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[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 52 Chapter 52 | the sacred and the stupidly loved⌟

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Eventually, the two of you strolled along the edge of the port now, the salty breeze kicking at the hem of your cloak. The water slapped softly against the stone, sunlight winking off the waves like thrown coins.

You found yourself talking—words slipping easier now, warmer.

"And then," you said, grinning a little, "this merchant—this idiot—tried to back me into a corner."

Hermes' arm tightened slightly around your shoulders, his head tilting toward you in interest.

"He got all handsy," you went on, waving your free hand for emphasis. "Grabbed my waist. So I grabbed him and slammed into the nearest wall, and held him at knife point, like I did you earlier. Even knicked him a bit."

Hermes cackled, loud and delighted, like you'd just given him the best story of the year.

"Gods, I knew there was something vicious brewing under that sweet little face," he laughed, bumping his hip against yours. "Proud of you, little musician. Very proud. Apollo's probably writing tragic songs about your deadly elbows already."

You chuckled under your breath, your body relaxing again, the easy rhythm of the walk carrying you forward.

But then, your eyes drifted to the left.

To the sea.

You weren't even trying to look.

It just... pulled you.

The water stretched out, endless and bright, sparkling under the sun like it had never swallowed a single soul. Like it didn't remember.

You did.

Your laugh trailed off.

Your steps slowed until you weren't moving at all.

You stared out over the waves.

And suddenly—

You could feel it all again.

The burn in your chest.

The way the sea pressed against your ribs like iron hands.

The thousand ghostly voices whispering and sobbing in the deep.

Eurylochus' hollow voice mourning missed time with Ctimene.

Your throat tightened.

Your fingers curled into your palms without meaning to, nails digging against your skin just to feel something solid. Something now.

You didn't even notice you'd stopped walking.

Didn't realize Hermes had kept going for two steps without you before he caught on.

He doubled back, still chuckling to himself—until he saw you.

And then he leaned down, ducking into your line of sight.

He lifted a finger and gave a light, playful tap against the side of your head.

"Knock, knock," he sing-songed, trying to break the tension. "Anyone home?"

You blinked, slow.

Pulled back into yourself like waking from a nightmare you hadn't meant to fall into.

And maybe it was the way your feet dragged. Or the way your arms stayed hugged close around yourself, like you were holding something broken inside.

Because his face faltered the second he saw you.

The grin he always wore—lopsided, too much—dimmed. His hand, still half-raised from tapping your head, dropped a little. His golden eyes scanned your face, and you knew he saw it.

The dark.

The heaviness still clinging to you like seaweed.

The part of you that hadn't really made it back to the surface.

Your throat worked around a dry swallow. You tried to smile. Failed.

Instead, your voice came out rough, smaller than you meant."Do you think..." You bit your lip, then forced the words through."Do you think my title lets me help them?"

Hermes blinked. "Help who?"

You looked out toward the sea without thinking. The waves curled lazy against the docks now — soft, gentle—nothing like the graveyard you'd floated in.

"King Odysseus' men..." you said, quieter. "The ones who never crossed. The ones just...waiting." You turned back to him, the weight thick behind your ribs. "Could I help them?" you asked. "Guide them to the other side? So they can finally get peace?"

You didn't even know what you were hoping for. A yes? A maybe? Something to make that ache less useless?

Hermes snorted through his nose, a little grin tugging at his mouth. "Help them? You?"

You stiffened.

His grin stayed sharp, but not mean. "Sweetheart," he said, tilting his head, "a title's just a prettier word for bait."

You blinked.

He shifted his weight onto one foot, tossing a coin up in the air and catching it without looking. "Makes people think you can do more than you ever promised," he said easily. "That's all it is. A trick. A song. Something that sounds good enough to soothe their fears."

He chuckled at first. That warm, lazy chuckle he always had tucked in his chest.

But then his gaze dropped to your hands.

And he saw it. The way you were twisting your fingers in the folds of your cloak. Knuckles tight.

The chuckle died in his throat.

Slowly, he straightened. His voice softened, lost the edges. "Hey," he said, quieter now. "You don't owe the sea anything."

You stared at him, breathing hard. Your hands stayed clenched at your sides.

He stepped a little closer. Close enough that the scent of him wrapped around you. "Just because someone gave you a title that sounds divine," Hermes murmured, "doesn't mean you became something you're not."

You flinched, a tiny jerk of your chin.

Hermes' mouth twisted, almost regretful. "Especially" he added, "when it was a mortal who gave it."

Your throat burned.

He didn't say Odysseus' name.

He didn't have to.

You already knew.

You shifted your weight, hands clenching at your sides, the knot behind your ribs pulling tighter. "I can heal," you said stubbornly, voice low, hoarse. "I healed that boy, back on Ithaca. I didn't imagine that."

The words came out sharper than you meant.

Maybe because you needed them to be true.

Maybe because you could still feel the cold weight of those soldiers back in the deep—their empty eyes, their forgotten hands reaching for you—and the guilt of not reaching back still sat like a stone behind your ribs.

You wanted to help them. You wanted to believe you could fix it. Anything less felt like leaving them there to rot.

Hermes only raised a brow, almost pitying. "And who do you think gave you that little trick?" he asked easily.

You froze. Your mind reeled back—

The lyre.

The golden light.

The way your hands had moved without you calling for them.

Apollo.

Not you. Not ever you.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Nothing came out.

Hermes watched the realization bleed slow across your face before he continued, voice lighter but not unkind. "Divine favor isn't the same as divine appointment. Healing? Sure. A blessing, a trick, a party favor—whatever you wanna call it. But shepherding souls?"

He shook his head, a soft, almost amused sound in the back of his throat. "That's different. That's weight. That's authority. And it doesn't get handed out because someone called you a pretty name."

You swallowed hard, the pressure thickening behind your chest.

Hermes rubbing the back of his neck lazily like he was explaining something to a stubborn apprentice. "If you wanted to guide spirits," he said, "you'd need explicit appointment." He lifted a hand, ticking names off his fingers casually. "Hades could grant it. Hypnos, maybe, if you caught him in the right mood. Me, if I was feeling generous—" He winked at that but you didn't smile. He sighed. "But you don't have that. You don't bear the weight of that law. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

You looked away, chest squeezing tighter.

"And as for those poor bastards down there..." Hermes shrugged one shoulder, careless in a way only gods could be. "That's just how it goes, little musician. Some souls get stuck. Some don't. Maybe, in a millennium or two, long after King Odysseus and his golden boy are dust, Poseidon will finally get bored of holding a grudge. But it won't be because of you. Or anything you failed to do."

You flinched at that—hard enough that Hermes caught it.

You stared at the cobblestones, your pulse pounding in your ears, the salt breeze suddenly feeling a little too sharp in your lungs. You twisted your fingers into the hem of your cloak. Pressed your teeth hard to the inside of your cheek.

You didn't trust yourself to speak.

Not yet.

Not without the grief—or the anger—slipping through.

And Hermes, to his rare credit... let you have the silence. Just for a little while.

Then, you finally let out a breath. More a scoff than anything—a crooked, tired thing that twisted up your mouth as you dragged a hand down your face.

You shook your head once, muttering under your breath. "Grudge," you repeated bitterly, tasting the word like it soured on your tongue. "Tell me about it."

Your mind drifted without permission—sliding back into the cracks you tried not to look at too long.

Aphrodite and her damn curse.

The one that clung to your bloodline like oil to skin.

The one that twisted love into something ugly, something hollow, until it wasn't love at all—just longing and loneliness sharpened into knives.

For years, it had shaped your family. Poisoned every hope. Starved every heart.

Until lately.

Until recently.

Until you finally clawed your way free of it.

But still—you knew the weight of old grudges better than most. You wore their scars, even if no one else could see them.

Hermes watched you a little longer. Long enough that the grin he normally wore thinned into something smaller.

