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wh0rephobic · 1 month ago

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LIMERENCE.

PAIRING: anakin skywalker x apprentice!reader

SUMMARY: you and your master unknowingly get your drinks spiked on a mission.

WARNINGS: SMUT, aphrodisiacs/spiked drinks, dubcon, fingering, piv, orgasm denial, overstimulation, minor age gap (reader is 20-21, anakin is 25-26), teacher x student themes, glove stays on during sex, NSFW, MDNI

COUNT: 3.7k

The air is heavy inside the brewery you ran into after this thief, whom you and your master were assigned to catch.

“You’re sure it ran in here?” Master Anakin inquires, scanning the room.

“Yes,” you insist, “I felt it.”

Though you may only be a young Jedi knight, you’ve always felt very keen about your sense of the Force. But, although hotheaded and stubborn, you don’t disagree that you still have lots to learn from your Master… including this.

“Well, keep your eyes peeled.” Anakin crosses his arms in front of him, “from what Obi-Wan had said, it sounds like we’re dealing with a changeling,”

Oh, great. Your hand balls into a tight fist as the cortisol is released into your bloodstream. These creatures never failed to royally piss you off.

“A changeling?!” You exclaim, “why are you just telling this to me now?”

Your challenging tone earns a stern look from your Master, who’s nearly just as hotheaded as you.

“Easy, young knight,” he snips, “if your connection with the force is strong enough to lead you in here, it’s strong enough to find it. Correct?”

You chew on your lip, studying Anakin’s angry expression as you choose your next words carefully.

“Correct,” you nod, stubbornly.

“Good.” He trusts, “now, let’s split up. You can take the left side of the bar and— “

A server approaches, quickly cutting him off. “Would you like a drink?” She tilts her head with a faux smile on her face and motions to a sign next to her.

“ DISTRICT POLICY: NO LOITERING! ALL CUSTOMERS MUST BUY SOMETHING FROM THE BAR. “

With an eye roll and a faint grunt, the two of you reluctantly order the cheapest drink on the menu, a craft beverage you’ve never really heard of, and find a seat while you wait, continuing to scan the surroundings for signs of your target.

But somehow, you miss your server clock out for a smoke break outside after putting in your orders, and you also miss when an unknown figure takes her place.

The figure swiftly collects your drinks from behind the bar, tagged by your table’s receipt. When throwing in some straws, the figure doses both drinks with a substance. The changeling delivers them to your table.

You may be a knight, but you’re not that young, and Anakin has been training you for at least a few years now. The council wanted to assign someone as stubborn as himself to train as a taste of his own medicine. Since then, you have been stuck to his side like a puppy, and he’s watched you grow up into the bright young woman you are over these past few years… except that this last year, he’s noticed that you’ve gained some independence, as both a good and a bad thing. While you have more confidence in your actions and decisions, he’s not going to ignore the numerous times you’ve arrived at the job late since you became of age, makeup from last night smeared under your eyes and hair barely touched before you pinned it up. No, you weren’t that young, but you did have a reputation of being a little immature at times… he advised you not to let your party life get ahead of you.

You take a generous sip from the double straws in your cocktail, eyes carefully studying every customer at the bar.

Your eyebrows knit, “how do we even know it’s still in here? Couldn’t it have left already?”

“That’s the bad thing,” Anakin admits, sipping from his glass. “I have a feeling that this thing knew what it was doing leading us in here… so, we’ll just have one drink, watch the door, then get back to looking for this guy.”

You nod, trusting your Master’s intuition.

It was a bad idea.

It doesn’t take long for the substance to take effect, Anakin’s palms beginning to sweat under the long sleeves of his Jedi robes. It’s a slow onset though, slow enough that he can barely notice his own temperature change or heart rate rise gradually, and he just blames it on the temperature of the crowded bar. He takes another gulp from his drink.

As his eyes begin to tire from the repetitive display of the busy bar room, his mind begins to wander. It’s been years since he’s wasted his time going out to sleazy bars like this. He was younger, maybe a year or two younger than his own apprentice, you, when he would go out. He reminisces on the young women he’d meet, showing off their bodies in promiscuous outfits, looking for the attention that young Anakin was all-too willing to give, licking the liquor off of their tongues…

He can’t help but wonder what it’s like when you go out with your friends, how much skin you’ve shown off at a place like this. he wonders how many strangers you’ve gone home with, how many of them have made you cum? He bets he could make you feel better than any of them ever have.

With a huff of hot air, Anakin comes back to reality. Everything happens right under his nose, and the naïve Jedi can’t help but wonder how long he’s been feeling like this, and he hasn’t even realized?

But he’s too caught up in his own world to notice how the drug was affecting you. Not only are you also sweating, but you’re shaking, and there’s an uncontrollable heat between your legs that’s clouding your head. You can barely hear Anakin speaking to you, having zoned out long ago with your thighs clenched together to try and relieve some of the pressure.

Soon enough, he notices your lack of interest in the scene and asks, “are you feeling alright?”

You can only offer a huff in response, balling your fists to try and control your tremors. But when a wave of sinful thoughts floods your brain, your eyes can’t help but roll shut at your visions and you feel your face flush a deep red.

The lust seizes you like a fever, with one undeniable thought above it all: you want him. All of him. You want to feel his thick fingers filling you up to the point where you can’t breathe, you want to feel his body on top of yours when he slips in and out of your soaked pussy, whispering ungodly words into your ear. You need him, and you’re mortified.

You’re humiliated, thinking such shameful thoughts of your Master, not only while on duty, but when he’s right in front of you… in the back of your mind, you know that you shouldn’t, that this is wrong and that you should resist your urges. You turn away from him.

He calls your name, trying to get your attention again before he reaches for you. The second you feel his scalding touch on your skin, you involuntarily arch your back away from him with a gasp.

“Master!” You nearly moan out; mind and body completely overran by the substance you unknowingly drank.

Anakin freezes; your reflex is enough to set off a chemical reaction inside of him that creeps down his spine. Luckily, he didn’t drink as fast as you, and he still has his head on straight.

“You’re not well.” He decides.

He harshly grips your bicep. You try to flinch away a second time, biting your lips to hold back another moan as he pulls you to your feet. The mission you two were initially sent on is now completely forgotten, but the changeling snuck out the front door a while ago when both of you were too distracted to notice.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

You finally looked up at him, pouting helplessly as your body aches from the desperation radiating from your core. There’s a scarlet hue painted onto your glistening cheeks, and your pupils are huge, Anakin notes. He hates to admit that the defenseless expression on your face made his cock twitch to life in his pants, neglecting it with a barely audible grunt as he gnaws on his lip, turning away from you.

Outside the bar, your master calls for an air taxi to take you home. He joins you in the backseat, and what should’ve been a relief quickly becomes true torture. Having Anakin so close to you in the tight space of the taxi pod proves to be worse than being inside the bar.

You turned your face to the window. It’s becoming increasingly harder to resist your urges when you can practically smell his wooden-leathery musk dripping in his sweat from where you’re sitting. You bite into your knuckles, shifting your knees together subtly to create some sort of friction between your soaked thighs.

Anakin, both concerned about your sudden distress and trying to satisfy his own disgusting urges, reaches to place a comforting palm on your knee, squeezing it lightly to remind you that he’s there. But his touch only sends lightning to your core, catching air in your throat and making it hard to breathe. You turn to look at him with the same helpless expression that you gave him when you were leaving the bar, eyes glossed over with need.

Both of you are so oblivious to what has been done.

You chew your lip, conflicted about your next move.

Your body, seemingly on autopilot, places your soft hand on top of his glove. Neither of you break eye contact when you guide his hand up your thigh a few experimental inches, studying his reaction. From beneath the leather, Anakin’s metal hand squeezes your thigh to indicate his reciprocated need. It makes your desperate hole clench around nothing, it aches being so empty. You sigh, turning back to the window with a burning red face and stupidly loud heartbeat, but holding his hand where it sits on your leg for the remainder of the short ride. He gingerly rubs his thumb back and forth over the soft material of your pants, slowly getting you more worked up.

By the time you get to your apartment, you’re a disaster. Sweating, eyes blown wide, wetness drenching your underwear as you continue to shake like a prey being hunted in front of your Master, who was just as far gone as you.

You would have jumped on him in the elevator, if it weren’t for the Council. The only thing holding you back from him at this point was your fear of how the Jedi Council would react if behavior like this got out. It was the same thing holding him back, as well… but that didn’t stop him from walking into your apartment, and following you into your bedroom… this is a dangerous game you’re playing.

You smile coyly at him. “You shouldn’t be here,”

You know what you’re doing, and you want it just as much. You just need him to be the one to say it.

“I know,” he swallows, “but you want me to be, right?”

Your lips part, speechless at his question. Yes, you do. But you shouldn’t, you try to tell yourself, the council wouldn’t like this. But as he continues to move closer to you, you can’t help but drift towards him, and when he catches your eye glance solemnly at his lips, all of the ties holding him back snap. With the back of two of his flesh fingers, Anakin strokes the soft skin of your arm.

“Please, let me have you,” he begs, “just for tonight.”

You sigh, hot breath clouding the little space there is between you.

“Master, I- “

“Anakin,” he corrects.

“Anakin,” you repeat desperately, leaning into his touch.

“I’ll make you feel so good,” he promises, tasting iron on his tongue. “Please.”

It was so different, seeing him like this. He’s always so strict with you, so stern and certain. But here he is, panting and begging beneath you like he’s ready to get on his knees, and you’re not even touching him. It made your heart beat impossibly faster, pounding so heavily that you’d think it wants to literally jump out of your chest. You think that if you listen close enough, you might be able to hear Anakin’s heart beating just as fast, as well. The agonizing sound fills your ears as you reach for his sleeve, clammy hands gripping it tight, the rhythm of your twin hearts beating gravitating you towards each other.

You’re speechless, trying your hardest to think through this situation rationally but you just can’t.

“Won’t we get in trouble?” You mumble as Anakin tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, allowing his calloused fingers to trace your jaw before cradling it.

He whispers, “I won’t let that happen.”

His lips crashed onto yours before you knew it, both of you immediately melting into it. Shaky hands pushed the robe off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor of your bedroom. His mouth is hot as he eagerly licks into your mouth, entangling his wet tongue with your own. He pushes you back towards your bed gently, discarding his belt and leather tunic along with his robe. You let yourself sneak your fingers under the hem of his shirt, grazing them over the smooth skin.

You let yourself fall back onto the mattress when you feel the bed hit the back of your knees. Anakin takes his shirt off over his head, and you follow his actions. You frantically kick off your pants, fingers reaching behind your back to unclip your bra, when Anakin, now left only in his boxers, climbs on top of you. He places a knee between your legs before leaning in to resume your deep kisses. He reaches behind you, swatting your hands away and taking it upon himself to unhook your bra. You can feel how hard he is on your leg as his mouth gradually moves down your jaw and lands on your tender neck, decorating it red with gentle hickeys. Subconsciously, he hopes that they’re light enough to fade by tomorrow… but tonight, he can’t help himself.

You can’t help but drop your head back when he drags a big hand up your thigh, sending chills down your spine. The feeling of his teasing fingers tracing along the get spot of your clothed pussy makes you whine.

“Please don’t tease me— ah-!” You gasp when he finally pushes your panties aside and sinks two thick digits into your warm cunt.

Simultaneously, his expert mouth lands on one of the sensitive buds on your chest, flicking his tongue back and forth over it before suckling carefully. Your back arches, and Anakin takes this opportunity to sneak his gloved prosthesis behind your back to hold you closer to him as a most beautiful mewl escapes your swollen lips. He smiles against your tits when he feels you tighten around his hand, leaking slick wetness all over his hands and down your thighs.

Your legs twitch when you feel him curl his strong fingers inside of you, and you instinctively reach for the back of his head, entangling your fingers in his golden curls and pulling him impossibly closer to you. He groans against your nipples, repeating the motions of his fingers rapidly, rubbing his fingertips against the spongy spot inside of you.

“You’re so wet,” he hums approvingly, “is this all for me?”

You can only let out a pleasured cry in response, too far gone to offer anything more.

Anakin picks his head up from your swollen tits and studies your face. You’re swimming in the clouds of bliss that is being in Anakin’s arms, eyes rolled back and jaw hung so low you’re about to start drooling. You’ve gone stupid on his fingers alone.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxes, “stay with me,”

His words ground you, and he flashes you a proud grin when your eyes blink back into focus, holding eye contact with him as he sneaks his thumb up to your clit. Your body twitches at the stimulation when he starts slowly rubbing it side to side, eyes threatening to roll back again. You feel a throb deep inside your needy cunt before a warm pressure suddenly bubbles up, faster than you can take it.

“Anakin-!” You gasp, “y-you’re gonna make me cum!”

But your words only discourage him, making the pace of his skilled hand falter when he shakes his head in disapproval, golden curls clumping together as they fall in front of his forehead.

“I want you to cum on my dick.”

Your hole squeezes his fingers at the thought of being filled up by him any more than you already are.

You gasp, blurting out “please fuck me,”

Your begs fuel Anakin, the pride of your desperation rushing straight to his cock, you watch a dark grin flash across his face. He’s going to break you.

He moves down your body, planting kisses along your stomach as he inches closer to your now completely ruined panties. He hooks his fingers into the side before pulling them down, placing soft kisses onto your tender pussy. His own underwear comes off next, and you open your legs invitingly, allowing him to position himself between them. He rubs the plush skin of your hip soothingly, looking up to give you a checking nod.

You reciprocate with another sure nod before you reach up to pull him down on top of you, foreheads touching.

“Please,” you whisper.

Anakin obeys your soft begs when he finally sinks his hard cock inside of you. Despite your wetness, the stretch from him still makes your back arch, and one sharp inhale is enough for him to clash his lips with yours and drink up your lewd moans like he hasn’t drank anything in weeks. The tense grip he has on your thighs tells you that he’s holding back, thumbs pressing hard enough to stain your skin violet.

“F-Fuck,” he hisses, eyes screwing shut with pleasure. “You’re so warm,”

His gravelly voice makes your pussy throb around him again, sucking him in and drawing a punched-out groan from deep inside of him. That’s when something snaps inside of Anakin, he completely loses control when he pushes your knees into your chest before doubling down and fucking you hard, ruthless and unforgiving.

“Ah!” You cry out, reaching for him and stabilizing yourself on his leather glove.

Your other hand cradles around the back of his neck, pulling him down, and you sink into each other’s rhythm like puzzle pieces

Anakin’s ruthless pace allows for his cockhead to slam into your cervix; he’s so deep you can feel it in your stomach. You find it hard to breathe and you start gasping breathlessly into his mouth. Your wet cunt is squeezing him so sweetly that he can’t help but let out a groan into your mouth, pace faltering for a brief second. He lets his head fall onto your shoulder, rutting eagerly into your desperate hole, sucking him back in every time he pulls out and essentially milking his cock. He bites his lip to stifle a deep moan.

“If I had known your pussy was this good, I would’ve fucked you months ago,” Anakin confesses in his haze.

He emphasizes his words with another deep pump into your core that echoes through you with a sob. Your nails scratch shamelessly down his back and you grip him impossibly tighter.

“Hah,” he hisses, eyes screwing shut.

He lifts himself to full height to take in the full sight of you, never letting his unforgiving pace slow. You’re a disaster under him, eyes crossing with pleasure, tears mixing with sweat on your temples, a messy mixture of both of your saliva coating your chin.

The sheer sight of you beneath him is enough for his dick to twitch inside of you, grazing his leaking tip against your g-spot in such a way that sends electric jolts to your burning core. Before you know it, you’re tumbling towards your orgasm.

Anakin can sense it, “you’re close?”

