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[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 40 Chapter 40 | the ghost that sang⌟

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When you opened your eyes, there was no ceiling above you.

No sky.

Just dark.

A soft, endless kind of dark—stretched wide like a sea of ink, deep and unmoving. You blinked slowly, chest rising in a breath that didn't quite feel like breathing. The air wasn't cold, exactly. It wasn't warm either. Just... still.

You stood on something. Not ground, not marble. It felt smooth beneath your feet, glass-like but firm, with no echo when you stepped forward. You hesitated—then walked. Slowly. Barefoot and careful.

It was only then that you noticed it.

On either side of you, stretching long like a hallway with no walls, were two veils. Like liquid glass. Rippling softly in your peripheral vision.

You turned.

The one to your right shimmered with dim light. Familiar outlines moved behind it—stone walls, the faded purple glow of twilight, and the glint of metal lying across cobbled ground. The alley.

You.

The last thing you remembered.

The curve of your body slumped against the wall, the dark stain blooming from your side. That little trickle of blood beneath your chin. The broken look in your eyes as they stared off—unseeing.

You flinched. Stepped back. A small gasp escaping your lips.

Then turned left.

And stilled.

Because the veil on this side held no memory.

Only murk. Black and thick and shifting like it was alive. You couldn't see through it—only felt what waited beyond. Coldness pressed behind that glass like something breathing just inches away, biding its time.

It didn't show you anything.

It didn't need to.

You didn't know how, but... you knew it called for you. Not cruelly. Not kindly either. Just inevitable. It was the pull of the sea when you were too tired to swim. The way your body leaned into sleep when your bones gave out. Quiet. Deep.

Final.

You tore your eyes away.

"Hello?" you called, your voice echoing softly, swallowed by the space.

No answer.

You took another step forward. And another. You weren't sure what you were moving toward. The space didn't curve, didn't change—but still, you walked. Hoping, maybe, that something would shift. That someone would answer.

After what felt like hours—or seconds—you stopped.

Your shoulders slumped. You looked down.

And that's when the dread crept in. The quiet kind. The kind that doesn't scream but wraps around you like a second skin.

You weren't dreaming.

You weren't floating.

You were dead.

The memory hit you all at once—the chill of the blade, the sting across your face, the way your knees buckled as you fell. How the man laughed. How your fingers reached for nothing. How it had all gone quiet.

Your chest rose, uneven. Your eyes stung.

But you didn't let the tears fall. Not yet.

You gritted your teeth.

"Telemachus... Penelope... Callias... Odysseus..." you whispered, your voice cracking with each name. Each one a bruise in your throat. "I'm sorry."

You wiped your face roughly, frustrated at the sting in your eyes, at the wetness already gathering along your lashes.

"They'll take it well," you muttered, your voice trembling, false confidence breaking with every syllable. You looked back at the veil showing the alley—your body still there, still quiet.

"They're strong. Right?" you added, trying to smile.

It didn't last.

Because the longer you stared...

The more you wondered if anyone had found you yet.

And if they hadn't—how much longer you'd be stuck here. Between nothing.

Between goodbye and gone.

That was where you lived now, wasn't it?

And then—finally—you cracked.

The tears came hard. Sharp, clawing things that burst from your chest like they'd been waiting for permission. You didn't try to muffle them. Didn't try to pretend. There was no one to see you. No one but shadows. So you folded in on yourself, arms hugging your middle, knees buckling as you dropped to the cold, invisible ground.

Sobs tore through you—deep and ugly and ragged.

"I wasn't supposed to go like this," you choked, rocking gently. "Not like that."

You buried your face in your hands, voice muffled. "I should've said more. Done more. I just let things happen. Always just... let them happen. Let others lead. Let myself get dragged along."

Another sob broke through.

"I... I thought I had time."

Your voice cracked again, brittle and small. "Time to fix it. To figure out what I wanted. Who I wanted. Gods, even just time to be brave."

The glassy path beneath you shimmered faintly with your tears.

But then, something shifted in your chest.

No.

You sniffled hard, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. "No more crying," you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. "What's done is done."

You sat there for a moment longer, catching your breath. Letting the weight settle. Then, with slow movements, you pushed yourself back to your feet. Shaky. Tired. But upright.

You smoothed your clothes. Ran your fingers under your eyes. Lifted your chin.

It was time.

There was only one path left.

Your gaze slid back to the veil—the dark one. The one that didn't show you anything at all, only made you feel it.

The inevitable.

You took a step toward it, breath held tight.

Lifted your hand to touch it.

Almost—

"Whoa there."

You flinched violently.

The voice came from behind—familiar, teasing, completely alive.

"What is this?" he added, breezy and smug as ever. "Trying to die for real?"

You spun so fast your heel skidded. And when your eyes locked onto his—those stupid gold-flecked eyes, that wind-mussed hair, that lopsided smirk—you screamed.

"HERMES!"

You threw yourself at him, all sense and breath and pain forgotten in an instant.

He caught you.

You slammed into his chest, arms wrapping around his neck, sobs returning full force—but softer now. Messy. Wet. Relieved.

"You... you came," you gasped, clinging to him like a lifeline. "You actually came."

He didn't speak right away. His body had gone still from the impact—but then slowly, carefully, his arms curled around your waist. Tight. Real.

And gods, he smelled like home. Like open skies and crushed laurel and warmth.

"Told you I'd steal you away," he murmured, voice low, joking—but just barely. There was a tremble beneath it. "Didn't say how soon."

You nodded into his shoulder, still hiccuping through tears.

His hands came up to gently cradle your face, easing you back just enough to see you. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, swiping away what was left of the tears as he stared at you.

"Feel better?" he asked quietly.

You didn't answer.

You just nodded again.

And finally—finally—breathed.

It wasn't much. Just one full breath. But it was the first in what felt like forever. Like your lungs remembered what they were for again.

Your eyes fluttered closed briefly, just to feel the weight of the air in your chest, the warmth of his hands on your cheeks.

But then your voice—still cracked and small—broke through the quiet.

"...What happened?" you croaked. "After I..."

You didn't finish the sentence. You didn't need to.

Hermes' smile wavered.

His thumbs stopped moving.

His golden eyes dimmed, just a little.

"I..." He hesitated, swallowing hard, and you felt it—how it pained him to say it out loud. "You collapsed in the alley. The shopkeeper across the way heard a noise—thank the Fates for that. He... came out to see. And saw you."

You blinked, heart lurching.

Hermes' jaw clenched.

"It was... bad," he said softly. "Your... your blood had already pooled. There was so much of it. Gods, your jewelry had been ripped off. Your headpiece gone. The sash was..." He shook his head, voice catching. "They barely recognized you at first."

You stared at him, barely breathing now.

"A few townspeople came running. Some screamed. One tried to help, but it was already too late."

He exhaled, shakily. "The moment I felt it—your soul slipping out—I raced down. But... I was too slow."

Your stomach twisted. You gripped your own elbows now, holding yourself together.

"Word spread fast. The whole lower town was in an uproar. Someone ran to the palace. By the time Penelope heard, she nearly fainted. Telemachus..."

Hermes trailed off.

You didn't need to ask. You could picture it. You could see it as clearly as if you were still there—the look on his face, the way he must've dropped everything. How his heart must've stopped.

And it was your fault.

You took a sharp, shuddering breath.

It came in too quick. Too heavy.

"I was right," you whispered, your voice cracking apart. "I knew it. I shouldn't have gone back. I shouldn't have gone alone. I should've said no. I should've—"

"Hey," Hermes said quickly, cupping your face again, firmer this time. "Don't."

You shook your head, chest caving in. "They're hurting. Because of me. If I'd just—if I'd been smarter, stronger—"

"____." Hermes' voice was low. Gentle. But firm.

His hands cupped your face again, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes. You hadn't even realized you were crying until he touched the tears.

"Look at me," he whispered. "Hey—come back."

You blinked, barely able to lift your gaze, and when you did—he was already smiling. Sadly. Softly. His curls fell across his forehead, golden eyes dim with something achingly human.

"It's not your fault," he said.

You opened your mouth to argue—but he beat you to it.

"No." The word landed like a weight between you both. "Don't do that. Don't make this ugly thing your burden. Don't wear guilt that was never yours to carry."

"But I—"

"No," he repeated. "You were kind. You were helpful. That doesn't make you foolish. It makes you human."

His smile faltered. Something darker flickered beneath it.

"I should've been there sooner," he admitted. "That's what's been eating me alive."

You stared at him, brows pinching. "But... how am I even here?"

At that, his expression shifted.

Hermes leaned back slightly, gaze lowering.

And then—with a sheepish kind of seriousness—you saw it.

Guilt.

"I may have... bent a few rules," he said, voice lighter than his eyes. "When I felt your soul leaving—I plucked it. Just in time."

"Plucked it?"

"Yeah," he nodded, tapping his temple with a crooked smile. "Scooped you right out. Placed you here. In between."

You glanced around the strange, endless space again—the pale, unmoving dark that stretched beyond your vision. "Where... is here, exactly?"

Hermes let out a low breath. "A holding place. Limbo, more or less. This space isn't usually meant for mortals to consciously access, not without help. Your kind's souls pass through quickly, toward judgment—usually under the eyes of Chthonic gods. Hades. Thanatos. Maybe even Persephone if she's feeling involved."

You swallowed. "So... you... stopped that."

He gave a single, self-satisfied shrug. "I'm a god of thresholds. Of travel. Of transitions. My reach extends through many doors. I just... slowed yours."

You felt your heart thrum hard—because that meant...

"What happens now?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Hermes grinned.

"Now?" he said, leaning forward with a wink. "I'm going to make sure you don't die."'

And just like that—something in you dared to hope again.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

The journey back into the Underworld looked nothing like it had before.

