#music to write fanfic to

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[winxanity-ii]

could i request hermes headcanons with a male lover?

of course! sorry if not the best, just the concept of hermes taking one of apollos followers 😩

THAT BOY IS MINE

ship: hermes x male!apollo devotee!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 861 a/n: my first male reader request hehhehe; i lowkey wanna make a full one-shot..

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

Trickster god Hermes, who first noticed you during one of Apollo's grand performances, as you stood in the crowd, bright laughter escaping your lips.

He didn't think much of it until he saw how you looked at Apollo—admiration clear in your eyes—and suddenly, the idea of getting your attention and challenging your admiration for Apollo was too irresistible for him to pass up.

Trickster god Hermes, who slips beside you during festivals, the kind of presence that catches you off guard.

He'd grin, that troublemaker smile of his, leaning in to whisper something sly about Apollo's radiance. "You think he's the only god worthy of your gaze?" he'd murmur, his eyes glinting with mischief as your cheeks warmed under his gaze.

Trickster god Hermes, who made sure you couldn't ignore him.

At first, it was harmless jokes, a teasing smile from across the temple grounds, or a comment as he materialized at your side, seemingly out of nowhere. But soon, he was there more often, lingering in your shadow. He loved the way you stiffened when he appeared, as if he had found a crack in your composure—and he intended to widen it.

Trickster god Hermes, who brushed his fingers against yours when you were organizing offerings in Apollo's temple, just to see the way you startled, your eyes meeting his in confusion.

He grinned, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "How devoted you are makes me envious, little muse. Would you give the same amount of devotion to me?" His words held a challenge, and for a moment, you wondered if there was more than jest in his eyes.

Trickster god Hermes, who knew how to make life an adventure, began slipping into your routines with ease.

He whisked you away from your duties, convincing you to join him on escapades across hills, through rivers, and into places you were not supposed to go. He showed you joy beyond Apollo’s measured perfection—the kind found in laughter that left you breathless, in the thrill of racing the wind, in moments stolen away just for yourselves. He made the divine feel real, imperfect, and you couldn't help but love that.

Trickster god Hermes, who was unpredictable, daring, and somehow made you feel seen.

He didn't look at you as merely another worshipper. He looked at you as someone he wanted. It unsettled you, the way he lingered too close, the intensity of his gaze following you as if you were the only one that mattered in a room full of people.

Trickster god Hermes, who found you alone in a grove, your shoulders slumped in loneliness as Apollo was too busy for you.

Instead of his usual antics, Hermes simply sat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. He didn't say anything—he was just there—and for once, his presence wasn’t meant to charm or impress; it was just... real. It was the first time you saw something other than playful mischief in his eyes—it was care, and it unraveled something inside you.

Trickster god Hermes, who watched you with a longing that was hard to ignore.

He'd catch you glancing at Apollo from a distance, and his jaw would tense, that smile dropping for a heartbeat before it returned, sharper. He'd then make his presence known—his fingers skimming your waist, or his lips brushing your ear as he whispered something that made your pulse quicken. You were never just a follower to him, and he needed you to understand that.

Trickster god Hermes, who, for all his confidence, had waited for you to come to him.

He bided his time and made sure you knew he was always there. He listened when you spoke, his gaze never leaving your face, as though everything you said was the most important thing in the world. It wasn't Apollo's grandness, but it was real—and you found yourself seeking out Hermes more and more, your heart pulling toward the trickster who seemed to understand you in ways others didn't.

Trickster god Hermes, who watched with a soft smile the day you gave in.

When you leaned in to kiss him, he wrapped his arms around you as you kissed him, his lips curving against yours, the playful grin giving way to something deeper. Hermes held you close, as if you were the greatest treasure he had ever stolen, and he had no intention of letting go.

Trickster god Hermes, who made no secret of your connection afterward.

He'd drape himself over you in the presence of Apollo, his arm snug around your waist, whispering something teasingly possessive just loud enough for the sun god to hear with a knowing grin, as if to say, "He's mine now." There was no malice in it, only pride—pride that he had managed to steal your heart and that you had given it willingly.

Trickster god Hermes, who stole your heart in the most unexpected way, not by charm alone but through his laughter, his warmth, and his genuine affection.

He saw you not as someone worshipping from the shadows but as someone deserving of the spotlight, deserving of a love that was wild and unrestrained, just like the wind.

[sigillite]

music (fanfiction) writing challenge!!

use your music taste to write a fanfiction or any story in this challenge!

first open your music app of choice and make sure your playlist is on shuffle -- then the first 5 songs that pop up will determine your:

Premise -- What your story is going to be about in the first place. What is going to be the main "selling point" of the story that sets it apart from the rest.

Main character -- Your main character's personality or inner struggle.

Main conflict -- The main conflict that drives your story and becomes an obstacle for your main character.

Vibes -- Is this going to be a light-hearted story? Angsty? Romantic? Whatever matches the vibe of the song.

Ending -- How this story is going to end.

yes, this is very vague, but that is the point! this can give you some ideas of what to write while also leaving plenty of room to be creative. feel free to switch up what songs represent what or even shuffle them a couple more times!

[gwenpools-aesthetic]

Hey you! Yes, you!

Would you like your creation on display in a museum?

Would you like to help a super awesome PhD candidate complete her dissertation?

Would you like a great excuse to further procrastinate that thing you've been procrastinating?

All of these and more are great reasons to participate in Affirmation/Transformation: Fandom Created, an exhibition at Marquette University's Haggerty Museum of Art. (You do NOT need to be an artist, or even someone who creates art to participate!) Write a story, write a song, design a cosplay, create a fancy manicure, make a meme, make a stop-motion video, choreograph a dance, make a SuperWhoLock gif fic, or anything else your heart can dream up.

Your creation must follow only one rule: It must be inspired by a fusion of 1. any fandom of your choice, and 2. one of the featured Haggerty pieces (click the link to see them!)

Completed works are due July 1, 2024. The exhibition will run August 23rd-December 22nd, 2024, and will be available to view in person and online.

