#hoo next generation

[mydairpercabeth]

just two bros bonding… nothing else

[beatcroc]

there's no way the bathroom at peppino's pizza is actually that big but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ . hey ummm anyway.... i care them...... anyway there's a lil ramble on my take on fake pep's like psyche or whatever in tags on the og post if ur into that kinda thing :y

hey! it's a series! fake peppino world tour: [noise] [noisette] [peppino]<- u are here [gustavo] [gerome] [noisette again]

[phoenixcatch7]

Okay so I saw this post about dark percy (really him reaching his Limit and fighting full strength with everything he had) and I was imagining the potential fallout of that. Pretty bad, as you can guess.

The thing is a lot of percys strongest moments happen out of view of the olympians, especially in hoo. The hurricane atop the glacier in alaska, the poison scene in tartarus, bending the depression river and the one in the palace of nyx.

Stuff like the St Helens eruption got him washed up on an inescapable island literally removed from reality until calypso gave him the OK, the achillies curse he got tricked into losing by hera. Smaller moments, the minotaur, fighting ares, the stolen pirate ship, walking on water vs hyperion, freshwater sources, him knowing both Latin and Greek, they're more easily brushed off or at least mostly due to cunning, sword skills and sheer luck and grit.

But basically the olympians don't actually know the full extent of percys strength and divine power. They have hints - percy standing on the throne, winning against ares, his many victories - but what they aren't willing to brush aside in the heat of (an important) battle there have been pretty strong consequences for.

Heck, just look at Frank, he's no prodigy with weapons, he's polite and respectful, but his distant relation to two olympians letting him inherit shapeshifting earned him direct divine meddling and his life force tied to a hunk of half toasted firewood. Man is a honey bear with lactose intolerance and he was punished with a mythical death curse for being too strong.

If Percy's true strength came out, he would risk losing everything. His freedom, most certainly. If he wasn't straight up executed he might wind up in a Greek myth style imprisonment, the way of atlas, prometheus, calypso, or something like the myriad of ways Greek heroes met their end. Good scenario he survives a dozen curses and gets on with life with a dozen new disabilities, best case scenario he's stripped of every inch of divine power and dropped back to the mortal world, not even clear sighted. Total separation from the Greeks and Romans. Oh, annabeth would marry him either way, and his friends would hardly abandon him despite the gods wishes, but they'd hardly be able to see him, and no long range contact without the ability to IM him or vice versa.

All of that to say Percy is hiding his true strength from the gods themselves - maybe not consciously, and it's not even power he particularly wants - but if they ever find out?

It's game over.

But why is he so strong? I don't know. What I do know is that the half bloods of the books are so much stronger than the ones of myth. Used to be that divine blood would get you divine favour and a great fate whether you liked it or not. Maybe some cunning and bow skills. A spot of spell casting if you were really lucky. Achillies got his curse after he was born, Perseus had a dozen magic artifacts, orpheus had something going on but hercules is to my knowledge an outlier. Now? Everyone in camp has some special power. Flight, fire, necromancy, hypnotism, dream walking etc. However it's happening, half bloods are slowly but surely getting a lot, lot stronger every century that passes. Meta? I mean I guess. But.

What no one has done before is something that their godly parent couldn't.

Except.

Except Percy.

Except Percy, in tartarus, at his mental, emotional and physical limit, controlling poison with his mind, overpowering the goddess of poison in her home, making misery choke on misery. Feeling something in his chest crack. Doing something poseidon could not, and doing it better than the person who could.

Down there, hidden away from the gods, he evolved. For that brief moment, he did something, was something new.

And that was how the gods overthrew the titans.

And that's why they must never find out.

[the-eclipse-is-in-me]

People of the pjo community, I have a critical question.

Where the fuck did Percy Jackson's next generation come from?

Who manifested so much that this became an actual thing?

When did they even start manifesting it?

When I joined the fandom, this was one of the first things that caught my attention and it made me so confused, someone please explain.

[poppitron360]

Okay so @green-tea217 requested that I share this fanfic based on this post that I made.

I never usually post my fanfics, but I’m feeling brave. This one isn’t finished, but I’ll post the first chapter ‘cause I’m really proud of it. I’m working on the other fanfics that were requested, but I’m posting this one first because I’ve worked rlly had on it.

Summary: Kind of an OC/FanChild fic about my hcs for Percabeth’s kids. VERY Leo/Nico heavy bc they’re my two favourite characters, particularly Leo.

TWs: Swearing, lack of smut (she is a teenager)

Disclaimers: I was still reading SoN when I wrote this chapter, and I am currently on HoH, so if I’ve missed anything that gets revealed later, that’s why. Also I listened to the audiobooks, so if I spell a name wrong, that’s also why, either that or I’ve spelt something the British way.

Chapter 1:

Olympia hated stories.

She hated telling them. She hated hearing them. She hated the way they were often twisted and bent to contain some kind of message. She hated the theatrics of sharing them around the fire, the hushed voices and dramatic tone. And she hated how every story she heard was almost always about her dad.

Olympia Grace Jackson-Chase.

Of course.

For as long as she can remember, people had told her stories about her parents. About her and her birth. How she had been born on Olympus. How Apollo himself had delivered her, and named her “Olympia Grace” so that it would rhyme with her last name. That wasn’t entirely true. “Grace” was the last name of her Auntie Thalia and Uncle Jason. She hated the stories about them too- about all her parents’ friends. They were myths and legends in the eyes of the other campers, to her they were just people who babysat her sometimes. The Cabin 9’ers had been shocked when she’d told them that the heroic son of Hephaestus who had saved the world from Gaea and her evil forces was actually just Little Uncle Leo, and the first Fire User in three and a half centuries isn’t very mythical and legendary when he’s running in from the kitchen, waving a tea-towel at the fire alarm and yelling “Oh shit, the guacamole’s on fire. I set the guacamole on fire. Don’t tell your mom.”

People never wanted to hear those stories. Only the exiting and dangerous ones.

“Percy Jackson fought the Minotaur when he was only ten years old!!!”

“Percy Jackson keeps insisting I tidy my room.”

Suffice it to say, she was sick of it.

“Dad,” she asked, approaching the kitchen table.

Perseus Jackson, the man, the myth, the legend himself, looked up from his comic book and ginned at her.

“What is it, dolphin?”

“Can you… like… not send me to camp this year?”

Her dad frowned, put The Amazing Spider-Man down on the table and leaned back in his chair.

“Why? What’s up? Are the other campers not nice to you there?”

“It’s not that… in fact, it’s the opposite. The attention is getting too much. I wanna learn to fight, but… I’d rather you just teach me yourself. You can show me how to use my water powers.”

“Oly, I know it’s hard, especially as you’re one of the first Legacies at Camp Half-Blood. I can absolutely arrange for you to not go anymore if you don’t want to… but there’s only so much I can teach you on my own, particularly with your mother’s workload. I want to make sure you’d be protected. Could you maybe give it a try, please?”

Olympia was pretty sure she’d been “giving it a try” for the last 14 summers, but she didn’t want to argue with her dad.

“Fine,” she said.

“That’s my girl,” he beamed, “Now, remember to pack your armour for Capture the Flag, I don’t want to have to drive out there and back just ‘cause you forgot it again.”

She sighed and left the room.

She just wished that he had stayed in the car when he’d dropped her off, but no. He insisted on walking with her to the Big House, saying hello to Chiron and generally being a huge embarrassment. It didn’t take long for the crowds of campers to form around them, whispering behind their hands. She hugged her dad, and said goodbye to him as quickly as she could.

She dumped her things in the Poseidon Cabin. She was allowed in both her mom and her dad’s old cabins, but she preferred to be alone to sleep. She did her activities with the Athena kids though, she didn’t want to stand out any more than she already did.

Olympia sat alone, perched on the edge of the Athena table, when suddenly a kid shuffled up next to her. She looked about twelve, with the same grey eyes of her mother.

“What’s your name?” The girl asked.

“Olympia Jackson-Chase,” Olympia sighed.

“I’ve noticed you doing cabin activities with us, but you don’t sleep with the other Athenians? What’s up with that?”

Olympia took a deep breath, and began to explain, “I’m a-“

“Wait. Jackson-Chase?” The kid gasped.

Oh, here we go, Olympia thought, preparing for the usual swooning and/or geeking out.

“Your mother was Annabeth Chase?”

Olympia was slightly taken aback, “Usually, people talk mostly about my father. I’m always “The daughter of Percy Jackson,” never “the daughter of Annabeth Chase.””

“Oh but she’s a legend! She re-designed Olympus! She led our cabin in battle against the Titans! She even held up the sky! I mean, I know your dad did that too, but-“

“She did it for longer. She was under that thing for over a day, he only held it for at most 20 minutes.”

The girl laughed.

“And, if you ask me, she was the one who did all the work when it came to defeating Kronos. Dad did jack shit, just handed a knife to a guy.”

“Exactly! Just because he was in the Prophecy-“

“Nah, it’s a lot simpler than that,” Olympia said, “It’s because he’s a man.”

They sat in silence for a bit.

She never blamed her dad for overshadowing her mom. He didn’t mean to. In fact, he openly hated the stories that didn’t recognise her for all she did. They were so in love, it was sickening.

“I can’t believe she’s, like, my sister.”

The girl gasped, and grabbed Olympia’s arm, “Wait, does that make me your aunt?”

Olympia shook her head, “Don’t bother with family trees, man, otherwise you get into the whole “my dad’s dad is my mom’s mom’s uncle, which makes me kinda my mom’s second cousin, and my dad her cousin-once-removed”- it’s just too much to get your head around.”