This time, it wasn't endless mist and bone-colored stone. It wasn't shadows licking at your heels or cold, metallic silence. This time... it was starlight.

The path beneath your feet shimmered like crystal glass, flickering with galaxies. It wound downward through a skyless void filled with drifting constellations and dark, spiraling nebulas. Planets blinked like lanterns in the distance.

The walls of the descent (if they could even be called that) were carved from swirling gradients of indigo and violet, like a living canvas of twilight. You'd never seen anything like it.

It felt—oddly—peaceful.

Like death had paused its breath for just a moment to let beauty shine through.

Hermes walked beside you, silent, for once. His golden eyes caught every flicker of color, but he didn't say a word. He just kept his hands in his pockets and glanced at you now and then to make sure you didn't trip. Or wander off into a comet trail.

When you reached the edge of the Underworld proper, the stars gave way to stone again—massive structures built from some dark mineral that drank in all light, casting towering silhouettes across the marbled ground.

And waiting at the foot of the grand staircase that led to Hades' throne room... was Cerberus.

The massive three-headed hound was curled up like a boulder with fur, paws the size of shields, tails thumping the ground once as he lifted his heads. The moment his six eyes locked on you, all three faces lit up.

Before you could even blink, Cerberus sprang up with the excited force of a boulder flung by a god. The beast lunged down the steps, all three mouths panting, tongues out and aiming straight for your face like an overeager puppy.

But—

"Cerberus."

The single word cracked through the air like a thunderclap. Deep. Calm. Inevitable.

Cerberus froze mid-bound, paws skidding slightly. All three heads snapped to attention like guilty children caught roughhousing. The whimper that followed was almost comical—three different tones of regret in one harmony—as the giant beast ducked its heads and slunk back to the bottom step.

You blinked up, heart racing... then looked toward the voice.

Hades was already standing at the top of the stairs.

His expression unreadable. Eyes sharp, shadowed by the strange celestial glow that colored this realm tonight—deep blue and galaxy pink swirling like oil behind him.

His gaze didn't shift right away—not to you, not even to Hermes.

It stayed on Cerberus, who had resumed his place like a sulking child, heads down and tails low.

"...He never did learn boundaries," Hades murmured. "Not when it comes to you."

His voice wasn't angry. Just... tired. Resigned. Like a father realizing the family dog was always going to sneak food off the table no matter how many centuries had passed.

But then—his gaze shifted.

And this time, it wasn't aimed at Cerberus.

It was aimed at you.

No—past you.

Straight at Hermes.

The air changed instantly.

That soft, celestial glow bathing the pillars dimmed like a star being pinched out of the sky. The peaceful swirl of nebula light seemed to retreat, curling away from the corners of the throne room as something darker unfurled behind Hades.

A shadow—slow and consuming—crawled out from beneath his feet, swallowing the stairs in a sweep of midnight, bleeding into the light like ink into water.

It made your breath catch.

You shuffled back instinctively, the heels of your sandals skidding across the smooth marble. You didn't even realize you'd moved until your shoulder brushed Hermes' arm.

He didn't flinch.

The god of travelers stood tall in front of you, expression unreadable, his posture sharp and composed. But you saw the tension in his jaw. The way his fists clenched just slightly at his sides.

Hades watched him for a moment longer, his voice low—deafening in its calm. "My nephew," he said, "has made a very compelling case."

You blinked, confused—your lips parting, just slightly. But Hades kept going.

"He pleaded. Bartered. Threatened, even." His gaze drifted toward you now, cold and clinical. "All to return a soul that, by all laws, was already mine."

Your eyes darted to Hermes, but he didn't look at you. His gaze stayed fixed ahead—locked on the god of the dead. His face was carved in stone. Stern. Focused. Like if he let himself blink, the moment might break.

You swallowed, heart hammering.

"And what, you may ask," Hades drawled, almost bored, "was the price?" He tilted his head slightly, his black curls catching the dying starlight. "What bargain could possibly earn a mortal soul passage back into the world of the living?" His lips curled at the edges. "Does it matter?"

He waved a hand dismissively, and the cold wind of his aura swirled past you again.

"It's done."

And then—

His gaze turned back to you.

You felt it like a physical thing. Like a hook under your ribs, yanking.

You smothered a yelp, hands clutching your sides as his eyes bored into you, stripping back whatever courage you'd tried to gather.

You'd never felt so seen in your life—and not in the comforting way Hermes or Telemachus saw you. This was different. This was divine authority. Finality. The heavy stare of something ancient and tired and utterly unimpressed.

Then—his voice again.

"Do you want to return?"

The question shouldn't have rattled you as much as it did. It was simple. Clear. No hidden riddles or twisting words. Just... choice.

But your voice still caught in your throat.

You looked at Hermes, then down at your hands—ghost-pale and trembling. You remembered the alley. The knife. The cold. The pain. And then the sound of someone crying out your name like it was a prayer they didn't believe would be answered.

Telemachus.

Your chest ached.

You looked back up.

"Yes," you said. Your voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It held the truth. "I want to go back."

For a moment, Hades said nothing.

The silence stretched.

And then—he nodded.

"Very well."

But even as the weight in your chest lifted, his gaze sharpened again.

"I'm not in the habit of giving favors, mortal," he said, tone colder now. "And certainly not twice. So whatever life you return to... tread lightly."

You stiffened as his words wrapped around you like a coil.

"You're a bit popular on Olympus, it seems," he added, voice dipped in dry amusement. "Even both of my nephews aren't immune to it."

Your heart gave a funny little thud.

You'd been hearing that a lot lately.

Too much, maybe.

And not always with kindness.

Hades didn't laugh. He didn't smirk. He didn't tease like Hermes or snap like Apollo. His voice was like carved stone.

"Remember this: not everything that glitters is gold. And not every god who kneels... does so for your sake."

He sat back in his throne, folding his pale hands in his lap. "Don't waste your second chance."

The room stayed quiet after that.

And for once—you didn't speak.

Not out of fear.

But out of understanding.

Something was shifting. And the next time you stepped into the world above... you'd have to decide who you'd be.

And what price you'd be willing to pay to stay alive.

You didn't know the full cost yet, but the weight of the warning followed you as Hermes gently took your wrist, ready to lead you away from the throne room, from the god whose stare still pressed against your spine like cold marble.

But just as his grip turned, just as your feet were about to move—

A voice, soft as falling petals, cut through the silence.

"Wait."

You froze.

The sound had been sweet. Not commanding, not cruel. But it still made your shoulders tense like you'd been caught doing something you weren't supposed to.

Persephone.

You turned slowly, and for the first time, really looked at her.

The shadows that had shrouded her throne had peeled back—no longer casting her in gloom, but revealing her fully in the dim, star-flecked light of the room. She sat tall now, no longer distant or half-removed. Her green-gold gown shimmered like wet ivy, and her eyes... they were sharper than before. Watching. Present.

"I want to hear you play again," she said softly.

Your heart skipped.

You almost flinched. The way she asked it was so kind—so calm—that it felt... dangerous. Like stepping into a clearing that might still hold traps beneath the grass.

You swallowed, trying to keep your hands from shaking.

"I—of course, my lady," you said quickly, stammering slightly as you bowed your head. "But I... I left my lyre. I don't have it with me."

You felt strange saying it. Like it should've been obvious. But you felt even stranger after you said it—because Persephone only smiled.

"Is that all?"

She raised her hand.

And the shadows answered.

A swirl of black mist coiled forward from beneath her throne, blooming in midair like a flower made of ash and smoke. And then—shaping. Hardening. Taking form.

The air pulsed cold as the shape solidified—tall and wide, formed from midnight-colored wood threaded with veins of bone-white marble. Carvings of twisting underworld plants coiled around its frame—nightshade blossoms, bloodroot leaves, pomegranate branches tangled with thorns. Tiny skulls of creatures—some familiar, some not—adorned its base like hanging charms.

A lyre.

A beautiful, haunting, terrible thing.

You stared at it, rooted in place, unable to speak.

Persephone's voice came again, quieter now. Like a secret. "Isn't it beautiful?"

You nodded slowly, your throat too tight to answer.

Because it was.

It was stunning.

And something deep in your bones whispered that it was also a gift not freely given.

You reached for it anyway.

Because you were still alive.

And when a Queen of the Dead asked you to play—you played.

With a shaky breath, you stepped forward.

The moment you touched it, it settled into your palms as though it had been waiting for you.

And gods—it was cold.

Not just cold in temperature, but in feeling. The kind that slipped beneath your skin and curled inside your chest like frost. Its surface was smooth as riverstone, its carvings raised just enough to bite faintly into your fingertips.

The strings pulsed faintly beneath your fingertips—too smooth to be metal, too cold to be wood. You didn't know what it was made of. Only that it was heavy. And ancient.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as you bowed your head.

Persephone smiled at the sight of it in your arms, her chin resting in one hand, her voice lilting with fondness. "Of course, little singer," she said softly. "You've no idea how long I've missed that sound." Her voice was calm, but there was something wistful behind it. A heaviness that tugged at the edges of her words. "I spent days mourning it. Your voice. The sound of something alive echoing through this place."

You blinked, surprised.

Persephone. Mourning you?

She tilted her head slightly, as though hearing your thoughts. "The Underworld has music, of course. But nothing living. Nothing raw." She glanced at the lyre now resting in your hands. "That instrument was shaped for you. Perfectly tuned. Play it well."

From behind you, Hermes gave a small nod—encouraging, quiet.

And that was all you needed.

You shifted your fingers on the strings, testing them gently. The sound that followed was deeper than your old lyre. Darker. But smooth. Like water running beneath the earth—slow, quiet, endless.

You took a breath.

And played.

It wasn't the same melody as before—not the soft tune you'd sung to Persephone or lulled Cerberus with. No. This was something different.

