#Trials of Apollo fanfiction

[lavenderfairiez]

LITPOLLO FANS ASSEMBLE!!! I finally finished my Litpollo fic!!!

Honestly I'm so proud of this one, pls go read it 😭

[tsarisfanfiction]

Black and Gold

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Family/Hurt/Comfort Characters: Apollo, Aristaeus What was supposed to be a catch-up with his son ended up taking an unexpected direction. This little fic was inspired by Aristaeus' recommendation letter in the special editions of Chalice of the Gods. His characterisation seemed like a lot of fun, so I thought I'd play with him a little bit!

Apollo found his son in one of his usual haunts.  Not the first one he checked, but one of the likely ones, nonetheless, curled up beneath where one of the largest honeysuckle plants grew in a little-visited courtyard in the outer reaches of Olympus.

Aristaeus almost looked like a mortal beekeeper, with the white suit that covered him from neck to toe, but the distinctive head covering was absent, strewn mindlessly on the ground by his feet, and the gloves had also followed suit.  Missing some of the protective gear didn’t bother the younger god in the slightest, of course, and he had a large bee crawling on the palm of his hand fearlessly, her antennae exploring eagerly as she wandered across his hand.  Only the queen had settled on his hand, but there were hundreds of smaller workers crawling through his hair, making it difficult to tell if he was blond or black-haired today.  It could be either, knowing his son.

Most importantly, Aristaeus looked upset.  He was brooding, hiding away from the masses – the first of his regular haunts that Apollo had checked had all been in more populous areas, and the longer it had taken to find him, the more concerned he had become.  This haunt in particular was one Aristaeus favoured when he didn’t care for company.

Apollo stayed near the entrance, drinking in the sight of his son without approaching for several long moments before it became clear that either his son was intentionally ignoring him, or that he hadn’t noticed his presence at all.

Neither of those were usual for his son – Aristaeus usually acknowledged his existence, even if it had been known to accompany a dismissal, and as a god was usually highly aware of his surroundings.  It was unusual enough that Apollo knocked his knuckles against a nearby alabaster pillar gently.

“Knock knock,” he said quietly.

Aristaeus didn’t jump, but possibly only because he didn’t want to startle the bees.  His head turned slowly until he was looking straight at Apollo, and Apollo ached to approach, because there was grief in his son’s eyes.

He waited, though, because this was Aristaeus’ hiding spot, filled with the buzzing of Aristaeus’ bees, and Apollo had long since learnt not to startle the bees.

Bee stings hurt – his son’s hive were inconsiderately powerful enough that their stings could hurt even gods – but worst of all was Aristaeus’ reaction, because bees stung as a last resort, as a suicidal defence mechanism to save their hive, and losing any of his bees could make his son mad.

Where Asclepius was a gentle soul that was hard pressed to anger, Aristaeus’ temper could curdle unpleasantly in an instant.  Apollo did not enjoy being on the receiving end of his son’s ire.

“Why are you here?” Aristaeus asked him, flat and emotionless.

“I was looking for you,” Apollo said honestly.  “It’s been a while since we last caught up.”  His mortal children weren’t the only ones he’d been somewhat neglecting recently, and now that Apollo had his godhood back – with no intentions of losing it a fourth time – he was going to fix that wherever he could.

Asclepius would take longer, was much harder to get near, and Apollo had yet to have any new brainwaves on how to sneak into his prison, let alone any that held any chance of being successful, but there were no such restrictions placed upon Aristaeus, to Apollo’s eternal relief.

“Looking for me?” Aristaeus repeated slowly, before snorting.  None of the bees seemed at all bothered by the noise, continuing to crawl over him fearlessly.  “I don’t hear that much any more.”

It wasn’t a dismissal, but it wasn’t an invitation to come closer, either.  Apollo stayed where he was, continuing to look over his son and finding that he didn’t particularly like what he was seeing.

He hated seeing his children upset.  He especially hated it when there was nothing he could do about it.

“Most of the time, people forget I exist,” his son continued.  “Mortals, mostly, with their automated machinery and industrialised cheese factories.  No need to pray to a god that the cheese comes out properly when they can just put all their faith in those stupid machines to be working, and when they break they just fix those without so much as a please to me.”  He huffed.  “They’ve forgotten me.”

He raised the hand where his queen continued to crawl across his palm contentedly.  “As for the bees…”  He shook his head, and his shoulders heaved in the tell-tale motion of a sob.  “Another species went extinct today.  They’re killing them and they don’t even care.”

Apollo hadn’t been invited in, but he hadn’t been sent away, and his son was upset.  He took one step into the courtyard, and then another when Aristaeus didn’t snap at him.  His son wasn’t even looking at him anymore, his attention focused on the queen on his hand again.

He had made it halfway before Aristaeus reacted.

“If you hurt a single one…” he growled.

“I won’t,” Apollo promised, because they were his son’s bees and he would never, not on purpose, and he wouldn’t let accidents happen.

“They’ll sting you,” Aristaeus tried, but Apollo had been his father for millennia and could recognise a bluff when he heard one.  He could also recognise a cry for help.

“You won’t let them,” he said, confident in the truth, and the fight drained out of his son’s frame.

Apollo took that for the invitation it was and crossed the rest of the distance, keeping a careful eye out for any bees crawling on the ground that he might inadvertently step on if he wasn’t paying attention until he reached his son’s side.  So close to the majority of the hive, it was impossible to miss the song of so many bees buzzing away in harmony as some of them took flight before re-settling again in a different part of Aristaeus’ hair.

He was blond, today, Apollo noticed, and it took less than a thought for his own hair to shift in hue until it was the exact same shade.

If Aristaeus noticed, he didn’t comment.  Given he wasn’t even looking at Apollo, he probably didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, and the only reason he didn’t put a light hand on his son’s shoulder, or around his back, was because there were so many bees crawling around that he couldn’t make contact with Aristaeus without risking hurting one of the bees.

“It’s not your fault,” Aristaeus scoffed.  “You’re not the one killing them.  There’s nothing you can do about this; this is my domain.”  His shoulders shook slightly, another silent sob coursing through him.  “My domains are dying, Father, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

He lifted his other hand, the one not acting as a ledge for the queen bee, and softly stroked her fur with a tenderness that made Apollo’s heart ache.  It was a tender grief, a hand steady only by force of will, because to tremble would be to hurt the beautiful, fragile creature he held, and Aristaeus could never hurt his bees.

“There’s nothing I can do about it,” he repeated, hollow and empty.  “I can’t make the mortals care, I can’t make them rewind a century or two and forget about their industrialisation, I can’t stop any of this.”

“Aristaeus-”

“I’m not strong enough!” his son snapped at him, startling some of the bees into flight.  A few of them buzzed angrily around Apollo, perhaps viewing him as the reason for the disturbance in their hive, but none of them tried to sting him, the way he knew they wouldn’t, because Aristaeus was right there and wouldn’t let them.  Maybe he would if it wouldn’t also kill them – actually, Apollo was sure he would let them attack if they would survive it – but he loved his bees too much.

“I’m not strong enough,” Aristaeus repeated, as the bees slowly settled back into his hair again.  “I can feel it, Father.  I’m being forgotten.  A century ago, I could’ve done something about this.  I should have done something.  But I didn’t, and now so few mortals pray to me that it might as well be none.  My strength is waning, Father, and with each extinct species, with each cheesemonger that gets priced out by their stupid capitalism and is forced to stop, I lose more.  It’s only a matter of time, now, before I-”

“No!” Apollo exclaimed, interrupting his son before he could finish the sentence because he couldn’t, he couldn’t-  “No, Aristaeus.”

His outburst had the hive erupting into movement, leaving Aristaeus’ hair in an angry, buzzing swarm.  Even the queen took off, leaving his palm to join her hive, and Aristaeus whipped around to glare at Apollo, but all Apollo could see was his son, hurting, and an absence of bees where he might crush them.

He pulled Aristaeus into his arms, wrapping around him in an embrace that was as much for him as it was his son.  Perhaps more for him, if he was honest, but the fear that Aristaeus’ words had provoked in him was raw and primal, and Apollo felt helpless in the face of it.

“Father!” Aristaeus complained, but his wriggling was far less slippery than Apollo knew his son was capable of, so he held on.

“No,” Apollo repeated, listening to the aggravated buzz of the hive around them.  He still wasn’t being stung, though, which he would take as a positive sign.  “No.”

“You can’t do anything about it, Father,” Aristaeus said.  “These are my domains, you can’t-”

“Do you want to Fade?” Apollo asked him, interrupting his son’s protests because he couldn’t listen to that, couldn’t believe it, not if he didn’t have to.  “Aristaeus,” he repeated again, when his son didn’t reply instantly.  “Do you want to Fade?”

Olympus, but he hoped the answer was no, didn’t want to think about what if the answer was yes, if Aristaeus wanted it all to end – and the lengths he’d go to, if he had to.  It wasn’t a secret how intensely Pan had tried to Fade, until he’d finally succeeded.  He wasn’t the only god that had deliberately ended his own existence, and Apollo didn’t know how he was supposed to accept it if his son went down that same path.

“What?” Aristaeus replied, what felt like an eternity later despite being barely seconds.  “Father, what?  Do I want-?  No, no, I don’t want to Fade!  But-”

“Then you won’t,” Apollo promised him, the relief enough to make his entire being feel weightless as he slumped around his son.  “You won’t Fade, Aristaeus.”

“You can’t-”

“I can,” Apollo corrected him, vaguely aware that he was holding Aristaeus as though he was a much, much younger child than his several millennia, that to an outsider looking in, he looked like the younger, but he didn’t care, and even Aristaeus’ token escape attempts had ceased.

Above and around them, the buzz of the swarm died down into something non-aggressive.  Apollo felt hundreds of tiny feet start to settle on his head, crawling down the skin of his neck and across his shoulders, but paid them no mind.  They wouldn’t hurt him, and he wouldn’t hurt them.

“I can,” he said again, a hand in his son’s hair.  “I can, Aristaeus, because no matter what the mortals do, no matter how much they forget, I will never forget you, nor your bees, nor the cheese you craft so lovingly with your hands.  Even if everyone else forgets you, I never will.  I will remember you, and I will believe in you, for as long as I exist.  No matter what happens.”

Maybe he hadn’t been enough for Helios, but he hadn’t recognised what had been happening, back then.  Aristaeus was his son, though, and for his son, Apollo would be enough.  He would make sure he was enough.

[toasecretsanta]

(2 of 2 fics)

MERRY CHRISTMAS PART 2! :D

Another fic [by @firealder2005] based off of the prompt list by @literallyjusttoa :3 This one is Apollo/Admetus, be it in older times or the modern day!

I will have this posted on Ao3 once the submission is up! :D

Warnings: I have this rated Teen & Up. Only warning is Apollo being rather depressed.

Also fluff alert! :3 This is Admetus/Apollo we’re talking about haha

ENJOY!

Nothing Else To Give But Love…

A soft nose grazed his hand. He shifted and absently began stroking the poofy wool on top of the sheep’s head.

Apollo hummed as the sheep’s baa echoed through the sleepy, spring-green field. Despite the mild warmth, he shivered, one hand nearly strangling the cords wrapped around his hand, the rest of the twine cinched about his waist.

The field was quiet. Simple. Nothing like Olympus had been during, or even before…before…

Before it had happened…

His son’s young face, blue eyes wide and startled as a clap of thunder rolled through the sky and electricity shattered the world around them leaving —

Apollo took in a shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the tears welling in them.

Oh, Asclepius… He inwardly whispered. I’m so, so sorry, my sweet, sweet son.

He hadn’t deserved such a wonderful child — frankly, all of his children were marvelous and he couldn’t fathom what he’d done to deserve such bright kids. Apollo didn’t deserve them. He didn’t deserve Asclepius — hadn’t deserved him…

Apollo’s grasp on the cord loosened, letting the rough cords fall from his fingers. He raked a hand through his hair, the locks empty without the laurel wreath usually nestled in them. He hadn’t been casted down to Earth with it the first time, and it was no different now.

He shamefully missed the weight of the crown in his hair. The guilt he made himself carry day in and out. Never letting himself forget her.

Her. Another person he hadn’t deserved…

Did he deserve anything? He, the most glorious of gods…but now nothing more than a mere servant. A shepherd. 

(Not that there was anything wrong with shepherds, mind you. He was the god of them, and had dated a few. Branchus had been a beloved lover, and the person who made Miletus one of Apollo’s favorite cities.)

And what made it worse…he was here because of his own actions. His father’s enraged expression was still fresh in his mind, though the memories were tinted red by his own fiery, destructive fury.

Actions have consequences, my son, Zeus’s voice winded its way through his head. Even you are not above the law.

So here Apollo was. Laying in a field, dressed like a servant. Deprived of even more divinity than he’d had the first time he’d been casted down to Earth to work for Laomedon (the name made him shudder). He thought he felt mortal during his time in Ilion — or Troy, as it was now called. For the first time, his hands had ached. He experienced fatigue and thirst.

Last time was nothing compared to now. By the end of the day, he was exhausted. It was harder to access his divine power to keep himself awake at night, even if dear Admetus attempted to get him to go to sleep, insisting it was natural to need rest after a long day.

But he couldn’t — Apollo didn’t need to rest. He was a god, he could go centuries without rest.

It was only temporary, after all.

(He ignored the yawn that tugged at his lips. The heaviness of his eyes.)

(Temporary. All temporary.)

Footsteps made his head turn. Apollo subconsciously brought a hand up to his hair and played with a strand as he caught sight of Admetus coming closer. Handsome face, dark, soulful eyes and equally dark hair. Stubble grew on his perfect jaw.

Apollo felt his heart flutter when the king softly smiled at him.

He straightened when Admetus slid down beside him, patting the sheep lazing on his other side on the head as he looped an arm around Apollo. The god leaned against him and rested his head on his shoulder, humming happily when Admetus placed a kiss on his hair.

