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pursuitseternal · 5 months ago

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“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.

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winxanity-ii · 2 months ago

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WASHED UP [1/2]

ship: odysseus x fem!calypso!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 7.3k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~) a/n: Y'all forgive me, i have been horrible and abandoned the fandom 😔💔; i swear it wasn't on purpose, i just haven't been bit by the inspiration bug, but nevertheless, here i am getting inspired, so enjoy my twist on odysseus w/ calypso, no worries there will be a prt.2

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The sea spat him out like an unwanted secret. You watched from the cliffs as his body was tossed against the sand, limbs splayed like a broken marionette.

Thunderheads still roared in the distance, but the storm had spent its fury, leaving only the shattered remnants of his ship and the limp figure of its captain.

His first breath on your island was a gasp, harsh and desperate, followed by a violent cough that shook his entire frame.

Water poured from his mouth, a relentless cascade as he heaved, clawing at the sand with shaking fingers. He turned onto his side, retching, purging the sea from his lungs.

Each convulsion seemed to rip through him, leaving him weaker, more drained, until he collapsed back onto the shore, chest heaving, eyes shut tight against the grit and salt.

Above, the clouds began to peel away, the black and bruised sky giving way to a faint glimmer of sun.

The wind, once howling, softened to a mournful sigh, as if the island itself pitied him. Waves lapped at his feet, gentle now, apologetic, as if seeking to soothe the very man they had tried to destroy.

His eyelids fluttered open, the sky above a blur of gray and gold. He groaned, the sound raw and broken, the cry of a man who had seen too much, lost too much.

He lay there, sprawled out on the sand, staring up at the heavens with eyes full of disbelief and despair. His voice, hoarse and cracking, clawed its way out of his throat.

"Why?" he croaked, the single word carried away by the wind. "Why do you forsake me?"

He tried to rise, muscles trembling as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. He looked around, taking in the unfamiliar shore, the jagged rocks jutting out like sentinels, the dense forest looming beyond. He was alone—utterly, helplessly alone.

The Gods had abandoned him here, cast him away like a piece of flotsam.

"Have I not suffered enough!?" he shouted, the words rasping against his parched throat. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. "Is this my reward for years of service, for blood spilled and honor upheld?"

The sky remained silent, indifferent to his plea. He dropped his head back onto the sand, teeth gritted in frustration, the last remnants of strength draining out of him.

The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on him like the weight of his failures.

You could almost feel it, that heavy despair that hung around him like a shroud. A warrior undone, not by the sword or the spear, but by the endless, unrelenting cruelty of fate.

You knew that look—had seen it before, in the eyes of those who had washed up on your shores, broken and lost, only to be healed by your touch, only to be bound by your love.

But this one… He was different.

His suffering was like a beacon, bright and piercing, pulling at something deep within you, something you had buried long ago.

And so you watched, unseen and silent, as he lay on the shore, a man shattered, calling out to Gods who would not answer.

You wondered who this man was, what sins he must have committed to be cast into your lonely exile. Another soul, shattered and lost, delivered to you by the cruel whim of fate.

Was this the Gods' twisted sense of humor, to send you the broken, the despairing, and then sit back and watch as you tried, again and again, to piece them together, knowing each time that they would eventually leave, taking a piece of you with them?

It had been that way for as long as you could remember. They arrived on your shores, eyes wide with fear or despair, bodies battered by storms both within and without.

And you, like a fool, took them in, healed their wounds, offered them solace. You let them weave themselves into your heart, into your very soul, only for them to tear themselves free when the time came, leaving you bleeding and hollow.

Was he any different, this man with his piercing eyes and voice full of sorrow? Would he be the one to break you completely? You don't know. But as you turned away from the beach, you couldn't help but feel that this time, the Gods had sent you a different kind of suffering.

You moved through the familiar paths, the underbrush parting easily beneath your feet. It was an old routine, gathering the essentials—just enough to keep them alive until they could find the will to keep themselves going.