You nod frantically, eyes locked on him. You bite your lip, trying your hardest to find the strength to put words together in your defeated state. He’s fucking you so good, and you’re so desperate for it, taking everything he gives you without protest like the obedient little slut that you are.

“Y-Yes!” You finally choke out, “yes, ‘m so close, ah— fuck-! please, feels s-so good…”

He’s proud of you.

With a permitting nod from your Master, the fuse inside of you finally explodes and sends fireworks shooting through your body. Your back arches up into his stomach, soft walls spasming around his aching cock so perfectly that his eyes screw shut and his nails dig into your hips as he leans over you. He drives his length into you a few more times, letting out a shattered growl when he finally buries himself inside of you and finishes, filling you up with white streaks while you shake beneath him.

Anakin rides out his high with a final few sloppy grinds against you before draping his tired body over yours. The two of you take a minute to come back down to Earth, engulfed by your collective hot gasps and pants that thicken the air of your bedroom.

As your heartbeat begins to calm, you can feel Anakin’s still pounding excitedly against your chest. You can hear him try to regulate his shaky breathing against your neck, but he’s still worked up.

Suddenly, the speed of his lazy rocks picks up again.

A moan rips through your chest, “W-Wait, A-Anakin! Please-! I-I can’t take it— Ahh—!”

“You can take it,” he nods, voice slurring.

You squirm beneath him, trying to escape his overstimulating thrusts when he grabs you by the thighs and drags your body back into his lap, holding you still with one hand as the other gloved one reaches up to gently tweak your nipples, trying to give you something to relieve the aching pressure in your core.

Next thing you know, you’re back at the start, with your back slightly arching into his touch and your cunt swallowing him greedily.

It’ll be a long night.

a/n: daddy skywalker fic for father’s day mwahaha >:D

#anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker x reader #darth vader smut #anakin skywalker #star wars smut #anakin x reader #anakin x you #star wars fanfiction #cherry’s anakin blurbs

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prythiansprincess · 6 months ago

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CHAPTER ONE | TSOFAS.

pairing: azriel x reader.

word count: 3,056.

author's note: surprise! it feels strange to be writing for azriel again after such a long break, but here I am returning to my roots. this series has been sitting in my drafts for a year and now i've finally got it fully fleshed out. let's just pray to the cauldron that I actually get the motivation to finish it all the way through.

♫ dark matter - rivals. nav. series. moodboard.

Every mission required you to play a part.

Over the years, you have worn many faces. The thief. The seductress. The assassin. The dagger in the dark that no one ever saw coming.

Tonight you were a tavern wench from the Western Isles, eager to attract the attention of a nobleman who hailed from one of the oldest families in the Night Court. Given his societal standing, his voice of dissent against Rhysand and Feyre’s rule and rumored sympathies towards Hybern’s cause had not gone unnoticed. Certainly not by you nor the High Lord and High Lady themselves.

For Rhysand to send you out to personally deal with the lordling meant that the situation required your level of skill and discretion. The High Lord usually preferred to keep you close to home so you could monitor any potential threats in Velaris, but this pesky little lord had caused enough trouble to warrant your involvement.

For centuries, you had served the Night Court well. Even before Rhysand assumed power, you moved in the shadows like a phantom, setting matters straight when threats arose and making sure your beloved city was safe.

At present, the threat before you took the shape of a High Fae male, who in all honesty, had a rather lofty opinion of himself. You could tell he was unseasoned and unblooded from the way he carried himself, moving with the ease of someone who had never seen the toils of war and strife. The lordling likely lived in the luxury of grandiose balls and palaces filled with servants tending to his beck and call. No was not a word in his vocabulary.

He had a pretty face and a cruel mouth, those gray eyes of his raking over your figure with unabashed scrutiny. The dark veil covering your face reveals a sliver of your amber eyes, concealing your identity and drawing him into the mysterious aura you perfectly crafted with ease.

You had dealt with his type a thousand times over. Males who looked at you like a challenge, a prize to chase after and inevitably conquer before tossing you to the side for the next pretty little thing that crossed their path. Little did he know that once you set your sights on him, his fate was as good as sealed.

Judging from the finery of his clothes and the gold rings adorning his fingers, this one was a rich little lordling, probably the heir of some cranky old bastard who would have known better than to engage with someone like you. It was glaringly obvious that the male had never learned how to spot an enemy, so he didn’t know any better when he sidled up next to you, completely unaware of the blades concealed underneath the simple cotton dress you were wearing.

A small smile graced your lips, playing the part of the shy and demure maiden who was unfamiliar with being approached by handsome lords.

Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent underneath it.

“What does a lord have to do to get a pint around here?” He greeted with a smirk as he slammed down his empty glass. You didn’t miss the way his oily gaze lingered on the swell of your breasts peeking out from your tight corset.

“It’s on the house, my lord,” you said sweetly while you poured ale from the flagon in your hands, filling his glass with amber liquid.

The lordling threw the drink back in one gulp and slammed his hand down on the wooden table with a loud smack. From the far end of the tavern, his companions hooted and hollered at his little performance.

In the three days that you’ve been tracking him, they’ve never left his side. Two of them were his personal guards — trained soldiers who you would’ve liked to toy with if you had the time, but unfortunately your schedule wouldn’t allow for deviations no matter how much you would thoroughly enjoy carving those traitors up. Instead, you settled for incapacitating both males for the rest of the evening. The rest of the lordling’s company was inconsequential, too busy gambling and pulling females into their laps to take note of you.

“What about you? Are you on the house as well?”

Your fingers itched to reach for the twin blades sheathed on your hips, but you resisted the urge and offered a smile instead. “I’m afraid not.”

He grabbed your wrist, pressing his lips close to the shell of your ear. The heady scent of ale was heavy on his breath. “Don’t you want to know what it feels like to lie with a nobleman? I promise I’ll treat you like a lady.”

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, surveying the boisterous crowd in what appeared like self-consciousness, but in reality you were assessing whether or not you would be able to slip out with your mark without anyone noticing.

“But what will your companions think?”

The lordling chuckled. “They think whatever I pay them to think.” His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you into his lap. “But you need not worry, I have a room all to myself upstairs.”

With one last look at the crowd, you lured the male right into your trap. Pushing those golden curls out of his eyes, your fingers traced the outline of his lips. “In that case, lead the way.”

Compared to the boisterous tavern downstairs, the dark room he ushered you into was quiet and intimate. Clothes were strewn all over the wooden floors and his sheets were unmade. Moonlight streamed in through the glass windowpane, leaving half the room shrouded in night. The male wasted no time and pressed you against the closed door, his eager mouth nipping at your neck impatiently. His hands sidled up your spine, deft fingers tugging at the veil tied behind your head.

You caught him by the wrist, preventing him from untying the fabric before pushing him towards the bed. “Not so fast, my lord. I need you to savor this.”

Dark, lustful eyes drank you in as you crawled across the mattress, straddling the male and effectively trapping him in a vulnerable position. You lifted his arms over his head, tutting your disapproval as he tried to reach for you. He was so drunk with desire that he didn't even question the rope you pulled out from beneath your skirts.

“Be patient and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

He inhaled sharply, his body thrumming with anticipation beneath you. “You’re no lady, are you?”

At his words, you unleashed a glimpse of your true self as your lips curved into a seductive grin. “You have no idea.”

You tied his hands to the bedpost, twisting the rope into a secure knot. Slowly, you unbuttoned his shirt, trailing your fingers down the hard muscles of his chest. The male shivered at your touch, bringing a smile to your lips. He was making this way too easy.

“I’ve been watching you for days.” You discarded his shirt to the side, making your way down to unbuckle his belt. The bandolier of knives secured around his waist fell to the floor with a soft thud. “You never go anywhere without one of your sentries. You’ve made it very hard for a girl like me to get you alone, my lord.”

“I’m here now,” he responded in a low voice. The fog of lust dancing in those sharp gray eyes clouded his vision.

“Indeed you are. I’ve been waiting a very long time to get you all to myself, Lord Covington.”

At the sound of his name, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I never told you my name.”

You laughed mockingly. “No, but I know exactly who you are. Declan Covington, heir apparent to the Western Isles. An avid supporter of Hybern’s cause. A loyalist through and through, hiding in plain sight. Your family provided the gold for weapons and supplies to our friends in the West, did they not?”

He bucked underneath you, pulling at his bound hands. “Who the hell are you?”

“A friend of the High Lord and High Lady,” you said with a devilish grin. The sharp edge of your blade gleamed against the moonlight as you traced his torso with it. “Rhysand sends his regards.”

Panic set in his features. “Whatever he’s paying you, I can double it. My family has great fortune. We have connections. Name your price and it’s done.”

This was always your least favorite part. The bargaining, the pleading. It was all so tedious.

“You couldn’t afford me if you tried.” Your fingers threaded through his golden hair as you tugged his head backwards. “What you will give me is the name of every family who helped support Hybern’s cause.”

“Over my dead body,” he said defiantly.

“I can arrange that, my lord.” Shifting your hips on his lap, you examined his face. You almost felt sorry for him. He looked so young and naive. The lordling didn’t stand a chance against you. “Though I’d hate to waste such a pretty face. Give me their names and I’ll grant you a swift death.”

Anger came next. He spit in your face, which only made you throw your head back in laughter. You always liked the feisty ones. Watching the fight go out of their eyes brought you a sick rush of power.

“My father will hear about this! He’ll drag your lifeless corpse through our lands and gift your head to me on a golden platter.”

As far as hateful vitriol goes, the little lordling was rather creative, but neither he nor his father could stop what was about to happen. These males were all the same. They never recognized the danger you posed until it was too late. It was a weakness that brought you great pleasure to exploit.

“I’m afraid your daddy won’t be able to get you out of this one, Lord Covington.”

Deciding his fate, you untied the veil and let it fall to your lap. His eyes widened in fear and for the first time since he laid eyes on you, the severity of his situation settled into the worried lines on his pretty face. A silhouette of fire materialized from your body as you unleashed the beast within. Your true form was a nightmare personified, murderous and bloodthirsty, composed of the fury and vengeance that you tried so hard to restrain. Tonight, you loosened the reins to give her what she wanted.

Mine, she whispered as fiery tendrils caressed the lordling’s pretty face. The victims who saw her never lived to tell the tale.

“You’re her,” he breathed, his voice full of trepidation. “The fire priestess. I thought you were a myth.”

The crimson slash of your smile served as confirmation. “I’m no one and I will stay that way even after you’re long gone.”

Lord Covington narrowed his eyes. “You weren’t always, were you? You’re the exiled priestess of the Autumn Court. Lady Thorne.”

Kill, your transfiguration hissed. She hated that name and so did you.

Silence fell upon the room. Whatever pity you might have felt for him vanished at the mention of the girl you used to be. The one who died the minute you crossed the Autumn Court’s borders.

“Like you said, I’m no lady.”

You pressed your blade into his cheek and crimson droplets dribbled down the front of his chest. The male shivered as you licked away the blood, savoring the sweet taste of his fear. With crimson dripping from your lips, you opened your mouth and sang. The lordling fell into a daze, his silver eyes clouding over with fog as your voice wrenched through his mental defenses. With a jolt, you invaded his thoughts and drew out his deepest fears.

Everyone was afraid of something. This little lordling’s weakness was snakes. The spell of the song took hold, making him see what you wanted him to see. Serpents appeared all over Lord Covington’s body, crawling through his arms, tangling in his limbs, and twisting around his neck until he was gasping for air. The illusion was plucked from his own personal version of hell.

A nightmare, that’s what you were.

The veil of the illusion slipped, swallowed by the living flame of your true form. Whatever fear the serpents invoked paled in comparison to what he felt as he looked upon the monstrosity of the reality before him. A creature of fury, a demon of vengeance.

Lord Covington screamed and begged for his life, but the ward you cast in the room swallowed the sound. No one was coming for help.

Just then, a pulse of magic thrummed against your wards. You stopped singing and reigned in your flames. Your true form hesitantly retreated into the darkest pits of your heart, rattling against the cage you kept her in. Even as the flames receded, you could still hear the echo of malice. The small taste of blood wasn’t enough.

It was never enough. Someone was going to pay for the disruption.

Out of instinct, the dagger in your hand sliced through the air. Without missing a beat, the male who materialized out of the darkness caught the blade with precision. He hurled the blade back at you swiftly, making you twist in an uncomfortable angle to snatch it out of the air.

Glowing hazel eyes appraised you with scrutiny as the familiar silhouette of wings darkened the room, belonging to the tall and lean figure of the warrior standing before you. Cold, beautiful, and utterly lethal, Azriel flashed you a smile that chilled your bones.

The shadowsinger briefly took in the male squirming beneath you. With a voice like cold death, Azriel’s drawl made your skin crawl with irritation. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to play with your food?”

Your head whipped in his direction. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The Illyrian warrior moved in a shroud of darkness, shadows twisting across the dark leathers adorning his powerful form. The blue siphons on his armor glowed brightly, bathing the dark room with a soft cobalt light. Azriel paused at the edge of the bed, leaning against the wooden bedpost with a bemused smirk.

“It’s nice to see you too, princess.”

The nickname grated your nerves. In fact, everything about Azriel had the same effect. He seemed to have a special talent for getting under your skin.

“Bite me, shadowsinger.”

Whatever sarcastic remark was dancing on the tip of his tongue was interrupted by the male pinned between your thighs. Distracted by your hatred for the spymaster, you nearly forgot that he was even in the room. Freed from the spell of your song, he returned to consciousness and thrashed underneath you.

Lord Covington released an ear-splitting scream that ravaged his throat. His silver eyes flickered to the shadowsinger, fear and trepidation undulating from him in violent waves.

“Please,” the lordling pleaded. “Please, get it away from me. Kill me if you must, but please don’t leave me with her — don’t leave me with it —”

“For Cauldron’s sake.”

You drove the hilt of your dagger against the lordling’s forehead and he fell slack, mouth hanging open with unspoken pleas. Rising from the bed, you marched towards Azriel and shoved an accusatory finger at his chest. The action failed to even startle the shadowsinger. If anything, the cock of his head displayed nothing but amusement.

“Why are you here?”

“I need you to come with me, Thorne.” You paused for explanation, but none came. Azriel only stared at you as though his vague words were enough to make you drop the mission and go traipsing off with him to the Cauldron knew where.

You waved your blade in the direction of the unconscious male. “What about him?”

“What about him?”

The glare you directed at the shadowsinger would’ve sent lesser males to run off with their tails between their legs, but the Azriel only repaid you with equal venom. Needless to say, the dislike was mutual.

Without warning, Azriel disappeared into a shroud of darkness and the void of his shadows swallowed the lordling along with him. He reappeared a moment later with his arms crossed. The red and golden membrane of his wings shimmered at his back, blocking the only source of light in the room.

You balled your hands into closed fists. “Where did you take him?”

“The dungeons.”

“You had no right! I’ve been tracking him for days. He’s mine.”

You shoved at his chest again, but Azriel was immovable. His gaze dipped down to your shoulders and you realize with a start that the laces of your corset had come undone, leaving your collar bones exposed. The bloodstone necklace that you never took off peeked out from the swell of your breasts. The shadowsinger’s eyes lingered for a split second before his unrelenting stare flickered back up to your face.

“There’s other pressing matters at hand. We need to meet the others.”

You fumed with anger. You’ve been working on your mark for days and now thanks to Azriel, you wouldn’t even get to reap the benefits of the hunt.

“I don’t answer to you, shadowsinger. Rhysand sent me here for a reason and I don’t intend on coming home empty handed.” You screamed in his face and though you’ve always been on the taller side, you barely reached Azriel’s shoulder. He had the nerve to blink as though you were merely conversing about the weather. “Now return the lordling at once or you and I will have a very unpleasant discussion with the High Lord.”

