongue finally out of Robin’s mouth, Luke cranes his neck to get a look at what it is Bradley’s smiling at. You. He turns his head to look at Robin, giving her a knowing look as he gestures for her to look over too.

“Alright, gimme your keys, let’s get out of here.” Bradley calls out to the group, walking around and taking the key from each person in the class. You take a seat on the edge of the couch that Zoe is laying across without greeting him as he heads up to the front desk to check out.

“Where do you go every night after dinner? — You just sit in your room or something?” Robin asks, leaning around her boyfriend. You lift your head and turn to look at her, immediately bristled by the smug little look on her face.

“Sometimes, other times I walk around a little.” You don’t owe her an answer and really, Pasquale wishes that you wouldn’t engage.

She makes a face, almost smirking, “All by yourself?”

“Oh, we have a message for this room. A young lady from New York called three times yesterday afternoon, we were trying to reach the occupant.” The receptionist realizes as she holds up your key. Bradley glances at the number, then back at you over your shoulder. He has to remind himself to call you your name.

You whip your head around at the sound of his voice across the lobby. You turn quickly back to Robin and she quirks an eyebrow at you.

Bradley frowns slightly at the furious look on your face as you storm across the lobby towards him and stand firm, “What?”

“You have a message — someone called you a couple of times yesterday. Call ‘em back so we can hit the road, I’m going to take everyone else outside to load up the van.” Bradley explains, glancing down at your outfit for the day. He likes those shorts on you.

“Oh, right. Okay.”

“You alright?” Bradley lowers his head slightly, trying to get a better look at your face.

“Fine.” You answer him, turning away as the receptionist hands you the phone, “Hello?”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“… Catherine?” You frown, plugging one ear and holding the phone closer to you. Your maid of honour gasps on the other end of the line, appalled that you now have to second guess the sound of her voice.

“Everyone has been looking for you! We didn’t know which hotel you were at, Malcolm said you hadn’t called in days!”

You frown, wrinkling your face at her. “Daddy’s credit card paid for the hotel.”

“Well, Mac didn’t ask your dad. I’ve been so worried. How are you doing over there?”

Even more so, your frown deepens. Malcolm adores your father. They get along just fine. There’s no reason why he wouldn’t usually ask your father — usually, he wouldn’t need to. They talk every day.

“Yeah, good. Just busy and stuff, we’re traveling a lot. We have to get on the road in a second. I guess calling just slipped my mind.” You spent last night in another man’s arms and your fiancé was worried sick about you. You glance towards the door, watching Bradley laughing through conversation with Luke and Abigail outside. He doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest.

“I’m glad you’re doing okay over there. I miss you. So, you and Mac are good, then, right?”

“Miss you too, but yeah, of course.” You mumble, propping your hand against your chin.

“Good. He mentioned you kind of cornered him about that fight at my end of semester party. I’m really glad you two figured that out. I thought for a second you two were going to break up over it when I first saw him on top of you like that.”

Bradley turns around and bends his neck to look at you across the lobby, his smile fades, brows furrowing slightly as he watches you press your finger harder into your ear and turn quickly away.

“Wait… Cath, what?”

…

Tags: @thedroneranger @batdanceq @cassiemitchele @himbos-on-ice @wkndwlff @bradshawsbaby @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @sugarcoated-lame @kmc1989 @cherrycola27 @ahoyyharrington

[starborncoven]

Greek God Apollo ☀️

Hello everyone! We wanted our first informative post to be about this amazing god who has lighten our paths many times during these years. So here you have a small post about him!

Apollo is the son of Zeus and Leto, titan of the light of night and, later, light of day; and twin brother of Artemis.

God of light, medicine, diseases, plagues, dance, music, writing, arts, divination and prophecy, initiation, colonization, archery, youth and male beauty, among other things.

His best known places of worship were Delphi and Delos, but Apollo's cults have been all over Greece and have been very varied. Moreover, as a god of colonization, many of his cults invaded the lands of others and forced them to worship Apollo. A well-known case is that of the women who worshipped Gaia who ended up being massacred by one of the cults of Apollo, and it was this fact that gave rise to the myth of Apollo and Daphne.

Being such a popular god in both Greece and Rome, he has a multitude of myths that reflect very well his diversity and ambivalence. Let's talk about, for example, that of his birth, which can also be consulted in the Homeric Hymn III to Apollo. Here we will speak only of one of the versions, since it has several.