More careful.

Then, voice quieter now—almost hesitant, like he didn't want to press too hard—he asked. "...Is it... something you want done?"

You blinked, the question sinking past your ribs before your mind could catch it.

He didn't mean the curse. He meant the soldiers. The wreckage Poseidon left you floating in. The lost voices still clawing at the back of your ears.

You turned your head slightly—enough to glance over your shoulder, back toward the harbor.

The ocean stretched out, glittering under the sun like it had never seen a corpse. Like it had never swallowed six hundred men and let their names rot at the bottom.

Your throat tightened.

Before you could even think about it, your hand lifted—moving on instinct—and pressed lightly against your chest. Right over your heart.

You remembered them.

The mourning soldiers. The way their voices wept without sound. How they crowded around you—not angry, not hateful—just... broken. How they told you their names. Their wives' names. Their children's names. Only to forget them the next breath. Only to tell you again.

You could still feel them. Still hear them.

The ghosts of their grief brushed your ribs, even now.

You swallowed hard. Your fingers curled tighter against the fabric over your heart.

But you didn't answer Hermes.

Not yet.

Because what would you even say?

Yes?

No?

I don't know?

It felt too big. Too cruel to hope for. Too cruel not to.

The words sat heavy against your ribs, pressing until you thought something might crack from the weight.

And then, barely louder than the lap of the sea against the shore, you whispered—broken, shaking, real. "If I could..." Your fingers dug slightly into your cloak, breath hitching against your teeth. "I would."

It hurt to say it. Like it cost you something. Like naming the want made it heavier, not lighter.

Hermes let the words settle—let them breathe.

And then, after a beat, he hummed low in his throat. "...Suppose," he mused, casual as if he were talking about picking fruit instead of bending fate, "I could pull a few strings."

You froze.

Your head whipped toward him so fast you nearly threw your neck out.

Your eyes were wide, stinging, your heart lurching up into your throat.

"You—what?!" you gasped, almost tripping over the words. "Are you—are you serious?"

Hermes just gave you a crooked little smirk, tilting his head in that maddening way he always did when he thought he was being clever. "When," he said, tapping two fingers lightly against your forehead, "have I ever lied to you?"

You opened your mouth—shut it again—then, before you could even think about it, you launched yourself at him. A tiny squeal escaped your mouth, embarrassing and helpless, as you threw your arms around his neck.

Hermes staggered just half a step back, but he caught you easily—laughing, real and surprised, as he wrapped his arms around your waist to steady you.

You clutched him like he was the only thing holding you to the ground. "Thank you," you gasped, your voice cracking against his shoulder. "Thank you, thank you—gods, thank you—"

You didn't even realize you were crying until your face pressed into the warm curve of his neck, your body trembling with the force of it.

You hid there, burying your face against his skin like you could tuck yourself out of sight, like maybe if you stayed small enough, stayed still enough, the hurt would slip away and leave only this—this warmth, this relief, this stupid, stupid hope.

Hermes' hands tightened a little around you—one rubbing firm, steady circles along your back, the other cradling the back of your head like he was afraid you'd fly apart if he let go.

He didn't tease. Didn't laugh. He just held you.

Letting you cry against him under the bright, endless sky.

For the ones who never got to come home.

For the ones who waited too long.

For the ones still waiting.

And for yourself.

You didn't know how long you stood there—pressed tight against him, fists curled into the loose folds of his tunic like you could anchor yourself there forever. The sea whispered somewhere behind you. The sun pressed warm into your back.

And still—you stayed.

Until finally, Hermes shifted.

Not to push you away.

But to tug you back just enough to see your face.

He tutted under his breath, shaking his head with a fake, exaggerated sigh. "Gods, you're dramatic," he teased softly, one hand sliding from your waist to cup your cheek.

His thumb brushed under your eye—catching a tear you hadn't even noticed had slipped loose.

"All this crying over some dead sailors?" he said, voice light but not cruel. "You act like I'm doing something hard." He grinned lopsidedly, tilting his head. "I'm just moving a few souls. No big deal."

You tried to scoff, but the sound wobbled pathetically in your throat.

Hermes only chuckled—lower, fonder.

And then—so gently you barely felt it—his thumb trailed downward, brushing the faint line of your scar.

The one tucked against your jaw.

The one that marked where a knife had once tried—and failed—to silence you forever.

He traced it slowly, like he was memorizing the shape of it.

Like he had every right to.

Like he already had.

Your breath caught without meaning to.

Hermes' smile faded just a little—softened into something quieter, sadder, more dangerous.

His eyes—normally all gold and sly and sharp—turned molten and warm, like honey left too long in the sun.

He looked at you like you were something sacred.

You blinked up at him, lashes damp, throat raw.

Your lip trembled slightly, and you hated it, hated how raw you felt, but Hermes didn't laugh. Didn't tease. He just held your face in his hands like he was afraid you'd vanish if he blinked.

Like maybe... maybe you were the only real thing he'd touched all day.

He leaned a little closer, grin going sly.

"Keep looking at me like that," he murmured, thumb still brushing slow over your skin, "and I swear—I'll hand you Olympus by sunrise if you asked."

You stared at him.

Wide-eyed. Disbelieving.

He said it so matter-of-fact, like he wasn't promising you something outrageous. Like it would be easy. Like it was already half-done.

Your throat bobbed, your fingers still clinging to the edge of his tunic.

And he just smiled at you—crooked and golden and too big for one god to hold.

"You want a palace?" he added, winking. "A river named after you? An entorague of nymphs to wait on you hand and foot? Say the word, darling. I'll forge a mountain in your honor before Apollo even wakes up for his morning ambrosia."

You let out a cracked, half-soggy laugh, shoving weakly at his shoulder.

Hermes only laughed again—full-bodied this time, sharp and bright as sun on seawater—and caught your wrist easily before you could pull it away.

He pressed your knuckles lightly against his chest.

Right where his heart would be.

And for one strange, quiet heartbeat—you almost thought you could feel it beating.

Steady. Warm. Real.

Another sniffle escaped you—pathetic and wet—and you scrunched your face up in annoyance at yourself.

"You're always so..." You huffed, cheeks burning. "...unserious."

Hermes just laughed.

Not the loud, teasing cackle he usually threw around like coins at a festival.

This one was low. Warm. Private. Like it was just for you.

He wiggled his brows dramatically, still cradling your cheek with one hand like you were made of spun glass. "Of course I am," he said, voice lilting with fake solemnity. "I'm the god of trickery, darling. It's practically a professional requirement."

You shook your head, pushing your palm into your eye, trying to scrub the tears away like they hadn't happened. "Of course you are," you muttered under your breath, voice hoarse but stubborn. "I forgot—gods don't really get it, huh? Stuff that's a big deal for mortals... probably means nothing to you."

Hermes tilted his head at you, his thumb still brushing faint little strokes over the curve of your scar like he hadn't realized he was doing it.

You went on anyway, not angry. Just... trying to explain. Trying to make him see it.

"You—you don't get it," you said, a small laugh slipping out, watery and sharp all at once. "For you, it's nothing. I get it. You move souls all the time. You see death every day. You can just... 'pull some strings.' Another errand to run between playing tricks and delivering prophecies. But for me—" you pressed your hand to your chest, half-punching your own ribs, "for me it's not just... paperwork!"

Your voice cracked a little, but you powered through it.

"You didn't see them," you said, almost shaking now, sadness turning into anger. "You didn't see the way they—" You broke off, grimacing. "They weren't angry. They weren't monsters. They were just... stuck. Forgotten. Whispering the same things over and over because they couldn't remember anything else... Like they didn't even know they were dead."

You breathed out a harsh sound that was half a laugh, half something sharp and broken.

Hermes blinked at you."Huh?" he said, voice small and almost stupidly confused.