You blanched as he closed the gap between you, his eyes darkening with something unreadable. His voice was smooth and steady, washing over you like shadows given form.

“Who do you think sent me here?”

Your mouth fell slack as the shadowsinger held your gaze. You hated it when Azriel looked at you like that. Like you were some sort of puzzle that he was on the verge of deciphering.

One of his shadows darted towards you, but before it could touch your cheek, Azriel took a step back. Without a second glance, the shadowsinger held out a scarred hand in your direction.

“Come, princess. The High Lord has need of you.”

₊˚⊹♡ thank you for reading. as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated. feel free to drop an ask too — i’d love to yap & chat with you all.

#azriel #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #azriel fluff #azriel spymaster #azriel x reader #azriel x you #acotar

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jscrawls · 6 months ago

Text

dragonborn reader! Yandere snippets

🔹🔹🔹

bruce stares at clark across the table, hoping in vain that he’ll look away from them and pay attention to the meeting. instead he seems to be pointedly ignoring him to talk to the problem the new member, slowly twirling his curly hair around his finger, it’s starting to creep bruce out. the unwavering stare and slow blinking eyes like a relaxed cat basking, the flush reaching the tips of his ears, the damn giggling. the world’s strongest man is acting like a teen with his first crush.

“superman.” bruce clears his throat, hoping the kryptonian can hear the annoyed click in his jaw.

“hmm?…oh i don’t care about the budget changes for the tower.” clark finally tears his eyes away from the newcomer, his expression instantly becoming more focused.

“…we changed topics from budgets twenty minutes ago. we’re talking about the recent reports from the lantern corps.” annoyed didn’t quite cover how bruce felt, can one meeting go smoothly?

“oh, we can investigate whatever it is together, have you ever been flying?” clark quickly turns his attention back to the newcomer, looking genuinely exited to have something to do together, possibly alone.

bruce wants to slam his head on the meeting table when the other’s quickly react with loud complaints instead of focusing on a solution.

🔹🔹🔹

you’re just washing the remnants of a potion spill off your hands when diana approaches you with a gentle smile on her face, two xiphos swords in hand. she leans against the doorframe and gestures towards you with the practice blades, eyeing the bottles covering the small round table behind you.

“you’ve been crafting a lot of things the past week, would you like to spar? the mind and body should be equally nurtured after all, no?” she smiles, the lines crinkling under her eyes in fondness as she speaks.

“well, i don't see any harm in-” you start to speak, only to be interrupted by Arthur quickly walking out of the backroom and dumping soggy plants on the clear part of the table.

“actually I'm helping dovahkiin test the alchemical properties of deep sea plants, they're very interested in learning about these and well, I'm the only one who can get them.”

His voice is a touch too friendly compared to how tightly he grips some deep colored vine looking plant, the Atlantian straightens up to be nearly as tall as Diana, you feel a bit awkward when they're suddenly staring each other down with tight smiles, caught in the middle of two royalty having a measuring contest on the fly.

“You people need Talos…” you mumble under your breath.

🔹🔹🔹

J’onn stares up at you from your lap, in his true form as he lays his head on your thigh in relative silence. His expressions are so alien that you can't read them as you speak, he just stares.

‘- and so then you finish making the potion and you quickly take off your enchanting gear before drinking it and putting your gear back on, this causes the gear's enchantments to react differently with your Magicka and you can briefly make a stronger potion and repeat the process-”

You've been rambling for a while, talking about different things in your life while he uses your legs as a pillow, he's one of the hardest to read, you accidentally nearly set a hand on him and he pushes it away. But he's still listening to every word you say, his eyes locked on yours in Stony silence.

Batman walks in the common room and takes one good look at you two, and then promptly turns and leaves.

🔹🔹🔹

Running the thief down isn't hard, they dodge pedestrians and leap over the dwemer automaton looking wagons as they try to flee with the purse clutched tightly in their hand, taking right turns in their attempt to escape you.

It doesn't take any more than a whirlwind sprint and a paralysis spell to put a stop to their crime, carefully picking up and dusting off the fabric as you turn and lazily step on the crook's leg as you start your search for the old lady.

Barry knows he could have caught them in half a second, had the purse back in the owners hands before they could blink, but there's just something about watching you on the hunt. He prefers watching from a distance for a bit as you relentlessly hound them down and take matters into your own hands, he starts to jog over to you once they're caught. He tries not to shiver in jealousy when you step on the crook.

“Heyyy dovahkiin! Good catch there! want me to run them to the police station for you?” He falls in step beside you, a big grin on his face as he looks you up and down as casually as he's able to.

“the guards will come and fetch them, won't they?”

your voice is a bit growly from having just used the thu’um, though the flash doesn't seem to mind it.

Barry nearly shivers in delight, looping his arm through yours as he starts walking faster. “Sure, sure. Hey let's go find this purses owner and maybe I'll get you out of armor for a drink or two. Whaddya say?”

“…. Flash it's middle of the day, and I have alcohol in my pocket at all times regardless I didn't need to buy any.”

🔹🔹🔹

“Dovahkiin, you're looking nice today.”

Hal’s voice calls out as you walk out of your forge room, you don't feel nice, sweaty and grimy and covered in ash smears doesn't sound like looking nice, you feel gross.

“Hello lantern.” You reply curtly as you tug at your thin shirt, sometimes it's better to wait until winter to forge dragon bone.

“That's no way to greet your favorite guy, after everything we've done together?”

Regardless of your grossed out feelings Hal strides over and throws an arm around you and pulls you closer as he pulls you towards the hall, you feel like you're sticking to his flight suit.

“lantern, I need to bathe.”

“Alone?”

Batman, who had been hoping desperately to ignore the two of them, sighs loudly in disgust and stands to leave the room. Even more annoyed when he hears Hal snickering behind him.

🔹🔹🔹

A/n: has anyone noticed how little media there is for Martian manhunter? They can't even settle on a design for him it seems

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comfortless · 1 year ago

Note

Dungeoneer!König and his gf... I mean, traveling companion

but really this is how most of their practicing plays out. 😵‍💫

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. sliiiight dubcon, breathplay?, masochism (without real injury), masturbation, oral (m receiving), absolutely unhinged “flirting”.

König knows his way around a blade. From the delicate daggers that thieves pluck from cloaks when the chance to strike is opportune, to the curved, dainty shashkas. His favorite would always be the doppelhänder, long things that strike fear into any man who sees it swung toward him. It’s why he chose to pay good money for one now, tossed a sack of gold at the blacksmith’s feet and demanded to have an exceptional blade crafted for him within a fortnight or so.

He really can’t afford to be too choosy nowadays: he doesn’t live on his own anymore. Before, his course was decided by tattered parchment pinned to whichever acceptable sliver of wood a wandering messenger could find. Now, it’s dictated entirely by the little knight who parades around like the finest tease in all the land. Even the world, he would gamble.

She whispers molten sugar into his ear on nights she’s drunk, lonely or especially sympathetic. Perhaps all three. She climbs into his bed: a tattered, linen sheet on the rough, cold ground most nights. Sometimes, it’s softer, a feather-stuffed mattress at an inn. Those always reeked of sin. Something carnal right where a couple must have lain together only a night prior, yet to be drowned out and washed away in the streams by some hapless innkeeper. It’s all went to his head, more than a little.

The lady knight sits across from him, tapping the rim of her mug of ale with such disinterest on her face that it’s König who feels sympathetic now.

She chose this tawdry place. Chose to don some silly armor and pretend it’s taking her to kneel in service to the King. The jobs never dwindle, but the motivation does. She never knows what she truly needs, but König always seems to.

“You want to fight? Me?,” she asks, to the wooden table rather than to him. Sluggish and gloomy with her own disappointment in this place, her own perceived shortcomings, something that he can’t fix. The King should have his head on a spear for not giving her everything she’s ever asked for, woman and benevolent thief or not.

“It has been a while, hm?”

She nods once, curls her mouth into a subtle smile that sends his heart swooping and something stirring down below.

“I suppose I’ve gotten comfortable.”

He knows well enough that he can make her less so, always seemed to with his groping and hovering. Even if she’s fed into it, a moth to flame, he’s never seen her bed anyone this entire aimless journey. It’s the rush of adrenaline that sends fire into her belly, makes her eyes shine and her legs tremble each time, never the flirtations.

König’s yet to win a bet, but this time he would wager that playing nice won’t grant him a thing. It never has with what’s dwelling in each dark corner of the kingdom’s underbelly, and it never has with her.

So when the sparring begins this time, it’s real.

The look of shock and betrayal comes immediate when she’s easily knocked back, her blade landing in the grass at her side.

“Again.” And again, and again, she says it as though the exhaustion isn’t already evident in the way her breathing grows heavy. Each time it’s the same, because the only thing he holds back from is severely wounding her. Even if he could, even if he knows roughing her up a bit is just how this should go.

“You are tired,” he observes, cocking his head to the side as she scrambles to search for her sword beneath the dim light of the moon. “Do you need a break, little knight?”

The look she shoots him is something akin to scandalized. König’s never been the one to taunt her like this. It’s new and tentative, and he prays it’s something she likes. The dresses and sparkling gifts from the dungeons did fuck all for any sort of progression, and by the end of the night she would know how dull all of this has become to him, too.

“I am not—“ A parry, a feint, a jab that lands on the air rather than striking true. Not enough. “I’m fine.”

It’s never been in this impromptu plan to shove her down, but that’s what happens when she doesn’t take it seriously. She moves towards him again. Steel clatters against steel, sinks forgotten into the grass. With a hand adhered to the back of her thigh and another at curve of her back, he drops her down too. No briny sweat clings to his temple, all of this is more simple than even the training he had as boy.

She doesn’t even kick at him, docile as any doe when she makes the assumption that all of this is playing pretend. Just another game: he’s less fit to be a monster than even the weak things dwelling in the dark in her eyes.

“I do not want your mercy,” he growls against her neck, weaves his fingers into her hair and tugs her head to the side. Just a little. Just enough. “Be sincere. Hurt me.”

“What are you talking about?” Her voice is a mere peep, lost to the wind that whips by and tousles all but the man affixed to her.

Explanations have never come easy for König. Not with words, not even with letters. He’s killed men without telling why, left wandering ghosts and their wives bereaved time and time again. It’s not something worthy of an answer, nor a thing he ever thought she would even ask. It’s never questions with her: only orders. Even a tamed horse can lash out, kick its master right off to trample if it sees fit. König is no different.

He licks a stripe up her throat, relishes in the way her breath catches and her hands rise to dig nails into his arms. His teeth catch right along her jaw, inhales against her cheek, and when she grows tense below him, claws her way down to his forearms, he knows she’s finally well aware of how this ends.

His hands study the expanse of her body, fisting the linen of her tunic upward to reveal all soft flesh and no more tricks. There’s an aching bruise on her neck, chest, below her ribs before the knight finally presses her palm to his forehead and kicks a rib to wind herself away.

“You’re so…” The word she searches for dies on her tongue when she scrambles over him, feels how greedy he truly is when his hips tilt skyward and the throbbing erection presses against her rear.

“Stupid, hm? Say it.”

She curls a hand around his throat and squeezes, her eyelids sinking to shield the dazed glimmer there as he slips a hand into the front of her trousers. A callused thumb brushes over her clit before drifting further, down where he realizes that he’s found a new treasure. She’s already wet.

“You are. Big fool. Brute..,” she grits out, delivers another blessed press of her hand. All another feint, because she remains stationed above him. Even mimicking the groan that rattles his throat beneath her palm with a sigh of her own. “I could kill you. You know that I…”

The knight dips her head to press against his chest as he spears a thick finger into her, and a greed surges through him at this sudden compliance. Poor thing is so winded that she does little else than blanket him and shiver whilst he grins as though he’s devil-possessed or the luckiest filth in the world. The thought of her fitting any cock- let alone his- seems unimaginable, so obscenely tight as she squeezes around one digit that it pulls even an appreciative grunt from him.

“You could try it.”

Her fingers dig into the skin at his neck, and none of it is enough. She’s so gentle with him, because maybe she even believes that she could. Killing wild men without masters or loyalties, just like the men in the stories she fancies. König guides a hand up to help her, presses down around his throat with more ferocity as she lifts her head and stares down at him like he’s truly gone mad.

“You want a leash..?,” she huffs, pretends she isn’t leaking onto his hand.

“Only if this—“ Another finger, a deliberate curl of both as they press to something soft deep inside of her. Something that makes her whimper rather than bark. “—is holding it.”

She only looks at him, sulky and humiliated when she’s pleasured, stumbles over some other mumbled insult as her back begins a slow arch. He guides his hand back to her thigh, pets along her softness and watches her with such adoration, a pleased purr rumbling in his chest.

“Look at you… cute thing.”

“Not a thing.” Her hissing only further goads him, because she does nothing to pull away, can hardly meet his eyes even with fire and hatred on her tongue.

“Ja… meine dame, is that right?”

Her breath catches as she grinds herself where she’s been impaled, legs trembling as his thumb brushes over the bud in repetition. It’s too soon, but he allows her to have her rapture, gaze drifting from her hair to the curve of a hip as her cunt gives a greedy pulse. All armor is shredded and ripped away, no defenses, catapults or blades, all are exchanged for soft cries and a burning ache. The hurried breaths she takes come almost stilted as she gives his fingers another generous squeeze, and he only feeds them into her with unhurried hunger.

“I want to feel it,” he huffs into her hair, savors the way she tightens the grip around his throat until his voice fetters to a whisper. “Just once, please.”

“No… not..,” is all she manages before the wave reaches the shoreline and she unravels over him. He feels the walls of her cunt throb as her head ascends to his shoulder, burying herself there in shame or bliss. The orgasm is soon but drawn out, some pent up need finally freed to open air, the very same longing that remains prevalent and urging inside of him. He fucks her through it with a bitter fervor, spearing and scissoring the fingers inside until her thigh draws up from around him and she detaches entirely to sit up at his side.

König is quick to rise before her, already untying the laces of what keeps him from the hope of sharing that same rapture she must have felt. The little knight only stares up at him with perplexed curiosity as his cock springs free, thick and long and angry after so many long months of suffering a callused fist or neglect. The tip drags over the seam of her lips as he takes the base of it into his palm, and the drooling maw above her only groans at the barest sensation.

“I will bite it off,” she declares, follows it up with a charming grin as though she hadn’t bruised him deeply hundreds of times prior to this.

“Ja, after… I don’t care.” And of course he does, but this is the closest he’s gotten to anything and he would be a fool not to take it, teeth or not.

She swallows pensively, then rolls her tongue over the slit of the enraged weapon in her face. Beads of salt aren’t fitting for a woman’s tongue, he knows, feels horribly dirty and miserable at the sight for a mere second before she takes him in earnest. Her lips wrap around him, send sparks of the purest euphoria through him.

“Is this how to shut you up, meine dame?”

Everything is gilded gates and ethereal meadows, the only damnation he suffers is the fact that he can’t move without bruising her: too big to feed himself down her throat, too untamed to hold himself steady should she ever allow it. He settles for her pace, watches in wonder as she allows half of him to reach into the warmth of her throat. The panting beast above her curls his hands into fists at his sides, certain that touching her would be the end of this boon of fortune.

Her tongue flicks over the weeping tip each time she draws back, hands grasping at his thighs to keep herself upright. Even when her teeth graze over the sensitive flesh, the cock in her mouth only twitches in agonized bliss. He melts before her, trembling in such pleasured fury that his nails threaten to break through the hardened skin of his palms.