It all begins when Zeus got Leto pregnant. Hera, who was jealous, made it impossible for Leto to give birth anywhere both on land and in the ocean. Luckily for Leto, his sister Asteria had also been harassed by Zeus and, to escape from him, had turned herself into a floating island by the name of Ortigia. Thus, Leto found a place to rest.

However, Hera had put more obstacles in her way. She had forbidden Ilithia, goddess of childbirth, to attend the titanide, so Leto spent nine days and nine nights in agony until the other gods managed to bribe Ilithia.

First Artemis was born, who assisted her mother to help in the birth of Apollo; he was born on the seventh day of the month, hence the number usually associated with the god.

Ortigia was renamed Delos, where a temple and a statue were established in honor of Apollo. From here comes one of his epithets: Delius Apollo.

On the other hand, the serpent or dragon Python resided in Delphi, where he had an oracle. It is said that one of his prophecies spoke that it would be a son of Leto who would kill him, so he had pursued the Titan during her pregnancy and did not stop until Zeus put a stop to it.

Thus, on the fourth day of his birth, Apollo set out for Delphi with his bow and arrows in hand to avenge his mother. There he killed Python with one of his arrows, and one of his epithets is "Apollo far-shooter", and took the oracle. Other versions say that he chased the dragon to Tempe and killed him there.

Apollo established his oracle in Delphi and, in honor of Python, placed his bones in a cauldron that would serve both for the oracle and for the initiation of the Pythia. And here is born another of his epithets: Apollo Pythius.

As you can see, he is a rational and at the same time visceral god. He has his reasons for killing Python, but he still doesn't think twice and does it.

There are many more myths, such as that of Admetus and Apollo, Niobe and the children of Leto, or the well-known myths of Apollo and his lovers (which are not few), such as Daphne, Hyacinth, Cassandra, Cipariso or Coronis. I invite you to read them and learn about him.

As for his attributes, Apollo is related to the number 7, to wolves for shepherding, to mice for plagues, to laurel for his myth with Daphne or even for his myth with Python and his victory against him, to hyacinths for the myth of Hyacinth and an endless number of animals, plants and crystals such as crows, cypresses or the sunstone.

He is also characterized by his silver bow, the sun and the lyre, which he acquired from Hermes.

Apollo is the chief of the muses and nymphs, the lord of the arts in all fields, although at the beginning it was especially of dance. And, if you want to work something related to the arts, Apollo is the right god.

The arts, oratory, divination, sports, self-esteem, self-respect, anxiety, medicine (biosanitary field in general), decision making, personal growth, etc., are areas that can be worked with him.

Personally I have a very good relationship with Apolo. I have been in contact with him for a few years now and we have worked on some things together, and I can assure you that it is a pleasure to work and talk with him. I don't want to generalize, because the gods present themselves differently to each person, but he tends to be patient and very kind, as well as funny if he trusts you.

Apollo is, in my opinion, such a diverse and magnificent god that you can learn everything from him. Just don't piss him off, because his bow never misses and it hurts when he shoots an arrow.

And so much for this divine Sunday! This month we dedicate it to Apollo in the account. What did you think? Do you want to know more about him? Have a sunny day ☀️

[hypnos333]

Changing Fate

Eros x Goddess reader

Synopsis: Fate had it easy for you as you were a goddess of fate until you got in the away with another’s fate

You were the daughter of Hera and Zeus, you were the third born after Ares and Hephaestus. Of course your parents adores you especially your mother. Being the goddess of Fate was easy then one, two, and three.

You were as beautiful as Aphrodite but you were no goddess of beauty.

“U-Uhm ___?” Eros called out holding your golden paged journal.

“Oh my Zeus! Thank you so much Eros” You said excitedly holding the book with delicacy. His wings flutter in shyness.

“Of course my cupid” He said back making you blush before hold the journal close to you.

“I should be calling you that Cupid” You flirted back making him blush again. He always haded feelings for you and since you lost your fate book you didn’t see that his fate now changed.

“So what should I call you? Oh! How about my love?” he asked excitedly making me agree instantly

“Whatever you like my cupid but right now I have to do my job” you said your goodbye. “Bye my love” Eros said back dreamily making you giggle as you turn back to your mansion.

You reread the journal to make sure everything was in shape in normal but it wasn’t….