Your hands worked mechanically, filling a small basket with a jug of water, a bit of bread, some fish you'd caught that morning. It was more than they ever needed, really. Most of them wouldn't even look at food when they first arrived, the shock still too raw, too immediate.

As you made your way back, the weight of the basket a comforting presence against your hip, you tried to steel yourself for what you would find. But when you reached the beach again, your breath caught in your throat.

He was sitting up now, his back to you, shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world still pressed down on him. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, empty and unfocused, the eyes of a man who had seen too much.

What remained of his clothes clung to him, tattered and soaked through. His armor—what little was left of it—gleamed dully in the fading light. A breastplate, once magnificent, now dented and scarred, a single pauldron hanging by a thread, the gold tarnished and scratched.

The rest had been torn away by the sea, leaving him exposed, vulnerable.

He looked every inch the hero brought low, a man stripped of his glory, left with nothing but his pain and regret. His dark hair clung to his forehead, still damp with seawater, and his hands rested limply on his knees, fingers digging into the sand as if he needed to feel something solid, something real.

You stopped a few paces away, your shadow stretching out before you. He didn't notice. Didn't even flinch. You could see it then, the full extent of his despair, etched into every line of his face, every weary slump of his shoulders.

He was beautiful, in a tragic sort of way, like a statue of a fallen God.

And you knew, as you stood there watching him, that this one would not be easy to heal. This one had a wound that went far deeper than flesh and bone.

You took a step forward, and then another, until you were close enough that your presence cast a shadow over him. He blinked, as if just now realizing you were there, his head turning slowly, eyes lifting to meet yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was heavy, laden with the unspoken, the unknown.

You held out the basket, your heart pounding in your chest. "You need to eat," you said softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves.

He didn't move, just stared at you with those piercing eyes, eyes that seemed to see right through you.

And for a moment, you thought he might refuse. That he might just turn away, let himself be swallowed by the sea again, and you would be left standing there, holding out something that could never be enough.

But then, slowly, he reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he took the jug of water from your grasp.

"Thank you," he murmured, the words rough and uncertain, as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time. He took a small sip, then another, his eyes never leaving yours.

You watched him, this broken man, and wondered what kind of suffering had brought him to you.

And what kind of suffering he would bring in return.

The days here had a way of slipping through your fingers, soft and warm like the sands on your island. It was easy to lose track of time, lulled by the rhythm of the waves, the steady pulse of the tides.

You had left him to his own devices, giving him the space he needed to come to terms with whatever fate had led him here. Most of them needed that—time to break down, to cry, to rage at the Gods.

But not this one.

When you returned the next day, basket in hand, you stopped short at the sight before you.

He was shirtless, skin bronzed and gleaming with sweat, muscles taut as he hammered a spike into the ground with a makeshift wooden-mallet. His remaining clothes and battered armor were piled neatly to the side, along with a few other scavenged materials.

The sound of wood striking stone echoed across the beach, a steady, determined rhythm that spoke of purpose.

There was the frame of a hovel half-built, crude but sturdy, the beginnings of a shelter taking shape where there had been only barren sand.

A small pile of freshly caught fish lay nearby, their scales glinting in the sunlight. You could still see the blood on his hands, fresh from gutting and cleaning them. He worked with an intensity that was almost mesmerizing, every movement precise, controlled.

"Wow," you murmured, stepping closer, setting the basket down at your feet. "I'm impressed."

He stilled at the sound of your voice, shoulders tensing as he glanced over his shoulder. Sweat dripped down his brow, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you, assessing.

You gestured to the hovel, the fish, the evidence of his labor. "Most who arrive here are still crying or lost, not knowing what to do with themselves. You're already building shelter."

His eyes sharpened, his expression shifting from guarded to curious, almost suspicious. He straightened, rolling his shoulders, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin as he set the mallet down. "There have been others?"

You snorted softly, crossing your arms as you looked at him. "Of course, there have been others. Did you think you were the first to be sent here?" The question was almost rhetorical, a simple truth that hung in the air between you.

He frowned, his gaze turning thoughtful, troubled. "Where is here?"