“Ha… I need to… I’m going to come.” Only then does he reach for the back of her neck, forcing her in place to bear the taste of what’s to come. She doesn’t fight it, gazes up with a furrowed brow and delivers the gentlest bite along him. A warning or a dare. “Next time will be… fuck…”

Her titan crumbles before her as though wounded, can’t keep his hands in place then as he grasps at her face and his body grows taut. His hips press forward only to stutter as he tries in earnest to keep himself somewhat contained. She gags quietly when the thick ropes of seed meet the end of her, abrupt but as endless as the broken, pitiful noises that rise from his chest then. It’s miraculous how she swallows it all, bitter and hot as it spills in generous spurts.

It’s he who pulls back, giving the cock already softening a few more pulls before collapsing in front of her with acute love tucked away behind the glassy blue of his eyes. His little knight could feign indifference all she liked, but even those pretty tavern wenches and noble pricks she bats her lashes at could never have had a taste of what had just occurred here.

She wipes away spit and come with the back of her hand, tries her best to shoot him a look of disgust, but König does not miss the way that her eyes seem to twinkle in the same way his do now.

“I want to taste you, too,” he rasps, chest still rising and falling with rushed intakes of air. Even after he can’t keep himself from ruining any bit of sanctity or sanity within reach. Punctuates his statement by reaching toward her again, only to be pulled into the comfort of an awkwardly positioned embrace. His face lands against her breasts, and though he languidly runs a hand up her back, the other takes a tit. He toys with her in his palm, brushes a thumb over her nipple and rises up to kiss her cheek, silent pleas.

“You’ve had enough fun,” she answers, pulling his hand away with their fingers intertwined.

“You have more than just a mouth.” He flashes her the biggest, wettest puppy eyes he can manage. That may get him a scrap from her plate, but it’s worth nothing here. “I would make a good vater, yes?”

#Salome when you sent this i had to shyly hide my phone at work and pretend my jaw was not unhinging #SO them and the image is so cute too?! ;_;#i know you said don’t feel pressured to write but how could i not??#dungeoneer!könig

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dead-dolphins · 7 months ago

Text

Deaddolphins presents:

A heartwarming collection of 17 Christmas drabbles lovingly crafted just for you.❤️

Publication date: from 12/25/2024 to 01/06/25

Drabbles that you will find:

1. THE BEST GIFT OF ALL

Three years into their marriage, Eren is overwhelmed with baby fever, especially during the holidays. This Christmas, Mikasa has a surprise for him: three gifts that might just make his dream come true.

2. SMOOTH CRIMINAL

Eren, an unprofessional and slightly incompetent thief, stumbles into Mikasa's luxurious home while struggling to get his life together. But when he sees her, his priorities shift—now, his only goal is to steal her heart.

3. A FAMILY AFFAIR

Mikasa finally brings her boyfriend, Eren, home to meet her family. Her parents adore him, but Uncle Levi isn’t so easily impressed. Determined to expose Eren, Levi grills him with questions at the dinner table.

4. JINGLE BELLS & BLOOD CELLS

Eren, a Christmas-hating vampire, plans to scare off Mikasa and her orphanage carollers, until her beauty stops him. For the first time in a century, he’s willing to listen to carols if it means she’ll stay.

5. HOMECOMING

After years of being apart, Mikasa stands at the airport, her heart racing as she waits for Eren’s plane to land. She’s spent months, even years, imagining this moment, but now that he is finally here, she’s terrified. What if she has already lost him?

6. RAWR!

Eren and Mikasa are struggling to find the dinosaur toy that their 4-year-old son has been asking for as a Christmas gift the whole year.

7. UNDER THE MISTLETOE

Normie Eren has a crush on his best friend, Goth Mikasa, who feels the same. When their families celebrate Christmas Eve together, Eren tries to kiss Mikasa under the mistletoe, but noisy kids and nosy relatives keep interrupting. Finally, they get their moment.

8. LAST CHRISTMAS I GAVE YOU A CHILD

On Christmas Eve, Eren, Mikasa, and their friends are having a karaoke night. As Mikasa sings Last Christmas, Eren interrupts with their 3-month-old son in his arms, he jokes, “I gave you a child!”

9. OF LONELY HEARTS

Hot Dilf Eren is head over heels for Mikasa, his son/daughter’s kindergarten teacher. Unbeknownst to him, he also takes up most of her mind.

10. THE LUNCH RUN

Mikasa, an office lady, surprises her coworkers when her husband shows up to bring her the lunch she forgot at home. Everyone’s shocked—not just because they didn’t know she was married, but because he’s a... hobo.

11. THE GIRL WITH THE TAIL

Eren, the son of a pirate, dreams of the sea but is stuck ashore. He sneaks onto a fishing boat with Armin’s help and accidentally kills a fisherman while saving a girl. Fleeing, he ends up in Hizuru, where he meets the girl again—now with a tail.

12. PANTS SNATCHED TO SATURN!

Sugar Baby AU. Mikasa is about to give birth on Christmas Eve, and Eren, despite this not being his first time, is panicking—so much so that he forgot to put on his pants!

13. A WOLF'S FIRST SNOWFALL

Yuletide has arrived in the North, and with winter’s chill, the winterlord and his princess wife celebrate their first holiday season with their beloved firstborn.

14. A CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL

Alpha Eren plans the perfect Christmas proposal for Mikasa, his Omega girlfriend of five years, complete with a ring and her favourite scarf. When she unexpectedly comes home early, a near mishap almost ruins the moment.

15. COSY CHAOS

Eren and Mikasa’s first Christmas with their baby, Carla, finds Eren struggling to make something special for their little one.

16. SURPRISE!

The day Athlete Eren found out Mikasa was pregnant with his child was a whirlwind of shock, joy, and overwhelming emotion, changing their lives forever.

17. SWEET NIGHTS

Lord Eren adores his princess wife even more after her baths, as the warmth she enjoys heightens her sensitivity, making their moments together even more intimate.

Thanks so much for participating guys!

#eremika #christmas drabbles #deaddolphins christmas

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hs-transfusion · 1 year ago

Text

> JADE STRIDER

CHUMHANDLE: gaianGenerator [GG] STRIFE: brssknklkind MODUS: Periodic Table LUNAR SWAY: Derse MYTH. ROLE: Thief of Blood LAND: Land of Rhythm and Rivers

GG: now thats what i call a scientific fuckin BREAKTHROUGH B)

Jade is tough to read, wholly by design. Her IMPENETRABLE STOICISM and DRY WIT lend her an aloof air that convinces damn near everyone that she's HOT SHIT, which isn't an entirely untrue sentiment. There's nary an experience that can GROSS or WEIRD HER OUT. That's what happens when you've already SEEN IT ALL ONLINE, or so she claims.

Though she insists her love for FURRIES and STUFFED ANIMALS is entirely ironic, it couldn't be further from the truth. She LOVES those little guys, but under the Strider name is forced to CONSTANTLY BAG ON THEM. At least she can bond with the CROWS SHE TAXIDERMIES after they meet unfortunate demises in the neighbouring areas. She also has a passing interest in NUCLEAR SCIENCE, but it's, like, whatever.

Jade's PERIODIC TABLE Fetch Modus allows her to store an item only if its name or initials CORRESPONDS WITH AN OFFICIALLY CLASSIFIED ELEMENT. Peanut butter can be logged as Pb, or a Ca-n of Sprite can be logged as Ca.

Jade's relationship with her BRO is pretty complicated to say the least. He strives to HONE HER MARTIAL CRAFT through combat training, and though she puts her all into it, the constant PSYCHOLOGICAL MIND GAMES stresses her out beyond belief. The second any such thought comes up however, she's quick to SHUT IT OUT all together. He's just her BRO. Doesn't have to be more complicated than that. At least he has good taste in PUPPETS.

The Land of RHYTHM AND RIVERS is the WORLD'S LARGEST METRONOME, with a faint, pulsing sound echoing throughout the skies with PERFECT TIMING (most of the time). The rivers run red, though that's likely just because of the RED SKIES. Hopefully. Whenever the planet's heart seems to SKIP A BEAT, terrible calamities strike all across the land, something that the denizen HERA seems to wish fixed.

#homestuck #fosterquest au #jade strider #hiveswap #kidswap

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phoenixtakaramono · 22 days ago

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Chariot and Wolf - Ch1 Preview (2/?)

(🔗 You can read the Previous Sneak Peek here)

“Grandfather, is it true we’re known for our olive trees? Nothing else…?”

Having been in the middle of recounting one of his heists and cons, Autolycus was stunned by this bolt from the blue. His gaze was a little helpless. Just what were they teaching his grandson? For the better part of the last two years, Odysseus had been hounding him with all manner of random questions or requests. Such as asking him to case populated areas like the port or at the kapeleia—bars and tavernas—or at a symposia—elite private parties held after a banquet, to debate topics, plot, boast, or revel with others, attended by men of respectable families—and to eavesdrop on their conversations, bringing back any interesting new gossip or stories he heard, especially anything pertaining to the Olympian gods.

Feeling lost and adrift at sea, Autolycus said at last, “That is not completely right. Your little islands also produce wines, fruits and grain.”

“That’s all?” Having received an answer to his question, Odysseus still did not feel satisfied. He insisted, “Other poleis train great heroes or philosophers. Or are known for their oil, wool, perfumes, and pottery. We have nothing that makes our polis special?”

Dressed more elaborately than the day before, Odysseus sat at the dining table with an array of dishes laid out, making for a sumptuous breakfast. His akratismos, morning meal, was typically light fare, with tiganites—wheat pancakes—honey, figs, olives, or dates. Since Autolycus was joining him, in a way this was a grandson showing his visiting mother’s father hospitality. Now there was barley bread for his grandfather to dip in wine, porridge, fresh fruits, and pasteli which was a sweet treat made of honey and sesame seeds. The king and queen, however, were absent from the dining table; the royal couple typically skipped akratismos, sleeping through the mornings after having feasted and partied late into the night before. The servants were already preparing their usual light lunch, which included soft, salty cheeses, fresh fish, legumes, fruits, and bread. Dinner, for them, was the more important fare, for it was a social event to entertain the upperclassmen as while as making their tongues looser with wine to gather intelligence about the current socio-political climate outside the palace walls; Laertes would lead the noblemen to dine on meat and flat cakes with honey, drink, talk and make merry over drinking games for hours on end whilst the womenfolk dined separately from the party.

It was during this akratismos that Odysseus had brought out a gift he’d prepared for his grandfather. Nervously presented a low stool. At first, Autolycus’ reaction was just about as was expected; he looked over the stool with an experienced thief’s critical eyes, appraising the object for any imperfections or roughness. When Odysseus personally showed him the motifs he’d whittled into the legs himself, celebrating the old thief’s more notorious thefts, Autolycus’ expression lightened. Seeing Odysseus’ bright smile as he chattered, his old heart felt like it had been smeared with honey, warm and soft. The simple stool itself was, indeed, nothing that a skilled laborer couldn’t have made infinitely better. It certainly wouldn’t inspire a thief’s ecstasy and their desire to conquer. But this had been crafted by his grandson’s own hand. Autolycus ran his fingertips over the carved bas-relief of cattle and a single carved helmet. Listened to Odysseus chatter about the hidden compartment he’d thoughtfully included in one of the legs which could hide a rolled-up note or even small pieces of jewelry.

Was this talent predetermined by the Fates? Autolycus could already see a notable improvement from the first misshapen wolf—deer? bear? chimera?—figurines that Odysseus had carved when he first took apprenticeship under a master carpenter. Even the craftsmanship of the small wooden puzzle—which Autolycus thought already showed extraordinary aptitude, with its alternating dye and the edges that had been chiseled until the sharp corners were smooth and oiled for luster—seemed far inferior in comparison. The puzzle itself had been something the prince had handcrafted for his younger sister, Ctimene, who had been born not too long before from his biological mother, as a gift for her name day.

Odysseus was only seven years old, and he was already showing promising signs.

Good, Autolycus had thought. In his dream, he had seen the colossal wooden horse with the false bottom; for this oracle to be deliberately shown to him, Autolycus could only assume that his grandson ought to have somehow helped engineer its creation.

Autolycus had originally planned to be hands-off when it came to his daughter’s child-rearing; after all, a couple couldn’t grow closer if their in-laws constantly criticized or meddled in their marriage.

But, after his dream, he changed his mind. Odysseus might be King Laertes’ son—which meant it was Laertes’ right to discipline his son however he liked—but through his mother Anticlea, this little wolf cub also carried Autolycus’ bloodline. The more he had time to reflect on everything that’d happened, the more Autolycus grew heated. Not only did he feel indignant on Odysseus’ behalf, wasn’t this also a slap to his daughter’s face? To Autolycus’ own face? What did the gods take mortals to be?

So what if he was Odysseus’ grandfather? Bah! What grandfather did not want to see their grandchildren thrive? He, Autolycus, The Wolf Itself, wanted others to know that he did not make loss-making deals.

Hahaha, you gods up above want to make my grandson your toy? Although these were words that couldn’t be expressed aloud, Autolycus sneered inwardly. Then how about he train him up himself?

What was a wooden horse, compared to an elephant—or a hydra?

So, under careful supervision, Autolycus guided Odysseus’ interests from an early age, at a time when the prince’s mind was still an impressionable blank slate. Children were the easiest to mold at this stage. He’d brought Odysseus, in disguise, to see the morning market and to mingle in town, to personally observe the tradesmen—the carpenters, artisans, and their apprentices—doctors, merchants, and the slaves. The philosophers and elites, like many Achaeans, looked down on such honest people who made their living outside the officialdom, the military, or on the farmlands. But these subjects who were looked down upon made up the majority of the kingdom. Whilst the tutors shaped the prince’s mind on theory, philosophy, and politics, Autolycus focused on the more practical aspect. On showing Odysseus the harsh realities of the world they lived in. It would be good for the prince to see other boys his age who could not afford food or lodging, thin and dressed in old tattered rags. Like the oldest hunter in a pack of wolves, he had to teach the little wolf cub how to circumnavigate this world and learn how to hunt. The empty gourd that was Odysseus’ mind ought to be filled with a strong fiery spirit, and not the useless water between the ears like most princes his age.

When he’d heard from the military instructor that the young Odysseus seemed to be struggling with his new bow, Autolycus had even snuck into the armory and abducted Odysseus at midnight, having him shoot arrow after arrow from that bow until Autolycus felt satisfied by his progress, promising to bring his grandson to the snowy-capped mountain of his homeland and come hunt with him—but only after Odysseus proved to him that he could fire ten arrows into the same bull’s-eye on a single target.

One time, after he’d carefully rubbed muck onto Odysseus’ face to make the boy’s features harder to identify and had even lent his grandson his precious cloak which allowed the wearer to disappear from sight, Autolycus had tasked Odysseus to lift the bulging drawstring pouch from the belt of any one of the wealthier visiting merchants; with the caveat that the chlamys shouldn’t be worn unless he needed to make a quick getaway. The old thief had also taught the prince how to pick his targets; how to pickpocket and perform a simple sleight of hand trick without being caught, the latter of which Odysseus, regrettably, still struggled to pull off.

He’d even meddled somewhat with Odysseus’ circle of friends. Humans were social animals. Despite the differences in status, it would behoove the young prince to form social connections outside his own immediate family, and to learn the social skills necessary to navigate a conversation with his peers and other diplomats.