See with the journal you can see everyone’s fate even gods or goddesses with Eros it holds a sparkling pink thread around his fate. It’s fading…. And not for the right reasons it should.

Eros fate is about love…

A king and queen has three daughters, all three of the girls are attractive but one of them is absolutely gorgeous- Phyche was her name. People would come all over to check out how beautiful she was. neglecting the proper worship of Aphrodite, instead prayed and made offerings to her. It was rumored that she was the second coming of Venus, or the daughter of Venus from an unseemly union between the goddess and a mortal. Venus is offended, and commissions Cupid to work her revenge. Cupid is sent to shoot Psyche with an arrow so that she may fall in love with something hideous. He instead scratches himself with his own dart, which makes any living thing fall in love with the first thing it sees. Consequently, he falls deeply in love with Psyche and disobeys his mother's order. Although her two humanly beautiful sisters have married, the idolized Psyche has yet to find love. Her father suspects that they have incurred the wrath of the gods, and consults the oracle of Apollo. The response is unsettling: the king is to expect not a human son-in-law, but rather a dragon-like creature The transported girl awakes to find herself at the edge of a cultivated grove. Exploring, she finds a marvelous house with golden columns, a carved ceiling of citrus wood and ivory, silver walls embossed with wild and domesticated animals, and jeweled mosaic floors. A disembodied voice tells her to make herself comfortable, and she is entertained at a feast that serves itself and by singing to an invisible lyre. Although fearful and without the proper experience, she allows herself to be guided to a bedroom where, in the darkness, a being she cannot see has sex with her. She gradually learns to look forward to his visits, though he always departs before sunrise and forbids her to look upon him. Soon, she becomes pregnant.

One night after Cupid falls asleep, Psyche carries out the plan her sisters devised: she brings out a dagger and a lamp she had hidden in the room, in order to see and kill the monster. But when the light instead reveals the most beautiful creature she has ever seen, she is so startled that she wounds herself on one of the arrows in Cupid's cast-aside quiver. Struck with a feverish passion, she spills hot oil from the lamp and wakes him. He flees, and though she tries to pursue, he flies away and leaves her on the bank of a river.

The rest of his fate was faded

You stood there shocked, this never happened before… this should’ve never happened. Why is it fading?

The ink was supposed to stay as it should so why is his fate changing?

You couldn’t say that you were glad his fate was changing, you were falling for the cupid after all but that did not mean he couldn’t be happy.

All she could do was watch the ink disappear like his fate was never there, and hope a new fate can appear for him. You slammed the book shut and rush to make sure Eros was safe.

When you saw him getting an apple from a tree you immediately rushed to him with a hug. Eros almost fell from the rush of someone.

“Woah My love, are you alright?” he asked gently not wanting to trigger you.

You put your hands on his cheek to make sure he has no injuries. “Of course, Are you okay?” you asked worriedly.

“Yeah? ___ we saw each other ten minutes ago, what’s wrong?” he asked making you hesitate on the question it’s self. It’s not like you can hide his dying fate from him but know something could be wrong is killing you.

“Y-Your fate changed and I couldn’t do anything about it and I thought something was wrong” You admitted making him nod.

“My fate with a human girl?” he asked making you instantly nod.

“Yeah a-and wait how did you know?” You asked making him chuckle awkwardly before clearing his throat to explain.

“W-Well I look in the journal and saw how my fate went and honestly I don’t want that to happen because ___ goddess of fate i’m in love with you” He confessed making you blush in shyness.

“W-What?” You whispered.

“I got approval from you family especially Ares and Zeus even though they’re scary as hell but I was willing to do it for you and I have been falling for you for decades but you were to busy in your work” He explained

“Well Eros of love and sex I will happily be yours” You said making him spin you around in joy.

“I’ll definitely make you the most happiest goddess in this earth my love” he stated making you hum as you leaned in as you both kissed passionately.

[aliciavance4228]

In your opinion, what do you think Perseus feels about each of the younger heroes? Especially considering a good portion of them doomed themselves because of hubris / cheating on their wives

One hero Perseus seems to be contemporary with is Bellerophon. He was exiled to Argos, which back then was ruled by Proteus, and where he was also raped/assaulted/accused of sexual abuse by the queen, which ultimately led to Proteus sending Bellerophon to different missions. Coincidentally enough, Proteus was eventually killed by Perseus (at least according to Hyginus), which I do believe that brought Bellerophon some kind of satisfaction. I do believe that if Perseus and Andromeda would've been the king and the queen at that time and Bellerophon would've been sent to them instead then perhaps Perseus would've treated him as a son, and Bellerophon would've became a better person. Also, maybe Perseus would try to be on good terms with Pegasus as well, considering the fact that he killed his mother without knowing she was pregnant.

