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Critical Miss (Story)
🕑 Added 2021-01-07 20:21:52 +0000 UTCPhew! Well, thank you again for your patience. This one is slightly longer than I thought, and maybe a little more "story" than "smut." Bit of RPG tropery and light ribbing as well. Hope y'all dig it. It's the November poll story, featuring a healer who feminizes just a little bit every time they use their powers. Could this be a curse...or is it something special/wonderful/wish fulfilment-y? Read on, gentle viewer!
This story features denial from a largely in denial trans gal only for it to come crashing into her like a freight train so I wanna give some warning if you're not into reading some descriptions of dysphoria or denial. Everyone's cool about it though, and she gets a hot bod at the end. Promise.
Enjoy!
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“I am your God,” the fire elemental bellowed, its breath like scalding desert wind, “And I demand your obedience!”
“Gods don’t need to demand anything,” quipped the rakishly handsome knight, shifting his weight in his blackened steel armour, “But I’ll be glad to take it under advisement.”
The creature roared, its colossal mouth opening like an immense castle gate, flaming teeth like the feet of a deadly portcullis. Flames belched forth, scorching the air where the knight had been standing moments before. He tucked and rolled, dodging the incendiary plume whilst unsheathing his sword and, with a single fluid motion, slicing at the creature in a wide arc. The glowing purple blade sliced through its leg, causing the limb to flicker and sputter out. The elemental stumbled behind the knight, who came to a graceful, balanced stance, magic sword gripped tight in both hands.
He blew a strand of hair from his vision and allowed himself a sly grin. “Time to blow out this candle.”
From one side, a ramp of glittering ice manifested itself into existence below the feet of a woman in a billowing blue fur coat. Two freezing clouds emanate from her fingers, dropping the temperature so fast the water in the air frozen and provided a slick surface beneath her to slide down. The path rose to a slight ramp, sending her flying through the air. With her hands free, the woman threw them out in front of her and crafted a singular beam of cryonic power. It lanced out, impaling the gigantic creature made of elemental fire with a jagged icicle that was just as tall.
“Good work, Tilda!” the knight said, throwing her a thumbs up, “That’ll keep him on ice.”
The mage groaned. “Fates, Arther. Can you stop with the wordplay?”
“Cool it? With my PUNS?! When Hell freezes over! And now that it’s distracted...That’s your cue, Mork!”
The rocky alcove echoed with the sound of rolling thunder. But as the noise grew louder, the distinct rumbling in the ground made it clear that it was no mere meteorological phenomena. Coming in from the opposite side as the ice witch stormed a moving mountain of blue/green flesh, muscles on muscles utterly dwarfing the strongest human who had ever lived.
But, of course, Mork wasn’t human.
“MORK!” Mork declared before slamming a fist the size of a boulder into the space the fire elemental used as a face. It buckled under the impact, the icicle in its body shattering into a thousand sublimating pieces as it fell backwards, hollering in outrage.
The trio met up for the first time since the battle had started. They looked over one another for battle damage, and, seeing only minor injuries so far, exchanged nods. They readied for Round 2: Arther with his magical blade, Tilda with her cryomancy, and Mork with his sheer brute strength.
But there was a fourth member of their group. Way, way in the back, out of sight of the exciting action, Colin cowered behind a rock. With his floppy wide-brimmed hat, simple white robes, slender build, and crooked staff, he wouldn’t be out-of-place managing a sheep paddock. To be within earshot of these masters of magic and might made him feel horribly out of place. Like he was a villager who had gotten lost and stumbled into a bard’s tale of heroic adventure. And that problem was only exacerbated by the nature of his powers.
He looked derisively at the staff in his hands. “Just one damage spell. Just one single lighting bolt attack is all I’m asking. C’mon, Goddess.” Seething with repressed anger, he barely noticed the explosion and pillar of fire shoot into the sky. Another glorious victory, won without him.
“What the heck’s the point of having power if I can’t even use it to beat up monsters?” he asked, taking a swiping kick at a rock in front of him and stubbing his toe.
He cursed. There was no point in even trying to be violent. He knew of two dozen different ways to manifest his magical power, and not one of them could cause harm. He could heal, he could cure, he could buff, he could mend. But he couldn’t do so much as a deleterious status effect. And, worse still, his powers came with a cost.
“COLIN!”
The little healer cringed. He knew what that meant. Not for the first time, he thought about running. Taking off somewhere and hiding in the woods, maybe becoming a bandit king, maybe going feral and joining a pack of wolves. But without a way to defend himself, he wouldn’t last five minutes on his own. So he ambled out of cover toward the source of the voice, his shoulder slumped, ready to do his duty.
“Please state the nature of the magical emergency,” he mumbled, pulsing power into the manawood of his staff.
“Mork’s got burns all over his body, Tilda got knocked around a bit and might have a cracked rib, and I chipped a tooth. We could use some of that healing magic!”
Colin blanched, his slender fingers gripping the staff tight. “Any chance you can walk it off?”
The trio stared at him. Mork’s gaze was the most imposing, not just because of his size but because his entire body was smouldering. Colin nodded and closed his eyes. For all his doubts and frustrations, the power came easily. Tremendous energies flowed through his body, tingling every cell until they reached his staff. There, he focused them into singular spells of healing energy. A general healing spell for Mork, pulsing light shooting through the staff and out to cover the large man’s body in a glittering aura. His scorched flesh knitted together in moments, much to his great delight.
