#Homer Spit

[michael-massa-micon]

Spit Seawall - August 2023 The spit at Homer, Alaska, is natural, but the sea is relentless and without seawalls and built up rock, the spit might erode or move over time. Thus this very massive seawall of heavy rock. The different colored rock, the clouds, the mountains, and the sea combine to make this a great image. MWM

[footloose-travel]

Homer Spit, the result of glacial moraine before they started receding thousands of years ago.

[katerinaaqu]

Fanon Odysseus: Shorty, skinny, devious little cat Canon Odysseus: Average to short, thunder thighs, wide chest and shoulders, well built arms, intelligent devious cat

*

Fanon Telemachus: Tiny, short, teenager-looking skinny, shiny little thing with happy puppy eyes Canon Telemachus: Menelaus: His arms and legs and the look of his eyes are the same as Odysseus! (also 20 years old!)

[deermouth]

Go in the dark.

[gctchell]

Rare fail moment: Queen is excellent at potioncrafting and winemaking, yet awful at baking without the help of magic.

[fandom-roulette-wheel]

Seeing pigeons at the beach is the most wild thing to me, like I know they like nesting on high rocky outcrops but at this point it just feels wrong the see them outside of a big city

[hecates-corner]

When I first heard There Are Other Ways, I was a little disappointed by the fact that Circe didn’t successfully seduce Odysseus, considering the huge Greek Mythology nerd I am.

Bear with me.

Then, I played the saga, and that song, for my wonderful mother tonight. About halfway through, I gasped.

The story is accurate to the Homeric version: he confronts her (clandestinely at first), she fights back, he pulls the sword.

But she’s not afraid. Of course she isn’t.

Why would an immortal being, with the rage and power of commanding a million different beasts if her Plan A goes down, be afraid of a measly man with a flimsy toothpick to her throat, just because he ate a flower and said “Be afraid!”?

That’s right! She wouldn’t.

Because Jay didn’t submit to the blatant misogyny of the tale.

Read this article for incredible information, if you please. It changed the way I saw Circe’s story.

If Circe cowered, simply because a man held a sword to her throat, only then would she have seduced him (if we’re going ultra-canon with the storyline, which Jay isn’t), which would have, yet again, thrown off the balance of power.

Circe could give less of a shit about the sword, in the song. She thinks he’s pretty hot, and maybe she’s manipulating him into coming to bed with her so she can trick him, so she offers a tryst or two. Here, if you read the article, she is throwing off the nature of men and women by being the active sexual partner.

He refuses, too enamored with Penelope, and shuns his curiosity in her. You can hear how it pains him, it’s a struggle to say no. But he does. He’s strong, he’s no god, cheating on his wife for the sake of sex appeal. He’s just a man.

He begs. That’s the thing that got me. Not her, him.

“So I beg you, Circe, grant us mercy, and let us puppets leave~”

Then, Circe offers to help him — not because she’s restoring the nature of being submissive — but because she has empathy and compassion for the man. She helps him because he’s proved himself, to be weary, and faithful, and human. She knows the feeling of love.

So, yes. So many layers. Like an onion, worthy of making you cry.

1. Jay is spitting in the face of misogyny and gender roles, and having her help him because she empathizes. Because she’s in power.

2. It’s sort of a jab, if interpreted a certain way, at sexual assault. He says no, and he holds true to it. Even though everything is telling him to give in, to let it happen, he refuses, and remains as sure as he can be.

3. It shows how very human Odysseus is. Athena forgot it, and somehow held him to it. Even the men forget it. But he never does. There is only so much he can do.

This is my favorite saga so far.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Blue and Fire Engine Red Pt 9

“Are you sure you want to do this? I won’t go easy on you.”

Lena’s voice is light in its challenge, but edged with true competition. 

It’s been more than a month since their confrontation, when they’d mutually agreed to keep things going. For much of that time, Lena had existed on tenterhooks, waiting for some other shoe to fall. But Kara was patient, and when nothing happened to threaten their happiness, Lena had finally relaxed, bringing a return to her playful confidence.

Kara bares her teeth in a grin. “Bring it.”

Today is the day of the intramural baseball championships, pitting the best of FDNC and NCPD against each other. They’d thought it would be fun to participate, neither thinking they’d ever manage to face the other in an actual game. Yet here they were, Precinct 42 facing off against Station 13. 

“Hey!” Nia calls from the bench area. “No cavorting with the enemy, Lieutenant!” 

Lena’s face creases into an exasperated eyeroll. Kara cherishes the sight, the memory of her girlfriend’s guarded features still fresh in her memory.

“Duty calls,” she drawls, leaning in for a final pre-game kiss. 

“No smooching the enemy either!”

Lena huffs as Kara guffaws, giving Lena a swat to the butt as they split to return to their respective teams. Kara hears Lena say something about psyching out the competition, but Nia’s disbelief is equally audible.

“Sure, Jan.”

Kara jogs a lap around the diamond, doing her best not to stare at Lena’s legs as she does a series of lunge stretches. When Lena moves to side bends, the edge of her jersey rides up to expose a slice of skin that makes Kara nearly trip over her own feet. When Lena turns and bends backwards, stretching her spine, her grin tells Kara that she knows exactly what she’s doing. 

Suddenly, Lena pauses mid-stretch. Though she straightens casually, Kara sees her eyes scan the field, then the bleachers, searching for something. Concern flashes through Kara, but before she can approach Lena, Winn Schott trots towards her. 

“Hey Danvers. You ready to crush your girlfriend?” 

His smile is broad and bright, and Kara automatically smiles in reciprocation. She hadn’t spent much time with Officer Schott before joining the team, but over the course of the season she’s learned that he’s a good sport, playful yet dedicated. She likes him.