“Slow day?” the king murmured against his hair.

Apollo shrugged, fighting back a yawn. “Pretty much. I think the wolves and bears have decided to go elsewhere.”

“They bow before their lord,” Admetus grinned. Apollo giggled into his shoulder. “As they should.”

The god chuckled again, though a slight sigh shivered through his body. “Not now, though,” he murmured. “I’m not their lord now.”

Admetus stroked his hair. Apollo could almost imagine the concerned tilt of his head, the slightly raised right eyebrow as he looked at him.

The king hummed, resting his head on Apollo’s. “They seem to think so,” he softly observed. “They still listen and obey you.”

Apollo shuffled his legs and buried his face further into Admetus’s robes. A hand ran through his hair again, gently working at small knots, before it was removed and Admetus shuffled around himself.

Peering up, Apollo blinked as the king slid off his light cloak, shook it out, then swung it around Apollo’s shoulders and gently fastened the clasp. Apollo raised his hands to Admetus’s, protesting; “You don’t have too—”

“I insist.”

“Really, I’m fine.”

Admetus kissed his forehead and pulled Apollo into a warm, firm hug. The god gratefully sank into it, eyelids fluttering as sleep tugged on his consciousness. He squeezed his eyes shut and mentally shook himself awake. No sleeping, he ordered himself. Especially not when a handsome king is hugging you!

“You have a lot on your mind,” Admetus murmured. “Don’t you?”

Apollo sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “I do.”

Admetus stroked the back of his neck, which felt really nice. “Anything I can do to help lighten your load?”

The god softly laughed and rubbed at his heavy eyes. “I don’t know,” he said, pulling away slightly and looping his arms around the king’s neck. Their noses brushed against each other. “Not now, anyway.”

The king cupped his cheek and rested his forehead against Apollo’s. Apollo hummed with contentment at the gesture.

“I have something for you,” Admetus bashfully whispered. Apollo stroked the stubble on the king’s chin and blinked slowly at him, a small smile pulling on his lips at Admetus’s flustered expression.

Admetus reached into his exposed robes and withdrew a circlet.

The first thing that caught Apollo’s attention was the color. A thick, lush green. Shining in the soft, sleepy sunlight.

Bay laurels.

A laurel wreath.

Hesitantly, Apollo allowed his fingers to brush over the delicate leaves before withdrawing. “I…I can’t. I’m not —”

“A prince?” Admetus quietly supplied. He used his free hand to gently pull Apollo to his feet, adjusting the cloak around him, before placing the wreath in his long, unfurled hair, fingers tracing the skin of his cheek.

“Admetus —”

“Keep them on, my prince,” Admetus whispered, placing a light, loving kiss to Apollo’s forehead. “You’re just as royal as I am.”

Apollo gazed up at him, blinking rapidly as his blue eyes got suspiciously wet. He didn’t deserve this gift, especially from Admetus. He wasn’t worthy of it, of a crown made from the leaves of a woman as great as she had been.

But…Admetus seemed to think he did. A corner of his lips curved into a shy smile. Oh, Admetus… he wistfully thought. You somehow see something good in me.

Before he could stop himself, Apollo surged up and kissed Admetus on the lips. His hands trailed up into the king’s dark hair as Admetus drew him close. Apollo felt his heavy eyes flutter shut, relying on his other senses to navigate the wonderful kiss —

Before he blinked back into awareness, staring bewilderedly into Admetus’s perplexed eyes.

“Um. Hi,” he squeaked. Admetus had caught him in a dip, holding him over the ground below them. Apollo had to admit, it felt quite nice. Though how did he end up in this lovely position?

“Hi,” Admetus chuckled. “You…passed out there, for a moment.”

Apollo felt his face burn. Oh dear, sweet Ouranos…how embarrassing. Did he really just pass out while kissing? His breath stuttered as he avoided meeting the king’s mirthful eyes.

“Did I steal too much air?” Admetus grinned. “Or did you just fall for me?”

Apollo slapped his chest and burst into laughter. “That was so bad,” he snorted, smiling brightly from ear to ear.

“I know,” Admetus’s grin was still beaming. “But it’s worth it to see you smile.”

Apollo bashfully ducked his head, laughing once more when Admetus scooped him into his arms and grin brightly.

“Now, however,” Admetus began. “You should rest. You’ve barely been sleeping.”

Apollo looped his hands around his neck and laid his head on Admetus’s shoulder. “I’m fine,” he murmured, eyes fluttering. He snapped himself awake. “I’m a god, Admetus. I don’t need sleep.”

Admetus hummed in disagreement, beginning to walk back to Pherae’s palace with Apollo still nestled comfortably in his arms. “But you’re deprived of much more divinity this time,” he wisely pointed out. “And that means, you do need sleep.” The king paused and rested his forehead against Apollo’s, adding quietly; “I would never make you do something you don’t want to, but please,” he implored. “Go to sleep. You need it.”

The god huffed before sheepishly smiling. “What about the flocks?”

“I have a feeling they’ll be fine,” Admetus assured him with a grin. “The message that the god of flocks is protecting this place should have gotten around by now.”

They both shared a light chuckle before Admetus softly kissed Apollo. He leaned into the feeling, feeling a soft thrill of contentment ripple through his being, before murmuring; “Alright. But only if you join me.”

Admetus softly laughed. “If that is what you wish, my prince.”

----------

Admetus glanced at where Apollo laid sprawled beside him beneath the covers. The blanket had slipped off him, and Admetus carefully pulled it back up, brushing Apollo’s golden hair out of his face as he did.

Finally, he was getting some rest.

Apollo was a stubborn god, and seemed convinced he didn’t need the necessities mortals did — food, water, sleep — and Admetus had used every trick in the book to get him to pay attention to the very human needs he now had.

Well. Almost every trick.

He absolutely refused to use the control Zeus gave him over Apollo. Absolutely not. It horrified him that the wise and just king of the gods he’d spent his life honoring would just give a complete stranger the ability to manipulate his own son any way they liked.

Admetus had always carefully crafted his words to leave Apollo the opportunity to refuse an order if he so chose — a loophole, if you will. Ironically, he never did except for when Admetus wanted him to listen, like actually sleeping instead of making cheese in the dead of the night.

Sighing fondly, he gently ran his fingers through Apollo’s hair, mindful of the laurels now nestled in them. It felt like the soft silk that came from the East.

It scared him, sometimes. This temporary bond between them. Admetus found himself second-guessing his words before speaking, fretting over the possibility of accidentally using it against Apollo…

He had no desire to force this beautiful being into anything — especially since they became lovers.

Admetus wasn’t a fool. He was very well-aware of the power dynamic between them, and did his damndest to even the field as much as possible. He had never used the control he had against Apollo, and he never would.

And for that matter, why should he? Yes, Apollo was technically in his service and therefore legally and divinely bound to obey him, but he was his own person too. He had his own personality and quirks.

Like making cheese in the dead of the night, Admetus bit back a chuff at the memory, a smile stretching across his face as he tucked his chin over Apollo’s hair. He remembered that moment well. Apollo with jugs of fresh sheep milk, carefully taking the curdled bits and brining them, letting the cheese soak in the liquid.

His face had been pinched, a slight frown on his lips, but his movements had been precise and smooth, as if he’d been making cheese his whole life.

And well. Considering Apollo was the father of Aristaeus, Admetus could believe that.

Apollo had sheepishly admitted to not being able to sleep that night, smile strained as thunder rolled outside, lightning and a simple beeswax candle their only source of light in the darkness. Instead of urging his beloved back to bed, Admetus had dropped down beside him and gently unpinned his hair, letting the frayed, golden locks free and began to braid them.

They had sat there the rest of the night, in quiet, comfortable silence, though it was occasionally interrupted by a thunderclap or flash of lightning. Apollo flinched a few times at these, prompting Admetus to twine their hands together once he finished the Athenian hairstyle.

In response, the divine herdsman glanced at him, a soft smile lighting up his beautiful features, before it curved into a mischievous look.

“What are you—?”

Apollo looped his arms around his neck and slid onto his lap, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Care for a bite?” He impishly asked, freeing one hand to scoop up a platter of freshly-made cheese.

Admetus raised a brow, lips twitching, as he asked; “Did you slip something in it?”

Apollo scoffed. “Of course not,” he placed his unoccupied hand to his chest, as if offended. “Only the finest of cheese for my favorite king.”

“And only the finest of the gods could ever make it,” Admetus teased, accepting the offered cheese platter, only to pause when Apollo clucked his tongue and nimbly plucked a piece up himself.

“Allow me,” his smile softened from teasing to genuine. “Least I can do for your kindness.”

Admetus chuckled awkwardly. “It’s nothing,” he shook his head. “I do think this world could use a little more kindness.”

Apollo hummed. “I suppose you’re right,” he softly said, offering his hand with the cheese out. “Taste?”

Admetus didn’t break eye contact as he ate the cheese from Apollo’s fingers, cupping the god’s hand as he did. The tangy, rich flavor bathed his tongue and he licked his lips.

“Delicious,” the king proclaimed, snagging another off the platter. “You truly make the best cheese I’ve ever tasted.”

Apollo laughed as he ate a bite of cheese himself. “Ah, then you truly have yet to live,” his eyes danced in the darkness. “Remind me to get you some of Aristaeus’s — he is the true master of cheese-making.”

Admetus smiled and kissed Apollo’s cheek, comfortably wrapping his arms around his waist. “I shall await this marvelous cheese,” he whispered against his beloved’s ear. “But for now, I’m very much content with yours.”

Apollo’s bashful duck of the head sent flutters of warmth through him.

Sighing fondly at the memory, Admetus nosed into Apollo’s warm body beside him, breathing in the scent of laurels, glancing momentarily at the wreath still laying in Apollo’s hair. It sat crookedly, the leaves unused to being crushed under the head of a human.

Delicately, Admetus adjusted the wreath until it sat mostly straight, though there wasn’t much he could do about the crumpled leaves. Some golden strands had fallen back into Apollo’s closed eyes.

Even without a crown, he silently thought to himself as he brushed those strands away. He’ll always be royal to me.

 —

My ramblings on ancient greek CHEESE can be found on Ao3 :3

[just-gingerkat]

I like to think this is how everyone immediately believes Lester is Apollo

Apollo? I scoffed. This kid was telling me he was THE Apollo? One of the 12 Olympians? He must have been delusional to believe that. This beat up, average looking teenager who looked like he was ready to run away screaming at a moments notice was Apollo. Yeah right. Even the mere concept was enough to make me laugh....

but.... the more i looked at him... there was something in the kids eyes.... something inhuman... something ancient. Something that had seen great civilizations rise and fall, something that had seen thousands of human lives pass by without a mere glance... something like...My heart dropped like a stone.

Yep. This was Apollo no doubt about it. And now I'm pretty sure we're all doomed

[trials-of-apollo-my-beloved]

Door Three-Thirty-Six

These are the first three chapters of my Apollo gets therapy fic

Apollo finds his way into a therapy session. And despite telling himself not to, keeps showing up.

Chapter 1

There hadn't been a specific moment that led me to seek out therapy. I hadn't had some revelation, I didn't realize my need for help in a moment of desperation. Honestly calling it a need is a bit of stretch. I knew plenty of people that needed therapy. Nico D'angelo for example, or really just about every demigod I’ve ever met.

Honestly , I tapped my foot at a nervous six eight tempo on the waiting room floor, I probably shouldn't have come at all. Healthcare professionals are already so bogged down with work nowadays. All I'm probably going to accomplish by doing this is take up the space of someone more deserving of the help. I narrowed my eyes at the door number. I swore the email had said I was supposed to go to  room three-thirty-six by 9:30 AM! It was at least 9:45 now, shouldn't the door have opened at some point?

Maybe I had gotten mixed up and it was actually 9:30 PM instead. Maybe I should have chosen a therapist in Europe instead. Their measurements of time are so much more manageable. I speak enough European languages that I could have pulled that off.

A creak emitted from door three-thirty-six and for some unknown reason, my breath caught in my throat. Whoever was on the other side seemed to have stopped in their tracks right before they opened the door. I could see the bottoms of the shoes. They looked fancy, but worn. The owner was probably middle class if the generic store brand tag sticking up from the back of their shoes was anything to go by.

The door opened and I yelped. A middle aged woman looked at me questioningly. Mayhaps wondering what I was doing hovering outside her door. A sentiment that the longer I forced myself to see this through, the more I sympathized with.

"Uhm, hello!" I attempted a polite wave.

The woman blinked at me. "Hi there. Are you Apollo?" She had a wonderful voice, deep for a woman and undeniably pleasant. I could see how she had become a healthcare professional. A soothing voice has always helped me with bedside manner.

"Yes, that's me! Apollo..." I stuttered trying to remember the alias I had created for this. Yes, I had to create an alias entirely for going to therapy. Apparently mortals need to exist before they're allowed to sign up, and I couldn't just get this service on Olympus. The closest thing Olympus had to mental health services was some Dionysus enchanted ambrosia. Also called alcohol in some circles.

"Apollo John Smith." I don't know what you're talking about, I very much did not google the most common last name in *insert place here* to come up with my alias! That'd be stupid and incredibly transparent.

"Right, Apollo." The woman, who I assumed was Delilah Burch, my therapist to be, smiled inexplicably at me. She couldn't have possibly already realized I was lying about my name could she?

"Sorry for the wait. I had a client online that needed some extra time. Please come in." Burch's office wasn't decorated like most medical facilities I have been in. In fact, with the couch in the center of the room laden with handmade quilts, it reminded most of the infirmary at camp half blood. The room looked designed to have a homely feel. Even the dents in the wall next to the couch,  told a story of perseverance. I don't know why, it was completely ridiculous, but I felt like the hole was taunting me.  