“THANKS,” he said, and gently patted Colin’s head. Gentle by Mork standards, of course. Colin pulled his head out of his hat and nodded. Next was Tilda. He held out his hand, using some light diagnostic scrying to search for the damage and, with a sweep of his staff, gently knitting the bone.
“The damage is light. Just stay off the ice slides for a few days, okay?” he said, knowing they’d ignore him.
“And what am I to do in battle, hmm? Ask the Serpentmen to politely avoid the woman throwing the icicles?” She rolled her eyes, and Colin sighed again. Nobody listened. He stepped over to Arther, who already had his mouth open and was pointing to the chipped tooth in question.
“I was rolling out of danger, like usual,” the knight explained, dropping the hard consonants to avoid touching the injured tooth, “But out of nowhere, a fireblast caught me unprepared and WALLOP, I hit the ground hard! Bit down, felt something snap in my mouth. It’s not bad, is it? You know how meticulous I am with my oral hygiene.”
“I’m not great with teeth,” Colin explained. Seeing Arther’s crestfallen face made him reconsider the excuse, “Alright, let me...okay, yeah, it’s not bad.” He reached into Arther’s mouth, pressed the injured tooth between his thumb and ring finger, and snapped. The tooth instantly fixed itself, courtesy of a spell Colin had learned from an Elven dentist friend of his.
Arther prodded around with his tongue, then flashed his pearly white teeth. “Excellent! You’ve saved my winning smile. Once again, you’ve proven you’re a valued member of the team, Colin! Oh, and Tilda’s rib, that too.”
Colin nodded weakly. But he could feel the changes begin within his own body; payment for services rendered. The transformation this time was fairly minor. He felt the last of his body hair withered away from the top of his stomach, leaving him nearly hairless from the eyebrows down. In addition, his nipples suddenly couldn’t tolerate the roughness of the wool of his garb. Like they’d gained a thousand more nerve endings in an instant. He’d have to find a way to muffle the sensations they gave him from just wearing clothes overtop. Perhaps-
The word ‘brasserie’ appeared in his mind and, just as quickly, vanished into the mental ether. His mind was like a steel trap for those kinds of thoughts, trained over the years in unceasing combat with any hint of weakness. The changes could be affecting his mind, making him tolerate them, maybe even wish for them! Anything that would give hint that he was relenting or giving in to the transformations was dispatched utterly. He was still himself, no matter how his Goddess decided to punish him.
It started shortly after leaving the Priory, when he went into the adventuring business. Any spell he cast would exact a toll on his masculinity, a commodity he did not have in great supply. His willowy height had completely vanished by this point, leaving him just short of Tilda’s towering 5’4. The white robes of his vocation hid the extent of the changes and allowed him to play off his reduced weight as a change in diet. But the truth was that the fats in his body had been slowly but surely redistributed, ballooning out his hips and butt while sapping his waist and what little upper body strength he had once had. Little by little, his body had changed...and he had no idea what the endpoint would be.
The party claimed a few souvenirs of their battle: ashes from the elemental to prove the deed, and some trinkets that beasts of its type are prone to hoarding if left to their own devices for too long. Tilda picked through a chest of baubles til she found a ring with a sapphire in the centre. Mork liked the look of that, and rooted around in the box with noisy abandon until he found a bracelet he could wear around his middle finger. Arther himself poked around a pile of gear from some previous expedition and found a sword which, despite looking like it had gone through the better part of a gelatinous cube, he took a shine to.
“Feel the weight of it...the smoothness with which it cuts through the air,” he said, swinging the chipped and rusted weapon, “I feel like it would be slightly easier to hit things with it. By fractions, perhaps. Say if one were to put the chance of hitting something as the roll of a twenty sided die, adding one’s own skill and physical ability of course, this would DEFINITELY increase the striking chance by at least +1.”
“Arther,” Tilda said, her voice flat, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
The knight stared at the mage, clearly unaware he’d been speaking aloud the entire time. Noticing her expression, he slid the weapon into his pack and silently returned to gathering loot.
Colin approached, looking timidly like a window shopping beggar between piles. His order wasn’t acetic, nor was it wasn’t fond of ostentatious displays. Try as he might, he couldn’t find anything he wanted or needed from the assembled plunder. As for his share of the payout, he had neither the need nor the inclination to spend them besides the essentials for travel and his tithes. They’d go into the chest of his personal effects back at their shared wagon, or given away to the needy the next time they were in town.
The stray questioning of why he even went out with adventurers in the first place resumed, and the rest of the world drifted away again. At least for the moment.
***
They camped for the night on the edge of a large freshwater lake. Some mermaids came by to investigate the light from their campfire, but after Arther hit them with a quick ballad (and Tilda conjured some exotic fish as payment), they left in a good mood without trying to kill anyone.
They each had their individual assignments, an informal process that had just seen the tasks delineated based on skill or just a general willingness to work in that particular area. The most important aspect of setting up camp only Tilda could perform. She used blue chalk to stitch out protective sigils to keep the camp safe from attack, giving them all a chance at a good night’s rest. Arther got off lightly, merely needing to set up the tents. He had his own schedule to keep, being in possession of both arms and armour that needed constant, fastidious maintenance to keep in fighting shape. Mork did most of the offloading, carrying chests like they were parcels of fresh linens. Then he got to work on a fire, which he also made look easy. With his ham hock hands spinning a bow drill and lungs like an industrial bellows, they soon had a roaring fire in the centre of camp.