To see the Haggerty pieces, and to sign up to receive email reminders about the fan event, visit https://epublications.marquette.edu/fandom/Affirmationtransformation

[blooms-in-april]

Obsessed with the idea it's illegal in Oxenfurt to execute or arrest someone while there is a theatre performance going on. So when Jaskier is finally arrested for being the Sandpiper and an associate of the fugitive Geralt of Rivia, all his students band together to perform the longest musical the Continent has ever seen.

Yes, it's about his life. Yes, it's very personal. And yes, fugitive Geralt and Ciri end up in the audience, of course they do.

[jay-avian]

Hermes x Tiresias (pt. 2)

Part 1 here (I went a bit long with this one, but it needed to feel conclusive)

Hermes swooped down into the dark lands once more. He hummed to himself, breezing past the moans of the souls beneath him. The bright colors he wore made him shine against the the shadows. He flew and looked all around. The prophet, however, could not be found. Hermes stopped for a moment. "Now where could that little recluse be?" Off in the distance, he saw the banks of a small pool of water and a figure sitting there. "Ah, there we go!"

As he got closer, Hermes saw Tiresias kneeling. His staff sat on the ground beside him. Tiresias faced out towards the water as if he was looking at the pool. His hands rested in his lap. Hermes didn't want to go farther at first. It would have been wise to leave the prophet to his sombre reflections. Tiresias always looked so peaceful like this. But Hermes spoke anyways.

"Heyy there, darling!" Hemers exclaimed. He laid on the air on his stomach with his legs up, kicking as he talked. His head rested on his folded hands. "How's it going? Did you miss me? I bet you missed me."

"You've been gone for six months' time," Tiresias said.

"Yeah, well I was busy, you know how humans are," Hermes said, with his hands waving about. "Always running around, all like 'Help us please, Hermes, we need your guidance', and you know I can't say no to people like that."

Tiresias sighed, his shoulders dropping. He tilted his head towards the god. "You don't have to lie to save your hubris. I understand why you were gone. I saw your true self that day."

Hermes scoffed. He thought about how quickly he left. He probably thinks I couldn't care less, that I'm just some pretentious prick. I mean I know I am, but… if that's all he's going to see… He crossed his arms and leaned on the rocks beside him. "And what gave that away, do you think?" Hermes asked.

"Your eyes," said Tiresias, turning to face him. He paused. He found it hard to find his breath. "I looked to the past and saw them."

The god's face dropped. His eyes fell frozen over his friend. "I- I didn't think-"

"You spoke of compassion, of bringing down hope in a place where none seems to grow. And in your hopes, you found a cold requital. Y-" He went to say more, but found his words failing. He looked straight on past Hermes. "You spoke of love… romance everlasting…" Tiresias turned his head down to the pool, gripping his robe. He grimaced though he did not see his reflection. "I hope you will forgive my ignorance, my god," he said softly.

Hermes placed his hand over his mouth. The shadow over the god's eyes had brightened some. Devastated sympathy washed over his face. "Oh," he sighed. He flew in lower and closer. "Oh dear, of course I would forgive you."

He floated down, gently stepping onto the ground, kneeling by Tiresias. There they sat without speaking. All they heard were the low hums of the wind whisking by. There they sat, still as the stones that surrounded them. At times, the god went to console his worshipper. At times, his words found no sound. When he saw how tense the prohpet was, he remembered what other gods had done. Tiresias had faced punishment before. And though he could see the future, there were many paths it could take. Hermes looked down at his hands as he rubbed them together.

"Listen," he said at last, "I may not be the best god, or the most perfect in any light. But I want you to know that I would never, ever, do anything to hurt you. I… I care about you a lot, and I was wrong to hide that from you." As the god spoke, Tiresias loosed his shoulders. Hermes gave a short laugh. "I'm not even sure you like me at all in that regard. But, at least you can know I mean well, and…"

Hermes trailed off, his words falling short. Tiresias let go of his robe and faced the god. He sat silent for a moment.

"What I would give to see your eyes right now," Tiresias said. Hermes looked up with his brow raised. The prophet smiled. "Though I'm sure they're just as beautiful now as they were then."

The god's face grew flushed. But before he could refute the compliment, he watched Tiresias raise his hands towards his hood.

"So at the very least," he said. "I'll show you mine." He let the hood fall from his head. White curls of hair were revealed, bright against the dark that surrounded them. His hands moved to untie the band around his eyes. But instead of letting it fall, he froze.

Hermes tilted his head. "Would you like some help d- Tiresias?"

The prophet said nothing, but gave a slow nod. Hermes reached over and gently held his hands. Tiresias let out a short breath he had been holding. The god guided his hands lower, going slow. As the band fell, they revealed eyes of grey with a thin ring of amber in the center, as sunlight peering over storm clouds. Hermes paused. The shadows over his face fell in full. He stared and sighed in awe.

"Gods, you're gorgeous," he said softly.

Tiresias frowned. "Why must you taunt me like this?"

"I'm not, honest. I do really think you're wonderful and beautiful and…" In a lower whisper, he said, "Gods, I want to kiss you."

"What?" Tiresias took his hands back.

"I'm sorry!" Hermes said, his face flushed. "I didn't mean to startle you like that. I just- I was looking at you and I just kinda said that out loud and I didn't mean to, it just came out and I, well…" He rubbed his hands together with a nervous look. "I won't if you don't want me to and I understand! If you don't want to, I mean. But… may I?"

Tiresias simply stared at first. He sat frozen, hands coiled back. Apprehension filled the air about them. After a moment, Tiresias took a deep breath and let it go just as slow. "…Do as you wish."

"A-are you sure? I don't want you doing this for me. I want to make sure you want this too."

The prophet's hands clutched his robe once more. He looked to the ground. "I do want this."