Like it was saying, "I've withstood too much to be felled by you." Wow, I was in a weird mood today.

“May I?” I gestured to the couch. Delilah smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a way that reminded me fondly of my son Austin.

“Of course. Please.” I practically sunk into the couch. Even if I got nothing out of this visit, like I suspected would be the case, the journey would be worth it for this wonderful couch.

“What is this made of?”

Delilah chuckled, “I don’t know, but I’ve been told it’s something that starts with a p.”

“Well I’m going to have to look this couch up.” I didn’t say it outloud, but this couch had to be better than even Hephaestus’s laboratory couch. While my half brother was quite the inventor he was very facetious with comfort.

“If you find it, let me know. There’s quite a few people who have been asking me for it.” Delilah sat in a swivel chair across from, her long dark hair disappearing into black chair.

“Now,” she trailed a digit down her clipboard, “Since this is our first session, Apollo, it’s always good to start with an introduction.”

I nodded. Being a medical professional myself I was familiar with the more routine aspects of psychological treatment. Beyond the rubric though, I will admit I am rather clueless.

Delilah set the clipboard down on her lap, and I had to constrain myself from peering down at it. “I’ll go first. My name’s Delilah Burch, as you know. I am thirty-six years old. I have two siblings and I live with my dog bailey.” She pointed her pen at me, probably indicating it was my turn.

“Hello…” I trailed off, suddenly realizing I had no clue how to introduce myself. Usually I just say, “Hi I’m Apollo,” and people fill in the rest. I couldn’t do that now, obviously.

It wasn’t the best idea to start therapy based on a lie, but Olympus already had enough blackmail on me without finding my therapist.

I’ll just follow the template Delilah had laid out for me, “My name’s Apollo. I have…” My plan to follow her template fell apart as I realized I had no clue how many siblings I had.

“Well depending on how you define siblings I have a sister. I am…” Oh goodness. Another roadblock. How old was my identity again. I think I went with forty. Purely on the fact that I couldn’t gush about my teenage kids without getting weird questions.

I am not very familiar with the topics that come up in therapy, but if I had chosen my age simply off of how I appeared to mortals, I feel that being a teenage father would surely come up.

“Forty, I am forty-years-old. And I live alone. With my horses if we’re counting pets.” Delilah’s eyebrows lifted at my age, but hopefully that wasn’t because she had caught onto my lies. She was hopefully just contemplating how amazing I looked for my age. I get that a lot. Even in Olympus, which is always slightly less flattering because the people complimenting my looks there are mostly just trying to call me old without getting vaporized. (Ahem, Hermes and Dionysus.)

Delilah looked at me contemplatively. “If you don’t mind me asking, how do you define your siblings Apollo?”

Well that wasn’t what I was expecting. She had deviated from the first day rubric. I was lost. I opened my mouth, but I had no idea how to answer that question. I could go with full, biological siblings. That generally is the definition for siblings in my family, though even then that familial bond was sometimes ignored when my father, well…

My father’s… everything, probably wasn’t the topic to bring up on my first session with a new therapist. I didn’t know much about Delilah, but she didn’t seem like the type who was seeking a challenge. I guess I’d just stick with Artemis, even if I did consider a certain McCaffrey a little sister as well.

“I was counting full siblings. Of which I only have one.” Delilah leaned in like she was genuinely interested in what I had to say. I admired her for that. I for one was never able to pull off, “genuinely interested” when my patients told me about their personal lives. I’m sorry, but I do not care about your new shrine on Crete! I just don’t.

“That’s nice. Could you tell me her name?” She flashed her clipboard at me, “I like to make a diagram of relationships patients have so I have something to look at incase I forget.”

I blinked. A diagram. Well that was fancy. I knew that mental health practice had improved quite a bit over time, but a diagram was a stroke of ingenious. Back in medieval Europe Dionysus used to tell me stories about forgetting the names of people seeking his aid and how he would just cut a hole in their skull to get out of admitting he had forgotten. Which yes, was standard mental health treatment at the time.

“Well, that is handy.”

Delilah smirked, “Definitely. So what’s your sister’s name?”

“Oh, right.” I paled, realizing I hadn’t come up with aliases for any of my siblings. That was maybe something I should have considered before coming here.

“Artemis.”

“Oh I see.” Delilah scribbled on her diagram. “Apollo and Artemis, like the Greek gods! Are you two twins?”

I laughed nervously, “Very much like that. Yes we are twins. By the way, your last name, Burch. Are you perhaps related to Caroline Burch?” Confused Delilah looked at me. “The poet. And an excellent one at that.” I hinted at her, but Delilah’s face remained foggy.

“Well that’s disappointing.” I’d been a fan of Caroline Burch’s work for a long while and her stellar portfolio of poetry. Honestly her works deserved to be put in schools. I curse the person who somewhere along the line decided that Bill and Dante were the only poets doomed to be taught in American highschools.

“Sorry to disappoint. I’d say I’m about as related to her as you are to the real Apollo, but you know, you never know.” She said. I contained a laugh, you never did know.

“So do you have any other people in your life that I should know of? A parent? Friends? Kids?” Oh dear, I would have to come up with some aliases on the spot, wouldn’t I?

Start with the easy one, “I have a friend named Meg. She’s a little like my younger sister.” There, no harm in that. There’s plenty of Megs walking around. Her name wouldn’t incriminate me as one of the twelve olympians.

Now, onto my other relations. My mind raced through all my father’s titles. I would rather not discuss him ever, but considering this was therapy, and he was my abuser, if I did continue on with this charade he would no doubt come up.

“My father’s name is Bob and my mother’s name is Leto. I also have a lot of half siblings since my father’s a doner.” I winced as my poetic sense came up with a more truthful rhyme to that cover. Sometimes my talent is a curse.

Delilah’s smile had slipped at some point and she was writing so intently that I wondered how all those words could fit onto the diagram.

I felt awkward just sitting there and watching her so I continued. “I also do have other friends, but I don’t think you could fit them on your diagram.”

Delilah looked up at me, a challenge in her eyes, “Give me enough time, I could do it.”

“Okay. I also have four daughters, Kayla, Gracie, Emma, and Urania. Four sons, Austin, Will, Jerry, Raphael, and Yan who prefers no labels.” Delilah’s face remained mostly impartial, but her brow did furrow slightly.

“So your kids don’t live with you?”

“Eh heh, no, not typically. I mostly come to stay with them than the other way around.”

Delilah hummed, “Are they from one partner, no partner, multiple?” I leaned back in my chair. This was the trouble with choosing a mortal physiatrist. While the anonymity it allowed was convenient, it also had the downside of coming with mortal judgments on morality and this country's strangely christian prejudices. I hoped Delilah wasn’t the type to slut shame, but well, that’s never something you can tell from looking at a person.

For example; you would think Janus, the god of doorways would be totally down and cool with people having multiple partners over their lifetime, but no, he was a total stickler for ‘one true loves’.

“Multiple partners.” I meant to say it as a statement, but it came out more like a question.

“Alright.” She said, I let out a sigh of relief. This session had already been so awkward without the added tension of conflicting views on monogamy.

“Are you uncomfortable right now Apollo?” Delilah asked me. I froze up, which must’ve answered her question better than even I, with all my poetic wisdom could have done verbally.

“You really don’t have to be. I know all therapists say this, but trust me this is a safe space. Unless you are planning to harm yourself or others everything said in this room is entirely confidential. There is no judgment. Promise.” Her words were kind, and settled my nerves slightly. Though I knew she could not uphold that promise.

In my experience nothing I did was beyond scrutiny. Perhaps the only time in my life where my actions hadn’t been observable by Olympus was when I was hanging off the edge of chaos.

“No judgment? Well that does sound nice.” I smiled weakly. Delilah locked eyes with me, looking almost concerned for my well being. An idea that was completely absurd considering we’d only met around forty minutes ago.

“Yes. I find it quite nice. Once we look at things objectively it tends to shine a light on things we didn’t even try to look at before.” I nodded. Remembering when I sacrificed to my sister Diana at her temple at Camp Jupiter. Looking at mortals making sacrifices to me from above I had always thought they’d see it as an honor. Doing it myself had revealed the menial reality.

I was going to respond -with some mortal friendly revisions of course- my anecdote, but a piercing beeping erupted from Delilah’s pants.

She patted her lap like a dad recovering from a particularly funny joke. She pulled out her phone. “I’m sorry Apollo. It seems like our time together has come to an end.” She adjusted on her chair and pulled out her business card. “When would you be free for another session?”

I tapped my fingers considering. For all my worries today hadn’t been a total disaster. I looked at Delilah, she didn’t appear to be in a hurry to throw me out. Maybe the troubles of Noca county weren’t so terrible that I was taking up the spot of someone who needed more desperately than I?

“Any time is good for me. Most days after the sun sets I’m free.”

“So around eight?”

“Yeah, that, that works.” Delilah scribbled that down on her business card.

“Is next Thursday good for you?”

I mentally sorted through my to-do list for this month. It was depressingly short. One of the downsides of avoiding my godly family is the loss of, “Never a dull moment”.

“Yeah.” I stood up. Mourning the feel of comfortable couch on my tuchus.

Delilah held out her hand. “See you soon Apollo.” I took and we shook.

I found myself smiling, “You too.”

Well, I thought, that went surprisingly alright.

Chapter 2

I grabbed Dr. Burch’s knocker and swung it against her door. I winced. These doors were solid wood alright.

I looked around me subconsciously, hoping I hadn’t accidentally summoned Janus with my doorway abuse. In my defense, I would tell him, Dr. Burch is the one who hung the metal thing on the door in the first place! It’s basically asking me to hit the door!

I considered the simple wall hanging, the black seemed to clash with the yellow-esk wood, which shouldn’t have been possible because every fashion magazine I’ve read has told me that nothing clashes with black. I might have to go back and reconcile some of my style choices from the 1980’s…

The knocker was quite wide as well. Aren’t therapist’s offices not supposed to have things you could hang yourself from? Or are those psych wards? I realize I’m showing my ass on my knowledge of mental health treatment facilities.

I stepped back from my doorknob ogling when I heard voices on the other side of the door. I quickly retreated.

A teenager emerged from the room, looking like they were holding back tears. I tried to look away -I know teenagers can get touchy about getting stared at- but this particular teen reminded me eerily of my Lester Popadopalous form if he'd gotten, well, more sun.

Dr. Burch followed behind them, giving me a side eye that didn’t seem to fit well with her dogma of, “no judgment”. Maybe I shouldn’t have knocked, but then why have the knocker to begin with? Did it just come with the door?

Dr. Burch turned the teen towards them and patted their shoulder. “I can’t promise you everything will be alright Clifton, but remember that while you can’t change the situation you can change-”

“How I react to it? Yeah I heard you and mom the first ten-thousand times thanks.” Clifton shrugged Dr. Burch’s hand off, she dropped her hand and gave them a Chiron quality smile. The type of smile that seemed to be both comforting and condescending in equal measure.

“Have a nice day Clifton.” Clifton did a weak wave and walked off. Glaring at everything that came into their view, including me.

If the passive aggressiveness kept up I might decide that this therapy thing wasn’t worth risking my reputation.

Once Clifton was beyond the corridor Dr. Burch turned to me, suddenly all smiles. “Hello Apollo. It’s good to see you.”

I fought the urge to nervously twirl my hair, “Yes, good to see you too.”

“I must admit after our last meeting I was worried you wouldn’t be coming back.” I was suprised. I thought our last meeting had gone relatively well! At least amongst first impressions with mortals. Was it the last name Smith? I knew that was going to be a give away!

“Really,” I chuckled in a very, totally casual way, “What made you think that?”

Dr. Burch tilted her head, “You just had a very nervous energy. You seemed very uncomfortable here to me. I’m glad you came back.” She held open the door.

Curse this woman and her Sally Jackson perceptiveness! I was nervous. Gods, maybe I should just give up the charade and tell her I’m a god. I feel like that could help me avoid a lot of problems. But, I spotted a photo on the window sill of Delilah, another woman that looked like her, and a small child, it would likely cause more problems than it’d be worth.

I sat down on Delilah’s ungodly comfy couch (as a god I’m aloud to say that) and tried not to give it a Chrissy Amphlet feel up.

“You get the name?”

“What?” I looked up at Dr. Burch sitting across from me. “What name?”

She picked up her clipboard and clicked her pen, “The name of the couch. You said you would look it up?”

I didn’t remember that. Had I said that? To be frank I didn’t remember much of our last encounter. I hadn’t felt like I’d needed to, with how wonderfully mundane things had turned out.

“I’m sorry, I forgot.”

Delilah waved off my apology, “That’s fine. You didn’t have to.” She adjusted in her swivel chair and took a long sip of a large water bottle on her right. “So Apollo, now that it’s your second session I think we can get into the more fun part of this relationship hmm?”

I blinked, not knowing what, “the more fun part” meant in this context. In my experience the more fun part of relationships wasn’t exactly safe for work. I doubted Delilah, with her professional wardrobe and this being her work place meant that .

“What do you mean?”

She smiled warmly, perhaps sensing my discomfort again. “Could you tell me Apollo, why you decided to come here?”

I looked around her office and raised an eyebrow, “Well you let me in so…”

Dr. Burch chuckled like I’d made a particularly funny joke. “No, I meant why did you decide to seek help, Apollo?”

My cheeks went gold. (A wonderful side effect of having ichor instead of blood is that people can’t tell when you’re blushing.) I didn’t know what to say. As I told you at the beginning of this tale dear reader there was no specific reason I decided to seek help. Nope, no reason at all. In fact one could say I had the opposite of a reason, an anti-reason? Yeah, I like how that sounds. I could totally sell that to my buddies at Websters. Good word for poetry, anti-reason.