Colin performed his own camp tasking: getting together food and water. Water was easy, given where they chose to camp. Putting a large pot of lake water to boil and get the foul miasmas out, he went to work gutting, cleaning, and preparing the remaining fish that Tilda had made for grilling. Salt, pepper, a little dill, and just a touch of slimweed, and the fish would turn out great. He liked cooking, in fact. But...was it the manly thing to be doing?
“Arther?” Colin called out. The swordsman had been in the midst of doffing his armour. He came out of his tent with just his leggings on, the sheen and scent of sweat obvious on his skin. The healer tried not to notice, but there was a tiny flutter in his heart at the sight. Arther may have been a blowhard, but his physique was impressive. His abdomen muscles were unlike anything he’d ever seen before, and made Colin self-conscious about his own slight build. While not nearly as strong as Mork, Arther combined incredible grace and dexterity with his brawn, making him a powerful foe...and an extremely attractive man.
“Yes? Do you need a hand?” Arther asked.
“I...this is a bit weird to say,” Colin admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “But do you think it’s a little too...girly, for me, to be camp cook and all?”
The larger man barked a laugh. “Would you rather Tilda? Her and fire don’t play well together, if you’ll recall this morning’s events.”
“No, it’s not that I want her to take over. I was just wondering if it was, y’know, unmanly to do all the cooking?”
Arther’s smile waned and he shook his head. “I don’t know where you got the idea that cooking was only women’s work, Colin, but I’ll have you know that my father was a prodigious chef! I didn’t inherit that aspect, unfortunately, I can barely cook an egg. But it’s something I’ve deeply respected, and certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone needs to eat! Well, I suppose not skeletons. But a great many people need food for sustenance. Why by the grace of the fates would its assembly be a gendered process?”
Colin chewed that idea over in his mind. Obviously it made sense. But still…
“Do you think we could trade responsibilities next time we stop? I can oil weapons and polish armour just as well as cook a filet.”
Arther’s good humour returned. “Well, I could try. But I doubt my own handiwork in the culinary arena. And given our next mission, I don’t think-“
“Wait wait, go back. We already have a new mission?”
Tilda appeared, wiping the chalk dust from her fingers. “You didn’t tell him?”
“I thought you told him,” Arther said sheepishly.
Colin’s head snapped in between the pair, waiting for one of them to explain. When neither did, he looked to Mork. “Did they tell you?”
The big man nodded. “GOING AFTER THE LICH BOUNTY.”
“The Lich?! But...but the wasting effects, the legion of skeletal warriors he can raise...I can’t heal that much!”
“Well if everything goes according to plan, you won’t need to!” Arther said cheerfully. Tilda folded her arms, giving a derisive glance to the group’s ostensible leader.
Colin’s heart hammered. They’d tried to go after the Lich before, but that was several bounties ago. They’d learned since then, of course, and Tilda had much stronger control over her abilities. But the last time they’d fought that undead tyrant, Colin had lost half his height and gained a pair of plump, squeezable thighs. And there would have been more had they not quit and run before the Lich had broken a proverbial sweat. To fight on through such a powerful opponent and keep his party alive would tax him terribly. What would he even look like afterward? Who would he even be?!
He was aware of a continuing conversation, but the healer’s mind was elsewhere. An uncertain amount of time had passed before he snapped out of it, and by then the sun was close to the horizon, far on the opposite side of the lake. The other two more talkative members of his party were still in furious debate over whether taking on the Lich right now is a good idea. In all that time they hadn’t noticed him staring into the middle distance. Either they’d ignored him, or they didn’t care.
“I’m not doing it.”
Their conversation ground to a halt. “Won’t do what?” Tilda asked.
Colin wavered. He was unused to putting his foot down. After all: what firm ground did he have to stand on? His prowess in battle? But as he thought about transforming against his will in ways that would be impossible to hide, his resolve stiffened his spine. “I’m not doing it. If you go after the Lich, you’ll be doing it without me.”
“But...I don’t understand!” Arther said, “You’re a part of the team! We can’t fight the Lich without a full team!”
Tilda shook her head. “If it’s about the pay, we can talk about the loot split afterwards.”
“I don’t want the damn loot! I don’t want anything!” Colin snapped. His blood was boiling, months of repressed feelings exploding to the surface. “What in all the hells am I going to spend the coin on? What am I even doing this for? Do you know what happens to me when I use my powers? Do you know what I’ve given up?!”
It a moment of unthinking rage, he tossed off his robe. In a single, flowing gesture, he revealed just what he looked like now. The generous curves, the nearly hairless skin, even slightest hints of mounding that looked like the start of breasts. He still wore his smallclothes, but even the miniscule bulge in those told another part of the story.
“Each time I use my power, I change. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because my Goddess is punishing me for using my powers for personal gain. Maybe I’ve done something else to offend her. But…” He drifted off, running out of works. The others stared in shocked silence. Even Mork seemed taken aback by the outburst. A part of him wanted to crawl up into a ball. Showing off just how feminine his body had become had drained him, and he immediately regretted it. He covered his blossoming breasts with his arms, confused on what to do next.