You stared at him, not sure whether to laugh or scream. His face was scrunched up like you'd just started speaking another language.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I mean, you're sensitive, sure," he said carefully, like he wasn't sure if he was walking into a trap, "but why are you—what, did you get too empathetic while I wasn't looking? Crying over a bunch of random spirits you didn't even know? That's a little—" He made a tiny gesture. Like "come on."

You cut him off. "No,"you said sharply. "It's not just me being emotional."

Hermes cocked his head, frowning.

You sucked in a breath, words bubbling up before you could even filter them. "I was down there," you said fiercely.

He straightened a little at that, his grin slipping a bit.

"When the storm hit—when the ship almost went under—the sailors panicked," you started, jaw tightening. "There was no offering, so they wanted to sacrifice something—someone. Lady—" your voice wobbled, and you pushed through it— "Someone tried to grab Lady. They tried to take her. Said she wasn't a real person. I stopped them. Offered myself instead."

Hermes' face blanked completely.

No teasing. No sparkle in his eye. Just a slow, cold stillness settling over his features.

"I jumped," you said. "I hit the water. Sank. And then, instead of letting me die, he showed up. Poseidon,"you laughed under your breath, the sound bitter and brittle."All glowy and smug, acting like he was doing me a favor by not crushing the ship to dust." You flung your arms out. "And—AND THEN—he just grabbed my face and—"

You gagged a little on the memory.

"And he kissed me," you burst out, appalled all over again. "Or—no! Sorry! 'It wasn't a kiss,' he said," you mimicked in a high, mocking tone. "It was just him giving me a 'gift'—air. So generous. So considerate. Like that makes it better!"

Hermes' mouth twitched like he wasn't sure if he should laugh or commit murder.

You pointed at him, still ranting, voice shrill now. "I don't care what kind of ancient, majestic 'gift' he thought it was! He could've warned me! Or—I don't know—literally anything except ambush my face like that! Then he dragged me down to the bottom of the sea and dumped me in a godsforsaken graveyard with six hundred dead Ithacan soldiers for three days."

Hermes didn't move.

Didn't even breathe.

You pushed the heel of your palm into your brow, voice dropping into something more tired than angry now.

"I... listened to them," you said. "All of them. Their regrets. Their fears. Their last memories. Over and over and over until I couldn't tell where my thoughts ended... and theirs began."

You dropped your hand limply to your side.

"And now I'm here," you finished weakly, blinking at him. "Trying not to lose my mind every time I hear waves."

Hermes just stared at you for a long second, his arms slowly crossed over his chest.

"...Poseidon kissed you," he said flatly.

"It wasn't a kiss," you snapped immediately. "He called it a 'breathing boon' or whatever godly nonsense."

Hermes' brows lifted almost to his hairline. His voice dropped dangerously soft.

"Poseidon kissed you."

You buried your face in your hands with a groan, still too mortified to look at him.

"Not on purpose!" you mumbled into your palms. "It was survival. He said it was survival. I hate everything."

Hermes made a noise—something between a strangled laugh and a sound of pure homicidal disbelief.

You peeked at him through your fingers.

His face was a study in blank fury.

Like he'd just been informed the sky was falling and it was personal.

The silence stretched, thick and strange between you. The salty breeze tugged at your clothes. Somewhere behind you, a gull cried out—a long, lonely sound.

Then, finally, low and rough, he said, "I see."

No teasing. No jokes. Just two words, heavier than they had any right to be.

And just as fast as that dark look had settled on his face—it smoothed away. Like a ripple crossing a still pond.

Hermes smiled again. Brighter this time. Lighter.

Too light.

He gave a little hop—effortless—and the next thing you knew, he was floating a few inches off the ground, his winged sandals fluttering lazily under him. The feathers stirred the dust by your boots, kicked up little whorls of gold and gray in the sunlight.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard, and before you could flinch away, he reached down and ruffled your hair.

You squawked—actually squawked—trying to duck, but he was too fast. His fingers messed up the top of your head with infuriating precision, then smoothed it down again like you were some cranky little cat.

"There," he said, grinning wide enough to show teeth. "Better."

You shot him a look of pure betrayal.

Hermes just laughed and drifted back a step in the air, hands clasped lazily behind his head.

"Guess I better get a head start on those souls, huh?" he said, his voice still bright, but something... softer hiding underneath it. "Wouldn't want my favorite mortal thinking I'm all talk and no action."

He winked.

And before you could so much as shove him for the hair thing—or maybe hug him again, you weren't even sure which anymore—he spun midair, the wings on his sandals catching the sunlight, scattering it like shards of gold around him.

He was already pulling away, soaring higher, when your mind suddenly lurched back—Nico.

The ridiculous conversation earlier.

The favor.

The promise.

Your eyes snapped wide.

"WAIT!" you screeched, pure panic punching out of you.

Without thinking—pure stupid, desperate instinct—you leapt up, both arms stretching like you could physically drag the god of speed back down.

Somehow, miraculously, your fingers managed to snag his ankle mid-flight.

You grabbed tight around the leather strap of his sandal, your palm half-smacking against the side of his foot—and the second you did, your boots lifted clean off the ground.

Your eyes widened comically, the world tilting as your toes dangled uselessly over the cobblestones.

"Hermes—Hermes!!" you yelped, kicking wildly, the marketplace blurring a little around you.

The god jolted midair, twisting around like a cat yanked by the tail. His sandals fluttered in sharp little bursts as he wobbled, tilted—then cocked his head down at you.

He raised his leg experimentally.

You dangled there—arms clinging stubbornly to his ankle like a barnacle clamped to a ship—feet kicking uselessly above the ground.

Hermes peered at you with a mixture of surprise and wild amusement, one brow arching high.

"Well," he said cheerfully, head still tilted sideways as he studied you, "this is new."

"PUT ME DOWN!" you barked, voice half-mortified, half-terrified you were about to get launched into orbit.

Hermes just grinned wider, like this was the funniest thing he'd seen all month. One hand leisurely scratched at his jaw like he was pondering something very serious.

"Hmm," he mused aloud, voice maddeningly casual. "I dunno. You did grab me without asking. Might be grounds for kidnapping."

Your growl came low and dangerous from your throat, legs flailing harder.

But the bastard only snickered—and floated higher.

You yelped again, clutching tighter as the ground slipped even further away, your cloak flapping wildly around your knees.

In the back of your mind—deep behind the pure panic—you dimly wondered why no one was screaming or gawking.

The market was still bustling. Merchants shouted prices, kids weaved through baskets, and sailors laughed over cheap wine. Nobody even glanced at the sight of a mortal girl dangling from a god's foot like a sack of pears.

You barely managed to piece it together.

Hermes.

Of course.

Probably had some god-trick pulled over the mortals' eyes. Some ripple in the air that made your flailing look like nothing more than a flutter of fabric in the breeze—or maybe they didn't see you at all.

Gods, you were going to strangle him... if you survived.

"HER-MES!!" you screeched again, voice cracking halfway through like a dying gull.

The god just laughed—an actual full, unbothered cackle—and floated in lazy loops higher into the sun-warmed air.

You clung harder to his ankle, teeth gritted, your heart doing little suicidal somersaults in your chest.

Hermes, meanwhile, just peered down at you upside down, his hair flopping wildly in the breeze as he lazily twirled in midair.

"Alright, alright," he chuckled, voice bright and merciless. "What exactly are you doing down there, barnacle?"

You spluttered—actually spluttered—trying to scramble your thoughts and your pride back into some kind of order.

"I—I needed to tell you—!" you gasped, legs still kicking helplessly.

Hermes blinked owlishly. "Tell me what?"

You twisted your hands tighter around his ankle. "About the man!" you barked, feeling your face heat from the ridiculousness of all this.

Hermes just floated there like a lazy cloud. "You'll have to be a little more specific, darling," he teased. "I know a lot of men."