Slower. A little sad. But not heavy.

It rang like a low lullaby meant to echo between tombstones. A song that didn't fight the darkness, but didn't surrender to it either. A melody that hummed of dusk and dust, of endings... but also of peace.

And the moment the first full note sang out—

The Underworld listened.

The entire throne room fell still. Even the shadows seemed to pause. Cerberus' massive heads tilted slightly, eyes fluttering half-shut. Hermes crossed his arms loosely over his chest, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. And on the dais, Persephone's gaze softened—her knuckles slowly unclenching on the arms of her throne.

Even Hades...

You risked a glance.

The shadows that had spilled around him were gone. Receded, quiet. Curling back to the edge of the dais like obedient dogs. His shoulders had lowered, his expression no longer carved in stone. And though his face remained unreadable, you swore—just for a second—that the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

Your fingers played on, steady now. The strings humming with magic older than memory. You didn't know what realm this lyre had been born in. Only that the Underworld had given it to you.

And it had accepted your voice.

For the second time in your life, your song filled the realm of the dead... and it welcomed you back.

The music echoed through the chamber like a soft mourning hymn, a lullaby laced with grief—but threaded, too, with something else.

Wonder.

As if the song knew you'd seen something sacred. And come back changed.

As if it understood—without judgment—that something in you had died.

But not everything.

The notes rang out like they were mourning that loss with you. But also... celebrating what remained.

When the final note trembled into silence, you let your hands fall still.

Even the air held its breath.

No one spoke.

Not at first.

Not even Persephone.

But her eyes—they shimmered. Not with tears. Not quite. But with something full and aching. A deep well of knowing. Of memory. Of the thousand little griefs she carried behind that soft smile.

You stood there in silence, your chest rising and falling as you blinked—unsure whether to bow, to back away, to weep.

And then, she smiled.

Not a wide one. Not bright.

But real.

A small, bittersweet tilt of her lips as she finally sighed, voice lilting like petals on water. "When you perish," she said softly, "—and you will, one day, like all things do—there will be a place for you here. A spot at my side."

Your breath caught.

She nodded gently, the candlelight catching in her eyes. "You would make a fine handmaiden. A royal musician. One who sings not to entertain... but to remember."

At her words, the lyre in your hands stirred.

Before you could react, it lifted on its own, drifting weightlessly from your grasp. You stared, wide-eyed, as the shadows curved gently beneath it—lifting and guiding it across the room.

It floated to the base of the dais and nestled there, carefully placing itself on a cushion the color of dried roses and old parchment.

Like an offering.

Like it knew where it belonged.

And there it rested.

Just below Persephone's throne—mirroring the old spot you once claimed in Ithaca, when you'd sit near the king and queen, ready to play when asked.

Hades' gaze followed the lyre's descent.

And after a moment, he gave a quiet huff.

"Fine," he muttered, his voice low and dry like flint. "I suppose the halls could use a bit of softness."

You blinked again—still too stunned to speak.

Beside you, Hermes cleared his throat softly.

You turned to him, and he gave a small smile. "That's your cue, little ghost."

You nodded, legs moving on instinct giving both royals a curtsy.

As you turned to leave, Persephone raised a hand one final time. "You'll find this place again," she said, her voice wistful. "But next time... let's hope it's not through blood."

You couldn't promise that.

So you didn't say anything.

You just bowed again, and let Hermes take you home.

A/N: ngl i really enjoyed writing this chapter 😭 maybe it's a sign i need to do a whole Underworld-centric fic at this point idk... anyways, hope you lovelies enjoyed the newest update 🫶 i know i put y'all through it with the last chappie 😭😩 but y'all survived so!! love that for us 💕 alsooo! imma need a quick lil favor—y'all know my twin's a writer on here too, right?? she's the one doing the WARRIOR Penelope AU (yes, the one who made Penelope swing go to troy as captain with reader as the second in command). she updates differently than i do—like she writes full arcs all at once (10 chapters per arc minimum 😭) and each chapter be like 5–6k words of pure stress and greatness 😩❤️ BUT she hasn't updated in a while bc apparently she thinks no one's interested anymore??? be so serious. Y'ALL. please go spam her fic rn i am begging 😭😭 i need the next arc so bad and she won't let me be her editor anymore so now i gotta wait like the rest of y'all 😭 i'm suffering. my chest is in shambles. (if anyone else here reads it too, lemme know, i'll def be ranting about it in my next a/n bc i got some theories and unhinged thoughts and idk who else to scream about it with 😩🫠)

RAN OUT OF ROOM, SO CLICK HERE TO SEE FANART I RECIEVED

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[uxia15]

I’m going insane because of these two

[nona-gay-simus]

How to Write Enemies to Lovers Correctly:

Wrong ❌: "I hate him but omgggg look at his abs!!"

Right ✅: "Pathetic, Griddle. I got more hot and bothered digging all night."

[izachin]

OSHA X QIMIR PTV #TheAcolyte #StarWars #RenewTheAcolyte #Qimir #thestranger #osha #oshamir #oshamirfanart #starwarstheacolyte #disney #etl #enemiestolovers #art #procreate

[aidelon]

My 10 years old self found out what disappointment was when Katara didn't kiss Zuko😃👍🏻

My ig: @/Aide.lon

[marimosalad]

I’ve started a mini comic loosely based on @pursuitseternal’s Shadowstar knife play fic (explicit)

Follow along for sketch updates (18+) on my Patreon

[darkkittyart]

“Doesn’t feel good, does it? Being treated like a monster...” 🔪🩸

( A little work in progress. I wanted to explore Mae getting free from her restraints and in turn trapping Sol. The repressed emotions on both sides… The tension… god the TENSION. 🫠✨)

[chibireylo]

With a kiss, the arranged marriage of the Princess of Exegol and the Prince of Chandrila became official.

At long last, the feuding kingdoms would finally know peace-- if only Kylo & Rey weren't tasked to kill one another.

[pursuitseternal]

“Love Me or Hate Me” update, the Act 1 Romance retold for enemies🩸🗡️

Astarion x Tav (Katja) | Explicit | 3.9 K

Summary: A tryst in the moonlight, a truce negotiated.

CW: manipulative Astarion, scary monster Astarion, mild mild name calling degradation, first bite alt, act 1 romance alt, vaginal fingering, blood loss aftercare, Katja’s backstory begins

Previous Ch | ao3 link | Masterlist

Ch. 2: “Little Treat”

Despite the calm the wine gave her heart, Katja’s head was clear. Clear, and focused on confronting the monster that had sunk his claws into her.

Sunk his cock, more like.

She shook the thought away, focusing instead on her path and ignoring the way her back felt naked without her axe. It made her unnerved and unsettled, same way he did.

Her booted feet entered the clearing, empty save the starlight, quiet save her own increasingly ragged breathing. “Alright, you fucker,” she called, singsong and mocking, “I’ve come to discuss our truce.”

Nothing. Only a slight breeze made the leaves rustle as it moved the humid summer air.

Fuck.

Had he left? Unlikely. Not the vampire’s way to let go of an advantage once pressed. Lying in wait somewhere, waiting to have her?

Definitely.

Rolling her shoulders, Katja slunk deeper into the glade, her eyes scanning every shadow for crimson and white—flashes of his eyes or his fangs. This was a huge mistake, she groaned. She shouldn’t have left her axe, coming nearly defenseless to meet him, not when every nail and fang and muscle in his taut body was a weapon by itself. The scar on her cheek stung, a painless reminder of the great pain that could come should she ever underestimate a monster again.

Swiftly, she hurried back to the treeline, sneaking a small dagger from the top of her boot. The enamel of her sgian-dubh graced her with a quick comfort the second her palm enclosed around it. She stalked from tree to tree, careful of the deepest shadows, knowing the wind was carrying her scent.

Even though he probably scented her already. Too late and too dangerous.

She heard him before she saw him. A shallow creaking breath behind her right ear to make her round. Buried in the shadows she just passed, his face sunk into the gloom, eyelids closed to hide his unnatural eyes.

Eyes that flashed open the moment she noticed him.

One quick second to react, her dagger flew for his chest, sure in its aim and deadly in precision. But it wasn’t enough, not as ice cold fingers ensnared her wrist and so effortlessly deflected the blow. A creaking death rattle, he inhaled after denying his lungs of air as he waited. The noise made her shiver, a bone chilling distraction as he sped them both into the moonlight, slamming her back against a tree.

“There you are,” he crooned. “I’ve been waiting…” His other hand carefully pried her dagger away, letting it fall carelessly at their feet. “Let’s talk terms, little brat, rather than just jumping to blades immediately, hmm?”

“You’ve wanted to kill me since the moment you saw me,” Katja hissed, thrashing and fuming, his sinewy strength caging her frame to lock her beneath him. Identical to just hours ago. Fuck, how could she be so stupid again.

“No, when I first saw you, I figured you for a feisty little thing. I saw a tasty morsel. I saw a strong warrior, someone who might have been willing to ensure my strength by lending just a little of her blood.” His laugh was low in his throat and dangerous. “Then I found out you were Gur. A monster hunter one to boot. That’s when I wanted to kill you, darling.”

“Then why haven’t you? Missing your balls?” she kneed him in the groin, hard enough to make a man fold in two. For him, he just let out a breath and growled closer in her face.

“Oh, I think you know my balls are in perfect working order, brat,” he snarled, hips pressing against her belly as a nice little souvenir to their earlier tryst. He quirked a brow, running a finger up the side of her neck with chilling, featherlight touches. “Maybe I just like to play with my food…”

“I’d rather fuck you again,” Katja hissed. jutting her chin up at him, a picture of eager defiance.