Hermes sat up, his face raised with delight. He inched closer. Reaching his hand out, he lifted the prophet's face to meet his. Tiresias looked at him with nervousness, yet did not move. Hermes leaned in, closed his eyes, and gently kissed him. In that moment, the prophet saw not time nor space, but felt the world in his heart. In that moment, the god heard not a prayer, but praised the soul before him. And in that moment, the only thing that mattered was the sacred touch upon their lips.

The two parted. They stayed just inches away. Hermes looked down with care at his love. Tiresias sighed, looking up at the god with reverence. He said in a whisper, "I haven't felt such bliss in ages."

Hermes gave a soft smile. "Well then," he said, "would you like some more?"

Tiresias nodded and Hermes graced his lips again. The god raised his hands to hold the prophet's face with gentleness. Tiresias reached out to hold the god in return. There they knelt before each other in this act of worship. By the pool of water in a far off nook in the Underworld, they could be found. And it was there in that dark cave they found hope in each other. They found hope in the world of gods.

@nothing-impt hope you don't mind the tag, finished the one part I reblogged from you

[rae-butter]

Characters who lose their innocence. When they start of sweet, kind, open hearted, greeting the world with open arms, and they close themselves off—it’s slow, insidious, but there nonetheless. And then they’re different, gone, and it’s both heart wrenching and beautiful.

And then someone comes along and tries to piece them together, to turn them into who they once were—

But it’s just too late for them.

[o3o-lapd-o3o]

'friends in higher places' au masterlist

tumblr posts:

the thread that started it all - part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

dinner scene - part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 (is planned)

poseidon snippets (not chronological) - part 1 | part 2 | part 3 (i have an idea)

other bits - potential future thoughts | a potential angsty idea |

ao3:

chapter 1 | chapter 2 (coming soon?) |

[spoofymcgee]

She feels Hermes arrive more than anything; the flutter of his wings against her skin. He's picked her bad side to appear on, and she's not sure whether it's forgetfulness–doubts it, as Hermes is shrewder than he likes to appear, but usually more considerate as well.

He doesn't say anything, though, content to be a presence sitting next to her and another pair of heels kicking off the side of the cliff.

Ithaca has become something of a hotspot for gods these days, and she doesn't know whether it's because of herself or Odysseus. Telemachus, perhaps, finding wayward deities off on his journey and sending them home for her to deal with. If it is, she might have to shake him next time he comes back.

*He'd have been better as your student," Athena says, finally, once they've watched Odysseus fleece two more sailors cocky enough to challenge the king, and sneak four coin pouches, six hats and nine knives off the spectators in the process. He'll give them all back at the end, but he seems like he's enjoying the challenge, and Penelope sits a polite distance away chatting with the captains' wives and occasionally glancing over to grin at him.

"Who?" Hermes says, like the answer isn't obvious. "Oh, Odysseus? Darling, where in the world did you get that conclusion from? Does Persephone have a new sort of flower she's growing, and if so, where can I get some?"

"Don't be an idiot," Athena tells him, but it doesn't come out half as annoyed as she'd meant. Damn, she really is going soft. "I mean it. Look, he's perfect for you, and you wouldn't have led him astray like I did."

"Do me a favor and don't try and foist your pupils off onto me," Hermes says, checking his nails in the sunlight. He's been down in the Levant again recently, she sees; they're colored a faint orange with darker, intricate designs twisting up his knuckles.

"I'm not," she says, feeling the feathers framing her face ruffle in indignation. "He's mine for as long as he'll have me. I'm only saying, if things were different..."

"But they're not," Hermes says flatly, looking up at her. "We live here and now, dear. Besides, if he was my student he would have been even sneakier, and no one would have taken that well. He wouldn't have made it past the age of twenty, and he wouldn't have been brave enough or good enough to protect his family."

"You can't know that," Athena protests, though her hand drifts absently to the edge of her scar.

"And neither can you," he points out, pulling one foot up to tuck under the opposite thigh. "So stop trying. Odysseus is home, Athena. By the looks of it, you are too. You're not doing anyone a favor by living in the past."

She looks down at her hands, twisting in her lap.

"You're a warrior," he says, voice softening. "You've never given up in your whole life. Don't let yourself lose this battle just because you're fighting your own brain."

The breeze is cool on her face, and she grits her teeth as matching tears slip off her chin and land on her chiton. "Alright."

"Good," Hermes says, and hits the cliff with his heel hard enough to send him twirling into the air, sandals fluttering. "Now, take me to where the olives are, I'm positively starving." He holds his hand out like a princess waiting to have it kissed, the other wrist pressed to his brow with his head thrown back, and she can't help but laugh. He's kind enough to ignore how wet it sounds.

"We can't have that, can we?" she says, and launches herself past him fast enough to send him spinning, and doesn't need to look back to tell he's chasing her–the playful outrage is loud enough even for her to hear.

[fishbonex]

Flower crowns and you all

Elphaba Thropp x fem!reader x Glinda Upland

Summary: A peaceful attempt at making flower crowns with Glinda and Elphaba.

Word Count: 0,5K

Warnings: none 🤍

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.

"You keep copying mine." Glinda's overly sweet voice grumbled, earning a snort from Elphaba, who was sitting next to you.

"I don't know if you noticed but we're in a field of flowers, all the flowers here look alike." Elphaba said, not bothering to lift her head to look at the blonde girl, who had an annoyed pout on her lips.

"I'm not talking about that, you know. You're braiding in the same pattern as me." Glinda held up the flower braid in production to prove it.

You frowned and shrugged your shoulders even more. The two of them had been arguing since they arrived. Uninvited. You were making flower crowns alone, enjoying the cool breeze of the late afternoon. A moment of peace, away from the typical chaos of Shiz.

But Galinda seemed to have a radar that pointed straight at you, because it wasn't long before she appeared, dragging Elphaba by the hand.

She blinked her big eyes at you and you gave her permission to sit down and join in your activity. Everything was fine, but soon Glinda began to get annoyed with Elphaba's crown.

"That's nonsense! I'm braiding them so they stay firmly attached." the green girl argued, starting to work harder with her hands.