You hesitated for a moment, then took a few steps forward, your eyes flicking to the sword he had tossed carelessly to the side, half-buried in the sand. You reached down, your fingers brushing over the hilt. "This is Ogygia," you said, the name slipping easily from your lips, as familiar to you as your own. "A place of exile, for those the Gods have no more use for."

You were still tracing the hilt of his sword, fingers brushing over the worn leather grip when he spoke again, his voice tight and strained. "Is there a way off this island?"

You stilled, your gaze shifting from the sword to him, catching the desperation in his eyes through your lashes. For a moment, you considered lying, spinning some tale of escape, but you’d seen that look before, and you knew what would follow.

"You can try," you said, your voice calm, almost detached as if you'd had this conversation a thousand times before. "But once you get at least five feet from the shore, the waves will rise and destroy whatever you're floating on to pieces."

The truth of your words hung heavy in the air, a quiet certainty that left no room for hope. His face twisted, the anger and helplessness flaring in his eyes as stared at you.

You could see the way his jaw clenched, muscles ticking beneath the stubble on his cheeks, his fingers flexing and unflexing at his sides as if he wanted to hit something, anything.

He turned away, staring at the horizon as if willing it to yield some answer, some solution.

He was the very picture of a man caught in a trap he couldn't break free from.

"Excuse me," you murmured, pushing yourself up from the sand and brushing off your hands, wanting to give him space to process the reality of his situation.

"Wait!"

The word came out sharp, almost desperate, and you paused, glancing back over your shoulder. He was looking at you, really looking, his eyes piercing, searching for something—anything—that made sense of all this.

"Who are you?"

You could feel the laugh bubbling up inside you—a tired, almost bitter sound that you suppressed, forcing your expression into something calm, something almost serene.

It was always the same: this question, the disbelief, the desperate need to know why they were here, why you were here.

"Calypso," you said, the name falling from your lips like a sigh. "Daughter of Atlas and Pleione."

He blinked, the words clearly not the answer he had been expecting. He stared at you for a long moment, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces.

"Calypso," he repeated softly, your name unfamiliar on his tongue. There was a softness to it, a kind of reverence that almost made you want to laugh.

You hummed, a sound low and almost mournful. "Aye, cursed to carry the brunt of my parents' sins."

You saw the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something like pity in his eyes before he looked away, his gaze shifting to the sand at his feet as if he couldn't bear to look at you.

You wondered what it was he saw, whether he saw you as a jailer or just another prisoner in this place of exile.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough, hesitant. "My name is Eperitus," he said, the words slow, deliberate, like he was testing them out. "From a small village in Thessaly."

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly as you watched him. The name meant nothing to you, but the way he said it—the slight hesitation, the almost imperceptible shift in his posture—it was a lie, or at the very least, not the whole truth.

Still, you nodded, as if you believed him, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile. "Very well, Eperitus," you said, the name rolling off your tongue with a hint of amusement. "I suppose I will leave you to it."

His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of suspicion in his gaze, but you didn't give him time to question it. You turned, your bare feet barely making a sound on the sand as you walked away, leaving him there, alone with his thoughts.

You could feel his eyes on your back, the weight of his gaze heavy, but you didn't look back. You had seen this play out too many times before—the hope, the despair, the bargaining with fate.

Each time, it was different, and yet, always the same.

And this man, this Eperitus, whatever name he chose to call himself, was no different.

You just wondered how long it would take him to realize it.

The waterfall cascaded down from the rocks above, the sound a constant, soothing roar that drowned out everything else. The water sparkled in the late afternoon sun, clear and cool as it pooled into the pond below, a hidden sanctuary nestled within the heart of your island.

You stood in the shallow waters, the hem of your white slip floating just above your knees, the fabric clinging to your skin in places where the water lapped gently against you.

The air was sweet with the scent of jasmine and wet earth, the leaves above casting dappled shadows across the surface of the pond.

You hummed softly under your breath, an old song your mother had taught you long ago, a tune that spoke of faraway places and dreams that never seemed to come true.