“Oh I have little doubt of that. A pity sex isn’t on our list of topics to discuss in our little truce.” His grin spread across his face, wider by the second, as his jaw dropped. “Oh no, your idiocy cost me safety and access to blood to keep me strong and well fed. You’re going to provide both for me.”

“Why?” she asked blatantly, her chest heaving with every breath beneath her cream-colored shirt. “Because you’ll kill me? Or you’ll torture me?”

Astarion’s eyes hardened. “As fitting a circle of revenge it would be to end you, child of the Gur, it’ll be far more… entertaining for me to make you help me.”

“Why would I help you?”

“Because for once, having a monster hunter on my side might just prove useful to me. To us. We can be mutually beneficial. His gaze raked down her body, “You’ve come of age in your tribe, clearly, and yet you do not bear the mark of a hunter yet. You’re eager, still trying to prove your worth to your gods and your elders….” He fought the need to roll his eyes. “If you ensure my strength and safety, if you feed me and protect me, I’ll let you help me defeat the most powerful Vampire Lord on the Sword Coast, my old master, Cazador Szarr.”

The way he spat that name even made her heart quicken with the same mix of fear and loathing that so clearly painted his sharp and pale face.

“If you don’t kill me, you’ll have my help taking down a monster far, far worse than me. And in due time….” He grabbed her hand from his chest, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing the fragile bones and veins of her inner wrist, “you’ll earn yourself a trophy worth being named lead hunter of your tribe, someone worth killing far more than my weak and humble self.” His crimson eyes flashed dangerously, the very mention of his end at her hand seeming to make him laugh. “So, let’s put that out of our cute, little empty head, hmm?”

Katja’s mind spun, hazy from wine and the forbidden heat between her thighs.

“What’s in it for you?” she hissed, glaring as he pressed his thick lips in a kiss atop those pale blue wrist veins.

Eyes flashing, he smirked, keeping his attention on that thin skin of her arm. “Freedom, a chance for vengeance against him… and a chance to take advantage of your people’s headstrong barbarity,” he paused long enough to catch the look on her face. Disgust, arousal, anger, and intrigue. “All I require is your blade at my service and the small matter of your blood for my strength.”

Those treacherous lips kissed her sensitive skin again, a nibble of his blunt front teeth making her squirm. Gods, his tongue was wet and cold, sending every hair on her arm to stand on end as he drew her sleeve to ruck at her elbow. Katja hated it, but worse, she hated the damp that collected between her thighs. And the worst, she hated how his nostrils flared as he could smell it.

Astarion’s eyes darkened and dilated, gleaming with anticipation. “Even if I couldn’t smell your betraying excitement, your heart dances to the command of my touch,” his lips brushed her skin as he spoke. “My little traitorous treat, what will your people think when they see the marks you will bear forever from my bite?” His chuckle tickled her every nerve. “You must know the carnal thrill that is a vampire’s bite… the slice of cold, the rush of pleasure…”

Katja jerked her arm, only to find his grip like iron on her limb.

“Ah ah,” he scolded her in singsong, “tell me, what do you want, Katja?”

The way he flicked her name off his tongue made her shudder, and not in disgust.

“Do you want what I have to offer you? The head of an infamous vampire lord will more than atone for the sin of a bite from me from time to time.” He looked down at her, tilting her fuming face to meet his eyes, crimson eyes now soft and pleading and glistening in the moonlight. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“I want blood,” she hissed, the accent of her people twisted her syllables, a threat, a promise, and a demand all in one.

And it made Astarion smirk. “Oh, darling, so do I,” he purred. Fangs sank into her wrist, stabbing with ice cold numbness into her artery. Her pulse throbbed as he sucked, the flow of her blood tangible as it left her body to fill his own. She couldn’t look away from how his thick lips stained red, how the muscles of his neck and jaw rippled with every swallow. Mesmerized, brought under his spell, she had one single thought of her own, his bite might not steal her souls like the devils, but fuck… it damned her.

Her mouth opened, her head turned as she forced herself to break her stare.

“Not so fast, my treat,” he growled against her flesh, yanking her against him to snake his other hand down the gusset of her trousers. Slick gathered at the tips of his fingers, and Katja bit her lip to keep from screaming in rapture. That icy touch caught her clit, tantalizing circles tracing over it to coax it from its hood. The bark of the oak scored her back, rough through the linen of her shirt.

Her head spun, but whether it was from the blood loss or the sin of his touch that broke her down, she wasn’t sure. Head lolling to the side, she closed her eyes, embracing the dark inside of their lids, ignoring the way her body trembled.

Ignoring that she was the prey pinned and devoured.

Astarion snarled in her ear, quiet but commanding, his lips drenched in her blood. Icy fingers clawed around her chin and yanked her back to face him.

This was it she was sure. Her death on his fingers and by his fangs. Her eyes flickered between the way his crimson gaze bored into her and the blood spatter that shone on his pale skin in the moonlight.

Katja refused to close her eyes, even if this was her end.

Yet, he only smiled, wicked and wide, his fingers suddenly teasing her folds with renewed vigor. The rakish smile, the cock of his brow, all of it taunted her, as if to say, I have you now.

“Gods,” she groaned, the sensation of his cool touch curling inside her cunt, catching something deep inside made her jerk and writhe. With every breath, she grew more aware of where he touched her, of where their bodies made contact… of those fingers working in and out of her cunt and of his death-chilled breath on her face.

“Looks who's blushing, even after being drained,” he chuckled, voice slick with her blood in his throat. He pulled her face closer, lips brushing his so she could taste the copper of her essence. “My little treat, with their cheeks… all… flushed…”

Before his last words left his tongue, his fingers shoved deepest yet inside, driving her fluttering walls to the inevitable climax. One last brush of his thumb over her clit, and she was done for. Her head slammed against the tree trunk, her legs shook so hard she slid halfway to the ground.

And he let her crumple, a mess at his feet as his fingers slipped from her folds. Her dark eyes watched in arousal, in horror, as he licked his fingers clean of her slick. “Mmm, delicious,” he crooned, leering down at her, a self-satisfied roll of his head.

“You… leech,” she panted, too boneless to get up yet. Eyes wide in suspense, she watched as he lowered himself to the ground beside her, his back resting against the tree.

Those powerful arms wrapped around her, pulling her against the cold, hard plane of his chest. “Admit it,” he smirked, the tips of his fingers under her chin tilting her face into the moonlight, “if I am a leech, you don’t mind the way I suck.” His chuckle rumbled in her left ear as he set her head back on his shoulder. “You’ll need a moment to recover from the blood loss, I fear I might have… over indulged.” His fingers pressed on her pulse point, not that he needed to touch her skin to hear her heart fluttering and thumping as it tried to make sense of what happened between them. “But don’t you dare fall asleep, you’re walking yourself back to camp, unless I have to carry you for healing. Do you understand?”

Healing?

“No… I’ll be fine. No healing,” she groaned, imagining having to ask the Cleric for Lesser Restoration… it made her stomach churn. And it made Astarion laugh.

“Out with it, what’s funny?” she snapped.

“Every thought your head shows on that pretty little face of yours,” he smirked. “What? Don’t want to go groveling for a healing spell to the woman you replaced?”

“You… fucking… arsehole,” Katja snarled, trying to shove herself off him, only to tip over and lose her balance into the dirt.

His arms caught her, that malicious chuckle growing louder as he pulled her back beside him. “Easy, darling,” he hissed as she struggled against him. “Can’t go letting my little treat pass out and die on her way back to camp…” Air rushed past her ears, her head swimming as he scooped her up. Her clothes were a rumpled mess, his fang marks still aching through her inner wrist.

At first, she tried to fight the help, weak little flails of her mortal frailty that were no match for him—immortal, well-fed, and happy. After a few minutes of that poorly planned attempt, she begrudgingly settled against his chest. Her mind was a blur of thoughts and memories, guilt pricking at her conscience for the sins committed: images of her village far away, of her family long gone, of her tribe’s elders and their disapproving scowls and scolding words of ‘guidance…’

The memory alone made her cheek sting, that long scar from the corner of her right eye to the edge of her jaw. And what was worse, he kept eyeing it now that he held her so close.

“Go ahead,” she hissed. “Ask me about my scar. Everyone does.”

Astarion gave a half-hearted laugh. “I wouldn’t presume to care about it. Besides, scars can be very personal matters, maybe even painful…” His gaze grew distant, his arms holding her stiffening. And then he shook his head, his mop of untamed silver curls tousling even more haphazardly in the moonlight. “I just assumed you were in the process of some… very important monster hunter thing… when you took a near fatal blow.”

Katja barked a laugh, too loud for his pointed ears. “Fuck you, Astarion. You don’t even know how close you are from the truth, and yet how far.”

“What? Did a dragon think you were its mate because you’re also so cold blooded and ferocious?”

Was … that a compliment? Katja would have thrown herself from his embrace if she could to question him. He sounded positively charming, purring like that as his laugh rumbled into her body. But she shook the thought from her addled skull. “No, it’s… just the mark left on a foolish girl who hesitated instead of landing the killing blow.”

“Ah, there it is, the stark brutality of the Gur,” his voice dripped with venom suddenly. “Keep your secrets then, little treat. I wouldn’t want to suddenly find myself thinking well of you, or worse, starting to like you.”

Katja gagged, overtly and dramatically, at the mere suggestion. “Please, for fucks sake. This is just an agreement for us both to benefit. You get to live, and I get a quarry that will finally prove myself to my tribe… well, once this whole Absolutist cult is defeated, and we don’t become Mindflayers, and we find a—”

“Gods, shut up,” he snapped. “I’d clap my palm over your irritating mouth if I wasn’t going to drop your sorry ass. In the meantime…” His purring, churlish lips covered hers. Their fullness demanded her silence, his tongue sweeping once across her mouth before he shoved it inside. That gagged her, that muffled her constant flow of unnecessary words.

