I am intrigued.
May I please request an Aglaea and a Reader who's nervous about telling Aglaea that they're a Nousporist scholar because they can't accept that the Titans put Aglaea through so much suffering?
Cruelty || Aglaea x Reader
Tags: Angst, hurt/comfort, bathing, casual nudity (what did we expect)
Was Mnestia’s true form as dazzling as this? Did their skin shine brilliantly under the morning light, their hair smooth as silk upon one’s fingers, their smile so blinding as to close all eyes of Aquila in its wake? Had Cerces hesitated, upon being faced with such beauty? You hesitated.
AN: I'm sorry that this took so long!!! I was getting my shit together amphoreus wise and honestly i'm still getting there, but we move! Enjoy <3
Word count: 2128
Late afternoon brings with it an amount of peace that settles within the bones. The air grows quiet, the people begin to retreat and slowly but surely the Curtain-Fall Hour begins to set in.
Silly thing, that you'd find yourself here. The water is warm and inviting, there's peace in the way it welcomes you as you enter the private baths, and for a moment the worries of the day all seem to melt into steam as if never having existed at all.
Aglaea is here to meet you, as always.
There, in all of her naked glory as she waits for you to arrive. She knows you are there long before you step onto the floor near the water, but she gives you the mercy of inclining her head to acknowledge you as you come close.
Like this… she's beautiful.
“Had a good day, my dear?” She asks in the quiet, her hand lifting to welcome your cheek as you settle ever closer. The moment she touches you, she sends a wave of calmness through the threads that twist all around you, marking you as hers, and it helps relax your tense muscles. “You seem quite happy.”
You hum, smiling. “All is well, what about you?”
The tense line of her shoulders speaks volumes, but she doesn't say anything. Rather, she shakes her head and pulls you closer.
“Come. Let us begin our routine, shall we?”
And who are you to deny her?
Bathing with Aglaea oftentimes feels more like a slow and tender morning waking up by her side than anything else. She’s careful in her movements, slow as her touch brushes against your skin, but she remains purposeful all the same as her fingers trail down from your shoulders to your waist – in contrast, your actions are sharper and quicker, but no less appreciative.
Your mind wanders as your fingers drag against her skin, thinking of how utterly lucky you are to be able to see her like this. Back in your younger days, you would hear plenty from the joined believers of Mnestia and Cerces, waxing poetry about their sacred union that reflects upon the lovers of the present – as they sang of Cerces’ folly that led to Mnestia’s heartbreak, you think that you understand it a little bit.
Was Mnestia’s true form as dazzling as this? Did their skin shine brilliantly under the morning light, their hair smooth as silk upon one’s fingers, their smile so blinding as to close all eyes of Aquila in its wake? Had Cerces hesitated, upon being faced with such beauty?
Was that hesitation the downfall of their union?
The day your union began, you did hesitate and your hands shook with such vigor that you thought yourself sick. It couldn’t be, not with the way her faith rivaled yours, not with the way you challenged the very existence of her belief with your own – and you thought, perhaps rather selfishly, that she could do better than you.
As she argued with your Professor, you thought to yourself that she had to be Mnestia’s favorite. Child of Romance, child of beauty and fairness, someone who could easily ascend to the throne the previous Titans had taken for themselves.
That thought alone already exposed exactly what the issue was, for to believe a mortal could ascend to full godhood is blasphemy. Heresy that she actively despised as it was clearly spouted from the mouth of your Professor.
You shift uneasily in the waters. You have yet to tell her even now.
“Your mind goes elsewhere,” She says in the calm, leaning against your touch. With a startle you realize you stopped moving entirely in your stupor, her soaped up back still bare for you to see. “What ails you, my dear?”
Maybe it's the tiredness, maybe it's everything else.
Maybe it was watching Professor Anaxagoras come to Lady Aglaea and openly engage in yet another argument earlier during the Action Hour, as if to make a point. Maybe it was Lord Phainon's quiet chuckle by your side. Maybe it was Lady Aglaea's sharp look thrown his way.
She notices.
Maybe she knew all along.
“...Nothing.” You mumble under your breath, gathering water with your palms to clean up the soap properly.
She waits until you’re done, finally then standing and turning to you with a serene expression. Her hand reaches out, careful as her nails softly scratch the skin beneath your ear, and she pulls your chin to properly face her.
Like this, you feel lighter. The weight of your lie dissipating under the steam of a warm bath.
“If something is troubling you, then I must endeavor to fix it, no?” She smiles, her gaze as tender as can be. “Now, turn around and sit down.”
You obey without hesitation, used to this ritual of caring and being cared for. She sits behind you, her hands soon finding their place upon your body and roaming – it’s in this careful air that you realize that there is no escaping her question.
Whether you answer now or not… She knows something is up. Maybe she always did and has decided to stop pretending she can’t see it.
“Hah… can you even tell?”
“I am simply well versed in seeing what there is.” She says and her hand roams upward, fingers curling against the curve of your neck in a way that feels all too protective. From behind like this, you wish you could see her expression. “Tell me.”
There is a long bout of silence that follows, only the sound of water shifting as she moves. Your hands find their way to your knees, nails scratching at the skin, and still you hesitate.
Truly, you wish you didn’t have to say anything.
“Lady Aglaea…”
“Slip not into formal address, come now…” She clicks her tongue, leaning forward to nuzzle at your neck. You lean back as you feel her touch, instinctively. “What is it that scares you so, my dear? Why do you hesitate?”