“Do you hate this new look?” Tilda aske, breaking the silence.
“What do you mean?! I’m being transformed against my will, of course I hate it!” Colin said unthinkingly.
“Not the transformation itself,” she clarified, moving her hand from his head to his toes. “The changes themselves. Do you hate them?”
He opened his mouth to say yes, again, of course he did. But the words wouldn’t form. He never liked his body in particular, admittedly, so he hadn’t put much stock in evaluating the overall desirability of the changes themselves, rather focusing on the lack of control over the way his body transformed and how it squared with his self-perception. Looking down, he wasn’t repulsed by what he saw. It was just...a body.
“That’s not the point! How would you like it if your powers altered you?”
She narrowed her eyes. “My powers aren’t without cost either. You need to ask yourself whether you’re willing to pay the price.”
“Well maybe I’m not anymore!” He threw up his hands. His anger strained the boundaries of his training as a cleric, the virtue of temperance in all things. This wasn’t him, but if it wasn’t going to get angry about losing himself...who was he? He gathered up his clothes, shoving them back on his body. He didn’t care if it hurt.
“It’s...it’s not going to be forever,” Arther said, his voice uncharacteristically timid, “We genuinely had no idea you were going through this when we agreed to try and take on the Lich contract again. After the fight I swear to you that we’ll do everything in our power to find a way to reverse these changes.”
“After?! I don’t even know who I’ll be after another fight! You don’t care about me. You just want a healing automaton to fix your mistakes!” Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. This was all too much. Before anyone could interject, he stormed off down the coast, blinking furiously to clear his sight and trying to keep the sobs to a minimum until he was out of ear shot.
***
He walked until his boots were too full of sand and the tears had stopped flowing. The steady ebb and flow of the tide serving to calm him, ground him, give him a sense of the passage of time. The conversation wound around again and again in his head. He came up with a hundred different ways it could have went down differently, all of them terrible, all without resolution. He sat down on a rocky outcropping in a huff, his fists clenched against his temples, adrenaline from the conversation fading to bone-deep weariness. Satisfying, in a way, to give voice to his thoughts, it also came at the cost of alienating some of the people he cared about. He had no idea if he even had a team anymore.
Why were they so thoughtless? Didn’t they understand what he was going through?! Every time he used his power, it was like he was losing a part of himself. He couldn’t let them die, it was against everything he believed. But to go into battle with a Lich would take all his magical power. And then...
So caught in introspective thought that he didn’t notice Mork coming up alongside until he was close enough to feel the ground quake.
“Go away,” Colin said, wiping quickly at his eyes for any hint of moisture.
But the goliath ignored him. He sat next to Colin on the rocks, settling like a collapsing brick wall, staring out into the water.
“OTHERS WORRIED,” Mork explained, “TOLD THEM MORK WOULD CHECK ON YOU.”
Colin nodded, but that doesn’t mean he liked it. “I just wanted to be alone. To think. You...you know what’s going on with me, right?”
“YES. POWERS CHANGING YOU. YOU THINK GODDESS PUNISHING YOU.”
“I don’t think, I know! Why else would my magic be taking this price on me? None of the other healers at my Priory went through this. I’ve searched the archives back at Glostock for stories, legends, anything that would explain what sins I’ve committed, or how to ask for forgiveness. Nothing…”
They sat in silence for a while. It was a beautiful vista. The sun was going down, turning the sky a gorgeous shade of crimson. A huge stone statue of a lizardman jutted out of the water in the distance, his stony sneer of cold command worn down by water, wind, and time until the features were barely recognisable. Below it, in the water, a trio of mermaids were laughing and splashing little waves at one another with their flippers. Through his crisis, the world continued spinning.
“MAYBE ANOTHER EXPLANATION?” Mork queried.
“Like what?”
“THE CHANGES HAPPEN WHEN YOU HELP PEOPLE, YES? DO THEY HAPPEN WHEN YOU USE YOUR POWERS FRIVILOUSLY?”
Colin blinked. “Why would I do that?”
The colossus’ enormous face cracked into a smile. “MORK BELIEVE YOU ANSWERED YOUR OWN QUESTION.”
The young healer thought about his powers. In some ways, his use was selfish of course. But his party wasn’t knocking over caravans, it was destroying threats that people have paid them to handle. The flame elemental had been burning forests to the ground before they’d defeated it. Before that, there was the Ratking, who had been eating livestock and poisoning grain. And before that were those bandits who were blackmailing that town. They were doing good work, for good causes! But if it wasn’t a punishment, what could it possibly be? A curse? Some fell enchantment placed on him by a rival?
What if it’s not a punishment...
The pair stood, swiping off the sand from their clothes. “Thank you for talking to me. I...guess I wasn’t expecting you to have advice I needed to hear.”
He nodded sagely. “MORK UNDERSTAND. OUTWARDLY, MONOSYLABRIC BRUTE. BUT WHILE MORK HAS TROUBLE EXPRESSING HIMSELF SOMETIMES, MORK HAS RICH INNER LIFE.”
“I still need some time. I have to contact the Goddess somehow. I won’t be able to go with you do the Lich’s lair.”