His lips worked furiously, almost gracefully, claiming every inch of her mouth. The lingering metallic taste of her blood sickened her stomach, at least she thought that was why her stomach twisted into knots. If her head didn’t spin so much from the lack of air and the loss of blood, Katja might have even marveled at how graceful and surefooted he was stalking in the shadows as he was… otherwise engaged… all the way back to camp.

The campfire flickered warmly, and much to her horror, the light grew brighter and the sound of voices did too. Katja thrashed in his arms with what little strength she had, landing an elbow in his gut hard enough to make him grunt in pain, but not drop her. “Don’t. Don’t you dare walk me through them all…”

“Oh please,” he chuckled wickedly, that charming and sinister smile curling his bloodied lips. “Given the noise you made, I’m sure they already know.”

Her hands reached into his mess of sweaty silver curls and yanked. “Godsdammit, I mean it,” she hissed.

“Alright,” he snarled, a rough snap of fangs at her aggression. “You’re really ensuring I don’t like you, aren’t you.” He retreated into the quiet shadows, making for her tent of practical cream and silver canvas from the edges of their camp. “Once I see you properly healed up, don’t go clawing my eyes out, you feral cat,” he hissed, lowering himself into the dark of her tent to set her on her bedroll.

“What did you say?” she hissed, but he was already gone again. Healed? Katja's limbs felt cold and heavy, her breathing shallow and rapid. It was all she could manage to lay on her bedroll and wait… for Astarion, for death, for her body to recover. She didn’t know which one would come first.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, only to open once more as blue light shined behind her eyelids. That fucking silken voice purred above her. “Te absolvo…”

And suddenly all her ailments vanished.

Katja opened her eyes to see Astarion grinning like the cat that ate the canary. “Feeling better?” he crooned.

“How…?”

He shrugged off her question with a graceful roll of his shoulders. “What’s the point of first taking advantage of the Cleric as a vampire if you don’t learn where she keeps her scrolls of Lesser Restoration?” He patted his pocket. “Even managed a few for the future. Besides,” his smile broadened into a full blown twistedly wicked smirk, “she’s not going to need them anymore. You will, however…”

Katja rolled her eyes and then turned her back to him under the cover of her bedroll.

A choice she instantly regretted.

A single cool finger swept down the side of her right cheek, tracing the groove of her scar from her eye to chin.

“I’ve seen you in battle. I’ve watched you slice a Hobgoblin in two today as if he was glass… Something fearsome must have sunk a claw into you, since you’re wretchedly ferocious. Dragon? Cyclops?” She turned to meet his taunting smirk. “Kobold?”

Maybe it was the rush of magic healing making her feel good. Maybe it was the way his cool fingers stoked a fire to burn in the wake of his touch. Katja swallowed and looked him in the eye. “Gnoll,” she corrected.

Astarion’s thick brows shot to his tousled hair line. “Tch,” he sucked his teeth, “my, my. You’re full of embarrassing surprises, aren’t you? One little gnoll?”

Katja frowned. “I was six, not that it matters to you and your ageless, soulless existence,” she snapped, the swirl of memories sweeping her away, a whirlpool of pain and nostalgia. “Gur children are made to face a monster in the wilderness, their first kill. My sorry ass came across a bloated, festering hyena, a Gnollspawn. My poor, little girlish heart made the simple mistake of stopping to try to help the almost-carcass instead of putting it swiftly out of its misery. It happened so fast. I pulled out my only healing potion to pour it in its mouth when…” Her memories filled with the sound of bones cracking and guts spilling over her. The image of glowing yellow eyes seared into her mind made her shiver again. “Its newborn claw almost took my eye, leaving me with this nice necrotically scared smile on the side of my face in exchange for a moment of mercy.”

Something flickered behind Astarion’s crimson eyes as he listened… shockingly attentive and uncharacteristically silent.

“No mercy, no doubts, no… sentimental feelings when it comes to monsters,” she replied quietly, holding that now hardened stare. “No Gnoll or Minotaur or Werewolf has ever caught me off guard since.”

Astarion’s chest stopped rising and falling, his unnecessary breath held as he scanned that scar closer. “Well… it certainly accounts for a good deal of your ‘kill first, think never’ mentality.” He looked down at her, his mouth turned somewhere between a scowl and a smirk. “But, far be it for me to judge a story behind someone’s scars,” now his lips curled into a full-blown impish leer. “Even if it was an embarrassing tale. And don’t worry, if any gnollies cross our path… I’ll protect you…” those last words, almost crooned in a taunting sing-song. “Even if it’s too good for your kind,” he added more for himself, his molars grinding in some unshared, festering hate.

“What have you got against the Gur, anyway?” Katja bristled.

“Aside from your people’s traditional hatred of my very existence?” Astarion snarled, quietly muffled through his fangs as his head tilted slowly. “Aside from the very same lesson you learned before you could even write your name? To kill monsters on sight, fuck their own existence in this realm?” His eyes hardened, his muscles tensing, and suddenly every instinct in Katja’s body hummed to kill, to maim, to put the monster over her down.

But she just swallowed and held his gaze.

Astarion shook it off, taking a deep breath and running his hand through his messy curls as he chuckled. “Well, whatever the reasons… we need each other. Our truce still stands, after all.”

And then, his icy finger ran down the mark of her scar, and it wasn’t because of his corpse-cold touch that she shivered. Those fingers gripped her chin, tilting her face into his. “As one monster that has managed to make those precious instincts of yours falter for once, this is going to be fun,” he smirked, his voice low, an enticing rumble in his puncture-scarred throat.

Katja closed her eyes, feeling his death-chilled breath ghosting over her lips. Waiting… and waiting…

Until his touch released her face, and he was gone.

[notadryseatinthehouse]

The sub-categories of enemies-to-lovers, on a scale of “enemies-to-lovers is an accurate description” to “this should probably not qualify as enemies-to-lovers”:

I hate you because we are actually sworn enemies, from warring kingdoms, clans, families, tribes, ideologies, or other social demarcations…but now, in the face of everything I know and hold dear, I love you.

I hate you because you once did great harm to myself and/or someone I love…but now, despite the pain you caused, I understand you better and love you.

I hate you because we were once lovers and you betrayed me…but now, you have made appropriate amends and we have both grown as people, and I love you.

I hate you because I have a bias, or have heard a rumor about you, that makes me hate you…but now, having learned more about you, I have learned that I was wrong and now I love you.

I hate you because we are trapped together in circumstances that I detest and I wish so badly I was in different circumstances that I hate you by default…but I have since discovered that I can trust you, and now I love you.

I hate you because we have been acquainted or even friends for a very long time and shit-talking and/or pranks have long been our way of showing our affection…but now I am no longer being an idiot and I realize that I love you.

I hate you because I’m sexually attracted to you and that’s annoying. Aaaand now we’re fucking. And oh whoops I guess I love you, yikes, how did that happen?

[abrilas-art]

Cover art and design for Way Down We Go by @xiaq audiobook by @etl-echo-audiobooks

Posting now on Spotify

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 41 Chapter 41 | born of laurel and curse⌟

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Hermes stepped forward before you could say anything else—expression unreadable, eyes glinting with something hard to place. Not quite relief. Not quite sorrow.

He reached for you without hesitation, like this part had already been decided.

Like he couldn't bear to stay here any longer.

His arms circled beneath your knees and around your back, gentle but firm, the way you might hold something precious that had only just stopped breaking. You didn't resist.

The moment he lifted you, the magic shifted.

You felt it stir beneath your skin—a flicker, a pull, a quiet breath in the bones of the earth.

And then—wind.

It ripped past your cheeks in sudden gusts, cold and fierce, rushing upward like the world itself had tilted beneath you. Your hair fluttered wildly against his shoulder, tangling in the collar of your tunic as your legs curled instinctively closer to his chest.

The air howled in your ears, a thousand whispers caught in a single breath, too fast to hear and too strange to understand.

Your eyes cracked open just enough to see.

The Underworld blurred past in flashes.

Ash-grey pillars.

Twisting stone bridges.

Gardens wilted and bloomed all at once.

And shadows—so many shadows—some still, some watching, some turning away the second they met your gaze.

Colors flared at the edge of your vision: copper gold and sickly green, flashes of bone-white paths and flickering riverlight from the Styx.

You caught glimpses of spirits drifting in the distance—some reaching out, some shrinking back, all blurred by the speed.

And Hermes didn't stop.

His hold tightened as you climbed higher, past the gates, past the Asphodel Fields, past the river's edge that shimmered like an old bruise in the dark.

But just before the veil split—before the light of the living world could break through and claim you again—

You shifted in his arms. "Wait."

He stopped mid-step. Mid-flight. The magic hiccupped around you like a breath held too long.

Hermes turned his head slightly, brows furrowing as if he wasn't sure he'd heard you right. "What?"

You lifted your hand—soft against his shoulder, not pushing, just anchoring yourself.

"...Can we go back?"

The wind stilled.

Not completely. Just enough to notice. Just enough to make the silence feel heavier.

He stared at you. Not moving. Not blinking. Like the question had rearranged something inside him.

"Back?" he echoed, flatly. "You mean to the Underworld?"

You nodded once. Slowly. "Just for a moment. I... I want to see my parents again." Your voice cracked a little at the end.

Hermes didn't respond at first.

His jaw twitched like he wanted to argue, like the instinct to move forward was stronger than anything else. But he didn't speak. Just stared ahead, gaze flicking to the veil above you—then down again, past your shoulder, back toward the Underworld where the shadows still lingered like ghosts of a memory you weren't ready to lose.

Finally, after a long beat, he sighed.

It wasn't theatrical. It wasn't annoyed.

It was... tired.

Like someone giving in. Like someone who always gave in when it came to you.