“You know Lena,” she returns, “she’s not one to do things halfway.”

Winn’s nose wrinkles. “Okay, did not need to know that about you guys.” He earns a smack to the shoulder, and breaks into giggles. “Okay, okay, you know I’m joking!” 

Glancing back over the field, Kara sees that Lena has been similarly wrangled, circled up with her teammates. Her focus seems to be entirely on the huddle, so Kara lets her shoulders relax. 

“Come on,” she tells Winn. “Let’s get going.”

The game is close. Too close. It comes down to the final inning, with two outs and the bases loaded. The Hot Shots are at bat, trailing by one, but the Moody Blues need only one more out to end the game. From her position at shortstop, Kara swallows with anticipation as Lena steps towards the plate. The rest of her team cheers, while Kara’s jeers. Kara remains silent, mentally calculating how Lena might play it. She’s been hitting hard all game, making Kara’s team work to collect the ball and wing it back towards the bases before doubles and triples can turn into full homers. And in this suspenseful moment, Kara wouldn’t put it past Lena to fire a line drive directly into Kara’s knees.

She settles in, watching Lena’s relaxed strides to the plate, casually knocking the bat against her cleats to dislodge the packed dirt. Then, she settles into her ready stance, and waits. The pitcher winds up and drives the ball over home plate. Lena doesn’t swing. On the second, she even dodges as the pitch careens too close to her, much to the Hot Shots’ outrage. After a warning from the umpire, the exhausted pitcher takes a beat, spits, then readies himself.

The pitch is so fast Kara barely registers it’s been thrown, but the answering crack of the bat is unmistakable. Kara traces the arc of the ball up, up, and away, across the field and over the scoreboard on the far end, out of sight. Home run. Lena takes her victory lap at a trot as the other runners cross home plate one after the other, picking up her pace when she sees her team surging towards her in celebration.

While Lena gets showered with praise and gatorade, Kara laughs as her team groans and curses, sprawling on their backs in the dirt, exhausted. It’s been a tough one, giving as good as they got, but where the other officers wallow in disappointment, Kara feels exhilarated. 

“Jesus,” Winn says, panting as he crosses to her from second base. “Is she superwoman?”

Kara shoots him a cocked grin, and after a beat of staring his eyes go wide. “Oh! God– Danvers, I did not mean it like that!”

Slapping him on the back, Kara chuckles. “Later, Schott!”

She trots over to the other team, wading into the crowd of bodies until she’s planted herself in front of Lena. She grips Lena’s face with both hands and kisses her soundly, dust and sweat and all. It surprises Lena, evidenced by the slight glaze in her eyes when Kara draws back.

“Good game,” Kara all but shouts to be heard. As Kara smiles up at her, she sees the tiniest wrinkle appear between Lena’s eyebrows. Green eyes lift to scan the area around them, her chin even swiveling to check behind her. Kara’s hackles lift; she knows that look– the sense of being watched. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Lena doesn’t respond, and Kara realizes that she hasn’t heard between the din and distraction. She touches Lena’s arm, pulling her girlfriend’s attention back towards her. 

“Everything okay?”

Lena blinks, staring for a long moment before she shakes her with a disarming smile. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Hey lovebirds!” Nia calls. “Come on! We gotta treat the losers to pizza and ice cream!”

“It is tradition,” Brainy confirms. “To ease the sting of failure.”

Kara turns back to Lena, smirking. “Oh darn. Guess I’ll have to wait to give you your prize at home…”

Lena’s gaze sharpens as her words register, her previous distraction swiftly turning to hunger. “You know, I have some ice cream in my freezer–”

“Nope!” Kara chirps. “Come on, babe. Pizza and ice cream wait for no man.”

Under the din, Kara hears a plaintive whimper. Her insides melt as she settles her hand into Lena’s hand and gives a promising squeeze.

All in good time, it says. All in good time.

—

Later that night, Kara wakes up deliciously sore, and not just from the game. She lengthens her body under the covers, stretching some of the ache away. It’s a few bleary moments before she understands exactly what’s woken her. 

Lena twitches and jerks in the bed beside her, her brow furrowed with anguish. Her lips move indiscernibly, silenced in sleep. A nightmare. Kara reaches to shake her awake, but retracts her hand at the last moment. She’s heard stories of unsuspecting partners trying to rouse their loved ones awake, only to be made part of the nightmare itself. She knows Lena would never consciously attack her, but in sleep? With a monstrous trauma and undisclosed past hanging over her? Kara knows better than to believe she would be an exception to the possibility.

Suddenly, Lena spasms, lashing out with a long arm. Kara only just manages to dodge before rolling out of bed and onto her feet. “Shit,” she hisses. She flips on the light on her bed stand, casting a glow throughout the room. Lena’s movements are more noticeable now, rocking to either side as though to dislodge something sitting on her chest. Her arm flails again before clenching the sheet in a white-knuckled grip.

Kara considers her options, but before she’s able to make a decision, Lena bolts upright with a sharp gasp, so suddenly that Kara flinches back in surprise. Lena’s head whips back and forth frantically, scanning the room. She jumps when she sees Kara standing beside the bed, eyes flying wide before recognition hits. For a brief moment they can do nothing but stare at each other. Kara’s sure her eyes are as wide as Lena’s which soon glaze with tears. Finally, Lena sighs, deflating a little as she wipes a hand over her face. 

“Fuck,” comes the inevitable mumble. Kara watches tentatively as Lena scans the room again before slowly sliding her legs over the side of the bed, turning away from Kara. Her night shirt clings to her in cold sweat, and her hair hangs limp around her shoulders. 

“You okay?” Kara asks, clearing her throat. 