Mork grimaced. “UNFORTUNATE. BUT UNDERSTANDABLE. IN COMBAT, ONE MUST HELP ONE’S SELF BEFORE HELPING OTHERS. MORK TELL ARTHER AND TILDA. THEY KNOW YOU WILL BE THERE WHEN WE NEED YOU MOST.”
Colin cocked his head to the side. “How do they…how do you know that?”
Mork patted him gently. “THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS DO.”
***
The Goddess of Colin’s faith had many domains. Along with being the patron of medicine and healing, she also turned her gaze towards couples, justice, light, knowledge, and the lost. To seek her out, typically, one must meditate within a location of great illumination. The Priories devoted to her had some best stocked libraries on the continent, and at the top of each was the blazing spire; a perpetual fire kept alight by those devoted to extolling and exploring Her wonders to the world.
But he was several weeks away from his homelands, and his faith was just one of dozens known to the traders and farmfolk who lived around here. People used to constant monster attacks didn’t have the luxury of picking a god and praying; they prayed to whoever would listen.
So. If he couldn’t find a Priory to bask in its illumination, he’d have to find another way to commune with Her.
It had to have been past midnight, by his reckoning. The moonlight was faint through the thick forest canopy, making ever step a potential hazard. He’d already fallen half a dozen times, and his hands had become skinned and cut by bracing against the sharp rocks and branches that lined the ground like natural caltrops. These were not sensible woods to be walking in near pitch darkness, especially considering the threats there were. The kinds of thing his team was sent out to face. But he continued onward, not stopping for rest or even healing his many minor wounds. To find Her, his only hope would be to become well and truly lost.
The only sounds around were those of crickets and the crunch of deadfall under his feet. Not enough to distract his mind from wandering on past events. Picking them apart, looking for new meaning. What did it mean when he didn’t share his brothers’ zest for physical combat? Or when he spent long hours with several female companions before he joined the Priory, never once feeling out of place? Did everyone avoid their reflection in the water, or was that something to think about too?
Colin chewed on his lower lip. His powers. His incredible gift from on high. Surely She’d meant for him to do something with them. But why had she made his body change whenever he used them? If she was displeased, why wouldn’t she remove his powers? He’d heard of fallen clerics before, and though he had no interest in joining their number, that they existed at all gave him a strange sense of comfort. On one level, it was nice to know one didn’t instantly vaporize once they lost the favour of a capricious deity. On the other hand, that he wasn’t one of them gave him a glimmer of hope that he wasn’t a total lost cause.
His boot caught on an unearthed root, sending him tumbling to the ground. He landed hard on his bruised hands, again, and whimpered. How much longer did he have to go on? Another hour? Three?
“Sweetie, you’re going to catch a cold lying down on the floor there.”
Colin blinked. The forest was gone, replaced by the modest interior of a cozy farmhouse, not unlike the ones they’d boarded in during their journey down the coast. The interior was lit by a glorious fireplace, roaring flames licking at the bottom of a large black pot. A figure with generous, feminine curves stirred the liquid within with a ladle, humming a tune to herself. She wore a peasant dress and apron in a drab brown colour. When she turned to face him, he recognised her face immediately.
“Goddess?” he asked. As the sound left his mouth, he noticed that it was no longer dry. He knelt, prostrating himself before the being before him. His Goddess: the source of his devotion and from which all his many powers had sprung.
“Well I’m flattered you call me that. Please, stand. Or rather, sit.” She held out her hand to the cushioned seat which appeared next. Reluctantly, he complied. Pushing up from the floor didn’t hurt, neither did his feet; his aches and wounds had completely disappeared. He settled down into the chair, gawking at his surroundings, his brow furrowed.
“I don’t understand. This is…not what I expected, what the others described was more....”
She smiled, fetching a clay bowl from a cupboard. “Ostentatious? Gaudy? I’m a simple woman, really. The others may prefer the marble and the tapestries of woven fate but give me four walls and a cot and I’d be satisfied. I hope you like soup!” Ladling out a portion to him, Colin took it gratefully. A vegetable medly, it looked like. He looked around for a spoon, but one appeared in his hand the moment it left his peripheral vision.
He took a spoonful. It tasted like heaven after a week of trail rations. Good, honest, hot vegetable soup with a few herbs and a pinch of salt. “It’s good!”
The Goddess beamed. “I’m glad. Hubastis was the cook in our family. Well, technically he’s the God of the Feast, but I think I can hold my own over a stove. Now, while you eat that, tell me why you’ve gotten yourself lost out in the woods to find me.”
He slurped, responding between mouthfuls. “You don’t know?”
“I’m not That omniscient,” she said with a smile, “Kidding. Just humour me. Sometimes hearing the problem out loud is the best way to work toward a solution.”
“Well…I wanted to ask you why, when I use my powers, my body changes. It becomes softer, weaker…”
“Mmm…I don’t know about that. Femininity is not weakness. You wouldn’t consider me weak, would you?”
“Of course not!” Colin replied on reflex, out of as much respect as fear.
“Good. I was afraid I was losing my touch! Now…let me see…” The Goddess opened up another cupboard and rummaged around. The door faced Colin so he couldn’t see what she was searching through, only hearing the occasional clink of glass or the slosh of something filled with fluid. “Aha! I thought I put it in here.”