"Fine," he muttered, under his breath, "Hades shouldn't mind if you linger a little longer. Not like he's ever been good at goodbye either."

And with that—Hermes turned.

The wind twisted backward.

And the shadows welcomed you once more.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

You weren't sure how much time passed—maybe a minute, maybe several—but eventually, the cool air shifted. Hermes had said nothing when you stepped through the veil. He simply caught your arm to steady you, like he had done before, then guided you quietly through the gray.

The Underworld didn't jolt you this time. Maybe it should have. But your soul felt heavier now, more settled.

You didn't ask where you were going. You didn't need to.

Hermes led you to the edge of a low, vast hill—jagged and windswept, coated in a veil of mist that hugged the stone like breath on glass. Below it, the fog dipped into a sprawling field... familiar in its shape, but not in color.

The fields looked darker now, deeper in hue. And less clouded. You could actually see shapes moving in the distance—shadows stretched like brushstrokes across a canvas.

He stopped, glancing down the incline. "This is as far as I go," he said. "For now."

You blinked. "You're not coming?"

He gave a small smile—one of those unreadable ones that told you it wasn't really up for debate. "I have to stir up a bit of noise elsewhere. Just enough to keep it on the low that you're still here."

"It shouldn't be an issue since I'm already here, right?"

"Not exactly. Souls aren't too welcome here unless it's their time. And if it's found that you're still here, they'd come for you first and me second." He brushed something off his shoulder—dust or stardust, you couldn't tell. "So I gotta make some trouble. Just enough to buy time. I'll be done before the hour turns. You'll know when I'm back."

Your stomach churned. "How will I know?"

He tapped your forehead gently. "You'll feel it."

Then, just like that, he was gone—his form dissolving into wind and shimmer, swept away before you could call out again.

So, as you had done once before, you turned and walked into the fog.

But it didn't feel the same.

Your footsteps didn't echo this time. There was no pounding fear in your chest, no dread dragging at your ankles. It was quieter now—not in sound, but in weight. The mist wasn't as thick. You could actually see where you were going.

Your head turned slowly as you walked, your eyes tracing outlines that were impossible to see last time: faint ruins in the distance, pillars swallowed by ivy, archways carved from black stone. The field had shape now. Definition. And it wasn't just a field anymore.

It looked almost like a courtyard—or a garden left to decay.

Brittle hedges formed low walls in crooked rows. Marble statues, worn down to featureless forms, watched from raised platforms. The air smelled of ash and dry earth, but also of something faintly floral. Faintly alive.

You walked without thinking, feet crunching against gravel, mist licking at your shins. Each step felt easier. Lighter. As if your soul knew the path even if your mind didn't.

Then—music.

Your ears perked up at the soft sound, a hum more than a song, low and careful and deeply familiar. You knew that voice.

Your pace quickened before your mind caught up. You pushed past a leaning column, stepped around a cracked basin that once held water, and the sound grew clearer. A melody now. Words curling at the edges. A lullaby. Or maybe a memory.

Then, through the branches of a long-dead tree, a figure appeared.

Just like before.

Beneath the withered limbs sat a man, his back turned to you, bent forward ever so slightly. His head tilted to one side as he sang to the bundle he cradled in his arms. The same slow rhythm. The same hush in his voice. Like the world would break if he sang any louder.

Polites.

You skidded to a halt just behind him, your breath hitching in your throat. "Polites." 

The lullaby cut short.

He turned slowly, startled at first. Astyanax shifted in his arms as Polites adjusted the blanket protectively, his brows lifting as his gaze landed on you. For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Just stared.

Then the recognition hit.

His face lit up, blooming into a wide, warm smile. "Well, I'll be," he murmured, a soft chuckle in his voice. "Look at you, back again already?"

You let out a shaky laugh, breathless from the walk. "Guess I just couldn't stay away."

He stood carefully, rising to his full height, the baby bundled against his chest. He stepped toward you, his expression soft with welcome, fondness settling behind his eyes. But then—his smile faded. Just a little.

His gaze drifted downward. Then back up. A flicker of something passed across his features—his brows knit together, the corners of his mouth pulling into something more thoughtful. His hand shifted on Astyanax's back, fingers stalling mid-motion.

"You..." he began slowly. "Wait. Are you...?"

His voice trailed off. You didn't need him to finish the question. The look on his face said enough.

You glanced down at yourself instinctively.

Your fingers still moved. Your feet still pressed against the ground. But you weren't solid—not exactly. There was a faint shimmer clinging to your edges, like moonlight trying to hold shape. You were fading in some places, more outline than figure. Not fully here. Not fully gone.

Like him.

"I'm not dead," you said quickly, lifting your gaze again. "I promise. I mean... I was. For a bit."

His expression tightened.

"But—Hermes. He made a deal. With Hades," you added. "I'm just here for a short time. I'm going back."

That seemed to unstick something in him. Polites let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His shoulders sagged slightly, the tension easing from his stance.

"Gods," he muttered, shifting Astyanax to one arm as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. "You scared me. I thought—" He shook his head, a half-laugh breaking through. "You're too young to be down here for good."

You shrugged, your voice light despite the lump in your throat. "Tell that to the streets of Ithaca."

Polites gave you a look—half exasperated, half fond. "You and that mouth," he muttered, though there was no heat behind it.

Astyanax let out a small coo, his fingers stretching against the edge of his blanket. Polites bounced him gently, his gaze returning to you. "So... what brings you back, then? Risking divine tantrums just to say hello?"

You gave him a small smile. "Something like that."

And for a moment, the heavy quiet returned. But it was a warmer quiet this time. A knowing one.

He smiled again, softer now. "Well. I'm glad you did."

You returned the smile, though it wobbled a bit. The words you wanted to say pressed at your throat—more than just greetings or thank-yous or even memories. This wasn't just a visit. It was unfinished business, still pulling at the edge of your chest like a loose thread you hadn't meant to leave behind.

You hesitated a moment, then shifted your weight, glancing past him toward the mist-covered distance. "Polites... can I ask you something?"

His brow lifted slightly, patient. "Go ahead."

"I... I was wondering if you could take me to see my parents again. Just for a little while."

He blinked, a little surprised—then his face softened into something steady and sure, like it was the easiest request in the world. "Of course," he said without pause. "You shouldn't even have to ask."

A breath you hadn't known you were holding slipped from your lungs.

And with that, the two of you began walking, his steps sure against the ashen earth, yours a little slower, still feeling out the shape of your form in this space.

The air was less fogged than before—thinner, somehow. The trees more defined. The sky a dark slate above, like a never-ending dusk. It looked more like a garden now. Or maybe a courtyard that had long since forgotten it was ever meant for living things.

The silence between you wasn't awkward—it was companionable. But after a few steps, Polites glanced over at you, shifting the bundle in his arms slightly.

"You wanna hold him?" he asked, nodding toward the baby.

Your eyes widened a little. "I—me?"

Astyanax answered before you could. His small hand peeked from the blanket, reaching toward you with a soft, open-palmed stretch. He made a tiny noise—something between a sigh and a whimper—and his gaze locked onto yours with such simple, trusting want that it made your chest ache.

Your fingers twitched. "I don't know if I should. He's..."

But Polites was already moving, stepping closer, cradling the child toward you with gentle encouragement. "It's alright. He likes you."

You didn't argue further.

You reached out and carefully took him into your arms.

And gods—he felt real.

He wasn't warm exactly, but he wasn't cold either. His weight settled naturally against you, small and firm and soft all at once. His little fingers curled instinctively into the fabric near your collar. He blinked up at you, those wide hazel eyes gleaming softly in the half-light.

A ghost, yes—but not empty. Not forgotten.

You held him tighter than you meant to.

"Hi there," you whispered, your voice cracking just a bit. "You remember me?"

Astyanax just yawned, burrowing into the crook of your elbow like he did.

You walked in silence for a while after that, the only sound the hush of mist shifting around your ankles and the soft rustling of fabric as the baby wriggled gently in your arms. You stared down at him, marveling at the weight of someone so small. So still.

Then, quietly, you asked, "Why isn't he... with his father, Hector?"

The question hung between you like a windless chime.

Polites didn't answer right away.

When you finally looked up, his face had shifted. There was something shadowed in it—grief, maybe, or guilt, or something heavier. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes unfocused as he looked ahead.

"Honestly," he said at last, "I don't know. I've wondered the same thing."

You said nothing, watching him.

He adjusted the satchel on his hip and let out a breath. "I think... I think this is my punishment."

You blinked. "Punishment?"

"For surviving," he murmured. "For being part of it."

You kept still, your arms curling protectively around Astyanax.

Polites didn't meet your eyes. "He was a baby," he said, voice tight. "Just a baby. Killed for what he might grow into. For what his father represented. And I didn't hold the sword, no. But I helped the Greeks reach Troy. I scouted paths. Warned of traps. Passed messages."

A pause.

"And when we got in... we didn't stop to ask who deserved to die."

The silence wrapped around your throat like ivy.

You'd grown up with tales of valor. Of the Greeks as heroes. Of Odysseus' cunning. Of the fall of Troy as destiny fulfilled. You'd never really questioned what it looked like from the other side.

Not until now.

Not until you held the child they never got to keep.

You looked down at Astyanax again—his peaceful little face, his gentle breathing, the way he trusted the world in your arms.

You'd never thought of it like that.

Not really.

But now... you weren't so sure who the villains were.

And the Asphodel Fields stretched endlessly ahead, silent and watching.

The mist curled gently around your legs with each step, soft as breath. The wind barely moved here, but when it did, it stirred the grass like whispers—low and half-forgotten, like dreams someone tried to remember after waking.

You glanced down at Astyanax in your arms again, brushing your thumb softly over the edge of his cheek.

He stirred slightly but didn't wake.