“Uhm, I guess I just felt like it.” I meant to say it like a statement, but the ‘uhm’ and the way my voice increased in pitch at the end of my sentence pretty thoroughly sabotaged the attempt.

Dr.Burch, bless her heart, -no not literally godly power, you’ve messed up blessings too much for me to use you right now- made no comment on my voice crack but to scribble on her notepad.

“Therapy is all about feelings, so, you’ve got the right idea there. Is there anything else? Anything you’d like to work on?”

I grimaced. There were many things I’d like to work on. My hair, my parenting skills, the sun chariot stereo, but the worry I had held signing up for therapy in the first place held me at bay from saying any of that.

“I… I think that everyone has things they can work on. Ways to be better.” I thought of Reyna’s words after our meeting with Harpocrates. To be a better person I had to change, to work on things and be better .

Delilah gave me an evaluating look and- wow, I was really uncomfortable. More uncomfortable than that time when I’d gone to that modern rap convention and over half the free styles had included the word, “bitch” five times plus. Some of the freestylers had even gone on to rhyme the word with itself. Which, as the expert on rhyming I was fairly certain didn’t count as actually rhyming. The rappers and their possies hadn’t too seemed inclined to take my advice though.

Honestly that’s my issue with modern rap, too many yes men. Sure it feels good to have people patting you on the back for everything you do, but it stifles creativity, and creativity is especially what modern MCs need- what was I talking about again?

“I think that’s a wonderful philosophy.” Dr. Burch cut into my musings, “And, I know I’m supposed to be impartial here, but one I quite agree with. I wish all my patients had that mindset going into therapy. It would be very beneficial for them and me.”

I nodded, the wisdom of Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano was something to behold. “The thing with therapy is that it’s a partnership. It doesn’t work unless both parties are cooperating and willing to work together.”

I nodded again, mentally sliding that information into my lexicon. I would have to speak with Dionysus about that particular piece of information because if he was helping Nico D’angelo with his mental health, and knowing my brother he would need a bit of push to really contribute to a partnership. Or anything really, with all he stalled doing anything you would think he was the god of dragging his heels not wine.

"So is there anything specific you would like to work on Apollo?” Oh goodness, we were back to this question. You know I've never related so much to Meg’s refusal to form coherent sentences before.

I gripped the couch cushion, trying my best to figure out how to proceed without giving the game away, so to speak. What part of my life could I talk about that wouldn’t get me immediately labeled an immortal being?

My kids? I suppose that could work. I did want to become a better person for them as well as myself, so it was even true! Though based on my appearance the fact that I have teenaged children might actually give me away. I suppose I’ll have to look into those ridiculous, mortal, “anti-aging creams” (which, as a doctor I must tell you mortals to stop buying. Truly most of them do more harm than good.) to use as an excuse in case someone Dr. Burch starts asking any questions.

“I would like to learn how to be a better father. I know that’s very broad but,” I trailed off, unsure what to say.

Dr. Burch nodded sympathetically, “It’s fine Apollo. That’s a wonderful goal to have and we have a lot of time to work on it. Though as you said that kind of goal can sound incredibly daunting, so how do you feel-” She clicked her pen and brandished it at me, “about breaking it down with me?”

How I feel, well in general slightly terrified that one of my siblings or shudder my father would burst through the window behind you and start streaming my embarrassment to all of Olympus. How I felt about breaking down a goal, “That sounds fine to me.”

I brought up how I felt that I didn’t spend enough time with my kids. (Leaping and bounding over the topic of the ancient laws) We then discussed my profession and creating slots of time for my kids and by the end of the session Delilah had me sending an email to camp half blood stating I’d be over to take cabin seven to the latest performance at the Sydney opera house.

By the end of the session I felt quite content. I’ve been told that therapy is supposed to make you uncomfortable, but I was starting to feel quite at home in Dr. Burch’s office. Returning to the Sun Palace I quite happily marked down our next meeting in my calendar.

I found I was actually looking forward to my next hour at door three-thirty-six.

Chapter 3

This might be strange to say, but I was having a magnificent day. I’d hung out with Meg at Aeithales and there wasn’t a single monster attack, I spent the previous night on a joyous outing with my kids, and I do believe I finally managed to shed that awkward, “you’re our dad, but we never used to see you so we’re always very mindful of how we act next to you” mindset from Kayla and Austin.

Not to mention the performance itself was outstanding. That drummer, why she was something else. Both in stamina and style. The two S’s of how to be a good performer, and the way she complimented the singer’s sporadic tempo, her technical chops were nothing to scoff at either. I digress, all I’m trying to say is I walked out of the concert with an amazing sense of fulfillment and an amazing musician's number in my back pocket.

And before you get all, “Oh Apollo, but wasn’t this trip about your kids? Why were you flirting?” First off, I can flirt and shower my kids with affection at the same time! That’s not weird! Also my plans with Anastasia aren’t going to be anything like a date. They are going to purely be two musicians with mutual admiration for each other having hour long rockin jam sessions. Nothing romantic about that.

Currently I was flying through the sky in the form of a peregrine falcon, the fastest bird in the world, wind rushing through my fathers, brushing against my skin, the world passing down in sweeping arcs and blurred river roads.  No matter how many times I did this, flying free was alway exhilarating.

I regretted many things about accepting my godhood back from my father, regaining the ability to fly was never one of them.

I swung into a dive plunging down at the speed of one of my arrows. My wings were tucked close to my body and my feathers deflected dust particles like a windshield, air moving out of the way of my descent.

It was glorious. Approaching the ground I pushed out my wings and crashed into a wall of air like a spaceship hitting Earth’s atmosphere. Then I was soaring, flapping my wings to pull me above the ground so I could glide to a stop at my destination.

I drifted to a wire and landed, gently descending onto the ground. I started to waddle through the streets to an alley where I could transform into a more suitable form for counseling. If the residents of Saint Paul Minnesota were at all confused to see a peregrine falcon wadling through their streets like a lost pigeon, none of them took up their grievances with me.

Last second before exiting the alley way I realized that I forgot to put on clothes, and quickly equipped the first thing that came to mind. Which was a chiton, then to be replaced by my usual Lester Papadopoulous mom jeans and T-shirt for modesty reasons.

While my chiton was down right modest back in ancient times nowadays it would be quite a scandalous thing to show up to a mental health facility in. Or at least when you weren’t in LA. Depending on what part of that city you were in, my chiton could still, probably, be considered modest.

It occurred to me as I progressed through Dr. Burch’s building that I looked like father. Of course I always look like a dad in the fact that I am, by a broad definition of the word, a father. But with my worn and aged Lester jeans, the pockets sagging from use- and for some reason I couldn’t fathom my form appeared older than I usually went with- I truly did look like someone’s pops.

I had faint smile lines around my eyes, my posture was laid back, and casual. I looked like a man who was just a day away from going out with his teenage kids to a concert. I felt a weird kind of content, like I had everything in the world right in front of me but was in no hurry to do anything with it.

It was a feeling that was almost entirely foreign. Though I suppose there was no mystery in what spurred on the mood. I’d simply had a good week. Hmm, another foreign thing.

I melted out of my reverie when I met Dr. Burch’s door. Closed again. I suppose I should have expected that. Us physicians were never quite punctual either.

Huh, maybe that’s why there are  chairs in this hallway?

I took a seat when I didn’t hear the conversation going on in room three thirty six winding down. I was mentally playing my favorite songs off of Madonna's album, Madonna when I heard a thump.

I looked around me and saw something had fallen out of my pocket. There was a makeshift doll lying on the floor, its head twisted at an odd angle and droplets of red coating it. That was- that was the doll my maybe-daughter Georgina had made for me. I was sure I lost that ages ago, yet it had just fallen out of my jeans pocket.

My jeans pocket that wasn’t even on the trousers I was really wearing when I first got it. While these jeans appeared like the variety of ones I wore on my trials they were simply a replica. I never would have been able to fit in Lesters' actual trousers. At least not remotely comfortably for me or anyone in my line of sight.

I picked the broken thing up from the synthetic wood floors and turned it in my hand. Now how did you get here my friend? I felt bad for the little doll. I’d completely forgotten about it and now it was all covered in Lester fluids.

A fate I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy- mostly for my own sake.

I looked at the clock, it was getting pretty late. I wondered if I would get punched if I tried knocking again… Whether by Janus or Dr. Bruch I did not know.

As if hearing my slander, the door next to me slammed open, I jumped in my seat, the chair scraping a piercing note into the synthetic wood. Another teenager stormed out of it, not even giving me a second glance.

I smoothed out my t-shirt trying to reassemble my composure. There sure were a lot of angry teenagers here. This is the second one in a row. The youth of today seems to be struggling quite a bit. I should probably do something about that, being the god of youth and all, but I didn’t suppose tracking down teens already getting help and asking what’s wrong would help much.

“Hi Apollo!” Delilah Burch’s lovely contralto met my ears and I looked up to see her smiling broadly at me.

“Oh hello there! Good morning!”

“Yes, it is. Nice and cool. Much better than the summer heat if you ask me.” Dr. Burch chuckled lightly and held open her door for me. I would have disagreed with her and perhaps offered to message her my forty slides long powerpoint on why, actually, summer was the season superior to all others, but I was in such a good mood I didn’t bother. We entered and took our seats.

I cracked a joke about the quality of the couch again, Delilah laughed and then something in the atmosphere shifted. I’m not sure how I could tell something was coming, perhaps it was simple intuition, perhaps it was my on and off buddy Delphi warning me to get out now, while I still could.

The feeling was strange, but I didn’t heed it. I was an Olympian god and Dr. Burch was about as mortal as one could be. Even if a monster were to suddenly burst through a window and destroy the whole building I had full faith in my ability to neutralize it and protect Delilah Burch along with everyone else.

I suppose that was a bit of hubris on my part. Figures what occurred next I must have committed some sort of sin against the fates just wonderful sensibilities.

“You know Apollo, we've had fun our last few meetings.” I narrowed my eyes. If that wasn’t ominous I wasn’t the god of music.

“Yes?”

“And while that’s all well and good, speaking with you has been a delight, I think we’ve come to a point in our relationship where we can start to get into more personal topics. Perhaps dig further into certain issues you think might require immediate attention?”

I blinked, immediate attention wasn’t really how I would describe any of my issues. I was an immortal, when it came to self progression “immediate” was something entirely up to me to decide. Or at least that’s how I used to think. That mentality has acquired some qualifiers recently. For example if one of my friends were in danger, or gods forbid I was the one endangering them, that would require immediate attention.

To my knowledge I wasn’t endangering anyone right now, but… In the past I certainly had. So the first place to start would be there? But how would I discuss that with a mortal? How would I admit to any of my previous behaviors without collapsing in a ball of guilt and having Delilah running out of the room and trying to break her strange knocker off her door and use it to lock me in?

Would all that be worth the chance to be better? Better than I already am trying to be, good enough to deserve those that I wished to protect? I stared at Delilah then turned to look closer at the photo of her sister and that young child on the window cill.

While I wanted desperately to expedite my process towards being a better person, it wasn’t worth the risk. Revealing my status as a god, or even dropping subtle hints in my story could lead to Delilah discovering the truth of the immortal world, which could risk destroying her mind. I couldn’t do that to her. That would make me as bad as I was before. Tossing mortal lives out like candy wrappers.

So where to start, was the question? What about me personally did I not like? Thinking about it, I leaned back on the couch and Dr. Burch graced me with a patient smile.

There was quite a lot about me that I wished I could fix. I wanted to be better in more ways than one, I wanted to be moral yes, I wanted to be strong and resilient, I wanted be clever like Athena so I could wriggle my way out of trouble, I wanted to be free like my sister, I wanted to be brave enough to do more than sit in the golden cage that was Olympus and break out and create change like Meg.

I wasn’t any of those things, especially not brave, but I didn’t know how to ask. Bravery had always been something I envied; seeing it all my life. In Meg, my sister, Don the faun, I watched them stand strong with intention while I fumbled through my decisions like a one hit wonder trying to recreate the success of their first hit.  

I looked at Dr. Burch, really looked at her. I tried to see not just her physically but the room she inhabited, the job she took, and the questions she asked.

Despite her middling age she had the enthusiasm of a young child running into every situation expecting the best. She dealt with children everyday like the young Clifton. Children marching through their existence on this rock in space unsure of how they got here, or how they remain, and she tried to help them make sense of it all.

I only knew Dr. Burch for not even a full four hours, but I could already tell she had faced more trials and come out on top than I ever have.

How to sit in front such a person and ask, answer, with my own flaws pleading for their guidance?

What would they think of me? And would it hurt more if they dismissed me, or if they held a hand?

I found myself staring at the hole in the wall I noticed on my first visit here. There was already spackle filling the cracks surrounding the fist shaped hole.

“I want to be better than who I was, and I want the courage to push through to that.”

Delilah simply marked something down on her clipboard. She looked to me, her eyes were polite, but I felt a pressure to speak nonetheless.

“I want to be brave enough to stay away from my father,” like Meg and my sister Artemis, “I want the courage to look those I have wronged in the eye and promise them that they will be the last to experience the pain I caused them. I want a way to look at my children without all their kindness being unbalanced. I want-” I trailed off.

I broke eye contact with the hole in the wall and hung my head. I didn’t continue. There wasn’t enough time to go on and spill the whole truth of my pitiful existence.

Wow, I’m starting to sound like an edgy teen. It seemed running into that teen earlier was some sort of foreshadowing.

I remained still in the couch seat, frozen, waiting for Dr. Burch to make the first move. The anticipation of seeing her reaction to my confession was killing me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look up and confirm my worst fears.

The silence hung in the air like rain clouds. Condensing dark in the sky, lightning sparking through them and my muscles instinctively tensing.

“Are you feeling good Apollo?” Dr. Burch spoke and I raised my head, her eyes crinkled at the corners with concern, and her lovely mahogany eyes were bearing into me.