She looked directly into the girl’s grey eyes, “My advice, kid, believe whatever bullshit they tell you about the Gods not having DNA, and just try not to think about it.”

The girl’s face fell. “Oh.”

Then she looked exited again, “Did you come out of her tummy or her head like I did with my mom?”

And there we go, Olympia thought. Geez, they didn’t hesitate to ask the really invasive questions, did they?

She took her three-pronged fork out of her pocket, and fidgeted with it, twirling it in her fingers. Instantly, she realised her mistake.

“Why do you carry a fork around and never eat with it?” The girl asked. More questions.

Might at well get it over with, she thought.

“Gift from Grandpa,” she replied.

“A gift from Poseidon? What does it do?”

She sighed again, and dangled the fork over the girl’s glass of orange juice, and let go. It dropped into the glass with a satisfying plop, and then rose to the surface. No, it wasn’t rising. It was growing. It’s shaft elongated, and the prongs stretched to become longer and way more deadly. Intricate designs started carving itself into the metal. Olympia stood up, and grabbed the shaft of the fork just as it finished growing. A three-pronged death skewer of pure celestial bronze. A Trident.

The surrounding campers gaped at her, open-mouthed.

“Woah,” said one of the Hephaestus campers, clearly someone who hadn’t seen the spectacle before.

“OLYMPIA JACKSON-CHASE! NO WEAPONS AT THE DINNER TABLE! CAMP RULES! YOU OF ALL PEOPLE SHOULD KNOW THAT!!”

“Sorry Chiron,” Olympia called. She twisted a little ring of metal around the shaft of the trident, and it shrank back into a fork. She sat back down.

“It responds to water,” she explained, “get it wet, and boom, Trident.”

She had named it Blue. It was her first word, after all. Or at least, that was the story. Poseidon had given it to her on her second birthday, and she had just looked at it, holding it in her tiny fist, and cried “bloooo!” It was probably just baby babbling, but Dad said it counted.

“So what’s Poseidon like? Do you have water powers too? Can you get me your mom’s autograph? Is your dad really 7ft tall?”

She ate the rest of her lunch in silence, only answering the onslaught of questions from the young camper when she had to.

Cabin 3 offered a pleasant respite from the crowds and the people. She dropped her armour and weapons from the day’s activites by the door and kicked off her shoes.

She looked at herself in the mirror.

(Drawing of Olympia: Art by me)

Her curly black hair, which she’d dyed the tips of blonde, was pulled back into a messy ponytail. Around her neck hung a necklace of leather chord, fourteen different coloured beads threaded onto them, each painted with a different design. Her broad shoulders and thick muscles bulged through her plain navy-blue tank top. Her skin was tanned from spending long hours training in the sun. She had a battle-hardened look to her that meant people often mistook her for a daughter of Ares. But her eyes was what made her stand out most- one grey, like her mother, one green, like her father. Her parents had told her how her birth had ended the centuries-long feud between Poseidon and Athena for good, and she had been given those eyes as a way of symbolising that. Another story. It felt like every part of her body had been attached to a story about something her parents had done. Why couldn’t she just be herself? She had spent 16 years living under the shadow of her parents, she was homeschooled from an early age, and had been going to camp since before she could even hold a sword- the demigod life was all she’d ever known. Someday, she’d get away from it all. She’d sink to the bottom of the Mariana Trench and just study the fish, and she wouldn’t have to worry about people or monsters

Suddenly, she felt something tap her on her shoulder. Quick as lightning, she grabbed Blue and spun around. Blue, still in fork form, was about a centimetre away from the neck of her intruder, who held up his hands in surrender.

“Whoah there!” He said.

When she saw who it was, she lowered the weapon and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Leo!” She cried.

“Hey, how’s my favourite cousin? Or… whatever.”

She looked at him and smiled. Despite him being old enough to be her dad, he was about half her size. With a thin, wiry frame and very little meat on his bones. His wild, curly brown hair framed his pointed face and elfish features. His dark skin was covered in a thin layer of motor oil and grime of unknown origin. He tapped her cheek affectionately, leaving a grubby handprint on her face. He walked over to her bed and leaped onto the top bunk, his legs dangling off the ladder.

“You need to stop growing,” he instructed, “You are getting too big, it’s not fair.”

“You need to stop being so short,” Olympia retorted, then her face broke into a huge smile, “I feel like I never see you anymore!”

“I know, you’re too old for me to babysit now, kiddo,” He complained.

“Well that always ended in disaster anyway. There’s still burn marks on that wall.”

“Did your mom find out?” He asked.

“Nope. Dad told her he just wanted to hang more pictures up. And then he went on a long speech about how nice she looked in that wedding photo, and then took her out for ice cream. I think she bought it.”

“Good.”

They stayed in comfortable silence for a few seconds, and then she asked, “So… it’s great that you’re here and all, but… why are you here?”

“What, I can’t come and visit my favourite partner in crime every now and then?”

“Leo…” Her tone was firm.

Leo’s face was suddenly dark and serious, he paused before speaking, but said, “I think I have news about your brother.”

That was Chapter 1- if this post gets… let’s say… 30 notes, I’ll post Chapter 2.

[konigs-left-pec]

Beverly Crusher reading her grandmother's erotic journal entries and then having a sex dream. THEN she's haunted by some 30yr old hottie who has maybe seduced all the prior female generations of her family (I wasn't listening lol too busy being in shock.) What is this? Outlander? FML. Season 7 is completely off the rails. 😭

Also Picard totally acknowledges his JACKET in this episode and I'M SCREAMING

[charlemane]

being interrupted while i'm working on the fiddly bit of a needle craft straight up makes me feel like a horror movie werewolf who's trying desperately to be good but just got an unexpected visitor three minutes before the full moon rises. like i know you have no way to understand and no reason to believe what i'm saying, but you NEED to leave right now before i start growing claws and fangs and fur and every bone in my body breaks and reforms and i do something that neither of us will ever recover from. i beg of you.

[pensiveabstraction]

thinking heavily about my eventual jasico pjo/hoo au of generation loss whose formatting&narrative devices are heavily inspired by homestuck original and the homestuck epilogues. its just,,, on my mind

its not a beat for beat rewrite with diff characters, (bc its in like a whole different medium which im trying to incorporate into the plot), but its like an extreeeemely derivative au. jason is the protagonist bc ofc. i gotta write more plans out for it cos im actually so into it like i have a work skin made up for it and a google doc with some art panels made up for thr first part

[hello-delicious-tea]

This but also: what’s more relatable than “fuck fuck fuck what am I doing with my life, everything I’ve ever cared about seems lost to me or meaningless, and what I’ve chosen to base my life around (God, for Dante) seems lost to me?” combined with “I’m gonna (literally) roast all my enemies, anyone who’s ever wronged me, and that one dude I just don’t like, in writing, for everyone to see”?

The second part is basically Reddit’s AITA where Dante is clearly just making a post to show that someone else (many, many people honestly) is an asshole.

And then he gets to journey back to himself and his convictions and the person he wants to be, and that’s…pretty fucking relatable and aspirational.

And also he’s super gay for Virgil and it’s very funny.

just seen someone criticize the divine comedy by saying that it's not relatable which is of course incommensurably stupid because relatability should never be the only criterion through which one can judge the validity and quality of a piece of work &c but also. just because you tedious unimaginative losers have never been on a journey to hell and purgatory with your long dead favorite writer doesn't mean others haven't. happened to me

[j-psilas]

Will we ever get anything quite like Code Geass again?

I don't think it's possible.

Code Geass is Japanese nationalist propaganda disguised as a global political drama, disguised as a military mecha show, disguised as yaoibait, disguised as a teen melodrama, disguised as a high school romcom, disguised as a Pizza Hut commercial...

...except those layers aren't layers at all, but are instead comingled in a giant snake ball of insanity.

The lead writer, Ichirō Ōkouchi, only ever worked as an episode writer for other shows prior to Code Geass, and never took the helm of an anime series ever again. And it shows. [EDIT: Several people have pointed out his other lead writing credits to me. So I misread Wikipedia—sue me. I maintain that this guy is a better episode writer than he is a lead writer.]

The minute-to-minute pacing is impeccable from a mechanical standpoint, with tension and stakes rising to ever-higher peaks, balanced out by the slow simmers of the b-plot and c-plot. It keeps the viewer on the edge of their seat at all times. Meanwhile, the large-scale plot is the most off-the-wall middle school nonsense I've ever seen, continually surprising the viewer by pulling twists too dumb to have ever have been on their radar—and therefore more effective in terms of raw shock value.

"Greenlight it!" was the mantra of this anime's production. It must have been. It has, in no particular order, all of the following:

Character designs from CLAMP, the foremost yaoi/BL group in Japan at the time—for characters who are only queer insofar as they can bait the audience, and only straight insofar as they can be more misogynist to the female cast.

Speaking of the female cast, hoo boy the fanservice. We've all seen anime girls breast boobily, with many cases more egregious than Code Geass, but there's something special about it happening immediately after—or sometimes in the middle of!—scenes of military conflict and ethnic cleansing.

Pizza Hut product placement everywhere, in every conceivable situation. High-speed chases, light slice-of-life scenes, intimate character moments, all of it. Gotta have Pizza Hut.

The anime-only Pizza Hut mascot, Cheese-kun. He wears a fedora.

The most hilarious approximations of European names—which I would love to see more often, frankly. Names like, I dunno, "Count Schnitzelgrübe zi Blanquezzio."