"That's envy." Glinda hummed, pursing her lips so that her dimples were visible.

"Why would I be jealous of the way you weave flowers, Galinda?" Elphaba finally lifted her face to look at her.

"There are many reasons for this. You don't have the ability-"

With a loud huff, you stood up from the grass, dropping your flowers and brushing the dirt off your uniform. Grabbing your bag, you began walking away from the pair.

"Look what you did! You pissed her off," Glinda's voice whispered.

"Be quiet." Elphaba ordered, and turned to you. "Hey, where are you going?"

You stopped in your tracks and turned to them, "To my dorm."

"Don't you want to go study with me?" She stood up, her expression embarrassed.

Glinda hurriedly stood up and stood in front of her, "Don't you want to go try on dresses with me? Or watch me practice with my wand-"

"No, thank you." you turned around and continued walking towards campus with heavy steps.

A few days later, you buried your face even deeper into the book you were reading when you heard Glinda's melodious voice approaching. You squinted your eyes as she let out a happy little squeal upon spotting you.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, then turned to Elphaba. "I told you she'd be here."

"I'm reading." you grumbled.

"Oh, we see." Glinda continued to act excited, pulling Elphaba closer to her. "We just want to give you something."

Elphaba opened her bag and took out a wreath, making you look up from your book, "We finished yours for you, you left it lying there."

You closed the book and stood up, taking the crown in your hands delicately, it was sloppy and had some flaws, but it was closed and someone had placed extra flowers on top.

"Which one of you did it?" you asked, not wanting to cause another fight.

"Both of us! Did you like it?" Glinda asked, looking at you expectantly.

You sighed in relief, finally. They did something without fighting.

"I- yes, I love it, it's beautiful." you replied and Glinda quickly took the crown and put it on you, Elphaba adjusted it slightly so it wouldn't be crooked.

"Oh, you look like a princess." Glinda said, pretending to wipe away tears.

"It suits you very much." Elphaba said, pressing her lips together in a smile.

Oh, how you loved those two idiots.

[httpiastri]

lando norris x reader, 18+

"i'm bored."

lando's head shoots up from below you. your head is tilted to the side, gazing out the window as if you can't be bothered to care about the man between your legs; as if anything, even the gray skies outside, is more interesting than this.

but you're just pretending, of course.

there's no doubt in the way that your body always trembles under his touch, or the way that your cheeks grow hot when he just looks at you. he may be slow and careful, taking his time with his touches instead of rushing into things, but he's never been boring to you before, and he sure isn't now.

"what?" lando asks, frowning. he's a bit confused – after all, you were the one who called him up half an hour ago, begging him to come over – but he's not completely sure he believes you. he knows the effect he has on you. "you're talking nonsense."

you shake your head slightly. "no, this is boring..." you mutter, letting out an exaggerated sigh. his kisses still linger where he left them on the inside of your thighs just moments ago, and you already regret making him halt his actions.

"god, you're so bratty."

your eyes dart back at him. there's a teasing grin on his lips, and his fingers on your thighs suddenly make themselves known again. one thumb draws circles into your skin, as the other hand moves up to swipe just along the edge of your slit. "i- i'm not." the instability of your voice is clear to lando, and it's easy for him to take notice of how your legs have tensed up in just a moment. "i just... want you to..."

your eyes flutter closed when one of his fingers makes contact with your clit. "hm? what do you want me to do to you?" he increases the pressure, casually circling your bud as your hips buck up slightly. "for you to feel less bored?"

"you- you've said that-" a whine escapes from your mouth, not able to form your sentences when he's teasing you like this. he notices and slows down his movements to let you speak. "you said that you like to make my eyes roll," your eyes find his the moment you open your eyelids. "do it."

he cocks an eyebrow at you. "alright, then." his lips trace down from your stomach to right above your core, kisses still feathery yet carrying more purpose than before. "your wish is my command."

[winxanity-ii]

WASHED UP [1/2]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this one… He was different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what kind of suffering he would bring in return.

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

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

But not this one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wait!"

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

"Who are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Aphrodite's grace…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Eperitus?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that was before.

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

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

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

Or so you had thought.

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

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

You had not wept, not then.

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

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

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

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

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

The life that you would never get back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Odysseus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you knew better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Together, yet worlds apart.

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

[awarnin]

I want to please you | DOM!DYLAN MINNETTE X FEM!READER

synopsis: you need to get the stress out of him...

warning: SMUT! p in v, unprotected sex, dom!dylan, thumb sucking.

author's note: FUCKKKK. a lot of people asked me for this and it took me way too long to develop it. i'm sorry because I know it's not my best piece of art, i'm still trying to improve. !!

wordcount: 10.8k

.

The door closed softly behind Dylan, the sound echoing through the room, causing a quickening of the heartbeat in your chest. You knew what it meant: his day had been long, exhausting, and now he just wanted to get away from it all. You’d seen him arrive before, exhaustion etched on his face, but this time, the tension was palpable, as if all the stress of the week had been piled on his shoulders.

You watched him from the couch, your body already prepared for what was to come. He walked over to you, his blue eyes darker, heavy with silent need. Dylan let out a deep sigh, tossing his keys on the table without even looking at you. He plopped down on the corner of the couch, the leather of his jacket creaking as he slid it down his arms and tossed it aside.

“This week has been crazy,” he muttered, bringing a hand to his face. “I can’t keep going like this. Work is driving me crazy.”

His voice was low, and though he tried to sound calm, you could feel the weight of each word. There was something in his tone that turned you on, a mix of frustration and desire that was reflected in his tense posture. You wanted to relieve him, to make him forget about everything, even if it was just for tonight.

Your eyes followed him, and when he looked at you for the first time, you felt a rush of heat run through your body. You knew what he was asking for, and you bit your lip, trying to control the anticipation that was already taking over you.

“Come here,” he said softly, his hand coming up to brush your cheek.