The melody blended with the sounds of the waterfall, a quiet lullaby that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

It was peaceful here, a place untouched by the outside world, a place where you could almost forget who you were and why you were here. You dipped your hands into the water, scrubbing at a piece of cloth, the rhythm of the motion almost hypnotic.

Then, a sharp crack echoed through the grove, the sound of a branch snapping underfoot. Your head snapped up, your heart skipping a beat as your eyes scanned the treeline.

It took only a moment for your gaze to settle on him, partially hidden behind the bushes, his body frozen in a half-crouch, as if he had been trying to sneak away unnoticed.

"Eperitus?" you called out softly, your voice carrying easily over the sound of the water. He flinched, his eyes wide, a startled, almost guilty look on his face as he straightened up. He took a step back, his gaze darting around as if he were trying to find an escape.

For a moment, you thought he might run, but then he seemed to gather himself, his shoulders slumping slightly as he stepped forward, pushing through the bushes. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said, his voice low, almost apologetic. His cheeks were flushed, whether from the heat or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.

You offered him a small, reassuring smile, setting the cloth aside as you turned to face him fully. "It's alright," you said gently, wiping your hands on the slip, the water dripping from your fingers. "I wasn't expecting company, that's all."

He nodded, his eyes flicking to the ground, then back to you, a hesitant, almost bashful look on his face. "I just... I was looking for you," he admitted, his voice barely above a murmur. "I thought I'd, well... check in."

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

It had been a few weeks since your last conversation on the beach, and in that time, you had kept your distance, letting him find his footing, so to speak. He was more self-sufficient than most who ended up here, resourceful and determined in a way that spoke of a man who had spent years fighting to survive.

You had stepped back, observing him from a distance, only intervening when necessary.

You'd seen him sitting on the shore more than once, staring out at the sea with a look in his eyes that made your chest ache. A kind of yearning, a quiet desperation that seemed to pull at something deep inside you.

Other times, you'd found him working tirelessly on his shelter, hammering away at the wooden frame with a focus that bordered on obsession.

You shrugged lightly, the gesture casual, as if it didn't matter to you either way. "You've been doing fine on your own," you said, your tone light, almost teasing. "Didn't think you needed my help."

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile passing over his face before it faded. He glanced down at his hands, rough and calloused, the fingers still smudged with dirt and sawdust. "I wasn't sure if I was... interrupting," he said awkwardly, his gaze flicking back up to meet yours.

You laughed softly, the sound echoing through the grove. "You've been here long enough to know I'm not that easy to disturb," you said, amusement coloring your words. You glanced at him, taking in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the awkwardness that seemed almost out of place on a man like him.

"Besides," you added, your voice softening slightly, "I've been keeping an eye on you. Just to make sure you didn't do anything foolish."

His eyes widened slightly, and you saw a flash of something in his gaze—surprise, maybe, or something close to it. "I've been that obvious, have I?"

You shook your head, taking a few steps closer until you were standing just at the edge of the pond, the water swirling around your waist. "You're not the first to end up here, remember?" you said quietly. "I know the signs."

He looked away, his jaw tightening as he stared at the ground, his hands curling into fists at his sides. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he seemed to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

"I'm sorry." He glanced back at you, his eyes dark with something you couldn't quite name. "I didn't mean to—"

"To what?" you interrupted gently, your gaze softening as you looked at him. "You've done nothing wrong, Eperitus."

He flinched slightly at the name, and you saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes before he quickly looked away. It was almost imperceptible, but you caught it, that brief hesitation, that moment of uncertainty.

You hummed softly, waving him off with a light smile. "No worries," you said, your voice easy and warm. You turned away, wading through the cool water to where the last cloth floated lazily on the surface.

The fabric clung to your fingers as you lifted it, squeezing out the excess water, your movements slow and deliberate. Droplets slid down your arms, glistening like tiny jewels in the fading light as you made your way back to the shore.