It would be considered a great honor for any Achaean peerage if their family’s children were selected as playmates to a prince or princess; for the prince, not only would their son accompany Odysseus in his studies, gaining access to resources that only those of the royal blood had access to, it elevated their family’s status in society. Their son’s future would be accounted for, having been cultivated beside Prince Odysseus’ side as a trusted confidante. Once Odysseus ascended the throne, not only their son but even they, the relatives, might receive titles and benefits, bringing their family unprecedented glory. One day, they might even have a hand in influencing Ithaca’s future policies. For that reason alone, the atmosphere was generally very competitive when it came time for the prince to select his playmates. First came the son’s family background, their connections to other foreign kingdoms. Then came their physical appearance; comeliness was an advantage. After that was their personality and if they were suitable to be by Prince Odysseus’ side among his retinue. By the time it came to the final round of selections, Laertes and Anticlea had already screened through everyone and made their choices, with Odysseus having the final say if he did not like their preference for his companions.

Amongst the gaggle of Ithacan noblemen’s sons, looking over the boys who had made it to the final round—including Antinous, son of Eupeithes, and Eurymachus, son of Polybus, and Polites, son of a lesser known noble family—Odysseus’ eyes lingered on Polites who, after noticing Odysseus’ eyes on him, smiled at the prince honestly. The prince didn’t even look at the others, focusing only on Polities. Seeing the humiliation and jealousy burn the other boys’ faces, Odysseus felt even better.

The palace walls had eyes and ears; even if the guards or maidservants didn’t interfere or scold these noble sons, they directly reported their actions to the prince. He had heard how these two had been the most ambitious and played a hand in eliminating their competition, playing numerous underhanded tricks such as smearing weeds on the pillow of a competitor they were threatened by, who developed rashes the eve of the physical inspection. Or when they planted a spider into two boys’ clothes, causing them to lose decorum before the king and queen who had presided over the examination that day. Before Eurycleia had even called Odysseus over, he’d witnessed them at the olive tree grove shoving this boy. The former two candidates might be known for their courage and cunning, and had a distinguished family reputation as hunters or warriors. But, for Odysseus, Polites was perfect.

His conditions weren’t bad. A family of medics and physicians and swineherds, Polites’ family status was low, which meant his relatives wouldn’t hold high ambitions to climb the social ladder. His personality was soft-spoken, gentle, and mild, a counterweight to the prince’s own rowdy nature, which meant Odysseus should be able to control him.

But before Odysseus could choose him, Autolycus had strongly made his opinions known. Although he’d acknowledged it wasn’t within his right to interfere with the prince’s choice of companions, Odysseus was the crown prince—which meant his circle of friends should have extraordinary backgrounds, otherwise others would look down on the Royal Highness for his choice of companions. From the line-up of ten boys, Autolycus had picked out four or five other comely-looking boys who had relatives in Pylos, Sparta, Mycenae, Scyros, or Salamis. All locations that bordered or would have connections with Troy, connections which would benefit his grandson in the future.

In Ithaca, it wasn’t a custom practice for children to shave half of their heads unlike most other places. Over the full-haired heads of the excited boys who surrounded the overwhelmed Odysseus, he’d pretended he didn’t see Polites’ disappointed look when the boy had been left forgotten.

Collateral damage was inevitable. This was just how power and politics worked. …It was for the best that things ended up this way. In truth, Autolycus hadn’t wanted to completely break Odysseus’ fated bonds and friendships; he’d still wanted his grandson to be able to cultivate these spears for him in the future. But in the dream, Autolycus recalled the name “Polites” being weaponized from the mouths of Odysseus’ crew; heard them cite Polites’ death as one of several justifications to claim Odysseus’ leadership had been compromised, to launch a mutiny against their captain. So while he didn’t recognize the youth’s face in the line-up, Polites was not a common name. Autolycus hadn’t wanted to take any chances.

And so, the wheels of fate turned, as if it had all been written long before.

At present, Autolycus stared at Odysseus. Seeing his young grandson lost in thought again, his dark marigold eyes squirreling around, naughty and cunning, Autolycus couldn’t help stretching his claws out and kneading that soft face. He saw his grandson’s left eye had turned a faint stormy grey-blue. Athena’s blessing. Pretending that he didn’t see, Autolycus demanded, “What good idea are you cooking up in that devious brain of yours? Why don’t you tell your grandpa?”

Pulling his cheeks away from his reach, Odysseus shot him a disarming crooked grin. But he didn’t reply, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together thoughtfully. A slight dent and callus had developed on those fingers from the tension of pulling the bowstring taut repeatedly. At this time, his hands were rough from two popped blisters. His hand still bore scratches from sanding down sharp splinters.

Odysseus’ expression was extremely calm, but a dark whirlpool had swept across his eyes as he pondered.

Although he was seven, he was more than painfully aware Ithaca’s network of information was, tragically, limited. It was their reality of being islanders. They were isolated by the vast sea. News from the mainland did not travel fast. What could be considered current events to them could be old news somewhere else. Similarly, at most, news about Ithaca spread, at most, maybe two-to-three islands down, perhaps not going past Peplos or Sparta. As such, how could they learn about the outside world and gain a lot of knowledge? It was through gossip. They were reliant on word of mouth and the stories that sailors, merchants, and storytellers brought with them when their ships docked their port. It was through them, and their wares, that they could update their maps and understanding of the world.

Although he’d been taught to think on his feet, the methods Odysseus’ parents and tutors used to teach him were different from that of his grandfather. Their lessons focused on discipline and how to be a good ruler. Autolycus, on the other hand, spoke to him in the form of storytelling. These “stories” always captivated Odysseus, informing him of things that couldn’t be learned from just reading books or memorizing poetry. In many respects, Autolycus’ views aligned with his own, and compared to his parents whom Odysseus greatly respected, his grandfather had a broader vision largely due to how well-traveled he was, flexible and creative, having made countless enemies throughout his “travels.” It wasn’t any wonder that the old thief sought refuge in their kingdom, one of the few that did not have a bounty on his head.

Most Achaean boys only began school at the age of seven, taught to read, write, and recite many poems by heart. Because of his status, Odysseus had a significant head start. In this regard, he felt that he owed much to his grandparents’ and parents’ “corrective education”, which made Odysseus realize how vast the world was outside their kingdom and how insignificant he was in comparison. Even if he didn’t fully grasp the importance of certain things yet, he understood the world to some extent.

To manage it well, the first step was to understand it thoroughly, whether the situation was good or bad, and even the turmoil brewing outside.

Ithaca was a prosperous place—an island known more for its idyllic beauty than the might of its kings—but that didn’t mean they, the mortals, could live peaceful and prosperous lives. This world belonged to the gods and, in the future, it would still belong to the gods. They were merely sharing it with them.

A lesson which the tutors had drilled into Odysseus’ head was that it was inadvisable to focus on immediate profits and gains. Any good ruler ought to know when a compromise would lead to a much better outcome. As the direct heir to the king, Odysseus must learn the difficult lesson of taking a step back and looking at the bigger picture, and not so much focusing on his own ego and pride.

Such as the symbiotic relationship between Gods and Mankind.

It’d been taught, from an early age, that Mankind couldn’t live without the gods. It was a reciprocal relationship, with each side bearing responsibilities to the other. To ensure the gods continued to grace the people with good fortune, it was important for mortals to regularly pay respects and obey them. In return, the mortals spread their name and acclaim far and wide, ensuring that they would not be forgotten. Ensuring that they would be respected.

The gods were born of ichor and nectar, their excellences already bursting from their fingertips. So such divine beings found their fame by proving what they could mar: destroying cities, starting wars, breeding plagues and monsters. All that smoke and savor rising so delicately from their altars, only ashes were left scattered behind. For, it was nothing for a god to grab an island right out of the sea and hurl it towards the heavens. Many prosperous cities have disappeared from maps because of the earth which had swallowed them whole, or other such calamities which the gods sent to their doorstep. Plenty of cautionary stories existed of foolish mortals who were transformed into animals or monsters after provoking a god, or they were killed for showing insolence—or for the blasphemy of denouncing a gods’ existence or prestige.

For as many boons as they’d given, all deities who received homage were cruel; otherwise they would not be worshipped. The gods commanded fear and respect, and demanded infinite atonement. Such were their ways. Because it was through indiscriminate suffering, Men came to know fear and fear was the most wonderful motivator.

From an early age, his grandparents and parents had instilled in Odysseus a fear and respect for the gods up above. A majority of the “stories” grandfather had told him was to achieve this purpose. Once, Odysseus had genuinely believed these “stories” told to him were due to altruism and love. But the more that he had time to think about it, the more “tales” that were told to him, he didn’t think so simply anymore.

Odysseus was a bright child. A lot of things made sense only after a period of observation. Ithaca, their polis itself, worshipped many Olympian gods, but special emphasis had been given to Athena, Hera, Apollo and his sister, Artemis. It was no coincidence that, not long after Autolycus had shared his vision with the king and queen, the number of offerings and tributes made to Athena had exploded exponentially. She’d become the most celebrated goddess on the isle seemingly overnight. Trends typically followed the examples set by nobles who themselves followed the example of those higher than them, being the gods or members of royalty. Owl iconographies suddenly populated the stalls, from potterware to decorations to clothing accessories. Not to be outdone, Autolycus and his parents always reminded Odysseus to pray to the war goddess Athena to be blessed with her elucidate wisdom and for her guidance.

Odysseus didn’t know if he was imagining things. But could it be a coincidence that many thoughts came to him more fluidly than a roomful of adults could in the span of one incense stick? Why did it sometimes seem like time had slowed down to a snail’s pace for everyone else around him? By the time they debated and finished discussing one idea, he’d already considered several possibilities and muddied through the waters to see the clearest course of attack.

Was it a coincidence that his aim flew truer at night, or in the darkness? Was it a coincidence that in the twilight hours when Odysseus went to sneak in an extra training session, if he concentrated, it felt like he was being watched? Whipping around to peer intensely around the vast darkness, past the crackling torchlights, he swore he could hear a shrill cry pierce the blackness. Once, white against a shadow, the figure of an owl had detached itself silently from the blackened branches, its wings unfolding and the presence glided away silently into the moonlight, now black against the moon.

Beginning at the age when he had still been a swaddled infant and on occasion now in present times, Odysseus accompanied his family to worship at the temple of Hera, for she was the goddess who blessed marriages, women, family, and childbirth, as well as the temple of Eros and Aphrodite who represented erotic love and passion. They’d brought him to other temples as well, but these three were the ones that his parents frequented a lot more than usual.

For Laertes and Anticlea, who were newlyweds, paying respects at their altars made sense. A harmonious relationship between Ithaca’s king and queen would only be in the subjects’ best interests. They prayed at their altars diligently. At the time, Odysseus had been too young to understand. But years later, one day he’d come across Eurycleia angrily scolding two gossiping servants just outside the door of his bedchambers; hiding himself behind a pillar to eavesdrop, that had been the day Odysseus discovered of the hearsay floating outside, involving his questionable parentage and his mother’s innocence. The people liked to whisper with delighted schadenfreude of the rumors that Anticlea had allegedly been seen in the company of a man resembling King Sisyphus of Ephyra, the son of Aeolus—king of Thessaly and Enarete—before she’d even met her then-future fiancé, King Laertes of Ithaca. For, several people had found it odd that Prince Odysseus exhibited traits that coincided with the wiley King of Ephyra in many regards. Their suspicion couldn’t even be considered outlandish for, like Laertes, Sisyphus, too, was a handsome man with a head of dark curls. For, there existed a motive: Sisyphus had been a victim of repeated thefts at the hands of their new queen’s father, the notorious thief Autolycus. It wasn’t inconceivable that, as revenge, Sisyphus could have plotted to seduce one of Autolycus’ own two daughters. For, everyone had known that his daughter Anticlea had been in talks of being engaged to a king of a distant kingdom. For, they’d whispered that Laertes was of a straightforward personality, having neither the wit nor the trickery that the prince exhibited; the king was obviously an honest man, sometimes not good with his words. It was therefore inevitable that Laertes would divorce his wife and strike the prince down from inheriting the throne.

That had been the day Odysseus exploded with temper. After delivering a severe tongue-lashing, he went to have the two maidservants dragged to his father who’d been strolling through the royal gardens. With his jaw clenched, Odysseus had the maids, shame-faced and bound, repeat the same words he’d heard them say, but this time in front of Laertes—and to receive due punishment. Eurycleia had been there to corroborate what she’d heard, leaving no stone left unturned. After the incident finished wrapping up, Laertes had dismissed everyone and kept his son behind. Upon receiving His Highness’ orders, both Eurycleia and the guards bowed, disappearing without a trace. It was only after Odysseus approached him, that Laertes embraced him in a bear hug and wept bitterly into his son’s arms.

Through his own father’s mouth, Odysseus came to learn of the grief and pain that had troubled Laertes since his marriage to Anticlea, as this was a rumor which could never be silenced. Gossip was a favorite pastime of all members of society, from the slaves to the lowerborn women to the masters above. The more that the king and queen suppressed it, the more that people would come to believe it was true. Because, if it wasn’t, why suppress the rumor at all?

His queen’s reputation would forever be in question. And there would always be people who suspected Odysseus’ lineage. This was why he, Laertes, and his wife, Anticlea, showed their affections to each other in the public eye and made frequent trips to the temples of Hera, Aphrodite and Eros, as only adulterous wives would be prohibited from taking part in public religious ceremonies. This was why, to give Odysseus legitimacy, Laertes had spared no expense to cultivate, feed, and clothe Odysseus; for no man would be willing to spend their own coin on a supposed “wild seed.” Everything had a purpose.

He told him that he had no doubts that Odysseus was his legitimate son. That, even if he wasn’t, Laertes had raised him from infancy. Odysseus was a seedling that had grown under the shade of Laertes’ tree, not Sisyphus; not anyone else. Which meant Laertes’ claim over Odysseus was far greater than that of any other man. “You are my pride, Odysseus,” Laertes had told him.

That day, tears had been shed by both father and son into each other’s chest.

It was later that night, that his mother came into his bedchambers and told him the full story. Odysseus also found out from Anticlea that, as a marriage condition, Laertes had to fulfill his promise to his father-in-law to commission one of Ithaca's best sculptors to create a large statue in honor of her alleged grandfather, Hermes. Anticlea hadn’t thought the request was unreasonable. The most that Ithaca originally had of the god whose domain was that of heralds, herds, trades, athletes, thieves and trickery had been simple statues with a penis and a head placed alongside the road, meant to protect travellers. Thinking of his daughter’s safety, Autolycus had meant for the statue to serve as a bribe. This way, the fickle god might moved into being more inclined to grant his descendants his divine protection on account of their blood inheritance; by extension, that protection could extend to their descendants’ subjects who inhabited this island—which’d be in Laertes’ and Anticlea’s best interests if the god took pity on them. Furthermore, the queen had reasoned, the cost of commissioning a deity statue was nothing compared to the small fortune that Hermes’ cult, rumored to be centered in Peloponnese, had put forth, with the most important shrine being that of Mount Cyllene in Arkadia—Hermes’ reputed birthplace—which rose above sea level as the second highest point in the peninsula.

Before Odysseus’ birth, the kingdom of Ithaca had not been home to many shrines. It had not been a priority; the island itself was not declared a sacred site, so there wasn’t any need to propagate the island with many. For appearance’s sake, the old kings of Ithaca had set aside sufficient funds to construct several moderately sized temples to enshrine a god’s deity statue. Sanctuaries were only allowed to be built on sites with the king’s explicit permission. As long as foreign gods weren’t being introduced to Ithaca, Laertes was not one to persecute his subjects’ religious preferences. If someone wanted to pay respects and give tribute to another deity, they could do so in the privacy of their own homes. A year after Odysseus’ birth, Laertes himself, with the strong encouragement of his in-laws, had generously approved an increase of animal sacrifices to Zeus, to thank the god for his benevolence. What also deviated from the norm had been the sudden influx of tributes offered up not only to Zeus but also to Poseidon, as well as, surprisingly, Hephaestus and Ares—all of whom Odysseus would either presumably go on to offend in the future or would be of great use to flatter for the upcoming prophesied war. The amount of sacrifices had not been meager; as a consequence, for the next decade, the number of ritual sacrifices would fall to just one animal, or a handful in case of emergencies, just so the farmhands could recuperate their losses and steadily rebuild their herd numbers.