I was taken aback. She didn’t hate me! Though I suspected that was probably because I spared her all the gory details of my moral failings.

Also, of course I felt good? I was the god of youth and healing, I was likely the healthiest person on the planet! I quickly checked my form for any blemishes, briefly fearing that my acne had returned; that somehow my emotional vulnerability had registered as wrong to my godly body and it decided to course correct by slowly transforming into Lester Papadopoulos.

To my luck that didn’t seem to be the case.

“I didn’t mean physically.” Dr. Burch interjected. I quickly stopped my personal pat down and did my best not to look embarrassed. Curse me and my presumptuousness. I really need to work on my self esteem, this imposter syndrome is starting to leak into my good looks. If my brain kept this up I might accidentally manifest flab onto my perfect form in my sleep.

I don’t hate Lester’s form anymore, but being shoved into it without my waking consent was not an experience I wished to repeat.

“I mean emotionally Apollo. It is truly wonderful that you’re opening up. Truly, but you don’t have to force yourself. We can take things one at a time. I wrote down what you said. Which do you want to talk about?”

She flipped over her clipboard. I rubbed my eyes and squinted to read the sheet.  When had it gotten so dark? In an instant the room lightened and illuminated the list.

The words fell from my lips as I read them, “My father…” I stopped. I had mentioned my father? That seemed like an oversight. I had already resolved to keep my godly side as far away from Dr. Burch as I could, discussing my father wouldn’t bring anything but destruction. I would have to-

“So you want to talk about your father?”

My panic must have been visible. Dr. Burch pursed her lips.

“Is everything alright at home Apollo?” She asked.

I didn’t have an answer.

Chapters will be updated individually from now on. This was just to get the back log of the fic on tumblr!

[please-help-this-little-lesbian]

“She draped him [Apollo] in a light blue fabric she called a “chiton.” It was light and flowy and hung in a way that (thank the gods) showed off his chest. It stopped just above the knee, and underneath he wore soft, silken pants of the same color, trimmed halfway up the thigh with jewels. He expected them to be heavy, but to his pleasant surprise he could barely feel them. It was finished off with golden sandals.”

“Rachel led him down to the stables and they met Meg and her stylist… His gremlin of an ally complimented him well. She wore a lavender chiton that came down to the floor with an underskirt of jewels. Her glasses had been removed (which she grumbled about very loudly), but the rhinestones on them had been replicated by small diamonds on the corner of her lids. They both wore matching jewelry, but her bob was crowned by a circlet of jewels.”

The sketch of the tribute parade costumes from my Hunger Games AU I promised! I don’t have the iPad to digitize it but I will when I do!

@ukelele-boy @xxqueenofdragonsxx since I know y’all read it

[glowsticks-soda-and-magic]

OOC

I've been making a lot of ooc posts, huh? This I would normally put on my main account except it has no activity so I'm putting it here

I made a TOA fic, it's my first Riordanverse fic and I need opinions

[hana-loves-bumblebees]

So uh I wrote a little something with this prompt. Hopefully it’s not terrible.

when i first read ToA and like apollo took out his student ID, i WILDLY misunderstood what was going on so for a solid one and a half books i was just like “okay when do i get to meet the REAL 16 year old lester papadopoulos who inexplicably woke up one day as the literal god of the sun” like imagine being promoted from teenage mortal to one of the 12 of the greek pantheon just because zeus was throwing a hissy fit

[musicofthenightphantomoftheopera]

URGENT UPDATE ON KOSA

Guys, this is getting really scary now. According to Senator Blumenthal they "rewrote the bill' (they didn't change anything actually) and the bill now has bipartisan (both democrat and republican support) with 62 co-sponsors now and could hit the senate as early as next week.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, KOSA (the Kids Online Safety Act) Is a strait up fascist mass internet censorship and serveillance bill that if passed, will force you to upload your government ID online in order to verify your age and give not only the government to track everything you do on the internet, but also the pwer to censor and erase anything or anyone they deem a threat to their power all by using the vague wording of the bill to deem it "a danger to kids"

both of the co writers of the bill, Senator Blumenthal, and Senator marsha Blackburn have fully admitted that they will be using this bill to wipe out any anti-isreal content as well as (in Blackburn's own words) "eliminate transgender content"

This bill WILL be used to end modern activism as we know it.

anything related to Free Palestine, Free Congo, Free Sudan, Black Lives Matter, Stop Cop City, LGBTQIA Rights, will be censored and wiped off the face of the internet.

we are looking at Farenheit 451 and 1984 COMBINED. And I still see almost NO ONE talking about it since my initial post I made talking about it last year. Every single one of you need to interact with this post and spread the word. contact your reps. sign petitions (all of which will b linked at the end of this post) AND MAKE SOME GODDAM NOISE. This is the fate of the internet as well as the fate of modern activism and literally the entire internet.

Resources for learning about KOSA:

Petition and Call Script for contacting your senators and reps

Sign the open letter against KOSA

Stop KOSA Movement Linktree

[nightfaeses]

nico di angelo??? no way what are you doing here

[tsarisfanfiction]

Consequences

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians/Trials of Apollo Rating: Teen Genre: Family Characters: Lee, Apollo, Cabin Seven Apollo saved the camp from the Labyrinth invasion. Zeus punished him for it, turning him mortal two years early. That was a mistake. TOApril day 28 - Silent Thunder. Now, "silent thunder" isn't really a thing, because thunder is literally the term for the sound lightning makes. However, that doesn't mean we can't go a little metaphorical with this - after all, you could say that thunder is a consequence of lightning. And some people might recognise this AU from some things I've talked about before...

Lee was furious.

It was an unfamiliar feeling.  He irritated sometimes, and frustrated, and sometimes even angry, but fury?  That wasn’t one of his normal emotions, not something he thought he’d ever actually felt before, but what else could it be?  What else was the feeling of something bubbling up inside him violently, seething through his veins and making his teeth ache as they clenched without his permission, if not for pure, unabated, fury?

But Lee couldn’t show it.

He was an awful liar, and he’d never known if that was a side effect of his truth-sensing, something else from his dad, or just an unrelated part of his personality, but being head counsellor and head healer had taught him how to push feelings down, out of sight until it was safe to show them.  And now?  Now was not safe.

His dad was frustrated, too.  Maybe angry, but if he was, Lee couldn’t tell.  Even if he was, he wasn’t lashing out, either, not in a way that mattered.  Apollo could spout lies about regretting his intervention in the war, in wishing he hadn’t when it had so clearly got him punished, but that was all they were.  Lies.

Lies didn’t hurt Lee anywhere near as much as cherry-picked truths did.  Even if it had forced him to admit his secret to his siblings, promise them that their dad didn’t mean the injured words he was lashing out.  They were all familiar with frustration, with lashing out in anger – gods knew Michael did it enough, even if he’d got a lot better at taking it out at inanimate objects that people than when he was ten.  They just weren’t familiar with it from their dad’s mouth.

Lee wasn’t, either, but that was just more fuel to his ire, to the raging fury bubbling up inside him with every breath he took, and with every word he spoke.

“Apollo,” he said, his voice carefully level – his Head Counsellor voice, for when his siblings were getting a little too rowdy and he needed them to listen, a voice he’d had to use more and more frequently as the war accelerated, from missing campers to poisoned borders to an invasion designed to kill them all.

Might have killed them all, if Apollo hadn’t shown up in as much godly glory as he could in front of mortals and slaughtered everything that even tried to hurt the camp he’d once founded, still protected millennia later – against orders, against the king of Olympus – and then paid a price for.

Lee knew the stories, as he stared down at the messy, injured lump of inelegant teenager in front of him – gods, he was taller than his dad, now.  Taller and older than his physical form, and neither of those had ever been true before.  He knew the stories, and they’d had a meeting about it, the head counsellors, now the war leaders, of the camp.  The choice had been unanimous.

“I, Lee Fletcher, claim your service.”

Eyes looked up at him in betrayal, a deep blue that widened, as though Lee’s words had hurt far worse than any of the multitude of physical injures the mortal body of his father had taken.  Maybe they did.

He could tell his siblings were looking at him in various expressions, too, from the aghast gasps of those that hadn’t put all the clues together yet, to the grumbles of the ones that still hadn’t quite forgiven Apollo his lashing out, to the pained understanding of the most experienced.

Lee hated that he had to do it, too, that he had to trap his own father to his bidding, but the alternatives weren’t worth even considering.  If one of Kronos’ demigods got Apollo’s service…

Well.

Lee couldn’t think like that.  Not when he was angry, at Kronos but also at Zeus, because this was his fault, and the head counsellors had all recoiled in physical horror when the logical solution hit them.  That Apollo had been punished for saving them, that Zeus had decided intervening to save demigods from near-certain destruction was a worse crime than attempting to destroy them in the first place.

That Zeus would have preferred for them to be destroyed.

Apollo was looking up at him in betrayal, choking on protests and his eyes filling with tears that were barely holding on from spilling down his acne-ridden cheeks – Lee needed to get him some treatment for that, it looked like Zeus had inflicted Apollo with the itchy and painful type – but Lee felt the betrayal in his own heart, too.

No-one at camp was naïve enough to think that any god cared about them, except in some cases their own godly parent, but there was a difference between not caring and this.

Apollo was one of the good ones.  He always had been, and after last summer there wasn’t a single camper that didn’t believe it.  Zeus, clearly, was not one of the good ones.

Lee wasn’t naïve enough to think demigods could take revenge, though.  Taking down a god was beyond them, but saving a god?  Saving one of their own, because that was what Apollo – Lester, according to the ID he’d been carrying and that the Stolls had scoffed at as a bad forgery that would have got him caught and in trouble the moment the wrong person looked at it – was, now.  He was scared and mortal, and that made him fit right in with the rest of camp.

Saving a god, they could do, and that meant getting Apollo’s divinity back to him, somehow.

Unfortunately, none of them had a clue how to do that.  Mr D had been singularly unhelpful on the matter, not even caring to linger in their emergency meeting after he’d determined that the topic – Apollo’s current situation – was none of his concern.

Lee disagreed vehemently, but he couldn’t take down a god.  Pollux and Castor had muttered about trying to get him to see reason, but for all that Mr D was known to be good to his own kids, Lee had no hope that they would succeed on this issue.  They were without any godly help, but really, what was new?

Gods, he was starting to sound like Michael.  Or Clarisse.

Speaking of Michael, the eldest of his younger siblings had come up to stand next to him, pinning Apollo with a look that Lee didn’t need to see to know it was there as their father let out protests at Lee’s claim.

There was no mistaking the validity of Lee’s claim, though.  Not when his words had provoked a low grumble from the skies, one that was easier to feel in his bones than hear with his ears.  For whatever reason, Lee’s claim had been sealed, and he was now his father’s master.

If there was a way to make Zeus regret that, make him regret the whole situation, then Lee would hunt it down and make it happen.

But first, his priority had to be his dad, the pathetic younger body in front of him whose tears were now spilling freely down pasty cheeks studded with red and black and yellow spots.  No matter how furious Lee was, he wasn’t mad at his dad, didn’t think he could ever be mad at his dad.

“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching forwards and pulling him into a hug, like he was a touch-starved little brother and not his father.  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

Apollo resisted, wriggling in his grip, but call Lee selfish.  He didn’t let go.  “Why?” he wailed, voice cracking and sounding so far from the melodic voice that sang in his dreams that Lee had to close his eyes and force himself to imagine it was his dad’s usual, beautiful voice.

“There are too many demigods I don’t trust,” Lee murmured, gentle but aware it would still be heard by everyone in the cabin.  “Too many that listened to words from the Pit, and if any of them claimed you…”  Apollo went rigid in his arms, as though the possibility hadn’t occurred to him.  Some of Lee’s siblings gasped, too, putting the same connection together.  “I couldn’t leave you free, Dad.  Not with that risk.”

And he couldn’t have let any of his siblings take the responsibility.  Lee was the eldest, the head counsellor.  It was his job to protect his family, and if that meant taking on this burden, then he would do it.

“I know,” Apollo said, miserably.  “I hate it.”

There was no lie there, but that didn’t make Lee any happier.  None of this did.

He couldn’t take down a god, but if he could ever work out how to make Zeus regret this…

A glance around the cabin, at his gathered siblings, showed nothing but silent agreement.

If they could make Zeus regret this, then they would.

[toasecretsanta]

(1 of 2 fics)

Merry Christmas ToA fandom!!!

I [@firealder2005] was given @literallyjusttoa this year, and this fic is based off her prompt of Poseidon and Apollo bonding time!!!

I will have the fic up on my Ao3 once the submission is posted :3

Warnings: Just to be safe, I have the fic rated M for implied noncon because. well. Ancient times be ancient times, you know?

This was meant to be combined with the other fic I have but uh. I got carried away lmao

Let us begin!

Save Me, ‘Cuz I’m Fallin’

A soft curse left his lips as he adjusted his grip on the stack of bricks in his arms. Apollo blew a puff of air towards a curl of hair that had fallen into his eyes, warily scanning the people around him as he set his bricks down. He tucked that free strand back behind his ear, wiping his dusty, achy hands on his tunic as the slowly-growing wall before him casted a long shadow over him, the sunset looming from behind.

“Hey!” Apollo slightly jumped as a hand clamped down on his shoulder, roughly spinning him around. One of the guards stationed around the wall glared at him, eyes partially obscured by the helmet on his head. Apollo wondered why people wore those if they obstructed their view. It was terribly constricting.

The guard shook him again. “The king demands your presence. He’s not happy with you.”

Apollo swallowed and began surreptitiously looking for his one and only ally within these ever-growing, ever-entrapping walls — Poseidon. In the years he’d been quite literally slaving away in Ilios, he always felt a lot more comfortable dealing with its king without the older, formidable god at his side. Even if at times there wasn’t much Poseidon could do…

Apollo was thankful to catch sight of his uncle. Poseidon’s hair had grown unruly during their punishment, yet he was still able to cut an imposing figure through the polis as the slaves of Ilios were finally able to pause their back-breaking work and rest.