A depiction of China that is wholly removed from any modern reality, with red-and-gold pagodas, ornamental robes, scheming eunuchs, and a brainwashed child empress. There's a character named General Tsao, like the chicken.

Inappropriate free-form jazz in the soundtrack, intruding at the most unexpected times.

A secret cabal not unlike the Illuminati, run by an immortal shota with magic powers, holding influence all across the world, at the highest levels of government. They matter for approximately three episodes.

An unexpected insert scene of a schoolgirl using the corner of a table to masturbate. She's doing it to thoughts of her crush, the princess Euphemia—because she believes Euphemia to be as racist as she herself is, and that gets her off. This interrupts an unrelated scene of our protagonist faction planning their next move, which then resumes as if uninterrupted.

Said schoolgirl, in a fit of hysteria, threatens to detonate a worse-than-nuclear bomb in the middle of her school. She then goes on to develop an even more destructive version of that bomb, and become a war criminal, in a chain of cause-and-effect stemming from the moment she finds out that Euphemia wasn't actually that racist.

A character called "the Earl of Pudding."

A premise that asks us to believe that the name Lelouch is normal enough that he didn't need to change it when he went into hiding as an ordinary civilian. "No, that's not Prince Strimbleford von Vanquish! That's our classmate, Strimbleford Smith."

The collective unconscious, a la Carl Jung, within which the protagonist fights his villainous father for control over the fate of humankind. After this is over, the anime just keeps going for about ten more episodes.

An episode in which a mech tosses a giant pizza.

A gay yandere sleeper agent who can manipulate the perception of time.

Chess being played very badly, even to the untrained eye. Lelouch frequently checkmates his opponent by moving his king. This goes hand-in-hand with the anime's crock of bad chess symbolism.

A fictional drug that can most succinctly be described as "nostalgia heroin."

Roller-skating mecha in knightly armor, and some of the most sickass mecha fight choreography that I've seen.

I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture. This anime is what the average Westerner in 2006 thought anime was, and it was made in a confluence of factors that cannot be replicated. I've never had so much fun watching something that I found so... insulting. Repugnant. Ridiculous. Baffling. I love it sincerely.

Catch me cosplaying Lloyd Asplund at a con sometime, or maybe even the big gay loser himself, Lelouch vi Britannia.

[the-mighty-glow-cloud]

is it just me or is diamond is unbreakable just... not good

[luna-1234s-blog]

Sally jackson y la caída de nueva roma

Idea para un fanfiction que e tenido hace un tiempo, pero aquí la cosa , no tengo mucho tiempo, a si que mínimo para no quedarme con la idea , aquí va

Alguna vez te paras a pensar y dices ,vaya ," no e hecho nada con mi corto tiempo de vida "?, crees que todos ya llegaron a las cúspides de sus vidas, pero tu no lo harás nunca?

Pues te llevarías bien con Sally zoe Jackson,la hija de 2 de los increíbles héroes de nueva Roma, Percy jackson y Annabeth chasse

La genética divina puede ser confusa, pero lo peor que te puede pasar, es ser la decendiente de uno de los 3 grandes , y de la diosa más valiente e inteligente... pero no hacer nada de eso

Con 2 padres que hacen lo posible para proteger a la única hija sin una habilidad reconocible , un niño monstruo que tiene que adaptarse todavía al mundo de semidioses, y un niño que se esfuerza para mantener el legado de sus padres , y sumado a que los romanos siguen sin aceptar del todo a los griegos

la familia Jackson trata de sobrellevar sus vidas normales, en una ciudad que ya no los necesita, y talvez jamás los quiso, pero cuando una supuesta profecía incluye a su hija , las cosas no pueden estar peor

[coquettepascal]

felicitas and her general

summary: general acacius has caught your attention after being the first mortal to worship you in decades. you only face one challenge: don't get too attached.

warnings: rated g, contains spoilers for gladiator ii, follows the timeline of the movie somewhat, reader is the goddess felicitas (who is the goddess of good luck,) this fic is basically just an add on to the movie.

tags: goddess!reader x general acacius, emotional infidelity, lots of roman mythology stuff, writer is basing all her knowledge out of what she remembers from PJO and HoO, worship, complicated feelings, marcus does not cheat on lucilla physically, yearning, pining, grieving, guilt, major character death(s), stalking (kind of), a lot of obsession/dedication, angst, hurt no comfort but also hurt with comfort.

a/n: i watched gladiator ii and then was too emotionally devastated to finish this fic the way i planned. i really hope you all like this!! also, this fic is also dedicated to my dear friend @pascalssbabyy because she is my biggest cheerleader and i love her <33

wc: 7.2k (not beta read)

It was he who woke you.

A quiet sacrifice in the evening that felt like the freshest breath of air you could have, more intense than what you could have atop any mountain, near any spring. The scent of burning meat and smokey vegetables grasped at your lungs, and you almost choked on it. How long had it been since someone had offered you something so kind? Real food, not just scraps of something they didn’t wish for. 

You’d never complain about how difficult it is to be a minor Goddess, you know that you could be a mortal, but most don’t think of how Gods can fade. It’s a physical process, one where you’d notice how your fingertips passed through things like chalices and bowls, how a spoon slid through your hand once. The clatter of gold on the table was embarrassing, even though you were alone. Nothing about being forgotten, or fading, physically hurt. It was only mentally taxing, knowing that you weren’t as important as you once were, that mortals found you insignificant.

Generals used to come and offer things frequently sometime ago, but you couldn’t even begin to understand how long ago that was. When you’re immortal, or supposed to be, mortal lives seem fleeting. You had taken them for granted, and regret it now, for all you have now are the empty clouds above your temple. 

The last offering you can gather was from a young boy, who wanted to win a board game against his sister the next day. He had given you half a bun with strips of meat. Sure, it was thoughtful, but this was something rich. 

You finish inhaling the offering, and then hear the offerer's voice. But it’s muffled, and you want to see who it is anyways, so you swipe through the clouds and create a window to see. Then you can hear him clearly.

Someone who is clearly a general kneels at your altar, which is chipped and dirty. The ashes of the food are in front of him, smoking still, and you can taste the wealth in his meal. It can’t distract you from him though, he is striking.

Broad shoulders support a heavy, curly, grey, head of hair, which is bowed in honor of you. His body is widely built, sturdy for battle, and his voice is just as powerful. You’re so focused on hearing his voice you only catch the tail end of his request.

“... Allow me to come home safely, if not for Rome, then for my wife.”

Your heart squeezes, and you swear you can feel the ichor gushing through your veins. Scarcely when a General came to give you an offering all those years ago would he mention a wife, only ever wishing for luck in the upcoming battle or war. But here, now, you’ve been given a respectful request and offering. It isn’t a thought in your mind to not favor him now, your eyes closing and your mouth murmuring a blessing to him. It feels intoxicating to use some of your power again, especially on someone who asked for it. It also feels intoxicating to watch this General leave.

He looks around before he goes, seeming to note how degraded your small temple has become. The statue of you that lies ahead of your altar is yellowing, and ironically, multiple fingers have broken off. The General seems displeased by this, sighing as he exits the temple.

His gait is heavy, sandaled steps weighted as he walks down them and into the torch-lit night. You find yourself looking for him even after he’s disappeared from your sight, the warmth of gratefulness hugging around you. Part of you knows better than to play around with the thought, but still you wish to know more about him.

—

It worsens when he comes back. A few times a week he returns, offering rich foods. It’s been a month now, and you are coming back to life.

Fading didn’t feel like anything, but coming back feels like so much more. The first few offerings had your body feeling alight again, like the ichor in you was flowing again, but within the last two weeks you’ve gotten your fingertips back. They were tingling for a day and then the next you were able to properly grasp things again, nothing was slipping through you.

In that time you had also learned his name. A guard had come looking for him one night, and stood behind him whilst he prayed. You had found yourself smiling when he didn’t interrupt himself, instead acting aggravated once he had finished. The guard had apologized for interrupting and let him know that “Your wife wishes to speak to you, General Acacius.”

Acacius. 

You still don’t know his first name, but it is enough. You can think of it when you feel lonely, when you are bored. Something to associate with the offerings, with the blessings. The fact he has been so consistent hints at a desperation, which would usually repel you from blessing him, but he is the only one who seems to recognize you. His efforts are not going to go unseen by you, not when you have so little to do.

You can feel yourself conceding to your need to know him more, but just as you begin to fight yourself again, he shows up.

Tonight he’s dressed a little nicer. Usually he arrives in a plain tunic but this one has golden trim on it, and his hair is a little more tousled. He stumbles into your altar holding something in a cloth, but he’s walking like he’s… drunk? 

Acacius meanders to your altar, grabbing a torch along the way, and then empties the contents of the cloth. It produces a small dessert bun, a Libum, or honey cheesecake, and your mouth waters. So much of the food that is given to you is savory meats, masculine foods that are heavy on the senses, but this is sweet and delicate. You can, of course, eat whatever you’d like. You’re a Goddess, and though you aren’t major, you are still very fortunate.

But this feels thoughtful.

The General drops to his knees after lighting the bun ablaze, swaying slightly, and now you know he must be drunk.

“Goddess Felicitas,” he begins as normal, “I am sorry I am later than usual. Though I don’t know if Goddesses sleep. I was… caught up in other affairs, but I made it in time.”

He is less eloquent than usual and seems particularly focused on how it is nearly past midnight.