“Mom, Dad,” Odysseus approached them at night, his tread quiet against the floor. His hands were tucked behind his back. “I just might have the solution to all our troubles.”

Laertes’ eyes were slightly glassy and missing their usual alertness, his cheeks covered with a red drunken flush that even a thick beard could not hide. It was a far cry from his majestic appearance at the banquet. He groaned, “W-What solution?”

Odysseus grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.” Bringing out a wooden box, he waited for Anticlea who’d thrown Laertes’ arm over her shoulder and supported him to the chaise lounge, to take the box from his hands.

Opening the lid, there were two papyrus scrolls. With Anticlea’s hands now freed, Odysseus drilled himself into his mother’s arms, clinging to her playfully like a spoiled child—which earned both his mother’s scolding for not behaving his age and a pleased chuckle. From up close, he could smell the perfumed oil which a maidservant had massaged into his mother’s hair roots, having done her hair up in an elaborate hairstyle appropriate for a married woman. Bedazzled in gold and bronze jewelry pieces, Anticlea had been dressed befitting her high status.

At Odysseus’ behest to open the left one first, when his mother unfurled the scroll with a crisp sound, the boy explained, “What travels faster than word of mouth? I say we fight fire with fire. I’ve come up with a list of suggestions that we can have people spread around the capital.”

Anticlea’s lips fell open. And her hand went to her mouth. Shocked. “Y-You want people to believe that you are the son of a harpy?”

“Oh….” Odysseus shrugged. “A harpy. A siren. A Minotaur. The illegitimate child of a dryad and a centaur, who’d shapeshifted into human form. The more ridiculous, the better. I even have a story where it’s you, Mother, who had the great Laertes, who is secretly an Oceanid, give birth to me, like a seahorse. I’ve made sure to avoid any mention of she-bears, Father, for I know you are still sore about the topic.”

Laertes didn’t like to talk about it. It’d been Autolycus who’d shared the curious rumor he’d heard about Laertes’ grandfather, how the former king of Ithaca, Arcesius, had actually been conceived by a she-bear who’d taken human form. As the urban legend went, Cephalus, Arcesius’ father, had been instructed by an oracle to mate with the first female being he would encounter if he wanted to have any offspring; as fate would have it, Cephalus impregnated a she-bear, who then transformed into the mortal woman and bore him a son whom they named Arcesius. It was also said that it was Zeus himself who, for whatever reason, had made Arcesius’ line as one of “only sons”: for Arcesius, his only son was Laertes. For Laertes, his only son was Odysseus.

It wasn’t to say there had been anything that was lacking with the women they chose to marry and promote as their queen. Chalcomedusa, who had married Arcesius, had gone on to pioneer metal-working technology in Ithaca. Anticlea, who had married Laertes, was an educated, chaste woman of exemplary virtue, whose father’s true identity was not that of a huntsman but a master thief of legend who took great pleasure in being hated by all.

“You—you—!” Across from them, Laertes sat up, pointing in Odysseus’ direction, his finger shaking. His voice trembled. “Do you want everyone to quibble over my queen being a loose woman, committing adultery with sheer monsters—?”

“No, Father, don’t you see?” Odysseus had pitched his voice softer, a luring mild tone that was easier on the ears—for he knew his father was intoxicated and might not appreciate loud noises as of this moment. “Who would believe I am King Sisyphus’ illegitimate son now, when it’s much more exciting to speculate if Ithaca’s crown prince is a sphinx or a chimera?”

“We cannot let the monster rumor fly!” Anticlea interrupted. Seeing Odysseus stubbornly open his mouth, she said firmly, “No, Odysseus! I know you mean well, but you cannot control how tongues wag. Your reputation is important! What can we do if they say you were cursed by a god? Then that god will truly make you one! If you are a monster, our political enemies will use it to challenge your legitimacy. …Or what if people start claiming you are a demigod? What then? …What if someone speaks evil about how you are another one of Zeus’ illegitimate offspring, and the word spreads all the way up to Olympus? His goddess-wife Hera is notorious for her jealousy. …Or what if they manage to find out this was all untrue and the gods trace it back to us? This could be considered heresy, which would lead to disastrous consequences for daring to lie to them. This plot of yours could endanger everyone. I will not see you killed just to appease their anger!”

“…That’s why I dare not claim to be the son of any god or goddess, only beasts and monsters.” Odysseus gazed at her silently. He sustained the insolence of looking straight at her dignified seated presence, at her own marigold eyes which burned a shade brighter than his; he would not apologize, he would not grant the concession of looking embarrassed—of acknowledging he’d overstepped daring to come up with this plan to his parents. His mind turned extremely fast and his mouth was quick. “It’s simple and quick to see results. Imagination comes to every Achaean or Trojan as naturally as breathing. No matter how ridiculous a rumor is, gossip is a venom that spreads swiftly, fueled by idleness and born from the darkest corners of our hearts. I am merely taking advantage of people’s nature to spread lies and listen to untruths. In the end, if it is said that I am a cruel and cunning monster, then people will fear me. The heroes who come to our island with great ambitions to slay a monster will be surprised once they see who I am, and we can prove to them the dangers of believing hearsay.”

A heartbeat later—then, with a flick of his eyes, Odysseus gestured to the second scroll. “I was, however, afraid that you would find it uncomfortable. So I jotted down another suggestion. But the success of this plan will have to fall on my shoulders, once I’m old enough to rub elbows with everyone and befriend the dignitaries’ sons. It will also depend on Your Majesties’ performance. For, once the rumors spread, you must treat it like a joke. In a way, it’s more dangerous because if we fail, we will offend many. But if we succeed…just think of all the many new friends we’ll make along the way.”

The thin papyrus scroll was unrolled, and Anticlea—a learned woman—scanned the second scroll’s contents. A thoughtful frown immediately made itself present. “You wish to suggest you are the son of all these great kings and their wives? Even the newborn son of King Peleus, Achilles, who is only one year old…?”

“As I said, you and Father must treat it as a joke. Nothing too serious.” Odysseus flattered her with a smile. He’d smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it. “Rumors must be juicy and gossips must be mouthwatering. It can also make a community stand strong and united. …This way, aren’t I everyone’s ‘son?’ If they are all my fathers, then I will treat them and all my darling mothers, sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles and aunts, nieces and nephews as Ithacans. Since we are all ‘family,’ we must treat each other well.”

This time, Anticlea’s attitude was not hard or equivocal. She gazed at all the names her son had written, including names of those from neighboring kingdoms, kingdoms they’ve opened their borders to do trade with, as well as distant kingdoms whom they have yet to make contact with. There were names that she recognized, names that she did not. Each name had been hard-won, fetched directly from Laertes’ mouth whenever the king reminisced nostalgically about his old travels, or from the foreigners who visited their island. Whilst it would have to be Laertes who would have the final say, it was obvious that the wheels in Anticlea’s head were turning. She was somberly contemplating the feasibility, the drawbacks, and the benefits.

“…How did your young mind come up with this?” she murmured, looking up from the list to peer at him. “Tell me, Odysseus. Who whispered in your ear?”

“Mother!” Feigning shock, he’d clutched his chest, pretending to be wounded by her accusation. Odysseus shook his head. “Nobody spoke in my ear. Do you have so little faith in me?” He looked between her and Laertes. “I realized how much you and Father have suffered for my sake. As your son, I just want to protect the people I love.”

Anticlea’s eyes were deep, and she stroked the top of Odysseus’ hair with a softened expression. Even Laertes, intoxicated as he was, reached out to clap his hand on Odysseus’ shoulder, muttering, “Good child, good child, what a good child….”

After saying a couple more words, Odysseus quietly retreated, leaving them to stew over it some more.

He knew that, in his parents’ eyes, although everyone praised him for being a fast learner, no matter how old he grew, they would only see him as a helpless child. But Laertes and Anticlea were both capable adults; once their minds were more clear, they should be able to evaluate whether his proposal had merit or would do them more harm than good. If his parents really understood his heart, then his ideas would have to be brought up in an assembly, for all to discuss and debate. Whether or not Laertes ultimately decided to take credit for coming up with the ideas in front of those old fogeys, as there would be those who’d cast instantaneous doubt upon knowing the topic they were discussing came from the mind of a child, did not matter to Odysseus.

The hard part was now over. He’d recognized the most difficult hurdle as the first negotiations, to sell his parents on the sales pitch. What Odysseus had left unsaid was that he had tested a tactic that he’d just learned on them—which was why he’d deliberately started his persuasion with his craziest, most outlandish idea first.

When people thought about requests, they did not think about them individually. Instead, they compared them and rated them against each other. In Odysseus’ case, creating rumors about being the son of monsters and spreading rumors that he was the son of all kings were both significantly large requests, and would’ve come across as such had he proposed one idea only. But when compared together, the latter was seen as a smaller request. People innately sought compromise; they always wanted to think they’re getting a better deal. Starting with an extreme request would make people more open to the lesser request, even if that smaller request had been his true purpose all along.

After all, his parents’ reputation and Odysseus’ own reputation were jeopardized. Why must this King Sisyphus of Ephyra, this “wild man” who’d shown up out of nowhere, continue to loom over them like a dark plague? Just because of an old vendetta the king had against Autolycus, an innocent woman’s reputation must be ruined? Even if Autolycus wasn’t innocent, this Sisyphus wasn’t a good person. It took a special kind of person to hatch such a nefarious plot against his enemy’s own family, turning a happy occasion into an unhappy conspiracy, and turning a legitimate firstborn son illegitimate.

Just because she was born a thief’s daughter, his mother deserved the accusation of being a loose woman? His father deserved the pain of doubting the virtuous wife he married, forever suspicious if Odysseus was even his son? A happy marriage like that—reduced to constant speculation? The more Odysseus thought about it, the more hateful it became.

Even birds could sense when their nest had been invaded by foreign intruders; when adult birds believed their young had been replaced or did not belong to them, they would peck the chick to death. When it came time for Laertes to abdicate his throne and pass it to his legitimate male heir, it would only be natural that the king’s confidantes would plant doubts in the king’s head; even if Laertes swore to Odysseus that blood ties did not matter, could that conviction stand the test of time? Could it withstand the mounting pressure? No person liked to be conned and taken as a fool. Ithaca had been Laertes’ birthright inherited from his own glorious father; the throne had passed from one generation of kings to another by hereditary right. It was not only the right to rule but also the honor, the prestige, the power and influence, the existing treaties and alliances, the soldiers, the lands and its subjects which came with it. Usurping the position was treason; and what could be more treasonous than an illegitimate “wild seed” pretending to be the legitimate crown prince to steal the throne?

To address the heart of the issue, the rumors must be discredited so that no one believed them. Since the rumor could not be quelled, then the sword which dangled over their heads must be repurposed to suit their own benefit. Temporarily they, Odysseus and his parents, might suffer some short-term ridicule. But what was a little momentary suffering when, in the long run, the solution Odysseus had proposed would not only make others join in to make a laughingstock of any and all wild, crazy speculations about his birthright—but could also broaden their kingdom’s connections and possibly join forces?

He smiled slyly, feeling pleased with himself.

Always profile your targets, was what Autolycus preached. From his grandfather’s recounting of the man after making countless scores off him, King Sisyphus was smart and competitive, often called the “craftiest of men,” known for his arrogance and hubris, always fishing for an opportunity. The most notorious example of Sisyphus’ wit had been selling out one of Zeus’ secrets, which had been the whereabouts of the Asopid Aegina, to her father, the river god Asopus, in exchange for a spring to flow on Sisyphus’ Corinthian acropolis. Every time Autolycus checked in on his old foe, the thief would overhear the latest whispers of how the king had, once again, weaseled his way out of being chained in Tartarus under Zeus’ orders. Sisyphus had cheated death many memorable times, he had even once boasted that his own cleverness surpassed that of Zeus himself. The audacity!

Ordinarily, Odysseus found such a scheming man worthy of admiration. Sisyphus was willing to lie, cheat, seduce, manipulate, and even kill to achieve his goals. But who told him to prey on Odysseus’ family?

Sometimes the best way to confront an audacious man of ambition, who prided himself on his wit, was to have him hear how his best-laid schemes had gone awry, for his enemies were still living well despite his best efforts to tear them down. By the time he found out, how could he stop their momentum?

When a pack of wolves was backed into a corner, they did not whimper and cower. They bit back.

Ferociously.

After his father sobered up, after several assemblies spent ironing out the kinks of the plan, his parents had gone one step beyond, giving strict instructions for the prince to avoid certain people from certain regions; the guards vetted the prince’s visitors to ensure he did not “accidentally” encounter anyone who had direct ties to or had an alliance with the Trojans; anyone who was affiliated with the kingdom of Ephyra had also been denied trade access into Ithaca’s borders. The spies they’d planted in both capitals would notify them of any changes. As a result, the prince was like a pearl protected in this well-guarded honeypot, with news about the dangers of this unpredictable world outside and its beauty carefully fed to him. From Eurycleia, who sung lullabies to the young prince, he’d grown up hearing the many warriors throughout history, hearing poems of great adventure from heroes such as Heracles who slayed a nine-headed hydra and captured the ferocious three-headed dog Cerberus who guarded the Underworld. Hearing of the friendships that had been formed, with deep, unbreakable loyalty—a trust so pure, so unshakeable, nothing could tear them apart. A bond everlasting.

As Odysseus grew older, his white-haired grandparents had seen it as their duty to warn their grandson that he, as a future king, must please all the gods equally—lest he accidentally provoke their mercurial temper, for gods could be unreasonably petty, possessive and territorial of their followers, like a jealous lover who had caught their beloved husband cheating with another woman. They told Odysseus many tales, from how Hera’s legendary jealousy manifested when she came to learn of her husband’s prolific history of affairs and his many offspring, to the tale of the beautiful Spartan youth Hyacinthus, loved by the god Apollo, who’d tragically perished when the petty western wind Zephyrus blew the discus they’d been playing with into Hyacinthus’ path, killing him. They told him about Hermes’ trickery. About Athena’s pettiness and pride.

It was through this “education” that Odysseus, too, learned that the gods, perhaps out of a restlessness to find entertainment, had a proclivity of manifesting through their statues to give “oracles,” or they roamed the earth undetected. Although the gods did not show their true forms easily, out of respect, Men mustn’t perceive an undisguised Olympian god directly, for it was said that their simple mortal brains could not behold their true divine appearance, not without incinerating their bodies. Men’s senses were limited to the physical world and, therefore, they could not grasp the full extent of a divine being's presence in all their terrible glory. It was the reason why the faces of the deity statues themselves enshrined at their temples were all somewhat vague, borrowing facial features from plenty of beautiful men or women recorded in history; for no artist in the world could accurately capture a god’s true appearance. Instead, they could only portray them using the time’s concept of idealized beauty.

There was also an element of danger. Even if a soothsayer foretold that a person would have a chance encounter with a god, when the meeting actually happened, there was no way of knowing when, and if the god would be in a kind mood. Besides their wrathful nature, the gods were also lustful beings known to appreciate fine beauty or talent; the chances of catching the eye of one was not impossible.

But before Autolycus’ and Amphithea’s grandson could get any bright ideas, to strike fear in Odysseus, a cautionary tale had been told about what had happened to the young Prince Ganymede of Troy. Renowned being the loveliest born among the race of mortals, the fair-haired Trojan prince had been tending to his flock when Zeus, disguised as an eagle, swooped down and carried Ganymede off to his golden mansion in Mount Olympus to make him divine. Preserved in the lovely bloom of boyhood, it was said that the prince would live out the rest of his life serving faithfully by Zeus’ side as his immortal cupbearer—and as a lover.