She set down a vial of glowing fluid. Far from the red of health potions or the blue of mana, this one was a pure, luminous white.
“What is that?” Colin asked.
“It’s a special potion of my own creation. The ingredients aren’t important, but the effect is. It will accelerate the changes, tipping you all the way over to a complete transformation.”
“But why would I want that? Why is this even happening at all?”
The Goddess made a face. “Because, silly, you’re just like me.”
Without ceremony, she lifted the apron off her body and undid the buttons on her dress. Her gorgeous, flawless body was on full display. For a moment, he kept his eyes off of her out of respect. But it was impossible to resist the sight, the full and unfiltered vision of his Goddess. Stretching down from her long, flowing hair, across her full face, voluptuous body, squishy tummy, and most surprisingly…a cock. A soft, thick, gorgeous cock.
“Y-You’re…” he stammered, words slipping from his grasp, “You’re…”
Her smile could have brought life to a desert. “Like you? Of course, sweetheart. Those who feel a different call of their heart to the body they’ve been given hold a special place for me. They are my chosen, and I reward those who help others. So you see,” she reached down to pat the head of her servant, “You aren’t being punished. You’re being rewarded! But I understand, this might be scary. You might not want to change quite this fast. If you want me to take what I’ve given back, I can. You can be in your old body in a moment. You’ll still have my blessings, and I’ll still love you just as much.”
Then, in that moment, it all came crashing down. The need in his life, the life he wanted to lead, it was all so clear. In a moment, Colin wasn’t Colin anymore. The old identity flaked and fell away, shed like a dragon sheds its scales. A name arose, unbidden, surfacing from some dark and dormant part of her mind.
“Grace?” the Goddess asked.
“How did-” Grace began, the name completing a puzzle she’d been working on her whole life.
“I’m your Goddess, dear,” she replied, running a hand through her supplicant’s hair, “I ought to know your name.”
A swirl of emotions welled up in her heart. She wanted to laugh, and cry, and shout and dance and a hundred other things until she couldn’t move anymore. But most of all, she wanted to show her appreciation for the gift.
"How can I ever repay you?” she asked.
The Goddess laughed. “You don’t need to pay me anything. I don’t really have a currency, sweetheart. All I ask is that you continue to bring light and healing to those that need it, and do your best to live a virtuous life.” She handed Grace the potion. The stoppered glass vial felt warm in her hand. “Drink this in its entirety. It might not have the best taste but it’ll accelerate your transformation. You’ll be exactly how you desire to appear, no less.”
Grace stared at the vial. It was everything she previously didn’t know she wanted. A completion of her transformation! But something was…off, about the liquid inside. She removed the stopper and sniffed it. “Umm…Goddess?”
The voluptuous deity blushed. “I-Is there something wrong, my dear?”
“This…what exactly is this potion made out of?”
“I don’t see why you need to be so picky!” she said, throwing up her hands, “It’s just a few odds and ends…”
The healer tipped it from side to side, watching the viscous fluid roll back and forth. “Because, besides the glowing, this smells and looks and awful lot like-”
“Alright! Okay, I’ll admit it. It’s my…essence. But you try conjuring up a vector for life magic that DOESN’T involve semen!” Realizing her placid mask had slipped, she visibly shook off the outburst and settled back into her original role as the caretaker. “I’m sorry, I should have mentioned something. If you’re not willing to consume this, I can make a potion out of something else. It might take some time, but I think I can use my new soup recipe. Just need a little-”
Grace shook her head. “No, I wasn’t asking because I wasn’t willing to take it. I was asking because…I think I know a way to express my gratitude.”
Falling to her knees before her Goddess as she had so many times during prayer, her slender fingers reached up to touch the thick thighs of her object of devotion. The Goddess was startled for a moment, unused to the touch of a mortal.
“I’m not sure I…oh, oh goodness!” she said, hands pressing in her cheeks in an exaggerated pantomime of shock, “You don’t have to do that! I have your bottle right here!”
Grace’s hands slid sensually along the Goddess’ skin to meet around her hips, where they touched and prodded her limp cock. “But what if I want it straight from the source? What if I want you, right now, inside me?”
Taking the initiative, Grace took the shaft and jerked it gently, testing both it and its owner for a response. In moments the Goddess stiffened in more ways than one.
“Oh dear…it’s been so long…I might have a little bit too much saved up!” she warned.
Grace smiled. “Then I better get started, shouldn’t I?’
Without anymore ado, she leaned in to trace a long, languid lick up the divine dick in front of her. As a cleric, Grace was restricted from marrying. But the Goddess looked highly on those who would provide succor and care to those around them, up to and including sexual release. As such, Grace knew her way around a penis. Her tongue flicked up at the end of the lick, teasing the very tip of the throbbing purple head and forcing a groan to spill forth from her perfect lips.
“Ngh…that feels good…” she admitted.
“And this will feel even better,” Grace declared. She opened her mouth wide and let the thick head slip past her lips. Precum squirted out in response to the joy of being placed inside a wet, welcoming mouth. The Goddess thrust herself forward instinctively, but pulled herself back, afraid of taking too much from her suckling supplicant.
“Sorry!”
Grace grinned. “If it feels good, don’t be shy. Let me make you feel good!”