“I brought you this though,” he gestures to the half burnt bun. “I wanted to bring you something different than meat and… things. I thought a dessert would be fitting for that task.”

Acacius pauses now. His thoughts are probably muddled from whatever he drank, and you find yourself smiling. Foolery has never been so endearing to you.

“You have been listening to me, I suppose. My requests for luck in battle have been answered, as well as my safety being ensured. Your blessings have brought my wife peace of mind, something I could not previously afford to her.”

He looks so small in your temple tonight. Normally he is not so vulnerable, but his shoulders sag as he mentions his wife. Some sort of shame runs over him at the idea that he could not ease his wife’s worries, but it makes you feel better that you could help. 

“Goddess Felicitas, I come here tonight bearing no requests, just gratitude. Your blessings have soothed wounds I could not see, and I feel like a young soldier again. You invigor me.” 

Then, he leaves. 

You watch helplessly as he stumbles back down the steps and away from your temple, and more than ever you wish to chase him. The love he has for his wife is clear, and you hold no jealousy of that, but you wish it were you. Something in you is deeply attached to this General now. He has awoken you so much more than rekindling your power as a goddess, more than releasing you from the grief that comes with fading. Yes, Acacius has made your heart beat again, your mind curious again, and you feel seen. Being worshipped is not the same as being loved, if that were true you’d have had many children by now, 

But after so long being forgotten, this feels like what you remember being loved as.

—

You try not to interact with the other Gods for the most part. They tend to meddle in things they don’t need to, and are sensitive. You are not exempt from this stereotype, but that’s only more reason for the distance. 

But today, you venture to meet another deity.

Morpheus is not hard to find. He is pretty stationery where he is, usually lounging on a rock or bench near his temple, or above it in the clouds. He is a bit…dramatic, from what you remember, but wise. 

Today he is stretched out on a cloud above his temple, eyes shut. His pale skin stretches taut on his bones as his lean frame breathes deeply. But, he is not asleep. 

“Morpheus,” you speak. 

His body rolls toward your direction, eyes still shut, but a small smile on his face.

“O young goddess Felicitas, what brings you to me?” He questions.

It’s hard not to feel embarrassed. You’ve spoken to Morpheus on very rare occasions, but he’s always been somewhat helpful, though nosy. Dreams tell a lot about people, and when he’s the one giving them to people, it’s hard to hide anything at all.

You don’t want him to know of your true affection for General Acacius, just that he is… worthy of a visit. 

And so you begin to describe it to Morpheus, your need to visit Acacius. He doesn’t open his eyes at all, but he raises his eyebrows a lot and seems bemused at your situation. You’re only halfway through your rambling before he raises a gangly limb and waves at your words.

“Felicitas, you think you are the only Goddess wishing to visit her admirer? You need no explanation,” he says jovially. 

Morpheus reaches into the air and pulls 6 black berries into existence, then drops them into your open palm.

“When you know he is asleep, bite down on one of these and think of him,” he describes to you.

The berries smell like nothing, but a powdery residue is left on your skin as you roll them in your palm. It doesn’t repel you at all.

Tonight, you will visit him and express the same gratitude he did to you. 

—

Marcus lays next to his wife, Lucilla, with her hand in his. She fell asleep sometime ago, leaving him to lie awake by himself.

He didn’t make it to her temple tonight and the guilt is festering in his body. Marcus knows that she is a Goddess, that he probably isn’t a thought in her mind. He knows that he is just another whiney mortal, giving her food that isn’t nearly as good as whatever Gods eat. His insignificance grows as he feeds into his guilt. 

Stress has permeated his life for much of it, from his time as a young soldier up until now, as a General. Battles, politics, and his family, have created a breeding ground for him to be wracked with anxieties, but he stays strong. Thanks to his time in Felicitas temple, it’s been better.

Which is why failing to make it to her temple tonight is making him feel so bad.

He grabs at the linen sheets of his bed, stressing and trying to reassure himself until he falls asleep finally.

—

Being in a dream is weird. It feels much the same as it does when you disguise yourself as a mortal, the out of body experience is semi-familiar, but it’s weird because someone else is there.

You’ve been watching the General enjoy the lake in front of him for a few minutes now. He hasn’t slipped into it, but just walks along the waterline. It seems like he is looking for something. Surely his dreams usually contain more action, or perhaps are memories, so you assume it may be strangely understimulating for him.

The appearance you’ve chosen is one of modesty, but elegance. A seafoam green peplos hangs off your frame delicately, with golden clasps at the wrists and waist. You did your hair so it would be tucked out of your face. There is no guarantee that Acacius will recognize you like this, but you look much like your statue that’s within your temple.

Swallowing your nerves, you shimmer yourself into visibility. The grassy field is odd beneath your feet, and you walk toward him with uncertainty in each step. You’ve never met with a mortal before, and you haven’t stepped on anything earthy in a long while. His broad stature only becomes more daunting as you get closer, especially since he seems so focused.

You will have to speak first. You’re much too quiet in this environment, and you must act fast lest he wake before you get his attention.

“General Acacius,” you speak firmly, though your hands shake. 

This is so unfamiliar to you. You’ve barely even seen his face, as he’s usually bowed at your altar. It is the first time you’ll see him at an equal level, the first time you’ll have brought yourself to him rather than him to you. 

He turns quickly, an instinctual aggressiveness toward the unknown. You stand about 10 feet from him, eyes widening.

Acacius is striking. His nose is what you focus on first, strong in shape and line, but behind it are his eyes which look to you with wide acknowledgement. His hair curls around his head in greying ringlets, like a permanent laurel crowning him. The wide expanse of his back was once impressive, but now you can see the solid wall which he becomes when facing you. Nothing could push him over it seems, a man built to stand.

Your heart squeezes the way it did the first time he gave you a request, a tender rush tingling your whole body. No words come out of either of your mouths, and the General drops to one knee instantly. 

He recognizes you.

“Goddess Felicitas,” he rushes out in a breath. His chest is heaving as he bows his head and no, no this isn’t how you want this.

Your feet are moving before you can focus on your anxiety, bringing you so close to him that you can kneel too. Maybe a goddess should not kneel before a mortal general, but you are just on your knees rather than putting yourself below him. Your peplos billows a little as air rushes through it when you hit the grass.

He is above you like this, and you tilt your head to see his face again. His strong brow is furrowed, eyes squeezed shut like he is afraid of you. 

“Acacius,” you say softly, “I am not here for… for ill reason. Please relax yourself.”

You lean back as he relaxes, head tipping upwards as he kneels in front of you as well. Now you can meet his eyes, see the crinkles that are beside them, and really take him in.

An energy of anxiety is shared wordlessly, with him stiff from the sight of a literal goddess, and you with the fear of… something. 

The identity of your anxieties isn’t something that you can figure out. Maybe it’s too much to see such a handsome mortal, or maybe it’s that you’re going to thank him for his offerings so personally. Maybe it’s humiliation from this act. What would other Gods think of this? Is it not degrading to become so attached to a mortal? Are you no better than Zeus or Hermes, the gods who interact too intimately with mortals? 

The sound of his labored breathing alerts you, calls your attention back to the present moment. 

“I wanted to thank you,” you admit meekly, “for your offerings. You have been very generous and… devoted.”

His eyes are shifty, and you can see the terror in him still. You don’t want him to fear you, but you can understand why. Visits from Gods or other deities can mean trouble, but you aren’t significant like that.

“General Acacius you are the first mortal who has acknowledged me in a long time,” you offer a vulnerability, perhaps trying to soothe him.

It feels so backwards for you to be kneeling in front of him, speaking. He has done so in front of your altar for many weeks now, but now the spots are switched, yet you are still in power. You avert your gaze as you speak up, wanting to request something of him.

“You’ve been so generous to me, General, I was hoping to know more about you.”

And now, rather than scared, he seems suspicious. 

“To know me?” He clarifies. 

You nod.

“I only know your last name. I think I could offer more luck and splendor if we were more… personal.” 

Gods that felt awful to say. You’re no better than the whorish brutes on their thrones, offering petty glories for intimacy. Everything feels flirtatious but that’s not what you’re looking for. Acacius has a wife he clearly loves, you would never want to interrupt that. 

He seems to hesitate, but he knows he cannot refuse you. So far your blessings have brought ease to his life, he wouldn’t want to lose that.

“Then… yes, I suppose I can offer myself if it would please you.” He responds stoically. 

And it does please you, to know his name. Marcus Acacius, the one who woke you, the one who has saved you from being a fragmented memory within the temples. 

Marcus Acacius, who you are too fond of.

—

You visit him 3 more times. In an attempt to space out the usage of the berries Morpheus gave you, you only visit him once a week. The bleak tasting berries are sour on your tongue, a rotten sour which lingers once you wake up, but it’s worth it.

The two of you have grown closer, with Marcus opening up more. He tells you about the stresses in his life, how much anxiety is buried in him. But, he’s confident for the sake of his wife. You’ve learned that her name is Lucilla, and much more about her. Marcus talks about her a lot, in passing or retelling something she told him. In the small amount of time you’ve gotten to know him, you’ve gotten to know her as well.

It burns you with a strange warmth, a desire and envy which makes your stomach growl. You are hungry for him to admire you in the same way, to speak of you, but doesn’t he already? Shame grips your throat when you think of it. You are a Goddess who he sacrifices to, who he wishes to have blessings from. What more do you need? A mortal couldn't offer you what another deity could. 