Setting the damp cloth gently in the woven basket with the other clean clothes, you straightened, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face. "I was meaning to tell you, there's fresh water here. You can come and bathe; clean up a bit." You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you shifted the basket to the side. "Unless you're the type of Greek who doesn't do that."

He let out a short, surprised chuckle at that, the sound rough and genuine, his shoulders relaxing just a little. But then his laughter died away, the words faltering on his lips as he looked at you.

You stepped out of the pond, the water cascading down your legs, the sunlight filtering through the leaves above, casting a soft, golden glow over your skin. Your white slip clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric almost translucent, outlining the curves of your body in a way that made his breath catch in his throat.

His eyes roamed over you, unbidden, as if drawn by some unseen force. Your smooth, sun-kissed skin glistened with droplets of water, each one catching the light, making you look like you were carved from marble, like a statue come to life.

Your hair, damp and wild, was adorned with small pieces of coral and tiny flowers—a crown of nature's bounty that seemed almost otherworldly.

By Aphrodite's grace…

The thought struck him like a blow, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from letting the words slip past his lips. He watched you, mesmerized, as you moved with an effortless grace, your bare feet barely making a sound on the moss-covered stones.

Every step, every sway of your hips, seemed to pull him in deeper, into a trance he couldn't escape.

You seemed almost unreal, as if the Gods themselves had sculpted you from the very essence of desire.

His gaze lingered on your lips, soft and full, naturally pouty in a way that made his mouth go dry. He thought to reach out and feel the warmth of your skin beneath his fingers, to trace the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck.

He swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming in his ears, his hands clenched into fists at his sides to keep from losing himself completely.

His breath hitched, his mind spiraling, teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something he shouldn't be thinking, shouldn't be feeling.

He had a wife, a son, a home waiting for him, a life he had fought tooth and nail to return to.

Penelope, with her quiet strength and unwavering loyalty, the woman he loved more than life itself.

And yet, here he was, staring at you like a starving man, drinking in every detail, every inch of your body with a hunger that burned in his veins.

It was wrong, all of it, and yet he couldn't look away, couldn't pull himself free from the spell you had woven around him.

You were beautiful, achingly so, and in that moment, he knew he was treading dangerous ground.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he truly felt afraid.

"Eperitus?"

Your voice, soft and lilting, broke through the haze in his mind, snapping him back to reality. You were looking at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, your gaze gentle, curious, your lips curved into the barest hint of a smile.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough and strangled, his eyes wide as if he'd just snatched Persephone from Hades' very arms. He took a stumbling step back, his hands raising slightly as if in surrender, his gaze darting away from you as if your very presence burned him.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice uneven, breaking on the last word. He shook his head, the movement almost frantic, as if he could shake free of whatever spell you had woven around him. "I didn't mean to—I should—I should go."

He gestured vaguely toward the forest behind him, his hands trembling ever so slightly. "Fish," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the word itself was a lifeline, something to hold onto in the chaos of his thoughts. "I need to— I'll go fish. Or forage. Or fix something. Yes, I'll— I'll go do that."

He took another step back, almost tripping over his own feet; his cheeks flushed a deep, mortified red. His eyes flicked back to you, just for a moment, and then away again before hurrying off like a man fleeing the scene of a crime, the ghost of your beauty chasing him, haunting his every step.

You watched him go, an amused smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, its light spilling across the sea in a riot of colors—gold and crimson bleeding into the darkening blue of the water, the water shimmering like liquid gold beneath the dying light.

You sat with your legs curled up beside you on the cliff's edge, the wind whispering around you, soft and cool, tugging gently at your hair as if trying to coax you closer to the edge.

This was your favorite place on the island, the place where the land met the sea, where you could sit and lose yourself in the endless expanse of water and sky. It was where you had seen him, Eperitus—his body limp and broken, washed ashore like so many others before him, another lost soul thrown at your feet by the whims of the Gods.

The ocean stretched out before you, vast and endless, its beauty a cruel mockery of the cage that held you.

For as long as you could remember, this had been your only view, the only sight that had remained unchanged through centuries of exile. The sky, the sea, the stars—eternally bound to this lonely rock, this place that was both your sanctuary and your prison.