Theseus is a more complicated subject. I do think that he would have some sort of distant attitude towards him purely because of his father, Aegeus. According to Tzetzes one of Perseus' daughters, Autochthe, was married to him, but after many daughters and no son he decided not only to divorce her, but also to consult the oracle (and Perseus knows very well what could happen when a king visits the Oracle because he wants a male heir). I also do not find it hard to believe that Perseus would criticize Theseus' personal life as well, considering the fact that dude abandoned a woman he was supposed to marry (whereas Perseus married a woman who was just abandoned) and asked for his son to be killed, without even knowing wheter or not Phaedra's accusations were real. Also, Helen of Sparta was his (step) great-granddaughter, so he has reasons to despise him for kidnapping her too.

Heracles was Perseus' great-grandson, so I find it hard to believe that he was still alive when Heracles was an adult. Perhaps he was more concerned by the fact that his granddaughter's newborn is inhumanly strong for a baby and almost had a heart attack after finding out who is his father.

Ironically enough I think that Perseus would get along with Cadmus the most, but they two never met.

On the last part of your ask, I can see Perseus judging heroes for their hubris, but I have doubts in terms of cheating. While Perseus himself seems to be ahead of his time when it comes to his attitude towards women, that doesn’t change the fact that Ancient Greece was a patriarchal society, and cheating wasn't condemned among men most of the time. Not to mention the fact that having sex slaves wasn't considered cheating back then. One of Perseus' best friends during his reign was Pelops, who had a bastard son. One of Perseus' sons was Electryon, who had a bastard son as well. So while he was a faithful husband that doesn’t mean that the men around him were like him. And considering the fact that there are lots of figures in Greek Mythology both during and after his times who commited WAY MORE horrible crimes I do not consider cheating to be the ultimate criteria that he would use in order to judge other people.

[the-ghost-king]

Hello ! I wanted to ask will there be any more Percy Jackson books after Percy gets his final admission letter ?

I can't usually see that far ahead, let's take some well respected truth from the Oracle of Delphi, Rachel!

RACHEL: Hi, great to be here!

RR: Great to have you! Let's get started, shall we?

RACHEL: Sounds perfect!

RR:I see Apollo has asked you to bring something along today, can you explain?

RACHEL: Yes of course! This here is my trusty magic eight ball, whenever demigods are setting out on dangerous quests it's something I can consult if they're hesitant.

RR: And that actually works?

RACHEL: This magic eight ball is actually special, since it was blessed by Apollo after his return from defeating Python recently it has great advice to give.

RR: Like what?

RACHEL: Well, sometimes it says things like "feed Seymour now, ask again later" or "party at the Hermes cabin, answers await" other times it's advice might be something like "even a broken clock is right twice a day". Very useful stuff for demigods in need!

RR: Sounds like it! And there's been no issues with the prophecy since Apollo's return to his throne on Olympus?

RACHEL: Well the one day the magic eight ball refused to give any answers, but I think that had more to do with Holly and Laurel using it as a billard ball for a competitive game of Pool.

RR: What makes you think that?

RACHEL: It just showed on the triangle inside no matter how many times you shook it, the ball just kept saying "AHHH!! WHY WAS I BORN THIS WAY HOW DID GOD MAKE ME SO PLEASE I WISH TO END IT ALL I LIVE A LIFE OF AGONY. SHIT. FUCK. OH MY GOD PLEASE LET ME BE FREE I WANT-"

RR: I hate to cut you off, Rachel, but that's certainly colorful...

RACHEL: Oh you don't know the worst of it, it delivers limericks too! Listen:

There once was a Zeus from Olympus, he had big balls that started to rust, when he clanged them together, they could control weather, and a lightning bolt would shoot out his-

RR: That's definitely not appropriate for younger readers!

RACHEL: Huh, maybe you're right. Let's try another!