You leaned into him, your heart racing as you moved closer. His thumb caressed your skin, and then, without another word, he brought it to your lips. You knew what he wanted. He didn’t need to ask out loud. You opened your mouth, allowing his thumb to slowly enter. The first touch of your tongue against his skin made you shiver. The taste of him, the heat, was exactly what you needed.

Your tongue ran slowly and deliberately over his thumb, tasting every inch as you sucked gently. Your lips closed around his finger, and the heat in your belly grew, a dull throb that echoed with every movement you made. Every time your tongue brushed his skin, you could feel his breathing getting a little heavier, though he tried to remain calm, watching the TV as if nothing was happening.

Dylan was relaxed, his head resting on the back of the couch, but his eyes followed you out of the corner of his eye. You knew that, although he seemed distracted, his attention was completely on you, on the way you sucked on his thumb, on how your lips slid wet and soft over his skin. You focused on the act, on the feeling of having something of his between your lips, on the way it made you feel more connected to him.

Time passed, and the heat in your body continued to grow. Every time you moved your tongue, a small moan escaped your lips, almost inaudible, but there, marking your surrender. Saliva began to pool in your mouth, and though you tried to control it, you soon felt it begin to drip, slipping down his thumb and onto the couch.

You didn’t care. You were completely absorbed in the moment, in the feeling of being at his mercy, in pleasing him. The world outside of that couch ceased to exist, and all that mattered was him, and the way he made you feel just by being so close to him.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Dylan moved his hand, removing his thumb from your mouth slowly. The wetness of your saliva glistened on his skin as he took in the mess you had made. His gaze lowered to the couch, where a small smear of saliva marked the spot where you had leaned in. You held your breath, knowing he had noticed.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice low but with clear intent behind it.

Your body tensed at his tone. You knew what was coming, and part of you was looking forward to it. Your cheeks heated, and your eyes dropped, following his gaze to the stain you had left behind. You didn’t know what to say, only that you had lost control, giving yourself over completely to this moment.

“I told you to be careful,” he murmured, his voice still soft, but firm. It wasn’t a real reprimand, but there was a clear warning in his tone.

Before you could respond, he took you by the waist and lifted you firmly, placing you on his lap. You felt the heat of his body beneath yours, and a shiver ran down your spine as he adjusted you, making sure you were completely under his control. You felt vulnerable, but that vulnerability only added to the intensity of the moment.

His hands slid to your hips, adjusting you on his lap as he held you still. His lips brushed your ear, his warm breath sending waves of desire through your body.

"You know what happens when you're not careful, right?" he whispered, his tone low, heavy with expectation.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice shaking slightly. You couldn’t hide the tremor in your words, a mix of nervousness and desire that ran from your stomach to the base of your spine.

“Sorry isn’t enough,” he said, a dangerous calm in his tone. His fingers slowly moved up your jaw, holding you gently but firmly, forcing you to look him straight in the eyes. “You have to learn to control yourself.”

You shivered under his gaze, feeling the control slipping completely from your hands. You were at his mercy, and that realization made you feel more alive, more aware of every little touch, every shared breath. Dylan leaned you in close, his lips so close to yours you could feel his hot breath, but he didn’t kiss you right away.

“Tell me what you need,” he said in a whisper, his low tone echoing in your ear like a soft command.

“I want to please you,” you replied, your voice shaking with desire. You knew that every word you said brought him closer to what you both wanted.

His lips finally found yours, deep, firm, and filled with all the control he had maintained up until that moment. The kiss left you breathless, and as his hands began to move over your body, you felt every inch of you respond to his touch, to his dominance.

Dylan stared at you intently, his blue eyes shining with a desire he could no longer contain. He held you firmly in his lap, his breathing heavy and his chest rising and falling with each quickening heartbeat. You knew what was going to happen, you felt it in the way his hands gripped your hips, controlling your every move. His control was absolute, but you also felt him vulnerable, given over to this moment as much as you were.

With a slow, determined movement, he guided you along, positioning you right above him. The heat between the two of you was almost overwhelming, and the air in the room seemed to charge with electricity. Your bodies aligned perfectly, and you could feel the tension building between the two of you about to explode.

“Relax,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, his voice low and full of promise.

You shuddered at the contact, closing your eyes as you focused on every sensation. The moment you connected with him was gentle, but full of intensity. You felt Dylan plunge into you with a mix of slowness and firmness, the heat of his body invading yours in a way that made you arch your back. A moan escaped your lips, as he let out a stifled growl, feeling how you two fit together perfectly.

Every movement of his was measured, controlled, but at the same time filled with a desire he couldn’t repress anymore. His hands on your hips kept you in place as you moved to the rhythm he set, each breath synchronized with his, each sensation intensifying as you sank deeper into the moment.

The rhythm between the two of you quickened, and the heat grew, enveloping you in a feeling of absolute fullness. You could feel every part of him, and the way you clung to his body made you lose yourself even more in the connection you shared. The room seemed to fade away, and the world narrowed to those moments, to the caresses, the whispers, and the moans that filled the air.

Finally, when the climax came, it was like a wave that swept the two of you away. You felt complete, vulnerable, and strong at the same time, as he held you tighter, as if he didn’t want to let you go. Both of your bodies shook, and the air around you filled with the heavy satisfaction of what you had just shared.

Dylan held you gently, his breathing slowly returning to normal. He let you fall against his chest, his arms wrapping around you as you both let yourself drift away in exhaustion and satisfaction.

“That was just what I needed,” he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead in a gesture of tenderness.

You smiled against his skin, feeling the ease he had finally found in you, and you in him.

.

[the-fiction-witch]

As Do I

Media - EPIC The Musical Saga Character - Prince Telemachus Of Ithaca Couple - Telemachus X Reader Reader - Princess Y/n of Zakynthos (scared Eye) Rating - 15 Word Count - 1413

Telemachus walked the vast halls of the palace that he called home. The tall walls were carved with intricate works, marble smooth below his feet, arch after arch letting in the sea air and the bright sun. Each arch held a statue of one of the many Olympians adorned with various offerings at their feet. His eyes fell as they often did to the waves crashing far across the horizon, wishing he would see a ship heading home or on the many details of the palace that his mother used to point out for him when he was young, small secrets his father had built into the palace one of the few things that physically remained of his influence.