With a slight hesitation, she placed a hand on the back of her head. Sighing deep, she applied a slight pressure while thrusting forward, stuffing her cock into Grace’s waiting mouth. The human went to work, polishing her underside and as much of the shaft as she could lick with her questing tongue, tasting every inch. There was no gagging from her, only an eager, yielding hole for a Goddess to pleasure herself with. More pre spurted forth, sliding without hindrance down Grace’s throat.
She sped up. After all, the key to her transformation lay within! Steadying herself by gripping the Goddess’ plush butt, Grace bobbed her head back and forth, letting her tongue drag lazily along the shaft to tease it. Sweet moans sounded like music to her ears, encouraging her to continue.
“Mmm…this feels so good…I forgot how good a mortal mouth could feel!” the Goddess said, her voice unusually high. Grace took that as a compliment. After all, how many people could say they pleased their deity so…viscerally?
The pace quickened, as did the Goddess breathing. Well practiced breath control allowed her to keep up the pressure, letting the thick cock slide effortlessly up and down her throat. The natural wet and warm confines were seductive enough, but adding the tightening of muscle at just the right points, and soon the spurts of precum was a steady leak. Grace took that as encouragement, letting more dick inside until her lips were pressed up against the Goddess’ hilt. But despite her divinity, her stamina wasn’t infinite. Grace felt the telltale quiver and gasps from a woman about to climax.
“Oh…oh dear…I’m close. I have…so much to give you. I can’t hold it back…this is your last chance to…ngh…” the Goddess warned, her message scattershot between sharp breaths and moans at the sheer enthusiasm from Grace, who turned her last reserves of devotion into insistent oral affection. She hilted herself again and again, taking her Goddess’ cock deep down into her throat, bulging it obscenely. She could feel it twitch in her mouth and looked up, staring into the face of her adoring deity. An act of pure, selfless devotion.
Her perfect cock exploded, squirting hot, glowing cum in impossible volumes. Grace swallowed everything she was given, and her body was filled with glorious light…
***
The Lich’s laughter sounded like wind blowing through the windows of an abandoned homestead. The nature of its skeletal features made it seem like it was grinning, yet its voice was mirthless, hollow. It seems it was humorless in more than one sense of the word. “What foolishness has infected the youth these days…” it rasped, moving its hands in slow, deliberate circles, puppeting the legion of the dead in its attacks.
Mork smashed the sternum of another bone golem, the bones turning into white powder. It continued to fight, even as its rib cage collapsed in on itself, swinging another double fisted axe-handle strike that caught him in the shoulder. Despite his bulk, he went spinning through the air, crashing into one of the ice trails Tilda had conjured into existence in her bid to stay ahead of the small army of skeletons. It toppled down around him, partially burying him in magical ice.
With one motion, she picked up the blocks that had covered Mork, and with another great, full bodied gesture, she flung them full force at a crowd of skeletal soldiers. The chunks smashed them to bits, rusted weapons and armour flying every which way, sometimes with bones and skulls still inside. She caught her breath after such a taxing maneuver, pressing her hands to her knees and sucking in chilled air.
“I think we might need to call it,” Tilda said, her breathing laboured.
Arther shook his head vehemently. “The Lich is only going to build its army again. C’mon, we’re closer than before! I just need one good opening to sever this morbid malcontent’s head from its spine.”
He bellowed out a war cry and spun, magic sword clattering off the bodies of half a dozen skeletons like a macabre xylophone. It was difficult to pierce, slash, or jab a creature with no flesh. Only decapitating blows would do, and there was only so many head removals one could perform before fatigue took hold, or worse, the fight became less interesting to hear about.
“You should have brought a hammer,” Tilda chided.
“You know how hard it is to find a magical hammer?! All the stores sell are swords!” Arther puffed out. He switched to left hand swings, popping heads off at a much reduced pace while giving his right arm a break. Despite his outward enthusiasm, the battle was taking its toll on him as well.
“Yes…your weakness calls to me,” the Lich hissed, its hollow sockets glowing an ethereal blue, “I can feel your strength waning.”
The ground underneath them burst open. A thousand boney hands reached out, snaring the feet and legs of all three adventurers. When they knocked off one, another three took its place. Their grip was like iron, pulling down Arther and binding his limbs. Tilda tried staying atop a barrier of ice, but in the process backed up too close to a wall. From a buried sepulchre, another dozen arms reached out and latched on, binding her to the wall and preventing her hands from casting spells. Mork was the last to fall, and only after the Lich manifested chains made of the metallic-streaked material that could only be dragonbone to snap onto his wrists and ankles.
“Can’t stand a fair fight?” Arther taunted, his efforts to free himself thwarted at every turn, “Let’s have a go, one on one, no weapons or magic, and I’ll show you all 206 of your friggin’ bones!”
“Don’t taunt the necromancer,” Tilda chastised, “They’re touchy about the bones thing.”
The Lich languidly shook its head, twitching a finger and sending hands to clasp over both adventurer’s mouths. “The living are all the same. You reach out for bonds of affection, of friendship. But look where they’ve gotten you.” It strolled over like a professor administering the final exam, then kneeled down before the knight. “Your flesh fails. Your hope, your desires...ephemeral sparks in that simple meat you call a mind. There is only one real constant, one immutable fact, one immutable force in the universe. Soon, the world will kneel at the feet of the one true power…accept the inevitable. Accept Death.” With that, it pointed its index finger at Arther. Ghostly energies sizzled forth from the digit, and Arther knew instinctually that this was some kind of fatal magic. A single touch, and he’d be just another puppet in the Lich’s play for global conquest.