Lena nods without looking up. “Yeah.” Her voice is little more than a croak, and does nothing to reassure Kara. In the end, Lena sniffles huskily and swipes again at her eyes. “I’m going to get some water. You can go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you.”

With that she slips out of the room as quiet as a wraith. Kara stares after her, at a loss for what to do next. In the quiet that follows, she realizes she’s also trembling, her body stiff with adrenaline.

“Fuck,” Kara echoes Lena’s sentiment. She drops onto the side of the bed, resting her elbows heavily on her knees as she rubs her cheeks. She doesn’t feel afraid, but her body does. Only when her hands stop shaking does she rise and venture from the bedroom. Lena doesn’t look up when Kara enters the living room, but doesn’t protest when KAra settles down next to her.

Her shoulders are hunched, arms crossed around her middle, a glass of water forgotten on the coffee table. They sit in silence for several long minutes– Lena not ready to speak, and Kara loathe to break the quiet. Finally, Lena forces herself upright, lifting her head to reveal solemn features. 

“You were smart,” she says roughly. “Getting out of bed.”

Kara takes it as an invitation to take Lena’s hand, who allows their fingers to intertwine. Clearing her throat, Lena looks at her. 

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Kara promises, shaking her head quickly. “I’m good. Are you good?”

Lena doesn’t respond. Tension still limns her frame, her breathing almost shallow as they sit, as though Lena can’t pull in a full breath. An idea pops into Kara’s head, and she gives Lena’s hand a squeeze. “Hey. Wanna go for a walk?”

The offer is accepted with a quiet nod. After pulling on their sweatpants and sneakers, they step out into the night. They’re the only ones on the street at this hour, and they hold hands as they silently walk towards the nearby park. When the scent of sleeping trees drifts across their senses, Kara finally feels Lena start to relax. The air isn’t quite chill, just cold enough to bring a tint of pink to her partner’s cheeks. 

Halfway across the bridge spanning a small creek, Lena draws to a stop against the wrought iron rail. Kara watches her turn her head to the sky, eyes reflecting every star peeking through the cloud cover. Soft moonlight dapples across Lena’s skin, and Kara feels her heart lurch, stuttering a little with an emotion she can’t quite describe.

“Thanks,” Lena murmurs. “This was a good idea.”

Kara slides closer, until the warmth of Lena’s shoulder melds with hers. “It always helped me, when I had nightmares. After the shooting, there were nights I felt like I was still in that bathroom stall, with the walls closing in.” She smiles thinly. “Sometimes a little breeze is enough to ground a person.”

“Or blow them away entirely.” Lena’s voice is even, but low. Vulnerable.

Kara gazes at her. “Is that how you feel right now? Like you might blow away?”

Lena sighs, then turns her gaze from the sky to Kara. “Let’s just say it’s not the breeze keeping me grounded.” Her thumb brushes the back of Kara’s hand in soft circles, sending a thrum of something deep through Kara. She leans her head against Lena’s shoulder, gazing out across the trees lining the creek while Lena returns her attention to the sky.

“It’s actually one of the things I miss about the desert,” Lena says gently. Kara hums a low question. “The sky. You could see the whole Milky Way out there, painting the entire sky. It was… breathtaking. Even on the most miserable days, it still awed me.”

You awe me, Kara longs to say. You are breathtaking.

She doesn’t.

“Maybe we could go camping,” she suggests instead. “Chase the open sky.”

Lena grunts, but the sound of it doesn’t completely nix the idea. Kara bumps her with a hip.

“I could see you on a Harley for sure.”

Finally, Lena laughs. “Nah,” Lena returns. “We’ll take the truck– sleep in the bed.”

“With all the rust mites? Psh.”

“All right, fine. Just some bedrolls around a fire. Like Xena and Gabrielle.”

Kara grins. “Can I be Xena?”

“Nope. You’ve the soul of a poet, Miss Artiste.”

It draws a chuckle from Kara. When Lena lifts her arm, Kara tucks herself against her, soaking in the proximity. 

I love you, she wants to say. I cherish you.

She doesn’t.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This is a business/home opportunity, and the best kind- it's a French Fry shop. But, alas, it's in Homer, AK. The french fry friers should keep you warm, though- it's so cheap, just $212K and it was only built in 2020. Has 1bd/1ba. Take a look at it.

So, I guess customers come up to the window for delicious hot fries in summer b/c it's a seasonal business.

I'm confused. The shop looks pretty big, and all they sell are fries?

There's a lot of equipment and the listing says that it can prepare other takeout foods.

This is the whole shop on the first floor.

And, back here are the stairs to the living quarters. Woah, they look like they should be in my Death Stairs posts.

So, here we are up in the cozy apt. There's a ladder- maybe it goes up to a sleep loft?

This is nice- a balcony overlooking the ocean.

This is weird. No kitchen up here?

It does have a bedroom.

Wow, it's right on the ocean (well, actually a bay).

On a small strip of land. There's a boat basin behind it.

I don't know what to think, b/c it's Alaska.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/4025-Homer-Spit-Rd-UNIT-11-Homer-AK-99603/2054774024_zpid/?

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 16: stargazing

Masterlist flufftober 🎀

Reblog if you liked it!

You let out a sigh of satisfaction when you finished preparing the back of your father's pickup truck, after several minutes and a lot of effort to stretch the blankets enough. There was a mat, a duvet, sheets, and plenty of pillows so the two of you would be comfortable on the date you had prepared for your boyfriend. Spencer had told you about a meteor shower that occurred every ten million years and that on this occasion would be visible in the region, so he believed it would be a sin not to take advantage of the night to see it together and, in the process, spend a nice time between you. You seemed very excited about the idea and had prepared food to spend the hours that you were going to wait and, of course, a thermos full of coffee to share.

“How does it look?”