RR: I'm not so sure-

RACHEL: Okay, here we go:

There was once Aphrodite, beware her vegence was mighty, she fell to her knees, and with one look said "please", and made Ares cu-

RR: Well, thank you so much to Rachel and her magic eight ball from Lord Apollo for giving us their time today! See you all again later!

Rachel: Bye!

Magic Eight Ball: 𝙹⍑ ⍑𝙹∴ i ⍑ᔑℸ ̣ ᒷ ||𝙹⚍

i ∴╎ᓭ⍑ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ᓭ!¡���リ↸ ᒲ|| ℸ ̣ ╎ᒲᒷ ⍑ᒷ∷ᒷ

ᔑꖎ𝙹リᒷ, ⎓⚍リリ|| ᔑリ↸ ⍑ᔑ∷↸

[jeannereames]

Hello Mrs Reames! Quick question as someone that is still new to Alexander the Great, I was on TikTok the other day and someone posted a TikTok of an incident in which Alexander the Great supposedly dragged the oracle of Delphi out by her hair because she couldn't give him a prophecy that day, is this true?

Alexander and the Delphic Oracle

First, before answering, let’s do a quick PSA. I’m sure the asker meant to address me in the most polite way they knew how, and I’ve run into this error frequently with undergrads, who (at least in American public schools) are told to address a female teacher as “Ms.” or “Mrs.”

Thus, I offer this correction as gently as possible. But it’s important in an era when titles are being withheld from women as a means of belittlement—then, if a woman dares to object, they’re made fun of or called uppity and “sensitive.”* Again, I’m sure the asker here did not mean anything unkind (or they wouldn’t be asking me something in the first place!). So this is NOT a slap at them. But I’m not a Mrs. (I'm not married, and Reames is my birth name). I’m Dr. Reames or Professor Reames. You can even call me Jeanne (as long as you’re not a student in my class, ha). If you’re a (US) college student and unsure if your instructor has a PhD, “professor” is always safe. 😊

Now, to the question….

Plutarch tells a rather peculiar little story of new King Alexander, on his way home from a meeting of the Corinthian League (in Corinth), stopping at Delphi to ask the oracle a question. I should add, this event occurs right after Plutarch’s description of ATG’s meeting with the Cynic philosopher Diogenes. (E.g., it’s part of a “theme.”)

Now, the Delphic oracle wasn’t open for consults all the time. She only heard them a day or so a month…and that for only some months of the year. He came at the wrong time of year (winter, when Dionysos held the oracle, not his half-brother Apollo). So she told him, “No.” Reportedly, he stormed to her little house in the village of Delphi to manhandle her, intending to drag her to the oracle for his query. She replied, “Son! You’re invincible!” Pleased with that, he let her go.

And Plutarch presents this as if it’s all a-okay.

This is weird. It’s weird that Plutarch, a priest of Delphi from Chaironeia, wasn’t up in arms about this clear affront to an honored oracle (and an old woman). It’s an act of asebia (impiety). But it would be even weirder if Alexander had actually done it. Alexander, the uber-pious.

Plutarch is the ONLY one to tell this story. Anywhere.

Yet there’s a story remarkably like it with different players set during the Third Sacred War when the Phokians had seized the Oracle. It’s this event that set off the war, and which brought ol’ Philip into southern politics and eventually landed him a seat on the Amphictyonic Council as a staunch “Defender of Apollo.” Philomelos was the leader of the Phokians early in the war. Below are both accounts, starting with Diodoros’s (original source likely Kallisthenes, who wrote a history of the war).

With the oracle in Philomelus’ hands, he instructed the Pythia to continue prophesying from the tripod in the traditional way. When she refused, he threatened her and compelled her to mount the tripod. To this display of excessive force, she responded by declaring that he could do whatever he wanted—and he was pleased by this and declared that he had the oracle that suited him. He immediately had the oracle inscribed and set up for all to see, in order to make it clear that he had the god’s permission to do whatever he wanted, and he convened an assembly at which he boosted morale in the ranks by telling them about the prophecy (Diod. 16.27.1-2, Waterfield trans).

And now, wishing to consult the god concerning the expedition against Asia, [Alexander] went to Delphi; and since he chanced to come on one of the inauspicious days, when it is not lawful to deliver oracles, in the first place he sent a summons to the prophetess. And when she refused to perform her office and cited the law in her excuse, he went up himself and tried to drag her to temple, whereupon, as if overcome by his ardour, she said: “Thou art invincible, my son!” On hearing this, Alexander said he desired no further prophecy, but had from her the oracle which he wanted (Plut. Alex. 14.4, Perrin trans.)