“Come on!” The guard grabbed his arm and yanked him forward. Apollo stumbled, the sandals on his feet slipping over the pebbles beneath them, and the guard snorted as he fell onto his knees. “Get up!” he barked, the fold of his cape snapping as the former god staggered back to his feet. “We don’t have all night!”

Apollo ducked his head and mutely nodded, wincing a bit as the scrapes on his knees stung. A quick look told Apollo they would heal within seconds, but it did little to reassure the nervousness growing in his throat. Gods, he hated it when Laomedon called for him…

He attempted to swallow the lump. No luck.

Glancing almost desperately over his shoulder, Apollo managed to catch Poseidon’s eye and gave him his best HELP! LAOMEDON WANTS TO TALK TO ME! look. It must have translated quite well, for Poseidon began shoving his way through the dwindling crowd and stormed after Apollo and the guard, who still had not removed his adamantine-grip from his arm. Rude.

“You! Guard!” His uncle’s voice boomed through the air. A slave he may be now, but nothing could ever take away the blood-freezing depths of his words. “Where are you taking my nephew?”

The guard’s head had snapped around to face Poseidon, who loomed a good foot taller than the Dardanian. Despite the angry behemoth before him, the guard clearly had a nice stash of bravery somewhere within him — or he was stupid, depending on your point of view.

Personally, if Apollo had been on the receiving end of the furious stare Poseidon was giving this Dardanian, he would have scampered out of the way faster than Arion could run.

“Your indolent nephew,” the guard sneered. “Is to come to the king. He has some words to share with him.”

“Very well,” Poseidon tersely replied, eyes storming like the Adriatic Sea on a bad day. “Lead the way.”

The guard hesitated, his grip on Apollo’s arm loosening a bit, much to his relief. He pulled it out of his grasp and hid a wince at the twinge that shot up to his shoulder. Thanks a lot, he grumbled, rubbing at the blossoming bruise. Not like that’s gonna make carrying bricks even more of a pain or anything…

Then again, he healed fast. Maybe he wouldn’t have to deal with a stinging arm in the morning.

Though…Apollo nervously folded his hands together as the Dardanian guard jerkily motioned for him and Poseidon to follow. By the attitude of the guard, he clearly didn’t think Apollo would exist when Eos decided to paint the sky pink with her fingers.

Apollo kept his eyes fixed on the dirt below, ignoring the sleepy city around him. He stifled a yawn that pulled at his throat, and jumped when Poseidon nudged his shoulder with his own.

“You good?” he murmured under his breath, eyeing the guard marching before them with an intense look of dislike.

The younger god nodded, shakily inhaling as he muttered a “yes” in response.

“Tired?”

“As always.”

A ghost of the jovial grin Apollo remembered appeared on his uncle’s face. “Just remember — once that stupid wall is done, we’re out of here.”

Apollo felt his own lips curl into a smile just as the guard quickened his pace and entered the throne room. Yeah, he couldn’t wait for this stupid punishment to be over. Apollo swatted at the sheer curtains hanging from the doorways, tensing as he spotted the king of Ilios seated on his throne, fingers tapping the armrest ominously.

“The slave you ordered, sir,” the guard bowed.

Laomedon barely gave Apollo a glance. “Why is he here?” He idly lifted a finger to point at Poseidon, who crossed his arms and glared at the king.

The guard cleared his throat, mouth opening as he clearly scrambled to explain how he was cowed into letting Poseidon in, when the king sighed and waved him away.

“Nevermind,” he inspected his nails. “Just go.” The guard quickly bowed once more before shuffling off.

Apollo clasped his hands before him and kept his gaze on the three steps leading up to the throne as Laomedon’s stare finally declared him entertaining enough for attention.

“So,” the king idly leaned forward, eyes fixed on Apollo. It made him distinctively uncomfortable. “I read the recent report on my wall’s construction.” A beat passed. “And I saw something…rather disappointing.” Laomedon rose from his throne and stood at the top of the stairs. “You do remember why your father made me your master, correct?”

Apollo silently nodded as Poseidon’s glare darkened.

“Good,” Laomedon took a step down. His voice darkened. “Then why,” Another step. “Are you failing,” His robes swished as he took the final step. “To meet your assigned quota?” The king’s scowl was harsh, burning into Apollo’s skin as he bit his lip.

“I–I,” Apollo stammered. Damn, he knew this was going to come back to bite him! “I know, I was supposed to get it done by today but I had to cover Aeacus’s quota too—”

“Quiet,” Laomedon’s eyes were still dark as Apollo’s jaw snapped shut against his will. “I don’t want excuses, Apollo. Zeus said to make sure you and Poseidon learned your places in the presence of a king, and that is exactly what I shall do.”

Apollo gulped and tried to hold back a tremor as Laomedon’s ruthless gaze pinned him down. “And this isn’t the first time you’ve been late,” Apollo dropped his gaze from Laomedon’s. “I let those be then, because I thought perhaps you still needed a little extra time to learn. Apparently I was wrong.”

Laomedon’s face split into a smirk. “Come here,” he snapped to the empty space in front of him. “Now.”

In less than a second, Apollo moved to obey. He gritted his teeth, once again attempting to fight against the compulsion, but like every single time before, it was no use.

A hand flashed out and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him to a stop. Poseidon’s gaze was as sharp as a shark’s as he stared Laomedon down. “No. He can stay right here to listen to what you have to say.”

Laomedon tutted. “Poseidon, let him go and stay put. Apollo — come here.”

Jerkily, Poseidon’s hand released Apollo and the younger god attempted to shoot his uncle with an assuring smile. He feared he only managed a grimace.

Taking a steadying breath, Apollo rolled his shoulders back and approached Laomedon, who was still smirking at his fuming uncle before snapping his dark eyes to him. The way the king steepled his fingers gave him an eerie resemblance to Zeus.

Of course, Apollo reflected as he steadily met Laomedon’s self-satisfied stare. He doesn’t quite have the intimidation factor down nearly as well. Though he had to admit, the way the king’s eyes flashed at Apollo’s nerve to meet him eye-to-eye was also very reminiscent of Zeus.

Apollo didn’t know if he meant it as a compliment or not.

Laomedon sighed, as if Apollo had caused him immense stress and disappointment. He tipped his head and clucked his tongue. “Now all that’s left is to find a proper punishment for you.”

The god recoiled at that, but Laomedon didn’t let him get far. He snatched the front of Apollo’s tunic and yanked him back toward him and grabbed his chin. “Since the wall isn’t tough enough work for you, perhaps a few months tending my lovely fields? By yourself?”

The ichor in his veins turned to ice. “That’ll take forever!” he protested.

“The winter months are almost upon us,” Poseidon added. Apollo couldn’t see his face, but he knew his uncle must be thunderous by the dark rumble of his words. “Not only would it be impossible for Apollo to accomplish alone, even with his lyre, but it would deprive your people of much-needed food the next year. Surely you’d know this.”

Laomedon’s eyes glanced behind Apollo, where Poseidon presumably was, hands still tight on Apollo’s tunic and face. He hummed. “I suppose,” he shrugged. “I would hate to have to punish my people because of you, Apollo.” The king’s brow furrowed, as if contemplating his choices. Personally, Apollo didn’t think it was a very good look on him.

Then the king got a wicked gleam in his eyes that also wasn’t a good look on him and set Apollo on edge.

“Of course…” Laomedon nearly purred and wow, his grandmother Rhea’s lions would be offended by how bad he made it sound. The king’s lips curved, a cruel tilt to his head, as he bared his teeth in a grin. “I could just sell you. Though I’d hate to be deprived of your company…”

A sharp inhale was sucked into Apollo’s lungs just as Poseidon let out a snarl.

Laomedon tilted Apollo’s head from side to side. His brows furrowed once more, though in a way that was like a lazy housecat able to play with an exhausted mouse at its paws. “You would fetch a fine price with that pretty face…”

The heart in his chest cavity thumped like a lone, rabid wolf ready to lash out to defend itself from a band of hunters. Apollo swallowed and shook his head.

“Believe me, I wouldn’t,” he nervously laughed. Under any other circumstances, he actually would have been quite offended at the idea that he wouldn’t be worth a lot of drachma, he was a gorgeous, talented god after all thank you very much, but he didn’t fancy getting tossed in the amphora and haggled over like livestock either. “Like you said, I’m awful at work — who’d want a slave who can’t work?”

“They would if they were a god,” much to Apollo’s growing horror, Laomedon seemed to actually be considering the idea, like actually thinking about it. “I’m sure Zeus would understand that you needed a harsher hand.”

“Absolutely not,” Poseidon interjected, his own scowl as harsh as the suggestion Laomedon had put forth. “First of all, my brother assigned us to you — he would not approve of you selling Apollo off. Secondly…” the older sea god drew himself to his full height and pinned the king with a raging stare. “I will not let you. You try it, and I swear I will kill you myself.”

Apollo hardly dared to breathe as slave and master — or god and mortal, he reminded himself — stared each other down. Poseidon’s face was simultaneously as stony as the walls of Ilios itself, and as wrathful as the seas he ruled. He was a true contradiction, and one not to cross.

Laomedon seemed to have realized that himself. His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing with a hint of…unease, perhaps? Wariness?

A cruel master Laomedon may be, but at least he wasn’t a stupid one. Poseidon would have killed him long ago if he had been.

“Then tell me, Poseidon,” Laomedon sounded equally irritated and irate. “What should Apollo’s punishment be?” The unease in his dark eyes was replaced with a brief flash that instinctively made Apollo wary. “Perhaps serving me more…directly in my palace?”

Apollo scowled. “I’d rather fight Python again.”

“Not to mention,” Poseidon called. “We’ll be down a worker for the walls — you said you want them built within a year, yes? Taking Apollo away from it would slow production.”

Laomedon gave a long sigh, absently brushing his thumb over Apollo’s cheek as he gave Poseidon a look.

“Well, since you’re so interested…” Laomedon released Apollo’s jaw — much to the god’s relief — but kept his grip on his tunic. The younger god attempted to subtly rub at his chin as Poseidon drew forth, the salty scent he carried with him drifting around Apollo. He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief at his uncle’s closeness.

“You can decide,” the king triumphantly declared. The relief Apollo felt was instantly squashed, and he stared with wide eyes first at Laomedon, then at Poseidon. His uncle had tensed, jaw clenched as he glared at Laomedon with nothing but pure dislike. “But of course,” Laomedon added slyly, finally relinquishing his hold on Apollo’s tunic with a lazy shrug, flicking at a strand of golden hair. “I retain the right to deny it and proceed with my idea.”

A wail of despair welled in Apollo’s throat, though he thankfully managed to swallow it back down. Though maybe a whimper escaped in the process.

This was it. Laomedon wasn’t going to be deterred by threats of what Zeus would do to him. There was no way he was going to accept whatever idea Poseidon came up with, not if he could humiliate a god of Apollo’s caliber.

Apollo silently cursed his father for taking off with Laomedon’s uncle. Why, oh why did Laomedon have to take his anger out on the most gorgeous god on Olympus? Was it because Ganymede had been snatched for his beauty and he was trying to make himself feel better by demeaning Apollo in such a way?

If so, he was so petty. Apollo hadn’t even been involved in that whole fiasco!

Poseidon had yet to say anything, his silence brewing a dangerous hurricane of potent emotions.

Laomedon, on the other hand, seemed to almost be enjoying himself. “We don’t have all night,” he tutted. “And I have a dowry to begin preparing for Proclia’s future marriage, so please do not waste my time.”

Apollo vaguely remembered Proclia. She was about thirteen, with long red hair and kind brown eyes. She had kindly given him some water one day when he’d been exhausted from brick-laying — much nicer than her pig of a father.

He hoped she was married to someone good. Though Laomedon didn’t seem to have an eye for such suitors. Maybe he could nudge Hymenaeus into helping…hmm…

Poseidon crossed his arms, face still shadowed with his storm, before he tersely nodded. “Very well. I suggest Apollo protect your cattle in the fields of Mount Ida. It’s been attacked lately by wild dogs, wolves, and other various beasts, am I correct?”

Laomedon frowned and tipped his head. “You are,” he agreed. “I have been losing the young cattle lately…ever since my father was king, anyway,” he added with a curl of his lips. Apollo winced and inwardly thought, Ganymede. The youth had used to protect Ilios’s herd of cattle…up until he caught Zeus’s fancy.

Apollo then arched a brow. Was it possible Poseidon was trying to appease Laomedon’s resentment of his uncle’s apotheosis with Apollo’s services in the very fields Ganymede had been taken from? He supposed it would be best to temper that anger…

…though did it have to come at the cost of him?

Laomedon, however, didn’t seem convinced. “Difficult that service may be,” he mused, fingers steepled once again. “I’m afraid I’m not quite satisfied with it. Any amendments to make? If not, I’ll be all too happy to get your nephew started on his new assignment.”

Assignment! Apollo scoffed, yet his hands shook at the possibility. He clenched them tightly as a  low growl left Poseidon’s throat. “An amendment it is, then,” he clenched his own fists and sarcastically muttered; “Do you have any suggestions?”

The king thoughtfully hummed. “You know, perhaps I do.”

Poseidon blinked. Apollo tensed. Clearly, his uncle had meant the comment in jest, but Laomedon had not taken it that way.

“How about this…” Laomedon crossed his arms and studied the two of them. “Apollo works in the fields, protecting my prized cattle, while you, Poseidon, take on his work on the walls. I’m sure you can handle a double workload better than Apollo.” Apollo quietly huffed at the slight. “Aeacus is almost recovered from his bout of sickness anyway,” Laomedon continued. “So he can continue his third of the wall soon enough.” The king then raised a finger. “But the condition is that Apollo will also get the mortar and bricks you will build with…from my palace.”