“It's perfect,” he replied happily.

He had been busy reviewing some celestial maps that he carried with him, under the light of a flashlight that you had in the trunk. You were in a remote section of the countryside and without all the light pollution of the city the stars could be seen in their maximum splendor, which had you completely fascinated. You had never done an activity like this and you knew how much Spencer was excited about astronomy, so the idea that he wanted to share that with you made you feel special.

You climbed up to the space you had arranged and he immediately imitated you, where both of you sat with your back comfortably leaning on a pair of pillows. You pulled a blanket to cover your legs and those of your boyfriend, who soon intertwined them to shorten the distance.

“I assume you know the constellations, right?”

"I do! At this time of year several can be seen. Like that one over there that is shaped like a trapezoid with a tail, do you see it?” he asked, pointing to a specific point in the sky. You had to admit that you weren't the best at finding shapes in celestial bodies, but you tried with all your might, until you finally understood what he was referring to “That's the Big Dipper, it's the third largest constellation and it's visible for all year round in the northern hemisphere, in addition to being one of the best known and most important in astronomical history. It has eight stars, one of them visible only in very clear places like this and they are called Alkaid, Mizar, Alioth, Megrez, Phecda, Merak, and Dubhe”

“There is a myth in Greek mythology about it, isn't there?”

“Yes, Greek mythology considered Ursa Major to be the bear that Callisto had been turned into by Artemis after being seduced by Zeus. Homer mentions the Bear in Canto V of the Odyssey, in which Ulysses tries in vain to be guided by her to return to Ithaca, his land”

“Wow,” you sighed, as you continued to look up to admire the stars your boyfriend was telling you about.

“When I was a child, I asked for a telescope as a birthday gift and this was the first constellation I learned because if you follow a line a little higher you can find the polar star… that one over there, do you see it?”

"I see it"

“That star serves to guide you because it always points north, so no matter where you are you can find your way if you find it. That way I imagined that whenever I was lost, I could come back home” he confessed to you, with a nostalgic smile on his face.

You stopped seeing the celestial sky to focus on him and you couldn't stop yourself from kissing him when you saw the sparkle in his eyes watching you with enthusiasm. The kiss was gentle and short, just as if you wanted to reward him for his eloquence, and then you settled under his arm with your head resting on his soft chest.

“You probably know a few thousand facts about the stars, or am I wrong?”

“I have never counted them, but from the books I have read I can assure you that it is an approximate amount”

“Well, we still have a few hours until the rain starts so start spitting them all out. I want Sagan to feel threatened in the afterlife by my knowledge of the universe at dawn” you joked and the soft laugh he let out above your head was like music to your ears.

Spencer talked and talked and you listened attentively to everything he had to tell you, only interrupting him to ask questions or to ask him to eat a little or try his cup of coffee. In the same way, you were changing positions as the hours went by, sometimes lying down, sitting, other times he with his head resting on your shoulder, and you even went so far as to sit on his lap, with your back comfortably against his torso while that he spoke kindly in your ear.

"You are tired? Bored?"

“None of that, love” you smiled. Right now you were lying in front of each other, with him absentmindedly tangling a lock of your hair in his finger “It's the most interesting date I've ever had in my life.”

“And it's going to get better, because it's the scheduled time for the main show,” he murmured in a theatrical voice, while he sat down and helped you with one hand so that you were in the same position.

He hadn't lied, because after a few minutes he saw the first star crossing the sky. You gasped in surprise like a little girl would, and your shock only intensified when another star sped past. Suddenly dozens of stars imitated the first ones and your smile grew as a new one appeared.

"Look how beautiful!" you squealed, shaking your shoulder excitedly at your lover, who was smiling the same way you were. “It’s wonderful.”

Spencer felt the need to hug you from the side to enjoy the view and the company at the same time, while you continued to look at the sky with fascination.

“We are experiencing a unique event in our space-time,” he whispered, the words slightly muffled by his lips in your hair. “And… I wanted to give you something equally unique.”

Suddenly you felt his hand take yours and then a metallic object sliding down your ring finger, forcing you to stop looking at the sky to look at him, with an expression of nothing but shock.

“Spencer, what—?”

“It's not what you think,” he hastened to say. You looked at the jewel and realized that it was a delicate ring that was completely smooth and silver in color. “It is a promise ring, it is used to… well, to promise a loved one that at some point it will be replaced by one that involves a greater commitment," he explained to you, suddenly becoming a nervous wreck "I thought about giving it to you today because I love you so much and I wanted you to know that I would like to go further with you, if you accept me”

"Darling…"

"Do you like it?" he insisted and you were forced to drown his fears with a prolonged kiss on the lips.

“Of course it does. I love you so, so much and you don't know how happy this makes me, I wouldn't want to be with anyone else in the vast universe. I'm serious"

That was enough of an answer for him and then you settled down again to enjoy the rest of the astronomical phenomenon, knowing that you would only be able to forget that night when the time necessary to witness another of those meteor showers had passed.

taglist: @navs-bhat @reidwritings @tricia-shifting14 @spencerslove @vivian-555 @r-3dlips @rhiannonhippiegirl @taygrls @simp4f1 @sdddoobydoobydoo @taintedstranger

[michael-massa-micon]

Land’s End - August 2023 Homer, Alaska, is famous for the natural spit which reaches out into Kachemak Bay. That spit is one end of the Alaska Highway. Land’s End is mile zero for that road. There are commercial fishermen, shops, tour boats, and restaurants all along the short spit. Near Land’s End there is also a memorial to the many seafarers who never came back from their last voyage. MWM

[hiddurmitzvah]

Did you know the Simpsons had an epidose about the Golem? In the story of Treehouse of Horror XVII, Bart found the Golem when trying to find Krusty to complain about his acid-spitting Krusty alarm clock. He placed a note in the Golem's mouth after being told by Krusty what it could do and told the Golem to come to his house at midnight. It is then that Bart found out the true destructive power of the Golem.