With Philomelos, there is no question later in Diodoros that his act was impiety. His eventual death is (partly) attributed to it. Plutarch picks up this event, dusts it off, recasts the “inquirer,” and—moreover—uses it as affirmation of Alexander’s “invincibility.” Remember “The Invincible” was his nickname in Greece in his own day. The Romans called him Magnus (the Great).

In short, Plutarch retooled the story to suit his own purposes.

So no, it never happened. At least, not with Alexander. (And he’d have been horrified, I think, to hear he’d been accused of any such thing.)

Plutarch makes these detail changes when it suits him. I have an article coming out in a year or so where I discuss this tendency and bring the receipts (of quite a few examples)—including one I think a lot of folks here will find VERY interesting. But I’m not the only one saying it about this event in particular. It’s been noted as an “odd” episode before, including by Hamilton, if I recall (who did the commentary on Plutarch). But Lara O’Sullivan really showed where it came from, source-wise, in her “Callisthenes and Alexander the Invincible God,” P. Wheatley and E. Baynham, eds., East and West in the World Empire of Alexander: Essays in Honour of Brian Bosworth. Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press (2015), 35–52.

Some may still wonder why Alexander wouldn’t have gone to the oracle?

He didn’t need to. His father already had. And if later historians (such as Diodoros) reinterpreted her pronouncement to be about Philip’s murder, not the fall of Persia, it was a positive reply at the time. Going to Delphi again might risk something less flattering/hopeful. Not to mention, it was the wrong time of the year, and Alexander knew that. He had more important fish to fry. He wasn’t going to hang around, waiting (for months) for an auspicious day.

He was good with the oracle his father had got. After all, he’d been trumpeting for months that “only the name of the king had changed.” The original oracle would do just fine.

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

*A BIG stink was made here in the US by the conservative media over Dr. Jill Biden being “Dr.” The initial "rebuke" stemmed from the fact her degree is “just” a doctor of education. When that faced pushback, however, conservatives on social media began to fuss, well, she wasn’t a MEDICAL doctor, so didn’t “deserve” that title. Which is silly. Doctor is the correct title for a medical doctor, as well as for a host of professional degrees, including a doctor of education, a doctor of theology, a doctor of business, etc. The degree that takes the longest to complete is the PhD, or doctor of philosophy. We’re ALL “doctors.” The problem for them was a professional woman who dared to use her title. Wasn’t she an uppity bitch?

[whencyclopedia]

Telesilla of Argos

Telesilla of Argos was a lyric poet of the 5th century BCE, listed by Antipater of Thesalonike (c. 15 BCE) as one of the great Nine Female Lyric Poets of Greece (along with Praxilla, Moiro, Anyte, Sappho, Erinna, Corinna, Nossis, and Myrtis). She was responsible for the metrical innovation of lyric poetry known as the Telesillean Metre. Antipater writes:

These are the divinely tongued women who were reared on the hymns of Helicon and the Pierian Rock of Macedon: Praxilla, Moiro, Anyte the female Homer, Sappho the ornament of the fair-tressed Lesbian women, Erinna, renowned Telesilla, and you, Corinna, who sang of Athena's martial shield, Nossis the maiden-throated, and Myrtis the sweet-voiced, All of them fashioners of the everlasting page. Nine Muses Great Ouranos bore, Nine likewise Gaia, to be a joy undying for mortals (Anthologia Palatina, 9.26).

In her youth, she was continually sickly and so consulted the gods for help in restoring her to health. The answer came from the oracle that she should devote herself to the Muses, and so Telesilla dedicated herself to the study of poetry and music. She soon found herself healed and, additionally, grew in fame as a great lyric poet. Of the considerable body of work she produced, only two lines remain extant as quoted by the ancient grammarian Hephaistion of Alexandria in his Handbook on Meter (c. 96 CE). References to her, however, appear in the works of Pausanius (c. 110-180 CE), Plutarch (45-120 CE), Athenaeus (c. 3rd century CE), and the work Bibliotheca ascribed (wrongly) to Apollodorus of Alexandria (2nd century CE), among others. She was an extremely influential artist who is always cited with respect by other ancient authors, no matter the subject.