Apollo glanced at Poseidon out of the corner of his eye. His uncle caught it. Despite his unease, Apollo knew this was the best deal they were going to get. He gave a slight nod — I can do this. 

Poseidon inclined his head. “We accept the terms.” He announced.

Laomedon slyly smiled. “Good. Now go,” he pointed at the curtain-covered door behind them. “Best get some rest. You have work tomorrow.”

Work they had, indeed. 

Over the months, as Eurus’s autumn winds turned away and allowed Boreas’s chilly breath to descend over Ilios, Apollo spent his mornings quickly gathering as much mortar and bricks as he could, thanking his godly strength that he was able to carry so much, dodging running into Laomedon in the process, and delivering it to Poseidon before rushing to Mount Ida and perching on an outcrop, keeping a careful eye on the cattle and the wintry woods around him. A few times he had to fend off a particularly hungry wolf before communicating to it about a much better place to hunt, with deer roaming despite these barren months. The little guy had given him a thankful nuzzle before darting away in the direction Apollo had pointed.

“Never seen a wolf do that, before,” a feminine voice made Apollo jolt and he spun around, still half-kneeling from where he’d been speaking with the wolf. A girl around his age — that is to say, his human age of eighteen — stood before him. Her pale hair was braided, like bundles of flax woven into a fine basket. Pearls sat in her braids. Her dark skin was clean. Her eyes were like pools of fresh, spring water. Her peplos a rosy pink, like Eos’s lovely dawn. “They usually growl when they see humans.”

Apollo self-consciously adjusted his straw hat, thankful the only thing marring his own visage was the occasional smudge of dirt, though that itself was minorly annoying when faced with a pretty girl.

“Well,” he modestly shrugged and rose to his feet, casually leaning against his shepherd’s staff. “I suppose that’s because most humans don’t have anything good to say.”

The girl considered him. “I suppose,” she nodded. “I wouldn’t know the first thing to say to a wolf anyway. I’d probably communicate something along the lines of ‘I want to eat your young’ instead of ‘Hello, my name is Ourea. What’s yours?’.”

Apollo cracked a grin. “Was that an indirect way of introducing yourself? And to get my name?”

The girl — Ourea, Apollo noted, a name meaning ‘mountains’, as well as the name of some of Gaea’s offspring — smiled and gave a modest shrug of her own. “Perhaps. Not everyday you meet a man who can speak wolf.”

“It’s sadly a lost art,” Apollo mock-sighed. “Very few are able to master such a skill.”

“Oh?” Ourea drifted closer and intently stared at him. Her eyes were very distracting. Apollo had never really paid attention to the beauty of water before, but wow. It definitely deserved a few odes, perhaps even a sonnet. The way the sunlight shone off her eyes…it was like marveling at a sunset over the sea.

“Care to teach me?”

Apollo smiled. “Wouldn’t hurt to try.”

Ourea was rather good company. She was in the field waiting for him when he came to watch the herd, and he would impart to her the language of wolves — their code, their way of life, and how they communicated. She had trouble with it at first, which was a given. Mortals weren’t usually interested in learning about each other, let alone an animal, but he was fascinated with Ourea’s determination to push through his lessons.

They met everyday. Winter began to wane. Poseidon would give him a sly look every morning he came to drop off the day’s delivery of mortar and bricks, and shot a shit-eating grin his way at night when he returned a bit more flushed than usual and his tunic ajar.

Some people would think it weird that Poseidon wasn’t objecting to Apollo dating his daughter — after all, fathers were supposed to want their daughters to actually be able to marry the man they were seeing.

Poseidon though wasn’t a mortal father. He rarely interacted with his children, though he lent a hand if they asked for it. When Apollo had inquired about his opinion, his uncle had merely shrugged and said; “If Ourea wants you, I see no reason why she can’t.”

Apollo had to admit. Ourea’s presence was becoming a particular bright spot in Ilios. Not only would she meet him in the meadow, but also at the walls in the mornings and watch as he passed the materials to her father, waving cheekily at him whenever he playfully wrinkled his nose at her.

One particular bright spot was a nice night between them the day the walls were finished. The formidable stones rose high into the air, fortifying the main city even better than the outer city’s walls did — because they were built by two gods, of course.

And maybe Apollo had helped speed the process up a bit by playing his lyre as the construction came close to the end. His godly power had been greatly reduced thanks to his punishment, but he’d been able to manipulate the bricks into their proper places, creating a strong barrier to protect Ilios’s people — people who included Ourea…and his own child now.

He still remembered the day she told him, breath lingering around his ear, eyes shining as she whispered; “I’m expecting!”

Poseidon had clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated both of them. And nine months later, Ourea failed to arrive in the meadow. Apollo spent the rest of the day anxiously pacing the field, his restlessness no doubt warding off would-be attackers, though few they were as Notus’s summer sighs began.

Apollo practically ran back to Ilios in his haste to find Ourea, and find her he did. Her mother was busy attending to her, while his lover sat up in bed, a bundle in her arms. Her hair was down and pearlless, but her smile was as bright as the sea’s gems.

“Ileus,” she said. “After our city.”

The god bent down and placed a gentle kiss first on Ourea, then on Ileus. “Perfect,” he murmured. “He’s perfect.”

He and Poseidon were still technically in Laomedon’s service, even with the walls complete. Thanks to their godly intervention, the walls were finished earlier than planned — which was good, for Apollo could pop in and visit Ourea and Ileus more often, but also irksome. He missed having his full godly power at his disposal. He could’ve properly helped Ourea’s birthing pains. He could’ve — would show Laomedon what happens when you treat not one, but two gods cruelly.

Though despite the disgruntlement and unease Laomedon put in him, Apollo made a silent promise to protect this city. Not all of its inhabitants were as demeaning as their king — most treated him and Poseidon with the respect gods of their caliber deserved, and very few had dared to belittle Ourea for having a child out of wedlock, not with the knowledge that Apollo had fathered him.

All in all, Apollo was in high spirits. The walls were done. He and Poseidon were about to get paid for their work once autumn came about. Ourea swore Ileus was trying to imitate a wolf’s howl the night before — bless his little soul, already taking after his parents!

The snakes put a bit of a damper on his mood, three months later.

It happened fast. The guards along the walls raised the alarm as three massive drakons rushed the walls. Apollo had been transfixed to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away as the first drakon rammed into Poseidon’s wall. It screeched when it failed to topple it.

The second attempted the same with Apollo’s wall. It too fell prey to its invulnerability.

Meanwhile the third…Apollo remained rooted to the ground as it crashed through Aeacus’s third of the wall. Stone crumbled. Mortar cracked. Ash was flung into the air as the drakon stomped through, roared triumphantly, before turning tail and charging away, its brethren on its heels, screaming like a battalion of armed warriors.

Faintly, Apollo heard Poseidon swear and sensed Ourea clutch Ileus to her chest, as if afraid the drakons would return and snatch him away. The baby’s bright blue eyes stared at the drakons in awe, his pale hair askew.

Equally as faintly, Apollo could hear the rumbles of stone falling, though the walls around him remained intact, except for Aeacus’s third. He could feel the tremors echoing through the ground, the clanging of bronze-on-bronze.

A war would be fought here. A great one.

Apollo’s smokey green eyes rolled back into his head and his breaths turned harsh;

“Unyielding walls, made of stone,

Heed my words and be known.

None shall shake your roots of steel,

But beware the tenth year.

Red-haired Pyrrus to pluck you down,

And Ilion will fall by Aeacus’s crown.”

Hands grasped his shoulders and shook. Apollo dazedly jerked his head, blinking with bewildered pale gold eyes at the creased face of Poseidon.

“Apollo,” his uncle’s dark green eyes were fixed on him with a serious, intent expression. “Apollo, was that��”

The younger god swallowed and nodded. “I believe so.” He breathed through his nose. “It was a prophecy.”

“A prophecy?” Ourea breathed, blue eyes as wide as the pools of water in Ilios’s forests. “But what…what could it mean?”

Apollo frowned, biting his lip for a moment as he considered the prophecy, absently snapping his fingers for a papyrus scroll and reed pen. He quickly scrawled the prophecy down, studying the words.

Prophecies were tricky things. They liked to make you think you figured them out, or successfully averted them, before pulling the rug out from under you. (Just ask Acrisius)

However…he squinted suspiciously at the words before him.

Unyielding walls, made of stone, heed my words and be known.

Apollo eyed the walls of Troy as citizens and slaves alike clustered around the broken wall, clamoring over each other about how to fix it.

None shall shake your roots of steel, but beware the tenth year.

Unease filled his stomach. Beware the tenth year…tenth year the walls were built? Or perhaps…

The sound of bronze weapons clashing and the ground cracking apart from an earthquake ripped through his ears once more.

No. Beware the tenth year of war.

Red-haired Pyrrus to pluck you down, and Ilion will fall by Aeacus’s crown.

The wall. The wall that fell…it was built by Aeacus, not a god. That made it the weakest point, the prime place for attack…

Or it meant —

Apollo shoved the thought away. No. No. Ilion couldn’t…

“Apollo?” Poseidon asked. “Do you know what it means?”

The younger god glanced between the intense eyes of his uncle and the anxious ones of his lover.

“I have…a suspicion,” he admitted. He met Ourea’s worried face and softly said; “I think it says the walls will fall…and so will Ilion.”

Ourea pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes widening as she held Ileus tighter, making him whine as he attempted to wiggle out of her hold, making grabby hand at Apollo. He held out his fingers and allowed Ileus to snatch them, lips curving slightly as the boy attempted to stick them in his mouth.

Poseidon had turned and stared consideringly at the walls. Apollo stiffened as he heard him mumble “Good riddance” with a slight vindictive gleam in his storming eyes as people darted around, beginning to hastily repair the damage done to the wall.

Apollo couldn’t find it within himself to agree. He knew Poseidon only said it because of how harshly Laomedon had treated them, but personally, Apollo didn’t believe Ilion deserved to crumble to the ground because of the actions of one lousy king.

Plus…Apollo fervently looked into Ourea’s concerned eyes. Placing a kiss on her lips before ruffling Ileus’s hair, making the child babble, he knew one thing about himself.

Ilion was his city. And he would do his damndest to circumvent its fate — or at the very least, delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

They were his people, just like he was their god. And nothing would ever change that.

He eyed the palace with wariness. Steeling himself, he tapped Poseidon’s shoulder and said; “We should talk to Laomedon. He needs to know.”

Poseidon hummed and shrugged. “Very well. He’s also due to pay us back for our work.”

With that, his uncle marched towards the palace, leaving the commotion of the crumbled walls behind. Apollo took Ourea’s hand and gently squeezed it, smiling lightly as he clutched the papyrus with Ilion’s fatal fate written upon it.

“We’ll be back,” he whispered. He hesitated, then drew both her and Ileus into a hug. Ourea’s free hand rested on his arm as she laid her head on his shoulder. “And don’t worry,” he added quietly. “I’ll keep Ilion safe.”

“How?” Ourea’s words were muffled slightly. “If it’s prophesied…”

Apollo rubbed her back and kissed her hair. “I’m the god of prophecy,” he grinned. “I’ll find a way.”

I hope, he left unsaid.

----------

“No.”

Apollo blinked, mouth slightly open as he stared incredulously at Laomedon. The king sat on his throne, as relaxed as a lazy lion, the side of his face leaning on his hand as he coyly smirked at the two gods.

“No?” Poseidon spat. “That was the deal, you ungrateful, impious bdelyròs!”

Laomedon clucked his tongue, shaking his head. “No need for that kind of language, Poseidon. Especially around your nephew.”

Apollo glared at him. “I’ve heard worse, thanks.”

The king shrugged. “I suppose you have,” he agreed, raking his gaze over the younger god. “You have had some…choice words, at times. But I digress,” Apollo scowled at how relaxed Laomedon looked, like he wasn’t insulting them — oh, he knew very well how demeaning this was! It wasn’t enough that ordered them about and yanked them around for his own amusement, abusing the control he had over them, but now he denied them their deserved pay!

“You have made a very unwise decision,” Poseidon softly stated, mouth curving slightly into a snarl. “When we regain our places on Olympus, we are no longer in your service, nor under your command. We are free to do as we please…” he narrowed his eyes and gave the bored king a mocking smile. “I can promise you my wrath will be felt quite soon.”

“Ah…” Laomedon clutched his chest, as if suddenly struck with a heart-attack. Apollo secretly wished for it to happen, for the terrible man to bite the dust. “The thing is, Poseidon…neither of you are allowed to harm me, even after your punishment is finished.” He bared his crooked teeth in a grin. “I’m untouchable, while I can still very much touch you.”

Apollo clenched his fists, the papyrus in one of them crumpling, before crossing his arms. “Says who?” He demanded.

“Says your father,” Laomedon’s grin was sharp as he sat up straight in his throne. “After all, the lesson was all about not challenging a king, was it not? Taking vengeance on me would mean you haven’t learnt your lesson.”

Apollo was furious. He wasn’t allowed to give Laomedon a piece of his mind? To throttle him for everything he put him through? Completely unfair! How could father let him do this?

Angry, Apollo stalked up the stairs and slapped the papyrus onto the throne’s arm. “Maybe this will get you to rethink,” he hissed as Laomedon’s dark stare first roamed over him before idly glancing at the papyrus. “Or do you not care about Ilion’s destruction?”

Laomedon’s face twisted and he seized Apollo by the strap of his chiton, yanking him close enough for him to murmur darkly; “Careful there,” His hot breath made Apollo flinch away. “I still own you.”