Bart used the Golem to attack the bullies and kill Skinner. Lisa, however, didn't think the Golem liked killing people and put a scroll saying "speak" into its mouth. After growling, it told of how he hated killing people, so Lisa was right.

Marge and Lisa created a Female Golem to be its mate out of Play-Doh and Lisa put a scroll into its mouth with "Live" written on it. Despite the Female Golem being snotty about the outfit she is wearing, the Golem prevents Homer from chopping her up, describing it as a sign that "she was made for me." The Golem then got married to the Female Golem in a Jewish wedding after bribing off the police for his murders.

[katerinaaqu]

Take a moment to cry at how incredibly depressed Menelaus was. He admits that Telemachus is a spitting image of his father (noting his arms etc even the expression in his eyes being identical), he knew the guy for decades (from their youth from the Oath of Tyndareus till the 10 years of war at Troy) and yet he didn't recognize Telemachus 😭😭😭

Homer could have written Menelaus mistaking Telemachus for Odysseus and rushing at him or something but no! He did something better!

Menelaus was so depressed and sad for thinking Odysseus perished or imprisoned by Calypso that he looked Telemachus in the eye, spoke to him and STILL didn't see Odysseus in him and he needed Helen to point out the family resemblance! That level of depression is just amazingly written! 😭😭😭

Menelaus deserves more love and analysis!

[unplaces]

Homer Spit Rd, Homer, Alaska.

[polskasroka]

A humble offering from me to you, fellow odydio enjoyers

Book 5 of the Iliad inspired me to write it (along with Sleep Token's Chokehold, which is quite a combination)

Test My Worth in Blood

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Iliad - Homer, Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Diomedes/Odysseus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore) Characters: Odysseus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Diomedes (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore) Additional Tags: Body Horror, Flashbacks, Blood, Blood Play, Smut, Spit As Lube, Choking, POV Diomedes, diomedes has seen things, inspired by book 5, odysseus won't shut up Summary: You wish the gift from the goddess had worn off by now. You hadn’t asked for any of this. You certainly hadn’t asked for being able to still see and hear the blood of your comrades. Then, there’s a flicker. A sound, a bright clink. You realise which tent it came from.

Word count: 3,626

Read on AO3 or below!

You have seen what mortals aren’t supposed to ever see. A blessing or a curse from bright-eyed Athena, it’s difficult to tell. At least now. At the time, it seemed to be a blessing, a gift straight from the Goddess of Wisdom herself. One that turned you into a godling. One that, if only you dare claim so, made you equal to the best of the Greeks.

Once the battle ended, however, the power didn’t cease completely. It’s still there. Still here, buzzing within your head. Humming in your ears. Making your eyes sting whichever direction you look. Blinding and deafening you with the occasional sight and sound of the blood running through the veins of those around you.

Indeed, you may be hidden in the safety of your tent. In your solitude, you’re accompanied by the candlelight illuminating the space around you. The flickers bouncing off the spear tips and armour and then springing into the fabric of the tent. It would be serene if not for the unexpected buzzing coming from the left. And then from the right. And then from somewhere vaguely in front of you.

The dull branches of crimson show up in the distance only to die off a second or two later. The boring red burns your eyes in the darkness and you seek respite in the dimmest spot you can stare at. This doesn’t always help, so you close your eyes. And yet, you can still hear the murmuring of blood gently flowing through the vessels. The sound like an attack against your ears.

You are not supposed to hear that. You are not supposed to see that.

A blessing turned a curse.

You wish the gift from the goddess had worn off by now. You hadn’t asked for any of this. You certainly hadn’t asked for being able to still see and hear the blood of your comrades. Granted, it’s not as overwhelming as before but it’s making you restless, even though you’re nowhere near falling asleep.

Frowning, you grit your teeth until your jaw hurts. Gripping the desk, you leave indents in the wood with your blunt nails. You’d flip this desk over if you knew it’d kill the humming.

Then, there’s a flicker. A sound, a bright clink. Involuntarily, the muscles in your ear flex. You flinch. Tired though you are, your curiosity takes over and you lift your head in search for the source of the sound.

As if to annoy you, everything’s fallen dead silent. You huff. Maybe it’s for the better. Maybe you can finally lay down and rest. Maybe you can finally go to sleep and recover from all you’ve seen and heard today. Maybe the sight of the gods’ pulsating veins will not haunt your dreams.

But just as you turn around, you catch the glimpse of the bright golden spark once more. It’s gone as soon as you focus on it. You realise which tent it came from.

You know you shouldn’t go and investigate. You know it’s not a good idea, for it’s been a long day for everyone. Especially for you.

A blessing turned a curse or not, you also shouldn’t dismiss the signs that the gods give you. What’s more, under no circumstances should you reject the kind signs that Lady Athena grants you. She’s your guide, she knows what’s best for you. Now that all the other bubbling and flowing has been muted, you’re left with that single one — one occasionally glimmering with godlike gold.

It’s dark outside when you step out into the night. Knowing better than that, you stifle the candle before you venture out and let yourself be led by the one with gleaming eyes. There’s no use fighting it, you’re painfully aware of that. It’s not without a reason that it’s his blood that you’re able to sense.

On your way, you pass a couple of drunk and slumbering soldiers without making a sound and rousing them up. If there happen to be others that you stumble upon, you choose to hide in the shadow. No need to pique anyone’s interest now. The grey-eyed one’s attention is enough.