You groaned, nearly biting your tongue in frustration. "The inn! Your inn! The Quicktangle—or whatever it was called!" you barked, cheeks burning.

At that, something clicked.

Hermes' face lit up with recognition—and pure mischief.

He burst out laughing, the sound bright and absolutely unrepentant. "I forgot about him!" he crowed, clutching his stomach midair like he was watching the best play of his life.

Slowly—blessedly—he began lowering you back toward the cobbled ground. You could feel the ground pulling at your boots, the dizzy heat in your head slowly cooling as your body stopped swinging like a weathervane.

Hermes floated upside down beside you now, his curls dangling wildly toward the street, sandals fluttering in lazy kicks. His chin was practically at your shoulder level, upside down grin wide enough to split his face in two.

He tilted his head—er, his whole body—sideways and smirked.

"Soooo," he drawled, spinning once like a lazy top, "what does my loyal servant want, hmm?"

You panted, legs shaking, arms still trembling from clinging to him like a mortal lifeline.

You didn't answer right away.

Mostly because you were too busy glaring at him. Trying—and failing—to gather your thoughts back into a straight line instead of the chaotic, tangled mess he'd turned them into.

Finally, you gritted your teeth and barked out:

"He—" you panted, scowling harder, "—he just wanted me to, ugh, mention him next time I saw you. Said he's been a 'faithful and selfless steward of your sacred port' or whatever nonsense."

You waved a hand vaguely at the sky, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

Hermes' upside-down grin only grew.

But then—you paused, brows knitting.

"You know," you muttered, folding your arms, still glaring half-heartedly up at him, "why the Hades do you have a barkeep down here anyway? Shouldn't your servants be, I don't know—running temples? Giving blessings? Whispering secrets? Not...selling fish stew and warm beer to sailors?"

Hermes flipped himself upright midair, hovering cross-legged now like it was the easiest thing in the world.

He leaned in close, eyes glinting with that familiar gleam.

"You ever heard of a better way," he said, voice low and conspiratorial, "to hear every single secret of an island than by running the town's drunk tank?"

You blinked.

He grinned wider.

"Mortals," he said, shrugging grandly, "spill everything after two cups of wine and one good plate of food. Births. Deaths. Murders. Gold hoards. Secret love affairs. Half of the Trojan War rumors started in taverns, you know."

You stared.

He floated a little higher, tapping his temple smugly.

"Who needs temples when you have gossip?"

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"...You are," you said flatly, "by far the pettiest god I have ever met."

Hermes threw his head back and roared with laughter, arms wide like he was soaking in the compliment. "And proud of it!"

You just stared at him, hands on your hips, heart still half-pounding from almost getting carried off like a very annoyed kite.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," you muttered, waving a hand through the air like clearing smoke. "Still doesn't explain why you've got Nico playing bartender. And calling you master," you added pointedly, narrowing your eyes. "What is this? Some weird god-servant thing? Is that how you get your kicks now?"

Hermes floated backward a few lazy paces, arms folded behind his head, sandals fluttering without a care. He snorted. "Gods, no," he said, rolling his eyes like you were the crazy one. "I'm no tyrant. Nico's here because he lost a bet."

You blinked once. Then again.

"A... bet," you repeated flatly.

Hermes grinned, all teeth. "A very dumb bet."

You just... stood there.

Waiting.

Hand on your hip. Brow arched so high it could've scraped the clouds.

"...Well?" you prompted dryly. "Aren't you going to tell me?"

Hermes hummed under his breath, tilting his head like he was considering it. Then he waved a lazy hand through the air, brushing the question away like smoke.

"Nah," he said airily. "Takes the fun out of his origin story."

You opened your mouth—ready to protest, demand, argue—anything—

But before you could even get a word out, "Soooo," Hermes said, voice syrupy and sweet, hands folding behind his back as he bobbed there beside you, "you want to deliver a message to dear Nico for me?"

You squinted suspiciously. "...What is it?"

Hermes hummed thoughtfully, tapping his chin like he was crafting a grand strategy.

"Tell him," Hermes said, his voice dipping into a sing-song whisper, "that as a reward for his loyal service, I'm officially granting him his freedom."

You blinked, stunned.

Hermes grinned wider, sharp and delighted.

"But—" he added, lifting a finger like a magician revealing the final trick, "if he wants the title of official Messenger's Assistant—with all the travel perks, godly favor, and free drinks at all Hermes-blessed inns—he has to accept. Immediately. No take-backs."

"And... if he refuses?"

Hermes shrugged, almost too casual. "Then he remains exactly what he is now—my servant. Just... without the perks."

You blinked again.

Still processing.

Your mouth dropped open. "That's not freedom," you said, baffled.

"Sure it is," Hermes said cheerfully, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. Your jaw dropped further when he added—oh so casually—"Freedom to pick which leash he wants."

Hermes floated down until he was level with you—still upside down—grinning like a cat about to push a vase off a windowsill.

He reached out lightly with one finger—and gently booped your chin to close your mouth.

"There," he said smugly. "That's better."

You stumbled back half a step, still trying to wrap your mind around the sheer pettiness of what you were being asked to deliver.

"Thank you, cutie~" he teased, voice lilting with laughter.

And before you could grab his tunic and demand more answers—or throttle him—Hermes gave a cheeky little salute with two fingers

Then he blew you a kiss—actually blew you a kiss, the gust of divine breeze sending your hair flying straight back.

And in the next blink, he was gone.

Up, up, up—vanishing into the blue sky like a mischievous star shooting itself home.

Leaving you there.

Alone.

Basket on your arm.

Hair a mess.

Brain completely fried.

And one very, very unfortunate message to deliver.

You stood there for a beat longer. "...I'm going to kill him," you finally muttered under your breath.

But you were smiling.

Gods help you, you were smiling.

You let out a long, slow exhale and bent down to start gathering the things you'd dropped—your basket, a few bruised figs, the little carved boat for Eben now slightly scuffed along the hull.

You brushed the dust off as best you could, cradling everything awkwardly in your arms.

The market buzzed on around you, oblivious. Voices floated on the breeze. Sunlight dappled across the crooked stones. Somewhere nearby, someone plucked a lyre, a slow, wandering melody curling through the air.

You shifted the basket onto your hip with a soft grunt, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Your fingers smelled faintly like figs and salt and the wax of a hundred sun-warmed stalls.

It was... peaceful, in a way.

The kind of peace that didn't scream. Didn't demand. It just was.

Maybe today hadn't gone the way you'd planned.

Maybe it never would.

But for now, at least—

You were here.

Alive.

Carrying a ridiculous god's message, sure, but also carrying pieces of a day that felt a little too golden to lose.

Small things. Simple things. A handful of bright feathers. A few polished stones. A bolt of blue cloth that caught the light like water.

Gifts for the people who felt like home.

You smiled faintly, your fingers brushing over each one.

And for the first time in a long while, the thought that flickered through your mind wasn't what if it all falls apart?

It was I can't wait to see their faces.

You smiled to yourself, small and crooked, and turned back toward the inn.

A/N: lolol not me being psychic, just got calle din for a shift 💔💔 since imma be doign night shift and will clonk out when i get home, here's the double update ❤️ also i love nico so much! you all are gonna love him too~ and its obvious my type are funny people that hide pains/joke alot cuz i swear i love making ocs like that hahaha don't worry i swear i have more personalities in stock the funny-in-pain type just hits fr 😔 btw forgot to mention, a lot of 'characters' you've seen me spend time describing etc, yet not see them again... it's mostly cuz those will be reccuring characters in the isekai book 👀 like i'm so excited y'all i'm already plotting things out, got the first few chappies in skeleton form/blurbs and pulling bits and stuff from here, so imma be rereading godly things to take notes on what i may include in the iseaki. is there any characters/places you guys would like seen in it??? lemme know, y'all know i gotta short attention span/janky ahh memory and need reminders sometimes 😭😭😩 #overlyconfidentwritertrynajugglemulitplethingswhensheknowsshessettingherselfupforfailure💔

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

[saralozoyart]

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?