After the fourth meeting, you found yourself lonely. Lazing back in the clouds above your temple, you woke with a deep hunger. Marcus is beautiful, an admirable man, and he loves passionately. You are already being such a glutton for even speaking with him, meeting with him repeatedly, so why must you yearn for him too? 

Worship isn’t enough, you want what you will never let yourself to have.

Nothing hints that he might feel similarly. His starry gaze which lands on you is not due to your beauty, your personality, or anything more. You have blessed him, and that is why his eyes glitter. Goddess status has never made you feel so low and isolated. Still, you are happy to help him achieve what he wishes, even as it cripples your heart.

Tonight you plan on visiting him. That fourth visit was a week and a half ago, he may be wondering where you are. He still comes to your altar each night, but the prayers are less personal. Marcus saves his stories and ramblings for when the two of you are in the field, or near the lake, when the two of you are really alone.

—

You bite into the berry at around midnight. Its tangy yet death-tasting juice floods your mouth, clinging to the crevices between your teeth and staining your gums. Closing your eyes, you think of Marcus, and his curls, and his eyes, and his nose, and his strong hands.

And then you are there, and he is waiting. 

It seems like his subconsciousness has picked to be at the lake today, and he’s sat in the sand at the edge of the water. You walk over to him, but notice how… down he appears to be.

“She is not happy with me,” Marcus confesses before you even sit down.

You stand a few feet back from him, looking at how his curls fall around his bowed head.

“Lucilla?” You ask softly.

He nods.

A wicked feeling begins to steep in your heart. She is upset with him, he is in need of you for something more than a blessing. 

And so you listen. 

It’s one of the longer meetings the two of you have had. Marcus doesn’t cry, but he seems truly upset. He’s been called to go off somewhere far again, to fight and kill. Reassurances that you will protect him as best you can only soothe him so much. 

He doesn't care if he dies, he cares that his beloved is distraught over this. 

The more the two of you talk, the closer you get. There are marks on the sand from where you originally sat, but now you kneel in front of him, with creased brows and worried eyes. This isn’t something you can fix, you aren’t familiar with love and its intricacies. 

His knees were tucked closer to his chest before, but they’ve loosened now and his fists rest atop them, clenching. Frustration sits on his face like a mask, one you wish to take off him.

Touching is not… something either of you partake in. Sometimes your shoulders will brush when you sit together, but nothing more has ever been initiated. 

That is why it doesn’t surprise you when he flinches as your hand reaches out to rest on top of his right clenched fist. 

“Marcus,” you say softly, wanting to offer comfort, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t,” he replies swiftly.

At first it hurts, watching as he waves off your hand from his own, but then you look at his face rather than where your hands were joined. The frustrated look on his face is gone, replaced with something worse, something guilty. His eyes aren’t glittering at you like usual, nor are they hardened with anger.

They’re soft pools of conflict that mirror your own.

It doesn’t soothe your burn, satiate your envy. You can see in his eyes that maybe you aren’t alone in these feelings of admiration, of want, but maybe this is not what you want.

Maybe you want a different universe, one where he doesn’t have to be a mortal and you, a Goddess. So you wouldn’t have to worry about him dying, and have this friendship survive off death flavored berries. Maybe you want a universe where he isn’t married, where he could be yours and you wouldn’t feel like a spectator to his heart.

Maybe you want that, but you won’t get it.

Instead the flames of jealousy die in your chest and are replaced with tumors of guilt. Your whole body feels bloated, embarrassed, and ugly. 

The pair of you stare at each other, a stupid realization between the both of you as you realize that your secrets have been spilled, even though it’s the same one.

His eyes don’t move from yours, so you move from his.

The sandy edge of the lake does not look so bright now, even though there are no clouds in Marcus’s dream. 

“When do you leave?” You ask softly. 

You will not follow him into whatever battle he’ll win. Don’t embarrass yourself, Goddess.

He tells you two weeks. You say you’ll see him before then.

Then you wake on a cloud again, with a cavity of guilt in your chest.

—

Marcus wakes alone. 

Lucilla had not wanted to sleep with him that night, choosing to stay elsewhere. She didn’t tell him where, she left in a quiet flurry of tears and anguish.

It’s easier for him to feel guilt over his Goddess than it is to hurt his beloved, even if it is the same.

In a moment of frustration he grasps at the sheets, turning over and biting at his pillow. The bed is so cold, and the room smells like stale air even though the window is open, the night breezy. 

He knows she is beautiful because she is a Goddess. All Goddesses are beautiful, ethereal beings that mortals cannot even comprehend at times. Marcus knows he is lucky to even perceive her, for her to have chosen to visit him.

Yet through all her blessings, he feels cursed.

A plague of emotional infidelity is crawling through his body, sticking to his bones and making him stiff. Everything he does has felt flat for so long, from pretending he is grateful to the Emperors, to now pretending nothing is wrong in his marriage. He’s scared, and exhausted.

Marcus rubs a hand over his face after rolling over and sitting up in bed, groaning into his palm. 

At first he tried to blame her for it. What would a Goddess want from a successful General other than a demigod hero son? What could truly be so special about him? He assumed she was manipulating him, using some sort of power to morph his heart, but now he knows it is not true.

If she had wanted to, she would have had him by now, and he knows this. If she had wanted to, her hand would have stayed where it was tonight, and pushed him further. It isn’t unlike the Gods to force themselves on a mortal, but she didn’t.

Instead, his hand feels hot where hers rested, and his mind is spinning. 

Marcus doesn’t fall asleep again, afraid that he’ll see her. 

—

You wait for a full two weeks before you visit him again. He had been coming to your temple less, and you had assumed he was busy with preparations for the coming battle. 

The stubbornness you felt that night has not left you. At first you did not leave your temple in fear that you would grow attached, now you remain there because you have grown attached. 

“Enough is enough,” you had thought to yourself. 

But it is hard not to miss him, and his soothing prayers. The way his offerings tasted of smoke and sweet, and how he’d always burn such a large portion. Marcus never gave you scraps, he seemed to refuse to. 

However, you can only distance yourself so far. 

It is quiet when you approach him. He is sitting in the field this time, the lake a distant glitter in your eyes. He does not face you, but his head isn’t bowed like before.

“Marcus,” you greet, your voice muted.

He raises his head, turning over his shoulder and nodding, as if to direct you to come closer, and so you do.

Tonight’s visit isn’t vulnerable, or even pleasant. Marcus seems so distant as he dryly tells you about how he’s preparing, and his wishes to return safely. His eyes barely meet your own as he talks, and he continuously twists the ring on his finger.

It grows tiring, watching him ramble about politics you could care less about, listening to him say things that have nothing to do with him. He’s so far from the friend you thought you had made. When the air between you goes quiet, you don’t fill it for a while. You listen to the sound of the wind in the grass as his eyes still will not meet yours. It’s breaking you apart.

This is the last night you’re able to visit him, unless you visit Morpheus again. You will not waste it like this.

“What is ailing you, General?” You ask, deciding to prod more than you usually do.

To your surprise, he scoffs in light laughter.

“You,” he responds quietly.

His words don’t hurt, at least not yet. You have the option to walk away now, wake yourself and leave him with his final blessings, but of course you don’t.

“Me?” You ask, “what have I done?”

Marcus rolls his shoulders back, lifting his head to look into the everblue sky above the both of you.

“You have made my life difficult, Goddess.”

Difficult? You have made his life difficult?

You have half a mind to tear him to pieces, curse him with something awful like snakes for toes, or spoons for teeth. After all that you’ve done for him, all the safety you’ve provided, he is telling you that you make things difficult? How dare he? Be outraged, Goddess, for he disrespects the holy luck which you bestowed to him.

That’s what you should think, that’s how most of you should feel.

But instead you feel small, and hurt. Yes, he is disrespecting all that you’ve given, but also you feel like a failure. Your physical existence is because of him, because he did not let you fade. All you wanted to do was make his life easier, help him to have an eased mind and a safer life.

But instead, he’s telling you you’re difficult.

It feels like your body is shrinking in the white peplos you’ve worn, the sheer fabrics swallowing you. Shame is flooding in the form of tears behind your eyes, wetting your orbs with an unexpected outburst of emotion.

“I am sorry,” you manage weakly.

Marcus does not look at you while you cry, and you want to believe it is because he cares too much to watch, but you cannot verify that.

The wind picks up again, but it does nothing to hide the soft cries you can’t hold back. Once you were a fading Goddess, now you are just a failing one.

There is no luck involved with love.

Eventually he speaks again, with his head turned away from you.

“I am sorry too,” he says. There’s a finality in his tone that makes you ache.

So much is said in such little words. He is sorry to you, for you, and with you. A sorrow is shared between the two of you, knowing that your hearts ache for one another as they are worlds apart yet on earth together. 

This last berry was only supposed to mark the end of your visits, not the end of everything. It feels like this is all there is for the two of you, since it’s too complicated to continue on like this.

That’s why he doesn’t move away when you move closer and rest your head on his shoulder as tears leak down your cheeks, or at least that’s what you’ll believe. 

—

Time moves weirdly when you’re immortal, but it all happens so quickly.

Marcus stopped coming to offer things for you, and so you were blessing him less. Admittedly you had kept an eye on him, but not a keen one. It didn’t feel right, not when you and him weren’t… friends anymore.

But this feels too soon, too fast, too unfamiliar. Has your sadness caused you to be blind?

You watch as a man kneels in front of Marcus, panting and bloody with a sword beside him on the ground.

The only reason you are here was because you had felt the roar of a crowd all the way at your own temple, a wide distance away. It had drawn you in, and instead you had found this.