There’s no need to sneak. No need to try to muffle the footsteps. Others are fast asleep and if they’re not, they’ll stay vigilant but will not be able to tell who it was lurking around the camp. Maybe they’ll try to find a spy. Or they’ll send someone to spy on the Trojans in return.

But, just in case, you mutter a quiet prayer to the Lady Athena to conceal and mask your steps.

You’re certain that Odysseus can already hear you approaching. He’s had time to memorise the way you walk, it’s been ten years after all. So you don’t announce yourself.

You won’t startle him, despite him leaning over his desk. There may be a light flickering from the inside of his tent but it’s not his shadow that’s sold his whereabouts. It’s the split-second glimpse into the inside of his body, into the countless blood vessels carrying the liquid that should be of that dull shade of red. But it’s not. You’ve noticed it before — Odysseus�� blood is everything but opaque. It shines when you’re allowed to see it. It shines a brighter tone of red and then there’s that clink, the little jingle of golden sparks dancing through his veins.

No matter how much your eyes sting every time the glimmer reflects in them, you can’t go back and retreat. You’re drawn to this godlike albeit elusive flare. You’re drawn to the man who’s appeared to be worthy enough for the daughter of Zeus to lend him her guidance.

Led by the evasive glow, you enter the tent. The lit candle’s still casting its warm light over the papers spread on the desk and swirls in the metal of an armour and spear and arrow tips. You shake your head.

“Out of everyone, you, crafty Odysseus, should use your wit and come up with something that would surprise me for once,” you state, bored, a dagger poking you in the back.

“Were it someone else, they would be surprised. That is to say the least, Tydeides.”

Rolling your eyes, you wait for the blade’s tip to stop trying to make a hole in your chiton. Hopeful that it won’t require mending, you follow Odysseus with your gaze as he rounds you to stand before you. He leans against the desk and folds his arms.

“May I ask what brings you here at this hour?” he says, not requiring an answer. He’s got all the answers anyhow. “So keen to see me, could that be it? Or maybe, if you’d be so kind to share, could it be that you’re unable to survive one night without me?”

The corner of his lips quirks up and the moment he stops speaking, you squint. This divine flicker is not the same when you’re in his near proximity. Not dimmed by the distance and the tents, the spark beams brightly; so brightly that you can’t help but whip your head to the side to control the damage that wouldn’t be done regardless.

“Meanwhile you, in turn, seem unable not to flatter yourself anytime you have a chance, Laertiades,” you say, fooling yourself into thinking that calling him like this will bother him. It won’t. With smouldering anger inside, you watch a chuckle shake his body.

“Ah, but in your company, dear Diomedes, I should not be particularly worried about the lack of flattery, now should I?”

You exhale a huff through your nose that immediately brings a triumphant smile onto Odysseus’ lips. You won’t tell him he’s right. Even if your words fail you, which they tend to do in his presence, you flatter him with actions. Odysseus may have the gift of shrewdness but he won’t surpass your blessing of non-verbal affection. Of that you are certain.

“The grey-eyed goddess’ guidance has led me here.” Not that you could resist it.

“Ha! The Goddess of Wisdom has lured you here under the cover of the peace-bringing Night, it appears to me. A coincidence it cannot be!” Odysseus announces jovially and swings his hand in the air. “Come closer.”

Without hesitation, you obey. Now both you and Odysseus are staring at the reports and maps splayed atop the desk. Some of them you’ve seen before. A couple of them are more recent than others. There’s also a drawing that Odysseus pulls on top of everything. Your eyes are glued to it and you’re thankful for that — there’s that golden shine to Odysseus’ blood again. You see those branching vessels with the corner of your eye. The brightness nearly overwhelms you.

“What in the name of the gods is this?” you ask, frowning.

“A horse.”

“A horse?”

“It’s not just a horse, Diomedes. It’s a wooden horse.”

You lock your eyes with his when he says that and it’s a mistake. His veins flash golden again and you hear the humming of his blood flow. It vibrates in your ears and you clench your fists, crumpling up a paper or two.

“If you don’t mind, oh great tactician, I fail to see how it makes this horse any better. I’d say it being wooden is bound to make things worse,” you dare, although you’re quite sure it’ll bring even more pain onto your eyes.

Odysseus tsks. “That I shall tell once the right time comes.”

Your eyes feel as if someone’s trying to blind you with a hot metal rod. The thumping of blood fills your ears as the shiny sparkles submerged in the royal crimson glimmer. It’s like Helios managed to bring some of his light into the permeating darkness of the Night.

“You see, my dear Diomedes, I wish I could—”

“Silence.”

“Please, forgive me, but I do not quite understand. Weren’t you the one who needed clarification as to why a wooden horse is better than any other one?”

“Odysseus.” The anger inside you is now much closer to blazing than only smouldering.

Despite that, you manage to spot the grey streaks in his overall brown eyes. All this planning that he’s been doing… Lady Athena must’ve been assisting him one way or another.

“Diomedes…” He lifts his hand. “Your eyes.”

“Shut up!”

This is the last straw. Or the next blazing flash is.

You swipe his hand away and press your own against his mouth, effectively keeping him quiet. Finally.

Odysseus looks at you in frustrated confusion, his brows knit together. He tries to push your hand away by grabbing your forearm but you don’t relent. Since this hasn’t worked, he takes a step back and with little struggle, he sets himself free from your grip. You let it pass. You choose to wait. Observe. Decide.

“My most trusted tool and weapon — ripped away! By none other than an ally of mine! My dear Diomedes!” Odysseus cries, one hand on his chest; he’s glowering at you.

You glower back at him. “Cut the theatrics. And don’t tempt me.”

There’s a spark in his eye, now more brown than brown-grey. One that doesn’t scorch your whole vision. One that you’ve seen before and grown to enjoy seeing.