Telesilla & the Salvation of Argos

While she was famous during her life for her poetry, she was equally respected by later writers for driving the Spartan forces from her home city of Argos in 494/493 BCE. Telesilla seems to have been at her work as a poet when the hostilities began. The Spartan king Cleomenes I consulted the Oracle of Apollo on what would happen if he marched on Argos, and he was assured that he would capture it. He was met on the field by the Argives at Sepeia and, through trickery, took the troops by surprise, slaughtered many, and chased the survivors from the field. These Argive soldiers took refuge in the sacred grove of Argus and claimed sanctuary from the god. Cleomenes questioned his Argive prisoners as to the names of those in hiding and, once he had these names, sent a herald to call them out personally and to guarantee their safety. As each man came out of the sanctuary, Cleomenes had him killed. This went on until one of the men remaining in the sacred grove climbed a tree and saw what was going on outside of the sanctuary. Afterwards, of course, no other Argive answered Cleomenes' call. Since he could not get any more Argives to come out willingly, he set fire to the grove and burned the rest of the men to death. Herodotus reports that, as the flames were rising, he asked one of the Argive deserters to which god the grove was sacred. When the man said it was the grove of Argus, Cleomenes groaned and said, “Apollo, god of prophecy, you seriously misled me when you foretold that I would capture Argos; I think your prediction has now come true” (Histories, VI.80).

Even though it seemed the oracle had meant he would only conquer the sanctuary of Argos, he left the grove and marched on the city. Telesilla heard of what had happened to the men of the army and mobilized the women, youth, and elders of Argos for defense. Plutarch writes:

No action taken by women for the common good is more famous than the conflict against Cleomenes by the Argive women, which they fought at the instigation of the poetess Telesilla. When Cleomenes king of Sparta had killed many Argives (but not, as some have imagined, Seven thousand, seven hundred, and seventy-seven) and marched against the city, an impulsive courage, divinely inspired, impelled the younger women to defend their country against the enemy. With Telesilla as general, they took up arms and made their defense by manning the walls around the city, and the enemy was amazed. They drove Cleomenes off after inflicting many losses. They also repulsed the other Spartan king, Demaratus, who (according to the Argive historian Socrates) managed to get inside and seize the Pamphylacium. After the city was saved, they buried the women who had fallen in battle by the Argive road, and as a memorial to the achievements of the women who were spared they dedicated a temple to Ares Enyalius ... Up to the present day they celebrate the Festival of Impudence (Hybristika) on the anniversary putting the women into men's tunics and cloaks and the men in women's dresses and head-coverings (Moralia 245c-f).

Telesilla's actions were interpreted by other writers as the fulfillment of a prophecy by the oracle, referenced by Herodotus, concerning Argos. Pausanius writes:

Above the Theater there is a temple of Aphrodite and in front of the seated statue of the goddess is a stele engraved with an image of Telesilla the writer of poems. These lie as though thrown down beside her feet and she herself is looking at a helmet which she holds in her hand and is about to put on her head. Telesilla was famous among women for her poetry but still more famous for the following achievement. Her fellow citizens had sustained an indescribable disaster at the hands of the Spartans under Cleomenes son of Anaxandridas. Some had fallen in actual battle and of the others, who took sanctuary in the grove of Argus, some had at first ventured out under a truce, only to be burnt to death when Cleomenes set fire to the grove. By these means Cleomenes, proceeding to Argos, led his Lacedaemonians against a city of women. But Telesilla took all the slaves and all such male citizens who through youth or age had been unable to bear arms, and made them man the walls, and gathering together all the weapons of war that had been left in the houses or were hanging in the temples, armed the younger women and marshalled them at a place she knew the enemy must pass. There, undismayed by the war cry, the women stood their ground and fought with the greatest determination, until the Spartans, reflecting that the slaughter of an army of women would be an equivocal victory, and defeat at their hands would be dishonor as well as disaster, laid down their arms. Now this battle had been foretold by the Pythian Priestess, and Herodotus , whether he understood it or not, quotes the oracle as follows:

When male by female is put to flight And Argos' name with honor is bright Many an Argive wife will show Both cheeks marred with scars of woe.

Such is the part of the oracle which refers to the women.

Continue reading...