Flash.
A blinding white light exploded in the cavern. The horde of skeletons hissed from open jaws, their eyeless gazes all falling on the entrance. The adventurers took moments to blink away the flash, heads spinning to find the source.
There, floating above the staircase that led down into the Lich’s lair, floated a gorgeous woman. Her long golden hair flowed like water around her, held aloft by a nonexistent breeze. Her cherubic features had an air of wisdom tempered by the kindness of her smile that reached all the way to her chocolate brown eyes. She was naked, her body a tantalising display of feminine beauty from head to toe. A brilliant aura of golden light surrounded her, its luminescence like the sight of dawn after the darkest night.
“You’re wrong, Lich,” the woman said, her voice strangely familiar to the adventurers.
The skeletal sorcerer flinched away from the penetrating glare. “Oh? And what am I wrong about? Are these your miscreants? Do you have some delusional hope of saving them without arms or armour? Speak, child. Tell me; what exactly am I wrong about?”
“The strongest power in the universe isn’t death.”
She reached out her right hand in a closed fist, then opened it. Light exploded out from the Lich’s body, shafts pouring through the many spaces where flesh once covered its gaunt frame. It howled as it writhed, covering the walls in countless twisting shadows. As the incandescence speared outward, the magics holding the undead minions together melted under its power. The filaments of magic binding their forms fizzled and snapped, and one after another, the creatures fell apart into piles of inanimate bone.
“It’s light.”
In moments, the cavern was silent. The glow from within the Lich faded, and the collection of dusty bones settled to the floor as just another in the countless morass of remains. The restraints holding down the three adventurers fell apart in a similar fashion. The woman swiped a hand over the adventurers, and the fatigue and strain from their long battle vanished in an instant. The minor wounds, cuts and scrapes mostly, healed just as quickly. One by one they got back to their feet, dusting off the powdered bone from their clothes.
“I must say miss, I’m profoundly grateful for your impeccable timing!” Arther said, tossing her one of his trademark smiles before averting his eyes to the side, “Umm…let me look for something to cover yourself with.” Finding nothing but the creepy vestments of the Lich, he instead removed his own cloak and handed it to his saviour, which she took with a grateful nod.
“Glad to help. I always hated that bonehead.”
Arther chortled. “A woman after my own heart! Ah, but, may I ask what spell you performed. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before!”
Tying the cloak around her like a towel, the strange woman elaborated. “Light magic heals, which puts it as the antithesis of necromatic black magic. Basically, I healed it, and the magic holding the Lich together failed. The spirit of the entity that once was the Lich is on its way to where it needs to go, and the souls disturbed by its actions are freed.
“Marvelous! A powerful warrior against the undead AND a healer too! Gosh, how powerful would we be with TWO healers in our ranks!” Arther said, lifting his head slightly to daydream about being effectively invincible.
Tilda didn’t show the same level of deference. She looked the stranger up and down with a wary eye, informally declaring herself to be the personal dentist to the proverbial gift horse. “And who exactly are you supposed to be? A healer just shows up out of nowhere to save us at the last minute, yeah right. What will this rescue cost us?”
But in the face of her cynicism, the woman beamed. “Oh Tilda, never change.”
Tilda’s eyebrows raised. “Wait, hold up. Are you-”
“Grace,” she said, her glow fading to a gentle background radiance, “My name is Grace.”
Realization settled over the faces of the party. Arther was confused the longest, but got it eventually with a wide-eyed look of revelation, like he’d solved a puzzle. Mork didn’t look the least bit surprised.
“YOU FOUND WHAT YOU WERE LOOKING FOR?” the big man asked.
“I did. And I want to apologise for leaving when you needed me. I had a lot of things to work through.”
Arther waved her words away. “Think nothing of it. Such perfect timing! Definitely a story for the next bar we visit. And, after much thought on my part, I must apologise too. I was taking your incredible strength and courage for granted! We would be honoured to have you on the team once more.” He paused, looking at Tilda. After a beat, and a jab with his elbow, she spoke.
“Sorry I didn’t take you seriously. I’m used to cleric types trying to burn me for witchery, so I’ve always been a little wary of you. I’m…I’ll work on it.” The words sounded like they had to be dragged out of her, but they were sincere enough. Grace gave her a nod of appreciation.
“Thank you. And thank you, Mork.”
Mork snapped her an affirming gesture. “MORK HAPPY TO SEE YOU REACH CATHARSIS.”
They found the skull of the Lich in the pile of bones amidst its tattered cloak, proof of a contract completed. They exited the cavern, walking shoulder to shoulder, proudly stepping into the midday sun.
“What are you going to buy with your quarter of the bounty?” Arther asked Grace.
“Well, first?” she said, looking down at herself, “Probably some clothes.”
Comments
Leaf
That's so kind of you to say!!! I'm so glad you enjoyed it, thank you <3
Mae
The way you convey the feeling of gender euphoria in your writing is phenomenal! It makes me cry happy tears 😭 I love this so much
DropDownBear
Oh this is lovely <3