The water was so close, just a few feet away, and yet it might as well have been a world apart. You could still feel it, the pull of the tides, the longing that thrummed in your veins, the memory of what it was to be one with the sea.

You sighed softly, your gaze following the path of the sun as it dipped lower, the sky turning from brilliant orange to deep purple.

Once, you had swum through these waters as freely as the dolphins, your body slicing through the waves like a silver blade. The ocean had been your domain, your home, every current and tide a part of you.

You were a sea nymph, a daughter of the sea, wild and unbound, but the water no longer sang to you—no longer held the promise of escape.

But that was before.

You closed your eyes, the memories crashing over you like waves, each one more painful than the last.

The Titanomachy. The great war that had torn the heavens and the earth apart, that had pitted brother against brother, father against son.

You had watched from the sidelines, powerless to intervene, to stop the destruction that had swept through your family, your kind. And when the dust had settled, when the victors had claimed their spoils and the losers had been cast down into the darkness, you had been left behind, forgotten.

Or so you had thought.

The punishment had come later, delivered with the cold, indifferent hand of justice.

You, the daughter of Atlas, the child of Pleione, had been deemed unworthy, a threat to the new order of things. And so you had been cast out, not to the depths of Tartarus, but to this island, this paradise-turned-prison, to live out your days in endless solitude.

You had not wept, not then.

You had been too proud, too defiant to show the Gods your pain. But as the years had passed, as one by one, those who washed up on your shores had come and gone, the loneliness had seeped into your bones, a slow, insidious poison that sapped your strength, your will.

You had not been broken by the war, but by the endless, unchanging years that followed. You had stopped counting the days, the years. Time had lost its meaning here, each day bleeding into the next in an endless, monotonous cycle.

You had grown numb, your heart a hollow thing, a fragile shell that you guarded fiercely, lest it shatter completely.

And yet, there were moments like this, rare and fleeting, when the ache became too much to bear, when the weight of your exile pressed down on you like a physical thing, crushing the breath from your lungs.

You missed it… the life you had once known—the feel of the water around you, the way it had held you, cradled you in its depths.

The life that you would never get back.

Your eyes stung, the salt of unshed tears burning as you blinked furiously, refusing to let them fall. What good would it do? What good had it ever done? The Gods did not care for your tears, your pain.

They had made their judgment, and you were bound to it, bound to this place, this fate.

You glanced back over your shoulder, towards the fire, towards the small, simple home you had made for yourself on this cursed rock. You had tried to build something, to find some small measure of peace, of contentment in the simple things—the warmth of the sun on your skin, the sound of the waves, the smell of the salt air.

But it was never enough. It would never be enough.

A soft, bitter laugh slipped past your lips. How foolish you had been to think you could defy them, to think that you could carve out some semblance of a life here.

A soft "hey" broke through your thoughts, the voice low and tentative. You blinked, your gaze shifting from the horizon to find him standing a few feet behind you, his posture stiff and uncertain. Eperitus looked like he was at war with himself, his eyes dark and troubled as they searched your face.

"Hey," you replied softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

You studied him for a moment, taking in the subtle changes—the way his skin looked cleaner, the faint smell of salt and fresh water clinging to him. He must have taken the time to bathe at the spring, washing away the grime of his journey.

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and you raised an eyebrow, a teasing lilt in your voice. "I see you took my advice?"

He chuckled, the sound a bit awkward but genuine, as if he were unused to laughing. He took a few hesitant steps closer before lowering himself beside you, his legs dangling off the edge of the cliff.

For a moment, he said nothing, just sitting there with you, watching as the sun dipped lower, its golden light spilling across the water like liquid gold.

You followed his gaze, the sight of the setting sun a familiar comfort, yet tinged with the ever-present ache of longing. "Helios is resting now," you murmured, your eyes softening as the last sliver of the sun slipped beneath the horizon, casting the world into the gentle embrace of twilight. "Even gods need a reprieve from their duties."