He had grown tired of watching his mother weave, leaving her to the endless business well guarded by men he trusted, of course. And he had grown sick of the endless crudeness of the suitors lingering in the Palace halls, the jokes at his behest had hit a nerve with him today, and he could not bear to hear a single more bark of ‘Little Wolf’ behind his back.

So he walked, keeping his steps silent in his sandals, his white and blue robes around him comfortably with ever his sword at his side, with his golden laurels sitting in his hair.

But in truth, Telemachus felt alone… more so than he had in a long time.

Suddenly, he perked up. He heard gentle footsteps behind him. Tension bubbled up inside him as he pictured another of the suitors coming to torment him. Without hesitation, he drew his sword and spun around to face the stalker.

However, he was not met by the face of one of his mother’s drunken suitors.

Instead, he was met by the figure of a woman.

She wore dark leather sandals laced up her legs, a long purple skirt with a silver pattern around the hem, and a lavender chiffon held at her shoulders by two silver clasps. She had a silver necklace that hung down her chest and long curls of hair that hid her face.

He was, of course, taken aback by the sight, he was sure he had not seen this maiden before. “Hello?” He raised an eyebrow but did not lower his sword,

“Good Afternoon, Prince Telemachus.” She said, her tone prim and proper. She curtsied low, never raising her head or meeting his eye.

“You know my name?” He asked as he stepped closer,

“Why wouldn’t I know the name of Prince Telemachus, son of Odysseus, Prince of Ithaca.”

His eyes narrowed, and the grip on his blade tightened, “what manner of god or monster are you?” He muttered, “What is your name, Maiden?”

“Princess Y/n, daughter of Pellantos. Princess of Zakynthos.”

Telemachus’ eyes shot open wide as he realised who she was, he had spoken to King Pellantos of Zakynthos many times over diplomatic matters, he didn’t even know he had a daughter! He felt foolish to question her, and immediately, he slid his sword back into his scabbard and dropped to one knee. He took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles softly, “Forgive me, I- I was unaware of your coming. I- I should have been at the docks to meet you. My humblest apologies, Princess.”

She softly giggled, “It is alright. You had no way of knowing it was me.” She said, tugging on his hand to pull him back to his feet.

He smiled back at her, “What brings you here, princess? I had not heard anything from your father that would need urgency.” He asked, “And I assume you are not meetly here to grant me the pleasure of your company,”

“I wish I was,” she said, “But unfortunately not.”

“Then what?”

“I come simply as a guest to your palace.” She said, her tone became uncomfortable, “My brother comes to your palace as a suitor for your mother, it pains me to say.”

His heart briefly stopped, and a sick vile gathered in his throat. For a moment, he could be fooled to believe perhaps she was here to see him. But no… merely accompanying her brother’s lust over his mother’s hand. “I see…” His hands fell to his sides and balled into fists,

“Please… forgive me. I- I didn’t mean to-” She began, “I am sorry, words are not my forte.” She said, “My brother has no desire to be here, but my father insists. My father insists I come with him-”

“You have nothing to apologise for.” He interrupted, “Your brother is not the first, and I am sure not the last to linger here awaiting my mother.” he looked away, “They will wait a long time.”

She nodded, “I know… no man can replace your father in her heart. Even if he was never to return, I know the throne will remain cold at her side.”

“You’re right.” He nodded, “My mother will never give up on my father. Even after twenty years…”

“Understandable… Nor would I.”

“Few of us in this world who would.” he sighed,

“I am sorry… I fear I have only caused you pain -”

“Do not apologise, princess.” he told her, “To tell you the truth… I have grown tired of such conversations.”

“Forgive me-”

“But.” he told her, “I would rather have them with you, than anyone else.”

“As would I.”

“If I may? You have not met my eyes in all the time we have spoken?” He smiled,

“…I- it is not something most people find easy.”

He gently brought a hand to her chin and stroked her skin softly, “And why is that princess? Is it that hard to look at me?” He chuckled, “May I?”

She softly nodded and allowed Telemachus to lift her head, letting her hair fall away and reveal her face. One eye was as bright as the ocean, as if Poseidon himself had bottled a calm and beautiful sea for her eyes, and the other was white like a cloud with a long scar from her eyebrow to her cheek.

His breath left him, his heart raced, and words came tumbling from his lips without thought, “You’re captivating…”

Y/n blushed and tried to look away,

But Telemachus held her in his sight, he felt his body burning as if aphrodite had lit a fire under his ass. And uncontrollably, he leant towards her, “You shouldn’t hide your eyes, princess. Not from me.”

“Why not?”

“Because even in a simple look… I don’t ever want them to look away from me.”

“You mean it?”

“With all my heart.” his hand fell to take her own,

“That is sweet, my prince-”

“Telemachus. Please.” he begged her, “I never want your gaze to leave my own, I want to hear my name upon your lips a thousand times, I… I want my hand to linger in yours until we are nothing but bones.” He explained before he shook himself out, “Forgive me, I-”

“As do I.”

“You- You do!”

She nodded, blushing hard,

“Y/n… may I be… forward, Sweet princess?”

“Yes, Telemachus?”

“May- May I kiss you?”

Y/n gasped in shock, her eyes fluttering a few times before she spoke, “We- I- We shouldn’t.”

A frown fell on his face,

“I want to.” She told him, holding his hand tight, “I want to… so very much. But- But if my brother saw it.”

He sighed and nodded, “I- I understand.” He murmured, “But… I want to kiss you. Truly, I do. More than anything.” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist,

“As do I.” She whispered,

“Tell me… tell me this is what you want,” he begged,

“I do.” She nodded, laying her head on his chest,

“As do I.” he said, “I beg of you… meet me again, somewhere we can be alone,”

“Where? When?”