That roaring which you had heard crescendos to a new height around you as you shimmer into existence, cloaking yourself to the mortal eyes in the stands of the coliseum, but existing enough to touch him.

Arrows stick out of his front, more crushed beneath his back, as he is slumped on the white, gravel, ground. His hair is curled with tacky blood streaking through it, and he is so, so, still.

You drag your hand across his forehead, feeling the remaining heat, and in the echo of the crowd you begin to sob. 

Everything around you is moving, changing, fighting, and screaming, but you sit invisible in the center of the coliseum, running your hands over the now dead General Acacius. There is nothing you can do to bring him back, to ease Lucilla, to save him and apologize. He is dead beneath your fingers, with arrows lodged deep in his irreparable, mortal, flesh. 

You were supposed to keep him safe.

Hot tears run down your cheeks as you keep grasping at his armor, unable to move him or yourself. The last visit felt official, but this feels final. There is nothing more for you here, no friendship in a corpse.

Thoughts are running through your mind at the rate that your breath is puffing from your chest. The question of where he will end up in the afterlife is overwhelming you, and the chance for him to go to Elysium feels reasonable. It’s where he should be, where he deserves to go, especially after all he had done for Rome. You don’t even care why he’s here, or why he seems to have been brutally killed, but after the time you spent with him, Elysium seems right for him.

—

It’s where he should be. Elysium is where he should be.

And it’s where you find him.

His place there is somewhat similar to his and Lucilla’s home back in the mortal world, with lush greenery and airy drapes that flutter in various colours. It seems like he has left space for Lucilla here too, with space left in the chests for her things, and a permanently made half of the bed.

Elysium offers a true celebration of life for heroes, demigodly or not, and you’re sure Marcus has been enjoying that. Anything that he had been shackled to in his mortal life was gone now, and it seems that all he would have to miss is his wife. 

Most of your time is spent there, in his afterlife home. You peer from behind curtains when he comes back, hidden in drapes and keeping yourself small. 

He is already dead, but after the last time you abandoned him, you cannot bear to leave him alone again.

The vision of him, bloodied and murdered on the coliseum floor, flickers into your mind every time you see him lying in his bed. It’s an obsession to be near him, to be looking after him. Pluto might not even know you’re down here anymore, but what does it matter?

Marcus Acacius was the last living mortal to worship you. In the underworld, you are beginning to fade. Your fingers are slipping from you again, which is making it easier to lurk near him, but it is a painful process.

You want to speak to him. No longer do you yearn for his love, not after being in his home and seeing how dedicated his heart truly is to Lucilla, but you yearn to speak to him again. A panicked emotion runs through you at the thought of fading alone, of being entirely forgotten. 

It didn’t matter before he died, fading was just something bound to happen, but now it’s more. Is he forgetting you?

—

You’ve lost most of your arms by the time you work up the courage to speak up. Lucilla arrived sometime ago, joining Marcus in the afterlife. Watching them together brought some warmth to you, some kind of happiness that you couldn’t have for yourself, but seeing it for him was enough.

You sit on the terrace of their home, invisible to their eyes, and somewhat to your own. From the tips of your fingers to just below your elbows, you are a specter. Grey shadow fills where your limbs used to be, and they pass through all objects. You couldn’t tap his shoulder if you tried.

Oftentimes you sit, hidden, and ponder by yourself about more than Marcus. There were so many things you were adamant about when he was alive, and you regret it all now. Your determination to avoid your feelings, or at least not show them, and your need to not become attached… it bites at you now, a stinging, grieving, venom, that won’t leave. Your status as a Goddess blinded you to how tender that friendship could have been, and now you sit as a ghost spectator to his afterlife, obsessed with a mortal as a fading immortal. 

The tips of your fingers pass through the glass you try to grab as you think of this on the terrace. You’re glad that you’re such a minor deity, so at least you do not have to feel so humiliated about fading. A smile has just graced your face as you feel blessed for being so unimportant you can essentially stalk this mortal, when suddenly his voice cuts through the humid air of the space.

“Felicitas?” Marcus’ voice asks.

It’s so hesitant that you think you’re imagining it. You thought you had their home to yourself right now, thinking they had gone to do… whatever souls do in Elysium, but when you turn your face, he is there.

Marcus has not worn fancy clothing in a long while now, and right now is no different. He stands before you in a plain looking tunic, which just graces his knees. To see him at ease has been so nice, but he looks distressed at your sudden appearance.

You cannot find your voice as you awkwardly stand up, trying to think quickly. There is no good way to explain what you’re doing here, hidden away in him and his wife’s home. You could just vanish into thin air, but that feels wrong. He has seen you already, any attempts at pretending you aren’t here would be ridiculous.

His eyes scroll from your face down to your arms, and the smoking shadows that used to be there. Concern pinches onto his face with knitted brows and pressed together lips.

Something in you wants him to turn away, so you don’t have to think about why he is worried for you, even after all the trouble you caused, but he doesn’t.

His sandaled steps are heavy as he comes to you, reaching for your hands but finding the gesture fruitless as his own slip right through yours.

“Dulcissima,” he speaks weakly, shock woven in his words.

You had told him about fading a little while ago, when the two of you were in that field. Now it seems the severity of it has hit him.

What is hitting you is the name. Dulcissima, or sweetest. How long had it been since you had been referred to so fondly? All at once you are being remembered, recognized, and shown some affection. It feels like too much and tears are falling out of your control.

“I’m sorry,” you manage, “I was supposed to– to keep you safe.”

Marcus is shaking his head already, refusing your apology.

“No, no. You did keep me safe, you did. I pushed you away, I couldn’t control myself and I caused this,” he argues. 

It does not comfort you that you both blame yourselves. You wish to reach out to him and touch his face like you should have when he was warm and alive. You want to know if he is cold now, and it’s as if he hears you.

Marcus places a hand on your cheek, a softness in his eyes and hold that says that he missed you.

“I saw you,” he claims, “when I was on the ground. You were the last thing I saw.”

Somewhere between life and death for mortals, there are moments of godly clarity. Some see the light, others see their families and memories, but in that tiny glimpse of time, some see Gods. 

He was able to see you as you knelt over him, sobbing as you were cloaked to any mortal's naked eye.  You were the last thing he saw, and the last thing he truly regretted. 

All you can do is stiltedly nod at him, feeling like you were in trouble even though it seems he’s not upset.

For a moment, his eyes flick away, contemplative, but then he meets your gaze again.

“I told Lucilla of you, before I died. Not– not of my feelings which I struggled with, but that you were a close friend, a blessing in many ways.”

A blessing in many ways.

Another choked sob is wracked from your chest, your bottom lip curling out embarrassingly as your face contorts. He almost coos at you, the thumb on your cheek rubbing away your tears.

“Goddess, I have missed you,” he admits. 

Stupid nods are all you can offer, your voice imprisoned in your ever tightening throat which cries. When he was alive he was never this tender, too confused and insecure to ever touch you, but it seems he has been regretting things too.

“Felicitas,” he says quietly, “do you come here for ill reason?”

You shake your head this time, rather than nodding. You have no reason to be here, other than the fact that guilt has taken over your mind and heart since he died.

“Then relax, dulcissima. I have an offering for you.”

Marcus relaxes his stature, eyes still gazing over you. He looks at your fading palms and you watch him swallow nervously.

“I will worship you again, lending you offerings here, and all I ask in return is for our friendship again.”

It’s the opposite of how you met, almost completely, but it’s everything you need. You will not fade, he will not struggle in marriage, and you will have one another again. 

Again, you are nodding stupidly, but soon you’re embraced by him and nodding into his chest. His hands grasp at your back as he tells you how much he missed you in his final weeks, how he regrets losing you entirely, how he requires you as a friend. 

You are satiated in his arms as he comforts you, awakening you again there on the terrace. Unbeknownst to you, Marcus has let tears slip down too as he holds you close. 

“You will keep me safe here?” he asks jokingly.

It makes you smile, the idea of offering luck to a man who already died.

“Yes, General. I will keep you safe here, from all the horrifying glory and splendor,” you assure.

The two of you laugh, breaking the embrace but staying close. A passionate connection is still between the two of you, but in a different way now. Maybe when he was alive it was romantic because it is all you could think of, but through his death the two of you have come to understand it more. 

You require one another in a unique way, and leaning on one another does not have to be intimate the way he is with his wife. Marcus does need you, just as you need him, and now that you are both immortal in a way, you will never be separated again.

please leave a comment, like, reblog, askbox, or ANYTHING. i'd love to hear thoughts on this <33

tags (people who seemed excited for this) (sorry if these dont work)

@pascalssbabyy , @moonshapedflan , @gossipgirl-03 , @kyloispunk , @frannyzooey , @coocoolahh , @bug-boy32 , @honeymarvel , @magicalmorg , @1deakybass , @tuquoquebrute , @harryshousewhore , @teeagain, @chewie-bars , @vampyyweek , @queenslandlover-93 , @amijenn , @aquanatalie

[poppitron360]

PART TWO!!!!

Okay, so I’ve already posted Pt 1 of this fanfic I’m gonna keep posting it bc fuck it I’m enjoying myself.

I’m posting this all under the tag #​PJO- THE NEXT GENERATION: OLYMPIA JACKSON-CHASE CHRONICLES so if you need to find the rest, that’s where to look. Not sure how many chapters there will be, as I’m still figuring out the story, but it will probably be for as long as I’m having fun writing it.