Beside you, Polites walked with quiet ease, the silence around him familiar—worn into his bones like a well-traveled path. But something about the moment started to feel too heavy, too sharp-edged with guilt and old regrets, so you cleared your throat softly, searching for something lighter to hold on to.

"Hey," you asked, almost hesitantly, "can I ask something... not exactly cheerful, but maybe less sad?"

Polites huffed a breath through his nose—somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. "Sure," he said. "You've earned a few questions, I think."

You shifted Astyanax slightly in your arms, careful of his swaddle. "I've been wondering... how did you get here? I mean—past judgment. Most soldiers... especially the ones who weren't buried... they get stuck on the banks, don't they? Wandering."

Polites went quiet for a beat, long enough that you almost regretted asking. But then he gave a slow nod, eyes still fixed on the distance ahead.

"You're not wrong," he said. "Most of us didn't make it very far."

Your brows furrowed. "You mean... from the war?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Later. The Cyclops—Polyphemus. After the lotus eaters lead us to the cave, he managed to kill a few of us. To retaliate, Odysseus blinded him..." He trailed off for a second. "Luckily the rest got out."

You listened, holding your breath without meaning to.

"When I woke up down here," he continued, "it was just me and a handful of others. Confused. Half-formed. Like echoes stuck between two cliffs. The River Styx was close—you could hear it—but no ferryman would come near us."

"Because you weren't buried," you said softly.

Polites nodded. "Exactly. No graves, no rites. No passage. Just that endless stretch of bank. And later..." He exhaled. "Poseidon caught up with the fleet. Sank it. Five hundred men, pulled into the sea."

You swallowed.

"And when they died," he said, his voice quieter now, "they ended up there too. Same bank. Same stretch. All of them confused. Angry. Some still thought they were drowning."

Your fingers tightened a little on the baby.

You imagined it—those wide, haunted eyes. The weight of all that lost hope, pooling in the dark like driftwood.

"So... how did you leave?" you asked softly. "How did you make it past?"

Polites was quiet for a long time.

And then he smiled faintly. "Hermes," he said. "And Athena."

You blinked. "Wait—Athena?"

He shrugged, almost sheepish. "I don't know the whole of it. But one day, Hermes came walking down the riverbank like he'd just wandered in on accident. He found me. Looked me up and down. Said, 'You're Polites, right?' I said yeah, and he just nodded and told me to follow him."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," Polites repeated. "Said it was 'by Athena's request.' That she wanted to make sure I didn't rot there like the rest of them."

You frowned slightly. "Why you?"

"I've asked myself that," he admitted. "A hundred times. I wasn't a king. I wasn't even a commander. Just a soldier who tried to do the right thing more often than not. But maybe... maybe she saw something. Or maybe Odysseus said something to her, after everything. I don't know."

You were quiet for a while, your thoughts swirling like the mist.

Polites kept walking beside you, his gaze steady.

"I don't get to live in the Isles of the Blessed," he said eventually. "That's not for people like me. But I get peace. I get the Fields. And... I get him." He nodded toward the bundle in your arms. "So maybe that's enough."

You looked down again at Astyanax, the baby still asleep, still nestled safely against your chest.

Maybe that was enough.

Or maybe peace could look like different things for different souls.

And maybe, just maybe, the gods sometimes made quiet exceptions.

.☆.     .✩.        .☆.

You weren't sure how long the two of you walked after that—minutes, maybe more. The silence had settled back between you and Polites like an old cloak: not heavy, but not quite light either. You didn't mind it.

After everything, it felt... earned.

Then the mist shifted ahead.

At first, it looked like nothing—just another bend in the never-ending fields. But as you stepped closer, you noticed the terrain dipping slightly, forming a shallow alcove tucked beneath the arms of two withered trees. Their trunks leaned into one another like old friends, branches interlocking above a patch of soft grey moss.

And there—huddled together at the base—were two figures.

Your breath caught.

You would've recognized them anywhere.

Your mother sat nestled beside your father, her body tucked against his like a secret. One of his arms wrapped securely around her shoulders, while her head rested beneath his chin, her hands gently folded over his. They looked carved from light and memory, still glowing faintly against the dusk.

Safe. Whole. Together.

You froze.

Polites paused beside you, and when he turned, his gaze was already soft. Wordlessly, he reached out with both arms, silently offering to take Astyanax.

You looked down at the baby.

He was still curled in your hold, eyes closed, but the second you began to shift him, his little nose twitched, and he let out a faint, questioning coo.

Your heart clenched.

You gave Polites a small nod, careful as you passed the bundle into his arms.

"Shh, little one," Polites whispered, rocking him gently as the swaddle shifted. "Go back to sleep."

Astyanax let out a sleepy hum, a flutter of movement beneath the cloth. His fingers curled reflexively, catching the edge of Polites' tunic. And just like that, he stilled again, soothed by the familiar rhythm of arms that knew how to hold him.

Then—

Your mother stirred.

Her head lifted from your father's shoulder, her brows furrowing as if sensing something just beyond her reach. Slowly, she turned.

And when her eyes landed on you—

They bloomed.

Lit up like a sky before sunrise. Her hand flew to her mouth, her lips parting in disbelief. Her body trembled with the effort of rising, but she stood all the same, voice cracking like glass under heat.

"My dove...?"

Your father's gaze followed hers. His face, worn by sorrow just a moment ago, lit up like a man catching sight of the sun after a long winter. "Sweetheart?" he breathed.

You choked on a sob.

Polites smiled faintly. "I think this is where I leave you," he murmured, keeping his voice low so it wouldn't break the moment. "This part... belongs to you."

You turned toward him, trying to find the words—but your throat was tight, your hands trembling.

He just nodded, his expression soft with understanding.

"Don't worry," he added, adjusting the swaddle gently as Astyanax squirmed once more. "We'll be just fine."

And before you could speak, before you could thank him again or ask when you'd see him next—

He turned.

Disappeared into the mist.

And you were left standing there, heart racing, feet frozen—

—as your parents reached for you like they had never stopped waiting.

They didn't hesitate. There was no pause, no disbelief long enough to weigh the moment down—just open arms and trembling hands and a surge of emotion that collapsed the space between you.

Your mother reached you first. She pulled you close with a strength you'd forgotten she had, her arms tightening around your shoulders like she was afraid you might disappear if she let go. Her cheek pressed against your hair, and you felt her shoulders shaking as she whispered your name over and over again, the sound thick with joy and something that almost sounded like relief.

"My baby," she wept, clutching the back of your tunic, holding you tighter. "My sweet girl, how—how are you here? Are you real?"

Your father wrapped his arms around both of you, pressing a firm kiss to the crown of your head. His voice rumbled low and warm against your back. "You came back to us," he said, voice cracking. "Gods, you came back."

You let yourself sink into their hold for a moment—just a moment. Because for once, you weren't fighting to be strong. You didn't have to. You were just... theirs.

But then, your mother pulled back.

And when she did, her smile faltered.

Her hands moved up to cup your face, but paused halfway through, her brows drawing low with confusion. Her fingers hovered near your jaw, her eyes scanning your form like something was off.

And it was.

You saw it in her face—like Polites before her. That dawning awareness.

Your body was faint. Not fully, but enough to see the flicker in her eyes. The way her hands passed through your shoulder just slightly before adjusting.

"You're..." Her voice wavered. "You're here."

Your father stepped beside her, his eyes narrowing in concern. He reached for your wrist and felt only the faintest resistance beneath his touch. His brow creased deeply. "What happened to you?"

You smiled weakly, lifting a hand to cover theirs, even if the gesture didn't feel as solid as it once had. "I'm okay," you said quickly, softly. "I promise. I'm not... dead."

Your mother's gaze jumped to yours. "But—"

"Not really," you added gently. "I mean, I was. Briefly. But Hermes—he made a deal with Hades. He brought me back. Or... almost."

Your father looked like he was holding his breath. "Then why are you still here?" he asked carefully. "Why haven't you crossed over fully?"

"I asked him to give me a little time," you explained. "Just a little longer. I needed to see you both again."

Your mother turned her head, glancing behind you as if expecting someone to leap from the mist and pull you away. "Are you sure it's safe?" she asked, worry sharpening the edge of her voice. "You shouldn't play with boundaries like this. Death is not something to bend."

You nodded gently, your hands still cradling theirs. "He's keeping watch," you reassured her. "Hermes said he'd make a distraction, just enough time for me to come see you again. He's always been good at slipping between lines."

They exchanged a glance—quick, full of unspoken words like all long-married couples have—and then looked back to you, still holding you close.

You hesitated.

Then took a breath.

"Honestly... I came because... because I needed to know more," you admitted. "About what happened. About my birth. There's so much I still don't understand."

Their hands tightened just slightly in yours.

The mist around the alcove swirled softly, the silence pressing in.

Your mother's eyes dimmed just a bit, and your father let out a breath through his nose, slow and steady.

And together, they nodded.

"Alright," she said, brushing your cheek with her thumb. "Then we'll tell you... everything."

You leaned in slightly, your hand still resting over hers. Her touch was soft—even through the thin veil of your semi-ghostly form—and something about the way her thumb lingered just below your eye felt like home. Like comfort you hadn't known you'd needed.

She pulled in a breath, like she was bracing herself, then gave a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. "You were... stubborn," she said, her eyes glinting with something warm and worn. "Even before you were born."

Your father huffed gently, his smile curling tiredly at the edges. "Thirty-six hours," he said, glancing down at the ground as if the memory still winded him. "Your mother was in labor for thirty-six hours straight."

You blinked. "What—?"

"She wouldn't come out," your mother said, shaking her head as a bit of hair slipped from behind her ear. "You. You wouldn't come out. The midwives had no idea what to do. We'd tried everything. The healers were panicked. We were losing strength... Losing hope."