His gaze remained on the horizon, the light from the fire behind you casting shadows across his face. He let out a deep, weary sigh, as if the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. He turned to you then, his eyes searching yours with a vulnerability that made your breath catch.

"Look, Calypso…" His voice was strained, rough around the edges, as if the words were being dragged out of him. He swallowed hard, his gaze darting away, unable to meet your eyes. "I haven't been truthful with you." He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, his fingers trembling slightly. "My name… it's not Eperitus. I'm not some soldier from a village in Thessaly."

He paused, drawing in a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his own lies were too much to bear. "My name is Odysseus," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking it aloud might shatter the fragile peace between you. "I'm a king—from Ithaca."

You watched him, your expression unreadable, your heart beating steadily in your chest as his words settled in the air between you.

Odysseus.

The name hung there, heavy with meaning, with the weight of the legend that preceded him. A name that had been whispered on the lips of sailors and soldiers, spoken with reverence and fear, a name that had traveled farther than the man himself.

He turned his gaze back to you, his eyes filled with something like regret, like guilt. "I gave you a false name because I… I wasn't sure if I could trust you. I didn't know if you were friend or foe, if you were another test from the gods, another trial to endure."

He swallowed again, his throat working as he struggled to find the right words, the right way to explain himself. "But your kindness… the way you've treated me, even when I didn't deserve it…" He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, pleading for understanding. "I'm sorry, Calypso. I've spent so long fighting, lying, doing whatever it took to survive, that I forgot what it meant to be honest, to trust."

You let out a sharp snort, then burst into a fit of giggles. The sound caught Odysseus off guard, his head snapping over to you, eyes wide with something like panic. He clearly expected anger or disappointment, but you waved him off, your hand covering your mouth as you struggled to stifle your laughter.

"I-I'm sorry," you managed to say between chuckles, your shoulders shaking as you tried to catch your breath. "It's just… 'Eperitus'? Really?" You let out another peal of laughter, the sound almost musical in its lightness. "I mean, really? 'Man of Strife'? I may have been stuck on this island for eons, but even that sounds fake! You're lucky I'm polite enough not to have called you out on it."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and before he could stop himself, he was laughing too, a deep, genuine sound that seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head in mock defeat. "I suppose you are the first to see through it so quickly," he admitted, his voice warm with reluctant admiration.

You hummed, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you leaned back on your palms, the firelight casting a soft glow on your face. "Those around you must not have been that bright to believe it," you teased lightly, watching as his laughter grew, the sound carrying out over the darkening sea.

Odysseus chuckled, shaking his head again. "You'd be surprised," he said, his voice warm with shared humor. "Sometimes, people believe what they want to believe. A name is just a name, after all."

You nodded, the laughter slowly fading as a comfortable silence settled between you, the sound of the waves filling the space left behind.

You glanced at him, the firelight casting his face in soft, flickering shadows, highlighting the lines etched into his features, the weariness in his eyes.

You found yourself wanting to know, to understand, what had brought him here, to your shores, so far from his home.

"How did you find yourself here, Odysseus?" you asked quietly, your voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. "A king of Ithaca, so far from home."

His smile faltered, the light in his eyes dimming as his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. He let out a long, weary sigh, his gaze dropping to his hands, his fingers tracing absent patterns in the sand.

"It's… it's a long tale," he murmured, his voice heavy with the weight of too many memories. "One filled with more suffering than I care to remember."

You shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully, your eyes fixed on his as you waited, patient, giving him the space to begin.

He drew in a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and then he spoke, his words slow, deliberate, carrying the weight of years of pain and regret. "It all began with a war," he started, his voice low, almost reverent. "Helen of Troy, they called her. The most beautiful woman in the world, stolen from her husband, Menelaus, by Paris of Troy."

You nodded, familiar with the tale. It was a story that had reached even the shores of your island, carried on the whispers of the waves.

"I was tasked to join the rescue," he continued, his gaze distant, as if he were seeing those events play out before him, the battles, the bloodshed. "I sailed with six hundred men, my loyal soldiers to reclaim her and bring her back to Menelaus. We stormed the beaches of Troy, built walls of bodies and dreams, all for the sake of one woman."