Tagging my mutuals who might be interested/ppl who seemed to like pt 1 (I’m trying to get better at tagging ppl):

@green-tea217 @123letsgobestie @fadas-are-important @imasimpdealwithit @coraldeermoon

Summary: Kind of an OC/FanChild fic about my hcs for Percabeth’s kids. VERY Leo/Nico heavy bc they’re my two favourite characters, particularly Leo. If you missed Pt 1, pls read it, but we’ve just ended on the line “I think I have news about your brother,” so ooooh chills cliffhanger scary.

TWs: Swearing, lack of smut (she is a teenager)

Disclaimers: I was between SoN and MoA when I wrote this chapter, and I am currently on HoH, so if I’ve missed anything that gets revealed later, that’s why. Also I listened to the audiobooks, so if I spell a name wrong, that’s also why, either that or I’ve spelt something the British way.

Chapter 2:

Olympia never talked about her brother. That was one thing the kids at camp didn’t know about her family. She had been five years old when he had been taken, on that stormy autumn night. She didn’t remember much, just yelling from the other room and a sound like an eagle screeching. She remembered her mom running in and scooping her up in her arms. More sounds. Her dad screaming. A sword being drawn. A baby crying. A window smashing. Her parents calling his name. She was sobbing. Her mom was holding her dad as he wept on the floor, glass shattered at his feet. Her baby brother, Tyler, was not in his cot.

They started going out every night, searching for a sign he was alive. Leo, Nico, Tyson, Grover, Rachel, Frank, Hazel- all of them helped. Olympia had begged them to take her with them too, but she was still too young. Six months passed. Nothing. A year. Two years. She didn’t know when exactly, but eventually they gave up looking. They assumed he was gone forever.

Her parents had seemed different after that. Her mother buried herself in her job, working day and night at the architecture firm so she wouldn’t have to come home to the gaping hole in their family. Her dad had tried carrying on as normal, but he’d become a broken man. The legendary Percy Jackson failed to save his own son from a monster, now his son was dead.

That’s what they had told Olympia. That was the story. But she refused to believe it. She always thought that with enough training and fighting, she could find him and bring him home. And then, they’d tell the story of the brave demigod who rescued her brother, maybe, just maybe, she’d no longer have to live as just “the daughter of Percy Jackson”, but could become her own legend.

Of course, that was only part of it. First and foremost, she wanted her brother back.

“Do you really think he’s dead?” She’d asked Leo one night, when she was about eight, while her Mom was at work and her Dad was off doing something at camp (he was often brought in as a Special Guest Speaker because he lived close to camp and was cheap, not for any other reason).

“No. Tyler’s not dead,” He replied.

She looked up, “Really?”

He nodded. “Remember that story I told you about Festus the Dragon?”

Leo was the only person she liked to hear stories from. He told them in such a funny way, she didn’t care if it was made up or exaggerated.

“Everyone thought he was super dangerous, but you fixed him and made him better, and he sacrificed himself to save you,” she recited.

“Yup. I didn’t give up on him, even though they told me it was hopeless. I’d waited ‘til I’d looked him in the eyes myself to realise it was hopeless, and then I still tried anyway,” he looked at Olympia, “I believe your brother isn’t dead until we’ve tried every possible way of proving me wrong, and then some. Your parents believe it too, but they can’t risk giving up everything they have, i.e, you, on what is most likely a hopeless case. Besides, Nico said his vision of his soul had been clouded by something- if he was just dead, why hide it?”

“I’m gonna find him someday,” Olympia said, determined.

“And I’m gonna help,” He replied.

She looked at him now, sitting on her bunk in Cabin 3.

“Wha- What news? What do you mean?”

“It’s not… it’s nothing concrete… just a rumour about an 11-year-old boy with dark hair fighting monsters with power over water,” he looked up at her, his eyes solemn, “Camp has a network of automatons looking out for potential demigods, we get alerts like this all the time, but this was different, Oly- I think… I think it might be him.”

She was speechless. All this time, she’d been telling herself she’d find him, but she’d never actually had a lead before.

“Well then, what’re you waiting for, little man?” She said, sliding on her shoes and shoving clothes into her backpack, “Let’s go find him!”

“Oly, not so fast,” he warned, jumping down from the bunk, “this kid- the message said he was pretty hardcore, the way he attacked. If he’s been running from monsters since he was a baby… I can’t think what that’s done to him.”

He put a hand on her shoulder.

“What if… what if he doesn’t want to come home?”

Olympia looked at Leo. Despite his jovial presence and cheery manner, he was dark and twisted just like the rest of them. He knew a thing or two about running away, he’d spent most of his childhood running from schools and foster homes. She knew with a sinking feeling that he might be right. She shook her head.

“We can’t let “What if’s” stop us now, you taught me that,” she said, and shouldered her backpack.

“I guess you’re right,” Leo flashed her his trademark playful grin, “Let’s go.”

The kid was apparently in Nashville, and had caused quite a scene when he’d fought off two wild dogs in the middle of a busy high street by pouring a bucket of water over them. At least, that’s what the mortals were saying online. When Olympia saw the video they’d posted, she noticed how the boy had no bucket, the wild dogs were actually wolves, and when he attacked them they hadn’t just ran away like the internet said, but had completely disintegrated.

She stared at her phone. Demigods weren’t supposed to have cellular devices, especially at camp- they acted as a beacon for monsters to find them- but Leo had found a way to scramble the signal. It wasn’t flawless, and it became more and more risky the longer you used it, but it gave Olympia an hour or so of doom-scrolling on Tumblr every day.

She replayed the video again.

“He doesn’t look anything like I’d expected him to,” she concluded.

“I dunno… he has dark hair, like you. And water powers, like you. And grey eyes, like your mom, and I guess like you as well,” Leo studied her mismatched eyes, “And the way he fights… That’s Jackson blood in his veins if I ever saw it.”

“But he’s… he’s older.”

“Yes. That’s what happens when time passes. Did you expect him to still look 10 months old?”

Leo grinned, the way he always did when he was being sarcastic. Olympia poked him, playfully, and then turned back to the paused image on the screen.

“And he’s so… thin.”

Leo nodded in agreement, “Though, somehow I doubt he’ll be showing up on the front page of Cosmo any time soon.”

She looked at Leo. He tried to hide it with baggy clothes, but she knew that his scrawny look and vertically-challenged appearance weren’t all traits he’d been born with, that the long months spent on the run with little-to-no food had definitely played a factor. He was probably a lot healthier now, but those hard years had scarred him in ways she couldn’t imagine- and had left him looking permanently emaciated. She couldn’t bear the thought of that happening to her brother when she had grown up healthy and strong.

“Come on,” she said, putting away the phone, “Let’s get Nico, and leave.”

“A quest must be undertaken by three,” he recited.

“Yes, but also he can shadow-travel so we won’t have to pay for transport.”

“And that.”

Leo’d managed to intercept the demigod alert from his automaton, and direct all other alerts straight to him so that they could track where the kid was, and so Chiron- or, gods forbid, Olympia’s dad- didn’t see them. He was smart like that, but it only delayed the inevitable. Leo reckoned it was only a matter of time before the Camp Satyrs caught up to the boy. They had to act quickly.

Nico Di Angelo was never the easiest person to find. Luckily for them, he had a soft spot for Olympia, and always made sure she was able to call on him when she needed to. Whenever she wanted help with homework, or a ride to a dangerous incognito solo monster-fighting death quest, all she had to do was knock.

She pressed her body against the floor of Cabin 3, and rapped hard on the wooden floorboards.

“Uncle Nico!!” She called, “I know you’re down there!! We need your help.”

“Boo!” Came a voice from behind them.

Leo yelped, “Holy Hephaestus, Death Boy, don’t do that!”

Nico gave him a skeletal grin. Leo took a deep breath and patted his own hair, which was smoking.

Olympia stood up, and pulled him into a tight hug. She was taller than him now, but he looked good for an 102-year-old.

“My gods, you’ve grown,” he remarked, breathing in her warm smell. His skin was icy cold and pale.

“You’ve been spending too much time in the underworld,” she said, “get some sun in you, man.”

“Oh I think he is getting some Sun in him, if you know what I mean,” Leo winked and turned to Nico, “Hey, Nico, how’s Will?”

Nico ignored the question, “Whatever it is you want me to do, I hope I don’t have to put up with hotshot over here the whole time.” He jabbed a thumb in Leo’s direction.

“Hey!” Leo cried, offended.

Olympia rolled her eyes.

“I need you to take us to Nashville,” she said, “Leo thinks my brother might be there.”

An anguished expression played across Nico’s face.

“T-Tyler?” He asked, “You really think-“

“Yes. We do,” Leo said, confidently. They proceeded to fill him in on everything, even showing him the video on Olympia’s phone.

Nico’s face hardened.

“Right then. I will absolutely do anything I can to help. Nashville, you say? Peace of cake.”

He cracked his knuckles and rolled his head, like he was warming up for something. He then held out both hands, expecting them to take them. Olympia obliged.

“Do I have to?” Leo moaned.

“Don’t worry, Fire Guy, this won’t get gay,” Nico assured him.

“It’s not that,” Leo replied, “Your hands are just weird and cold. And small.”

“You’re one to talk,” he retorted, “I’d much rather just take Olympia, so if you want to be left behind, I’m sure-“

“Fine,” Leo groaned, and took Nico’s hand.

And then the world caved in.

[qqueenofhades]

I understand how important it is to be able to criticize the President, and am not at all of the belief he should be beyond critique, but the critiquing of Biden makes me so nervous. (That's not to say I agree with every decision he's made - I absolutely do not). But I feel like people see things he's done wrong and decide they won't vote for him because of it. I'm not sure if enough people have the ability to see that he's done things wrong but also is our only hope of staving off literal fascism.