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

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 50 Chapter 50 | a night to be remembered⌟

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You woke up later than you meant to.

The light in the room had changed—gone soft and golden, the way only early evening could manage. It slipped through the slats of the wooden shutters like honey, painting the bed in stripes of warm light and shadow.

You blinked against it, your lashes sticky with sleep, the corner of your mouth dry from where it had pressed against Lady's fur.

She hadn't moved much.

Still curled at your side, her body warm and heavy, tail twitching once at some distant noise before going still again. She let out a snore—not loud, but stubborn—and you smiled faintly.

Then—right on cue—a knock.

Gentle. Hesitant.

Lady's ears perked. Her head lifted. But when she didn't hear anything dangerous—or particularly exciting—she let out a soft huff and dropped her chin back to the mattress like: That one's harmless.

You dragged yourself upright with a slow groan, stretching until your shoulders cracked, your legs dangling off the bed like you weren't sure if they remembered how to hold your weight yet.

The floor felt cool under your bare feet as you crossed to the door.

You opened it, and there stood Eben with both hands gripping a slightly dented tray, his curls windblown and his cheeks pink from either running or being too near the kitchen fire.

"I got you dinner," he announced, proud. "It's not fancy or anything—they said it was the most they could make for the crew with short notice. But there's meat. And a roll. And cheese that probably doesn't bite back."

You laughed softly and stepped aside. "Bring it in before Lady wakes up and thinks it's hers."

He grinned and slid inside, setting the tray down on the table near the window. You followed, still rubbing sleep from your eyes as you took in the food—small but hearty. Stewed lentils with a chunk of goat meat, a hard roll on the side, and a triangle of some soft, crumbly white cheese. A few olives scattered in a chipped dish.

It wasn't palace food, but it smelled like home.

Eben flopped onto the spare chair with a dramatic sigh. "The others get to go look around," he complained. "They're at the beach or the temple square or the cliff with the rope swing. You know what I get to do?"

You raised a brow, already chewing the corner of the roll.

He pointed at himself with both thumbs. "I get to stay in the inn. Because I'm 'too little.' Which is rude, by the way, because I know how to swim and gut a fish. And I didn't even cry during the storm!"

You tried not to laugh—tried. But it bubbled up anyway.

"Well," you said between bites, "how about this."

Eben perked up.

You leaned your elbow on the table, smirking. "I'll go explore—just a little—to see what all the fuss is about..."

He stared, waiting.

"...and while I'm gone, you get a very important job."

He straightened in his chair.

You pointed at Lady. "Babysit the beast."

Lady made a noise like she was offended, but didn't move.

Eben gasped. "Really?!"

You nodded. "Keep her company, keep her fed, and try not to let her steal your dinner. In return, I'll pick up something sweet for you while I'm out. Maybe one of those honey candies or those cinnamon bread twists the vendors were yelling about earlier."

He gave the most serious nod you'd ever seen, practically saluting with one fist to his chest. "Deal."

You smiled, reaching for an olive from the tray. You popped it into your mouth and chewed slowly as Eben leaned back in his chair, feet swinging just above the floor.

The rest of the dinner passed like that—easy and warm.

You picked at the food in slow bites while Eben filled the room with stories of sea life from a boy's point of view: dramatic tales of getting chased by gulls who stole fish right from his hand, and how how one of the older sailors tied a snake to the rigging once "as a prank."

You tried not to choke on a bite of bread when he mimicked the sound of a sailor's screams.

Lady just huffed and stayed curled by your feet, blinking slowly like none of this was news to her.

By the time you finished the cheese and scraped the last bit of lentil stew from the bottom of the bowl, the sky outside had deepened to a purpling blue, the sun beginning to melt behind the rooftops.

You pulled your cloak from the bedpost and fastened it at your collarbone, the soft wool brushing against your skin like an old friend. Your fingers found the familiar leather strap beneath your arm, checking the dagger tucked safely into place—cool, silent, and comforting at your side.

Eben looked up as you moved toward the door. "Bring back something good," he reminded you, already pulling his seat closer to Lady like they were settling in for a long watch shift.

You gave him a mock salute. "If she eats your roll, it's not my fault."

He nodded solemnly. "Understood. It's a risk I'm willing to take."

You rolled your eyes fondly and stepped into the hallway.

The inn was quieter now—just the low murmur of distant voices, a few clinks from the kitchen and bar, the faint squeal of a violin string being tuned too high before quickly corrected. You slipped through the front door, pulling it closed behind you with a soft thud.

The air outside had cooled, brushing your skin like silk pulled from a stream. The breeze carried the smell of fresh bread, sea salt, and lemon smoke—somewhere nearby, someone was grilling fish over citruswood.

You pulled your cloak tighter and started down the crooked steps of the inn.

The street outside was lit in soft yellows and flickering torches. Oil lamps swayed gently from poles above the narrow alleyways, casting dancing shadows along the stone. The town was quieter now, too—less bustle, more drift.

You passed a pair of merchants packing up woven goods, a young girl skipping stones into a gutter, and an old woman arguing gently with a cat on a windowsill.

You kept walking.

Your boots tapped quietly over cobbled stone as your thoughts circled back—what did they say again? About the ship of psychics? Oracles, priests, on a pilgrimage to Delphi?

You furrowed your brow. It was no use. The exact phrasing was gone now, smeared by sleep and dinner and too many days at sea. Something about vows. Something about leaving at sunrise. Something about a chance.

You slowed near a corner where the path split—one led down toward the docks again, the other toward the town square.

You took the square.

And as your feet moved forward, one name settled quietly in your chest like a coin dropped in water.

Eione.

You didn't know why. Didn't know if she'd be here, or if this had anything to do with her at all.

But still.

She was the first to see your storm.

Maybe she'd see what came next.

So you walked.

Toward the firelit curve of the plaza.

Toward the possibility that someone might be waiting.

You walked a little further, letting the town unfold in quiet pieces around you.

The plaza wasn't large, but it had a kind of charm—worn cobblestones underfoot, vines curling up cracked stucco walls, lanterns swaying from strings overhead like sleepy fireflies. A few musicians played under an archway, low and lazy.

The air smelled of honeyed dough and sea brine, and a fountain gurgled somewhere nearby, half-buried in ivy.

You turned down another winding path between two rows of homes, the night warmer here, the walls trapping the day's heat in stone. Your fingers brushed the rough stucco as you walked, the texture grounding you.

You passed a window where someone was reciting a prayer. Passed another where someone else was laughing through a mouthful of wine.

And then—Voices.

Louder than the rest.

You paused just at the corner, brows drawing together as a girl stumbled into view.

She was crying. Ugly crying. Snot and tears and full theatrical heaving. "I knew it!" she sobbed, voice cracking as she waved a hand in the air like she was swatting flies. "I knew you were going to cheat on me!"

A boy followed just behind her—tall, frazzled, and clearly out of his depth. "I didn't cheat, Myra! I haven't even looked at anyone else—what are you talking about?!"

The girl spun on her heel with the rage of a tragic poet. "Not yet, Pantelis, but you were thinking about it!" She jabbed a finger at his chest, sniffling. "And don't think I didn't see the way you looked at that sailor with the braid! That was a betrayal in spirit!"

Pantelis ran both hands through his hair, pacing. "Gods, this is exactly what I was talking about! You shouldn't have gone to that psychic! They're scams! They just say things you already suspect so you think they're true!"

"Oh," Myra gasped, staggered like he'd slapped her. "So now she's a liar? The oracle who serves the gods themselves? The one whose grandmother dreamt of lightning and predicted the eruption of Mount Pyraios?"