Your father rubbed his jaw, his voice quieter now. "We thought... we thought we'd lose you both."

Your breath caught. "But... you didn't."

"No," your mother whispered, eyes drifting past you—toward the still grey horizon. "Because we prayed. All of us. We called on our god."

There was a beat.

And then she looked back at you.

"Apollo."

You straightened instinctively, your brows knitting in surprise. "Apollo?" you echoed, almost disbelieving. "But I—why would he—?"

Your mother nodded slowly, her expression calm but serious. "Your father and I were both born on Lyraethos. It's a small island—not famous, not powerful. But known. Known for its music. Its devotion."

You felt your heart skip. "Lyraethos... I've heard of it. Barely. I thought it was just... a myth."

"Most do," your father said softly. "But it's real. Quiet, but real. And those who come from there... we've always believed that Apollo's favor lingers in the hills, the stones. The instruments passed down in families. The songs that come to us in dreams."

Your mother's eyes shone. "We grew up learning to play lyres before we could walk properly. We sang before we could write. And when you came—when it felt like we might lose you—we didn't cry out to Athena. Or Artemis. We prayed to him. To the god of music. To the one we'd always believed watched over us."

You tried to speak, but your voice didn't come right away. Your lips parted, then closed again, your stomach twisting in knots you couldn't quite name. 

It wasn't quite dread, wasn't quite grief.

Just a hollow, spinning feeling that made it hard to breathe for a second.

Because now... now you didn't know what to feel.

You had answers—real ones. Tangible pieces of truth that should've satisfied you. But instead, they only opened more doors. More shadows with names you didn't know how to say aloud.

And suddenly...

Suddenly, Apollo's gaze in your dreams, the way it burned gold and ancient and aching—

The way his name always came so easily to your tongue, even when your mind was cloudy—

The pull in your chest, the quiet tremor that always came when he was near, whether in vision or song—

None of it felt like coincidence anymore.

Your father must've seen the shift in your eyes, because he gently reached for your hand, his fingers curling around yours with a steady warmth that tugged you back to the present.

He looked tired—but not weak. Just weathered, like someone who'd seen the storm pass and was willing to walk through it again, if only to guide someone else through.

"I suppose... I should've told you sooner," he murmured, his voice low but certain. "On my side of the family... we were warned. About Aphrodite's curse."

You blinked, lifting your gaze to meet his. He wasn't looking at you directly—just past you, like he was watching a memory play out in the mist.

"We thought we were being careful," he said softly, almost to himself. "We built her a small altar behind the house. Kept it clean, left offerings every first sunrise. Your mother sang hymns. We thought maybe—just maybe—that kind of devotion would soften her."

Your mother gave a bitter little laugh, wiping beneath her eye. "But it didn't. Nothing did."

He nodded. "When the messenger boy came—when he handed us that flower... I thought it meant something. I thought maybe the curse had passed us by. That Apollo had finally decided to help one of his people. Someone who believed in him."

He looked at you again then, and there was such sorrow behind his smile. Not regret—just the sad sort of clarity that came with hindsight.

"But we were foolish," he admitted. "To think the curse wouldn't find a way. That it wouldn't just... wait until we were unguarded."

You felt your throat tighten, the air sharp as you inhaled.

Your mother shifted closer, placing a hand against your cheek. Her eyes were soft but strong. "But we don't regret it," she whispered. "Not a single bit."

You blinked, startled. "Even though—?"

She shook her head before you could finish. "Even though we're here."

"I'd rather it be us than you," your father said. "Every time."

"You were our miracle," your mother added, her thumb brushing your cheekbone like she was memorizing you all over again. "Our greatest gift. Whatever the gods meant by it... we'd still choose you."

Their words settled in your chest like a quiet song—one of mourning, yes, but also fierce, blinding love. The kind that didn't ask to be understood. Only felt.

And for a moment, the ache eased.

Just a little.

Just enough.

A second later, you felt it—first, the soft flutter of feathers behind you, like a bird settling after a long flight. Then, a warm hand found your waist, steady and familiar. The gentle pressure was grounding, a subtle pull back to reality.

"Time's up," Hermes murmured low near your ear, his voice quieter than before. No teasing edge this time, just something soft and knowing. "We gotta go."

You turned, blinking up at him. His golden eyes were solemn, his expression unusually gentle beneath the lazy curve of his brow. His hands twitched, pulsing with restrained urgency. Still, he wasn't rushing you.

You nodded slowly, the weight of goodbye crashing over your shoulders all at once. Your throat burned. You turned back to your parents—still holding each other, still waiting. "I... I have to go."

Your mother reached for you instantly, pulling you into her arms as if she could imprint her love into your very bones. You crashed into her, burying your face into her shoulder, fingers curling tightly into the folds of her dress. "I love you. I love you both."

"We know," she breathed against your hair, voice cracking. "You've always loved with everything you had."

Your father wrapped his arms around both of you, his taller frame folding over yours like a shield. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, then another. And another. Over and over. Like he couldn't stop. Like he wanted to mark the memory of you with every single one.

"My little one," he whispered. "Be safe. Be strong. Be happy."

You nodded against his chest, your tears hot and quiet. "I'll try."

Your mother's hand framed your cheek as she leaned back, her smile tremulous but shining. "That's all we ever wanted."

With one last, deep breath, you pulled yourself away—slowly, painfully. Hermes stepped in without a word, his arms slipping beneath your legs and around your back in one fluid motion.

He lifted you effortlessly, bridal style, like before. His cloak flared behind him, brushing the ground in a silent sweep.

You clung to his shoulder as he began to rise, but your gaze stayed locked on your parents.

They stood together, arms wrapped around each other, watching you with tearful smiles. Your mother waved softly. Your father nodded once, firmly—like a promise passed between souls.

And you didn't look away.

Not even as the wind picked up. Not even as the mists curled around Hermes' sandals. Not even as the Underworld began to fall away beneath you.

You watched them—until they were nothing more than shapes in the fog, until your heart couldn't hold the ache any longer.

And then... you let Hermes carry you home.

A/N: it's storming pretty bad in my area (tennessee) so i decided to update while my fav weather is flooding the streets 🤣🤣😩❤️also ngl i was tearing up a bit writing the reunion with mc's parents out 😩😭 also, if anyones wondering (i know theyre not) i based the underwolrd off of 'krapopolis' underworld (why the descriprtions talk of galaxies etc.), i found it cool of the shows interpertation of it and thought, why the hell not hahah. so on to the fic 'WARRIOR'.......ok so imma hold off on screaming about WARRIOR in full detail—cuz a lot of y'all said NO SPOILERS and honestly?? fair. super fair. BUTTTTTT just know I am currently vibrating out of my skin and ascending spiritually bc of how GOOD that fic is 😭😭 LIKE Y'ALL. the way it's structured?? it could lowkey be two books fr— ➤ PART 1: Trojan War arc?? Penelope leading like an actual general?? Running tactics, dodging divine wrath, looking hot and haunted??? ➤ Book 2 (TBA and currently eating me alive in its absence): [REDACTED] but just know I will be screaming. AND THE WORLD. BUILDING. Bro. If you EVER wondered what actually happened during those 10 years of war?? The ones Homer just kinda skimmed over like "and then they fought for a decade 💅"? This book fills in the blanks in a way that's smart, emotional, bloody, and ✨fanservice-y✨ in the best way. Like—cough—Achilles??? sir??? why are you written like a terrifying war god and also hot enough to ruin my entire bloodline 😭 And don’t even get me STARTED on Polites getting actual action and emotional depth?? My man finally said I will not be background no more and I respect it. (I've been so obssessed, it's even influenced a bit of my own writings; so if you noticed some... similarities in my fic with hers... maybe reference or two as a way of telling her to hurry up... no you didn't 🧍‍♀️.) Anyway, that's all I can give without combusting and spoiling literally everything. Just know that I am waiting for the next update like a Victorian widow at the shore. Every breeze makes me think it’' finally coming. Every delay breaks me a little more. 😭

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️

from DragonWhiskers12

Repetitive??? Plz don't apologize!! You can send 50+ doodles over and over again and I'd still love them! This is a series, and I am fully subscribed 😭👏This is absolute divine chaos in the best way. The "THIS IS AN ARMED ROBOT" next to an eyeball holding a gun?? (like is he really trying to rob Hades??? be fr 😭) Birdmes yelling "NO!! POOKIE" like he just witnessed a crime scene?? I am HOWLING. Please never apologize for this again. It's giving "gods losing their minds in a group chat while the mortal world crumbles." You've basically turned Olympus into an  sitcom and I want ten seasons.

from chipsiscurious (same username on tumblr)

OMG NO BECAUSE THIS?? THIS IS PEAK ENERGY. Like... I don't think anyone understands just how perfectly you captured MC's entire vibe after coming back from the dead  😭💀 no spoilers but yeah, death did change MC, so who knows?? You might actually be on that type of timing 😩😩

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[emeraldspiral]

There is something so funny about the fact that despite the creators hating it, within the context of their own series there are people who think Zuko and Katara are a couple and Zim and Dib are best friends.

[etl-echo-audiobooks]

GO REPORT THIS PLEASE!

Someone reposted Manacled back to spotify expressly against our wishes. Everything is now" "account only" on ao3, and will be removed entirely if this persists. I am disheartened and disgusted.

[izachin]

OSHA X QIMIR PTVII #TheAcolyte #StarWars #RenewTheAcolyte #Qimir #thestranger #osha #oshamir #oshamirfanart #starwarstheacolyte #disney #etl #enemiestolovers #art #procreate

[etlfvcker]

Sylki- This Hell | Rina Sawayama 🔥

Rina Sawayama came to me in a dream and told me that I have to edit these two messy bisexuals to her song, so who am I to deny her??? 🤷‍♀️