“… meet me in the gardens near the edge of the palace tonight. Sunset.” He said,

She nodded and slowly stepped out of his arms,

He nodded and stepped back to their hands, the last thing to separate, “Please… do not be late.”

“I won't, I promise.”

“Until then, my darling,” he blew her a kiss,

She giggled, blushing hard and blowing him a small kiss back with her hand,

Which he happily pretended to catch as he watched her go.

Telemachus sighed happily, hands resting on his sword, feeling the blush in his cheeks. He had never imagined he’d get so smitten, let alone so fast, but… he truly felt it. And as he continued his walk, he couldn't help but imagine tonight already making plans for what on earth he would say.

[daydreamingatnight209]

Me actually writing and posting? What??? 😱😱😱

Enjoy some Colson content my lovelies 🥰

As usual Feedback is welcome, HATE is not ; if you don’t like it, don’t read it. ✨💕

“I’m Here, Go Back to Sleep”

MGK x Female Reader

Warnings - None. Just pure fluff!

——————————————————————————

Waking up to an empty bed these days wasn’t unusual these days, with the album deadline slowly creeping up day by day, Colson spent almost all of his hours in the studio, working himself to the bone to produce an album everyone can enjoy.

With your own workplace continuously overworking you, sleep or time didn’t come easily to you either. You couldn’t remember the last time both you and Colson had actually spent more than a few minutes at a time together in the same room and it was starting to become very lonely.

Leaving the cold and empty bed, after another night of hopeless tossing and turning, you sigh and drag yourself downstairs to the kitchen. Preparing for another day to survive on coffee you make one for both yourself and your boyfriend who didn’t even leave the studio last night. It was most likely he fell asleep there in the very early hours of the morning.

While the lack of sleep wasn’t new for Colson, it certainly was for you and you could feel it slowly starting to affect your mind and body.

You grab him a change of clothes, a blanket for yourself and his favourite aftershave before crossing over from the house into the converted studio space.

With the band already in session, you slipped in almost undetected, but as always, your eyes caught Colson’s immediately. You give him a small smile and walk over to give him what you had brought over.

“Babe, what are you doing up so early? You look exhausted” he whispers as he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You let out a small laugh and set yourself down on the closest chair.

“Gee, thanks Col”

After a quick clothes change and the others leaving in search for food, Colson calls you over to the desk he’s working at.

“Come, let me hold you” he mumbles, stretching his long arms out in your direction.

Wrapping the blanket tightly around you, you walk over to your lover and wrap yourself around him so you were straddling him. He holds you tightly and sways gently.

“You need to get some proper rest, baby, you are going to make yourself ill” he tells you softly.

You giggle to yourself at his concern for you, knowing full well he wouldn’t take his own advice even if you begged him.

“I’ll rest when you do” is your answer and you can practically feel him rolling his eyes at you, despite not actually being able to see him as you rest your head in the crook of his neck.

The two of you sit there quietly, as colson continues to sway you and hum a track from the new album into your ear.

Despite not being able to sleep properly, something about being in colson’s arms after so long, settles you and you cannot fight the call of sleep that beckons you. Your eyes close slowly and without protest as you rest against the frame of your man, the feeling of safely enveloping you.

Colson smiles down at you, tenderly, the look of frustration and stress leaving your features as you snore lightly.

He would be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t missed these small intimate moments with you and did feel quite guilty for not making more time for you while in the process of doing this next album. You never once complained and took everything in your stride which is on of the many things he loved about you.

He couldn’t wait to look after you and treat you to something special as a way of thanks for all your support when the album was complete.

His train of thought was interrupted as he heard everyone coming back to continue the session. He panicked slightly as they all barged through the door and glared at them in an effort to silence the rowdiness they were currently displaying.

“Shhh! She hasn’t slept properly in weeks and I swear if any one of you wake her up! …” Colson hisses at his friends, before looking down at you to ensure you were still peacefully sleeping.

Slim is the first to put his hands up in mock surrender, a smirk plastered on his face as he leads the group back out the door, but he was secretly glad that this would mean Colson would be forced to take a break, even if it was just an hour or so. He knew he definitely needed one.

Once alone again, Colson lifts you up with ease and carries you over to the sofa, laying you down and climbing in beside you. He wraps his arms back around you settles in. The movement causes you to stir slightly, your eyes still closed you mumble for your boyfriend not to leave you.

“Shh baby, I’m here, go back to sleep”

[chippedshake]

Ponyboy, eight years old, meeting Sodapop's new friend Johnny from school, who has bright, black eyes and a bruise on his cheek, and has just as much trouble reading as Sodapop.

Ponyboy, eight years old, going to the movies with his parents, his brothers, and Johnny, who his parents insist on inviting everywhere, and talking everyone’s ear off about what he liked about it. Johnny, just shy of ten years old, being the only one to respond as excitedly.

Ponyboy, eight years old, walking home with Darry, Steve, Soda, and Johnny, making quiet conversation with him about the kids at school and trying to convince Johnny that Darry isn't as scary as he seems, just older and trying to be intimidating.

Ponyboy, nine years old, glued at the hip to Johnny, hardly spending a minute without him despite the age difference.

Ponyboy, nine years old, waking up to a knock on the door in the middle of the night and finding Johnny, barely able to hold himself up, face swelling, blood pouring out of his nose. Mrs Curtis coming out and patching Johnny up and telling Ponyboy to go back to sleep, but Ponyboy refusing because Johnny's his friend, so he stays with him for hours, whispering assurances, telling him he's going to be fine as he tries to ignore his shaking hands and the tremble in his voice. Rage sweltering in his chest and realising that at that moment he could kill someone.

Ponyboy, nine years old, falling asleep at Johnny's side, curled up against him in his room, Johnny's arms wrapped around him, tissues and gauze and medicine bottles littered around them.

Ponyboy, ten years old, reading the books Johnny's been assigned at school out loud because "they seem interesting, Johnny, it has nothing to do with you". Johnny pretending like he believes him when Ponyboy says he's just in the mood to read the chapters Johnny has for homework.