Caught red handed. She must have sensed your fear through her threads, crafty and perceptive as they are in their full glory. You swallow at that revelation, looking down and staring at your own shifting fingers.
“...When you asked me what I pursued, I never responded.” You start, breaching the topic slowly. “Not once have I clarified it.”
She hums pensively, nails scratching softly at your skin. “You have not, no.”
That you are a scholar of mild renown is a given, you met at the Twilight Courtyard after all. Your knowledge at times varied and at times rather peculiar has been of great help to both Okhema and your own place of study, something Aglaea has shown great appreciation towards in the past. Merely, it shows that towards this regard you have never lied, but as for the rest…
“That's because I'm…” You stop, the words stuck within your throat. To say the name of your area of expertise feels cheap at a moment like this, so your brain naturally course corrects into something… nicer. “I… I agree with Professor Anaxagoras in his studies, which I imagined would make me rather, well, unwelcome in your presence.”
Her hands still against your skin, suddenly nearly cold to the touch. There it is, you think to yourself, we part ways here and never again shall I see her tender smile.
And yet the silent stretches, unaddressed. It leaves too much room for you to think, worried as you are, that said worry eventually morphs into fear – is she resentful of your lie, you wonder? Perhaps reconsidering your every action?
“...And why would that be, now?” She says finally and her hands begin moving again.
Your breath hitches as her nail digs softly against the middle of your back, pointed yet careful. Huh?
“Y-You don't seem keen on Professor Anaxagoras' presence, Lady Aglaea.”
She chuckles this time and you're surprised at how soft it sounds, free of worry. Or frustration. Or… hatred.
“Within reason, yes. He vexes me so and there is no denying it – and yet.” Her hand glides down your skin, wet and “Did you truly believe I did not consider this beforehand? I may be… losing those little parts of myself that make me human, but the Goldweaver still sees clearly.”
You startle at that, your jolt sending ripples across the water. With a turn, you're both facing each other and yet her expression remains serene, as if you were merely speaking of the weather.
“T-Truly? But then…”
She purses her lips, a twitch of her brow that betrays soft yet tender sadness.
“I would not deny you the chance to explain yourself, my dear.” She reaches out a hand and with a moment's hesitation that hurts you both, you place your own upon hers. “Or to decide when to breach the topic directly.”
That movements that follow are methodical, yet all the more caring. It is perhaps a sign of what could never happen, this idea that had cemented itself so thoroughly into your head – sure, her hatred for what your Professor bases the very foundations of his belief on is plain to see, but at which point did you begin to believe it would overshadow the love that remains within her breast?
Love, love. The foundation of Romance, that which brought Mnestia from the depths of a woven gold cocoon – if not for Cerces, then for the world that welcomed their new breaths and blinking eyes that stung under Aquila's gaze.
You cannot imagine it. Long, long ago there was a child with golden locks and blueish-green eyes that chased after the feet of her brothers, who climbed blooming trees and sang with her sisters as they ate from the fresh fruit, who loved and dreamed with the fierce determination only a child with boundless potential ever can.
Who worshiped Mnestia with fervor, who understood Romance like second nature. You understand, yes, why is it that meeting her pushed you further towards the words of your Professor.
Because her very existence in a world where your theories are incorrect pains you. How could the titans curse her to a present so painful, if not out of pure malice? Human malice?
Your hand glides upon her shoulder as she turns to finish bathing and in a moment of pure unadulterated desperation, you pull her. There is no struggle, for she is yet graceful in the face of your blasphemy, and yet she melts upon your touch.
“They’re cruel.”
“Hm?”
You hold onto her, embracing her from behind with the fervor of someone who has lost everything. The sensation that follows is fleeting, but you know it all the same – her threads embracing you just as much as her hands that carefully hold onto your arms.
“Who, my love?” She asks and her voice is patient, unfairly so. How fitting for you and you alone to break down over this matter.
“Mnestia. The Titans. They… they’re cruel. I cannot imagine it to be anything but human cruelty.” Your eyes sting as you say it, voice partially muffled as you hide your face into her hair. Your voice becomes hoarse, overtaken by feeling. “If they were divine all along, then… why not spare you a kinder fate? One where…”
Silence stretches for a moment, unbidden, and she waits until your unruly sobs begin to die down. Not unkindly, no, for her hand caresses your arm with tenderness and she presses back against you, but it is perhaps all the more human that she remains quiet.
Finally, she moves.
“Come.” Her voice echoes, no more than a whisper upon the empty baths.
“Aea…?”
A light shush and you follow wordlessly. Under her guidance, you walk towards the shallow end of the bath and settle upon the submerged seat, straddling her lap as her hands come to cup your cheeks. Her fingers drift over your skin, wet and warm, and still the tears give way to something closer to a show of love
“Divinity is oftentimes cruel, my dear. Has Nikador’s reign not taught us enough?” She leans closer, forehead touching your own. “Thanatos’ embrace?”
“...But how could they choose such cruelty if they were not born into it?”
“How could we choose kindness if we were not born into it?”
In that calm that washes over then, you settle more easily than you would have otherwise. Perhaps it’s the fact that your secret, your biggest one, need no longer be kept.
At that, you grow quiet with nary a word of counterargument.
“We need not their tender touch to flourish, my dear.”
Perhaps it’s finally knowing that all is well.
“I will request you to refrain from preaching about your theories to the people, dear.”
“Of course.”