At five years old, Odysseus had been entranced by the tale. His gaze had brightened, revealing an innocent admiration. Hearing Ganymede’s tale of abduction, Odysseus had been impressed that a prince had been favored by the ruler of the gods to this extent. …And for such a mere superficial reason, only because the mortal prince looked pleasing to the eyes—and not because he had to earn it? Mortals could be so lucky?

The gift of eternal youth wasn’t an offer made lightly, for when the Gods made Men, they’d kept immortality for themselves. The precious gold ichor which flowed nectarous through their veins was what ensured the blessed gods alone knew neither age nor disease, exempted from death. Although they were known to dine for the pleasure of it, they did not feast on mortal food or drink; they did not know hunger or thirst, for even their heavenly fare and wines were blessed and overflowing in excess.

Just like with every “story” they told, Autolycus and Amphithea asked their grandson for his thoughts after they finished the tale. In the presence of close family members, under their close inspection, Odysseus did not hide anything; he’d found it absolutely divine that a fellow prince had managed to acquire immortality. To gain the favor of a god must be a difficult but rewarding challenge.

Such a naive outlook had been like a bolt from the blue; both grandparents exchanged uneasy looks over his head. Soon a palm had landed on the crown of Odysseus’ head. Touching the prince’s dark curls, in a gentle tone his grandmother told him heavily, “You will understand when you’re older. Having a god’s favor is not always a good thing, Odysseus.”

“…Even if it’s Hermes?” Odysseus asked. Turning his eyes, he reminded with a smile, “Grandfather, he gave you his cloak of invisibility. He blessed you with your gift. He’d helped make you into who you are today.”

“And I am not ungrateful. But I don’t depend on him alone. Remember,” his grandfather warned. “Gods have lived for a long time. They are fickle, vain, prone to jealousy, and quick to anger. They can change our laws however they like to suit their own selfish purposes—and we are helpless but to obey their will. Although Mankind respects the gods and we pray to them for help, we must take care to never prostrate ourselves to them, as they are known to trick mortals on occasion. Never depend on one god; that is giving yourself a weakness. Listen to me, Odysseus, do not give away the one thing they’d gifted humanity—which is our free will. Our freedom to think for ourselves, to love and live our lives however we want, is a regret they’ll always have.”

Odysseus had nodded well-behavedly, to show them that he understood their wisdom. His gaze met theirs, soft yet piercing in their quiet in their intensity. But he’d silently observed how, whilst his grandparents seemed happy talking to him about gods like Hermes and Athena, like everyone else, their tone and even their body language changed when speaking about old gods like Poseidon.

Children were more sensitive than people realized. Their brains were a sponge, soaking up various information.

Every island to a child was a treasure island; Odysseus had seen for himself that their limestone island was surrounded by the foam-flecked wide blue sea and the wild creatures which coexisted in them. In the winters and autumn, the island seemed to shrink, absorbed into the rain and sea which stretched far and wide like a diamond quilt, with desolate sunsets and all the night sounds intensified in the evenings. The darkness on an island such as this was like standing at the end of the world, giving an impression of utter solitude in a world of vast darkness. Nature no longer framed them, but instead hurled it to the periphery and imposed its sovereign domination. In the hot summers, sometimes the only relief from the heat was the sea, where only the sea breeze below could cool them off. Sometimes even all four seasons could even be experienced in one day. Every morning, the fishermen would cast their nets or set sail on the sparkling clear waters to check their traps; at night they would go home to pray at Poseidon’s altar for his mercy to allow them to catch a good bounty the next day to feed their families. Every Ithacan relied on the fish and shellfish caught from the ocean, as hunting and buying meat was a luxury. Even the sailors who docked their ships at the port prayed to the sea god before and after their voyages for a safe passage, clear weather, good winds, and successful journeys.

Picking up on the cues of the adults around him, it was at this age that Odysseus determined whilst it was important to devote himself to all gods equally, to protect Ithaca, to protect this kingdom which his father loved, there was one god who ought to take precedence.

It was the natural order for servants to obey their masters. If it was their mortal’s fate to obey the gods, then why wouldn’t Odysseus use his freedom to choose the god to serve as his master?

Respect and fear came hand-in-hand. Amongst all the gods, the Twelve Olympians could be considered the most powerful, which narrowed down his choices. And, for the Ithacans, it wasn’t just the King of Gods whom they must do their best to flatter. No, Odysseus had known the answer when he had been five years old and had personally witnessed that god displaying his might over the vast ocean. Why couldn’t anyone else on Ithaca see what was so obvious? The answer had been staring them right in the face all along.

The Earth-Shaker—the same god who’d defeated the giant Polybotes by breaking off a piece of the island of Kos and crushing him to death with it by his violent throw. The same god known for his relentless merciless wrath once provoked, sinking ships, flooding cities, and granting his victims their final resting place on the sea bed as food for all manner of aquatic creatures that nibbled on their flesh. But this was also the same competitive god who’d created the species of horses that farmers and charioteers have come to heavily rely on nowadays, as well as those who rely on horses for transportation outside of the battlefield and to deliver messages; the same god who had generously allowed mortals to fish in his waters so they wouldn’t go hungry, and determined whether there would be rain, hurricanes, cyclones, tsunamis, or typhoons, or calm waters and good weather.

The secondborn son of Kronos and Rhea—whom Kronos had initially swallowed because of the prophecy that predicted Kronos’ children would overthrow him—who’d joined his thirdborn brother Zeus and his firstborn brother Hades, to overthrow their mad father alongside doing battle with the Titans. After the gods had defeated the Titans, the three brothers, having taken control of the world, all had equal rights to the empty throne of Olympus. To avoid having their quarrels descending into another war, they decided to draw lots. In Zeus’ infinite wisdom—knowing that they, the brothers, would quarrel and often be jealous of each other—as the youngest brother, he’d taken off his helmet and dropped in a sparkling blue sapphire, a vivid green beryl emerald, and a dark red ruby. A sapphire to represent the earth and sky, and kingship over all the gods; an emerald to represent the oceans; and a ruby for the Underworld. To keep things fair, instead of going by seniority, Zeus had told them that they would blindly choose in the order from youngest to oldest. Thus, Zeus had drawn his lot first and, as the story went, he’d masterfully snuck a glance into the helmet to grab the sapphire. Then came Poseidon’s turn and, as the story went, he’d masterfully gazed into the helmet and took away the emerald that he wanted. Although there had only been one gem left, as the story went, the responsible eldest-born Hades did not peek. When they revealed their lots, it was only then that Hades realized that his younger brothers had probably cheated somehow. But, being sensible, Hades had quietly accepted his fate as he could not overpower the both of them in combat.

Life was a gamble, making various hard choices. Poor choices resulted in a losing bet, whereas making good choices resulted in a winning bet. Odysseus had observed. Put the facts together. After deliberating all this time, he’d deduced that the god who offered the best conditions and the greatest benefits could neither be the proud strategic war goddess Athena nor the fickle trickster god Hermes, for both bowed to the will of the Father-King. Nor was it the bloodthirsty warmonger Ares for, whilst it was great to receive his blessing during battle, there was no instance of a nation benefiting from a full-scale prolonged warfare in which the people, the kingdom’s lifeblood, suffered. Nor was it the powerful but prideful Zeus, who was lustful for beauties and had even taken a young prince captive for pleasure.

No, the next best option to Zeus, the God King, must be one of his two powerful elder brothers. The Most Fearsome Gods.

Between Hades and Poseidon, one was concerned with the dead, the other held dominion over those who occupied or sailed his waters. Between the two gods, there was only one brother who’d once daringly plotted and had convinced both Hera and Athena to join his rebellion against his brother Zeus, whom they’d managed to imprison in chains until Thetis had brought Briareüs, the chief of the Hundred-Handers, to release him.

It was The Tyrant of the Seas.

Poseidon.

In this gamble of life, Poseidon was the god whom Odysseus must place his bets on.

The only question that remained was—just how was Odysseus going to achieve that?

XXXXXXXXXX

The answer came to him several years into the future. Several years had passed in the blink of an eye. And Odysseus had soon become ten years old.

During this passage of time, Odysseus’ military instructor had encountered some fortune—for Laertes had granted him a promotion as a reward, bestowing him the title of commander to help lead the Heqetai: the elite warriors who did battle on chariots. Now there were two instructors total on the training grounds, one who was given the responsibility of giving Odysseus additional combat instruction in lances, spears, and improving his swordsmanship. Archery and horseback riding lessons were still taught by his original mentor; but now learning to steer and fight on a war chariot was included in the lessons. This was all the while Odysseus had to balance his intensive physical training with social events meant to establish connections and solidify alliances; to compensate for his new responsibilities, his hellish daily training had been reduced to just three times a week.

And once it had been determined that Odysseus had mastered the skills necessary to competently lead an army—the ranks filled with champions and untrained conscripted civilians—under his command, he was told the drills would be reduced down to a weekly schedule.

Now that he had become older, his curriculum changed accordingly. There was an increase in subjects and a longer class schedule. Civics became a cornerstone of his education, having to memorize the laws, rules, and regulations that were carved into the city’s stone slabs for everyone to see. Odysseus’ studies included poring over classical texts and being tested on his ability to recite famous oral poems which had been narrated to him, as well as studying and identifying the different geographies and terrains on pre-existing maps. Cartography had become his newest obsession. Maps were strewn over his workbench and the walls of Odysseus bedchamber, joining the sketches of both his old and new designs. He’d also acquired a deeper understanding of the politics and complex relationships in the capital, such as those involving the royal family, palace nobles, and various high-ranking officials; and his knowledge was expected to extend past the kingdom’s borders, extending to influential dignitaries and prosperous merchants overseas. He was expected to show the etiquette and arrangements expected of a person of his station. The bloodlines of many family members became complicated after marriages, especially if there were any undocumented illegitimate bastards. Offending a random person on the streets could accidentally lead to a blood feud with an important clan and their family branches, as well as other families that were close to them and their business partners.

As music was an important part of festivals and celebrations, like all other boys, Odysseus also had to learn a musical instrument. Although most Achaeans were familiar with many kinds of instruments such as the lyre, a stringed instrument; the kithara, a plucked string instrument more advanced than the lyre; and the aulos, a double-reed instrument, there was only one instrument whom many believed to be a sign of a well-educated youth. To keep up appearances, Odysseus decisively chose the lyre.

However, Odysseus had no talent playing the lyre. He was no Orpheus.

As the myth went, when Hermes had only been several days old, he’d scooped out the innards of a mountain tortoise and strung the shell with cow gut and reeds. Unfortunately, the herd from which the gut had come had been stolen from Apollo who had gone in search of the thief, swearing bloody vengeance upon him. Hearing the sweet airs produced by Hermes' lyre, however, had soothed Apollo's fury and he’d left the infant god unpunished in exchange for the glorious-sounding new instrument. But just because Hermes had invented the lyre did not mean his descendants would inherit any of his musical talents.

Odysseus’ fingers were agile but, because he was used to stringing and pulling the bowstring back tautly, an action which required considerable tensile strength, the gutstrings of a lyre tended to snap in his hands. Fortunately both Odysseus’ parents and his wet nurse happened to be a little musically-gifted when it came to singing or humming lullabies. So when Odysseus sang, his enunciation was loud, crisp, and crystal clear. One such memorable incident had been when Laertes had boasted at a banquet about how his son was learning the lyre, summoning the prince to perform in front of everyone. To avoid public embarrassment in front of important dignitaries, whilst Odysseus couldn’t charm the birds, fish, and wild beasts, coax the trees and rocks into dance, or divert the course of rivers with his playing like the legendary musician Orpheus, Odysseus could rouse up the audience to stomp their feet and get them to cheer and clap for him whilst he serenaded them with a lively song and dance. His charm could fill up an entire room, distractions to drown out his mediocre strumming and half-hearted plucking techniques.

It was through this deliberate conditioning that Odysseus grew up familiar with the fanfare that usually went into worshipping the gods. To appease the capricious deities, on their island, a significant portion of treasury funds was set aside every year for entertainment and festivities. It was customary for both the Achaeans and the Trojans to actively solicit the help of the gods by building pleasing temples and sacrificing animals, sometimes in large quantities.

Such was the case during the month of Pyanepsion, when it came time to hold the Thesmophoria celebration, Anticlea wearing her diadem, along with one other elected woman, would lead the wedded wives in Ithaca to pray for a successful harvest, for abundant crops, and for fertility. After all, it was thanks to Ithaca’s favorable weather last year that their yield per acre seemed to have unexpectedly doubled. The overall quantity collected was still small—since the estates with the allotted arable land weren’t typically very large—but the number was not insignificant. For three days and three nights, offerings and gifts flowed past the stone steps into Demeter’s temple in hopes of appeasing the goddess and praying for her blessing to help ward against disease, drought, or famine which would affect their hectares.

On the first day of the festival, pigs were to be sacrificed, and thrown into pits called the megara. Their rotten remains would be retrieved by the bailers—women who had undergone three days in a state of ritual purity—and presented on the altars to both Demeter and Persephone, along with cakes baked in the shape of snakes and a man’s cock. The pig remains would then be scattered on the fields where seed had been sown.

Odysseus’ knowledge of that particular ceremony, however, was limited, as he was a boy. Men weren’t allowed to partake in these women-only rites and were forbidden to know more. But he knew on the second day, his mother had to set an example and refrain from eating or drinking on the day of fasting—which was to imitate the goddess Demeter’s mourning for the loss of her daughter. For it was always around the start of autumn when Persephone must leave Demeter and return to her husband Hades’ side, a consequence of having been tricked into staying with him for three seasons—or so as the storytellers said.

Today, as part of a yearly ritual, his royal parents led their subjects to offer sacrifices to the gods above and to their ancestors. A banquet would later be held at the palace, with family and important dignitaries of some rank allowed to attend. A river of wine would have flowed from the golden ewers which the servants poured plentifully into the guests’ cups. Before midday, some of the guests would have already fallen into a drunken stupor.

Having finished his part in the ceremonies, Odysseus had taken a bath, rubbed the perfumed oils with the spiced scent of rosin and cinnamon all around him, and changed into new clothes, riding to his destination on horseback. Whenever the prince made his outings, his public appearance was almost never without some fanfare. This time he was not accompanied by his retinue, by his childhood companions whom he’d gradually come to regard with friendly camaraderie—as long as they did not misplace his kindness and forget their differences in status. When he dismounted from his horse, a small group of seven elite personal guards armed with shields and spears immediately flanked him like a protective blockade, ensuring no one could approach the crown prince. Their armor and swords clanked as one emerged to the front and cupped his fist before Odysseus, requesting that the prince wait whilst he sent two guards to scout the perimeter and inside of the temple.

Knowing the guards regarded their duties as life and death, Odysseus waved his hand dismissively to signal that he understood, stroking the space above his mount’s nostrils and handing the reins over to one of the attendants who respectfully approached to take the horse away to the stables. In a single candle’s lifespan, the guards returned to report the stragglers had been cleared out and there weren’t any hidden dangers found.

As this was the eighth day of the month, the priests and priestesses had already been notified that the prince of Ithaca would be arriving around this time; in preparation for the prince’s visit, they had sealed off access to visitors for the rest of the day.