He paused, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find the words. "We fought for ten years," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "Ten long years of death, of suffering, of loss…" You could see the pain, the regret, etched into every line of his face. "And when we finally breached the walls, when we finally stood victorious, I thought… I thought that would be the end of it. I thought I could go home…"

He laughed then, a bitter, hollow sound. "…but the Gods had other plans."

You watched him, your heart aching with a sympathy you couldn't quite explain, couldn't quite contain. "What happened?"

He shook his head, his gaze dropping to his hands, his fingers twisting together as if he were trying to hold onto something slipping through his grasp. "We set sail for home, but the winds were against us. We were thrown off course, tossed from island to island, each one more cursed than the last." He swallowed, the sound thick and heavy in the stillness. "I made… unsavory decisions, angered those who should not be angered," he admitted, his voice cracking just slightly, the words dragged from some dark place deep within him. "I sacrificed my honor, everything, all for the sake of returning to Ithaca."

You listened in silence as he recounted his tale, the trials and tribulations that had followed—the blinding of the Cyclops, the enchantment of Circe, the deadly song of the Sirens. Each word, each memory, seemed to take a piece of him, leaving him more worn, more broken.

"I lost good men. Friends. Brothers…" he whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of his grief. "I lost them all... Every single one of them…"

You were silent for a long moment, studying the way his shoulders were hunched, his hands clenched into fists on his lap, the way his eyes shone with a pain you could almost feel. He was a man broken by war, by loss, by the endless trials the gods had thrown at him.

A man who had forgotten how to be anything but what the world demanded of him.

And here he was, baring his soul to you, offering up his truth like a fragile, precious thing. You would have gave your sorrows, but from what you've known of him, it wouldn't do any good.

A sigh escaped your lips, soft and resigned, as you turned your gaze back to the sea, the waves rolling in gentle, rhythmic swells, the last of the light fading into the deep, dark blue of the coming night. "Odysseus of Ithaca," you murmured, the name tasting strange on your tongue, heavy with the weight of all that it carried. "You're not the first to wash up on my shores, lost and broken," you said quietly, your eyes fixed on the horizon, your voice carrying a sadness that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the endless, unchanging cycle of your existence. "And you won't be the last."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, the curve of your shoulders, the way the firelight played across your skin.

You could feel his gaze like a physical thing, warm and searching, and for a moment, you almost believed that he could see you, not as the myth, the story, the cursed daughter of Atlas, but as something more, something real.

But you knew better.

"You're right not to trust me, Odysseus," you continued, your voice steady, calm. "I'm bound by my curse, just as you're bound by your fate. We're both prisoners here, in our own way."

He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but you shook your head, a small, sad smile playing at the corners of your lips. "You don't owe me anything," you said softly, your eyes meeting his, holding his gaze with a quiet intensity. "But thank you, for your honesty. For your truth."

He stared at you, his eyes dark and unreadable, the silence between you heavy with the weight of all that remained unspoken. And then, slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out, his hand hovering just inches from yours, the warmth of his skin a tantalizing whisper against your own.

For a moment, you thought he might take your hand, might bridge the distance between you.

But then he hesitated, his fingers curling into a fist, and he drew back, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

You looked away, your heart aching with a familiar, bittersweet pain, your eyes drifting back to the sea, to the endless, unchanging horizon.

And so you sat there, side by side, two souls bound by the whims of the Gods, watching as the last light faded from the sky, as the stars began to bloom overhead, bright and cold and distant.

Together, yet worlds apart.

A/N: ahhh! not me falling in love with this lil one-shot. anywho, had to cut this in half cuz it was getting ridonculusly long... prt 2 shall be here soon tho, also, would you guys be cool if i added smut to it or nah? cuz i feel like the smut between these two will be so angsty cuz deep down odysseus ass still loves penelope, so calypso!reader is really just getting used, ma babieee 😭😭

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