Ponyboy, almost eleven, telling Johnny over and over that he isn't stupid, school just isn't made for him and it doesn't matter that he's being held back, but knowing that none of it is getting through to Johnny.

Ponyboy, eleven years old, spending hours upon hours alone with Johnny in silence, doing their homework or drawing or reading or just thinking, living in a bubble where words aren't necessary to talk. Walking away with a greater understanding of each other than anyone else has.

Ponyboy, eleven years old, showing Johnny his drawings of the gang, trying to ignore how Johnny's face is appearing twice as often as everyone else's, and Johnny stopping on one drawing in particular, his breath caught in his throat. The drawing being one that had taken Ponyboy days to finish, Johnny's face as he watched the sunset, calm and awed by the beauty. The drawing matching Johnny's face at that moment exactly. Johnny asking to keep that one and Ponyboy not doubting it for a minute and ripping the page out.

Ponyboy, twelve years old, going to his first official fight against the Shepard gang and teaming up with Johnny against a medium-sized guy, working together seamlessly and practically reading each other's minds

Ponyboy, thirteen years old, finding out his parents are dead and going numb, unfeeling, not knowing what's happening. Not coming out of it until late at night, when he wanders downstairs and finds Johnny patching himself up and wonders why his mom isn't there, helping him. Holding back tears – for himself, his parents, his brothers, for Johnny – as he cleans Johnny's wounds and promises everything will get better.

Ponyboy, thirteen years old, falling asleep in Johnny's arms again, but they've done it so many times it's second nature to readjust themselves so they both feel protected.

Ponyboy, thirteen years old, finding Johnny in the lot with the rest of the gang and being beyond horrified, frozen with shock, unable to do anything but stare as Soda holds Johnny and they get him back to their house. Johnny asking him, in a croaky voice just before they fall asleep, to go get his jeans jacket. Ponyboy finding his drawing of Johnny, folded into neat quarters in the pocket and Johnny smiling softly when he sees it and whispering "thank you" and both of them knowing it's for so much more than bringing him the drawing.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, blond and quietly crying himself to sleep in a church far away from home. Johnny waking up and comforting him like Pony's done for him so many times. Both of them pretending it's too cold so they have to sleep huddled up, acting like it has nothing to do with comfort

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, screaming, pleading for Johnny to come out because all the kids are out already, come out, please, Johnny, it's not safe

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, visiting Johnny in the hospital and knowing he won't make it, but shoving it down because he can't imagine a world without him.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, sending Two-Bit to go get a book so he can have alone time with Johnny, and not needing to say anything for both of them to know this is probably the last time they'll be together.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, pouring all his frustration and rage into the rumble.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, not being able to break down next to the hospital bed because if he doesn't go get his brothers, Dally might do something stupid.

(It doesn’t make a difference.)

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, sick with grief and not knowing how to tell people that Johnny wasn't just his buddy, they had something different.

Ponyboy, fourteen years old, opening a letter and finding another sheet of paper that falls out. Knowing what it is before he opens it. Tear drops staining the drawing, making Johnny cry as he watches the sunset at twelve years old.

Ponyboy, fifteen years old, forced to pretend like nothing happened and dating a girl – Cathy – even though he knows he doesn't feel the way he should towards her.

Ponyboy, seventeen years old, realising he was now older than Johnny would ever be.

Ponyboy, eighteen years old, getting married to a girl he definitely doesn't feel the way he should towards.

Ponyboy, twenty years old, running to the hospital because Soda was in the wrong place at the wrong time in a rally in New York of all places and now they don't know if he’s going to make it and oh god, not another one.

Ponyboy, twenty years old, holding his breath until his brother answers him and tells him to stop worrying with a forced smile.

Ponyboy, twenty-two years old and realising that he's never loved anyone the way Sodapop loves Steve and loved Sandy, not Johnny, not Cathy, not anyone else, realising he's broken.

Ponyboy, twenty-five, having his second child but first son and not doubting for a moment as he calls him Johnny despite the fact that he can't remember his voice and needs the drawing to remember his face.

Ponyboy, thirty years old, sitting his wife down because this isn't fair to her, telling her he doesn't love her like that, but he does love her. He loves her but the same way he loves his brothers and Steve and Two-Bit and–... and all of them. Her, breaking in front of him, but putting up a strong front and telling him they'll stay together for Johnny and Kristen.

Ponyboy, forty-two years old, finally getting a divorce now that their kids don't live with them anymore.

Ponyboy, fifty years old, happier than he's ever been, living with a group of friends and calling his children regularly.

Ponyboy, sixty-five years old, watching his brother legally marry Steve and shoving down the familiar twinge of not being able to feel any of that.

Ponyboy, seventy-three years old, with a grandchild coming out to him with these words he's never heard before and his mind is swimming with aromantic and asexual and queer-platonic.

Ponyboy, seventy-three years old, talking to his grandchild about something that isn't platonic and isn't romantic, but something different, not less, not more, but different. A bond that runs deep and doesn't fall into these easy categories and Ponyboy holding back tears as he remembers painstakingly drawn pictures and night spent wrapped around each other.

Ponyboy, seventy-three years old and breaking down in his room because he finally found the words to say what he felt and Johnny wasn't here to find them with him, and he would never know that was what it was.

Ponyboy, seventy-three years old, being found by his brothers as he sobs with the drawing in his hands. Soda and Darry sitting down on either side of him and wrapping their arms around him and Steve rubbing circles on the back of his hand and Two-Bit telling him stories about Johnny because even if he didn’t say why he was crying they all knew.

Ponyboy, seventy-five years old, meeting his grandchild's partner and damn near crying but holding back the tears and wishing the two of them the best before pretending to need to take his heart medicine.

Ponyboy, eighty-three years old, going in his sleep, dreaming of tending to wounds and carefully drawing soft faces.

I'll see you soon, Johnny