The prince looked the same but, here, tonight, he’d truly looked the part as Ithaca’s royalty. Persisting in his training, Odysseus’ boyish features had finally shed some of its stubborn baby fat. Becoming less delicate. A bit rakish—but possessing such strength of character that both dismayed and, at the same time, exuded danger and charm. It was becoming easier to see the strong and robust man that Odysseus would become in the future. The bridge of his nose was tall and straight, and his eye sockets were deep. Hollowed cheekbones and rugged brows. A slightly more defined jawline, although his beard had not grown in yet. Broad shoulders. A confident stride. And a gaze that could bathe the person across from him in warmth; or it could descend to below freezing temperatures and he would take those burning marigold eyes away, burning bridges, never to glance at them again. If it could be coaxed from him, there was a reward in his genuine laughs and his playful banter; to earn one could make others feel instantly endeared towards him. Gone was the mischievous innocent child who had once avoided his studies. What remained was an ambitious young man carrying the weight of a kingdom’s responsibilities on his shoulders.

A pair of heavy, serpentine ceremonial gold armlets were hooked to Odysseus’ sleeves and coiled around his biceps, accentuating a pair of forearms which had sun-kissed his olive skin into a healthy tan. Dressed in a simple white chiton tunic belted at his waist, with its hem ending just above the knees, a pair of sturdy legs were exposed to the midday sun; thrown over his left shoulder was a long, complementary blue himation cloak embroidered with golden thread into the fine wool. The long cloak billowed like a sail behind him as Odysseus ascended the steps into Poseidon’s temple.

It was only at the top of the eight sacred steps when he thought he heard that familiar cackling giggle. Closing his fingers around his sword, Odysseus scanned his surroundings with his hawkish gaze. Light, flowing banners of rich, vibrant marine blue textiles were billowing weightlessly in the wind. But there weren’t any suspicious shadows. No assassins. No hidden spies. No birds. No glimpses of winged sandals or winged helmet. Odysseus frowned, minutely relaxing his death grip on the hilt when he saw no one else around him seemed to have reacted.

Again?

“Your Highness!”

Having stepped foot inside the temple, Odysseus had already handed his dagger and his sword scabbard over to a guard, as no weapons were allowed into places of worship, when he heard a familiar deep voice calling out to him. He had turned his head to see a bearded middle-aged man—the caretaker of the cult statue in the innermost cella—dressed in long priestly attire hastening over from the innermost portion of the temple.

Stopping a respectable distance away, the priest cupped his fist and bowed his waist at a respectable angle. Odysseus gave a simple inclination of his head and invited to dispense with the formalities, although his gaze lingered.

The priest seems to have acquired a new piece of jewelry.

It did not happen every month but Odysseus had noticed a pattern spaced out throughout his monthly visits. At first, it had been the material of the priest’s chiton which seemed a rank above its usual quality. Then came the rings. Then a necklace. Then an armband. Now a string of pearls resided on the center of the priest’s forehead, attached to a stylized headband.

The statement pearl in the center of the priest’s forehead was about the size of a small baby’s fist, perfectly round and with no visible imperfections. The cost of that one pearl alone was three year’s worth of income for the average family household.

As temple guardians, priests were entitled to a share of the offerings placed on the altar of the deity, as well as a portion of the dues required of cult members; they were awarded for each ritual and festival they participated in, and given fees for special rituals they performed for private citizens. They also received a pension from the city. A high priest’s or high priestess’ duty was to learn and preserve the sacred knowledge through generations, and were consulted as a religious authority. Whilst Poseidon's priests were given the same official privileges allotted to every priesthood in office, for playing a vital role in the religious lives of the community—serving as the god’s intermediary, maintaining his temple, and officiating the sacred rituals and ritual sacrifices—they did not hold the same level of political or social influence on their island as the priests of more prominent deities like Zeus or Apollo or even Athena.

The requirements to be appointed into priesthood were different depending on the god they served. For Hera, she favored married men and women. Athena the Virgin favored chaste maidens as her priestesses. Unlike what Odysseus had heard of faraway places like Athens—such as the Eteoboutad clan which was rising in power, having produced various political elites from the clan’s family branches, with two branches of family having set their sights on infiltrating the priesthoods of the planned temples Athena Polias and Poseidon Erechtheus—the priesthood of their modest temple on Ithaca which housed Poseidon’s cult statue was mostly comprised of humble sailors and artisans. It was not primarily made up of the elite class and aristocracy.

Because of the price of labor, even if it was a man-made cultured pearl, how could a man with a priest’s pension afford a pearl of that size? Like gold, gemstones, or precious stones, pearls were a symbol of power and of one’s social status.

Assessing him with one smooth glance, the prince formed a slight smile. A complicit smile, elastic and saccharine, which seemed to light up his whole face. It was said that the prince was very striking when he smiled, but then again Odysseus was always smiling, even when he didn’t want to. He was young, and his face, if not exactly handsome, presented a quality of masculine confidence several times more lethal and pleasing on the eyes than mere handsomeness. He looked like a youth who frequently found amusement in life, but today he was amused by him.

“You know what, Priest, I think I will take you up on your invitation for that guided tour.” Odysseus’ lips were wide, too wide, and broad, too broad. His teeth were white, clean, as strong as a wolf's. Although his lips were raised, somewhere deep within those strange marigold eyes lurked a dangerous invitation to play. That cynicism proved a fascinating contrast to the touch of humor that lurked at the corners of his mouth. “What do you say about showing me and my men around the temple?”

The man looked startled, before presenting a warm simpering grin. “I would be”—he’d composed himself—“we would be honored, Your Highness. Anything for our generous patron. Come, this way. As you know, this sanctuary had been built in your grandfather’s, His Royal Highness Arcesius, time when Ithaca was first founded—”

Not every god or goddess could have a temple or shrine made in their honor; the construction of one, even if it was a modestly-sized one, required too much manpower. Not every polis had the finances to allocate money from their treasury for the construction. But for the temples or sanctuaries that were erected, they served as “houses” of the gods and goddesses, where rituals, sacrifices, offerings, prayers, and public meetings could be held to appease them.

The Greek pantheon was a volatile mix of immense divine power and fragile egos, prone to anger and holding grudges which could last for centuries. Although the gods presented themselves as aloof and high above, they frequently interacted with humans for whatever personal reasons existed. They were self-interested beings whose interventions in human affairs were driven by their own desires and whims, rather than a consistent commitment to moral law. For example, their cult statue—usually a behemoth sculpture, although there were miniature versions enshrined in some temples—was what allowed a deity to possess as their avatar to communicate their will to the High Priest or High Priestess or to a lucky worshipper.

A building, a temple, itself however portrayed nothing. As no temple made by mortal human hands could ever compare to the temple made by the gods themselves.

The thirty-four tall white Doric columns on all four corners of the modestly-sized temple had been quarried from white marble mines, coarse and grained. Enclosed with a roof, the columns created a pteron, a colonnade which was used to shelter visitors. At the centre of the temple, beyond the colonnade was a windowless rectangular room: naos—the hall of worship. And behind the hall of worship was the opisthodomos, the rear room which simultaneously served as the treasury, where the revenues and precious dedications of the temple were supposedly kept. As the opisthodomos belonged to the inner shrine, the priest apologetically explained to Odysseus that entry was forbidden to outsiders; there was ritual secrecy in such inner spaces which must be preserved.

Strolling alongside the priest and listening to him talk, with his hands tucked behind his back, Odysseus inhaled deeply, letting the aromas flood through him. The naos bore the scents of its past, and every event in its history was recorded with an olfactory memorandum. His imagination soared with memories of summers spent at the coast, joining the fishermen in pulling up the rough corded nets and checking the bait traps thrown into the salty waters, with laughing gulls circling in the skies overhead in hopes of stealing a quick snack from their boat. Odysseus distinctly recalled the smell of fishes’ guts exposed under the sun. The ocean was not always a pleasant smell; it was astringent and foul from the ocean spray, seaweed, and decomposing marine life that washed up ashore. The flickering scented candles in the naos reflected none of that putridness, only smelling of melted beeswax and the infused essence of saltwater, bergamot, a clean musk, sea foam, and damp bedrock; it smelled like being inside a bathhouse, with moisture in the air. And, amid it all, were the odors of livestock and the sweaty unwashed bodies masked under perfume.

Mentally keeping count of the columns, Odysseus took everything in. Every temple had its own set of regulations, dress-code, and prohibitions. In some shrines, animal skin of any kind, including hide-garments and shoes, were prohibited because of their connection to death. In other areas, colorful garments were banned. Other places disallowed iron and gold, as well as copper—except in cases where it was custom.

Odysseus swept his gaze over the other hiereus—priests—and hiereia—priestesses; he appraised their chitones—long-sleeved chitons made out of linen. He took in the cultic officials’ flowing clothing, their hairstyles, the lack of gold or sapphires or rubies in their jewellery, the lack of rouge and makeup, and their shoes. His eyes fell on the colorful mosaic tiled floors beneath the soles of his sandals, with its numerous hairline cracks and small chips. The damp torchlights. The way that a blanket of silence permeated, pierced only by the march of their footsteps and the hushed whispers, far from the bustling chaotic scene that could be found at other temples such as the Temple of Zeus where there was graceful instrumental music and a daily throng of visitors. Unlike Zeus’ with its open roof which allowed natural sunlight in, Poseidon’s temple was enclosed, cold and lacking warmth.

Circling around the back porch, the prince and five of his seven guards were led back to the earthy-toned frescoes—ochre and clay—which depicted Poseidon’s history from the god’s creation; to the story of his pursuit of the Nereid sea goddess Amphitrite who’d fled from his advances to protect her virginity and he’d sent many creatures after her, but it’d been Poseidon’s dolphin who’d persuaded her to marry him; to his many great exploits alongside other important figures and gods who were also depicted in blue dye like he was. Even though the priest had lowered his voice to a whisper, his voice bounced off the walls of the centermost hall of worship like they were inside an underwater cave. For, at the end of the naos, erected atop of a two-stepped platform was a colossal ceiling-height bronze statue of Poseidon mid-lunge, his trident raised imposingly in one hand, as if ready to strike down his foes. To provide balance, a hippocampus—a horse-like sea monster with the front of a horse and the tail of a dolphin—had been carved detailedly by the god’s side. Although the sculptor had not given him distinguishable facial features, there were enough indications of where the nose, the brows, the eye sockets, and mouth were meant to be, with Poseidon’s beard and long hair streaming behind him like a river.

A silver fire pan had been placed at the statue’s feet, the old coals having been replaced with new charcoal, providing the only source of light inside the worship hall. It smelled similar to the crackling embers from the floor braziers and censers—fire pots—placed at every three meters at both sides of the temple; the coals emitted the faint fragrance of lavender seeds which’d been thrown in to mask the ashy charcoal, which would produce a pungent sweet-smelling smoke like incense billowing past each person like a fragrant breeze.

Almost unconsciously, Odysseus’ eyes drifted up towards the imposing featureless bronze face. A face he must have seen at least sixty times here already, not counting the varied artistic depictions of the god he’d also stolen glimpses of.

At Zeus’ temple, his cult image had been made of gold and ivory. At his daughter’s temple, Athena’s likeness had been carved out of white marble.

It has been five years….

His gaze drifted back down to Poseidon’s bronze feet. He saw the emptiness, the lack of gold, wine, artwork, jewelry, and other humble offerings like cakes, flowers, food or drinks. Even the floor was spotless and clean, swept of dust and petals, devoid of water spots from the water poured onto the floor or altar to connect with the divine.

Yet nothing has changed….

The priest clapped his hands together. “And we’ve reached the end, Your Highness. I know you adore your privacy. As always, I shall leave you be for you to pray at his altar and present your offerings. If you need me, I will be just outside the doors with your guards and servants.”

Odysseus gave a faint nod of approval, hands tucked behind his back underneath his cloak as a procession of attendants shuffled in, carrying his month’s offerings to Poseidon. They laid them at his statue’s large bronze toes, kowtowing deeply before the god, their forehead and fingertips touching the tiled mosaic floor, before standing up and retreating. By the time their footsteps disappeared, a colorful assortment of objects were left scattered at the god’s feet, forming a lively sight.

Left alone, Odysseus’ gaze was thoughtful. Tap. Tap. Tap. He walked closer, peering at the polished bronze surface of the god’s bare feet, shining almost with a gold-like luster—an indication of the areas where he had been worshipped by many visiting fingers, as the ankles and feet and bangles were an easier access compared to the rest of him.

He, too, when he’d been younger, at several points had reached out daringly and rubbed Poseidon’s feet—for good luck.

Just like how women liked receiving presents like flowers, fine clothes, and jewelry, and how men liked collecting weapons or poems, he’d believed only the treasures from his kingdom were fit to adorn Poseidon’s divine body. When he was young, when his younger sister Ctimene had yet to be born, Odysseus had the thought of picking the prettiest shells, conches, or pearls for the god of the sea. For, scattered over the beaches were shells of many kinds and shapes, some as delicate as flower petals, while others, though small, were built to withstand any battering sea. These were his shells, orderly to the eyes, mysterious to the mind. Playthings that could inspire the imagination. Some were rough and grainy, others were smooth and pearly and coated with nacre, creating this lustrous mother-of-pearl silvery sheen with shimmering shades of blue, green, and purple. And, just like the pearls from the hundreds of oysters, clams, and mussels Odysseus had meticulously shucked, the shells could be fashioned into necklaces and accessories—which the god could do with however he liked; Odysseus knew the pearls could even be ground into lustrous pearl dust and mixed into cosmetics, which the god could give to his wife or favored subjects. It might not be as impressive as a hecatomb of sheep and black bulls being sacrificed but, for any four or five year old boy, the intentions were pure and simple.

Odysseus himself enjoyed being given gifts and tributes from his subjects which hailed from Ithaca itself like fruit trees, horses, or olive oil; it allowed him a unique insight into the lives of all their citizens from all social classes. So for an immortal being who ruled the seas, surely he’d appreciate seeing gifts from his own kingdom. Surely a god would not look down at even the humblest of offerings. Even the most humblest of offerings were still the result of someone’s own hard work; not everyone could produce priceless artifacts, jewelry, or fineries. After all, it was taught that it was the thought behind the gifts that mattered, as well as the motive behind giving such a gift. For Odysseus, it was showing his sincerity.

To Odysseus’s astonishment, he had been delighted to find his previous tributes had always disappeared from the altar whenever he returned to the temple, which surely meant the god secretly liked and accepted them? It felt like he’d stumbled onto a secret and discovered the god’s hidden childish side. Thus it had become a force of habit for Odysseus to comb the beaches of Ithaca for such humble tributes and later scamper to the temple to present his offerings to the feet of Poseidon’s altar. He did this diligently till he was seven years old—until the day he conspiratorially shared that secret with his grandma. When Amphithea broke the news that the temple-sweepers cleaned the altar every day, clearing space for the next day’s worshippers, Odysseus had the look of someone who had drunk from the cup of life and discovered a dead beetle at the bottom.

(TBC)

A/N - As always, do keep in mind this is from an earlier draft. There may or may not be some small changes in the final draft of the prologue which’ll be uploaded on AO3.

#odyseidon #epic the musical #odysseus #poseidon #greek mythology #chariot and wolf #my writing #preview #sneak peek #odysseus x poseidon #poseidon x odysseus #writing child geniuses is difficult 🥲 but this is foreshadowing and set up I need to show Ody’s cunningness even at this age #he lives up to his namesake of ‘causing hate’ 🤣 the boy’s drawing so much aggro at 5 & 7 & 10 #the amount of myths referenced in just this chapter alone 😵 my brain automatically defaults to worldbuilding bt transitional paragraphs #boy howdy you might as well be reading 2/3 of the prologue here 🤣 I’ll keep the exciting part (Ody’s & Poseidon’s meeting) a secret for now #if I can get this prologue published by this month and next month that’ll be swell (crossing my fingers)

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