He ripped himself out of Laomedon’s grip and gave him a vehement stare. “You own nothing,” he muttered contemptuously. Apollo glanced over his shoulder to Poseidon, who had his arms crossed and face twisted into a mean scowl.

Apollo turned back to Laomedon. He pointed to the papyrus. “The future of your kingdom is on that scroll,” he darkly warned. “I really think you should reconsider this choice — it may lead to Ilion’s ruin.”

Laomedon gave a disbelieving snort. “Ilion is the crown jewel of Anatolia,” his nose scrunched up as he gave the younger god a condescending look. “Our warriors are of the highest caliber. My children married to powerful allies. Very few would dare to challenge us — let alone be able to destroy us, dear Apollo.” 

He then leaned forward, finger tapping idly on the papyrus as he hummed. “Not to mention you are our patron god, duty-bound to come to our aid.” He glanced at the scroll and lightly snorted. “Barely half of this makes sense! Garbled nonsense.”

Apollo’s jaw clenched. “Smart men can decipher a mystery,” he growled. “Wise men learn from it.”

His stomach twisted as Laomedon pretended to not hear him. Apollo glanced at his uncle, whose stormy expression made him shiver.

He had warned Laomedon. He warned him of the present and future danger to Ilion. But he refused to listen.

And that arrogance will cost him. Dearly.

It is, after all, part of the duty of a god, Apollo reflected as he and Poseidon silently exited the throne room, stalking through the grand halls with glowers. Hubris is so commonly a mortal’s fatal flaw…and Laomedon will be no different.

 —

I refrained from my usual rambles so if you want my rambles see my Ao3 for the fic upload there! :3

[mrkeatingsblazer]

The Prophecy [Oh, Was It Punishment?] Part One

Apollo x Child of Hermes! Reader

Part one Part Two

“No man of mortal blood could ever love you.”

It rings in your ears; the words of Eros haunting you till this day. It was no major exposure like that of Nico’s, who was forced to come out to both Jason and you to appease the love God, but still; you felt as though the ugly truth of your soul was revealed to the two boys and you recall that you never liked surprises. Even though the sentence rushes and pillages through your mind like a crazed wave, you’re strangely enough soothed by it. To know that every worry and concern of your ability to be loved was not from any fault of your own but rather the weaving of the fates comforts you to the point of sighing in relief. It’s not you but what was forced of you, a true demi-god faith if you do say so yourself.

You have never been a stranger to a prophecy, being a big aid to Percy during the war against Kronos and your half-brother, Luke, and being a member of The Eight, destined to defeat Mother Earth herself, Gaia. As much as you despise prophecies you can’t help understand the glory of the previous ones you’ve been a part of. Sure, a couple friends and families die but at least you get the title of Hero of Olympus, am I right? This prophecy [is it even a prophecy or just a God's way of giving a diss] is just downright depressing. Almost as depressing as when your Godly parent was revealed.

At 15 years old, after defeating Atlas and rescuing both Lady Artemis and Annabeth, you stood as an unclaimed child watching as the Gods debated if you should all just be killed. It was only when Artemis was asking you, along with Thalia and Annabeth, to join her hunt did anyone question parentage.

“And you [name], who has not been claimed by God or Goddess alike, allow me to claim you as my own and join as a member of my hunt,” Artemis spoke with such kindness, almost reminiscent of a mother. You shook your head at that thought; she was definitely more like a big sister. Before you could even begin to respond to the Goddess, Zeus raised his hand into the air.

“The child's parent should be given the chance to claim her,” he declared with an air of authority, “before any decisions are made.”

“She is 15 solstices of age, has that not been enough time for the child's parent to claim,” Artemis rebukes with narrowed eyes only to be met with the same expression from her father.

“You first take my daughter, whom I allowed to be given,“ you heard Thalia scoff from beside you, “and now you fight against my order, purposely trying to disobey me in public.” His voice comes out icy and dangerous.

“father -” Apollo nervously begins from the throne beside his sister.

“Quiet Apollon!” Zeus demands. “If any one here owns the child speak now.”

The zoom grows silent, you watch as the Gods’ and Goddess’, interested or not, scanned the zoom waiting for someone to pipe in. Tears built up in your eyes and a lump began to form in your throat, you didn’t even have time to process or even blush when Percy slid his hand into yours, giving it a comforting squeeze.

Your eyes landed on Apollo, to his concerned frown and his perfectly furrowed eyebrow. You recall meeting him barely weeks before now, finding him alluring and bubbly as he chatted with you during the ride on his Sun Chariot. When we got to camp, you remember him engaging with his children in envy. He swung them around and messed with their hair, conversing with them with questions about their hobbies while also never failing to make them all laugh and feel included. You always kind of hoped he was your father ever since you found out you were a demi-god. You sloppily used a bow for a month straight before giving it up; everyone knew Apollo always claimed his kids a month into them being at camp. That didn’t stop you from hoping, from writing poetry and sending offerings to him every meal. Even now you hope he says something, eagerly looking at him like a moth to a light.

“She’s one of mine.” Everyone turned towards the direction of the voice, to Hermes who looked as though claiming you was the last thing he wanted to do that day. It made sense, really, and made you feel stupid for not realizing sooner. Grover always said you were a built in lie detector and you ran faster then anyone in camp, probably anyone in the world. You look up hopefully above your head to nothing; he didn’t even use his sign.

“So,” Artemis said, bringing back the attention to herself, “knowing now the God who conceived you, do you accept my offer to join my hunt?”

All eyes were on you, the deities’ large and looming forms leaned closer as if to hear your answer better even though they had perfect hearing. You once again looked, from Lady Artemis, to Lord Zeus, Lord Apollo and back to your father, Hermes. You caught a hint of interest in his deep brown eyes and sadly, that was all you needed.

“I appreciate your offer, my Lady, but I must decline.” you hear sighs from your friends beside you. Percy once again squeezed your hand, sending you one of his charming smiles that made your stomach weak. Hermes seemed quite happy with himself at your decision, as if he wasn’t forced to claim you moments prior, while Lady Artemis gracefully nodded in acceptance and that was it. There was no pulling you aside to talk with your father or even a look as far as you were aware. He partied into the night during the biggest moment of your life.

That memory fades from your mind, the lavish party of Olympus merging into the end of war celebration at Camp Half-Blood. Just like the former, you had no energy to join in with the festivities. With Leo dead there didn’t seem like there was much point to, the rest of The Eight agreed. From across the haggard bench you sat on, you watched as the sun set down upon the camp. It was poetically finite but still you had a stabbing feeling that this wasn’t finished, you weren’t finished.

[trials-of-apollo-my-beloved]

The Adventures of Lester Papadopoulos and the Scrap Master

A Trials of Apollo Fic 

Lester's life has been a on a steady decline ever since he left his abusive family to go be on his own. The days at his new job at his local coffee shop are monotonous and unrewarding until one day he gets robbed by a human traffic light that insists things around here start changing. Lester just wished the "here" she was gentrifying wasn't his life.

Or: A platonic Meg&Apollo coffee shop au 

Chapter One

Lester threw his head to the table with so much force the resounding crack could be heard all through the coffee shop.

Kids if anyone ever tells you to get a job at a coffee shop you tell them to stuff some hot coals up their nose, because that’s what spilling hot coffee on yourself then violently banging your head against clear frosted acrylic countertops feels like. An experience also known as Lester Papadopoulos’ average work day.

From behind him Lester heard about the only sound capable of making his day worse, discounting his father’s voice, -which he never did for the fear for his own life- Reyna snickering.

“Clean up not going too well Lester?”

“I thought,” Lester said in a mumble against the counter, “that the coffee would have cooled down after closing.”

Reyna lifted an eyebrow. Lester didn’t know that for a fact, he was too busy crying onto counter tops (huh, Crying onto Counter tops? That sounded like a good indie band) but over his years of being the most mocked person in any room he entered he’d picked up a seventh sense to devine when people were judging him.

“You know we just closed minutes ago, right?”

“Yeah. I was the one that flipped the sign.” Okay now both eyebrows were up. Seriously Lester was surprised that this kind of stupidity coming from him was still surprising her.

“Okay. You do know how time works right?”

“Yes.” Lester mumbled, all too aware that his nose was bent at an angle that made him sound like a person doing a bad Big Bird impression.

“Okay then. Are you alright?”

Lester snorted, No, Lester thought, but I don’t want to inconvenience you any further with my presence, woman who shot me down for a date and laughed in my face not even two weeks ago, and is also one of the most brilliant people I know.

“Yes.”

“Good because there is a little girl knocking on our door and you’re much better at turning people off than I am.” Reyna chuckled to herself like that was the funniest joke in the world. Lester sighed because if it hadn’t been targeted at him he actually would have found it funny. Currently it just felt painfully accurate to reality.

“Fine, I got it.” Lester picked himself up from the counter and brushed off his apron. There, now he looked about as presentable as anyone could after a ten hour work day. Gods he missed being on the family payroll.

Lester metaphorically hiked up his skirts and went up to the glass doors to shoo off some kid.

Truly his father was wrong, he was doing so well without him.

Lester had to blink to make sure the windows on the doors hadn’t been replaced with mirrors and he wasn’t seeing the reflection of the traffic light from the street, because there was no earthly way a parent would actively choose to dress their child like that.

Lester opened the door and addressed the fashion disaster question, “Uhm, excuse me but we’re closed. And we have a no loitering policy, so-”

“Do you guys have any leftovers?”

“Do we have any… leftovers?”

“Yeah, you know? Like food that is past its sell by date and, ya know?”

Lester blinked and observed the girl past her abysmal fashion choices. He could figure why a kid would be asking for something like that. The girl was on the shorter side with hair that might have once been a page boy cut but had long fallen out of maintenance. Her outfit, past being the last choice of anyone with common sense, was also stained and she smelled like the dumpster outside his apartment building.

This girl looked like a what if  scenario where the lost child in a grocery store was never found by their parents and grew up amongst the produce. Then going on to sustain their home in the store through wacky Home-Alone-esk shenanigans, eventually ascending over piles of outdated meats to become the grocery store scrap master.

“Might I ask why you want to know that?”

The girl peered past Lester, “Because I wanna eat it, duh.” She seeped so much sarcasm into that “duh” that even as a worker in retail he couldn’t help but be offended by the condescension.

“As a top thinker I object to the idea that that was the obvious direction of this conversation!”

“A top thinker?” The girl squinted at him, and, yeah, Lester had to admit that wasn’t his best comeback. In his defense he had just slammed his brain into a hard counter top only moments before.

“Yeah!” Even if it wasn’t his best strategy he would do what he always did, double and triple down on whatever stupid thing he said. It was a tactic that never went wrong.

“Okay. So are you going to answer my question or not?”

Lester sighed, he didn’t have the patience for this during the workday much less after, “Yes we do and you can.” He didn’t need to check, despite being relatively close to a big highway there wasn’t often much business at this little joint.

It was originally one of the reasons he picked it, Lester was painfully aware that he wasn’t much of a people person. Not that he didn’t like people, no he loved people! They just tended to not like him.

Something you and I have in common , he thought, looking at the girl, oh master of scraps . “Would you like some?”

The girl harrumphed, again acting like yes was the most dumbly obvious answer to the question “do you want to eat the leftovers of the leftovers of the coffee shop industry in America after starbucks.”

Lester shucked the door open and trudged in. He would let the girl have some food. What would be the harm? He waved to Reyna, who was currently trying to blend her eyebrows in with her irises, that or she trying to tell him “what the fuck” with her eyes over the fact that he had brought the girl in that she deliberately asked him to get rid of.

“Alright, over here-” Apollo waved the girl over to the counter where he normally emptied out the stale pastries into trash at the end of day. He was cut off when the scrap master barreled past him into the back of the shop, knocking his shoulder into his body with the force of a linebacker’s full charge. (don’t ask how lester knew what that felt like)

“Hey!”

The girl’s pageboy-post-apocalypse poked itself over the counter as she raided the shelves. She shoved some muffins and several cake slices that definitely weren’t meant to be transported by kindergartener's backpack into her bag. Then before Lester could stop her she planted a whole cupcake, paper wrapping and all into her mouth.

Perhaps realizing she had done something wrong her eyes locked with Lester’s and went as wide as her mouth.

Reyna, who had been wiping down tables, decided now was the time to intervene and the scraps master must have developed some eighth sense along the line of Lesters’, and backed off the sweet shelves.

Seemingly understanding that she had limited her own time allowed in the shop she spun around. Her eyes impassively scanned her surroundings, until they lasered in on the sweetener packets, and abandoned whatever kind of decorum she might have had before -which apparently she did because whatever she was doing now was definitely worse- and shoveled handfuls of the packets in her backpack.

Finally getting over the shock of the whole scene Lester started walking to the girl, like a soldier ant marching to their death in a battle against the neighbor kid’s boot. The girl made a mad dash to the door, snatching one last croissant on her escape. Lester, the savant under pressure that he was, stuck his foot out to try and trip her.

Look, he did intend to let her keep the food. It was a lost cause at this point even if he wasn’t going to in the first place, but the sweetener packets? Really? What kind of situation was this girl in where she needed to steal sweetener packets?  

It felt like she took them just to take them, which Lester felt was just a dick move.

Luckily, or unluckily if you were the last scraps of Lester’s pride being yoinked by the scrap master, his foot missed the girls’ by about a meter so her escape remained unimpeded all the way to the door which she burst out of in a flash of traffic light colors.

“What just happened?” Reyna’s voice snapped Lester out of his shocked reverie trying to puzzle together an answer to that very question.

“I think we just got robbed by Dora the Explorer glow in the dark edition.”

[winter-rossie]

Will is upset. Nico wants to comfort him. He doesn't know how. So, he is saying what Will once said to comfort him. Will finds comfort knowing that his word meant something important to Nico. He is now happy because Will wants him to be happy.

[iwannascreameurekaa]

Me writing Valgrace fanfiction