You stood there blinking, not quite ready to move, not quite willing to miss the unfolding performance.

Pantelis held up his hands. "I'm just saying! We make our own futures! It's not written in stone unless you carve it—"

And then he bumped into someone.

A woman.

She'd come from around the bend at just the wrong time, arms full of what looked like scrolls and flower bundles. Everything went flying—paper across the ground, petals fluttering like sad confetti. Pantelis froze.

"Oh gods—I'm so sorry, I wasn't—"

He knelt to help her, hands brushing hers as they reached for the same scroll.

They froze.

She blinked at him.

He blinked at her.

You saw it.

That moment.

The spark.

A soft, stunned pause like the whole world inhaled.

And then—

"TAKE ME NOW, POSEIDON!" Myra screamed.

You flinched.

The woman they'd bumped into flinched.

The entire street flinched.

"I can't!" Myra wailed, turning in a full spin like a windswept widow. "I can't do this—I knew this would happen! The oracle told me my downfall would come wearing sandals and bad taste in linen and THERE SHE IS!"

She ran off, sobbing into her sleeve.

Pantelis scrambled up, shouting after her. "Wait—Myra! I wasn't flirting! I just—she had scrolls! It didn't mean anything!"

He chased her down the alley, glancing once—just once—over his shoulder at the woman he'd collided with.

She watched him go, a flower still in her hand.

You stood there, stunned.

"...Okay," you muttered. "That was... something."

Still not entirely sure what, you stepped around the bend they'd come from.

Half out of curiosity. Half out of instinct.

Because if that psychic had stirred up that, maybe—just maybe—she was still nearby.

Still reading.

Still watching.

Waiting.

You took one more step.

But before you could go further, you heard it—"____." Soft. Gentle. Almost like it had been carried on a sigh.

You turned, slowly, your fingers brushing the side of your cloak.

An old man stood a few paces behind you.

You didn't recognize him.

His hair was snow-white, long and fine, tucked neatly behind his ears. He wore a white robe—loose, trailing at the hem, cinched at the waist by a simple rope. No sandals. No satchel. Just... white.

He watched you with calm, unreadable eyes. There was no smile on his face. No scowl, either. Just quiet.

"I can show you your future," he said, voice low. Steady. Like he wasn't offering something—but stating a fact. Like you'd already agreed.

You hesitated and your throat worked around a dry swallow. "No thank you," you said quickly. "I've already had... more than enough of that."

But something in the way he tilted his head made your stomach turn.

Your fingers twitched at your side. "Wait," you said, frowning. "Do you... do you know Eione?"

The name felt strange in your mouth again. Like it belonged to a different time.

The old man blinked slowly. His mouth opened.

But before he could answer—

A voice cut through the air, bright and wicked with laughter.

"Well, well, well," a woman gasped, like you'd just committed a sin and made her night doing it. "Look who's wandered far from home."

You whipped around.

Thyessa.

She leaned against the corner of a low stone wall like it was the back of a velvet chair, curls wild and full of crushed flower petals, lips smudged like she'd just kissed someone she shouldn't have.

She looked the same. Exactly the same. Violet eyes glinting like grapes dipped in wine, grin wide and wicked.

You blinked, stunned.

When you looked back over your shoulder—the old man was gone.

No footsteps. No parting robe. Just... gone.

Your stomach flipped.

"Mm-mm," Thyessa tutted, sauntering toward you with a mock scowl. "You really ought to be more careful. A face like yours wandering the streets alone? You're begging for trouble."

You opened your mouth.

She grabbed your hand.

"Come on~" she purred, voice silk and smoke. "You owe me a chat. Let's catch up, little flower."

"I—I was actually—"

"Oh, hush," she cooed, tugging you along before you could finish. "You can chase ghosts tomorrow."

You stumbled after her, her fingers wrapped tightly around yours.

Her laughter echoed behind you, curling down the alley like perfume. Sweet. Warm. Dangerous.

And yet, you couldn't help it—

You followed.

She tugged you down winding alleys that smelled like wine and roasting meat, your feet barely keeping up with her lazy, looping pace.

You passed shuttered windows and flickering torchlight, half-heard laughter spilling into the cobbled streets from corners you didn't dare glance too long at. Her grip on your hand was warm, her rings cold where they touched your skin, and her gait was more sway than walk.

Eventually, she stopped in front of a low, smoke-stained doorway half-swallowed by ivy and chipped paint. A wooden sign above it swung on creaking hooks, too faded to read, but the scent rolling from inside told you everything you needed to know.

Spice. Sweat. Sweet wine. Smoke.

And underneath it all—laughter, too loud, and the crash of something wooden hitting the floor.

Thyessa shot you a grin over her shoulder. "Try not to look like you've wandered into someone's bedroom by mistake."

Then she dragged you inside.

The heat hit first. Then the noise.

The tavern was alive.

People packed the floor, spilling out from low tables and curling around kegs stacked in corners. There were sailors—brawny and sunburned—elbow-deep in drinking contests, their cups slamming onto wood like war drums. There were cloaked figures huddled near the hearth whispering about gods or dice or debts.

Smoke hung low across the ceiling like a second roof, thick with whatever someone was burning in their pipe near the bar.

Barmaids weaved through the crowd like dancers, trays balanced on one palm, skirts slung a little high. One was perched in a sailor's lap, her laugh bright and cutting, her hands in his hair. Another leaned too close to whisper something into a merchant's ear. A third tucked a coin into the bodice of a girl you were pretty sure wasn't technically on the payroll.

And there—at the far end—was a band you hadn't even noticed at first. Their music was low and brassy, slipping between the noise like a secret. It made the whole room feel like it was moving. Breathing. Tilting.

Thyessa pulled you to a corner booth tucked along the back wall—half-shadowed, with a crooked view of nearly everything.

She flopped down first, lounging sideways on the bench like she was royalty in exile, then patted the spot across from her.

You sat, breath still a little shallow from the heat and the suddenness of it all.

Thyessa's eyes glittered as she leaned across the table, voice raised just enough to cut through the noise. "Well?"

You blinked at her. "Well, what?"

She gestured grandly at the chaos around you. "What do you think?"

You hesitated, then leaned in to be heard. "I've... never really been to a bar before."

She squawked.

Actually squawked.

A laugh burst from her mouth, loud and delighted, head tossing back as her curls bounced. "Oh, you poor, innocent creature!" she gasped, slapping her palm to her chest like this was a tragedy. "No wonder you're always so tightly wound."

You tried to glare, but your smile gave you away.

She waved a hand. "Don't worry. You're with me now." Her eyes flashed. "I'll take care of you."

Before you could respond, she stood—fluid as a wave—and smoothed her tunic down.

"Stay put, little flower," she purred. "I'm going to go get us something to drink."

Then she was off.

Vanishing into the crowd with the ease of someone who belonged to it.

You leaned back slightly, the wood of the booth creaking under your shoulder blades.

The tavern buzzed around you.

And for a moment—you let it.

So you sat there, back to the wall, cloak pulled loosely around your shoulders, letting the tavern move around you like a current you weren't part of.

You watched the arm-wrestling match two tables over, where a barrel-chested man was clearly losing to a woman half his size.

You watched a bard tune his lyre with one eye closed and a pipe between his teeth.

You watched a barmaid pinch someone's coin purse clean while distracting him with her laugh.

The air smelled like sweat, citrus peel, smoke, and pine resin. Someone had spilled wine. Someone else was bleeding from the nose, grinning about it. It was messy, loud, alive.

Then a shadow cut across the table.

You blinked—looked up.

A man stood a few feet away, leaning against the pillar beside your booth like it had been built for him. One hand rested above his head, the other hung lazily at his hip, fingers twirling a ring that looked far too polished for a place like this.

He wasn't bad-looking.