So many people talk about how sick they are of it constantly being a lesser of two evils situation, constantly having to vote for a candidate they hate because the other side is worse (I heard it in 2020, 2022, etc), and I guess I just- I don't really get it? We're here because they didn't do that in 2016. All of this could've been avoided had the result been different then. I just feel like people don't comprehend how different of a place we'd be in if Hillary won and engage in all this cognitive dissonance to make themselves feel better about being part of the reason she didn't.

Like.... this has been a long-running topic of discussion on my blog, not least because it is so inexplicable and maddening. It also shows how terribly shallow most people's understanding of the American political process is, and how toxic the "I can only vote for a candidate if every single personal belief/position of theirs matches mine" belief is, as well as how much damage it has done to American democracy even (and indeed, especially) by people who technically don't identify as right-wing. Yell at Republicans all you like (God knows I do, because they're the worst people on earth) but they vote. Every time. Every election. Every candidate. Whereas the Democratic electorate still holds out for Mister Perfect, and it very definitely is Mister Perfect. The amount of "evil HRC!!!" Republican-poisoned Kool-Aid that so-called progressives drank in 2016, and then afterward when they insisted they could have voted for someone like Elizabeth Warren and then didn't do that in 2020, is... baffing.

Frankly, I don't care if Hillary Clinton's personal positions on XYZ issue were the most Neoliberal Corporate Centrist Shill to Ever Shill (and Online Leftists' intellectual skills being what they are, I seriously doubt that they were using any of those words correctly and/or accurately). American policy is not made by "personal dictate of the ruler," or at least it shouldn't be, because we are not an absolute monarchy. We rely on the operation of a system with input from many people. As such, if Hillary had been elected, we would have 2-3 new liberal justices on SCOTUS and have secured civil and environmental rights for the next generation. Roe would be intact, and all the other terrible rulings that SCOTUS has recently handed down wouldn't have happened. We wouldn't have had January 6th, the attempt to stage a coup, all the tawdry scandals, our national security being at risk because of Trump stealing classified documents and probably selling them to Russia and/or Saudi Arabia, etc etc. If you think that's in any way an equivalent amount of evil to what would have happened if Hillary was elected, or if she was "still evil!!!," then I honestly don't know what to tell you. She could fucking murder puppies in her spare time if she had preserved SCOTUS for us, WHICH SHE WOULD HAVE, BECAUSE SHE WARNED US EXACTLY WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN.

(Hoo. Sorry. Still steamed. 2016 war flashbacks, again.)

In short, Hillary would have been a solid continuity Democrat and she would have signed whatever legislation a Democratic House and Senate passed, not to mention been hugely inspiring as the first female president. But because it's so important to the Online Leftists' moral sense of themselves that BOTH PARTIES ARE THE SAME!!!, they can't possibly acknowledge that ever being a factor, and/or admit that they have any culpability in not voting for her in 2016. It's like when you read the British press about any of the UK's equally numerous problems, and they BEND OVER BACKWARD to avoid mentioning that Brexit might be a factor. They just can't mention it, because then that means they might have made the wrong choice in pulling for it as hard as they did, and blah blah Sovereignty.

Basically, if HRC had been elected president, everything would be so much less terrible and terrifying all the time, we would be talking about her successor in 2024 as someone else who could be the "first," we could explore handing the reins over to Kamala as a Black/Asian woman, we could promote Buttigieg as the first gay president, etc etc. But because 2016 was so catastrophically fucked up, we are in damage control mode for the immediate future and every election is just as pivotal. And yet, because people think that the only thing that matters is a presidential candidate's personal views, we're stuck having the same old arguments and desperately begging people over and over to please vote against fascism, since that somehow isn't self-evident enough on its own. Yikes on Bikes.

[lydscare]

Hi! Could you make a preferences/hc of the pro/hoo characters how they cuddle and/or sleep with there s/o?

cuddling hcs with pjo/hoo characters

a/n: these kinda went into general pda hcs, but hopefully it's still good tho

warnings: possible hints of angst + trama, cause who dosen't have it :')

reader tends to be gender-neutral //  my masterlist

annabeth

i feel like when cuddling w/ annabeth that there's not really a big spoon or little spoon posistion

it's mainly just your arms wrapped around each other, just a tangle of arms and limbs

dosen't really hug you too much in public but always needs a goodbye hug from you before you go somewhere

she also likes acting out as your pillow with you head on her chest/lap (she probably reads you a book too :))

bianca

her hugs are really comforting and warm

she always knows when you need one

she can just tell

she's memorized your body language to a t

might whisper some comforting words here and there

could make any surface feel soft when her arms are wrapped around you

calypso

i think she likes to be held more than to hold someone

she can hold you tho, and she's great at comforting you

likes to hum or sing you little songs and melodies

she likes when you play with her braid too

overall good experience

clarisse

i feel like she gives good bear hugs

she has some meatystrong arms so her hugs are kinda firm, like she's reminding you that she's there and no one can hurt you

her hugs are also surprisingly warm so they're extra comforting

connor

connor's hugs are a little more firm then travis's but still all the more comforting

he likes taking his time with hugging and cuddling

he likes spinning you around too when he gets excited

travis

travis hugs are very playful and warm

likes to come up from behind and give you a surprise hug

also moves around a bit when cuddling but it's fine, he just wants to get in a comfy position :))

also loves spinning you around

ethan

i kinda feel like he's a side hugger

so not too big on cuddling

he's not exactly avoidant of pda but he's not looking for it

might put his arm around you every once in a while

when cuddling he likes to be the big spoon, he finally feels like he can be of use and protect you from the cruel world :')

frank

gives the best bear hugs (both literally and metamorphically)

at first he's pretty awkward w/ hugging but grows to love it

he can shapeshift into just about any animal to have a different cuddling arrangement

one day you're being snuggled by a dragon, who's wrapped protectively around you, and the next you're holding a cute lil labrador puppy in your hands

needless to say it's an overall wholesome expierence :)

grover

the first time you hugged him, poor goat bby didn't know what to do

like where is he supposed to put his hands??

but after a while gets used to them

not to big of a hugger but enjoys it

has to get over the awkwardness of it at first tho

but afterwards enjoys it

just never sneak up on him

hazel

i don't know how else to describe her hugs other than sweet

her hugs are super comforting and grounding

just sneak up on her and give her a surprise back hug

she lets out the cutest giggle whenever you do it :')

even though she probably heard you coming

always wants to make sure you're comforting when cuddling, she dosen't want to overstep any boundaries of yours so

jason

not exactly looking for cuddles or pda in general, but he's not going to hate affections either

he'll most likely be wanting cudddles after a long day of praetor duties, helping at chb, or school

he won't want anything else, just to be held by you for a few good long minutes

with that being said however, he is more of a big spoon type of guy

leo

he's like a human furnace

always super hot warm

very comforting and cozy

he loves snuggling

in general he's a very touchy person so a arm's usually always around you

loves holding you

after a long day of working on little trinkets and fixing up things he likes to be held by you (arms around your waist, face on your shoulder)

play w/ his hair pleaseee it's very soothing

luke

sturdy?

he has some pretty strong arms so his hugs are a bit firmer than he'd honestly prefer

likes to put his hands around your waist with your hands placed over his

also he likes when you just play with his fingers or stroke his arms lovingly

((also has a really good grip

nico

he isn't much of a hugger, to other people anyways

but with you, he practically craves your touch

it always has to be in a closed off space tho

he's not the biggest fan of pda, but alone with you,,

he practically clings onto you like a lil koala bear

loves wrapping his arms around your waist and burrying his face in your neck

he just needs someone to touch every once in a while to keep him grounded :')

side note: he is pretty cold, like ALL the time so ye

percy

percy the pillow jkjk

fr tho, he likes just placing his head on your chest as his arms around your waist when cuddling

also is a fan of getting his hair played with

he goes back n forth between lil spoon and big spoon

he also just finds your presence itself very comforting

and your smell

goes to sleep with the biggest grin on his face

piper

another hummer

she likes it when you braid her hair

she also like brushing her nails through your hair and scratching at your scalp

she likes holding you more than being held

can be very comforting

a quick hug from her also brings a great feeling

rachel

appreciates signs of pda in general

enjoys holding you and playing w/ your hair

can just walk up to you, give you a hug and walk away randomly

she is moreover a quality time person sooo

reyna

not really a hugger tbh

she has lots of walls built up sooo

she's also not much of a physical person

but she might be good with a hug or two after a long day

if she were to cuddle she'd be pretty stiff at first and need to ease her way into it

thalia

likes wrapping her arms around your neck and just looking at you with so much adoration in her eyes

she really likes being held from behind when sharing a bed

also likes to play with your fingers

will

his hugs are so warm and comforting (obvs)

i feel like he'd be the type to just be gossiping w/ you while you two are tangled together, he's playing with your fingers and all but still has your undivided attention

probably majority of the time os the big spoon but would like being the little spoon on especially hard and stressful days

zoë

as much as i looove zoë, i don't think she is much of a hugger :'(

she's very stiff at first bc she isn't really used to soft touches or touching in general

but then eventually relaxes and will end up not wanting you to leave her

she likes when you play with her hair

she can give good back rubs

she proably will end up being the little spoon on most days tho

also gets tired and ends up wanting cuddles

it helps give her a space of calmness after a long day out hunting

it's soothing