[dailyadventureprompts]

Dungeon: The Seeping Tombs

The learned and pious council of the king's advisors concluded that if sickness was a sign of moral failing, that medicine was a form of ennoblement allowing the sinner to bypass suffering without repentance. By royal decree the healers were thrown in along with their patients, the gates sealed behind them.

Constructed during an age of ignorance, these now innocuous ruins were used as a prison for those who had committed no crime besides falling ill. Pestilence ravaged the land, and after years of failing or outright refusing to control its spread the old king and his pious inner circle began to resent the masses who suffered under under their misrule.

The building that became the tombs was already under construction, intended as the foundations for a great temple dedicated to the king's imperious patron deity. When the work crews grew sick their bodies were passed into the lowest reaches to prevent the spread of miasma, joined soon after by dead from the local villages, and eventually those afflicted but still living.

It was not long after the gates were sealed that something otherworldly come to dwell within the tomb, suborning the natural process of decay causing those interred within to rot into a sickening and malevolent sludge.

Adventure Hook: A new magical malady besets those descended form the king and his pious council, and though some have inherited their forebearers' zeal and callousness many others are quite innocent. When traditional cures fail, The party are hired to seek an answer, and whether through research or the consultation of oracles find themselves pointed towards the seeping tombs. Irony of ironies, this exact sickness was being looked into by talented physician condemned by the king's order, consigned along with her research to a squalid death among those she tried to save.

Whatever the source of the present malady, it has a sense of cruel justice that the party should be wary of.

Challenges & Complications:

Summoned by the prolonged fear, suffering, and affliction of those trapped within the tombs, Juiblex, demon sovereign of ooze, has consecrated the tombs as an altar to despair and wretchedness. The tunnels are overrun with its spawn, along with undead who's spirits cannot rest for all the cruelty that was done to them in life.

The longer and deeper the party explore, the more sick they're likely to get.

Early chambers of this dungeon are a great excuse to use the classic "what looks like a skeletal warrior approaching slowly down a corridor is actually a gelatinous cube & its last meal" encounter, which is a treat in and of itself.

The upper reaches of the tomb are controlled by a nest of ghoulish knights and footmen, who were originally tasked with driving droves of the sick into the dungeon, only to find themselves sealed inside along with the afflicted. As fearful and proud as their departed liege, they play at piety and honour willing to lend aid to the party for a chance to escape the tombs and run rampant on the surface.

The middle reaches of the tomb see the party exploring twisting, sticky corridors, their progress fenced in by portcullises and other defences that need to be opened remotely. These hurdles do not stop the level's guardian, a massive and inexorable ooze that will chase the party with relentless slowness once alerted. Expect an oddly paced chase scene as the party works on opening a path forward while trying not to get trapped in a room by the sludgy green tide.

The cure to the magical malady lays with it's source: the ghost of the masterful physician who's long simmering resentment has manifested as a curse. Having been denied the chance to save her patients, she must be convinced why she should allow her research to be used to save the realm's ungrateful rulers while the victims of their callousness go unmourned. Her counter-offer is as brutal as it is poetic: Let the sickness at the heart of the kingdom devour those who benefit from it, and let the future come as it may.

Art 1

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[amostcuriousmythicist]

Euryalus: A lost Play by Sophocles

You know another lost play that has intrigued me as of late is this one written by Sophocles about Odysseus life after returning to Ithaca, purely due to how insane it is. We don’t have any actual lines from it but the Alexandrian scholar Parthenius gives us a good summary of it:

After his wanderings were over and when he had killed the suitors, Odysseus went to Epirus in order to consult the oracles. While he was there he seduced Euippe, the daughter of Tyrimmas, who had received him graciously and offered him all possible hospitality. Consequently Euippe gave birth to a son, Euryalus. When he grew up to adulthood, his mother sent Euryalus away to Ithaca, having given him certain tokens sealed in a writing-tablet. When he arrived it happened that Odysseus was absent. Penelope had previously been aware of Odysseus’ passion for Euippe, but now she learnt the whole story. She persuaded Odysseus, upon his return, to kill Euryalus on the grounds that he was plotting against him; she did this before he could discover the truth about the situation. And so Odysseus, because of his lack of self-control and unseemly behaviour in general, became his own son’s murderer. Not long afterwards Odysseus himself died at the hands of his own son, having been wounded by the spine of a fish.

The Lost Plays of Greek Tragedy (Volume 2) by Matthew Wright. Page 89