“You wouldn’t even dare, Tydeides,” he says, straightening up, his back cracking at the sudden movement.

“Oh?” Standing tall too, you pierce Odysseus with your own gaze.

You take a step towards him. He takes a step away from you. “Is that what you think, oh wise Odysseus?”

“You’ve given me no reason to think otherwise.”

“In this case, maybe I finally should?”

He squints at you, a challenging smirk plastered on his face. You take a couple more steps towards him. He keeps backing away.

“Scared?”

“Not at all.”

“Why not stop then?” You say and clear your throat.

“So that you’re pleased? Oh, Diomedes! Master of the war cry must have something more effective planned already.”

You scowl but say nothing. Instead, you keep walking until the backs of Odysseus’ legs hit the bed. Only then does he stop. He appears to be standing even straighter now, his chest pushed forward and hands on his hips. A laughable sight, really. At least in comparison to how you’re looming over him. You’d be a liar if you said that you don’t like it.

That smirk of his is distorted by a split-second tremble of his lip as you grab him by his throat; your fingers snugly wrapped around that vulnerable area. A hum rumbles somewhere within there and the vibrations travel onto your hand. You draw closer. As if unfazed by the short-lived squeeze of your hand, Odysseus just looks up at you.

“You won’t kill me,” he says, fuelling your rage. “No matter how much you want to right now.”

“I will.”

“You won’t. But, oh gods above and below! How glorious it would be to die at the hands of the son of Tydeus!” he continues, both of his hands on your forearm. Stroking, scratching. Raising chills.

A growl bubbles in your chest.

“All high and mighty but so woefully predictable,” Odysseus muses on, ignoring the tightening around his neck. Quite impressive, you have to admit that. “Always using all the wit you possess until all’s said and done and said wit’s dead and gone. Always because of me.”

Odysseus chokes on the last words of his little tirade. A smirk tilts your lips as you feel him dig his nails into your hand. He’s right and you hate that. So you’re making him pay.

He tries to take a ragged breath but his airways fail him, crushed under your fingers. Your own contentment leaves you in a form of a low murmur and you hold Odysseus in your grip until a grimace creeps onto his face and the colour of his swarthy skin starts turning pale.

Only then do you let him go and collapse onto the bed.

He gasps for air, hand on his heaving chest, the other clutching the furs. As soon as he peers up, still short of breath, you’re already there, lending him some air in the kiss that you press against his lips. Anything to keep him silent, anything to keep him from his constant rambling — one full of empty words that have fooled hundreds of men.

They must’ve fooled you too but you’re too lost in how your lips seem to never leave his. You’re on top of him already. Clawing at his clothes, you manage to rip them apart in the process. You hum in satisfaction again. He grunts in discontentment.

“Stop whining, Laertiades. This is your tent,” you say before he can. Your own chiton’s soon gone too. “Open a chest and find something else to wear later.”

“The chest you’re speaking of is not a bottomless one, I’m afraid. Would you believe that?”

The light tone of the question hides the malice that you know is there. You’ve known Odysseus long enough to recognise such moments. Apart from that, his fiery eyes are telling you everything. You’ve seen that glare-gaze plenty of times before. You can’t quite tell if it’s more irritating or arousing.

It’s most likely both.

Thus, it’s a matter of seconds before you’re all over him. The non-verbal flattery in its full glory.

Your hands roam over the dips, plains and mounds of his body. Your eyes follow the traces that your fingers make, hypnotised, transfixed. And then, just as Odysseus scratched your forearm, you graze your nails against his skin. Red welts soon arise and he trembles underneath you. You add more pressure. He grunts. You dig harder and harder. He hisses.

You draw blood.

A quiet moan tumbles out of your mouth. You dive in to lick the skin that you’ve just broken. You see a delicate shimmer of gold but taste iron. Sheer iron, just as you always do. Nothing’s changed.

Odysseus squirms again and you hold him down with your bloody hands. You stain his flanks with his own blood and gather the trickling droplets onto your tongue. The more you taste it, the more light-headed you feel.

In your daze, you bite down on Odysseus’ flesh, right next to the fresh wounds you’ve caused. He swears and you think he tries to push you away but, in fact, he’s holding you, so that you won’t even think about leaving him. With one of his hands in your hair and the other on your shoulder, he might be drawing you closer too, until you’ve got his blood smeared not only over your mouth but also chin and nose.

With the corner of your eye, you see the displeasured look on Odysseus’ face as you spit into your palm. You send him a scowl. You can’t wait anymore. And he should be used to your impatience by now. He whines and acts as if he were any more patient than you, while you are convinced that he isn’t. Or that he enjoys you hurting him. The latter is certain, though.

He tries to slow you down and push you away out of an instinct. He told you so himself. And he also instructed you to ignore that unless he said otherwise. So you comply because why wouldn’t you? The way his expression changes — his brows furrow, his eyes close shut, his lips turn into a thin line — only encourages you to bury yourself inside until the hilt. A wavering sigh escapes your lungs.

You ignore Odysseus clawing at your arms and shoulders. With your face buried in his neck, you start your back and forth. It’s painstakingly rhythmical at the beginning. You love it this way. You love to feel the tight fit gradually become perfect.

It’s you who’s holding onto Odysseus now. Once in a while, a grunt slips past your lips and fans over his neck or jaw. You grunt again, slightly increasing the pace and then you shudder. The chills continue as Odysseus smooths the skin on your arms and shoulders instead of trying to break the skin. He runs his right hand upwards, giving your nape a slight squeeze. Eventually, he cards through your hair with his fingers while his other hand’s lying flat on your back. He attempts to grip each time you strike that sweet spot inside of his gut.

Your hips buck at one of his scrapes over your scalp. You wail and quickly bite your lip.