Not in a mythic way, not like Telemachus or Hermes or even the memory of Poseidon's ridiculous face—but he was tall, sharp around the jaw, and sun-burnished, with curls just messy enough to look deliberate. His teeth were too white. His clothes were too neat. And gods, did he know it.

He looked at you like he was picking from a market stand.

And when your eyes finally met his, he gave a low whistle.

"Well, well, well," he said, voice slick with charm, "either I've had too much to drink, or they let one of the gods' muses slip down from the mountains tonight."

You blinked.

He smirked. "No? Not a fan of flattery? Alright, how about this—if Helen of Troy had your face, they'd have burned two cities."

Your eyes rolled before you could stop them.

He took that as an invitation.

Of course he did.

He pushed off the pillar, sauntering closer, his hand brushing the edge of your table like he was already welcomed. His grin stretched wider as he slid into the opposite seat, not bothering to ask.

You didn't say anything.

He didn't mind.

"Name's Dorion," he said, flashing teeth like that was supposed to mean something. "Merchant prince out of Corinth. Been circling the islands on trade runs for years. Silk. Perfume. Spices. You name it, I've moved it."

You blinked once. Kept your expression politely blank.

He leaned in just a little, testing your reaction like a salesman pushing a second offer. "I've had drinks with magistrates. Sat next to queens. Even took dinner with the high priestess of Hera once—though she pretended not to enjoy herself." His grin crooked. "Bet you're not easy to impress, though."

You weren't.

Your eyes darted past him—searching the crowd for a flash of curls, a glint of violet. Where was Thyessa?

The music thrummed beneath your feet. Someone laughed behind you. A chair scraped loud against the floor.

Dorion didn't stop.

"You from the city?" he asked, tracing the rim of a half-finished wine cup. "Or one of the fancy palace ones from Ithaca? I could tell the second I saw you—you've got that untouchable thing about you. Makes a man want to try anyway."

You still didn't answer.

He chuckled like that was endearing.

Then he reached forward.

Fingers—too confident, too familiar—brushed up beneath your chin. A light touch, almost a caress, as if he meant to tilt your face upward and keep it there.

Your hand shot up and you grabbed his wrist.

Hard.

He froze—startled just enough for the smug to crack.

Your voice came low. Cold. "Don't. Touch. Me."

He blinked.

Then scoffed.

Smirked.

"Feisty," he said, voice dropping into something smug again. "Should've figured."

But you didn't smile. You didn't even look away.

Not yet.

Dorion didn't take the warning.

His grin returned, thinner now—less charm, more teeth. "Come on," he drawled, fingers flexing like he was deciding where to touch next. "Don't be so uptight. You're sitting alone in a bar like this, dressed like that, and you expect no one to look?"

You wanted to scoff at his words. The only thing you were dressed in was a loose tunic and cloak. So you stared, still holding his wrist.

He chuckled. "Tell you what, sweetheart—why don't we go somewhere quieter, and I'll make sure no one bothers you again—"

His free hand moved, slidding low, and wrapping around your waist.

That was it.

In one breathless blink, you stood.

In the next, he wasn't sitting anymore.

You had him against the wall, one hand braced to his chest, the other slipping your dagger clean from beneath your cloak. From the outside, it looked like an embrace—your bodies close, your head tilted in toward his.

But from your angle?

He knew better.

The blade pressed neatly against the underside of his jaw, angled just so—one sharp twitch from slicing straight up.

His breath caught.

"I may have misspoken," you murmured, voice a low hum in his ear. "Because you didn't hear me right."

You tilted the blade—just enough to nick him.

A thin, bright line of blood welled beneath his chin, trailing down toward his collar.

His eyes widened. The arrogance drained quick from his face, replaced by something much closer to panic. "Okay—alright—wait, I'm sorry," he whispered, voice suddenly very quiet. "Didn't mean—wasn't trying to offend—"

You didn't let him finish.

"You're lucky I'm tired," you hissed. "Lucky I've had a long week. Lucky my hands aren't shaking from rage right now, because otherwise—"

You dragged the dagger down slowly. Tracing. Deliberate.

Right down his chest.

Right past his belt.

Until it rested lightly—very lightly—against the seam of his pants.

His whole body locked.

"Next time, I won't warn you..." You smiled. Cold. Sharp. "I'll just take a souvenir."

He whimpered.

You stepped back, tucked the dagger away, and just like that—you let him go.

Dorion didn't wait for a second chance.

He turned and scurried, actually tripped over a chair leg, cursed under his breath, then all but disappeared through the crowd without looking back.

You watched him vanish, jaw tight, chest heaving just once.

Then—

A whistle.

You turned.

Thyessa stood a few steps away, holding two pints of wine in either hand, one brow raised like she'd just watched a live play.

"I think I'm in love," she said, awestruck.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed, slipping the dagger back into its sheath with a clean, practiced twist of your wrist.

"I leave for two minutes," she continued, handing you a drink as you both returned to the booth, "and you manage to traumatize a Corinthian peacock. Gods, I adore you."

You snorted as you sank back into the booth. "Yet you did nothing."

"I was going to," Thyessa defended, sliding in beside you with an exaggerated huff. "I had the cups in one hand and righteous violence in the other. But then you went full warrior-priestess before I could even blink."

You raised a brow.

She grinned, slow and dangerous. "Besides, he's lucky you got to him first. If I'd had even one finger free—gods, I'd have hexed his name off every sailor's roster from here to Crete."

You laughed—quiet, into your cup—as you brought it to your lips.

The wine was... surprisingly sweet.

Rich, with a floral finish. Not sharp or vinegary like the cups you'd tasted back in Ithaca. It slid down your throat like syrup and summer. You blinked once, pleasantly surprised.

Thyessa saw it immediately. "See?" she crowed, tapping her own cup against yours with a soft clink. "I told you. Only the best for my delicate little bar-bloom."

You rolled your eyes again but let the smile stay.

It wasn't like wine was a new thing to you—not really. But your experience with it was... sparse. Controlled. Carefully portioned. Usually sipped from a secondhand goblet when Telemachus passed you the rest of his drink at dinner. A quiet exchange. A stolen sip.

But none of it had ever tasted like this.

This was different.

This was warm cheeks and the press of bodies and candlelight stuck in your eyelashes.

This was freedom in a cup. Full and sweet and loud.

Thyessa curled sideways into the booth, one knee pulled up beneath her, cloak bunched behind her elbow like a throne. She tossed her hair back and launched into a story like she'd been waiting all night to have an audience.

"And then," she said, grinning wide, "this idiot priest lights the wrong end of the incense—starts waving the smoke around while the goddess statue is literally upside down behind him. Didn't notice until half the temple was coughing and the other half was trying to figure out if that was part of the ritual."

You sipped slowly as she went on, the din of the bar growing hazier around you.

Her stories rolled one after another, each more unhinged than the last—tales of festivals where men dressed as stags danced through the streets, women who wore masks of woven ivy and kissed strangers with honey on their tongues.

She described fireworks that rained down actual petals, how she once spent a week in a tent with a man who claimed to be a descendant of Dionysus, and how she might've believed him if he hadn't cried when he spilled his wine.

You leaned your cheek into your palm, elbow propped on the table, half-lost in the motion of her voice.

And there, tucked in the corner of a chaotic bar, sweet wine on your tongue and wild laughter in your ear—something in you finally started to loosen.

If only for a little while.

.☆.      .✩.          .☆.

You were nearly finished with your fifth cup when Thyessa, very dramatically, declared she was going to fetch another round.

She'd been leaning into your shoulder for the last ten minutes, arm slung across your back, her cheek brushing yours every time she turned to whisper something like a secret. She smelled like wine, spiced fruit, and too much heat—soft and dizzying in a way that made the candlelight feel closer than it should.