“What truly brings you here, dearest Diomedes?” Odysseus mutters next to your ear. You can’t know if he really cares but you choose to think so.

“I’ve seen things, Odysseus.” You swallow. “I’ve seen the gods.”

“Why, everyone’s seen a god in their life!”

“Not like that,” you growl and grant him a couple of rough thrusts that have him choke on his breath. “I’ve seen them… from within. I’ve seen so much light, Laertiades, it was so bright, golden. Yet, it didn’t blind me. The goddess came to my aid. She made it last. She made me fight the gods.”

Odysseus hugs you closer to himself, your hair in his tight and protective grip. You speed up, losing your perfect rhythm. You don’t care and neither does he.

“I’ve fought the gods,” you babble on. “She guided me, she enlightened me. Odysseus, the blood of the gods… It’s not… Everyone else — their veins… so red and dull… muddy almost. Not the gods’. Live and liquid gold, they were!” you moan into juncture of Odysseus’ neck and jaw.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you shield yourself from the memory of how brightly the gods shone on the battlefield. The glow warmed your feverish skin.

You moan again, feeling that warmth now. In the heat of the moment, you grab Odysseus by his hips to lift the lower part of his body up. The change of the angle punches a low groan out of his lungs.

You cling to the warmth. You let it embrace you.

“Your blood…”

“Hm? What about it?” Odysseus mutters, tugging on your hair.

“It’s not dull nor muddy.”

You see the divine glow again. The golden sparks inside Odysseus. They illuminate the whole tent. The sharp light stings your eyes, although they’re closed. You know this sheen outlines Odysseus’ body. You can feel it on his skin. You can feel the heavenly heat melt onto you and spread through your being, and fill your own veins with specks of pure gold.

Darkness is what you see when your eyes flutter open. It then transforms into a dance of shadows that you notice with the corner of your eye as you nose at Odysseus’ neck. You inhale and let out a long exhale as you feel him rake his fingers through your hair.

What you need is to rest your head on top of Odysseus’ chest if you don’t want your neck to be all stiff and aching tomorrow. So, you lift your head and spare him a glance. It gives him enough time to hold your face between his hands. He rubs the skin under your eyes with his thumbs.

“You’re back.”

It’s one of those rare moments when Odysseus smiles a genuine smile of joy and contentment. The corners of his eyes crinkle up.

“I’ve been with you the whole time,” you reply, confused.

“You aren’t that dense, so quit the act,” he chuckles.

Odysseus then grows more serious.

“A man without proper reason wouldn’t have been chosen to fight the gods themselves. You were, oh godlike Diomedes. My bright-eyed Diomedes.”

Fondness. It’s fondness that you’ve just heard. Pure fondness from the man of twists and turns.

He’s genuine. His words are the truth. Your own escape you.

You understand why he pointed out your eyes earlier.

[serpentarius]

“Do you know the story of Scylla and Charybdis, Daniel?” 

Daniel scoffs. “'Course. Any writer worth his salt knows Homer.” 

Armand gives him an expectant nod.  

The human sighs. “Odysseus faced Scylla and Charybdis on his way home," he continues. "Scylla’s the multi-headed demon, and Charybdis - y'know, the whirlpool, or whatever."

The vampire hums. “And what is your interpretation of the story?” 

Daniel simply shrugs. But a glint of excitement flickers in his eyes. "I mean. There’s the obvious, ‘lesser of two evils’ thing everyone takes away from it. But it ain't just about picking your poison, you know? It's about - I dunno, the messiness of life choices."

As he speaks, Daniel's voice gains a subtle enthusiasm, betraying his initial feigned indifference. "It's like, you're not just flipping a coin and hoping for the best. You gotta dive deep into the consequences, face 'em head-on with some guts and smarts. And you can’t just pat yourself on the back for dodging the bigger disaster, either. I mean, he still lost guys, right, so he has to own up to the fallout. Wade through it with some goddamn backbone. There's gotta be a lesson learned from the whole ordeal. Otherwise he's setting himself up for more trouble down the line."

"That's all well and good," Armand retorts. "But survival is the thing that matters most, in the end. Sometimes there's no time for overthinking or philosophical musings. You've got to act swiftly, to prioritize pragmatism over philosophy, in order to get out alive. So, Daniel, I ask you - who do you think is the lesser evil?"

"Between a man-eating monster and a ship-eating vortex?" Daniel huffs. "Odysseus chose the monster. I choose the monster."

Armand shakes his head disapprovingly. "A naïve decision. But then again, you are just a naïve boy."

Daniel bristles. His agitation is evident when he spits out, “Don’t fucking belittle me. You're probably just saying that because I'm actually making some good points, and you don't like being outsmarted.” He presses on, “Odysseus only lost six men that way. They all would’ve died in the whirlpool.” 

Armand meets Daniel's gaze evenly. "Odysseus was selfish. He only opted out of the whirlpool due to self-serving motives. There was a chance, however slim, that they might have survived it. But by choosing the monster, he risked the lives of his men for his own gain."

"It wasn't selfish if the odds were stacked against them!" Daniel argues. "You can't convince me it wasn't the best option they had. 'Prioritize pragmatism over philosophy', eh? What a fucking joke, coming from you."

Armand stands firm. "He should have gambled everything for a chance at survival," he asserts, his eyes fixed on Daniel's now. Despite Daniel's defiant posture, Armand can see the telltale signs of uncertainty flickering on his face; the creases on his forehead, the slight dilation of his pupils. It betrays his wavering resolve. "You should know by now, Daniel, that the watery abyss may spare you its grasp…”

He makes his way towards the door. Daniel's gaze follows, helplessly reverent.

“But the predator of men knows no mercy.” 

as long as I find you interesting (I won’t kill you)