"I'll be right back," she said now, slurring only slightly as she half-stood. She wobbled.

You caught her elbow.

She grinned at you, eyes all violet and glitter and flushed cheeks. "If I don't come back, assume I've been married off to the wine merchant. He had nice forearms."

You snorted. "Go slow, goddess."

She winked, then half-sang as she swayed off into the crowd—something about olives and sin and being the reason sailors wrecked their ships.

You watched her go, shaking your head. Then leaned back against the booth's wooden slats with a sigh, the edges of your limbs just starting to feel floaty.

This... was nice.

Warm cheeks. Heavy eyelids. Your jaw aching from laughing too much.

You looked down at the table.

A piece of frayed string was there—golden-tan, thin, probably from a broken lute string or an unraveling placemat. You twisted it around your finger, fascinated by the way it curled and bounced.

It was mesmerizing, honestly. Like it knew it was entertaining you.

Then—Voices.

Familiar.

You blinked, tuning your ears toward a table not far off. Two men, seated near the bar's back corner. Broad shoulders, sun-browned skin, the faintest glow of salt still clinging to them. You knew them. They had been on the ship with you. From Ithaca.

Their voices drifted between gulps of ale.

"Hey, have you seen Nikos?"

That caught your attention.

"Nah," one grunted. "Thought he was just ditching duties again. You know how he is. Always finds some reason to 'check the nets' or 'count rations' so he can nap under the sail."

"...What if he went overboard?" the first man asked. Quiet. Unsure. "During the storm. I mean... nobody's seen him since."

Silence.

You could feel it—how fast the table stilled.

"Shit. Ana's gonna be beside herself if she finds out," the grumbler muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was flat, but there was guilt under it.

"She will," the first man added with a sigh. "Gods, she will. She was already worried before we left. I remember how Zoe told me she saw her crying in the food storage. Wouldn't say why."

You blinked, the names sounding familair, but you couldn't recall where.

"Didn't you say the two of you were making progress?" the second man said. "Man, she's gonna drag the whole mood down when we get back."

"Yeah, Zoe's gonna be miserable if Ana's crying the whole time."

You rolled your eyes.

The first one cleared his throat again. "Should we... should we tell her?"

The quiet stretched.

A pause.

A long one.

Then—"Nah. Let's just say he found some girl on Lyraethos. Chose to stay behind."

"...You think she'll believe that?"

"I think it's better than saying he fell overboard and no one noticed."

"True."

They shared a look—one you didn't need to see to feel.

And that was it. They moved on.

Then—

"Miss me?"

Thyessa's voice was a sunburst against your thoughts.

You looked up, startled.

She stood there grinning, cheeks flushed from the heat of the room, curls bouncing as she tilted her head and held out two fresh drinks like a peace offering. She slid one cup in front of you and dropped back onto the bench with a theatrical groan. "The line was ridiculous. The bartender definitely winked at me. I think I might be engaged."

You smiled at her—tired, warm.

And then a yawn tore its way out of your chest, unexpected and sudden, catching you mid-sip. You slapped a hand over your mouth, blinking groggily.

Thyessa gasped, eyes wide with faux offense. "A yawn? In my presence?"

You laughed softly. "I didn't mean to—"

She leaned in close, clutching her cup dramatically to her chest. "You're fading on me, little flower. After five drinks? Gods, I thought you were training to be a soldier, not a snoring dormouse."

You scoffed, still smiling. "I never claimed to be a champion. I just didn't want to pass out on your shoulder mid-story."

Thyessa waggled her eyebrows. "You'd be the third person this week. At least be the cutest."

You shook your head, pulling your cloak tighter around you as another yawn crept up your throat. The warmth of the tavern, the wine, the lull of her voice—it was all getting too cozy to fight.

She noticed.

Her teasing softened into something more fond. "Come on, you want me to walk you back? I promise not to start any fights on the way."

You gave a lazy little laugh, already sliding to your feet. "It's close. I can manage. If I get lost, I'll just follow the sound of your voice yelling at strangers."

"Oh good," she said, rising as well. "That'll be the fourth person this week too."

You reached for your cup, then paused, thinking better of it. "Thanks for tonight," you murmured. "Really."

Thyessa smiled—soft this time. Sincere.

"Anytime. You've got a face I don't get tired of seeing."

You snorted and turned to leave.

But you didn't make it two steps before her voice rang out behind you, bold and booming again like she hadn't just been gentle with you seconds ago.

"Alright—question for the bar!" she shouted, slamming her empty cup on the table. "Would you rather marry a sea god or die dramatically in the arms of a party animal? Be honest!"

A roar of drunken cheers rose instantly from around the room—men, women, barmaids, and one guy already half-asleep at the bar all shouting their answers over each other.

You laughed under your breath, rolling your eyes as the door shut behind you.

And stepped into the night.

The cold hit instantly—crisp and sharp, brushing your cheeks, threading into your sleeves. The sky overhead was dark and endless, pinpricked with stars and the barest edge of a moon curling against the clouds.

You pulled your cloak tighter.

The streets were quieter now. Lanterns flickered low, casting long shadows on the walls. Somewhere in the distance, someone sang off-key. A few stray cats darted past, chasing something invisible.

You took a slow breath. Let it sit in your chest.

It was the kind that settled deep—not rushed, not sharp, just full. The kind that told you the worst was over, even if the best hadn't shown up yet.

The air here didn't taste like storm anymore. It didn't cling to your teeth or sit heavy behind your ribs. It just... existed. Cool, quiet, clean. Like something was finally done grieving.

You smiled faintly to yourself, the night blurring soft around the edges. The wine still hummed in your blood—not heavy, not dizzying, just... warm. Like someone had wrapped a blanket around your ribs from the inside out.

Your boots tapped lightly over the stones as you made your way back through the crooked streets, half-following the paths you'd memorized, half-drifting on instinct.

The inn rose into view before you even realized you'd reached it, its windows throwing out little rectangles of gold onto the darkened road. You pushed the door open with a sleepy grunt, the hinges whining low in greeting.

Inside, the common room was quieter now. A few sailors hunched over mugs, talking in low voices. Eben waved blearily from a chair near the hearth, his hair sticking up in every direction, before tucking his head back down into his arms. A couple of the others grunted goodnights that barely broke the hush.

You just lifted a hand vaguely in return, your movements slow and loose with tiredness. Everything felt a little heavier now—the soles of your boots, the swing of your cloak, even the smile ghosting across your mouth.

Your body found the stairs. Your body found the hall. Your body found the door.

You weren't even sure you turned the latch properly. Didn't care.

Your room welcomed you with the faint scent of lavender and the soft rumpled shape of Lady curled on the bed. She thumped her tail twice in greeting, then tucked her nose back beneath her paw, trusting you to follow.

You kicked off your boots clumsily. Dragged your cloak over your head. Half-fell onto the mattress with a huff.

The warmth of the room folded around you—the fuzzy, honey-thick kind of sleep that came not from exhaustion, but from peace. From safety. From laughing too hard in a smoky tavern and walking home under stars that didn't seem so far away tonight.

You smiled faintly into the pillow, your limbs already boneless, your thoughts too soft to hold onto.

And just like that—

You slipped under.

Warm. Safe. Drunk on more than just wine.

And for once, you didn't dream.

A/N: ya girl almost done with this school year's semester 😩😩also i try not to respond to questions cuz i know if im not cognitive/too exicted imma end up spoiling stuff, but yeah, guys thats why i just be reading comments like 👀 cuz a lot of yalls questions i see make me fangirl cuz im like "OMG THEY COOKIN 🗣️" due to it ending up being answered like 2-4 chappies later 😭😭😭 i love y'all fr, it's like a big book club fr 😩 but yeash, anyways hope you guys enjoyed this chappie~ should be able to update tmr (day-off) ❤️❤️

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[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??? 🤷‍♀️